Going Home

Rory hadn’t liked that he’d been a party to the staff screenwriters being fired. He’d criticized their work, not them personally, but Nolan had been insistent about replacing them and very pleased that Rory had felt the same way he did about what was wrong with their work. He’d felt the same way for the same reasons.

Over the dinner they’d enjoyed together, Nolan had taken the opportunity to discuss some of the ideas he had for the film, some of the scenes he saw in his head, and Rory had been enthusiastic. He’d been discouraged in the initial script meeting. He felt better now. Nolan’s vision matched his own.

“Tomorrow, I’ll talk about the storyboard we’ve set up in more detail. It shows the scenes chronologically. You and I can discuss what the dialog in those scenes should be. Just briefly, just an outline, but from what you did after the other writers left, I know we’re on the same page about this. I want your ideas, and I want you to know mine.”

The restaurant Nolan had chosen was what could only be described as a high-end, romantic one. Dim lighting, subdued lush classical music, waiters in tuxes, white tablecloths, spaced out tables, heavy carpeting and drapery to absorb noise; the place wasn’t crowded but the diners who were there all looked past middle age and reeked of affluence. Nolan and Rory were sitting in a booth that was more private than one of the tables would have been. Rory was shocked at the prices on the menu and at the cost of the bottle of Leonetti Merlot Nolan ordered.

“The dinner’s on me. Well, on the studio as it’s a business meal where we’ll discuss business. At least that’s what my expense report will claim. What I want is to get to know you. And vice versa. I want this film to be a joint effort. I know you’ll do a great job on the script. When we’ve put that to bed, I still want you involved. I’ll hire you as an assistant director, or a consulting director, or a dialogue coach, or whatever title you’d like. I think you have an eye for this; I know you have the feel for it. We’ll find out about the eye.”

That was the end of the business they engaged in. Nolan told Rory about how he’d started making films with an 8 mm Kodak handheld movie camera when he was 12, and how his passion for telling stories through the lens of a camera had never waned. He’d roped in all his neighborhood buddies to work as actors and crew, and he’d written the scripts himself. No sound, of course, so he used hand-printed boards when dialogue or information had to be passed to the audience. He learned early on how to minimize the need for that.

He loved the creativity needed to make a good film that told a good story. He loved the problems that came up that needed solutions, and he loved working those out.

While in college, he’d been accepted into the USC film program along with others his age who shared his enthusiasm, his passion. Several had made names for themselves in the business, though none as quickly as he had. Nor had any of them risen to the height to which he’d already climbed. He was young to have accomplished his achievements. Robert Nefsky, the influential L.A. Times film critic, had called him a young Spielberg.

Nolan told Rory his whole life was making films. “I don’t really have the time for a private life. Or, to tell the truth, any interest in one. Being gay out here presents opportunities up the ying-yang, but getting involved with someone takes time, and I want to spend my time on my movies. I imagine it’s the same if you’re gay or straight: to be successful, a relationship requires time and effort, and I don’t have much of either.”

“One-night stands?” Rory inquired. The wine he’d drunk had made him more voluble than usual, which he figured might have been Nolan’s intention.

“Sure, when I was in school. Afterwards, I found them sad pretty quickly. If you don’t get to know the person, I discovered, sex wasn’t that fulfilling. Without intimacy, sex just wasn’t for me. So, actually, it’s been over a year since I hooked up with anyone, and surprisingly, I don’t miss it. You?”

Rory shook his head. He knew he was being asked about his sex life but wasn’t going to answer that, and he answered a different, unposed question instead.

“You’ve just talked for half an hour about yourself while finishing that bottle of wine and ordering another. I’ve drunk some, too. Not my half if you were thinking we’d split it, but enough to lubricate my tongue if I were so inclined. I’m not. I try not to talk about myself. But with you, I don’t really need to. You’ve read my book. It’s based on true events which have been polished and shined and tweaked a little for drama’s sake and to avoid lawsuits. You read the book, so you know who I am. ’Nuff said.”

Nolan laughed. “You should be an actor. You know how to stay in character.”

“Not emotive enough for that. I guess I could be like Gary Cooper. I’ve seen a few old films he was in. I could carry off the no-expression, sort of confused look. Not sure I could do the worried eyes, though.”

He stopped for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure how you plan to pull this off, my taking over the script. I’m not a scriptwriter. Yeah, I tore up other writers’ work this afternoon, but that’s not the same thing at all. You said we’ll bring in other guys, but they need to be on the wavelength you and I are.”

“They will be, or they’ll be replaced. We have time. We’re still casting.”

“And I suppose you’ve got your fingers in the middle of that, too. And the locations. And everything else.” Rory grinned. “Sleep much?”

“Not much when I’m working. And I’m working all the time. I don’t seem to need much sleep. So, you’ve never really said yes or no. You’ll take the job?”

“Jobs. Nor have I actually been given an offer.”

Nolan laughed. “You do like things cut and dried, huh? One step at a time. Take that first one before the next. Okay, okay. I’m offering you the scriptwriting gig, control over your staff if any, and, when that’s done, a position to work as an assistant to me on the film. Are you in or out?”

“That’s it?” Rory had to laugh, too. “Great offer. Lots of work, lots of responsibility, lots of hours spent and no monetary inducements. Just what I’m looking for.”

Nolan winced. “Don’t let it come to that, huh? But, okay, of course you’ll get paid.”

“How much?”

Nolan laughed this time and told him what the budget was for the script and that how it was spent would be mostly up to Rory now. Then he told him what an assistant to the director on a major shoot was usually paid.

Rory just looked at him.

Nolan shook his head and told him what each job would pay at minimum and that Rory would probably get more. “I hate quibbling over money. I love making films. I hate when money gets involved,” he said. “Just say yes.”

Rory said yes. After saying he’d take both jobs, they’d shaken hands. Then they finished the second bottle of wine, and Rory said he’d call an Uber to come drive him home.

“No need. I’ll have my driver take you.”

“You have a driver?”

“At my disposal, yeah. I have lots of dinner meetings, and the studio doesn’t want me in jail on a DUI. He’ll be here in—” he glanced at his watch “—seven minutes.”

Rory realized that, as Nolan would be in the car with him, Nolan would then know where he lived. But, he didn’t see the harm. He did know he wouldn’t invite him in. They were in business together. Not bed.

The script had been easier than either man had expected. Nolan showed Rory the storyboard that he’d produced with the help of a conceptual artist. It broke the book into multiple scenes that would tell the story from beginning to end. It showed the arc of the film.

Rory studied it closely, then made some suggestions. He thought a few changes would enhance the storytelling. Nolan listened. It was one of the things Rory liked about the man: he’d listen to other people’s ideas rather than rejecting them out of impatience or ego. It became a linchpin of their relationship. Nolan loved to talk: to explain, to expound, to expatiate; Rory was most comfortable listening without injecting his own thoughts. But when he did say something, Nolan paid heed.

Nolan accepted every change in the storyboard that Rory suggested after Rory had given him his reasoning. Then Rory began writing dialog to illuminate each scene. He thought he could do this better and quicker himself than with the help of other writers. He found himself enjoying the work, and Nolan was impressed how quickly he was turning out pages. Nolan read the developing script, made a few changes that they talked over, and together they effected a few revisions in Rory’s dialogue they both liked. Within three weeks, they had the entire script written, using many excerpts from the book intact. Rory was proud of it and Nolan thought it was exceptional.

Those had been long days and short nights. The two had shared many meals. They’d become close friends. The fact both were gay had never been mentioned and never intruded into their relationship. What impressed Nolan, who’d been part of the creation of several scripts, was that the two had worked side by side, they’d argued, they’d both given their reasons for their opinions, but at the end of each, they’d both agreed with the final decisions and there was no animosity. In Nolan’s experience, that had never happened before. Creative people always disagreed with each other. Ego was part of that, and simply fighting for their own ideas part of the process. That hadn’t happened here.

Nolan told Rory to take a break, he’d have a few days before he was needed again.

“You know,” Rory said, “you offered me more work once the script was done, and I accepted, but you don’t have to honor that. We wrote a fine script. You don’t really need me anymore. My part’s over. I’m proud of what we’ve done. This’ll make a great film. But I can’t help much now.

“You offered me a lot of money to stay with the film, but it’s way more than I deserve as a rank beginner as part of the shoot. If you need an assistant, you should get one who knows filmmaking. That isn’t me.”

Nolan looked Rory in the eye, silent for a moment before responding. Then, “You really don’t get it. You have no idea how much I value your contribution. No other assistant could do what you do. You know what I want this film to look like. It’s just what you want, too. I need you to help make that happen. The film won’t be as good if you aren’t here, helping out.”

He shook his head. “No, you said you’d stay on. I’m holding you to that. Anyway, now the fun begins.”

“What’ll that be?” Rory asked.

They were in the room where they’d spent the past three weeks. Nolan began packing up the debris from their weeks putting the script together. That consisted of Subway sandwich wrappers and napkins, packets of mayo and ketchup and mustard, lined-paper pads, four laptops, the storyboard, pens, pencils and erasers. Coffee cups and paper plates. Pizza boxes and crusts. Donut boxes.

Nolan swept some crumbs off the table into a wastepaper basket and grinned. “You’d think a creative genius like me would have a maid walking behind me to do this. A functionary of some sort.”

“No, this is keeping it real,” Rory scoffed. “This is why your films touch the common man. This is life in the middle lane, where both of us like to drive.” Rory was cleaning up, too.

Nolan tossed a stale donut into a bag. “What’s next, you asked? Well, casting should be finished sometime next week. You won’t be needed till then. When we have the principal actors, we’ll have a table reading of the scenes. You’ll be there watching and listening. You’ll meet these guys, and they’ll meet you. You never did tell me what title you want.”

He sat down on the table where the donut had been. “I can’t just introduce you as, ‘This is Rory Spencer.’ I need to add something, a title. ‘Writer’ or ‘author’ isn’t enough. They need to see you as part of the team making the film, an integral part like the director or producer, someone with authority. They have to know you’re someone they need to please, to listen to. So, what title do you want?”

“What’s wrong with ‘writer’, or even ‘scriptwriter’ if you must? That’s what I did; that’s what I can be called. It’s what I am.”

“Yeah, but you’re more, too. Did you notice you used the past tense there: ‘What I did’? They’ll assume that’s what you were, and they’ll not see you for what you are. They won’t see any need to impress you.”

“I don’t want them to feel they need to impress me. I hope my script impresses them. But being impressed by someone—that’s not me. I’m no big ego, wanting fealty, bowing and scraping. If you must, call me your assistant. That’s what I’ll be.”

“Okay. You’re underselling yourself as usual. But if that makes you comfortable, that’s what we’ll do.”

Rory grinned at him. “You know, I can’t imagine any other directors are as easy to get along with, or as considerate, as you are.”

“Probably not,” Nolan said with a straight face, then returned the grin.

“Okay, why don’t we have breakfast together the day when the table reading is scheduled? After that, I’ll take you in and introduce you. Almost all of us will be meeting each other for the first time. I sat in on some of the auditions, mostly the principals. All the people with speaking parts of more than a few lines.”

Rory asked, “Will they read through the entire script?

“No, only the first few Ripley’s Creek scenes. So only the actors involved in those scenes will come in. Some directors have the full cast in every day on the premise they all get the feel of the entire production that way. I think it’s more important that I don’t piss the actors off by wasting their time.”

“So that first day it’ll be the cast playing my family members?”

“Yeah, and a few others. But mostly just a small group. Parents, one or two others. It’ll probably take us up to lunch and maybe some after that. You can never tell just how much time these things will take. The people from later in your Ripley’s Creek life will come in later; they won’t be there that morning.”

Nolan stopped and, looking at Rory, said, “You actually look concerned.”

Rory almost blushed, looked down, then said, “Meeting my father, saying the words we say to each other—yeah, I can get emotional about that. It strikes me viscerally. I’m afraid it’ll take me back.”

“Except it won‘t. Remember, it’s one actor speaking to another. Your dad’s substitute won’t be speaking to you. You’re not speaking to anyone other than being introduced. But that’s a good thought. What you feel when those two are talking: make a note of it in your script of that so that we can get the actor to show that. And another thing. This is when you’ll hear your dialogue spoken. If any of it feels wrong, or awkward, or not the way people actually talk, make a note of that, too. We can change it. See? I told you I’d need you there!”

Rory used his downtime between scriptwriting and his first meeting with some of the cast to get to know more of L.A. He realized quite quickly that he’d be best off learning about the area around the studio and Hollywood Hills. He visited UCLA, the Geffen Playhouse, Griffith Park, the botanical gardens, Universal Studios and a number of the fine restaurants in the area. He had money in his pocket he’d never had before and one of the country’s amazing cities at his feet.

Then Nolan called him. They had breakfast in the studio canteen. Nolan had French toast, bacon, scrambled eggs and coffee along with many interruptions from people saying hello, some of whom even Rory recognized. Rory had a piece of toast and coffee and didn’t finish the toast. Being told not to be nervous hadn’t worked.

The table reading of the script happened in the same room where Rory and Nolan had written the script. It was a long, narrow room with an extended table with seats for as many as twenty people. There weren’t nearly that number expected for this reading.

There were tables along the walls with coffee, soft drinks, pastries, yogurt, oranges, milk, juice, and other miscellaneous breakfast items.

When Rory and Nolan entered, all of the cast members needed for the initial scenes were already there. Everyone stopped talking when they entered, and Rory realized Nolan had the same effect on other people he’d had on him; Rory had felt that, too, when he’d first met him. Now, Nolan was simply a guy he’d met and was working with, one who was becoming a friend, easygoing and amiable. Others were affected by his charisma and power.

“Hi, everyone. Hope you’ve been getting acquainted. But this is a good chance for us all to introduce ourselves. Please, everyone, take a chair. We can do this easier sitting. Tell us your name and the role you have in the film, and, if you want, just a brief bit about yourself.

“After that, everyone grab whatever you want of the goodies that craft services has provided and bring them back to the table. I’d like to keep this reading as light and informal as possible. We’ll be doing several of these, and for the final ones, I’ll be wanting you to be in character, saying the lines scripted for you as you will before the camera. But for now, just reading them, seeing what they feel like in your mouth, their rhythm, that’s what you should be looking for.”

When everyone was seated, he looked around, smiled and said, “Okay, this is a small group so this should go quickly. George, why don’t you go first? Then we’ll go clockwise around the table from there.”

A late-middle-aged man with presence even while seated said in a deep bass voice, “I’m George Malcom. I play Rory’s father, Reginald. This will be the thirty-fifth film I’ve made. All in character roles.” He nodded at Nolan, glanced at Rory quizzically, and then touched the arm of the person next to him.

And so they went around the room. Rory had no problem putting them in their places in his past life. The only one that startled and then fascinated him was the last actor to speak, sitting to George’s right.

“Hi. I’m Cary Reynolds. I’m 13.” This was spoken softly in a high-pitched, nervous voice. “I’m playing Rory when he was my age. I’ve worked on two Disney films and a TV show. Sorry, but I’m a little nervous. Oh, and I’m gay. I read the book, and I’ve felt and dealt with everything Rory did in the book. It’s the best book I’ve ever read.”

Rory was staring at him, feeling emotions he hadn’t expected to feel. The fact was, Cary was the spitting image of himself at 13. And he seemed as nervous and shy as Rory had been about most everything at that age.