Scatter the Stars, page 11
‘I will not be blackmailed. I’ll speak to you next week. Find a lawyer.’ He banged down the phone, hating himself for sounding so cruel. But his feelings were hurt.
He rubbed his eyes and flicked off the video. His enthusiasm for the Randy story had gone for now. He gazed around the apartment. He looked at his watch. Seven-thirty in the evening. What now. Dinner? A homemade sandwich? Soup? Take out? Dinner alone? It didn’t appeal. But he decided to go out anyway.
FIVE
Los Angeles 1998
Michael left his rented condo in Marina Del Rey and drove north on Wilshire along the coast to Santa Monica. He cruised close to the Third Street Promenade where trendy Angelinos crowded the sidewalk cafes and small gourmet restaurants. He couldn’t face going to one alone. He kept cruising. God, this is how supposedly sensible men suddenly find themselves picking up a hooker, he thought. Loneliness engulfed him. Should he lose himself in the crowds in Santa Monica or get on the 405 Freeway north and scream up to Rincon Beach to dive into the refreshing night sea? Or knock on Randy’s door? He wondered what the actor would say if Michael – a man he’d met only once – turned up on his doorstep late at night. ‘Probably ask me in for a beer.’
A sense of warmth crept over Michael as he thought about the actor. There was something so accepting about him. Michael started to think again about how he could best tell Randy’s story on his program, and slowly his personal fear and panic began to subside. When he was driving, he liked to focus on the structure of his film pieces. The process of planning each new story for Behind the Scenes always relaxed him. It was a current affairs program that aimed to replace the Sixty Minutes eighties version of superficiality and exploitation with substance and analysis. Its presenters and the styles of their stories leaned more to the Sunday colour magazines. The program had continued to rate highly and had become a flagship show for the network. This was due to his philosophy. As executive producer, he made sure that the story was the story, and the camera was not to concentrate on how the reporters thought or looked and reacted. Behind the Scenes never underestimated the viewer.
Dismissing thoughts of disturbing Randy, Michael decided to go to a movie. He turned east on Wilshire Boulevard and drove into Westwood Village where he knew there was always a quality film guaranteed to be showing. He parked in a lot and walked to the old white Bruin theatre in the centre of campus village, spurning the multi cinema complexes. He glanced at the name of the movie, bought his ticket and groped his way to a seat as the previews came to an end.
The film was a remake of Shangri-la filmed in Nepal, and instantly he was swept away by the stunning beauty of the Himalayas. There was a sequence set in a second century monastery built into a cave that instilled in Michael an overwhelming desire to visit such places. That’s what he’d do, he decided. He would travel. He’d always wanted to go back to Bhutan in the Himalayas where he had covered a story as a young current affairs reporter. In the hushed theatre he leaned back, enjoying the visual feast of John Seale’s cinematography. And as his imagination roved with the camera across the spectacular scenery of the mountains, he felt the haunting music creeping into his thoughts. Tibetan and Indian classical songs, woven into a dramatically lush score, were highlighted periodically with a haunting flute melody in a masterpiece of clever musical blending. He wished his daughter were here to share this with him. Shana loved music. He sat through the credits, spotting a familiar name in the second assistant director. He’d look him up and find out exactly where the film had been shot, and how to get there.
As he followed the crowd down the stairs, Michael saw bobbing in front, a multicoloured woollen knitted hat. As he got closer it was indeed Beanie. He tugged at her arm.
She didn’t look surprised and he wondered what it would take to rattle her cheerful equanimity. She gave him a big smile. ‘Did you like the music?’
‘It was wonderful. What are you doing up here?’ It had been three days since he’d seen her at Randy’s.
‘This is Smokie. He worked on the music for the film. We keep coming back to hear it. He’s putting together some stuff for me.’ She tilted her head towards a man with dreadlocks and a small nose ring. He reached in front of Beanie to shake Michael’s hand. His fingers were long, as were the nails on his little fingers. A musician. Guitarist, surmised Michael.
‘Hi, man. Glad you liked the score.’ He had a lilt to his voice that Michael couldn’t place.
‘We’re going to the House of Blues. Want to come?’
‘Sure.’ Michael knew about the club, notable for its jazz, blues and ethnic music, but hadn’t been there. ‘Who’s playing?’
‘Friends of Smokie’s from Jamaica. Along with the Australian band, Yothu Yindi.’
‘The Aboriginal group?’
‘Yeah. Good to see you’re up on your music, Michael. Follow us.’
He’d heard of them, just. His daughter and her friends were big fans of Yothu Yindi. The pain hit him in the gut again. Which band was Shana following at the moment?
The mock leaning timber house was on Sunset Strip. An under-forties crowd milled at the door but Beanie led them round to the rear entrance where Smokie flashed a card. Luminous orange bands were snapped on their wrists and they were waved up to the top floor to a dark plush bar overlooking the lights of LA. Fake fires burned before leather lounges and two large TV screens showed the action on the stage and dance floor where reggae music blared. With three fingers raised to the bar, Beanie squirmed between two men – Armani clad, wet slicked-back hair, smoking cigars – and ordered Cosmopolitans. The bartender pushed the martinis and cranberry juice towards her. She handed a glass to Michael. ‘Gotta twenty on you?’
They found a corner where Beanie perched on the arm of a sofa in her short black skirt that disappeared to the top of her thighs, unaware she was showing off her legs sparkling in lycra pantyhose. Her heavy high heels looked weighty in contrast to the lacy top that was hung with strands of chains and beads. With the ever-present beanie, it could have been a grunge fashion shot for a magazine spread. Michael started making general conversation but he didn’t know whether to mention Randy, unsure of Beanie’s relationship with the laid-back Smokie. Noticing a pair of minor daytime TV soap actors he asked, ‘Is this the in place to be?’
‘No. Down there is.’ Beanie pointed to the mosh pit in front of the stage on the video screen. ‘We’ll hit it in a minute. I want to check it out. I might get a gig here with friends of Smokie’s.’
‘You’re really serious about the singing then?’
‘As serious as one could ever be about anything, Michael.’
It was said lightly but for a moment, beneath the youthful flippancy, he perceived her steely intent. Then she’d resumed her casual manner that was all he’d seen in their brief encounter at Randy’s.
Smokie, it transpired, was from Bombay – or Mumbai as he called it. He had moved to Kingston in Jamaica several years before to immerse himself in reggae, a contrast to the classical Indian music he’d studied in India. He also played drums and had worked on several film scores. But before Michael could engage him in any discussion about the film they’d just seen, Beanie grabbed his hand and led Michael down the stairs, weaving between tables and chairs on the second floor restaurant to the ground floor which was jammed with people. They pushed into the swaying crowd before the stage. The reggae was amplified to ear-splitting decibels, it seemed to Michael, but it was infectious music and he found himself moving with the crowd, bodies bumping and rubbing together.
Michael began to enjoy himself. God, how long since he’d been to a live music show? He’d taken Shana and her friends to a Rolling Stones farewell performance. And they’d persuaded Barbara to go along. They’d sat in the expensive complimentary seats and left before the finale to avoid the crush. Even then, Barbara had been claustrophobic. There’d been no jumping up and down, clapping or screaming in their section of the Hollywood Bowl.
Beanie was saying something to him, jumping up so he could hear. He leant down and she put her arm around his neck to talk into his ear, but he still didn’t hear. Suddenly his attention was arrested by seeing the shocked face of his daughter staring at him. As he disentangled Beanie, Shana turned abruptly away and was lost in the crowd.
He pushed through the swaying wall of happy people, desperate to find her. Once he thought he glimpsed her and called her name above the music, and several people looked amused and shook their heads. ‘Let her go, pal,’ one smirked.
Instinct steered him through the entrance where the crowd still queued and he caught up to her, running. He grasped her arm, turning her around. She looked past him, her face tight and pinched.
‘Shana, don’t you ever run away from me again. I’m your father.’
‘Doesn’t look like it. Hanging onto some bimbo in a club. What’re you doing here, Dad? Why don’t you act your age? You’re the last person I thought would be here.’
‘I might say the same to you. You’re underage and who’re you with?’
‘Friends. I can look out for myself.’
‘I bet your mother doesn’t know you’re here.’
‘It’s not her fault. She can make rules too, you know.’ She was defensive, flinging the comment at Michael whose curfew rules had rankled Shana since she’d edged into adolescence at twelve.
‘Let’s go somewhere and talk, this is bedlam.’ He tried to steer her away from the club. She shook her arm from his.
‘And what about your girlfriend? You just going to leave her? She doesn’t look old enough to be here either,’ she spat at him.
‘She’s just the girlfriend of a friend of mine. She’s here with her own friends. I’m on my own.’
She glared at him for a moment. ‘What, you here to pick up someone?’
Michael felt like slapping her defiant face but he knew there was a lot of pain beneath the brazen words. He softened. ‘Look, Shana, I was lonely, Beanie and her friend wanted me to hear the music. Come on, honey, let’s you and I go and talk. I miss talking to you.’
‘You and I have never talked, Dad. You’ve never been interested in what Mom and I did. You only noticed us when you complained about the money we spent.’
‘That’s because that’s what you and your mother seem to do most of the time, shop and spend money. Let’s not hash over this stuff. Let’s go grab a coffee. Tell me what you thought of the music. Bring your friends if you want.’
‘You must be joking. I’m not up to a musical discussion, thanks.’
They continued to glare at each other. Michael capitulated. ‘Listen, promise you’ll call me. Come over.’
‘Mom has asked me not to do that.’
‘What about me, Shana? I’m hurt too.’
‘I can’t hurt her by breaking my word.’
‘There are two sides to this scenario. Let me tell you how I feel.’
‘Why? You don’t care how I feel!’ Her voice was raised, strident, hot tears burning in her eyes.
‘I do care, goddamn you.’
‘Then let me have the money to go skiing. Show me you care!’
Bystanders in the line began to crane at this father-adolescent domestic happening outside such an incongruous place. Neither father nor daughter noticed them.
‘Giving you money isn’t showing you I care, Shana.’ Michael was sad, his voice low, the awful realisation hitting him in the belly. ‘But it’s the only way you seem to be able to rate how much I love you.’ Pain and anger burst from him. ‘That’s all you think I’m good for, giving you money. Like I’m a fucking cash cow!’ She reeled at his angry words.
He went on. ‘If you want to go skiing, you come and talk to me, and discuss it with me. Don’t send demands through your mother!’ He turned on his heel, striding into the night, her words washing behind him.
‘That’s right. Blame Mom. Again,’ she said following him. ‘It’s always her fault. Never yours, Mr think-you’re-so-perfect!’ The words were childish, spiteful, and hurt both of them. She turned from him and dashed back into the club as Michael walked slowly away, aware unsympathetic eyes were watching him.
New Guinea 1951
Standing off a fly and mosquito-infested swamp, a near replica of the steam yacht the Merrie England was moored. English officers in pristine whites lined the deck beside members of the armed native constabulary. A flotilla of dugout canoes, filled with supposed Goaribari Island natives in full feathered and painted regalia, began paddling towards the ship.
Behind them on the shore, the group of perspiring white men in shorts, hats and strong boots, swatted at the insects that swarmed around, stinging and biting any exposed flesh that wasn’t drenched in citronella or the lethal potion the film’s make-up man – who was beginning to assume more the role of medicine man – had concocted. The cameraman wiped the sweat out of his eye and squinted again into the camera as Biff shouted through the loudhailer at the paddlers to ‘Yupela hariap.’ He turned to the man beside him. ‘How do I tell them to go quicker?’
‘Try shouting workim quik taint.’
Biff raised the loudhailer again, then in a frustrated aside, ‘They’re too casual. They look like they’re out on a Sunday picnic,’ he muttered. He dabbed a small towel at his sunburnt, sweat-drenched face. ‘Didn’t the interpreter explain to them it’s supposed to be the early 1900s, and they have never seen white men on a big boat?’
The Australian cameraman gave the feisty American director a pitying look. The local people had entered into the spirit of play acting for this paid film job. But they had never seen a film, and they didn’t understand why someone would want to re-create an unsavoury incident in their history.
The weather was getting everyone down. Humid and steamy, it added its weight to the biting insects, rashes and other suspected tropical dangers that lurked unseen.
‘They say it’s cool in the hills. And let’s face it, this sure isn’t as hot as India.’ Thommo, the makeup man was also the unit expert on everything.
‘Listen, tomorrow is Sunday, day off. Get Ammo to arrange some kind of event. A picnic, a sing-sing, a day trip, whatever.’ Biff waved his cigar at an assistant. ‘He’s our paid liaison man, get him onto it. Now, let’s get this scene in the can before that ancient tub sinks or the natives take off.’
‘STAND BY.’
The flotilla clustered around the white steam yacht and the men on the deck went through their parts, until Biff called ‘Cut!’ He picked up his shooting script, pulling his glasses down from the top of his head and peered at it.
‘That wraps the long shot of the Merrie England arriving to investigate the murder of the missionaries. Now we have the scene where two of the native constables on board recognise the murderers in one of the canoes. Let’s get the hell out of this swamp and shoot the next sequences on board the boat.’
A small launch chugged out of the mangroves and the film equipment and crew were ferried to the Merrie England.
Richie was already ensconced in the captain’s cabin where he’d made himself at home, the skipper of the chartered boat having agreed to move into accommodation with Biff and the crew on shore. Richie was enjoying every moment of this experience. Being a star was grand enough, and he’d quickly adapted to his new status. He hadn’t suffered the bites, infections, allergies, stomach gripes or malarial headaches that had variously affected the rest of the production team. He was enjoying the whole adventure and while diligent in learning his lines, he was always ready to sit with a bottle of rum and make merry with good company late into the night.
Nearly everyone else in the crew wished they were somewhere else. Creativity didn’t come readily in this cruel environment. Cans of precious film ready to be processed had to be transported by canoe from the film’s location base on a malarial mudflat of an island in the Gulf of Papua to the capital city, Port Moresby, from where they were flown to Cairns in Queensland and then down to Sydney to connect with an international flight to Los Angeles.
Given the primitive communications at the location site, as yet there had been no word from America on how the picture was looking. Biff was unfazed. ‘Early days,’ he’d say, a little too frequently.
‘I’d like to at least know that the film has arrived in good shape, it’s a worry filming in this tropical climate,’ fussed Howard, the cameraman.
Technical problems aside, Biff had the rare gut feeling that he was working on a winner, but he kept that to himself. Make the gang stay on their toes.
Richie was perfectly cast as the handsome magistrate, Christopher Robinson who, at a youthful looking thirty-two, had found himself Australia’s acting Administrator of British New Guinea undertaking a task that he’d thought would earn him glory, but which had swiftly turned to a nightmare. Determined to make some mark early in his career, Robinson had undertaken to sail to Goaribari Island where the famous missionary, James Chalmers and two companions had ventured to attempt to convert the wild Goaribari. They’d been murdered and eaten for their trouble and their bones hung as trophies in the village warriors’ dubu or long-house. Robinson had decided that apprehending the murderers and retrieving the bones for a Christian burial would immensely enhance his career prospects. However as events unfolded, Christopher Robinson went down in history, but not as he’d intended.
The screenplay writer had been given a true story with all the sensational ingredients of a pot-boiler novel, set amidst spectacular scenery in a country seldom seen on the big screen. Murder, mayhem, romance, moral dilemma, intrigue and treachery between the missionaries, the white officials and the cannibals had been threaded together with missionary zeal, madness and magic. How could it miss?
The Hollywood studio had handed the film to Biff Magnussum. A great story and a leading actress were some insurance, but Biff as director knew no matter how big the scenery and action scenes, how wild the massacres and romance, the film hinged on the role of Robinson. The script portrayed him as the well-educated son of an archdeacon of the Brisbane Anglican Church, a rakish young man who fancied himself somewhat of a dandy.
