Close-Up

There were still some surprises to come. I didn’t fully appreciate the fact that movie credits can be a battlefield where determined Darwinians fought to enhance their reputation at the expense of others. I even had people asking me for a co-writing credit on my script. I had commissioned Ray Hawkey, with whom I had studied at the Royal College of Art, to design the titles. They were original and beautiful and now in a childish attempt to shame the wannabes, I told Ray to remove my name from the credits. But I had severely misjudged the clamorous ones. The removal of my name only encouraged the claimants.

Credit or no credit, the production company was entirely mine and the producer is the only person who can’t be fired or even replaced. So in accordance with my contract with Paramount, I continued to nurse my film through the postproduction weeks and deliver it. I had learned a great deal from the previous film. No claimants were around now; postproduction is a lonely time, far removed from the glamour of lights and cameras. I watched and learned more every day as Kevin Connor, the film editor, cut it into shape and the complex sound track was trimmed and modified and a thousand small changes were supervised by truly dedicated technicians. By the time I had a final cut of the film I knew that these amazing things I had seen must not be wasted. I decided to write a book about the film business showing its joys and technicalities plus a few of its warts and wrinkles. Close-Up is not reality; writers go beyond reality to find and depict truth. Close-Up is the truth as I experienced it. A year or two later, one of the proudest moments of my life came as I stood at the bar of Les Ambassadeurs Club off Park Lane. Bud Ornstein said to me: ‘I was reading one of your books recently and I thought this is someone who really knows about airplanes. Then I read Close-Up and thought this is someone who really knows about the movie business. Then I realized that you had written both of them.’

I hope you will share Bud’s satisfaction. If not, you can try one of my aviation stories, my history books or one of my spy stories. All that remains to be said about Close-Up is that although it reflects what I learned producing two films it is in no way an account of that experience or a memoir. The twists and turns, vendettas, deals, disappointments and betrayals are not specific ones and none of my characters depicts real people living or dead. But these fictional people are real to me.

When, years later, in a rather mangled version, a DVD was made of Oh! What A Lovely War I was not invited to contribute an interview. Marshall Stone would have understood.

Len Deighton, 2011

1

Today we spend eighty per cent of our time making deals and twenty per cent making pictures.

Billy Wilder

The heavy blue notepaper crackled as the man signed his name. The signature was an actor’s: a dashing autograph, bigger by far than any of the text. It began well, rushing forward boldly before halting suddenly enough to split the supply of ink. Then it retreated to strangle itself in loops. The surname began gently, but then that too became a complex of arcades so that the whole name was all but deleted by well-considered decorative scrolls. The signature was a diagram of the man.

Marshall Stone. It was easy to recognize the hero of Last Vaquero, the film that had made the young English actor famous in 1949. He’d sat at this same desk in the last reel, reflecting upon a wasted life and steeling himself to face the bullets. For that final sequence he’d required two hours’ work on his face. Now he would not need it.

A lifetime of heavy make-up had ravaged his complexion so that it needed the expensive facials with which he provided it. Around his eyes the wrinkles were leathery and the skin across his cheeks and under his jaw was unnaturally tightened. The shape of his face and its bone structure would have little appeal to a portraitist, and yet its plainness could be changed by the smallest of pads, tooth clamps or hairpieces, or by a dab of colour over the eyes or a shadow down the bone of the nose. Just the blunt military moustache, grown for his latest role, ensured that some of his dearest fans and nearest friends needed a second look to identify him.

Nor had the ageing process provided Stone with more character. Like many of his contemporaries, he’d grown his hair long enough to cover his ears and make a fringe on his forehead. This hairstyle framing his severe face made it difficult to guess what his occupation might be. His clear blue eyes – as bright as a girl’s and as active as a child’s – might just be a tribute to the eye drops that he put into them. His raven hair suggested the judicious use of dye. His chesty actor’s stride could just as well be that of a seaman or an athlete. Only when he spoke was it possible to label him. The classless over-articulated speech that RADA students assumed so well that few of them ever lost its pattern:

‘Jasper, are you there, Jasper?’

Jasper – driver, bodyguard and valet – was seldom out of earshot. He came into the room and closed the curtains. A summer storm had darkened the sky. The study had become dim except for the desk lamp which painted a green mask across Stone’s face and chopped his bright hands off at the wrists.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A letter to post, a cheque for the club and an open cheque so that you can get me some cash.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The bank would remain open for him. Stone had not yet grown blasé about the favours that money could provide. He’d told them six-thirty, but they’d wait: they’d learned that artistes had little sense of time. Through the heavy brocade the London traffic could be heard.

‘I waste a lot of money gambling, Jasper.’

‘You do have bad luck, sir.’

Stone was not a social reformer and yet his servants made him feel guilty. That’s why he was secretive about his afternoon naps and about his shopping sprees. He insisted that they knock before opening the doors so that he could be alert and industrious when they came upon him. It was for this reason, too, that he mentioned to them the worries and problems of his working life. As of the moment he was working on a film called Stool Pigeon.

‘I’m doing the swamp scenes tomorrow. I hope they’ve fixed up better heating in the dressing-room. Last week I spent four hours under the lamps before getting rid of that pain in my knee. Roger at the gym says that’s the classic way to get arthritis.’

The servant didn’t reply. Stone read the letter again.

From the desk of Marshall Stone

Wednesday evening

Dear Peter,

The idea of a biography of me has come up from time to time but I have always vetoed it. However, a writer of your talent and reputation could bring a whole new dimension to it. Who better to do a star’s biography than the man who wrote the very first script of Last Vaquero?

Now, no show-biz crap, Peter, a real warts-and-all portrait, and damn the publicity boys! And not just a book about an actor! A book about the electricians, the camera assistants, the extras, the backroom boys in production offices. In fact, about the way it all comes together.

Talk to my private secretary, Mrs Angela Brooks, and arrange our get-together as soon as you like.

The piece you did for your paper last month was damned good and mightily flattering to boot! I can’t wait to see what you will do in a whole book devoted to such a humble thesp as,

MARSHALL STONE

He crossed out damned and inserted bloody, hooking the y of ‘you’ with the loop of its b. There should always be at least one alteration in a letter. It gave the personal touch. He put his signet ring into the hot bubbling wax and sealed both envelopes.

‘Is Mr Weinberger here yet?’

‘I showed him into the library, sir.’

‘Good.’ Stone’s vocal cords had tightened enough to distort his voice, and he tasted in his mouth the bile that anxiety created. On such sudden visits his agent always brought bad news.

‘He has documents with him. He’s working on them. He seems content.’

Oh my God: documents. ‘You gave him a drink?’

‘He declined, sir.’

‘People always decline, Jasper. You must persuade them.’ Stone cleared his throat.

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Cut along to the bank, then, and be outside at eight-thirty: the Rolls, and tell Silvio I’ll have my usual table. I’ll probably sleep here tonight. You can tell the servants at Twin Beeches to expect me for dinner tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Stone closed the roll-top desk, locked it and went to the bathroom.

He did little more than splash cold water on to his face. Then he dried it carefully, so that the warm yellow towel would not be soiled by eye-black. He selected high boots, a faded shirt, and tied a red kerchief at the throat. After looking in the mirror he retied it and put a crucifix around his neck on a fine gold chain. He tucked it into the front of his shirt. It was almost, but not quite, out of sight.

‘Viney!’ he said as he entered the library. He spread his hands wide apart in an almost oriental gesture of hospitality. For a moment he stood there without moving. Then he walked to his agent and took the proffered hand in both of his.

Weinberger looked like a gigantic teddy-bear that had survived several generations of unruly children. He was tall, but of such girth that his Savile Row suit did little to flatter him. He had a dozen such suits, all of them equally undistinguished except for the cigarette burns that he inevitably made in the right side of the jackets. His hair was unkempt and his club tie was, as always askew. Under sadly sagging eyebrows his eyes were black and deep set. His nose was large and so was his mouth, which only smiled to show the world that he would endure without complaint the slings and arrows that were his outrageous lot.

It was his desire to be as unsurprising as possible. He succeeded: except to the people who read the fine print in his contracts. His voice had the gruff melancholy that one would expect from such a man.

‘Sorry it had to be tonight, Marshall. No real problem: a formality, really, but it needs your signature.’

Stone did not release the hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Viney. Damned good to see you.’

‘Epitome Screen Classics – that’s Koolman’s new subsidiary – want TV rights for resale.’

Stone released the agent’s hand. ‘Do you realize that we only see each other to talk business, Viney? Couldn’t we get together regularly – just for laughs, just for old time’s sake?’

‘I don’t know why they let us have that approval clause in the contract. I’d put it in to sacrifice it for something else.’ Viney shook his head sadly. ‘They left it in.’

‘Business! That’s all you think about. Have a drink.’ Stone cocked his head and nodded, as if the affirmative gesture would change his guest’s mind. Back in the days when ventriloquism was a popular form of entertainment, such physical mannerisms had encouraged wisecracks about the cocky little star being seated upon the knee of the doleful giant who was his agent. But these jokes had only been made by people who hadn’t encountered Marshall Stone.

‘No thanks, Marshall.’ He looked at his notes: ‘“Three years after completion of principal photography or by agreement.” It’s only got six months to go anyway.’

‘A small bourbon: Jack Daniels. Remember how we used to drink Jack Daniels in the Polo Lounge at The Beverly Hills?’

Weinberger looked around the huge room to find a suitable space for his papers. Arranged upon an inlaid satinwood table there were ivory boxes, photos in silver frames, instruments to measure pressure, temperature and humidity, a letter-opener and a skeleton clock. Weinberger moved some of the objets d’art and used a small gold pencil to make a cross on both letters. ‘It needs your signature: here and here.’ He put the pencil away and produced a fountain-pen which he uncapped and then tested before presenting to his client.

Stone signed the letters carefully, ensuring that his signature was the same precise work that it always was.

‘Read it, Marshall, read it!’

‘You don’t want me interfering with your end of it.’ He capped the pen and handed it back. ‘What movie are we talking about, anyway?’

‘Sorry, Marshall. I’m talking about Last Executioner. So many shows are losing sponsors that they want to network it in the States to kick off the fall season. It looks like the Vietnam War is going to be the only TV show that will last out till Christmas.’ Stone nodded solemnly.

‘Except for the scene on the boat, I was terrible.’

‘They’ll want the sequels too. Leo said you gave a great performance. “Marshall gave a sustained performance – conflict, colour and confrontation.” You got all three of Leo’s ultimates.’

‘What does that schmuck know about acting.’

‘I agree with him, Marshall. Think of that first script – you built that character out of nothing.’

‘Five writers they used. Six, if you include that kid that they brought in at the end for additional dialogue.’

‘On TV they’ll be a sensation. Leo would like you to do a couple of appearances.’ Weinberger watched the actor’s face, wondering how he would react. He did not react.

‘And it was the kid that got the screenplay credit. For a week’s work!’

Weinberger said, ‘Serious stuff: the Film Institute lecture for the BBC and David Frost for the States – taped here if you prefer – and Koolman would put his whole publicity machine to work. We could get it all in writing.’

‘They’ll sink without a ripple, Viney.’

‘No, Marshall. If the TV companies slot them right they could be very big. And Leo is high on the spy bit at the moment.’

‘I don’t need TV, Viney, I’m not quite that far over the hill: not quite.’ Stone chuckled. ‘Anyway, they’ll die, a successful US TV show must appeal to a mental age of seven.’

‘A lot of TV viewers don’t have a mental age of seven. I like TV.’

‘No, but the men who buy the shows do have a mental age of seven, Viney.’ Stone poured himself a glass of Perrier water and sipped it carefully. He knew that the contract was just an excuse. His agent’s real purpose was to talk about TV work.

‘Now come on, Marshall.’

‘Screw TV, Viney. Let’s not start that again. All you have to do is nod and then take your ten per cent. I’ve got just one career but you’ve got plenty of Marshall Stones in the fire.’ He smiled and held the smile in a way that only actors can.

Weinberger was still holding his fountain-pen and now he looked closely at it. The very tips of his knuckles were white. Stone went on, ‘Like that blond dwarf Marshall Stone, named Val Somerset! You made sure he got his pic in the paper having dinner with the Leo Koolmans at Cannes. Good publicity, that: national papers, not just the trades. Is that why you didn’t want me to go along when Snap, Crackle, Pop was shown there?’ Stone said the words in a low pleasant voice, but he allowed a trace of his anger to show. He had been bottling up that particular grievance for several months.

‘Of course not.’

‘Of course not! Have you seen what he does in Imperial Verdict? The whole performance is what I did in Perhaps When I Come Back. Three people have mentioned it – a straight steal.’

Weinberger went across to the sofa, opened his black leather document-case and put the papers into it.

Stone said, ‘Will you please answer me.’

Weinberger turned and spoke very quietly. ‘That kid isn’t going to take any business from you, Marshall. You are an international star, Val’s name’s not dry in Spotlight. He’s getting a tenth of your price.’

Stone walked across to his agent, paused for a moment, shook his head regretfully and then gripped Weinberger’s arm. It was a gesture he used to pledge affection. ‘Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me, Viney.’

Weinberger didn’t answer. He had been close to Stone for a quarter of a century. He’d learned to endure the criticisms and insults that were a part of the job. He knew the sort of doubts and fears that racked any actor and he knew that an agent must be a scapegoat as well as confessor, friend and father.

In human terms Stone might have benefited from a few home truths. He might have become more of a human being, but such tactics could cripple him as an actor.

And for Weinberger, Stone was by no means ‘any actor’, he was a giant. His Hamlet had been compared with Gielgud’s, and his Othello bettered only by Olivier. On the screen he’d tackled everything from Westerns to light comedy. Not even his agent could claim that they all had been successful but some of his performances remained definitive ones. Few young actors would attempt a cowboy role without having Last Vaquero screened for them, and yet that was Stone’s first major role in films. Weinberger smiled at his client. ‘Forget it, Marshall.’

Stone patted his arm again and walked to the fireplace. ‘Thanks for sending that Man From the Palace script, Viney. You have a fantastic talent for choosing scripts. You should have become a producer. Perhaps I did you no favour in asking you to be an agent.’ Again Stone smiled.

‘I’m glad you like it.’ Weinberger knew that he was being subjected to Stone’s calculated charm but that did not protect him from its effects. Just as confidence tricksters and scheming women do nothing to conceal their artifice, so Stone used his charm with the abrupt, ruthless and complacent skill with which a mercenary might wield a flame-thrower.

‘Do you know something, Viney: it might be great. There’s one scene where I come in from the balcony after the fleet have mutinied. The girl is waiting. I talk to her about the great things I’ve wanted to do for the country… It’s got a lot of social awareness. I’m the man in the middle. I can see the logic of the computer party and the trap awaiting the protestors. It’s got a lot to say to the kids, that film, Viney. Who’s going to play the girl?’

‘Nellie Jones can’t do it, they won’t give her a stop-date on Wild Men, Wild Women and they are four weeks over. Now I hear they’re testing some American girl.’

‘American! Haven’t we got any untalented inexperienced stupid actresses here in England, that they have to go to America to find one.’ Stone laughed grimly; he had to play opposite these girls.

Weinberger smiled as if he’d not heard Stone say the same thing before. ‘I told them how you would feel. You’ll only consider it if the rest of the package is right. But I didn’t say that a new kid wouldn’t be OK. If the billing was right.’

‘Only me above title?’

‘That’s what I had in mind,’ admitted Weinberger.

‘Perhaps it would be better like that.’

‘No rush, Marshall. Let’s see what they come up with: we have the final say.’

‘It’s a good story, Viney.’

‘It was a lousy book,’ warned Weinberger.

‘Eighteen weeks on the best-seller list.’

Weinberger pulled a face.

‘You miserable bastard, please have a drink.’ Stone held up the stopper of a cut-glass decanter.

‘It makes me careless and you fat.’

‘A tiny one?’

‘OK, Marshall, if you need the reassurance, pour me a pint of your best scotch. But I won’t drink it.’

‘You’re an obstinate old sod.’ Stone put the stopper back into the decanter.

‘That’s why you need me to represent you. I really don’t mind being disliked.’

‘And I do?’

‘Yes, you do.’

Stone chased a block of ice with a swizzle stick. ‘It’s good, the deal we made for The Executioner?’

‘It’s the most anyone ever got from Leo Koolman for that kind of package.’

‘I’ll send Leo a little present. Perhaps a first edition, or cufflinks.’

‘No.’

Stone looked up in surprise. Weinberger said, ‘It will make him wonder if we’ve put one over on him.’

‘You’re a devious bastard, Viney.’ Stone toasted him before drinking.

Weinberger smiled. ‘In Perrier water?’

Stone nodded, and sipped at the water. Then he put the glass down and tightened the knot of his neckerchief before consulting his gold Rolex. Once such a watch had been the prime ambition of every film actor. Now kids like Somerset flaunted Micky Mouse timepieces that anyone could afford. ‘Let’s go to dinner, Viney.’

Weinberger recognized it as Stone’s way of taking his leave. He said, ‘I’ve got a wife and dinner waiting. Another hour and both will go cold on me.’

‘Yes, phone Lucy. She must come too. My God, how long since I last saw Lucy.’

Weinberger smiled.

‘No, seriously.’

‘Off you go, Marshall. I’ll just use the phone and be off. I’ll let myself out.’

‘Ring for anything you want.’ Stone touched some of the tiny roses that he’d brought up from his country garden that morning. He missed the garden when work forced him to stay in his London flat. ‘Will you take the roses with you; for Lucy with my love.’ Weinberger nodded. Stone was reluctant to leave without being quite sure that his agent did not bear a grudge for his peevish outburst. It was one of his most awful – and most unfounded – fears that Weinberger would refuse to work with him any more. Or, worse, that Weinberger might deliberately go slow on Stone’s representation while pushing some other client.

‘It was good to see you, Viney, it really was.’ He paused long enough in front of a mirror to be sure his hair looked right. Then, still smiling to Weinberger, he let himself out through the carved double-doors that had once been part of a Mexican church.

Weinberger heard Stone greet someone outside in the hallway. A girl’s voice replied. Then he heard the front door of the apartment close and soon after that the sound of the doors of the Rolls and then its motor as it accelerated along Mount Street.

Weinberger looked around the room. It had hardly changed since a fashionable decorator had designed it almost ten years before. The colour scheme was pink and blue-grey and even the collection of snuff-boxes had been selected so that those colours predominated. An appearance of spontaneity had been achieved by the big bowls of cut flowers and the casual placing of the footstools and the cushions, and yet these had been ordained by the designer. The three silk-covered sofas were still arranged around the fire-place in the same way. Even the expensive illustrated books and the silver cigarette-box and lighter were the same ones in the same positions.

Weinberger helped himself to a cigarette and lit it before dialling the president of Koolman International Pictures Inc. It was some time before the agent was given a chance to talk, but finally he was able to say, ‘Well, I agree, Leo, but an actor must make his own decision about a thing like this. You don’t want him blaming you after, and I don’t want him blaming me.’

Again there was a speech by Koolman, then Weinberger said, ‘All actors are frightened of TV, they think it means they are on the decline. Especially a series – Marshall would certainly do a one-shot for you, or a spectacular, but an option for twenty shows is too many. Let me tell Marshall it’s ten. After the first few it will either be such a success that he’ll go along, or be such a failure that you won’t want more than five.’

Again Weinberger listened. Then he said, ‘OK, Leo, and I’d like to show you some girls to play the wife…’ silence, then, ‘Well, yes, and I wouldn’t mind that either,’ he laughed. ‘Goodbye, Leo, and thanks.’

Jasper switched off the tape-recorder and looked at Marshall Stone. The actor got to his feet and smoothed his tight slacks over his thighs. The girl looked up at him, but her face was expressionless.

‘Bloody Judas,’ said Stone finally. ‘He takes ten per cent of my gross income…’ he turned to the girl, ‘…gross, mark you, not net. It’s a bloody fortune.’ She nodded. ‘And he plots against me in my own home.’ He turned to Jasper. ‘Pity you couldn’t fix it so we could hear the other end.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK, Jasper. Goodnight. I’ll drive Miss Delft home.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’ Jasper closed the tape-recorder and put it away before going out. As soon as the door closed the girl got to her feet and put her arms round Stone’s neck. ‘We can’t go on meeting like this,’ she said, and giggled.