movies to see something I haven’t seen before.”
“But you’re not the seventeen-year-old male the studio is targeting.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Cape, looking up at the ceiling and briefly trying to remember what it was like to be seventeen. He remembered being stupid and horny, but not much else, and not necessarily in that order. He turned back to Grace.
“So doesn’t anyone make original pictures these days?” he asked. “What about that gay astronaut movie your studio made?”
“That was all Harry’s doing.”
“Harry Berman, the guy who runs Empire Studios.”
“Yeah, Harry and his brother, Adam, though it’s hard to believe they’re related.”
“Why?”
“Harry loves movies,” explained Grace. “I mean films—the more artsy the better. He’s the one who put the studio on the map by courting stars, convincing big names to act in small films.”
“How?”
“He’s a visionary,” said Grace. “He wanted to prove a studio could make it outside of Hollywood, so he based Empire in New York. Then he ignored all the scripts that were piling into the big studios and instead bought the rights to award-winning foreign novels, which he turned into contemporary screenplays. Then he’d tell the actors they’d get an Academy Award if they starred in one of his films.”
“Pretty big promise.”
“Which he’s delivered on every year,” said Grace. “Harry figured out the awards circuit. He was the first to run ads in
Variety
promoting his films around the time the judges voted. He’d re-release the films into local art theaters in the neighborhoods where the judges lived. He’d invite critics to his yacht for a movie opening and cruise around New York Harbor, plying them with drinks. He had them eating out of his hand.”
“So how did they go from being the darling of the critics’ circle to the giant killer asteroid?”
Grace hesitated as if trying to find a simple explanation. She bit her lower lip, working it thoughtfully between her teeth.
“Adam happened,” she said finally.
“The brother.”
“Yeah,” said Grace. “But like I said, you’d never believe they came from the same womb. While Harry loves movies, Adam loves the movie business. He doesn’t give a damn about awards—he just wants the biggest opening weekend in July.”
“That must create a certain amount of tension around the office,” said Cape.
“It used to,” replied Grace. “It kept things interesting, that’s for sure. And it gave people like me a chance to work on a serious film every once in a while, then go back to paying the bills with an action film. That was the financial strategy behind the studio.”
“A balanced portfolio?”
“Same idea, yeah,” nodded Grace. “Adam would make action flicks to get the box office and generate enough cash for Harry to make his art films with big stars.”
“You keep using the past tense,” observed Cape.
Grace smiled. Cape thought she looked sad but couldn’t be sure in the half-light.
“Harry has become—,” she hesitated for an instant, then plunged ahead. “Harry’s become strange.”
“Define strange.”
“I mean strange, even by Hollywood standards,” replied Grace. “He makes odd requests, then changes his mind, then calls to demand why you haven’t answered his original question.”
“Sounds like my ex-girlfriend.”
Grace forged ahead. “Harry’s alienated a lot of the celebrities he courted in the early years. And when you go to talk with him in his office, he’s not even there.”
“You mean he’s not working?”
“I mean he’s not physically there,” said Grace.
Cape peered through the growing dark. “Now you’re sounding strange.”
Grace shook her head, annoyed. “The only thing in his office is a giant TV monitor perched on top of his desk with a remote-controlled camera on top. And on the screen is Harry—looking at you, talking to you, all via satellite.”
“From where?”
“Nobody