Read Online Blue Movie by Terry Southern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Southern
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Boris with it, gave a snort of mock derision: “‘Best head in the city’! What fuckin’ city? This tank?” He looked at Boris in hopes of an appreciative take, but the latter seemed not to have heard, and Sid thought he might have said the wrong thing. “Not that we can’t make a whale of a movie in a tank-town!” he added, then nudged Boris, desperate enough now to insist. “Get it, King? ‘Whale?’ ‘Tank?’ Haw-haw!”
Morty, of course, joined in the laugh—but too heartily, considering the way the shaded B. looked at them now—one to the other, with a sort of deadpan compassion—so he choked it off abruptly.
“Yeah, I get it, Sid,” said Boris then with a sad smile. “‘Whale,’ ‘tank.’ Terrific. I guess I was thinking of something else.”
Both men nodded with vigorous understanding and a show of relief, but when Boris turned away again, Morty whispered urgently to Sid: “What’s the matter with him? He’s not on the stuff, is he?”
“He’s thinkin’, fer Chrissake!” snapped Sid. “Ain’t you never seen nobody think?!?”
But this display of irate impatience was not very convincing, so that a certain mild concern was evident in both their faces as they followed Boris through the door marked “SIDNEY H. KRASSMAN, Executive Producer.”
This room, like such offices the world over, wherever films are being made, was intended to function as the nerve center of the production; instead of three telephones on the desk, there were five; against one wall was a combination bar and refrigerator; and against the other, a stereo and two TV sets; the oversize couch was covered with what invitingly appeared to be some kind of white fur and several soft-looking pillows of the same fabric in different colors. On the desk, along with the five telephones, digital-clock, and the rest of the usual stuff, was a small framed photograph of Sid’s wife.
“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked, picking it up, frowning at it.
Morty beamed. “Had it blown up from a snap I took at the beach one time we were all out at the beach—remember, out at Ed Weiner’s place? Old Colony Road?”
Sid replaced it carefully on the desk. “Christ, I haven’t seen that cunt in two years,” he muttered, then to Morty: “Still, it was a nice thought, Morty. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Sid.”
Both their voices seemed to quaver for an instant in near-tearful camaraderie, or similar—a short-lived absurdity, however, as they turned to join Boris, who was staring at the most salient feature of the room: the big, wooden shooting board, which dominated one entire wall.
“Well, there she is,” said Sid, with a heavy sigh, and he and Morty gazed at it reverently, while Boris walked to the window.
The purpose of the board was to forecast the shooting schedule, day by day, and then to reflect its progress—all done with gaily colored plaques, pegs, and disks, to be fitted snugly into slots and holes against a dazzling white, like an elaborate children’s game. Since there was as yet no schedule (in fact, no script), the board, still smelling of fresh paint, was empty—its red, blue, yellow, and green counters neatly grouped in readiness below the blank white rows, numbered one to one hundred, representing days to come, unfitted and unfulfilled. But this quality of freshness made the board seem innocent, virgin, and most important of all, optimistic.
“Where you going to put up the principals?” asked Sid.
“Sid,” said smug Mort, “we also got the two floors below this—one for the actors, one for the crew.”
Sid was irately astonished. “You’re gonna put up the actors and the apes in the same hotel?!? Are you outta your nut!?!”
It is classic Hollywood protocol that the actors be quartered separately from the technicians (“apes” or “gorillas,” as they are affectionately called)—allegedly in apprehension of the leading lady being gang-banged to death by a raving horde of drunken
Morty, of course, joined in the laugh—but too heartily, considering the way the shaded B. looked at them now—one to the other, with a sort of deadpan compassion—so he choked it off abruptly.
“Yeah, I get it, Sid,” said Boris then with a sad smile. “‘Whale,’ ‘tank.’ Terrific. I guess I was thinking of something else.”
Both men nodded with vigorous understanding and a show of relief, but when Boris turned away again, Morty whispered urgently to Sid: “What’s the matter with him? He’s not on the stuff, is he?”
“He’s thinkin’, fer Chrissake!” snapped Sid. “Ain’t you never seen nobody think?!?”
But this display of irate impatience was not very convincing, so that a certain mild concern was evident in both their faces as they followed Boris through the door marked “SIDNEY H. KRASSMAN, Executive Producer.”
This room, like such offices the world over, wherever films are being made, was intended to function as the nerve center of the production; instead of three telephones on the desk, there were five; against one wall was a combination bar and refrigerator; and against the other, a stereo and two TV sets; the oversize couch was covered with what invitingly appeared to be some kind of white fur and several soft-looking pillows of the same fabric in different colors. On the desk, along with the five telephones, digital-clock, and the rest of the usual stuff, was a small framed photograph of Sid’s wife.
“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked, picking it up, frowning at it.
Morty beamed. “Had it blown up from a snap I took at the beach one time we were all out at the beach—remember, out at Ed Weiner’s place? Old Colony Road?”
Sid replaced it carefully on the desk. “Christ, I haven’t seen that cunt in two years,” he muttered, then to Morty: “Still, it was a nice thought, Morty. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Sid.”
Both their voices seemed to quaver for an instant in near-tearful camaraderie, or similar—a short-lived absurdity, however, as they turned to join Boris, who was staring at the most salient feature of the room: the big, wooden shooting board, which dominated one entire wall.
“Well, there she is,” said Sid, with a heavy sigh, and he and Morty gazed at it reverently, while Boris walked to the window.
The purpose of the board was to forecast the shooting schedule, day by day, and then to reflect its progress—all done with gaily colored plaques, pegs, and disks, to be fitted snugly into slots and holes against a dazzling white, like an elaborate children’s game. Since there was as yet no schedule (in fact, no script), the board, still smelling of fresh paint, was empty—its red, blue, yellow, and green counters neatly grouped in readiness below the blank white rows, numbered one to one hundred, representing days to come, unfitted and unfulfilled. But this quality of freshness made the board seem innocent, virgin, and most important of all, optimistic.
“Where you going to put up the principals?” asked Sid.
“Sid,” said smug Mort, “we also got the two floors below this—one for the actors, one for the crew.”
Sid was irately astonished. “You’re gonna put up the actors and the apes in the same hotel?!? Are you outta your nut!?!”
It is classic Hollywood protocol that the actors be quartered separately from the technicians (“apes” or “gorillas,” as they are affectionately called)—allegedly in apprehension of the leading lady being gang-banged to death by a raving horde of drunken
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