N.Y. / L.A.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

To the memory of Vernon Young

Honest to himself to an enviable fault

Chapter One

The faint rapping on the door, then the gently spoken Five minutes to make-up, guv’nor! ended his half-hour slumber; so pleasant, so important.

…I’ll be there, Roger. Thanks.

He climbed off the bunk, stretched fully three times, taking deep breaths. For nearly twenty years now he’d remained faithful to this and other disciplines he’d been taught during his British indoctrination to the craft in his late teens. While the pre-performance nap wasn’t a formal requisite of that training, every visiting graduate or guest, from Gielgud and Olivier to Richardson and Scofield, had advised it. Matthew Fleming followed their heeding, finding the forced rest an invaluable aid to clearing the way for a focused interpretation of the character, especially after the fiftieth performance.

Although he was about to go before a camera now, not a live audience, he’d already put in a long day and the upcoming scene was, for him, the major reason for his being here. Full energy, complete concentration were called for. Of course he could repeat the monologue if he flubbed a line or missed a mark or wanted to try something different, but he was intent on getting it right out of the gate. Two takes at most. Ah, the fucking camera. How he detested the whole filmmaking process but begrudgingly admired the remarkable achievements it had produced. But so what? He still hated having to act before an inanimate piece of machinery rather than the ninety-nine souls he could sense in an Off-Broadway theater’s darkness or the thousand on Broadway itself. They had fed back to him during dramas and comedies unguarded emotions of delight, terror, joy and pity, as well as, if it were that rare tragedy, their anguish, heartbreak or communion with their own mortality. And certainly missed was the affection-filled ambrosia that wafted over the footlights toward the actors, which kept their otherwise fragile personas keyed up for the next night’s attempt to elevate everyone’s spirits.

Oh, Christ, cut it out, asshole!, he muttered under his breath as he poured a slug of vodka into an empty teacup, then downed it. The casual-seeming indulgence of booze was yet another ritual of thespians, he knew, from time immemorial perhaps, yet one he’d avoided until the last picture. Adjusting his dark tan tights, he flashed on the moment back in his youth when he donned his first pair of leotards for his class at the Academy, in ‘movement’, taught by that prim slavedriver, Miss Beckingham. He suppressed what he knew would be a bout of giggling—another occupational hazard—if he dwelt further on those halcyon days.

He half-smiled at his reflection in the full-length mirror in recognition of a dream partially realized: he finally was playing Prince Hal. Not on the stage, to be sure, but that still could be in his cards. Oh yes, much was going to change in the months and years ahead, no matter what David said, threatened or tried to manipulate. Little did the prick suspect how much Matt had gotten his act together—his off-stage act—and was close to pulling the plug, definitively. He had sworn to himself to begin this new century the master of his own fate.

He darted a glance at the table to confirm the package had been taken away while he’d been working earlier, as he’d instructed a production assistant. It was gone. Good. Sutter should be getting it within the week. Ah…Charley Sutter. Come through for me, old man, come through, he muttered while splashing a little more Ketel into the cup. Master of his fate, ha! He had a way to go, he’d say. And what about Laura, pray tell? Removing her from his life was going to be as perilous as his other partner, David, if not more so, because of little Harry, who made Matt laugh in a way he never thought possible since that night…that ‘fateful’ night, he thought it fair to call it…

…Enough!, he declaimed, full voice.

Returning to face his mirrored image, he let the exquisitely designed costume, rich-textured simplicity itself, and his modified Fifteenth Century period haircut again aid in supporting his characterization of the Peck’s bad boy of Shakespeare’s masterwork. He then directed one more run-through of his lines to the blank loo door before dashing off for make-up touch-up and the tricky staging being prepared for him.

Stepping out of the Mercedes motor home parked adjacent to a stage door, he found the bone-chilling dampness and darkness of the English late afternoon at January’s end comforting; it further supported what Prince Hal was about to say. The ostentatious luxury vehicle was one of several gratuitous contractual points he let David force on the producer, a friend and colleague, in order to expedite their mutual goal.

If possible, the giant Shepperton sound stage was more dank and lightless than outside, except for one far corner in which all illumination and human activity were centered. Matt briskly headed for it, passing a few smaller, lifeless sets for the production, and took his seat at the make-up row on the periphery of this week’s re-creation of a place from the past: The Boar’s Head Tavern, circa 1400 A. D. It’s too much, he once again was bedazzled, how these Brits can build, dress and prop period sets. They reeked with a visceral authenticity that further enriched his feeling for Hal.

While Molly, with her nurturing, sensual hands redid his base and some subtle lip and eye-lines, Matt watched the director walk through the entire soliloquy in dumb show with the Steadicam operator. Here and there Ken couldn’t resist speaking the lines. Matt didn’t blame him. He knew the hyper actor cum director cum producer would give half or more of whatever he was earning for this ball-busting work to play Hal himself. For bloody chrissake, he’d moaned, hadn’t he done it all in his films of Henry V, Much Ado and Hamlet?!!

Matt had to shake his head at the myriad coincidences and ironies that brought the two of them to this delicious state of affairs, which began with their reunion last spring in Hollywood. It was there where Ken cried in his beer over the foregoing frustration.

The figurative beer, actually a pricey wine, and the costly dinner were on someone else’s tab naturally, since Kenneth Branagh, the former infant terrible, made sure he always had a current development deal as a director for a commercial enterprise. Accepting the box-office reality of his diminished drawing power as a leading man, he wasn’t hustling any more classics of the Bard starring himself. Nevertheless, Henry 1V, Parts One and Two, which he’d edited into a three-hour script, was his current personal passion. He was sanguine he could get Miramax to come in on it—they had a bundle in Shakespeare in Love, which looked like a hit—and together with his European sources, if brought in for fifteen million, tops, he’d get it done. But it needed a big name—not his—for the romantic lead. That hurt ‘real bad’, he pouted in the exaggerated way that always endeared him to Matt—the beer-crying being, of course, a ‘bit’. And who was bigger, more bankable at the moment than Matthew Fleming? Who would have to work for peanuts, it went without saying.

Would he at least read the script? While Orson Welles’ brilliant but bollixed up version, Chimes at Midnight, emphasized the fat man, Falstaff, Ken believed he’d restored the proper balance. Would Matt consider his request? For the good old days at RADA?

He was joking again, but seriously. Both of them had been at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts at the same time twenty years before, both nearing twenty then, both now due to reach forty just after the millennium. Ken had been a term or two ahead, so they never shared classes or performed together. Esteem each other’s work they did, however, and brief salutations and chats had been exchanged in the crumbling historic, rigorous training ground on Gower Street, as well as at Sidoli’s, the espresso bar/bacon sandwich hangout around the corner.

Before one could say ‘Blimey’, the Irishman stunned the show-business world with his nitty-gritty, vibrant film of Henry V, while Matt was bar-tending in a Village joint, caught in a spate of Off-Broadway short runs. Since Laura was working, he slipped in alone to see the sleeper hit before the prices changed. Dazzled by what was gotten on to the screen, he was proud of his schoolmate’s fine work and acclaim. He felt no envy and indeed even bought a copy of Beginnings, the tyro’s autobiography, written in the editing room of Henry V when he was twenty-eight! Talent, energy and chutzpah Ken clearly had in abundance. In the book, he called himself ‘a cocky, little shit’. Matt would add as appropriate epithets, ‘brave’, ‘imaginative’ and, above all, ‘a doer’. That he himself had played the young King once in an upstate New York Shakespeare Festival—bankrupted before the season ended—and thought his portrayal more textured than Ken’s, didn’t lessen his high regard for the prodigy’s accomplishment.

For Matt was an anomaly among his peers: he dismissed analytical critiques of fellow actors, whether pro or con, as irrelevant at best, detrimental at worst, to his own growth as an artist, which was mattered most to him. By his late twenties, he believed he and he alone knew how good, poor or flawed any given performance he gave was. He believed he was always aware, if subconsciously for the most part, of how honest or dishonest he was being to the text. Even the audience, the sole object of the cathartic process, sometimes might undervalue his best effort. That was too bad, but o. k. He knew also the great pleasure he derived from this arena of life came solely from playing roles written and staged by others. Further ambition would be an exercise in self-deception. He envied Ken’s multi-facetedness—who wouldn’t?—but benignly.

The day before the L. A. dinner, Laura had taken the call and, wide-eyed, handed the phone to Matt.

Hello, luv! Ken greeted him as if they’d seen each other yesterday, rather than the decades before. Congrats on your well-deserved success—it’s about time! Would you be a pal and meet me tomorrow to hear me out on a fabulous project? Please say yes, ‘cause I have to leave Thursday morning for Canada to cop some quick, much-needed bucks in a cameo.

Laura was more than miffed she had to stay with Harry for a late play date and couldn’t join them, but Matt was glad. Among a number of her unappealing qualities to emerge as his fame rocketed these past half-dozen years was the ‘celebrity-fucking’ syndrome, which with her took the form of a devious sycophancy—as if she had plans to use each new, powerful acquaintance for some future private purpose. Matt couldn’t read her mind nor did he want to, although she no longer hid from him her urge to become a film producer once Harry was less dependent on her.

He finally acknowledged during this past year that he desperately wanted out of the marriage. Which was only a secondary reason to commit to four months in London after completing his upcoming assignment.

That picture was an all-California shoot, with Laura to be at his side through much of it. She’d have to concur with him that taking Harry abroad for Ken’s project when he was eight, in the winter besides, was unwise. Finally he’d have time alone to sort out further this and the other mind-numbing dilemma progressively eating away at his entire being.

Ken could have no idea of the many appeals of his timely offer and Matt didn’t feel inclined to tell him, as they each luxuriated in the plump shrimp cocktails and gourmet meal washed down by the Chambertin. It—affluence—was perhaps the only aspect of an actor’s life RADA hadn’t prepared them for, which, they agreed, wasn’t an oversight—most of their classmates were, at best, still eking out a living.

I’m flattered you’d think of me, Ken—honestly. But why did you? Just because I’m the flavor of the week? And don’t give me that RADA rah, rah…geez!! And in those nine or ten movies I’ve done, I’ve played Amerikanski characters to boot and here you’re ready to give me the plum prize of the Histories? Come to think of it, playing you before you became Henry V!

Hadn’t thought of that, mate, he laughed. Then he stopped short and became quietly sober.

"…Listen, Matt, someone squealed to Mel Gibson what I’m up to and I had to tap dance when he got hold of me. He’s a one phone call deal. As the late bloomer you are, you’re probably going to be two but I don’t mind. Because I know you’ll blow the world away. And how do I know? First, your Mercutio. It was the best I’ve ever seen. Jesus, I wish I had your voice, you know—forget your looks! It’s like you can slide from baritone to tenor mid-word."

The Mercutio in Central Park?

Uh, uh, never heard of that one. No, the one you did in your fifth term.

You saw that? You remember that?! Man, that’s twen–

–Let’s not talk years, o. k.? We’re still kids, right? Right!…Are you still comfy with your RP?

…Would you mind terribly passing the salt? And while you’re at, sire, there’s a smidgen of whip cream on your nose. This spoken in the ‘received pronunciation’ of the BBC English taught all first-termers at the Academy before they went on to master other accents and dialects, domestic and foreign, not to mention fencing, singing, make-up, etc. and, of course, movement!

Fuck all, it’s better than mine, you swine! Another boyish laugh and another abrupt lapse into silence.

"…I’ve got a confession to make, Matt, that should say it all for why I want you and only you… Ponti’s Place…I saw you in that too, on Broadway—in Ninety-one or two?"

No kidding? Why didn’t you come say hello?

"That’s what I’m getting at. I took it personally for some reason. Emma and I were on the way backstage when a kind of sickening sensation overcame me and I pulled her away into the nearest bar. Three drinks later I felt as bad but at least knew why. You were so damned good, I wanted to turn in my Equity card. I kid you not. No contemporary, before or since, has done that to me and I don’t mind telling you I’d rather not have it happen again…Unless…, a sly grin formed on his thin, expressive lips, it happens in my film!"

…You’ve got your wish, old friend. And I don’t even have to read the script first, Matt smiled, extending his hand across the table. He was touched by Ken’s disclosure, if a trifle leery of its total truthfulness. He was a peach of a person, but long ago lost his juvenile’s fuzz.

Not only did the possibility of doing Hal mean that Matt had something grand to look forward to for himself, but it gave him hope of ridding his life of both Laura and David even sooner than he’d thought feasible; ridding himself of his two nemeses and, if God were good to him, the oppressive guilts that were grinding him down day by day. He fretted over Harry’s future certainly, but believed he knew how to win that battle when the time arrived.

By now he could predict David’s every expression and argument in response to the irrevocable handshake. No blustery rants and menacing warnings as in the beginning, to be sure. No, he’d finally learned to hold it all in; his brow would darken, he’d pace the room, then gently, as if to a rebellious teenage son or daughter he never had but assumed, if he had, would be open to reason:

"…Matt…You and Laura have your vacation planned after this shoot. You—not a stuntman—are going to be running your ass off during half of Finding Shaw, besides. None of us has stopped—you mainly—since we came out here. You know how long that’s been?"

One of your dumber questions. I remember the date we left New York and the date we were supposed to go back. I was going to open the season in the Park as Benedict if you recall. How you weaseled us out of that obligation I can’t remember. Or maybe you never told me. And David…don’t worry about Laura—I’ll break it to her.

…You’re that adamant? And the chump change offer? You really said yes to it?

You locked down Universal for next summer, didn’t you? Pay or play?

"It’s firm. Two-0. Twenty million—that’s up two from Shaw. Plus four percent of the gross after they recoup the neg cost. Not an easy closing, but I managed it without any hard feelings. Why?"

Then we can’t say my going off for an English art film in between is going to ruin my career, can we?

"That’s not my point, Matt…Have I put you in anything yet that you haven’t approved of or that’s typed you? Shaw’s your first all-out action thriller, for Pete’s sake…Oh, all right, all right, I give up on this one…But I do the deal, understand? You’d end up having us pay that wily hustler for the privilege."

He’s all yours…Just don’t screw it up, David…I want it.

Last year’s Oscar nomination had done the trick. He never could have played this kind of hardball with David Whittaker before then. Neither of them anticipated the amorphous honor might change the equation of their ‘partnership’ but somehow the publicity ink it engendered did. Even winning a ‘Tony’ for Ponti’s Place hadn’t altered it. No, the puppet master couldn’t expect to pull the strings without meeting resistance, as had been the case since they’d first joined forces to elevate the state of the American theater, when talk was both lofty and cheap. And before Matt understood he’d made a deal with the devil.

All his fellow players had been excused mid-afternoon. The remaining crew of thirty or so were making last minute adjustments with their usual efficiency as he took his position for the first camera rehearsal. He could tell they were ready to pack it in after a grueling week, if only the Yank would oblige them by doing his part as professionally. After this first month Matt knew all of them by name. Except for the naps, phone calls and other brief absences, he’d spend the day on the various sets, even for scenes in which he had no part. But as on all movies, here or in Hollywood, he found no rich ‘family’ feeling developing between the stars, supporting players and the company at large, as it usually did in the theater. The director was more likely to be invited into a card game with the crew during a down period than any actor, who it was assumed, not without some foundation, inhabited a planet different from theirs.

Matt was far from affronted by their studied distance on this ambitious, thriftily budgeted film. They knocked themselves out to make him look good and were as civil as possible in the low-key but high-pressure atmosphere of getting each day’s shots in the can before someone upstairs raised hell about losing time. He approved of their attitude, which put doing their job right before treating him as if he were actual royalty. He knew of some stars’ gambits to earn their respect or fear, such as purposely cocking up big set-ups to force arduous retakes or picking out some assistant director for constant browbeatings. He himself behaved inexcusably badly once or twice toward the weak director on Finding Shaw and still felt ashamed. This production, however, in which he had several co-stars he doubted ever indulged in such infantile conduct, was guaranteed to be as close to a love-feast for all as a movie could get.

Anthony Hopkins had been recruited to play his father, Henry IV, with no less than Albert Finney, who happily had put on poundage, playing Falstaff with a radiance that constantly thrilled all. The fiery Hotspur would arrive on Monday—another ‘big’ name Ken dare not name until his barrister told him it was a kosher ‘go’, the word expected that evening. If the star recanted, then one of two experienced, stand-by non-stars from The Royal Shakespeare Company would get a break of a lifetime.

Far from being intimidated by the elder, formidable competition, Matt reveled in it. These two had mastered the craft of film acting and he was, if nothing else, still a student of other professionals and the man in the street. The veterans had years ago channeled their aversion to movie work to a positive attitude, which they argued he also must do or he’d be both a perennially unhappy camper and out of work by fifty! He knew they were right but couldn’t resist gibing: Then you agree with me the Academy Awards should create a new category—‘Best Performance by an Actor Emoting to a Cell Phone’. That’s all we seem to do half the time, isn’t it?!

Along with Ken, the old-timers extended many off-set courtesies, aware that Matt was living alone in his Mayfair rooms. All four actors were products of RADA, all from humble beginnings, which served as an added bond among them, although he found himself begging off some invites. He prized the solitude this inspiring interlude was affording. Even if he wasn’t making headway yet with conquering his distracting demons, the privacy let him work on a film characterization more deeply than he’d been able to with any prior role. And this one, of all, required the effort.

He had to watch it now. This speech wasn’t that difficult, but it was the reason he’d unhesitatingly responded to Ken’s plea. It was, in its way, the reason for his becoming the man he had. Don’t let its extra-curricular significance interfere with the performance, he cautioned himself as he spoke Will’s words, without full inflection, through two run-throughs for camera and sound. Relax. Focus.

He was comfortable with the sinuous movement from bartop, to table, past the roaring fireplace and eventual return with his tankard to the bar—God bless Miss Beckingham for pressing him on the meaningfulness of one’s walk!

He was also grateful to Ken for switching the bawdy scene with Falstaff and company from Act One to Act Two, from Prince Hal’s chambers to the Boar’s Head. The speech should carry more surprise and dramatic impact when held off until then in the telescoped film treatment. The audience, as well as the youth’s father and Court, had every right to believe the Prince too wild, immature and arrogant ever to make a competent, much less great, King. His consorting with the irrepressibly amoral Falstaff, the whores and thieves of Eastcheap, however amusing to him—and the audience—didn’t augur well for Hal’s future or England’s. But then, this, as the camera rolled:

Hal gazes at the tavern door through which the band of rogues has just departed, then determines he’s alone…

I know you all, and will awhile uphold

The unyoked humor of your idleness:

Yet herein will I imitate the sun

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world,

That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be the more wonder’d at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapors that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays

To sport would