victory.
‘Personally, I thought so and so should have got it,’ he lied. Personally, he thought so and so’s movie had been an oversentimental piece of crap which nobody would have looked at twice if so and so hadn’t been a woman. But he was trying to be nice.
‘No, really, I think she deserved it more than I did.’ Like hell.
‘I’m just happy if someone goes to see my picture.’ Like double hell with mashed potatoes.
‘Great to see you, pal.’ Bruce pumped some handsome star’s hand fervently. ‘I loved that cop thing you did. We should meet. I’d like that. That would be fun.’
‘Did you see the cop thing he did?’ Bruce confided to another firmchinned wonder. ‘Directed by a moron, performed by a retard. I’m trying to be nice here, but the guy has had a total talent transplant.’
More bosoms. More congratulations. A couple of drinks.
‘I’m just glad for the cast, that’s all. It’s really their movie… I just thought up the idea, raised the money, wrote the script, cast it, directed it and told everybody involved exactly what to do.’
More drinks. More bosoms. He was happy to address them directly now.
‘You are the wind beneath my wings and I flap for you. God bless you all. God bless America. God bless the world as well. Thank you.’
Bruce’s voice wafted through the trees. The young couple were lying on a blanket spread on the wet ground. They had just made love in the warm but drenching rain.
‘Quiet, honey,’ said the man, and he held his finger to his lover’s lips.
‘Surely the most controversial Oscar choice in recent times,’ the radio said, ‘particularly in the light of yet another irrational murder thought to have been perpetrated by the notorious copycat killers known as the Mall Murderers.’
The girl giggled with nervous excitement. ‘Notorious!’ she whispered into her boyfriend’s ear.
‘That’s right, honey. Nofuckin’torious.’
She lay back on the sopping rug and the rain splashed down on her fragilelooking body, forming shining beads on her white skin.
Notorious.
They laughed together at this reminder of their infamy. He ran his hand across her stomach and on to her breasts, collecting a ridge of water as he did so. Then they made love again, while the radio pumped twenty minutes of advertfree rock through the dripping trees. No chitchat, no hard sell, just pure one hundred per cent heavyduty rock cumminrightatcha!
‘Well,’ said the man, when they had finished for a second time, as he got up and pulled on his jeans, ‘I guess the engine’ll be cool by now. We’d best be moving on. We have some stuff to do.’
Bruce was drinking and he’d stopped trying to be nice. Although he was something of a style junkie, the abstinence thing was one Hollywood fashion Bruce had never cottoned to. He was one of the new breed of ‘Hey, I smoke – you gonna call the cops?’ hard guys.
‘I like to drink,’ he would say. ‘I like the taste and I like the packaging. It is an indisputable fact, aesthetically speaking, that a bottle of Jack or Jim on a dinnertable looks considerably more pleasing than a bottle of Evian. Trust me, I’m a movie director.’
Under normal circumstances Bruce was a happy drinker, not one of those sad Jekyll and Hyde characters who turn into social psychopaths with the third glass. But on this night, although (or perhaps because) it was supposed to be the biggest night of his life, the bourbon was not giving him that familiar warm glow.
It was all the people in his face.
His face was completely full of people – friends, admirers, jobseekers, golddiggers – and yet suddenly, all he actually wanted was to be alone. He would have liked nothing more than to lean against a wall in solitary, halfdrunk splendour, watch the bosoms and forget about himself. But he couldn’t because people kept coming up and talking to him. Congratulations would have been fine, but they always wanted to justify their gushing praise with a conversation. Why couldn’t they just tell him he was great and fuck off? Instead he had to be nice to them. He didn’t want to be nice. He’d been nice on the podium, nice enough for a lifetime. That was enough nice; he was niced out. He should not be expected to spend the whole evening, his evening being nice.
‘Thank you, that’s kind, thank you. Well you know that’s very kind.’
It couldn’t go on for ever and it didn’t.
‘Look, I just made a movie. I didn’t find the cure for cancer!’ That shut them up.
‘This Oscar means nothing,’ he added grandly, warming to his theme.
‘It’s a tainted trinket.’… ‘A statue without status.’… ‘A bauble with no balls.’… Bruce loved that last one.
‘Take a look at it.’ He held up his Oscar, waving it about and pointing at the golden sword which coyly covered the relevant part of its anatomy. ‘It’s a bauble with no balls.’
People laughed – but nervously. You didn’t come to the Governor’s Ball and take the piss out of the Oscar statuette. It was like going to church and sneering at the cross. The Oscar was the most coveted glittering prize of them all, potent symbol of the greatest entertainment industry on earth. Cynicism was not only bad form, but utterly deceitful. Everybody knew that, balls or no balls, the Oscar was the ultimate goal and Bruce had wanted it like life itself. To grab it and then try to be smart after the event was appalling behaviour. Bruce knew this too, but he didn’t care. Having failed to speak his mind in his speech, he was making up for lost time.
‘Look, if a picture’s good it does not require the approbation of a twelveinch eunuch to legitimize it!’
It was the memory of the faces in the mirror pointing their accusing fingers at him. It was the dreadful, deluded MAD mothers with their sad stories of loved ones lost. It was Oliver and Dale and that smug little professor.
All of them lingered in the back of his mind, niggling away, trying to call him to account, to spoil his fun. Apparently it wasn’t enough to make cool, slick, exciting movies that people got off on. No, he was also expected to try and secondguess some unknowable repercussions that his work might or might not have.
Absurd. Puerile.
Yet he’d had his chance to speak out and had said nothing. Worse, he’d made out that everything was fine. He felt such a hypocrite himself that he saw hypocrisy in everybody else. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that any of the gushing praise people kept heaping upon him was sincere. Why should they be telling the truth? He hadn’t. He’d cravenly failed to use the platform that the Oscars had given him to take on the censorship debate. To nail, publicly, all the dangerous, reactionary talk of copycat killings, protecting kids from themselves and whatever happened to Andy Hardy. He’d had the chance to take that famed twelveinch golden statuette and shove it right up the collective ass of Professor Chambers, the Senate Committee on Taste and Decency, the Concerned Mothers of American Dimwits and every other Godbothering, mealymouthed, Moral Majority moron in the USA. He’d had the chance, but he’d blown it.
‘Legs of fire’, for Christ’s sake!
‘Give me another Jack Daniels.’
‘Give me another Jack Daniels.’
The terrified shopkeeper reached down a second bottle of whiskey and added it to the box of booze and provisions that stood on the counter. The scrawny girl watched proudly as the pathetic man leapt to do exactly what her boyfriend ordered. Her boyfriend had such natural authority and command. She loved that about him. She felt that, even without the Uzi machinepistol with which he was threatening the storekeeper, his commands would still have been obeyed.
They were in the process of robbing the store of a small country caravan park, which they had stumbled across after leaving the main highway.
