About what?
What do you mean, “about what”? About the lead role. I sent them the book.
But—
You know how much it will help market the movie if she agrees to star in it?
But…the heroine is…small and shy.
She was small and shy. In the book.
And in the movie?
She’ll be Gal Gadot.
I don’t know.
What is there not to know?
I feel that the connection between the book and the movie is getting weaker.
You want to drink something?
No thanks.
Excuse me for saying it like this, you know, straight out, but you have to loosen up.
Loosen up?
Cinema, it’s a different kind of art. It has its own rules.
Yes, but—
We once worked with that kind of writer, faithful to the source. You don’t want to know how it ended.
So what is it that you’re actually proposing?
Go home, sleep on it, and come by tomorrow to sign a contract.
I’m not sure that—
Ah, yes, another thing.
What?
The title.
What’s wrong with the title?
Would you buy a ticket to a movie called Osmosis?
What’s wrong with Osmosis?
Half the people don’t know what it means. And for the ones who do know, it sounds scary.
So what do you suggest?
I’m not suggesting anything, the focus group suggested it.
Focus group?
What’s with you? You can’t find a single movie in the market today that didn’t have its title checked first by a focus group.
Okay—
Operation Love.
Excuse me?
That’s the name they picked. The company that organizes focus groups for us said there wasn’t a single objection. They haven’t had such a unanimous focus-group decision for a long time.
But what’s the connection between the title and the—
There’s love in your book?
Yes.
There’s a military operation in it?
An unsuccessful military operation.
What difference does it make?
Friendly fire. It’s a…political statement.
Friendly fire during an operation or not during an operation?
During an operation.
I’m glad you’re happy with the title.
But—
I want you to feel part of the process.
I—
And also, it’s important that, when you’re interviewed, you say how pleased you are.
Pleased?
That although a movie is not a book, it’s a different art form with its own rules, but even so.
Even so?
The creators succeeded in preserving…the spirit of the book.
Listen—
You found yourself laughing, crying, falling in love with Gal Gadot.
How do I know what I’ll feel? I haven’t seen anything yet!
It doesn’t matter what you feel. As far as I’m concerned, you can hate the movie. What counts is what you say in interviews.
But—
A writer who doesn’t take part in public relations for the movie is sending critics the message that he’s not happy with the adaptation. And if there’s something the critics know how to sniff out, it’s blood. You don’t want to open the morning newspaper and see that they slaughtered us, right?
Right.
In the end, our success is your success. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.
I understand.
Flexibility is the name of the game.
Okay.
You’re sure you don’t want something to drink?
No thanks.
Coffee? Tea? Water? You look a little pale.
Maybe water.
Your book really is huge, I want you to know that.
Thank you.
I started reading it in the duty-free shop and couldn’t put it down for the whole flight.
Thank you, thank you very much.
The minute I finished it, I said to my wife: This is a movie! Do you believe that, as a writer, you are obligated to be involved in politics?
I meet with Michael Orbach, my American acquaintance. He’s almost twenty years older than me, but he has fewer white hairs, and his gait, as we walk along the beach promenade toward Jaffa, is lighter. We met in another life, when I worked as a copywriter for an ad agency. Michael ran a workshop for us on social advertising, or as he called it, Meaningful Advertising, and when he lectured, I felt as if I were seeing the light. It turns out that it’s possible to work in advertising without making a mockery of yourself. You can write slogans, radio spots, and scripts for worthy causes. You can use advertising techniques to encourage people to make significant changes in their lives instead of urging them to buy things they don’t need.
I went up to him after the lecture. Mr. Orbach, I said, your words have inspired me.
I said, I’d like to join your company. Work with you. Maybe as a representative of Meaningful Advertising in Israel. What do you think?
He said I should send him my CV.
I sent it. He replied politely that, at the moment, he wasn’t looking for new staff members, but he would keep my CV on file.
I wrote back that I know that what he said means is no in American, and asked if we could occasionally e-mail, because working in an ad agency had made me feel that my words were losing meaning.
We began to correspond. Exchange ideas. More accurately, I asked his advice on a series of subjects and he taught me a few things.
Every now and then, I would ask about the possibility of working with him. My days in the agency had become increasingly bleak during that period. As the municipal elections grew closer, a subsidiary company to handle political advertising was established in the office, and I was assigned to it for three months. We were supporting mayoral candidates throughout the country. Billboards. Radio spots. Party platforms.
One of the candidates was Yoram Sirkin. THE Yoram Sirkin.
I remember the first time I saw him. The ironic thing was that I wasn’t supposed to be at that meeting at all. I had a deadline to produce a jingle for another campaign, but they took me off it and suddenly called me into the conference room. This is our copywriter, the big boss introduced me when I walked in, and then pointed to the other side of the table and said, Meet Yoram Sirkin, the next mayor. The three men sitting at the other side of the table were more or less the same age. None of them had the charismatic presence of a future mayor, so I didn’t know which of them to look at, but I said to myself, It’s definitely not the
