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Thursday night and time for writers’ group.
Carol sweated in her apartment on a hot summer’s evening as she printed out the stork versus ogre screenplay. Ten pages will have to be all—can’t hog all the time. Scripts take about one minute per page to read aloud, so I’m not being too selfish. But whoops! The cut-off at ten pages is too soon for the best part to be read. I have to show the group that part. So that makes twelve and a half pages. I hope nobody notices.
The group convened at Le Café Livre. Though the solstice was weeks ago, the summer evenings in Paris were still immensely long and showed no sign of slackening. Tourists milled past, on their way to explore the narrow streets of Le Marais.
They accepted menus from the waiter, who looked as though he were prepared for anything this time, doggy bags notwithstanding.
“How are you?” John asked the table in general.
“Good,” piped up Carol. She thought, No need to dredge up the pain I’m in at work. “You?”
“Yes, good.”
Anjali and Philippe both murmured, “Fine, thanks.”
Everyone turned back to their menus, the priority issue of the moment.
John massaged the back of his neck, which ached after hours of sitting, working the phone. He glanced across the table and noticed that Carol had wonderful blue eyes, enhanced by the blue of the long blouse she was wearing. She’s rather intriguing, he thought. But can be quite cutting in her critiques. I’d better not think about her too much. What to order? A great big beefsteak would be great. No, that’s far too expensive. Choose something less expensive. I’m short on money but not sure how short because I haven’t wanted to examine my budget. How tight is money going to have to be? What the heck, I’m hungry tonight, tomorrow will be my lucky break. Plus, I must save face and not appear to be broke. I’ll have the bœuf bourgignon. Only twelve euros, but not so inexpensive that I look impoverished. And a glass of cabernet sauvignon. It’s only a matter of time until I have a new client. It can’t take too much longer, the way I’m working the phones.
But I have a weird feeling about this search. And I’m not so sure that chasing money is the thing to do with my life anymore.
Carol read the menu, her neck aching from sitting and writing all day at Trapèze. She looked up to spot two men passing, holding hands, talking intently. They’d found somebody, obviously, she thought. I stink at picking men, maybe I should find a lady companion. Yes, that’s just the ticket, two people living together with too many hormones once a month. And who takes charge during sex? I hate going to ballroom dancing classes and having to lead a dance because there aren’t enough men. I stink at that too, quite frankly. Too confusing. I can’t remember from one second to the next what role I’m playing. Am I male, taking a step forward? Or female, stepping back? I’ve crashed painfully into a few ladies in my time. No, that doesn’t seem to be the answer.
She glanced at John. Handsome and healthy looking, in touch with his feelings. The indentation and paleness of the skin on his finger was not as obvious as a few weeks ago. What did that mean?
Philippe looked wrung out. Poor guy.
She turned back to the menu. Now this is a simpler problem than Philippe’s. Your job is very shaky, and you ought to be careful with money and not order whatever grabs your eye. Besides, the stunning, drapey, periwinkle-blue silk artist’s smock that you bought on your way here cost eighty euros. You shouldn’t have, part of her said. But I fancied it, another part said.
Her shoulders sagged a bit. I need stylish clothes to help me face Amandine and Gregoire. But that’s the last time; I hereby resolve not to buy any more clothes for months. Get the baguette with emmantal cheese and ask for une carafe d’eau. It’s tapwater à la Seine, but it’s free.
Anjali gazed at the menu, her butt hurting from too many hours in her assistant’s chair. The menu listed French specialties, like saumon tartare, raw salmon, but she longed for the strong flavors of Indian food. Looking up, she noticed a Jewish man trudging by, white prayer shawl tassels dangling below the hem of his black jacket. Le Marais had a Jewish community and several synagogues in it. Judaism. Must check it out, she thought. Women in Western countries, with their roots in the Judeo-Christian tradition, get treated with more respect than in other countries. Not that Western countries are problem-free. Hardly.
Anjali noted that in Paris she had changed. She thought, To be even thinking of looking at other religions is unusual. We Indians have such a strong sense of our own culture, we are so rooted in our own spirituality, that most of us aren’t seeking, we’re comfortable in the tradition we have. But that mural in Sacré Cœur, and the articles in The Hindu online about women and the families they married into, and the pressure on her to go home and be a traditional Hindu and marry—it was all adding up to some new questioning.
Anjali set her menu down. All she could afford was a decaf. “Did you bring new work tonight?” she asked Carol. She knew John was bringing a new chapter. She had printed it out for him earlier.
“A challenge to get it done, but yes,” Carol said. “You?”
“Yes, but a challenge, to work full-time and get your creative writing done, like you say.”
Philippe heard the chit-chat, but couldn’t deal with it. His heart ached with worry over Meredith. What item on this menu could give a little comfort? Pavé de veau grand cru, crème de morilles purée looked good. The translation written on the menu: “veal, morel cream.” This restaurant needs help with its English translations, he thought. You’re getting a bit of a potbelly, Philippe. Yes, and I’m sick of croque monsieur. I’ve got to try something else. Go light on the dinner and on the wallet. How about a small salad? It doesn’t appeal, but it’s all you can afford in two ways. It’s sad to be in Paris on such a low budget. Aw, it’s okay, it’s a challenge, Philippe. You know that constraints foster creativity. Chin up.
The waiter took their order and they chatted about the news headlines. Anjali didn’t know what they were talking about; she never seemed to get around to looking at world news online, only the travel essays in The Guardian and the front page news of The Hindu online.
Soon the food arrived.
“Bon appétit,” the waiter said and departed.
“Bon appétit,” they chorused. Philippe paused and considered closing his eyes to say grace. In France, people sat down, said, “bon appétit,” and began. The tradition of saying grace had been replaced by a bit of encouragement to enjoy your meal. Nobody thanked God for their food. And he didn’t feel like being any different from the rest of the group tonight. He didn’t feel thankful, with Meredith on the streets.
He stabbed at his salad. John’s dinner looks so much more delicious, he said to himself, cubes of tender meat, mushrooms, and white onions in a rich wine sauce, all bubbling in an earthenware pot. What was it like to have John’s kind of money?
John took a bite, savored as he chewed, and rolled his eyes. “Best ever,” he said. He grabbed a piece of pain from its basket and dipped it in the sauce in his bowl. “Is this allowed in France?” he asked no one in particular. “I’ve heard it isn’t, you don’t use your fingers but push your bit of bread around with your fork. But you know what, I don’t really care tonight.”
“Enjoy yourself,” Carol said. She bit into her baguette avec emmantal and thought, wow, the cheese is good, the baguette is crusty. Good choice!
Anjali felt out of step with the others enjoying their food. She sipped her decaf only occasionally. She was nervous about her work tonight.
John looked up from his dinner to observe Anjali picking up her tiny coffee cup quickly, bringing it to her mouth in a flash, tipping the cup to sip for an instant and returning it to its saucer just as fast. She doesn’t realize she did all that in two seconds, John thought. She’s nervous.
Even though he tried to eat slowly, Philippe just couldn’t. He was anxious, and he inhaled his salad in two minutes. The picture of Meredith in bed with a drunken lout flashed into his mind’s eye. He shoved the picture away. Meredith, don’t, he wailed, and his heart and stomach contracted. He ate two more bites in spite of it, then set his fork down.
Carol asked for a doggy bag for half of her baguette, and the waiter didn’t quiver so much as an eyelash. With her food wrapped up in her big bag and the plates cleared, she said, “I elect Anjali to start tonight.”
Anjali brought out her pages and distributed them. John claimed the male lead immediately. Carol took the female supporting character.
Anjali felt bad for Philippe, who had been left out of the fun. There was only one part left. Anjali decided to make a sacrifice.
“Do you want to read the narrator and stage directions?” she asked him.
“Yes, my pleasure,” Philippe said. You are so considerate, he thought. As he glanced over the pages, he thought, great, I have lots of lines to read. I’m just like any actor, counting his lines.
He began reading.
“Scene 1. A helicopter provides a panorama of the city. The camera lingers on the major monuments: Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Sacré Cœur, Le Louvre.”
Anjali blushed at that point. A professional was reading this—Carol—and Anjali wasn’t sure if overweening ego hadn’t led her to write this first scene, or a fresh, new talent. Megalomania came in many forms. She would find out if she suffered from it tonight.
John read the lead character’s voiceover in a somber bass:
“Paris is called the city of light. (Pause) But it has shadows, too.”
Philippe resumed with stage directions. “While the camera pans over the lovely townhomes of the 17th arrondissement, with their extra-elaborate wrought-iron balconies and zinc-roofed domes, the narration continues.”
John fished for his deepest voice. “The jaded wealthy, with their European vices, get their kicks in the city’s private clubs and homes. And the people who want to be wealthy are willing to do whatever it takes to associate with them.”
Then Philippe chimed in with stage directions.
“Helicopter-mounted camera proceeds down the Champs Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe. Car headlights and taillights make long streaks. The camera approaches the Arc and aims directly for the opening under the arch. Just when it looks like we’ll fly through, go to black.”
John waited a second, to let the word “black” reverberate. Then he read, “In between the two worlds is where I operate. I’m Dick Bogart, private eye.”
Philippe took over. “Scene 2. Camera catches blooming trees in spring, blossoms bouncing in a light breeze in Luxembourg Gardens. Focus on a man in a trenchcoat walking on an April afternoon.
John read the voiceover. “I was on my way to an apartment in the upscale Sixth arrondissement to see Madame de Denichen, a French aristocrat who told me on the phone that she had a problem for me to solve. She wouldn’t say any more, except that she heard I was discreet. There was a threat in the way she said it.”
Anjali felt like death inside. What do these people think of my screenwriting? she wondered.
The reading continued. Just as he exited Jardin de Luxembourg, Dick Bogart witnessed a car accident on Boulevard de Vaurigard. The plot thickened from there.
Carol shifted her body in her chair. She was impressed with Anjali’s writing. But there were some important problems. When they finished the pages, she jumped in.
“You need a film-writing software that will format your script properly,” she said. “Movie Magic Screenwriter or Final Draft are the two best. They’re only maybe 100 euros, last time I checked.”
Anjali now knew she had to get paid for her péniche story.
Carol continued. “You’re writing a hard-boiled mystery, like a Sam Spade sort of thing, right?”
Anjali nodded.
“Your naming.”
Uh-oh, thought Anjali, here comes a kick in the teeth.
“What you’ve done is Naming 101—like, freshman level.”
Anjali winced.
Philippe thought, does Carol have any idea how she’s coming across? I’ve really got to say something.
“‘Dick’ is slang for ‘private eye’,” Carol said. “Was that intentional?”
Anjali nodded again, hurting under Carol’s criticism.
“‘Dick’ and ‘private eye’ are both old-fashioned terms. Is this story set in the present?”
“Yes.”
“They call themselves détectives privées in Paris these days. And ‘Bogart’ harks back to Humphrey Bogart.”
“I wanted to bring all those associations to this movie,” Anjali said.
“It’s too obvious,” Carol said. “It’s heavy-handed.”
There’s another kick, Anjali thought. And wasn’t Carol’s critique just a bit heavy-handed? Naming 101? That hurt.
John said, “I’m not sure an elegant city like Paris lends itself to gritty film noir. Los Angeles and New York? Definitely.”
“There’s plenty of human rottenness here, too,” Philippe said, thinking of how his daughter was in the middle of it.
“The next to last scene will be in the sewers of Paris,” Anjali said. “Can’t get much more gritty and film noir than that.”
“You should read Les Miserables,” Philippe said. “Hugo gives a history of the Paris sewers, and an incredible scene happens there, a true test of human character and strength.”
Anjali wrote “Les Mis” in the margin. She’d go to Shakespeare & Company and get a copy. She pictured the English edition of Les Mis she’d seen on the shelves. The book’s spine was a good six inches wide. The edition in French was eight inches wide, because French used more letters to say the same thing. Maybe she’d get an abridged version.
“I like your opening—the helicopter appearing to squeeze through the Arc de Triomphe,” Carol said.
Anjali couldn’t take in and enjoy Carol’s praise because she was overwhelmed with her criticisms. And on top of that, all the research and writing and rewriting she was going to have to do. But she wrote it down. She’d copy the praise onto a yellow square and put it up on her wall of infamy.
“Have you ever read ‘Pixar’s 22 Rules of Storytelling’?” Carol asked. “Look them up online.”
Anjali dutifully wrote it down, angry at Carol.
“And read David Mamet’s ‘Memo to the Unit,’ Carol said. “It’s about dramatic writing. It’s in all caps, so it feels like he’s screaming, but it’s great direction for any sort of storytelling. It’s online, too.”
Anjali scribbled another note. She had to stay open to learning and improving, no matter how much the critique-er was condescending to her.
“It basically says each scene has to focus on the protagonist’s visceral, crucial desire and the obstacles to getting it,” Carol said. “I’m not clear as to what Dick Bogart’s visceral desire is.”
“To make money in order to eat,” Anjali said. It was obvious to her, why not to Carol? She was overwhelmingly annoying tonight. “To bring some sort of justice to the world.”
John’s attention strayed. A woman walked by, wobbling on stilettos, short skirt showing off shapely long legs. Wow, he thought. Isn’t that grand? It took a little while before he could tune in to the discussion of Anjali’s manuscript again.
“‘Some sort of justice,’” Philippe said. “That’s interesting. Does he compromise his own values to make that justice? That would be very interesting.”
That intrigued Anjali, too. She wrote that idea down.
“Ask your characters why they want what they want,” Carol said. “Be like a two-year-old and ask ‘why’ until you’re deep inside the character’s guts and life experience.”
Carol flipped through the script. She was on a roll, like a professor of screenwriting.
“I write these questions and answers down and keep them in a document I call my quarry, like a rock quarry, so I can refer to it and mine it.”
Now Anjali felt really overwhelmed. Write a whole other document besides the screenplay? But Carol kept going.
“You need to know how many years Dick has lived in Paris, where he emigrated from, what his—” she almost said hobbies, but that had been discussed before—“favorite TV shows and films are. Describe the kind of flat he lives in, the objects he has chosen to have around him in his home. A filthy toaster with a frayed cord? A huge old silver cigarette lighter from the 20s shaped like Aladdin’s lamp, so big you can hardly get your hand around it? Find a list of character questions online. Fill out a complete dossier on each of your major characters.”
“Okay, got it,” said Anjali. She was hoping to get her papers back now and end the flow of criticism. Her ego was bruised, bashed by Carol’s comments. She didn’t much feel like writing ever again.
“You need a logline,” Carol said.
John felt exasperated. Carol’s going on and on, he thought. So know-it-all! But what was a logline? In spite of his irritation, he was intrigued.
“It’s one sentence that tells what your film is about,” Carol continued. “Your clearly defined, quirky protagonist and what he wants, and your antagonist, who’s worthy of your protagonist, and what he wants equally badly. The logline with the most conflict and the clearest, most primal goal wins the pitch fests in Hollywood.”
Anjali nodded. I wish she would stop, she thought.
“You need a scene structure, you know. Establish the character’s normal life, then confront him with a call to action. Then show the character giving a flawed response to the call. Then the journey begins. These sorts of structures are all available online.”
“Okay, Carol, that’s great, thank you,” Philippe said, sensing that Anjali was more than ready to get off the hot seat, and tapping his copy of the script on the table. He just had to talk to Carol. Privately. He dreaded her reaction almost as much as he dreaded church ladies’ reactions to his stories—if he ever got published.
“Carol, you’re next.”
Carol noticed that Anjali looked flustered. Uh-oh, Carol thought. I’ve been too harsh possibly. You idiot! John’s looking at you askance. Why didn’t I notice sooner? Try not to be so critical, won’t you? But isn’t that what we’re here for? To help each other?
Carol contritely handed out the twelve-and-a-half pages of her script. What if I didn’t follow David Mamet’s advice in any of my scenes? I have a tendency to take little off-road excursions with my characters. They are interesting to write, but not essential to the story. Are there any digressions in these pages? Will these people catch them if there are? Should I warn them to look for them? No, too embarrassing to admit I didn’t follow my own advice.
They chose parts. John co-opted the male lead again. So annoying of him, Carol thought.
When parts were set, she said, “Here goes.”
It took twelve minutes to read the twelve-and-a-half pages of her animated film that was ostensibly about storks, an ogre, and fairies. When it was over, the critique began immediately.
“I can picture it,” Philippe said.
Carol thought, he always says something positive.
“Are there any changes you would make?” she challenged them. It had to be perfect when she presented it to Gregoire. He would change it and drive her stark raving bonkers, but at least her first version would be great.
They made suggestions, and each one improved the script.
“Great ideas!” Carol thanked them.
“In the end,” Anjali suggested, “everybody will be feel so loved, that the bad fairy gives up and leaves.” Then Anjali thought, I’m new at this, why do I think I can help Carol. And by the way, Carol’s been so bitchy, why should I help her?
“If she leaves, she’ll take her foulness somewhere else,” John said. “Maybe it would be better if she dissolves in a fit of pique. Evaporates. Fini.” He thought, Carol has pumped us a lot for ideas.
“Like Rumpelstiltskin—so mad, he stamps his feet so hard, the earth opens and swallows him up,” Philippe said.
Carol wanted to say, “It’s been done,” but didn’t want to be too harsh after the group had given her so much. “It has to be fresh and new,” she murmured, to herself more than anybody, and then concentrated on jotting notes.
That done, she said, “You guys are fabulous!” She was so grateful for these good ideas, all of them in keeping with her values as a storyteller—to create something she’d want to take her daughter to see. What a relief! She had all the material she needed. Except now she had to write it, and not kill the joy of the story as she wrote.
“Good night, everyone!” she said and headed home to relieve the nanny. Everyone watched her departing back.
“Anjali, it was rough tonight, wasn’t it,” Philippe said.
“She’s got great ideas. She just says them in ways that make me want to die, to be honest.”
“I’ll say something.”
