Maybe the Moon (27 page)

N
EIL STAYED AS LONG AS THEY’D LET HIM, THEN TOOK MY
pedestal home with him, since the nurses kept tripping over it. I dreamed about it last night, though, dreamed that it was still here, next to the bed, keeping me company while I slept. I woke to the sound of it—or dreamed that I woke—just before dawn, recognizing the whir of those tiny wheels across the linoleum. I opened an eye and waited, perfectly still. The dark plywood mass was next to me, moving slowly toward the foot of the bed like a giant tortoise. Nobody was visible from here, so whoever—or whatever—propelled it was most certainly under the bed.

I sat up. The pedestal stopped in its tracks, playing dead. I almost giggled, since it reminded me of one of those movies where an intruder poses as a statue to keep from being seen.
Nobody here but us pedestals
. I cocked my head and listened, hearing only a distant, tinny siren and a blubbery snore from another bed, probably Mrs. Haywood’s. It was still dark in the room, but the big windows had begun to turn a pale and pearly blue. I lay still for a while, mimicking sleep, and soon enough the pedestal began to move again. After a moment or two, some part of it (those steps, I pre
sume) struck the leg of the bed with a rude bonk, provoking its hijacker to emit a small, exasperated groan.

I knew who it was before he came out. I caught a whiff of wet loam and wood smoke and stale sweat, with something sharply herbal at the core. It was odd to recognize him from the smell alone, because I’d never used that sense on him before. Like everyone else who claims to know him well, I’ve always been limited to what I could see and hear. The smell was right for him, I realized, and it somehow put me at ease. I stayed calm even when he abandoned his efforts at stealth and climbed onto the pedestal to grin at me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked in a stern whisper.

He pointed to the pedestal, then to the door.

“No way,” I said. “It stays.”

He shook his head.

“I’m calling the nurse.”

This only made him cackle ecstatically. I gazed around to see if he’d woken any of the other patients, but the place was quiet. He climbed down from the pedestal, using those funny little steps of Neil’s, then sprang up onto the bed with enviable agility. I pulled the covers up under my chin and tried to stare him down, getting an eyeful in the process.

He seemed several centuries older in real life. What made him so authentic was not so much those familiar Earth-blue eyes as the specks of crud encrusted in their corners. I could see liver spots at this distance, and the genuine crepiness of the skin on his neck. When he smiled, I saw a broken tooth, yellow as antique scrimshaw; when he turned his head for a moment, I glimpsed a blackhead in the folds of his pointy ear. Every new imperfection just made him more like the real thing.

I remember thinking:
This is incredible. What will Philip come up with next
?

He just sat there for a moment, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, letting me take him in.

“You’re early,” I said.

He widened his eyes and shrugged, then dug into the pocket of his tattered tweed trousers and produced a tarnished gold watch—obviously broken—which he consulted with grave ceremony, tapping its face and nodding, as if it explained everything.

Dear Di
,

Gee, it was terrific to see you at the tribute last week. You and Roger both looked great, and it was good to hear the new screenplay is coming along so well. Tell Marty he’s a fool if he doesn’t shoot the third act as written
.

The enclosed notebooks are sent to you in strictest confidence for reasons you’ll understand as soon as you read them. They’re the diaries of Cady Roth, the dwarf we hired for the additional movement sequences in Mr. Woods. Remember? They were delivered to me, at her instruction, by one Jeff Kassabian, who turned up here several days ago in a T-shirt that depicted Clark Kent and Dick Tracy kissing each other. (All will be explained in the manuscript.) Cady’s very ill—in a coma at a hospital in the Valley—if she hasn’t already passed away
.

Bear with me. I’m sending you this because I value your opinion more than any other and because your own brilliant mythology looms large in the story that (I hope) you’re about to read. I could be way off the deep end here, but I think this material could be the basis for an important film. That may surprise you when you read it, since I’m cast as kind of a heavy, but I’m sure you’ll understand my excitement over the chance to reflect ironically on the ramifications of my own work—of our work. This could be a “small film” that would stand as a wise and elegant companion piece to a mainstream classic without detracting from it in any way. No director in my memory has ever done this, so I’d like to be the first to try. Of course, certain elements of the story would have to be altered for legal and dramatic purposes, but the central idea is extremely appealing to me. See what you think, anyway. Look at this as raw material and go from there. You’re obviously the only one to write the movie
.

Lucy would want me to send you her love
.

Philip

Dear Philip
,

I actually woke this morning thinking about those diaries, so I guess it’s time I told you I think you’re onto something big. The idea of this tiny, ambitious, infuriating, lovable woman who is both enslaved and ennobled by an icon of popular culture is one that seems completely fresh to me. At the same time, it’s old-fashioned and highly moral in the best sort of Dickensian way. There is, as well, a liberal feminist subtext that suits me to a T, as you no doubt recognized when you sent it to me
.

I presume you’ll want to fictionalize the story, so we’re dealing more in terms of a modern parable than a docudrama. This would give us the freedom to play and explore our themes more fully without the attendant legal hassles. (It’s fascinating to consider what Mr. Woods might become in this new version. An interplanetary creature? A troll who lives under a bridge?) In any event, the fact that you’re holding a mirror to your own life’s work, much as Fellini did in 8 1/2, won’t be lost on anyone in the critical establishment
.

The trick will be to keep our heroine fully human, to position the audience at her level, on her side through it all, without resorting heavily to low-level camera angles. (Not that you would, my love.) I hardly need tell you that such an off-the-wall character, particularly a central one, has to be set amid familiar and reassuring points of reference, so that the audience will accept her into their hearts with the same matter-of-factness with which Jeremy accepted Mr. Woods. To this end, here are a few thoughts
:

How wed are we to Cady’s romantic life? The sex scenes made me extremely uncomfortable, and I can assure you I won’t be the only woman who’ll feel that way, however priggish that makes me sound. It seems to me the real relationship in the diaries is between Cady and Renee, two women held hostage by their own bodies for entirely different reasons. That’s where the crux of the drama lies, that’s what we should build on. If I were God here, the central romantic relationship would be between Renee
and Neil. I felt there was potential for that all along, and I would find it far more intriguing (and moving, ultimately) if Cady were acting as a sort of witty mediator between the full-sized lovers. We don’t want to know who she fucks. We really don’t
.

The interracial component is interesting but risky, only because it could make the film issue-heavy and dissipate its ultimate effectiveness. There’s a fine line, I believe, between breaking ground and digging a pit. We have enough obstacles as it is. Besides, if Renee is to be our love interest, I doubt seriously she’d end up with a black boyfriend; it just doesn’t fit the character, airhead Valley Girl that she is. We already know that she sees herself as Melanie Griffith, so why not go with that and find her a Don Johnson? Or a Richard Gere? Or a Jeff Bridges? He could still be Cady’s accompanist, and we’d avoid the potentially offensive stereotype of the black piano player. Or maybe the boyfriend could be that technician. What do you think
?

As to Callum’s private life (the reason I’m not faxing this), it’s obvious we have to abandon that strand completely. I can hear the lawyers right now, and that business in the park just lends a sordid air to a story that’s fundamentally innocent. I’m sure you feel the same, given your affection for Callum. There’s hardly room for it, anyway, if we intend to beef up the relationship between Cady and Renee. We could still see her in one scene with a gay friend (perhaps one a little less strident) as a way of adding color and showing Cady’s tolerance. I think that would be nice, as long as it doesn’t overwhelm us. Balance is everything
.

Incidentally, I don’t agree at all that you come off as a heavy. In my reading of it you’re just the natural scapegoat of Cady’s self-delusion, her need to believe at all costs. Maybe she was really as talented as she thinks she was—I can’t begin to tell from the diaries—but I doubt it seriously. What that fact will offer to the right actress in terms of tragic nuance is thrilling to think about
.

Casting will be a challenge, to put it mildly, though it will certainly offer a rich publicity angle. Our actress will obviously have to be taller than Cady, unless we decide to make her Yugoslavian. (Small joke.) Taller would be fine, really, maybe even easier to sell in the long run. Also, I
know I’m jumping the gun, but I’d think seriously about using a midget instead of a dwarf, someone perfectly proportioned but small, which is less off-putting, I think
.

This is all off the top of my head, of course. I wanted to get things rolling as soon as possible. I can’t remember when I’ve been so excited about a project
.

Love
,

Di

P.S. How does Maybe the Moon sound as a title? I found it in the diaries and I think it strikes just the right note of striving for the impossible
.

P.P.S. The enclosed clipping is from today’s Variety—in case you missed it
.

Cadence Roth, the 31-inch actress who played the title role in the Philip Blenheim film “Mr. Woods,” died Tuesday at age 30.

Roth died at Medical Center of North Hollywood of respiratory problems and heart failure, said a longtime friend.

Roth was discovered by Blenheim at the Farmers Market in Los Angeles and hired on the spot to play the elf in the now-classic film.

Although the director had urged silence about whether the special effects of Mr. Woods were inhabited, Roth publicly stated that she had played the character in scenes that required movement, while a mechanical Mr. Woods was used in close-ups.

There are no survivors.

Services are scheduled for tomorrow at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in North Hollywood.