I want to write a short note of explanation before we get to the question of the assassin.
You will, no doubt, have read in my autobiography, "Victor: my varied life, Part 1" [hereafter known as Victor: my varied life in attractive, display-sensitive video], the typical autobiographer's apologia for having the vanity to write an autobiography in the first place, and in which I denied that vanity was my motive, but having been coerced by friends and family, writers etc. etc. etc.
You have heard all that before and do not deserve to hear it again, and I am now going to admit that I lied. To tell the truth, not one of my friends or family members has ever said to me, "Victor, you must write an autobiography." Nor did I write because I thought my life had a story to tell, nor so that others might profit or, better still, be entertained by my experiences. No, of all the possible reasons to write an autobiography, mine was the only true one: vanity.
The present book, however, contains no such sophistic apologies, for I humbly believe that it has a purpose to serve, if only as a record of incompetence. And being a record, it will achieve its purpose if one (just one!) person learns from my mistakes. If you want to make a film, learn from me and avoid catastrophe. If you want to live as a contented human being, learn from me and keep your life free of sentiment, prejudice and vanity.
All that I am about to tell you occurred during the filming of my autobiography. As you know I had been making straight-films, varivision and varifilms, or at least acting in them, for over fifty years by then, so this should have been an easy task. But as it turned out ... well you will see in this book, which I present as an epilogue to my autobiography, and certainly its last chapter, for I will pretend to create no more. You know, obviously, that the film was never released, and never will be, so I have to write this, the last chapter of my memoirs which, as so many people have said of so many things, should have been unnecessary. But good intentions, goodwill and well laid plans are frustrated by greed and vanity - hence war, famine, pestilence and religion - and this book.
In a way it is all your fault, but this is a gentle accusation. It was the wonderful way you, the reading, viewing, interacting public, greeted my autobiography that so warmed my heart and made me leap at the idea of making one final film. A film starring myself as myself throughout my whole life - a final testament to a long and happy career as a celebrated star. It was the most ineffable conceit, but wait - even though I will not apologise for this book, I will apologise for the film. You might imagine from Victor: my varied life that the film would continue and extend the "kiss and tell" style which the publisher demanded for that book, but I intended no such transparent voyeurism.
I had always thought that my life must have been rather dramatic, as lives go. After all, it has featured four divorces, who knows how many millions of dollars and children and grandchildren, and the obsessive narcissism of a famous artist. Moreover, the idea of making the film was one of the few truly original ideas I have ever had. My entire career, indeed my entire life, including the writing of Victor: my varied life, had been directed in every detail - first by guardian parents and school masters, later by vicious and demented army officers, and lastly by the most ferocious and pitiless of all, Hollywood agents and directors. Having an idea by myself is probably the stupidest thing I ever did, since ideas are like falling dominoes. Having had one idea, I compounded the idiocy by having a second idea - which was to make the movie myself.
Appealing yet again to vanity, I plead that none of the disasters occurred because of my artistic desires, but were all caused, directly or indirectly, by the incompetent team of fools that I gathered around me. If I am to blame for anything it must surely be my lack of talent for recruitment and casting, exacerbated by the insensitivity I wielded in my youth and the memory lapses that accompany my old age. It was folly to let my history interfere with my past - by which I mean I let my family and friends tell the story of my life, and can you show me two people who have identical memories?
So the film was never made in the way it was intended; and although we could probably synthesise an acceptable product from the footage already taken, I preferred to delay it until the question was solved. Question?
Yes; the true reason the film never made it into the cinemas was not that I employed an immature director and her confused lackey as a writer, nor even the drug-addicted camera crews, but that each time I attempted to film an episode of my life, someone tried to murder me. Someone wanted to kill me, probably still does, and the release of an autobiographical film could conceivably add to the motive of this would-be assassin. But the question was, and still is, who is it?
