When I was at film school they taught us that Hollywood was not real, and only ever existed in films sent to Earth by The Aliens. I think there was nothing deeper in that attitude than the professional envy of the teachers, whose own films were still propped by government subsidies rather than tax breaks. It showed a poverty of imagination - to steal insults from themes worn out in ancient religions and 100-year-old science fiction.
To be fair, though, it was at the height of the secessionist movement when Hollywood ridicule was endemic in the arts community. When Hollywood tried to secede from the USA - not as a geographical entity, but as a meta-state, an even holier Vatican City - it was seen as a plea to be taken seriously. They didn't even plan to fence off the surrounding undesirable residential areas, but just to restrict citizenship to those who had earned it. Which meant earning a lot of money in show business. Some spectators thought it was another tax scam. Others thought they were probably just publicising a film. The majority thought it was a way around the ruling that since the Morality Wars divorce has been illegal in the United States except if one of the parties was an illegal immigrant: that is, any foreigner. Whatever.
It was the ultimate expression of the art of the snob in the capitalist world where possession is all since it is the route to power. The movement died rapidly when large numbers of enterprising gangs set up customs barriers across Beverly Hills streets, and the money spent on promoting the secession had to be diverted to extra security forces. That was fair enough, since the violence in the neighbouring areas was also an expression of art in the capitalist world, expressed by people still struggling to believe that they shared the same dreams with Hollywood. It was only the development of varivision that calmed them slightly, since they could modify their own dreams, albeit within government-controlled parameters. Presumably it won't stop them hating until someone makes a realistic film that shows we are not just things to possess. But I'm dreaming. I make films for people that treat me like an object. I may be intelligent, but that just makes it more of a challenge to conquer me.
Speaking of conquering me, I haven't yet unravelled Tim. I thought he was in love with me, but he doesn't follow me everywhere. He makes telephone calls and even checks his mail every day, writes occasionally, and in general does not behave like one besotted. I will have to watch him in Hollywood. He might go off the deep end or run away with a starlet. It has that effect. It's funny that in this world of instant communications, of virtual reality and immersion in the universe of image - it's funny how much geographical location still counts, as if the physical presence of the land and its people have a tangible effect that the technologists have not yet been able to reproduce, market, and use to control us even more.
VIEW OF HOLLYWOOD (DEFAULT POINT OF VIEW AERIAL). VICTOR VOICE OVER. ZOOM INTO TRACKING SHOT WHICH FINISHES IN A MOVIE STUDIO (DEFAULT WARNERS-HYUNDAI).
VICTOR In September 2025 Warners shipped me from London to Hollywood, where they offered me a minor part in a minor straight-movie. They told me a talent scout had seen me on the London Stage. My agent told me he had been trying for years, waiting for exactly the right part. So I went to America to play a role as a policeman in an appalling murder thriller that made about five cents at the box office. Perhaps you have seen it without even noticing me. But you will have seen my first wife, Rhonda, whom I met on the set of the film. You won't have seen her for very long either, since she was murdered within five minutes of the opening titles.
I lived in and around Hollywood for thirty years yet, despite the vicissitudes of those years, they all seem alike - like Hollywood movies. The life of a star can be driven by formula, especially if, like me, the star is susceptible to the neglect of true personal opinion that fame and vanity bestow. They attracted me with the promise of priesthood in their religion of marketing and prosperity, but I was just another product to be bought and sold, repackaged and sold again, just like all Americans - from the illegal immigrants cleaning porcelain and stainless steel toilets in nameless plastic factories to the demagogic cleaner of the toilets in the senate house. The man (always a man, thank God) who knows that cruelty is only cruelty if it is accountable, and that (thank God again) is never on a movie screen. God I was happy there (Halleluiah).
VICTOR VOICE OVER, CONTINUED. MONTAGE OF STILL PHOTOGRAPHS OF MOVIE STARS AND HOLLYWOOD PARAPHERNALIA.
VICTOR So 2026 was a great year for us. Rhonda decided to leave films on a high note and have children, though I stayed and went from strength to strength, until a year later I played the role that won my first Oscar: Billy Joe Fink in the classic Eastern Guns, Bullets, Horses, Tanks, Control.
SHOT MOVES INTO WARNER'S STUDIO WHERE VICTOR IS FILMING.
From a dramatic point of view, the time following Victor's arrival in Hollywood is probably the most interesting of his life [see Victor: varying my life, Chapters 112-125]. Indeed, reading about it in his autobiography one is left with feeling of sincerity, that his words were heartfelt and perhaps an act of expurgation.
He arrived in 2025, and the year that followed was the happiest of the thirty years he spent in Hollywood, if not of his life, though I am naturally suspicious of the certainty that retrospect seems to allow. But with only the evidence of his book, I had no grounds to doubt his memories - until I went with him to relive those memories in the making of his film. Even when we were writing the screenplay Victor's eyes would glaze over when he remembered those times.
"It was wonderful. In that very first year I met Rhonda, fell in love instantly, married, had a child, and won the Oscar that was to establish my career, and ensure my continued wealth and fame." He paused, perhaps not wanting to continue, but not being able to let a story die untold. He went on, "The years following were easily the worst of my life, with the death of our little boy and attempted suicides and divorce, though there was happy mitigation with the birth of the twins. It cost me much pain during the writing of Victor, my varied life. Therapeutic? Perhaps, though the therapeutic value was diminished by its very shallowness since I only retold the plot of my story. What has cost me pain since is the realisation that my love affair with Rhonda, and the parallel marriage, was the only one of my four marriages that truly involved love on my part. Had we lived in different circumstances, and not let our lives be dominated by Hollywood, our lives might have been very different."
IT IS ACADEMY AWARDS NIGHT. TWO CELEBRATED PERSONS ARE AT THE PODIUM.
First Celebrated Person The nominees for the category of Best Male Actor are....
Second Celebrated Person Victor Lawrence for Guns, Bullets, Horses, Tanks, Control.
APPLAUSE. FADE TO A CLIP FROM GUNS, BULLETS, HORSES, TANKS, CONTROL....
GUNS, BULLETS, HORSES, TANKS, CONTROL. FINAL SCENE. IT IS TWILIGHT. BILLY JOE SITS ON THE PATIO WITH HIS GRANDSON BESIDE HIM.
GRANDSON The way you tell them stories grandpa, it's a wonder you ever made it to be so darn old. How come you're still alive?
BILLY JOE Don't say 'darn' boy. (HE LAUGHS) They were rough times alright - everyone shootin' at each other any moment - no one trustin' no one... We used to laugh and holler, an' we used to get drunk on whiskey and lie out under the stars while folks came lookin' for us with guns. An' there would always be some idiot who wanted to tell us why we did the things we did. "If it weren't for the whiskey we'd be alright," or "Money's a cussed thing, ain't it; and gold oughtta be left where it belongs - in the ground."
GRANDSON An' the womenfolk. Don't forget the trouble the women caused.
BILLY JOE (LAUGHS EVEN LOUDER) How could I forget that?
GRANDSON An' the guns.
BILLY JOE An' the guns. Yep there were a lot of guns causin' trouble.
GRANDSON An' the people that point 'em at other people.
BILLY JOE (STOPS HIS LAUGHTER) I told you a lot of stories, ain't I son? Stories about killin' folk. Just like back in the old country. Just like the good ol' ...
BILLY JOE GASPS AND COLLAPSES. HE FALLS TO THE GROUND WHILE HIS GRANDSON SCREAMS.
GRANDSON Grandpa. Grandpa. What's wrong grandpa?
BILLY JOE CALLS THE BOY TO HIM. AS HE DIES HE GASPS SOME LAST WORDS.
BILLY JOE I remember every one of 'em, too. Every one. They haunt me, son.
GRANDSON Grandpa?
BILLY JOE Son... When it's your turn, it don't matter who draws first.
GRANDSON What do you mean, Grandpa?
BILLY JOE Just a cliché, Son. Don't take no notice.
BILLY JOE DIES WHILE THE BOY WEEPS. A SPOT OF RED APPEARS IN BILLY JOE'S CHEST OVER HIS HEART. THE SPOT GROWS TILL THE WHOLE SCREEN IS WASHED WITH RED.
END OF FILM.
END OF CLIP.
CROSS TO ACADEMY AWARDS NIGHT. THE TWO REALLY CELEBRATED FAMOUS ACTORS ARE PREPARING TO ANNOUNCE THE WINNER.
First Celebrated Person And the winner in category of Best Male Actor is...
Second Celebrated Person (OPENS THE ENVELOPE AND LOOKS INSIDE) Victor Lawrence for Guns, Bullets, Horses, Tanks, Control.
APPLAUSE. CLOSE UP OF VICTOR'S FACE SHOWING SURPRISE. CLOSE UP OF RHONDA GIVING VICTOR A CONGRATULATORY KISS. VICTOR WALKS TO THE PODIUM. HE KISSES THE TWO CELEBRATED PERSONS AND ACKNOWLEDGES THE APPLAUSE.
VICTOR (LOOKING AT THE STATUETTE) Well. (HEFTS IT) Bloody heavy eh? I have to thank all the wonderful people involved ... [list of those involved].
I am very happy that the reach of television is nearly global these days, for there can now be very few people in the world that don't know the importance of this statue. By giving this award to a newcomer to your land, you Americans are saying to the whole world that the Statue of Liberty still stands, and what it stands for still stands. The first lesson I learned here - in fact it was the man at passport control that told me - he said "Welcome to America Mr Lawrence. And remember, here you have the power to get the freedom to make a profit, and we all need profit to remain free." Thank you, America. You're going to make me rich beyond my stupidest dreams.
Well I thanked everybody already, I hope, but I particularly want to mention my wife Rhonda and our little boy Toby, who are also in the beginning of my American dream.
APPLAUSE. VICTOR LEAVES THE PODIUM.
VICTOR (VOICE OVER) Well I won the Oscar, and my career went upwards while my personal life went down, an inexorable, pitiable descent, but it fell so slowly that I didn't notice I was falling.
When Victor and I were writing the scene I asked him if he really thought Rhonda would be willing to act in a staging of her own suicide attempt. Before he could answer Wendy asked, not entirely rhetorically, "Do you think Victor would write it in if he hadn't already asked her, Tim?"
But I said, "Let him answer. We are taking so many things for granted here. I want to know how well Victor has planned this film."
"Of course she'll do it," he said, but he looked sheepish and talked evasively. "Now in the next scene..."
But Wendy interrupted. "He hasn't asked her, Tim. I don't believe it."
"I haven't seen her," he said "since my third wedding day. She came to kiss me on the cheek after the ceremony and she whispered in my ear, 'our wedding was in much better taste, Victor. This new one of yours is righteous, loud and fashionable. I hope you know what you're doing."
We looked at him. He said, "I'll have someone ask her as soon as possible. Let's get on with the writing. Are we going to include the wedding scene?"
"What if she won't do it?" asked Wendy. "What's the point of writing this for her if she won't do it? I mean it's not the sort of thing I'd do; in fact I don't know anyone in the world who would. This whole thing is crazy." At this point ...
Wendy was still worried about the inclusion of Victor's wives. "What if she won't do it?" asked Wendy. "What's the point of writing this for her if she won't do it. I mean it's not the sort of thing I'd do; in fact I don't know anyone in the world who would. This whole thing is crazy." At this point Wendy stood and began pacing the room, pulling at her hair. "What am I doing here? Why did I accept this. The man's a looney. They told me you were a looney but I didn't listen. Get me a drink Tim - no don't. If I'm going mad I want to stay sober to enjoy it. How did I talk us into this. I thought we were sensible. Why are we here?"
"I'm here because it's a paying job," I said, "and you're here because..."
Wendy cut me off with a deep, angry breath. "Is that it?" she said. "It's a job? It's just a job. Good, then I suppose we can get on with it." She stayed silent but glared at me, then switched to stare at Victor through darkly lowered eyes, and for a moment she seemed on the verge of revelation, her lips quivering to speak, but she remained closed and belligerent, maintaining the authoritative style she normally reserved for work on the film set - mainly bully, occasionally swinging to clown. I knew there was sensitivity, too, but we were still writing the screenplay, and she still hadn't let it surface in Victor's presence.
One day Victor asked her, "Why are you so belligerent towards me?"
She replied awkwardly, "Tim is the writer, so he, by that right, is entrusted with the project's sensitivity."
"I'm not talking about the project. I'm talking about us. We should be friends." He reached out to touch her arm. She was solid but I quivered, as I always did when I sensed even the remotest chance that she would allow some affection for another being besides myself. I wanted to cry to her, let me touch your arm! and to feel that downy softness under my caress. I wanted to kill Victor for trying, for daring to usurp my position, though as yet that position was entirely imaginary. It was beyond imaginary, for in imagination there is always some hope. Perhaps, I thought, I should let her love him if that is what she wants. But I laughed inside, reeked joy through my pores when I saw her brush his hand from her arm, matching my joy with her disgust.
"We've done this, you old bastard. I don't want to warn you again." I wondered how I could love someone who could project such harshness, such arctic sentiment, into her voice.
We started the Hollywood episode with the speech Victor gave after winning the best actor award in Guns, Bullets, Horses, Tanks, Control. Hollywood was producing an eastern every week in those days, so everyone was surprised that it did so well. It was hailed as an "eastern with integrity", as are all stories about the repopulation of Europe by Americans with violence fatigue or morality breakdowns. I was worried that, seeing that the years immediately after this film are perhaps the most interesting of Victor's life, we were leaving too much out of the film.
"Victor," I asked, "why do we move straight from the Oscar speech to the suicide scene? Don't you think we need to lead up to it a little more?"
He remained silent. He wasn't going to tell me.
I remained silent. I wasn't going to tell him.
The screenplay had become very difficult at this point and paradoxes and contradictions appeared to bemuse me. I have stated that I wanted to tell my story on film. I know that a film without emotion is nothing, and the three years between that ceremony and my divorce from Rhonda were the most emotional of my life, yet I did not want them shown. In Victor: varying my life I skirted around the importance of these years; while I wrote about them at length, I concentrated on the aspects that interest the viewing public - my cars, my hairdressers, my films, my accident, my operations, my spiritual rebirth etc. Now Tim and Wendy were asking difficult, searching questions, and I was beginning to feel that I had locked this time away for too long. But I had thought the readers of Victor: a veritable life would probably rather hear about what I did with my famous friends, the stars of Hollywood, than have me reveal my emotional scars. I was probably right. I hope so. What would I have had left if I'd given away all privacy?
Until that moment we had been writing a story. Only now did I realise that these characters were my life. Finally I understood a small part of the significance of what we were doing, of treating reality as fiction. Normal people play games every day at home, school or work. I began to think I was merely normal, and this made me glum. Seeing my mood Wendy came and sat beside me, saying tenderly, "Why don't you tell us more about it?"
Surprised, I raised an eyebrow and exclaimed, "You can act!"
She laughed. I don't know if I had discovered her or offended her, such are the complications of playing with fiction, and she merely said, "Come on. It will be good for the film. Let's make it a drama."
That section of my life was tragic drama, as my downfall was caused by myself, blind as I was to the events that affected me, insensible to their nuance - and their nuisance. But I am dodging the issue again. You know Rhonda's and my child died. That was horrible and I refused to let it into the film - not because I was afraid of being accused of sentimentality - but simply because it was too horrible, and because the normality of death precluded its existence in a project such as this.
When I finally met Rhonda again she actually thanked me for leaving out most of our marriage from Victor: my voyeur's life. She thought it was very clever of me to spend thirteen chapters saying nothing important - she always was irritatingly flippant. We had met for dinner to discuss the scene she was to do with me.
"Just the suicide scene Victor?" Rhonda asked.
"That's all."
"Why isn't there anything before that to say why we did it? Aren't you wasting my acting talent?"
"What went on before is no one else's business," he said, and she remained quiet for a moment. She asked him then, "Why did you take on so much work?"
"It was supposed to help me forget."
"It helped you meet other actresses."
"You had your help at home."
"Yes. Illegal barbiturates mainly. I found bennies too scary after the doctors all stopped taking them."
"We were just as high letting ourselves feel above the normal people. We were pushed."
"No we jumped, actually."
She was right: they did jump - off a five story building.
The party allowed Rhonda to meet Wendy and me. You may be surprised, after the episode in London, that the three of us were still friends - or at least civil. Victor was building a persecution complex centred around us, and he seemed constantly jumpy, and my own nerves were sandpapered by Wendy's continued presence. Victor saw it too, and I think suspected that I might have tried to murder him because Wendy was falling in love with him instead of me. That was nonsense, but my mind reeled with possibilities, dwelling on the most absurd, as a mind twisted by unrequited love will. And now Victor watched me constantly. I am sure that from the time in London he always knew where I was, or had scouts informing him. Some in the film crew still adored him, for his voice was lovely, and from the moment we arrived in Hollywood the mindless moths surrounded the glow of his fame.
Wendy and I met Victor at Rhonda's house (whose ridiculous splendour was apparently funded by the three films subsequent to Guns, Bullets, Horses, Tanks, Control). We were surprised, having read about their animosity, that they so enjoyed each other's company, but they hadn't seen each other for many years and it is easy to forget how things really were. After some time and some drinks they were even more delighted by the arrival of their children. You will remember that Rhonda had conceived twins [Chapter 123 of Victor: yea verily, my life], a month before the divorce proceedings, during a brief and (in the way intended) unsuccessful attempt to break their estrangement and save the marriage. She did not even know she was pregnant when she testified before the judge about the length of their separation.
And tonight their two surviving children, James and Jemima, arrived together. James was alone though Jemima brought her husband and children, and soon Rhonda's house was alive with the uncontrollable sounds of six of Victor's grandchildren. Much to his joy they were all delighted to see him, even the two that had been born during his long absence from California - at least they had been told to be glad to see him.
Jemima's husband was also called James, and to distinguish him from their son Rhonda called her son-in-law "JC", not for his holiness, but his skin - James the Chink. He was one of the few Japanese refugees that slipped through the embargo during the war of 2027. I would hesitate to call Rhonda a bigot, though she liked to classify people. She would, on discovering someone's name as Goldberg or O'Fingal after three hours of converstation, silently put them in with the Jews or the Catholics. You were treated normally as long as you were nameless. Obviously JC's "difference" was noticeable to Rhonda, but only when she was confronted by him, and was forced into some sort of intercourse.
JC and Jemima had met on the set of the refugee classic The Long Swim, when she and James played unselfconsciously with the children of the Chinese musicians. The friendship and Jemima's intelligence were too deep to be overcome by the racist schooling she subsequently suffered. They dropped out of Victor's circle completely in order to marry without having to educate their friends, and emerged years later with a house full of children. They could make their own society now since JC has gained respectability as an orthodontist - and who in California makes more money than an orthodontist? - only psychiatrists, plastic surgeons, movie stars and the defence attorneys for orthodontists, psychiatrists, plastic surgeons and movie stars. The ruling class remains happy as long as minorities can only gain respectability on its own terms, especially, while we can still call the Japanese and Chinese the same minority, and conveniently forget that they have been in America as long as we have. (That counts me as one of 'us', which I'm not; but it's OK because I'm a foreigner everywhere I go.)
There was a greater difference between Jemima and her twin brother James than there was with her Japanese husband. Whereas Jemima had survived her parents' society by leaving it, James survived by joining it and celebrating it at every opportunity. Perhaps you have seen a few of his holofilms, where he always stars as one of those blow-dried, gym-tuned heroes who can win a war or blow up aliens without creasing his shirt. I have to admit that he is attractive, though as so often one suspects chemical secrets behind the mask of health and fitness. He declined to drink with us, but perhaps there are new cocktails unknown to my naive, antipodean insularity; or am I inventing the glow of his hair and the vacant wisdom in his eyes? It's hard to know in these days when junkies have to wear special contact lenses to let you know they're high.
Evidently the twins had never seen Rhonda and Victor together, except in one picture Rhonda kept hidden behind a wardrobe; that was her only souvenir of a lost baby and an abandoned marriage. Jemima remarked that they must have made a handsome couple. James, who fortunately never had to write his own lines, burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter, not his manly screen laughter, but his original ridiculous giggle that finished with a snort through his nose. Victor indignantly asked him if the idea was so unthinkable, but that just sent him into further paroxysms, through which he spluttered a single, barely comprehensible sentence. I am not certain, but I think he said, "These two together after what they said about each other?" and collapsed into a chair next to Wendy, whom he nudged, thinking she would share his mirth. Rhonda, demure, composed, and evidently used to James's ridicule, said, "Actually James, we were talking about the time before we said those things. We did once like each other. We loved each other."
I looked at her as she spoke, and saw the glances that passed between her and Victor. Did I see regret? If I did it was brief, for she added, "Unfortunately, one doesn't ... well one can't rewrite history." Victor lowered his eyes, but she held him with a wink. "We had a good time," she said; that old Hollywood soap-opera line that is spoken in the same scene in which they talk about dreams, and spoken in real life almost as frequently.
The evening wore on nearly harmlessly. We dined and even discussed the scene they would be filming the next day. Victor talked with Rhonda about old times till they were sad; I played with Jemima's children, teaching them rude things to say in Spanish to their maid; Jemima and JC argued with embarrassing frankness about having a seventh child; and Wendy spent a large part of the night running away from James. I was constantly alert to her exchanges with James, for he was a clear threat to a suitor like me, and, though I heard everything, I stayed away.
James was obviously attracted to Wendy, and had equally obviously been forewarned about her, for he knew the names of all her films, but when he said he had seen them too he was obviously lying. Then Wendy lied just as transparently that she had seen none of his. James played action parts, and the intellectual Wendy automatically despised him, though reluctantly, I think, for James is not completely without charm, damn him. He is so obviously a rogue that it is difficult not to like him in some ways, for his deceit is honest in that it is meant to be noticed, and laughed away if remarked upon, before despite has a chance to set in.
Several times in the course of the evening he took one of Jemima's children on his knee, and the child would say, "Tell me about so-and-so, Uncle James," ready again to hear about an amusing anecdote from the filming of his action-packed screen holo-life, and James would laugh and good-naturedly tell a story in his best story-telling voice, easily engaging Wendy with his style, in which all could see the glibness. Each time he engrossed her and she was happily laughing with him, but he could not resist trying to stroke her hand or her cheek and she would wake from her forgetfulness and pounce on his solicitude.
"Bugger off," she would scream, shaking off his hand, and James, not even a little embarrassed, laughed and looked around for the audience reaction. Perhaps he was looking for approval from his parents. Obviously I cannot comment on the history of this family, but he seemed to be saying to Victor, "What's wrong with the frigid bitch?" and to Rhonda, "I'm sorry Mum - I can't help myself." Finally, before he left, he told me how he didn't look forward to going home since he and his wife had filed for divorce but were not yet separated. He said this carefully away from Wendy so she would be certain to hear, and she reacted by slipping her arm into mine. I froze, hoping my own reaction was ambiguous, with neither surprise nor affection, but I knew there would be hope in my eyes. But Wendy was looking at James, and he just laughed as he bounced out the door. Wendy's hand was still holding my elbow, and as I moved my free hand to cover it, in a move of calculated insouciant affection, she removed hers and turned away from me, though I swear her eyes lingered on the door that had just shut behind James.
Wendy and I left soon after, but not before she asked Rhonda, "Why are you doing this? Why did you consent to appear in this film? You don't need the money. You don't seem to need anything. Tell me why."
Rhonda laughed in a friendly way, and smiled. "I quit making films to have Toby in 2026. Then there were ... problems, then the twins came along, and ... I just want to be in films again. It's the first part I've been offered in thirty-five years, and I'm not a bad actress - am I Victor?" He answered by laughing and saying goodnight.
The next day Victor and Rhonda prepared for the scene in which they jump off a five story building. [See Chapter 122 of Victor: my married life for the plan of the roof, drawings of the building elevation and computer reconstructions of the trajectory, as well as the hypothetical trajectories that would have guaranteed success.]
SCENE: VICTOR AND RHONDA WALK ONTO THE ROOF VIA THE FIRE ESCAPE. THEY LOOK OVER THE EDGE.
VICTOR We'll have to run to jump over those awnings. Come on. Let's do it quickly.
VICTOR WALKS BACKWARDS FROM THE EDGE, BUT RHONDA CONTINUES TO LOOK OVER.
RHONDA We can't see what we're going to land on. I don't want to make too much mess. And what if we land on someone's head? Think of how upsetting that might be.
VICTOR You're stalling. Give me your hand. We run and jump over the awning, OK?
RHONDA Is this really the right thing to do, Victor?
VICTOR We made up our minds to end everything together, didn't we?
RHONDA I mean is jumping off a building the best thing to do? It seems to lack grace.
VICTOR So do a swan dive.
RHONDAPAUSES STILL, THEN TURNS TO WALK BACK TO VICTOR)Yes. You're right - I hope. We talk too much, don't we? Tell me we talk too much, Victor - tell me anything! Please. Anything.
VICTOR "Son... When it's your turn, it don't matter who draws first."
RHONDA Oh God. You and your ticket to freedom.
RHONDA SMILES AND TURNS TO FACE THE EDGE. SHE TAKES VICTOR'S HAND.
RHONDA Come on then. Let's do it quickly. Let's be glad at last.
VICTOR (AS THEY BEGIN THEIR RUN) Head up. Chest out.
THEY RUN TO THE EDGE OF THE BUILDING AND LEAP OVER THE SIDE.
Victor was worried about the screenplay. He said to me, "I've wasted a terrific opportunity, Tim, by being slightly faithful to the past and slightly flippant. I've had thirty-three years to think of some great last words that I could have outlived - how many people get that chance? I'm hiring you to write. Give me some great last words. Something better than 'Head up. Chest out.'"
We were already on the roof of the building to prepare the filming of the suicide attempt, and he wanted me to think of some immortal lines. I was too busy not throwing up every time I went near the edge. But sitting down to think at least took my mind off the height. First I compared the book and the screenplay.
From the book Victor: my merry life, Chapter 101.
"We jumped, and my courage deserted me immediately. Watching Rhonda disappear I grabbed hold of the outer rail of the awning just as the fabric tore, and I hung on as well as I could. My body swung outwards, but unfortunately was incapable of supporting my weight so my grip slipped; I released the rail and fell. As is commonly expected, my life passed before my eyes. Grabbing the awning had put me several meters above Rhonda, and I watched her hit the water while I was still in the air. I remember being disgusted at the dirtiness of the water I was about to land in. It is often remarked that in those few moments before death there is a curiously long period allowed for thinking. After the thoughts previously mentioned I was still four metres above the water and my velocity had increased greatly in the thirteen metres since I had left the roof. As I fell through those four metres I remembered how, as children, we used to jump off the bridge over the Darling River at Wilcannia, and though it was only half this height we used to do it many times a day without being hurt. Yet I realised how much greater my velocity was, having fallen through a greater height, and then, just before I hit the water I was reminded of the swimming carnivals we were forced to compete in every year at school. My best year was when I was 12, when I won the 50 metres freestyle, the backstroke, and was saved from drowning in the butterfly by a ..."
Let me summarise. Victor was dazed by the fall but otherwise unhurt, whereas Rhonda had fractured both legs and cut her head on his shoe. It was only a small cut but it bled profusely, and he remembered waking to see the bloodied pool, coming to the horrible conclusion that he was alive and she was dead. His pathetic cries of woe quickly brought help and comfort, and when Rhonda was eventually revived they were both happy to discover their failure.
Having failed at both living together and dying together they decided to divorce. Last century the ripples caused by such news would not have stirred a leaf in a pond, being worth at most a small paragraph in the society pages. But since the Morality Wars, divorce has been a thing to celebrate. To be able to divorce at will most American stars have taken foreign citizenship now, in return for a few tax dollars. Yet we are still in a time when this was not common practice, so Victor's divorce increased his fame and box office potential by millions.
I looked at them now; he a portly old man and she matching him only by her fragility. She had only married once since then (to Victor's fourth wife's second husband), and she seemed to have lived peacefully and happily since that husband mysteriously disappeared with a supposed priest from the Church of Virtual Heaven.
The roof that Victor and Rhonda had jumped off was five stories high. For dramatic effect, and stretching the meaning of our proposed Class 3 Historical licence, we were filming their suicide from the top of a 185 storey building, which was the tallest in the general area - that particular general area being on the San Andreas Fault, which, as usual, was due for the Big One. We thought about synthesising a jump from something even higher, but Victor vetoed that as mere sensationalism.
James had come along to watch too, bringing with him all of Jemima's six children. They laughed at Victor, saw me white with fear and called me "scaredy cat", even though there was no need to be scared since the roof area was large enough for me not to have to go anywhere near the edge. Wendy was livid when she saw the crowd that had arrived, for the children scampered everywhere, and James, having no intention of keeping them in his charge, leered at her, winked at her, flexed his muscles at her and even produced a flower for her. She stood by watching, an expression of disbelief clouding her face, as James sniffed the flower; but as he tried to present it to her he sneezed, losing a contact lens into the plastic gravel that covered the rooftop.
Wendy laughed, then, turning to see the children climbing over the crew and their equipment she screamed until they came to order at her feet. She told them to find somewhere else to play, and from their cowed and beaten expressions as they came away, I am glad I did not hear what else she must have said.
James came over and asked me why Wendy rejected his entreaty for affection. I was busy searching for Victor's last words and said nothing, so he asked Victor.
"You leave her alone," said Victor, with an unnecessary wink, for James returned it with a twinkling, almost burning smile and laughed.
He mimicked Victor's Australian accent, saying, "You dirty old bugger. You're trying to get on to her yourself."
"Don't you dare..." Victor paused, unsure of what to say. James had turned away but was still laughing.
Victor said, "Don't go near her any more," which was the worst, stupidest thing he could have said, because James skipped over to where she was talking to a camera programmer. He tried to say something to her, but the interruption must have annoyed her intensely, for she took him by the scruff of the neck and pushed him against the wall of the lift motor-room.
"I said bugger off. You don't want anything to do with me. All right?" She let him down and he whimpered away, but instead of returning to work she turned to Victor and said, "Can't you keep your family off the set? It's hard enough work with you as it is. Oh look what those kids are doing!"
On the other side of the roof Jemima's children were throwing pebbles off the side, trying to hit the lighting balloons. James, who was supposed be in charge of them, said, "Those kids have crawled around over that ledge."
Over the edge of the building were two helium-filled transparent balloons in which floated two large lights that would illuminate the jumpers as they fell. They would adjust buoyancy to match the falling object, but unlike the cameras that were launched to film the fall, the lights would not hit the ground but reinflate. The cameras disintegrate on impact, but it is worth the extra cost since viewers of variflix invariably like to watch it hit the ground, and always repeat it several times.
Wendy noticed them now and came over to scream at their guardian, but James ignored her, apparently listening to something, smiling at its familiarity.
"Do you hear that?" he asked.
It sounded like a lawn mower approaching. They all turned then to see the Show Buzz drone reporter that had just hovered into view, roaring now that it was not shielded by the edge of the building. The drone was a propellor-lifted, pillbox-shaped hovercraft about a metre in diameter, armed with cameras and microphones, and a mission to go where it was not wanted: filmsets.
A voice from the reporter cried, "Hey look. It's James Lawrence. Come to help out your daddy, James?" It had to be loud to call above the noise of the propellor.
"Is that you in there, Kirsty?" he yelled. He gave it a thump and the drone quietened, its silencer working again.
"Thanks, Jimmy. I was getting a headache. You always know how to thump it, don't you? And to answer your question, baby, I'm snug in the studio. You wouldn't catch me on top of a high building."
Wendy had approached. She said, "We wouldn't catch you at the bottom, either. Get out of here."
"It's Wendy Hill, ladies and gentlemen. Hi Wendy," said the drone/Kirsty cheerily. "We'll come back in a few minutes, shall we, if you're busy. Wink, wink."
Wendy turned away, saying, "You'll get your story. Now leave us alone."
James said, "I'll race you down to the bottom," and both he and the drone disappeared.
Victor, never having had a good experience with drone reporters, was ignoring it and wondering how to control the six manic children.
"Hurry up, Victor," said Wendy. "Look after your grandchildren, will you? They're dangerous."
He called to them again but they took no notice, yet he could not go over to where they were playing because some of the film equipment blocked the way.
"Well we can't move it," said Wendy. "It's almost time to shoot the jump. Go around behind the lift motor-room and get them."
The equipment was the stunt dummies, already programmed to fall in the way Victor and Rhonda would fall. They could have just thrown a ball over the side and let the cameras track it while the computer mapped an image of Victor falling body onto it, but Victor was prepared to pay for real stunt dummies. In the old days they just threw mannequins, but that never looked realistic, and it took many years to develop a cheap robot that wobbled and screamed like a falling human, and that oozed blood appropriately after it hit the ground.
They were made from technology developed for weapons delivery systems in the twentieth century - atom bombs that had to survive a mach II crash before they exploded. And as the 21st century wore on nearly everybody had seen a real person commit suicide by jumping off a building, so it was difficult to fool them. The research and development of the stunt dummy had become quite expensive. Simulations were becoming better and better, but they will never supplant the real thing because film-makers derive a lot of pleasure from throwing things off very high buildings, and then seeing the stuff ooze out of the fake brains. Simulation is all very well, but only as an adjunct to being there.
The children had gone around the lift motor-room along a ledge about half a metre wide, where the safety rails had been removed for the filming. Victor called to them to come back but, perhaps because he could not even remember their names, they ignored him. So he had to go and get them. The ledge was easily passed if you weren't worried by heights, and thankfully it was Victor and not me. Forgetting his current persecution paranoia for just a fraction of a second he confidently stepped onto the ledge. But he stood on a loose brick and lost his balance, just as the drone reporter, its silencer broken again, roared into view from below the ledge. Off-balance and startled, Victor fell over the side of the building and landed on one of the faded old awnings that had been attached to make it look like the building he and Rhonda had actually jumped off.
He held onto the awning, yelling "Who let that bloody reporter in?" His strength failed quickly and he released his hold. Being five hundred metres in the air he thought he would die of shock instantly and never know the fall, but instead of falling his body straddled the line tethering the lighting balloons. The line wrapped itself around him and the extra weight pulled the balloons down. The force broke the balloons' tether at the building, knocking over something that in turn knocked over something that hit the launch control for the stunt dummies, which were abruptly catapulted off the building. The automatic film controller sensed the action so the dummies were immediately followed by the two cameras, and a signal went also to the light balloons which suddenly lost all bouyancy so that they could fall at the same speed as the dummies. I don't know who programmed the cameras, but instead of following the dummies they trained themselves on Victor all the way down. We watched his face on the monitor, and if you ever want to see a picture of fear, just download that sequence. A programmer could never match that face, twisted as it was in convulsions from hell.
Anyway, a free fall of that height should last about ten seconds, which is a long time in the life of a falling body. That would give Victor plenty of time to think about his life, to go over it in his mind, to relive his regrets, his sorrows, his victories; but instead he just stared vacantly into the camera, and even for us his expression seemed to make time viscous, to slow to a crawl as he fell into the abyss we had created for him. After three seconds we were all at the monitor, speechless, breathless, enchanted, and we heard him say desperately to the camera, "Tim! What the hell are my immortal last words?"
What could I do? I was not falling to my death, so my mind could not create in time. What motivation did I have to think up his last words? I had nothing to tell him. I did not realise until later that neither did I have a way of telling him, had I had something to tell him. Even sound waves would not catch him before he hit the ground. So he kept falling, ignorant of my emptiness, and I waited for him to die.
But at nine seconds after the dummies were thrown off the building the lighting balloons that fell with Victor automatically reinflated to stop the lights falling into the ground. The stunt dummies hit, "Thump, thump." The cameras hit next, "Thwack, thwack." Then, slowly and silently, bearing an unconscious movie star, the lighting balloons drifted to the ground, unused to the extra weight they carried and shadowed by the now silent drone reporter that had also followed Victor down the side of the building.
