I hope I’m like her in a thousand ways.
Charles, the moderator, clears his throat and shoots me a grin, mouthing I told you so.
I roll my eyes and concede his point with a dip of my head and a wry smile. He predicted a standing ovation for Cracked, my documentary examining America’s war on drugs, mandatory minimums, and mass incarceration, and contrasting the current largely suburban opioid crisis.
My usual lighthearted fare.
I gesture for everyone to sit, and for a few seconds they ignore me, until in small waves, they take their seats.
“I think they liked it,” Charles says into his handheld mic, causing a ripple of laughter through the theater.
“Maybe.” I look out to the crowd. “But I’m sure they have questions.”
Do they ever.
For the next hour, the questions come in a quick succession of unrelenting curiosity and mostly admiration. A few challenge my largely critical stance of the government’s so-called War on Drugs. I’m not sure if they’re merely playing devil’s advocate, or actually believe the points they raise. Doesn’t matter. I enjoy a good debate, and don’t mind having it with 300 people watching. It’s a great chance to further clarify my points, my beliefs. And maybe learn something in the process. We aren’t usually one hundred percent right or informed on anything. Even if I don’t agree with someone, I never discount the opportunity to learn something I hadn’t considered.
When I’m sure we’ve exhausted this discussion and I can start thinking about the mouthwatering steak I’ve promised myself, another person approaches the mic set up in the aisle.
“One last question,” Charles says, pointing to the freckled guy with red hair who’s sporting a Biggie T-shirt.
“I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Holt,” he begins, his blue eyes fixed and intense.
“Thanks.” I ignore my stomach’s protest. “’Preciate that.”
“As much as I love your documentaries,” he continues, “I miss your feature films. Did the experience with Primal put you off directing movies?”
Shit.
I do not talk about that disaster. It’s been discussed enough without me ever addressing it publicly. Everyone knows not to ask me about that movie. And this little joker has the balls to ask me now? After a standing ovation at the New York Film Festival for the hardest documentary I’ve ever made?
“Some stories should be told by other people,” I say, keeping my tone flat and shrugging philosophically. “You find the stories you’re supposed to tell and move on if it becomes clear a story is not for you. It’s not personal.”
“So I think that does it,” Charles says. “Thank you all for—”
“But it was personal,” Redhead cuts in over Charles’ attempt to shut him down, pressing on despite the color flushing his cheeks. “I mean, you were dating Camille Hensley and when you guys broke up, she had you fired from the movie. Does it get more personal? Do you have advice for us young filmmakers who might find ourselves in similar awkward situations?”
Yeah, don’t fuck your actress.
I don’t say that out loud, of course, though it is the lesson I learned the hard, humiliating way.
“I guess the lesson is that art takes precedence over everything.” I force an even tone. “That story turned out exactly as it was supposed to . . .”
Trash.
“And performed the way it was supposed to . . .”
Flopped.
“Without me. I think we all know personal involvements can complicate what is already the hardest thing I’ve ever done—make great movies, whether they’re true stories of lives ruined by a government’s ill-conceived policies.”
I gesture to the large screen with the Cracked logo behind me.
“Or stories born purely from imagination. Storytelling is sacred. Story must be protected, at all costs. Sometimes at personal cost, so when it became apparent my involvement with that project could potentially compromise the story, I bowed out.”
Railroaded is a more accurate description for how Camille leveraged her mega-star status to get me off the project. The movie being butchered by the new director and the rotten tomatoes hurled at the film did little to soothe that wound. I didn’t need the movie’s failure to vindicate me. I knew I should not have mixed it up with Camille. Not even great pussy is worth a wasted opportunity.
But it’s hard to call anything “wasted” when you learn your lesson this well.
“You looked like you were two seconds off jacking redhead up.”
Monk’s comment makes me grin, but I’m too focused on my crab cake to speak. After all that craving for steak, P.J. Clarke’s crab cake turned me.
“I mean, it did take balls to ask.” Monk winks and takes a bite of his steak.
“Punk ass is lucky he’s still got ’em.” I wipe my mouth and toss the napkin onto the table. “He’s gotta know I don’t talk about that shit.”
“You’ve barely talked to me about Primal, much less a roomful of strangers, so I thought you not strangling him on the spot was damn near commendable.”