The Winner Stands Alone

Obviously, in those ten minutes, Maureen won't have a chance to say a word about what she has been through in the seven years (yes, a quarter of her life) that have gone into making her film. There will be no point in telling him that she went to film school, directed a few commercials, made two short films that were warmly received in various small-town cinemas or in alternative bars in New York. That in order to raise the million dollars needed for a professional production, she had mortgaged the house she inherited from her parents. That this was her one chance because she didn't have another house to mortgage.

She had watched as her fellow students, after much struggling, opted for the comfortable world of commercials--of which there were more and more--or some safe but obscure job in one of the many companies that made TV series. After the warm reception given to her short films, she began to dream of higher things and then there was no stopping her.

She was convinced she had a mission: to make the world a better place for future generations, by getting together with like-minded people, to show that art isn't just a way of entertaining or amusing a lost society; by exposing world leaders as the flawed people they are; by saving the children who were now dying of hunger somewhere in Africa; by speaking out about environmental problems; by putting an end to social injustice.

This was, of course, an ambitious project, but she was sure she would achieve it if only through sheer doggedness. To do this she needed to purify her soul, and so she turned to the four forces that had always guided her: love, death, power, and time. We must love because we are loved by God. We must be conscious of death if we are to have a proper understanding of life. We must struggle in order to grow, but without falling into the trap of the power we gain through that struggle, because we know that such power is worthless. Finally, we must accept that our eternal soul is, at this moment, caught in the web of time with all its opportunities and its limitations.

Caught in the web of time she might be, but she could still work on what gave her pleasure and filled her with enthusiasm. And through her films, she could make her contribution to a world that seemed to be disintegrating around her and could try to change reality and transform human beings.

WHEN HER FATHER DIED, AFTER complaining all his life that he had never had the chance to do what he had always dreamed of doing, she realized something very important: transformations always occur during moments of crisis.

She didn't want to end her life as he had. She wouldn't like to have to tell her daughter: "There was something I wanted to do and there was even a point when I could have done it, but I just didn't have the courage to take the risk." When she received her inheritance, she knew then that it had been given to her for one reason only: to allow her to fulfill her destiny.

She accepted the challenge. Unlike other adolescent girls who always dreamed of being famous actresses, her dream had been to tell stories that subsequent generations could see, smile at, and dream about. Her great example was Citizen Kane. That first film by a radio producer who wanted to make an expose of a powerful American press magnate became a classic not just because of its story, but because it dealt in a creative and innovative manner with the ethical and technical problems of the day. All it took was one film to gain eternal fame.

"His first film."

It was possible to get it right the first time. Even though its director, Orson Welles, never made anything as good again. Even though he had disappeared from the scene (that does happen) and was now only studied in courses about cinema, someone was sure to "rediscover" his genius sooner or later. Citizen Kane wasn't his only legacy; he had proved to everyone that if your first step was good enough, you would never lack for invitations thereafter. And she would take up those invitations. She had promised herself that she would never forget the difficulties she had been through and that her life would contribute to dignifying human life.

And since there can only ever be one first film, she had poured all her physical efforts, her prayers, and her emotional energy into one project. Unlike her friends, who were always firing off scripts, proposals, and ideas, only to end up working on several things at once without any of them ever really coming to anything, Maureen dedicated herself body and soul to The Secrets of the Cellar, the story of five nuns who are visited by a sex maniac. Instead of trying to convert him to Christian salvation, they realize that the only way they can communicate with him is by accepting the norms of his aberrant world; they decide to surrender their bodies to him so that he can understand the glory of God through love.

Her plan was a simple one. Hollywood actresses, however famous they might be, usually disappear from the cast lists when they reach thirty-five. They still continue to appear in the pages of the celebrity magazines, are seen at charity auctions and big parties; they embrace humanitarian causes, and when they realize that they really are about to vanish from the spotlight entirely, they start to get married or have messy divorces and create public scandals--and all for a few months, weeks, or days of glory. In that period between unemployment and total obscurity, money is of no importance. They will take any role if it gives them a chance to appear on screen.

Maureen approached actresses who, less than a decade earlier, had been at the top of the tree, but who now sensed that the ground was beginning to slip away from under them and that they desperately needed to get back to the way things were. It was a good script; she sent it to their agents, who demanded an absurd salary and got a straightforward no as an answer. Her next step was to approach each actress individually. She told them that she had the money for the project, and they all ended up accepting on the understanding that no one would know that they were working for almost nothing.

In something like the film industry, there was no point in being humble. Sometimes, the ghost of Orson Welles would appear to her in dreams: "Try the impossible. Don't start low down because that's where you are now. Climb those rungs quickly before they take the ladder away. If you're afraid, say a prayer, but carry on." She had an excellent script, a first-class cast, and knew that she had to produce something that was acceptable to the big studios and distributors, but without sacrificing quality. It was possible and, indeed, obligatory for art and commerce to go hand-in-hand. As for the rest, well, the rest consisted of various things: the kind of critic who's into mental masturbation and who loves films no one else understands; the small alternative circuits where the same half dozen people emerge from showings and spend the small hours in bars, smoking and discussing one particular scene (whose meaning was, very possibly, quite different from the one intended when it was filmed); directors giving lectures to explain what should be obvious to the audience; trade union meetings calling for more state aid for domestic cinema; manifestos in intellectual magazines--the result of interminable meetings, at which the same old complaints were made about the government's lack of interest in supporting the arts; the occasional letter published in the serious press and usually read only by the interested parties or the families of the interested parties.

Who changes the world? The Superclass. Those who do. Those who alter the behavior, hearts, and minds of the largest possible number of people.

That's why she wanted Javits, an Oscar, and Cannes.

And since she couldn't get those things "democratically"--other people were very

willing to offer advice, but never to shoulder any of the risks--she simply gambled everything. She took on whoever was available, spent months rewriting the script, persuaded excellent--but unknown--art directors, designers, and supporting actors to take part, promising them almost no money, only increased visibility in the future. They were all impressed by the names of the five main actresses ("The budget must be astronomical!"), and initially asked for large salaries, but ended up convinced that participating in such a project would look really good on their CVs. Maureen was so enthusiastic about the idea that her enthusiasm seemed to open all doors.

Now came the final step, the one that would make all the difference. It isn't enough for a writer or musician to produce something of quality, they have to make sure their work doesn't end up gathering dust on a shelf or in a drawer.

Vis-i-bil-i-ty is what's required!

She sent a copy of the film to just one person: Javits Wild. She used all her contacts. She suffered rejection, but carried on anyway. She was ignored, but that didn't diminish her courage. She was mistreated, ridiculed, excluded, but still she believed it was possible because she had poured her lifeblood into what she had done. Then her ex-boyfriend entered the scene, and Javits Wild agreed to see her film and to meet her.

She keeps her eyes on Javits all through lunch, savoring in anticipation the moment they will spend together in two days' time. Suddenly, she notices him go stiff, his eyes fixed on nothing. One of the friends with him glances behind and to the side, slips one hand inside his jacket. The other man starts frantically keying in a number on his mobile phone.

Has something happened? Surely not. The people nearest him are still talking, drinking, enjoying another day of Festival, parties, sun, and nice bodies.

One of the men tries to help Javits up and make him walk, but he appears incapable of movement. It can't be anything serious. Too much drink perhaps. Tiredness. Stress. No, it can't be anything serious. She has come so far, she is so close and...

She can hear a siren in the distance. It must be the police, cutting their way through the permanently congested traffic in order to reach some important person.

One of the men puts Javits's arm around his shoulder and more or less carries him toward the door. The siren is getting closer. The other man, still with his hand inside his jacket, keeps looking in all directions. At one point, their eyes meet.

Javits is being taken up the ramp by one of his friends, and Maureen is wondering how someone so slight can possibly carry such a heavily built man and with so little apparent effort.

The sound of the siren stops right outside the tent. Javits has, by now, disappeared with one of the friends, but the second man is walking toward her, one hand still inside his jacket.

"What happened?" she asks, frightened, because years of directing actors have taught her that this man's face is that of a professional killer, a face that looks as if it were carved out of stone.

"You know what happened," the man says in an accent she can't identify.