Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
“Hmmm.” I offer a grunt in case Monk gets it in his head that I want to discuss this further. I do not. Primal is a sore spot. I’ve built my career and reputation on thoughtful, groundbreaking documentaries. When I direct features, it’s because the material grips my imagination and incites my convictions. Primal is a reminder that I strayed from that once and paid in pride. I wasn’t lying up there. Storytelling is sacred to me. Jeopardizing my integrity as a storyteller for a woman?
Won’t happen again.
“I get the message,” Monk says, taking a sip of his beer. “You don’t want to talk about Primal, so let’s talk about your next movie. I know you’re into that.”
I glance up from my plate and nod. I believe in economy of words. Talking too much usually means saying things I didn’t want to or shouldn’t have.
“I’ve got a million ideas about the score,” he continues, not waiting for me to speak.
Wright “Monk” Bellamy is one of the best musicians I’ve ever met. He plays several instruments, but piano is what he’s best known for. His obsession with Thelonious Monk gained him the moniker, and his towering skill as a pianist backs it up. He’s that rare classically trained beast who can seamlessly cross into pop, contemporary, jazz. You name the genre. He can probably hang.
“So you are free to work on the movie?” I take a sip of my Macallan. I didn’t realize how anxious I was about the documentary’s reception until that standing O. Most of the tension drained out of me after that. This drink is handling what’s left.
“I can shuffle a few things.” Monk’s dark eyes twinkle with humor. “For the right price.”
He’s as intense as I am, but he disguises it with a laid-back persona and good-natured smile. I don’t care enough to disguise anything. You get what you get.
“We got budget,” I mutter. “This time. I hope I don’t regret letting Evan convince me to do this with Galaxy Studios.”
“It’s a period piece. And a huge one at that. Considering the costuming, production, scope of this thing, it ain’t gonna be cheap. Evan was right to go the studio route.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear it. Though if there’s one thing you never have to tell Evan, it’s that he’s right.”
My production partner Evan Bancroft deserves a lot of credit for our success. He “indulges” me my documentaries, and makes the films between count, ensuring the movies we do make us a lot of money. The guy’s too smart to be poor. Not that he’s ever been. Evan grew up in the business with a screenwriter for a mother and a cinematographer for a father. He bleeds film.
“Still no closer to finding your star?” Monk asks.
I put the drink down and lean back in my chair, watching Lincoln Center glow through the window as the first layer of darkness blankets the city. Finding a great story is only the first hurdle. Getting the money to make it? That’s another. Casting the right actors—one of the most important steps in the dozens you take to make or ruin a film.
“I’ll know her when I see her,” I tell him.
“How many have you seen so far? A hundred?”
“The studio put out this huge casting call that’s been a joke. I like to be a lot more precise than this. It’s a waste of time and money, if you ask me, but they didn’t. They just started looking at all these actresses who are totally wrong for the role.”
“Well, in their defense, you have been searching for six months without one callback, so they’re probably just trying to help this baby along.”
“But it’s my baby.” I glare at the passersby on the street like they’re the suits safely ensconced in their Beverly Hills homes. “I found this story in the middle of nowhere. They have no idea what it will take to make it what it should be. All I want is their money, not their ideas.”
“Silly them, thinking they should have some say about how their money is spent.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how it works, but there are some things I know only with my gut. And casting this movie is one of those things, so I need the studio execs to stay the hell out of my way while I find the right actress.”
“It’s still kind of a miracle how you got Dessi Blue. Like, once-in-a-lifetime.”
I’d been traveling from one interview for Cracked to another. Driving through a rural Alabama town, I almost missed the small roadside marker.
Birthplace of Dessi Blue (1915–2005)
Driving, I didn’t have time to read all the fine print beneath the heading that told more about her life, but the gas station in the tiny town where I stopped was on Dessi Blue Drive. Inside, I asked the cashier about Dessi Blue, and the rest is history. That sent me on the winding road that has brought me to the most ambitious movie I’ve ever attempted—a biopic about the life story of a hugely talented jazz singer most have never heard of and never knew.