I blink when the lights come up in the Walter Reade Theatre, brightness assaulting my eyes after nearly two hours spent sitting in the dark. The packed room seems to draw a collective breath and then release it as thunderous applause. And then they stand. I’m sure some folks stay seated, but I only see a roomful of people standing, clapping for the documentary I poured the last three years of my life into. Warmth crawls up my neck and over my face. I will myself not to squirm in the director’s chair set center stage. It’s not my first time screening a documentary at the New York Film Festival, but I’ll never get used to the attention. I’m much more at home behind the camera than in front of an audience. I’m like Mama in that way.
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.”
“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.
“Darren’s writing the script?” Monk’s question jars me from that pivotal memory.
“Uh, actually, no. I really think this story should be written by a woman.” I pause, leaving plenty of room for the bomb I’m about to drop. “I want Verity Hill.”
Monk’s knife stops mid-slice into his medium-rare steak. He looks up, blinking at me a few times. His knife and fork clatter when he drops them on his plate. A muscle works in his jaw.
“Look, I know you two have a past,” I say.
He answers with scornful laughter and sits back in his chair, making no move to return to his steak.
“You don’t know shit about our past,” he says, his voice even, but his usual good humor absent.
“I know you dated in college and—”
“I mean, she didn’t say it would be a problem for her, so I assumed you’d be—”
“You already asked her? Before you asked me?”
“Sorry, bruh, but the studio was more interested in who would write the script than who’d do the music. She’s in high demand since she won the Golden Globe.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“I needed to nail her down, get her attached as early as possible.”
“I said I get it.” Monk’s words are diced up into tiny pieces, but it sounds like he’s choking on them. “She’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, she didn’t seem to have a problem with you.”
“She shouldn’t,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear it.
“So it was a bad breakup?”
“It was college.” Monk picks up his fork and knife, slices into the tender pink meat. “We grown, and we’re professionals.”
“Make sure, because I don’t like personal shit messing up my movies.”
“Oh, you mean like Camille and Primal,” he says with a sudden evil grin.
“Man, if you don’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He puts up both hands in surrender. “You drop Verity and I won’t mention Camille.”
“Bet.” I flick my chin up and lift my empty glass so our server can see I need a refill. “We got our studio. Our writer. Our music. Now if I can just find Dessi. I don’t want to cast the guy until I know who Dessi’ll be. I need to see who she’ll have chemistry with.”
“Makes sense,” Monk says distractedly, looking down at the phone by his plate. “Oh, damn. Good for her.”
“Good for who? What’s up?”
“A few weeks ago, an old friend begged me to step into this gig for him in the Village.” He picks up the phone, smiling. “His wife went into labor and he didn’t want to leave the band hanging.”
“So he asked you?” I blow out an impressed breath. “Must go way back.”
Monk’s a big deal. Asking him to sub at a local gig is like bringing in LeBron for a pick-up game on the playground.
“It was fun. Whatever.” Monk shrugs and smirks. “So there’s this chick singing with the band that night and she was phenomenal. Sick with it. Like ‘star’ written all over her. It’s only a matter of time with this one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, you’ve never heard of her. Neevah Saint. I started following her on Instagram after that gig. Anyway, she just posted that she’s in that Broadway play Splendor. She’s an understudy, and apparently the lead actress is on vacation so she’s stepping in tonight for the first time.”
He glances at his watch and then to me. “What you got going on? You wanna catch a show?”
“You think we can get tickets day of? With such short notice?”
He gives me a do you know who I am look. “Bruh, I always got a hook up.”
“I was gonna look at first passes Verity sent over of the script.”
“Screw that. We’re in New York. Come on. You work too hard.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Yeah, but I play hard, too. Extract the stick from your ass at least for tonight.”
“Wow. You really know how to charm a guy.”
“Bruh, we way past charm. I’m dragging you down to this show.”
I stare glumly into my empty glass. “Aw, hell.”
“Aw hell my ass.” He signals to the server who never made it over with my refill. “Check, please.”
