Not listening to her about Diandra became one of the larger regrets of his life.
When he was at St. Ambrose for his check-up, he made the mistake of leafing through one of those embalmed vanity magazines for the local rich, Santa Barbara Living (he thought Santa Barbara Dying was more apt), & there she was — his ex, barefoot, sitting on a horse under one of the huge oak trees on the estate they once shared. He really missed his beloved oaks, more than he did the property itself, once the magical backdrop of so many important events in his life. But the oaks! He used to talk to them at night, he sought their counsel during the day too, right in front of the gardeners, he didn’t give a shit, they were potent spiritual beings, & he carried them in his heart, proud to be a tree hugger to the end.
There she was: an absurd photograph, like one of those sad Town & Country portraits of latefiftysomething socialites decked out in rich hippie couture. They made sure their picture was always taken at the optimal distance required for the photographic facelift… plus there was something creepy/sexual about the pic, the old come hither, her pre-Raphaelite hair still rich-hippie-shower-wet, barefoot, bare legged slice of thigh, a little riding crop in her hand, submissive horse head down, her orchestrated control/domination of mise-en-scène.
The article was called “My Santa Barbara Dream.”
LOL!
Diandra was selling the house.
She had lots of bad press during those first cancer months when she sued for Wall St. sequel profits; whatever she had of a pathetic image needed heavy rehabbing. Someone was advising her, someone must have told her to take the bull by the horns, like they tell the CEOs to just be open with the public after their products kill a bunch of people — so she gave interviews saying she wanted the world to know that she wasn’t a greedy person by nature. But the quote Michael liked the best was the one about the lawsuit she filed while he was in treatment: “I asked myself every night if I should walk away.” O man, the fuckin agonies! Nobody knows the trouble this bitch has seen! Upon the advice of whomever, she continued to dig a tidy little grave for herself by clarifying to all who’d listen that the reason she was suing — suing again, in the midst of his treatment—she kept flogging that litigious dead horse (not the one so MILF-ily straddled in Santa Barbara Walking Dead) was because none other than Bernie Madoff had cleaned her clock. Blame it on Rio.
Blame it on the bossa nova…
Morbidly curious, he skimmed the text. She talked about her Japanese garden, the one “never photographed” because she considered it a “sacred space.” She said she hired — hired! — a Japanese priest to come have sake ceremonies and move rocks. He laughed out loud and one of the passing nurses said, Hope it’s a good one. O yeah, O yeah, it’s really really good.
“Already back then,” she shared with her interviewer, “my interest was to grow organic vegetables & fruits. On the weekends, we used to go in the garden in our pjs & pick strawberries, for healthy shakes”——o ha! o ho!
He recounted the story to Dr. CK but what once was funny, turned. He could taste the bile rising.
“I didn’t come here to talk about my former wife.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job.”
“Ha!”
“Talk about anything. No restrictions. Better yet, you won’t even be billed. Though that may depend on how long you stay.”
“I’ll put you in touch with my business manager. I don’t think your files are current.”
“Talk about the oak trees. Or we can just sit & navel gaze.”
“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
“I don’t think mine is particularly alluring. I’m not so sure it ever was.”
Time to get into it.
“Bob Fosse was a patient of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yes — back when I was still in New York. And after I moved my practice, but not so much. He did thank me from the podium when he won the Oscar.”
“Really?”
“For Cabaret.”
“I didn’t know that. That he thanked you. Nice.”
“Oh yes. You know that he beat out Francis for The Godfather. Bob beat him, can you imagine? & Francis was my client as well… awkward. His daughter called not long ago. Sofia. She invited me to a Hollywood screening of her movie. I thought that was darling. She’s a brilliant girl. A darling.”
“I’m thinking about doing a remake of one of his films.”
“Oh?”
“Fosse’s.”
“Yes, I gathered that. Which one?”
“All That Jazz.”
“To produce? To act in?”
“Both. But this one, I think I’d direct.”
There. Got it out.
“Good for you! That movie could use a director.”
He laughed. He’d forgotten about her right-on critical eye.
“Do you know my favorite of his? Star 80. It’s a terribly hopeless film — his best too I think, by a longshot. It took extreme courage, & a lot of therapy to get him there. To that place where he could strip away all those extras, those bells & whistles he used, to dazzle. What’s his name, Eric Roberts, Julia’s brother. My God, what a performance! Then he disappeared, didn’t he? I saw him on one of those awful celebrity rehab shows. He was marvelous, & so was the Hemingway girl. My God, what Bob teased out of her! She’s no Meryl Streep, you know. Quite an amazing work. Bob stripped everything away. Only emptiness & savagery were left.”
It was a pleasure listening, as long as she was talking about someone else. For the Tribe, debriefing Dr. Calliope after a private screening of their latest was far more stressful than waiting for reviews in Variety or the Times.
“All right. So. You want to do All That Jazz. To play the part Roy Scheider took — I’m assuming! And you plan to direct.”
“Yes.”
“What, then, is the problem, Michael?”
“I don’t know if it’s a problem. It’s more a concern.”
“You’re mincing words, playing with language.”
“Look, Calliope, I’m just — unsure about it. I’m wondering if I’m biting off more than I can chew here! You know I ask myself, Is this really how I want to spend my time?”
“Well, I don’t know. Is it?”
“Do I want to spend my time making another movie?”
“You’re making movies all the time. Aren’t you?”
“I’m acting in movies. I’m not producing and directing.”
“You ask if that’s how you would like to spend your time. What else would you be doing? With your time?”
“I mean, instead of with the kids, & Catherine. You know how consuming that is, Calliope. This isn’t just ‘another movie.’ I don’t even know if I can pull it off! And I worry about the content, not just for Catherine, but for Dylan and Carys. I mean, you know suddenly the old man’s making a movie but it ain’t Pirates of the Caribbean. ‘Then, what is it, Dad?’ ‘Well. . remember when Daddy had that little health scare? Well, uh, in this movie, kids, well — y’see — Daddy dies!’”