Call Back
Brian
Peter Fagan
The audition
was
at the director’s office in Century City, instead of a sound stage or theater.
I had
intentionally set it up so that I was the last audition he would see that day,
at 5:30.
Knocking
on the
door a female voice told me to enter. It was a large office, even by Hollywood
standards. There was the usual ‘ego wall’ showing the director with stars that
he had worked with which included anyone you could think of. He had started in
theater and television before crossing over to film and he had won awards in
all of those fields putting him in that rarified realm of being an EGOT,
winning an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony. He had produced and filmed a concert
on one of the sixties legendary bands and the gold record of the soundtrack
also hung on the trophy wall.
His name
was
Warner Wexler, and his name was said in the same breath with the other great
late 60’s directors he had come up with: Scorsese; Spielberg; DePalma and
Lucas. His films were gritty and popular.
His secretary
was
a grey-haired, steely looking woman, who I imagined had been with him for
decades. She gave me a big smile and said: “Max Hunt?”
I nodded
and
confirmed I was.
“He’s
waiting for
you. Do you have a copy of the script?”
I held
up the
script and nodded.
She pressed
and
intercom button. “Mr. Wexler, your 5:30 is here. Is it all right if I close
up?”
A familiar
baritone
voice came over the intercom: “That’s fine, Margaret, I’ll lock up when we are
done.”
She indicated
the
door with a nod of her head.
“Go
right in.”
I thanked
her and
went in.
Wexler’s
office
was huge but spartan, no artifacts and only a large oak desk and a set of file
cabinets on one end, the wall facing me was all glass, lit red with the setting
sun.
Wexler
was
politician handsome, with salt and pepper hair, offsetting deep blue eyes and a
craggy, patrician-looking face. He had also made a career acting in movies and
was quite good, which only added to his aura.
Wexler
was holding
a sheet of paper; my paltry resume and I could see my head shot on his desk. He
did not rise or offer his hand.
“Hello
Max, I am
Warner Wexler. I see you haven’t done much, some summer stock and a few small
roles in TV and film, but that might work in your favor, I would like an
unknown in this part, someone who will not distract the audience with prior
baggage.”
“Well,
if you’re
looking for an unknown, that’s certainly me.”
He gave
a generous
laugh, as he picked up the script.
“You
would be in
the part of…” he smiled and gestured with his hands, “if you got the part, of
Billy, a psychotic and deranged young man. It is a small but powerful and vital
role.”
Wexler
said: “I
will play the role of George—shall we begin?”
“My
name doesn’t
mean anything to you, does it?”
Confusion
crosses
Wexler’s handsome face.
“Max
is not my
first name, but I thought it might remind you of someone else. Maxine Hunt?”
Wexler
still looks
confused.
“The
film that
brought you your first acclaim, THE RED GATE.”
I see recognition
in Wexler’s face mixed with a trace of fear.
“You
filmed it in
Mexico, remember? All about the black arts, ending in the climax where the
actress is hideously murdered—torn apart by the crowd.”
“My
mother was in
her first leading role and was deeply troubled with that scene and came to you
for consolation and you preyed on her vulnerability and seduced her. The
tabloids found out and wrote about it. When my mother got home, my father,
always a troubled man, shot and killed her. They had the death penalty then in
L.A., and my father was convicted and executed.
I grew
up in a
shithole orphanage dreaming about this moment when I would make you pay.”
“Look,
look, it
wasn’t like that—you know how it is on movie sets—we were attracted to each
other. We fell in love. She wanted to be with me—she was going to divorce your
father so we could be together. You must believe me. Please.”
I took
out the gun
I had behind my back.
“Nice
try,” I say.
“You really are a good actor.”
“Don’t
do this,”
pleads Wexler. A dark mass begins to spread at his crotch.
“Oh,
look at
that,” I say. “The great man has pissed himself.”
“Please,
please,
don’t.”
I lay the
gun on
his desk.
“How
is that for
psychotic? Do I get the part?”
THE END
