Chapter 33

33

T he following day, a car picked her up at her hotel and started down San Vicente Boulevard en route to Sol's destination. The car had stopped at a traffic light on Santa Monica Boulevard when Sol saw the almost all-glass building that doubled as the headquarters of Supreme Video in West Hollywood. It was an imposing building, and Sol was admiring its architecture when she caught a glimpse of a man who appeared to be in his sixties leaving a black electric SUV and entering the place. He looked like Mark Green.

Sol got only a brief view of him since her car started driving again, but she was almost sure she'd recognized her Pilates colleague. It looked like the retired director was having a meeting at the main office of one of the big streaming services. Mark hadn't mentioned he'd also be traveling to Los Angeles when Sol told him she was due for a work trip to the Californian city. Her colleague must have wanted the meeting to remain under the radar.

She was still intrigued about the whole thing when her car left her at the main entrance of the Four Seasons hotel on the palm tree–lined Doheny Drive.

It was almost a full hour before the scheduled starting time for her interview, and she knew there would be a lot of time devoted to waiting. It was always like that with these kinds of celebrity interviews. Journalists were ushered early to the hotel where the event was hosted with the promise of food and gossip—either from colleague journalists or publicists. The PR people running the set of promotional interviews made sure there was always someone available and on hand to throw into an interview room.

Big promotional junkets entailed that talent—actors, producers, directors—were enclosed in lofty suites where a non-stop parade of journalists would interview them either in grouped interviews or more exclusive one-on-one settings like what Sol was scheduled for.

By the end of a press day, the talent would had been asked the same reshuffled questions dozens of times. What made a star, and a long-lasting career in Hollywood, wasn't only a compelling performance on the screen or directing a hit movie, but the ability to reply to those dozens of identical questions differently and graciously. Every. Single. Time.

Sol got to the hospitality room that the studio of Revengers Reunite Redo had booked for the press day and was immediately reminded of the somewhat social nature of these occasions.

She saw an old acquaintance seated at one of the tables and went to say hi. They talked about the dismal health of the journalistic profession, the prohibitive nature of Californian real estate, and how bad most of the movies they'd seen that year were. It was an unspoken rule among the members of the celebrity-interviewer circuit to never admit to liking anything—other than in front of eager publicists.

The journalist acquaintance told Sol about all the celebrities he'd interviewed in the previous few weeks. Sol had long observed that being so close to power and fame—even if journalists were still outsiders in that glitzy Hollywood milieu—caused her peers to sometimes enmesh themselves in that world and measure their success by the celebrity status of the people they got to talk to.

"You're here to interview only Richard, right?" he asked Sol. He'd been there since early morning talking to the full cast of the flick, and he had also spoken to the writer/director/producer. "He's been awful. That's why they're running so late."

"Oh no!" Sol muttered. She checked the time on her phone. It was almost an hour after her slotted interview time. But she had no occasion for follow-up questions with her colleague because a publicist came asking for Sol then, ready to finally take her to interview the filmmaker.

It had been a while since Sol had performed an interview of that kind. So many things had been happening over video conference, and Sol had missed the excitement and pomp of an event where you couldn't wear flip-flops, leggings, and a fancy, camera-friendly top. One-on-one, you pretty much put all your stock in your ability to connect with the interviewee and direct questions their way in a limited period of time.

She was confident in her interview prep and her power look, consisting of loose and perfectly straightened locks, a two-piece plaid suit paired with a T-shirt, and Munich platform sneakers.

When Sol got inside the suite where the interview would take place, there were already half a dozen other people there between the studio's publicists and Richard's team. Sol introduced herself and smiled at everyone, acknowledging them. She always did. You never knew who all these people could be or become. Plus, it was the polite thing to do. No need to snub anyone, especially not an intern.

She'd witnessed her fair share of celebrity surrealism during the years: a since-then-canceled two-time Oscar winner summoning his assistant so that she'd close the blinds in the room because he couldn't be bothered to stand up and do it himself; a young, up-and-coming enfant terrible vexing even the most seasoned Hollywood reporters with his bratty behavior; several established A-listers managing to answer all questions in the most boring and bland way possible, no matter what you asked them; and a midcareer TV actor who had decided a roundtable interview was the right venue to hit on Sol.

But she wasn't quite prepared for the sight of Richard Fynn seated on the long tuft-cushioned sofa at the center of that Four Seasons suite.

He was eating lunch—what looked like a quinoa salad on kale topped with fried chicken—and the lunch wasn't only in his bowl but also half in his mouth and on his clothes.

"I'm eating!" he declared when he saw Sol, after one of the many publicists in the room tried telling him Sol's name and her outlet before rushing off.

Sol wasn't sure if Richard meant he wouldn't stop his food intake during the interview or he was inviting her to leave while he finished.

She tried making eye contact with one of the many publicists standing in the background, but if they'd heard Richard, they pretended they hadn't. They were all absorbed by the luminous screens of their mobile devices.

Sol decided to go ahead because time was ticking. She sat on the Eames chair that decorated the room next to the sofa where Richard sat. The room had a California Modern vibe disturbed only by the director's rumpled bright green hoodie and neon yellow boardshorts. She placed her digital recorder and her cell phone, which was also recording, on her lap and started her interview the same way she'd done it so many times.

"Thanks for taking the time and talking to me," she said, a smile plastered on her face. She took notes of everything she observed while still keeping eye contact with the interviewee. It wasn't an easy task, but one she'd mastered after years of making the Hollywood rounds.

"It's not like I had too much of an option," the director grunted more than said, his mouth full of quinoa.

Sol giggled timidly, sure he was being funny. Another look at the publicists gave her nothing; they were even more enthralled by whatever was on their phones. For all Sol knew, they were messaging one another and commenting on her bad interview start.

"Do you like the promotional portion of making a movie?" Sol asked, trying to ask the director something mildly original that could still fit what Conceit Fair was going for.

"It's the numb, soulless act of trying to charm the likes of you," he said. Sol couldn't help but feel a bit slighted by the comment.

One last try to be nice .

"I understand we can be a bit repetitive sometimes in our formulation of questions, but I tend to ask what readers tell me they want to know," she said, only slightly defensive. "And in this case, they want to know what made you return to such an iconic franchise."

She'd managed to say iconic without laughing out loud and maintained her smile while waiting for Richard's answer.

"Why?" Richard muttered, attacking a fried chicken thigh.

"I'm sorry?" Sol was starting to sweat nervously. There would likely be no way of reconducting the interview. How much time had already gone?

" Why do the fans care about my return?"

"Perhaps you could answer that for me." She was really trying. These things were only this difficult if you had to find a way of asking a celebrity one last question about their parenting style or dating advice but never this early on and if no probing questions had yet been asked. There had been zero possibility that she'd offended him already. "Why do you think the Revengers franchise has been so popular over the years?"

"Fuck if I know!" Richard said. "Aren't you supposed to be the entertainment writer? You people are the ones who over-analyze every single frame of my oeuvre, not me!"

"Let's talk about your oeuvre then," said Sol, pronouncing the word the French way instead of the American way that Richard had used (and she'd always disliked). If he wanted to be difficult, she could be a total snob. "You first started in this industry as a producer working alongside director Mark Green. How did his directorial style inform yours?"

"It didn't," Richard replied curtly. Sol knew she shouldn't have gone there, considering how they hadn't parted on good terms. But she couldn't avoid it. Richard was being such a pain. "I stopped working with him ages ago."

"Why? You made several very successful films?—"

Richard didn't let Sol finish her sentence, and for once she didn't have to fight an answer out of him. "We were in different stages of life. Mark had gotten married and had a child, and families are such a drag!" Sol remembered that Richard had been married and divorced five times himself, but her own two ended marriages didn't permit her to judge him even if she was feeling inclined to. "All families are a nuisance, but Mark's especially."

"You definitely made a name for yourself with the first Revengers ," Sol said, changing subjects and hoping her fakeness wouldn't show too much. She couldn't believe she'd found the energy to say another good thing about a director whose filmography she didn't care about and who was behaving like a total cretin. "How has the franchise defined you?"

"It hasn't," he said. Sol should have asked something different, but at least Richard kept talking. " I was the one who defined the careers of the cast. They were unknowns, but I saw their potential."

She should have taken the bait and gone with that and kept asking about the Revengers ' original cast. Even if not a single one had returned to the franchise, regardless of the promise in its title. They had all moved on from action and sci-fi, devoting themselves to serious historical dramas since then. They now amassed eight Oscars, thirteen Emmys, and even a couple of Tonys between the four of them.

But Sol's editor wanted the piece to center around its tech aspects. Fionna had also mentioned they would prefer not to mention the original cast if possible. Apparently, at least two of the actors had slighted the magazine recently, declining to talk to their journalists. So Sol tried broaching the tech subject now that Richard seemed to have warmed up a bit.

"It's been thirteen years since Revengers Reunite. The fans and the critics had safely assumed the franchise was done. But you've just gone back to it. Did VFX technology pave the way this time?"

"No," he replied.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not really."

"Okay. What you would like me to ask you about the movie?" She tried to sound conciliatory. And that was her last resort question. "What do you want to say about Revengers Reunite Redo ?"

"I've been babbling about the damn movie all morning already!"

Sol tried not to look too directly at him as he disgustingly ingested another chicken thigh. His second or third during their chat.

"You haven't been babbling about it to me," she said, attempting to smile but not managing it.

"What do I care!" He stood up. "Ask one of the others for a recording of their interview. I'm sure you'll all write the same crap!"

And with that, he exited the room. A piece of fried chicken was still in his hand, and half a dozen publicists were still very much buried in their mobile devices.

Sol was deciding which one of the deeply engaged-with-their-smartphones publicists to approach when a new PR professional, whom she recognized from past press events and who exuded bossiness, entered the room. Her eyes were also fixed on her own oversized phone while she wrote what could only be an urgent email or other. The publicist approached Sol, still clutching her device, but stopped giving it her whole attention momentarily.

"Richard has been a bit grumpy today," she whispered.

"Grumpy?" Sol asked in disbelief.

"It's his blood sugar," the publicist continued in her secretive tone as if she was making Sol privy to some sort of valuable and exclusive information. "He participated in an online global press conference this morning, and we'll make sure to get you those answers. He was very cooperative then."

"What do you mean by an online global press conference?" asked Sol. It had just dawned on her that the piece Conceit Fair had commissioned would be pretty much impossible to write with the material she had.

"He answered questions from journalists all over the world via a chat platform," the publicist explained.

"Meaning there's no video of him replying to those questions." Sol shook her head. "How do I know he typed the answers and not one of the people on your team?"

"Sol, we would never." The publicist sounded almost offended.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry." Sol really wasn't sorry. She had to ask because it was the kind of question her editor would ask her. "But he was being completely obtuse with me."

"The team told me," the publicist said, acknowledging the half a dozen people behind her. None of them lifted their eyes from their screens.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but would it be possible to talk to him again?" Sol asked. "After he does a quick media training crash course reminder…"

The publicist laughed, but Sol wasn't joking.

"We can try, but he's said he's done for the day. There were ten other journalists waiting to interview him today and it doesn't look like it's gonna happen."

"Does he realize that, now that the movie is done, he needs to sell it?" Sol asked frustratedly.

"Part of the problem is that the movie is technically not done ," the publicist said. It had to have been a very bad press day when a publicist was being so candid to a member of the press. "They're still working on the effects, and Richard is nervous."

"I don't want to be difficult. You know me, I'm the opposite of difficult," Sol told the publicist. "But I don't know what we'll be able to publish with this!"

"I know, I promise to get you that online press conference." She exited the room with the gang of phone typers in tow, leaving Sol inside the now empty suite.

She gathered her stuff. The only thing left for her to do was to also leave. Not even getting into the same elevator as Sam Worthington or George Lucas, or running into Helena Bonham Carter or Christian Bale at the valet parking—all things that had happened to Sol at some point in her career in that one particular hotel—would make up for the horrible day and worst interview she'd ever had.

She decided not to dwell too much on the improbability of something nice happening that day, or she'd interpret it as a metaphor for the somber prospects of her career.