Free The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett Page A

tunes.″
    ″′That′s an idea,″ Ruskin replied, looking at Samantha with a surprised respect in his eyes.
    She went on: ″Why not turn the jester into a loony pop singer—a kind of Keith Moon character?″
    Joe interjected: ″Willy, that′s a drummer with a British pop group—″
    ″Yeah, I know,″ Ruskin said. ″I like this idea. I′m going to get to work on it right away.″
    ″Not so fast,″ Samantha said. ″That′s a detail. There′s a much more serious problem with the film for me. It′s a good comedy. Period.″
    ″I′m sorry—why is that a problem?″ Ruskin said. ″I′m not following you.″
    ″Me neither, Sammy,″ Joe put in.
    Samantha frowned. ″I′m afraid the thought isn′t all that clear in my own mind, either. It′s just that the film doesn′t say anything. It′s got no point to make, nothing to teach anyone, no fresh view of life—you know the sort of thing.″
    ″Well, there is the thought that a woman can pose as a man and do a man′s job successfully,″ Ruskin offered.
    ″That may have been subversive in the sixteenth century, but not anymore.″
    ″And it has a relaxed kind of attitude to homosexuality which might be thought educational.″
    ″No, it doesn′t,″ Samantha said forcefully. ″Even television allows jokes about homosexuals nowadays.″
    Ruskin looked a little resentful. ″To be candid, I don′t see how the kind of thing you′re looking for could be written into a basic commercial comedy like this.″ He lit another cigarette.
    Joe looked pained. ″Sammy baby, this is a comedy. It′s meant to make people laugh. And you want to do a comedy, don′t you?″
    ″Yes.″ Samantha looked at Ruskin. ″I′m sorry to be so down on your script. Let me think about it a little longer, will you?″
    Joe said: ″Yeah, give us a few days, okay, Willy? You know I want Sammy to do it.″
    ʺSure,ʺ Ruskin said. ″There′s nobody better than Miss Winacre for the part of Viola. But, you know, I have a good script and I want to get a film off the ground. I′ll have to start looking around for alternatives soon.″
    ″I′ll tell you what, why don′t we talk again in a week?″ Joe said.
    ″Fine.″
    Samantha said: ″Joe, there are some other things I want to talk to you about.″
    Ruskin got up. ″Thank you for your time, Miss Winacre.″
    When he had left Joe relit his cigar. ″Can you understand how I might feel pretty frustrated about this, Sammy?″
    ″Yes, I can.″
    ″I mean, good scripts are few and far between. To make life harder, you ask me to find you a comedy. Not just any comedy, but a modem one which will bring in the kids. I find one, with a beautiful part for you, and you complain it doesn′t have a message.″
    She got up and went to the window, looking down upon the narrow Soho street. A van was parked, blocking the road and causing a traffic jam. A driver had got out and was abusing the van driver, who ignored the imprecations and went about delivering boxes of paper to an office.
    ″Don′t talk as if a message is something you only get in avant-garde off-Broadway plays,″ she said. ″A film can have something to say and still be a commercial success.″
    ″Not often,″ Joe said.
    ″Who′s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.?, In the Heat of the Night, The Detective, Last Tango in Paris.″
    ″None of them made as much money as The Sting.″
    Samantha turned away from the window with an impatient jerk of her head. ″Who the hell cares? They were good films, and worth making.″
    ″I′ll tell you who cares, Sammy. The producers, the writers, the cameramen, the second unit production team, the cinema owners, the usherettes, and the distributors.″
    ″Yeah,″ she said wearily. She came back to her chair and slumped in it. ″Will you get the lawyer to do something for me, Joe? I want a form of agreement drawn up. There′s a girl working for me as a maid. I′m going to put her through college. The contract should say that I will