Free What Movies Made Me Do by Susan Braudy Page A

be made the way I dreamed. Sam is a genius but he throws blood all over his lens. He’s a serious Catholic and he always hated my idea of Jesus as the sensitive Jewish radical.
    Out on the cold street he waved to his limousine to follow us and pushed past tourists carrying shopping bags and gaping at Tiffany’s stone façade. I said calmly, “What a shame.”
    Michael checked out a man’s Italian kidskin briefcase. He intoned, “I’m sorry you’re a weak administrator. Now I got to save the day, and get that picture finished on schedule.”
    I waited until his head swiveled back from the briefcase. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry you’re going to miss that fancy dinner at the Waldorf. Who’s going to pick up your humanitarian-of-the-year award?” I tried to sound mournful.
    I stopped in the middle of a crowd waiting patiently for the red light on Fifth Avenue. Michael turned, his eyes flashingat me. When the light changed, the crowd surged forward, but Michael waited, fingering the knot of his navy-blue silk tie. I shivered and tried to look nonchalant. He had been bragging for months about the award dinner. I had heard him say “five hundred dollars a plate” about eighty times.
    We crossed Fifth Avenue shoulder to shoulder, each of us silently building bombs. Michael stopped to watch three giggling fashion models with short pageboys, long fur coats, and huge slim portfolios under their arms. At Bergdorf’s I cleared my throat. “I’d volunteer to deliver the bad news, but—”
    “But what?”
    “I’m pretty shook up,” I said tremulously.
    He was chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s your job,” he snapped. “Clean up the mess you made.”
    I felt an explosion in my brain. I wanted to jump up and click my heels. “Oh, God, no,” I said. I dabbed at my dry eyes under my sunglasses.
    “It’s your duty,” he said, slowing down to look inside Bergdorf’s. He squared his shoulders. Michael was exactly my height. He looked depressed. “You tricked Jack into the package, you went out on a limb, now you take a plane and prepare her so I can fire her, I don’t need her hysteria.”
    I had a flash of pure joy. I would go to Israel, ignore his orders, and make Anita behave. “I’ll dictate a couple things to tell her.” His voice was high-pitched. “She destroyed the morale on the set. I hear she was screwing Jack.”
    “She’s a professional.” My whole face twitched. I had trouble maintaining my composure just thinking about the two of them together.
    “Professionals fuck,” said Michael.
    “Not on company time,” I said, watching him step into the middle of the busy street, raising his arm to flag his car in a Hitler-like salute.
    Twenty minutes later Michael Finley rushed for the bathroomwhile I sat on my coat and sipped warm club soda from a room-service cart in his living room at the Carlyle. An overeager decorator had color-coordinated all the moldings around the windows to match the black-and-beige Coromandel screen that stretched behind the black couch.
    “Call down to room service for three cold glasses and a bottle of Moët,” Michael yelled out from the john. That meant a big meeting.
    I pressed the phone buttons, my mind counting the hours before I had to jump on a plane. My favorite old loose dungarees needed washing, but I’d wear them anyway. They’re my travel uniform. I’d take my own pillow, a trick I got from reading Margaret Mead’s memoir.
    The door chimes rang and Michael Finley rushed out to answer, drying his face on a white towel. I heard the door unbolting. “Howyadoin’, Sammy?”
    Sam. I felt something melting between my heart and my stomach. Then Sam Falco stood poised in a huge down coat at the entrance to the living room. I had a flood of feelings. It was great to see his shining blond beard, the huge smile glowing over his face as he unbuttoned his big coat.
    “How’s it going?” He covered the living room in several huge strides and enveloped me in a