Giovanni Volpi

My favorite time of year in Venice is January when it is grey and cool and relatively empty. I have been going there for years, usually timed to my attendance at the Gran Premio d'Italia at Monza. But when I can, I prefer to visit in quieter times when I can engage in chance encounters and off-the-record conversations with people who can afford to tell me the truth because I am a complete stranger.

When I first heard the name Volpi, it was associated with a racing endeavor and a unique example of a Ferrari that had been made over by the designer of the most famous racing Ferrari ever. At Volpi's request, the designer went Ferrari one better. The creation would become known as the Breadvan, which was owned for several years by a close friend of mine.

The next time Volpi's name reached my ears was from Tony Ford of the William Morris Agency in Beverly Hills. His off-hand comment was that they hold the Venice Film Festival in his (Volpi's) house; grandiloquent paraphrasing, I think you'll agree.

More recently, I read John Berendt's The City of Falling Angels, which I'd hoped would go on forever. Volpi made an appearance. He appeared again later in the book making a gesture that usually only happens in fiction.

Perhaps I like Venice in the cool of January because I've spent too much time in the desert making movies in one hundred twenty degree heat. Perhaps it's because I might, God willing, run into Volpi and enjoy what would promise to be a grown-up discussion of the world and my favorite city.

It is also possible that my thoughts are going in this direction having heard a message from Désespérée on the hotel voicemail. She has hooked up with a Nigerian funk band and wants my help to launch them in the States--something my post-Bop frame of mind precludes on general principles.

Patek Philippe

"Who's this?" asked the voice on the other end of the line after the phone rang in my (junior) suite.

"I am the gentleman who answered your call this end. Who may I say is calling?"

"I need to speak to Ray Shosay," he said, ignoring my question.

"Then you have succeeded beyond all expectation."

"What?"

"Who are you and why are you calling?"

"Who am I? I'm a fact checker for an entertainment journalist."

"My dear fellow, it is well established that journalists never check facts and the existence of entertainment journalists has yet to be proven out."

"What?"

"Your credibility is lacking," I told him.

"I'm a fact checker for an entertainment journalist," he repeated, returning to what he considered to be solid ground.

"I think there's an echo on this line. Could you please hang up and try again?"

I disconnected the line and turned my attention back to the representative from the Patek Philippe Salons at Place Vendôme who had come to deliver my new 5004J chronograph and to explain in detail its many complications, which include rattrapante split seconds and moon phase functions. He, it goes without saying, knew how to introduce himself when he rang my room from the lobby.

The Spielberg Ending

I just got off the phone with The Chad and I'm exhausted. He was giving me his notes on a screenplay I recently turned in and they were as extensive in their detail as they were shallow in their understanding of the writing process.

The story is about a young man who recently signed with the agency and is in urgent need of a vehicle to rehabilitate his image now encumbered by public antipathy resulting from a number of his shenanigans, some of which had Class 3 Felony overtones. Since I am being packaged along with this extraordinary example of humankind in the project as it is presented to the studio, I am now in the same boat as he.

Without going into detail, The Chad managed to cite the titles of no less than thirty-five films from which he expects me to insinuate plot elements, character devices and, in one instance, the entire second act. He also insisted I create a Spielberg Ending for the story. He was shocked to find that I'd never heard of such a device; perhaps pleased as well, for he'll no doubt use it against me at some crucial point in the future.

"A Spielberg Ending," he explained to the Babe-in-the-Woods he takes me to be, "is where you keep on filming about forty minutes into the sequel instead of ending off at the close of the third act."

"You mean like he did in Artificial Intelligence?"

This caught The Chad off guard. He muttered an affirmative and continued with his discourse. "The audience needs to yearn for the ending, but you can't give it to them too soon. You have to keep going until their tolerance has been stretched to the absolute limit."

"Why?" I asked.

"So you'll get applause over the end credit roll," he said, once again certain of his superiority. "They'll be so jazzed about being released from the theater they'll erupt in spontaneous applause."

"Why don't they just walk out when they've had enough. That's what I do."

At that point, The Chad lost the cell signal as he descended into Beverly Glen. Or maybe he just hung up on me.