Page 59 of Pick-Up
Stephanie volunteers to set off with his staff—mainly Michael—and try to rouse him. Forty-five minutes later, once we are officially behind for the day, Stephanie and Martin pull up in a golf cart together with matching nauseated expressions.
The dust outside literally settles.
“It’s that last glass of wine that gets you,” Stephanie is saying to me, as the makeup artist begins prepping Martin. “It’s always that last glass of wine.”
We need to get Martin ready quickly. Charlie keeps checking his watch and looking at the sky out the windowed doors. His assistant, a local from Provo—the most bustling of the Turks and Caicos islands—keeps checking and rechecking the setup. But Martin is in no mood. He growls at everyone who approaches. The makeup artist, who is on staff at the hotel spa, is barely holding back tears.
“What’s wrong with you?!” I hear Martin yelp; we all hear him. “I look like a two-bit hooker!” I think he meanssex worker.
Normally, we handle photography first, as the main event, then capture the behind-the-scenes video footage as unobtrusively as possible during and afterward, but Charlie, Peter and I huddle up and decide to reverse the order and try to get Martin warmed up first. Maybe he’ll be more amenable after his coffee has had time to work its magic.
Once I’ve talked the makeup artist down from the brink of quitting, Peter asks permission to mic Martin and begins tossing him softball questions for starters.
“Had you spent time in Turks and Caicos before finding this spot?”
“Why build this here and not closer to LA, in Hawaii or Mexico, for example?”
The legendary star of the silver screen is not having it. Armedwith more formal questions that Stephanie has created for us, everyone tries to no avail. Everyone. Even Ethan. Martin won’t budge. He is noncompliant. A toddler gone limp in his mother’s arms.
By design, I am last up. I am our clutch hitter. Sure, I’m a seasoned producer. But, more important, I have weathered two small children by myself, even during the lost Elmo debacle of 2021. There is no irrational baby I can’t lull.
I pull an Eames-style chair up in front of the man, who is still wearing his sunglasses. He folds his hairy arms over his giant chest. He looks like an obstinate tree stump.
“Martin, hi. Howareyou?”
He sniffs at me. “I didn’t realize you cared. You’ve left me to all these amateurs! Aren’t you supposed to be running the show?”
“I apologize, Martin.” I frown sympathetically. “Of course, you deserve the very best and also my personal focus. I’ve been making sure the shoot itself runs smoothly. But I’m here, with you, now.”
He huffs, but I can see his shoulders relax as I explain that we’re basically getting behind-the-scenes footage and want him to be the star. “No one knows this property, this place, like you do,” I say. “No one can talk about it with the same depth of understanding and evocative language.”
I basically throw up in my mouth as I say this, but it’s part of the job when dealing with difficult talent. I am equal parts organizer and mediator.
“Well, that’s true,” he harrumphs. “But I’m not going to describe it to some Neanderthal cameraman!”
Peter went to Vassar. He is definitely not a Neanderthal.
“I understand,” I say. “It’s you and me now.”
He raises an overgrown eyebrow at that. Tilts his head to one side and narrows his gaze. “Alone at last.”
I fear this is hiscome hitherlook. And I am not going anywhere near hither.
Surreptitiously, I signal to Peter to start filming. He signals everyone else to go quiet.
“Martin,” I say, “as such an iconic actor, you’ve no doubt had the opportunity to visit incredible places all over the world. What drew you here, in particular, and inspired you to create this unique property? When you first saw the island, what did you think?”
“I didn’t think,” he snaps. “That’s entirely the point. Ifelt. I believe in that above all else—trusting how something feels. As it enters your body.”
The way he is petting the arm of his chair is more than a little disturbing. He reminds me of a cartoon supervillain. Which he kind of is. A megalomaniac with nefarious intentions.
“Of course, a deserted island is a kind of trope or… afantasy,” I continue, cringing as soon as I use the word. I have played into his trap. I see him react, eyebrows raised, but I soldier on. “In your mind, what makes this particular island unique?”
“This island is truly… virginal,” he purrs. I think he’s going to say more about the privilege of deflowering something untouched, but he has said his piece. Thank God.
Our interview goes on like that. Revolting innuendos woven throughout. My hope is that, edited and without context, his words will be usable.
At the end, I throw him a final easy question about the locals, a chance to talk up the property’s green initiatives and collaborations with makers collectives. “I know you and your team of designers and architects have put a lot of thought into protecting the environment here and indigenous species like the charcoal lizard. Not only is this property sustainable, but it’s LEED certified. Why was the environmental element important to you? What about the culture here? How are you involving the locals?”
