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  "As bald as he is, that's the only place he can grow hair."

  "Those blue suede shoes don't do anything for him, either. The next thing you know, he'll be taking guitar lessons."

  "And boring us with concerts instead of lectures."

  "Or making us read that book he's writing."

  * * *

  THE CORRUPTION OF A LEGEND Chapter Six The crucial demarcation in Elvis's career occurred in 1958 when he was drafted by the United States military and sent to Germany. To paraphrase a lyric from one of his best-known songs, that's when the downfall begins. The episode is rife with implications. Politically, the government has proven itself stronger than the rebel. Sexually, the sheering of Presley's magnificent ducktail-style hair symbolizes society's disapproval and conquest of his virility: a metaphorical emasculation. Two years of military indoctrination have their effect. Elvis's long-awaited return to society is shocking. The constant sneer with which he signaled to his young audience his disdain for authority has been replaced by an eager-to-please grin. His "Yes, sir, no, sir" manner earlier had the hidden insolent tone of a black servant who is hypocritically polite to his white employers, but now Elvis seems genuinely determined to suck up to the Establishment. Even his newly grown hair appears flaccid. If we discount the regional Southern hits that Elvis had from 1954 to 1956, it is clear that his astonishing career remained pure for only two years, for 14 rebellious, million-selling records from 1956 to 1958. After the military interruption, the hits continued, but the self-mocking "My Way" is afar cry from the innocence of "Hound Dog."

  * * *

  "He did it his way, all right. He became a tool of the Establishment." "Fred."

  "The Jordinaires were shunted aside. Instead of a small, rhythm-and-blues section, he now had the equivalent of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir."

  "Fred."

  "The songs lost all pretense of substance. That wretched remake of 'O, Solo Mio,' for example, which was called 'It's Now Or Never,' sounded so Muzak-sweet it's a wonder his audience didn't die from sugar shock."

  "Fred, you haven't shut up since we started dinner. It's been forty minutes. I'm sick of hearing you talk about Elvis. In fact, I'm sick of hearing you, period. I'm certain the Robinsons would like a chance to get a word in."

  "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I must have gotten carried away. Good gracious. What was I thinking? By the way, Mrs. Robinson, did you know that your husband Peter here is fucking my wife?"

  * * *

  "Thirty-three wretched movies."

  ("Word is our prof is getting a divorce.")

  "Each more insipid than the previous ones. Increasingly, their only theme seems to be that its audience should take a vacation at Las Vegas, Fort Lauderdale, Acapulco, Hawaii, or wherever the film is set, as if Elvis has become a travel agent or a chamber of commerce booster."

  ("Maybe his wife isn't an Elvis fan.")

  "Las Vegas. That symbol of excess becomes synonymous with the decay within Elvis. His anti-Establishment zoot-suit appearance in the mid-fifties changes to a parody of bikers' leather after his return from the military and finally to sequined suits with capes that rival Liberace for ostentation. When Elvis reappears on television in 1968, he looks like the Vegas act that he'll soon become."

  ("I hear the Today show is coming to do a story about him.")

  "Nine years later, he'll die on the toilet."

  * * *

  "Professor Hopkins, what made you think that Elvis would be a proper subject for a university course?"

  "If you look closely at him, he represents America."

  "What, professor? I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  "Bryant, I.. .Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, the remote transmission is coming through clearly."

  " Bryant, you take a boy who was raised to sing Gospel music at his Pentecostal church, a boy who worshiped his mother, a boy who from all accounts ought to have blended with the Establishment but who instead chose to fight the Establishment. He was only nineteen when he made his first recording for Sam Phillips in Memphis, and it's hard to imagine that someone so young could have been such a significant force in cultural change. By making black music popular, he promoted racial understanding and was easily as important in the Civil Rights movement as Martin Luther King, Jr."

  "Professor Hopkins."

  "In terms of the sexual revolution, he - "

  "Professor Hopkins, your remark about Elvis, the Civil Rights movement, and Martin Luther King, Jr. Don't you think that's somewhat overstated?"

  "Nothing

  about Elvis can be overstated. For a brief moment in the middle of this century, he changed this century." "Professor Hopkins."

  "But the messenger became the victim. Society fought back. Society defeated him. Just as Elvis symbolized the rebel, so he eventually symbolized the vindictiveness and viciousness of American society. When he died on the toilet, a drug addict, a glutton, bloated, wearing diapers, he delivered his final message by showing how destructive capitalism is."

  "Professor Hopkins."

  "In effect, he'd already been dead a long while, and Graceland, that garish monument to decadence, was the mausoleum for his walking corpse."

  "Professor Hopkins, I'm afraid we're almost out of time."

  "I wore this sequined suit and cape today because in Elvis's perverted image there must be retribution. You see this revolver."

  "For God's sake, Professor.

  "One of the most publicized events in Elvis's life is the incident in which he shot the picture tube of a television set. Form without substance. Even in his drug-demented stupor, he knew that television was his enemy, just as television is the enemy, the manipulator and destroyer of the American people and proper values. In Elvis's name - "

  * * *

  " _ shot the lens on the television camera being used for the remote broadcast of the Today show, shot and killed the remote segment's producer, shot several students whom he'd brought to the interview as representative of the other students in his course, went to the English department office and shot his chairman, went to the university administration building and shot his dean, went to his former home and shot his estranged wife along with a friend, Peter Robinson, who was visiting her, and finally went to a downtown record store where he clutched an armful of Elvis CDs, put his pistol to his head, shouted 'Where's the booth? Never been so happy! Long live rock and roll!' and blew his brains out. A note in his sequined suit coat pocket said simply, 'All shook up.' Officials continue to investigate one of the worst mass murders to take place at an American university. This has been an NBC News update."

  * * *

  Due to its live coverage of what have been called the Elvis murders, the Today show last week received its highest ratings in two years. A TV movie has been announced.

  Later in this book, you'll read about the negative side of the film and television industry. In contrast, the background to the script for "Habitat" was my most positive "Hollywood" experience. I put "Hollywood" in quotes because the company that produced this script was in fact located in New York City, just down the street from the flatiron Building. The company's name was Laurel Entertainment. Its two main executives were Richard Rubenstein and Mitchell Galin, and their two main products (apart from occasional films such as Stephen King's Creepshow) were the fantasy and horror TV programs, Tales from the Darkside and Monsters. During the late 1980s, fans of Twilight Zone type stories made these half-hour series popular on late-night syndicated TV. Periodically, Richard and Mitchell asked me to write a script for Monsters, but I had trouble complying because I couldn't imagine a story that would fit the show's strictly controlled budgetary requirement of very few characters and sets. Meanwhile, they'd hired me to do a screen adaptation of Michael Palmer's medical thriller, The Sisterhood. As so often happens in the film business, the project never got further than the development stage, but in the process, Richard and Mitchell showed me remarkable courtesy. I'd been on the road for several weeks, promoting a ne
w novel. When I returned home, exhausted, I received a call from them, suggesting various dates when we could get together to discuss revisions on the script. The way this normally works, the writer (being low in the food chain) goes to the producers. Always. But when Richard and Mitchell realized how tired I was, they immediately proposed that they would fly to Iowa City (where I then lived) to have the script discussions at my home, find they actually did. I can't tell you how floored I was and how impressed I was by these two gentlemen as we sat on my back porch, tweaking the script. In 1989,1 finally had an idea that I thought would work for the limited budget of Monsters. If a few characters were good, a solitary character would be better, I decided. To my surprise, the script was in production two months after I submitted it. The actress Lili Taylor (Six Feet Under) portrayed Jamie Neal.

  Habitat

  FADE IN:

  INT. CONTROL ROOM - DAY

  We open with a large vivid image of a moonscape: barren weathered mountains, waterless river beds, forbidding crevasses and canyons, rocky, gray, and dismal. We might be fooled for a moment but quickly realize that this is not the real thing, instead a huge mural. We hear a persistent electronic BEEP. As we PAN DOWN from the image of the bleak terrain, we see a model of a lunar habitat, domed, with arched corridors that lead to other buildings. The model is on a metal table. Along with the mural, it gives us the impression we're in a complex on the moon.

  Lingering on the model of the habitat, we hear a further sound. It's out of place, surprising, A GUITAR BEING TUNED, and abruptly the guitar begins STRUMMING. A WOMAN'S LILTING VOICE begins singing a folk song about oceans and forests and how the earth and the sky belong to you and me.

  We PAN AWAY from the habitat and discover that we're in a control room with electronic consoles and glowing lights on monitors. The BEEP we first heard is like a metronome that supplies the beat for the guitar and the woman's song.

  We TRACK PAST the consoles and STOP on the SINGER. A woman, late twenties, wearing jeans and a Lakers sweatshirt, her hair in a ponytail. She's lithe and lovely, leaning back on a metal chair with her bare feet on a counter next to a console. Her name is JAMIE NEAL. She reminds us of a cheerleader grown up to be a graduate student in a college dorm.

  Her eyes are closed. In a world of her own, she continues strumming, singing, her voice muted, tinged with melancholy. "Yes, the earth and the sky belong to us all."

  Midway through a poignant line about a fertile majestic land, she hesitates, her strum becoming irregular. Her voice drops. Relentless, the electronic BEEP persists.

  Jamie sighs, lowers the guitar, opens her eyes, and scans the control room.

  Perhaps she expected the song to transport her magically to the glorious landscapes she sang about. If so, the spell didn't work. Despondent, she sets the guitar next to a monitor, rises sadly from the chair, and approaches the mural of the moon. The barren mountains and canyons look even more forbidding. She studies the model of the habitat, then squints toward the electronic equipment around her, tense, as if she's in prison.

  With a sigh, she raises her head, musters her thoughts, and starts talking. But as we've seen, there's no one else in the room. The initial effect is puzzling, disorienting.

  JAMIE

  I don't know if I'm supposed to say this... I mean, for all I know, this isn't what you want to hear...if you're listening.

  The electronic BEEP continues. She cocks her head, frowning.

  JAMIE

  I wish you'd turn that...

  (she gestures in frustration)

  noise off. You can't imagine how...

  (she gestures again)

  annoying it is.

  (she exhales)

  If you're listening.

  She pivots from the model and approaches a computer.

  JAMIE

  But of course you're listening. You hear every breath I take. My heartbeat. The alpha waves in my brain. The sounds I make when I need to relieve my...

  (she hugs her chest, embarrassed)

  Do I snore?

  (her eyes become bitter)

  I had a fiancee once. Good old what's-his-name. He wanted a corporate wife. Translation: he wanted me to be obedient. To conform. Wear the right clothes. Say the right things. Advance his career. He said I was too independent. I always suspected he broke the engagement

  (chuckles)

  because I snored. Even asleep, I had to conform. I couldn't ever let my guard down.

  (stares at the ceiling)

  So do I? Snore?

  All we hear is the BEEP.

  JAMIE

  Come on!

  (she glares)

  You can tell me!

  (she looks all around her)

  You know me better than he ever did. You and I, we're closer than Yin and Yang!...ice cream and peanuts!... Laurel and Hardy!...closer than my mother and father ever were! So tell me! Do I snore?

  The BEEP continues.

  But the room seems terribly silent.

  She hugs her arms again.

  JAMIE

  Just talk to me.

  BEEP.

  JAMIE

  Look, I know we agreed. But...

  Unclasping her arms, she lowers a hand to her guitar and STRUMS it.

  JAMIE

  (teasing)

  Just once? Just one word? Just "hello"? Just to let me know you're out there?

  She smiles her best smile. No answer. The BEEP persists.

  She sags against a console.

  JAMIE

  Okay, so we made a bargain. No contact. No...

  (a frustrated gesture)

  communication...

  (a fatalistic shrug)

  which reminds me of whatever his name was. I hope the ceramic doll he married divorces him because...

  (a grin)

  the secret I never told him was that he snored.

  BEEP. She stares at the floor.

  JAMIE

  Just one "hello"?

  She turns and frowns toward...

  A section of wall that's recessed. There's a glowing box above it. And a door.

  JAMIE

  See, I'm...

  (trembles)

  a little...

  (clutches her arms)

  after all this time...

  (shuts her eyes)

  scared.

  She frowns harder toward the door.

  JAMIE

  Does that mean I failed? Lord, I hope so. Please stop this. Please say "hello" and... Please unseal the hatch. Please let me out.

  BEEP.

  JAMIE

  "The forests are my land. The rivers are..." No. They're not anybody's. Except...Whatever's in...Please don't make me do it again. Don't make me go in there. I know I agreed. I signed your damned contract. Nine months in here in exchange for...

  (flinches)

  But all the money you promised doesn't matter now. Keep it! Just say "hello." Then tell me I don't have to go in there again! I'm not...

  (trembling)

  alone. Can't you talk to me? Can't we discuss what's happening to me? Don't you understand? I don't care about the money anymore. I want out!

  She spins toward the mural of the moon. Glaring, she grabs the model of the habitat and throws it across the room. Its glass and metal SHATTER.

  JAMIE

  Home! I want to go home! I want to see people! Breathe fresh air again! Eat chocolate cake! Walk barefoot in grass! Smile at the stars! I want to be...

  Her shoulders sag. In despair, she rubs her forehead.

  JAMIE

  Free.

  She gazes up, hoping.

  No response.

  BEEP.

  JAMIE

  (her voice drops)

  Free.

  She stoops to pick up sections of the model she destroyed.

  JAMIE

  I never understood what that meant before.

  Suddenly animated, she crushes the remnants of the model and hurls them away. They CRASH against the consoles.


  JAMIE

  (angry)

  But you won't release me from our contract, will you? This is what you wanted, isn't it? To watch me fall apart!

  (paces)

  You think you're so clever?

  No way! What you don't realize is you made a mistake! You didn't tell me it would be here with me! (gestures in fury toward the door)

  Full disclosure. Ever heard of it? You didn't tell me everything. You held back crucial information! And one thing I learned from my fiancee, whatever his name was, is a contract demands good faith.

  (another furious gesture toward the door)

  And that thing in there is definitely not good faith. What kind of monsters are you? Let me out of here!

  Jamie storms toward a bare wall, the only one in the room, and pounds on it in desperation.

  JAMIE

  Null and void! You hear me! The contract's... I want to be free!

  Abruptly a SIREN WAILS. Jamie flinches and covers her ears. THE SIREN KEEPS SHRIEKING.

  JAMIE

  No! Please! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!

  THE SIREN PERSISTS. Beneath it, the BEEP continues.

  Jamie sinks to her knees, still clutching her ears.

  JAMIE

  I'm sorry! Don't! Please, stop the...!

  (cringing from the SIREN'S WAIL)

  I'll do it! Yes! Whatever you want! Whatever I promised! If only...! Stop the...! Forget what I said!

  (tears trickle)

  I'll keep my word! I'll obey the contract! Whatever you want...!

  (she shudders, in pain)

  I'll do it!

  THE SIREN BEGINS TO DIMINISH, ITS WAIL LESS TORTURING.

  Jamie eases her hands from her ears, testing the threat.

  As THE WAIL BECOMES FAINTER, she shudders again and slowly relaxes.

  JAMIE

  Thank you. I will. I'll do it.

  (presses her hands together, as if in prayer)

  Thank you. Thank you.

  Wiping tears from her eyes, she struggles to stand. Unsteady, she again surveys the control room.

  The siren has finally stopped, but the BEEP continues.

  JAMIE

  (as if hypnotized, to the rhythm of the beep)