Sex and Violence in Hollywood Read Online Free Page A

thought Mrs. Brandis was the homosexual. Greta Brandis was a stocky woman—not fat, but thick and solid—who never, ever wore dresses or skirts. Adam had never seen her in anything that could not be worn by a man without anyone knowing the difference. She kept her hair cut very short, and, depending on her mood, she sometimes had it buzzed. She was a photographer and her subjects ranged from celebrities to wild exotic animals in remote jungles. She had a loud, deep voice and a laugh that sounded like someone torturing a goat.
    Mr. Brandis, on the other hand, was tall and slender, and while not overtly macho, there was definitely a manliness about him. He loved sports, did a lot of off-road driving and mountain climbing, and bore a strong resemblance to a somewhat younger Burt Reynolds, but with real hair. He was a very popular production designer who had worked on some of the biggest movies of the last two decades, and had been nominated for two Academy Awards, neither of which he had won.
    Ms. Kindler-Brandis—the name sounded to Adam like a pricey daycare center—had accepted her husband’s announcement with surprising grace. They divorced, but remained close friends and occasional roommates. Ms. Kindler-Brandis maintained their Beverly Hills home as her “base camp,” as she called it, and showed up for a couple weeks two or three times a year. The arrangement suited Devin, who was a fan of Greta’s work. He once had told Adam he thought she was “a divine adventurer, like Indiana Jones with a uterus.”
    Carter was not in his bedroom, so Adam went up to the attic, which everyone in the Brandis household referred to as Carter’s “studio.” Adam could hear Marilyn Manson playing loudly overhead.
    The attic had served as a darkroom for Carter’s mother. Since the divorce, she had used it less and less, until she finally rented a studio in Westwood. The attic had been empty ever since, until two summers ago.
    Since Adam had entered high school, his father had been trying to interest him in one aspect or another of the movie business as a profession. The one constant was screenwriting, which he had pushed relentlessly since Adam was old enough to understand what he was saying. But every few months, he would come up with something else. One evening, he had a nervous, fidgety cinematographer over for dinner in an unveiled attempt to get Adam excited about cinematography. He had taken Adam to a foley session to watch as sound effects were added to his latest movie. To Pixar, where he was led through all the steps of making a movie with computers instead of cameras.
    Adam had explained to his father that no matter what kind of work he did later in life, it would have absolutely nothing to do with show business in general and the movie business in particular. It held no appeal for him.
    His father had sniffed dismissively and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody wants to work in the movies. Most people would kill for the opportunities I’m giving you.”
    I’d kill for you to stop, Adam had thought.
    A couple years ago, he had arranged for Adam to tour a “creature factory.” Annoyed, Adam had asked Carter to come along so he would not have to endure it alone. Carter was far more excited about the tour than Adam could feign. For Adam, it had been a marginally amusing diversion. For Carter, it had been a revelation. Carter had been awed by the masks, makeup, shockingly realistic wounds and severed limbs. Had become as excited as a child and asked endless questions, wanting to know exactly how everything worked, how it had been made, how it was operated. Adam had been a little embarrassed by his friend’s behavior, and after a while, even the two long-haired guys taking them through the shop seemed to tire of the rapid-fire questions.
    After they left, Carter had talked about nothing else, and went back a few times, without Adam, to ask more questions. Within the month, he had taken over his mother’s old