He has developed a program that keeps the factory working at maximum efficiency, but one of the things he lacks is the creative conceit of men like Bonner and Zanuck.
The ability to seize an idea and personally turn it into a great motion picture." He stared at Jonas in the dark.
They passed a street lamp, which revealed Jonas for a moment, his eyes hooded, his face impassive.
"Lack of creative conceit is the difference between a real producer and a studio executive, which Dan really is.
The creative conceit to make him believe he can make pictures better than anyone else and the ability to make others believe it, too.
To my mind, you showed more of it in the two pictures you made than Dan has in the fifty-odd pictures he's produced in the last two years."
"And what's the second?" Jonas asked, ignoring the implied flattery of David's words.
Rosa smiled to herself as she realized that he'd accepted the remark as fact. "The second is money," David replied.
"Assuming Dan could develop this quality, it would take money to find out. Five million dollars, to make two or three big pictures.
Money which you don't want to invest. Bonner brings his own financing.
He'll make four pictures a year, and our own investment is minimal only the overhead on each.
Between distribution fees and profit-sharing, we can't get hurt, no matter what happens.
And his supervision of the rest of the program can do nothing but help us."
"You've thought about what this would do to Dan?" Jonas asked.
David took a deep breath. "Dan is your responsibility, not mine. My responsibility is to the company." He hesitated a moment. "There'd still be a lot Dan could do." "Not the way you want it," Jonas said flatly.
"No business can run with two heads."
David was silent.
Jonas' words cut sharply through the dark like a knife. "All right, make your deal with Bonner," he said. "But it'll be up to you to get rid of Dan."
He turned in the jump seat. "You can take us back to Mr. Woolf's car now, Robair."
"Yes, Mr. Cord."
Jonas turned back to them. "I saw Nevada earlier," he said. "He'll make that series for us."
"Good. We'll begin checking story properties right away."
"You don't have to," Jonas said. "We settled that already.
I suggested to him we pick up the character Max Sand from The Renegade and take it from there."
"How can we? At the end of the picture, he rode off into the hills to die."
Jonas smiled.
"We'll presume he didn't. Suppose he lived, took another name and got religion.
And that he spends the rest of his life helping people who have no one else to turn to. He uses his gun only as a last resort.
Nevada liked it." David stared at Jonas.
Why shouldn't Nevada like it? It captured the imagination immediately.
There wasn't a Western star in the business who wouldn't jump at the chance of making a series like that.
That was what he'd meant by creative conceit.
Jonas really had it.
The car came to a stop in front of the hospital.
Jonas leaned over and opened the door.
"You get off here," he said quietly.
The meeting was over.
They stood in front of his car and watched the big black limousine disappear down the driveway.
David opened the door and Rosa looked up at him.
"It's been a big night, hasn't it?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "A very big night."
"You don't have to take me back. I can get a cab here.
I’ll understand."
He looked down at her, his face serious, then he smiled.
"What do you say we go someplace for a drink?"
She hesitated a moment.
"I have a cottage at Malibu," she said. "It's not far from here.
We could go there if you'd like." They were at the cottage in fifteen minutes. "Don't be upset at how the place looks," she said, putting the key into the lock. "I haven't had time lately to straighten up."
She flicked on the light and he followed her into a large living room that was very sparsely furnished.
A couch, several occasional chairs, two small tables with lamps.