There Are No Sequels In Hell

On paper, the late comeback of Chris Kurtz’s 40-year acting career is as much of a mystery to those interested as Dracula, Stonehenge, or even life on Earth. Truth is, it was a total accident and, of course, a welcome revelation for Kurtz, who for the first half of his career during his early 30s, ham acted his way through several marginally profitable, but otherwise junk, action-comedy franchises. The box-office returns were enough to retire early, but although Kurtz loved acting, he didn’t love these films. Despite Kurtz being keenly aware of the quality of both his performances and of the product he was making – standard Hollywood cheese, popcorn cinema barely worthy of critical reviews – it didn’t hurt less. He wanted instead to be taken seriously. He first took these roles because they were the only ones offered to him. Then they just kept coming. So he often turned to drinking to cope with this other sad detail of his lonely life, as he was unmarried and unpartnered at 30, a rarity for someone successful and mildly attractive (albeit for thin hair and some mild acne scars from his youth), living lavishly in New York in 1990. Kurtz, along with all of the other creatures of the night who kept odd hours – cooks, bartenders, comedians, Broadway performers, etc. – would party into the wee hours of the evening, on his dime, always, at least until one night, New Year’s Eve, and the eve of Kurtz’s latest film: Interstellar Monks 3.

In celebration of both milestones, Kurtz threw a party at his Tribeca loft. He had been drinking for most of the day, and by the time guests arrived, he had reached an emotional breaking point. He felt that he could not continue making theme park movies for easy money. It wasn’t the career he planned for himself, and he decided that his New Year’s Resolution for the new decade would be a way out from under the weight of franchises and onto films more intellectually stimulating than the second lead who delivers the big line in Furry Fury 8: Space Fury, or something more distinguished than Cybercop 2, or Time Bandit 5.

He had drunkenly professed to a Rockette, sitting on his sofa,

“I may be older than most of the people I share the marquee with, but I’ve got something. I feel it."

The Rockette, who only knew Kurtz peripherally through his movies and his sometimes sightings in the city, looked around his apartment confused: the art of the walls, the third-tier acting statues behind glass, and new leather couches. How could he be unhappy? He has everything, she thought.

“I don't get it”, she said aloud.

“It’s not money. I don't want to be in the next Cybercop movie, or Wolf Dad 2.”

“But you’re so good in them!”

“I know, I am, but I need something with substance.”

“How about Broadway? Ever think of that?”

He lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh my God!” he yelled in earnest, making her nervous.

“No, no, no, it’s ok.” It's perfect!”

And just like that, the weight of his career choices, the guilt over the lack of critical acclaim, all of it, was lifted. He felt lighter and more sure of himself. Maybe it was the gin martinis, but that night, as the clock struck twelve, and as he rang in the new year, he put all of his positivity and energy into being cast into a play. He wasn’t exactly sure where to start, but he was certain that he would soon see his name in lights, top billed on Broadway. He remembered reading once, “put good energy and positivity into the world, you will never be disappointed,” or something like that. So he did.

As luck would have it, the next morning, New Year’s day, Kurtz’s latest debuted, earning him the scorn of every paper, which also caught the attention of Marty Leeman on his commute to work. He was the then-hiring producer, in charge of casting an upcoming musical production of Richard Yates', Revolutionary Road on Broadway. The producers of the musical were looking for someone to take the part of a 50-year old Frank Wheeler. They had interviewed at least 100 actors for it; none seemed to truly embody the older, more sanguine versions of Frank they wanted.

The reviewer wrote:

“If you can imagine a time where Kurtz didn't take every check offered to him, you might remember that his first roles were of playing straight sidekick, who hid a sort of sad secret behind his eyes. Where'd he go? Does he still act? Maybe he could’ve tightened up the film’s third act. Shape up Kurtz. History will not be kind. "

Marty, who genuinely liked Kurtz in most of his films, actually agreed with the reviewer: he, too, wanted to know where that version of Kurtz went. A sudden sense of urgency swelled inside him. He got the idea to call whoever repped Kurtz (no one, as Kurtz had no agent) as soon as he got to the studio where the crew were still building the sets on a rush schedule before previews next week. He found Kurtz in the phonebook. In the background, the sound of loud hammering was audible; saws in the distance. People yelling over it. Awful place for a call.

“Mr. Kurtz?”

“Chris, actually. Hi, it’s hard to hear you.”

“Ok, Chris, my name is Marty Leeman. This is gonna sound weird, but…”

“What’s that, I can’t hear you?”

“I said, my name is Marty, and I’m in charge of hiring for a Yates musical, and I think you’d be great."

Kurtz, a massive Yeats fan, misheard Marty as the sounds of the set were too loud to hear him clearly.

“Oh, sure! I’d love that. It’s so odd that you called me..."

“Sure, ok. Yeah, that’s great. How about you come up to the studio at 34th and 10th tomorrow? We'll get you a script, and we'll go over the details.”

It wasn't until Kurtz arrived at the audition and received the script that he learned of his error. Like the career professional he was, and given how desperate he had been for the life-raft off the franchise cruise he had been on for 15 years, he stuck to his lines despite never reading the book, which manifested a certain kind of vulnerability that made him appear especially interesting to the hiring and casting managers. He nailed it. Kurtz even beat out another semi-finalist, a Julliard-trained actor, who was considered a shoe-in.

\\During the play’s eight-night run, the King of Sequels sang, sashayed, and tapped across the stage with absolute zeal. As he danced in front of packed houses, he garnered rave acclaim for his performance. And just like that, he was launched back into stardom. From there on, for the rest of his career, he chose roles at his discretion, did fewer per year, and never again starred on Broadway, or did action films. He became the number one choice of directors looking to add even more gravitas to prestige films. Marty and Kurtz became close friends, and eventually Marty became his manager, under one condition: no secrets, no heavy drinking, and open lines of communication. Kurtz agreed, and they went on to write the next chapter of Kurtz’ storied film career.

On a Sunday, 25 years later, at 55, Chris Kurtz sat on the balcony of his Point Pleasant condo, overlooking the roaring Atlantic. His faded acne scars now deeper, and most of his hair gone, he looked like an elder statesman holding court over the sea, for which he was the sole guardian of. It was the Fall, and there was chill in the air. The ocean mist sprayed the shoreline; the smell of salt was circulating. He was reading the script for a film that was to start shooting this weekend on location in France. The film, The Coin Collector, was from the Italian film auteur, Luca Casarosa, who had a reputation for working with large ensemble casts and unique set designs. The two had a career of making great films together, to the delight of many adoring film students, critics, and studios. This film was the first to feature Kurtz as the main lead. He was playing the part of the deceased Coin Collector, of whom the film centers. It was rumored that the film would be a contender for the upcoming award season, barring any unexpected fiascos with the film’s production.

Kurtz’s phone rang, it was Marty.

“Hey Chrissy! Why didn't you tell me you were in the city last night?”

“What do you mean? I was reading the pages you sent. BTW, can we change his appearance a little?“

“Wait, you sure you weren't in the city last night? Not even for a bit?”

“Nope.“

“Well, there's all these stories about you surprising people. Buying oysters and dinners”

“Is that so? Must be my twin I guess. Hope they won't audition for this role."

“Sure, ok Chrissy. Whatever you say. Just don't try and change the script too much. Luca wrote the part for you, so let's try and stick to what works, ok?”

“You got it.”

They hung up.

Kurtz didn’t think much of the story, and was instead reminded of what his life had been like just after the play. As he watched the sun begin to disappear behind the clouds over his home, he thought of the broad support he received. For 25 years there was newfound appreciation for Kurtz, and his body of work; something he could not have dreamed of just before he won the role of Frank. It changed his life, and the trajectory of serious-enough filmmaking, because, without Kurtz, and his intimate history with moviegoers, most directors looking to ground their movies would have no anchor to hitch their wagons on. Kurtz was an icon, and anyone lucky enough to work alongside him benefitted from their sheer proximity to him. This fact warmed his heart more than anything on Earth. He could not have been happier. Pleased with his progress, Kurtz closed the pages of the script, poured himself a drink, and went to bed early. He left the next morning for France, and spent the better part of a week filming scenes in Saint-Tropez.

He arrived back in Newark on a Saturday and was headed straight for the coast. Upon getting home, he called Marty and left a quick voicemail.

“Hey Marty, it's me. Listen, great time with the cast and Luca. It was wonderful. Still have a few ideas about changing the voiceovers, but I think we’re good. Have a good night! I’m gonna get situated here and head into the city tomorrow on the first train. Maybe lunch? OK, ciao Marty!”

The next morning, Marty called.

“Hey! Just thinking about that script.”

“Sure you were. Listen, I heard what you did last night and it's not funny.”

He laughed. “What do you mean? I was at the airport, then I came to the beach house.”

“If you pull another stunt like that, I'm dropping you. We talked about this: no late night parties, no drugs, and no young women. You swore!”

“I don't know what you mean Marty, I've been here all night.”

“There's pictures of it!”

“Where?”

“Silver Spoons! You went behind the bar and started making drinks! But you didn’t stop, you had to push it! Coke in the bathroom with skateboarders? You schmuck! There’s pictures all over the place!”

“Listen, Marty, you're scaring me. Let me figure this out. I’ll call you back. I’ve been home all night. I can prove it.”

Marty hung up the phone on him.

Kurtz was in shock. He thought this was some kind of a cruel joke. It wasn't. He got on the first Coastline train to look into the accusations against him. When he arrived at Silver Spoons at 11 a.m., the place was empty with just the manager from the night before on staff. A kid who was no older than 25, skinnier than a coat rack, much taller, and somewhat more imposing than a place to hang a jacket.

"Whoa, what are you doing here? I can't believe you'd come back to the scene of the crime. You owe us $4k plus tip. And after you pay, get out!“

As Kurtz tried to make his case, he looked around the bar; there were posters of Kurtz and all his action movies from the 80s, along with other actors of his ilk. Bad Feel 12, Police Weapon 3, and 5 Ninjas. The pantheon of action stars of the last 30 years were in all attendance at Silver Spoons. Laughing at him with shit-eating grins, holding guns and babes wrapped around their waists or some explosion in their foreground.

“Listen I don't know what happened but there has to be some mistake” he said as he took out his card to pay the tab.

“Sure. I got an insurance policy.“

The kid reached under the till, making Kurtz’s heart sink further into his chest, and pulled out a Polaroid. As he lifted the picture in the air, the manager realized there was something slightly off. The person in the photo had more hair than Kurtz, seemed shorter, and had a small mole on his cheek. Though their faces were almost identical, their eyes were also different. The playful melancholy from behind Kurtz’s eyes were replaced with an electricity that looked less friendly and more devious.

The manager flipped the picture over to Kurtz, and he too saw the difference, which sent a chill down his spine.

“This a joke? You look different.” The manager said.

He walked over to the posters of Kurtz on the wall and compared the photo.

“This is too weird. Take your receipt and get the hell out. You're banned. For life.”

Kurtz, visibly spooked, walked out as fast as his feet would carry him, almost tripping into a person on the street. The man, oddly dressed in what appeared to be a disguise: movie usher’s clothes, and an oversized pair of sunglasses under a black cap.

“Watch where you're going, jerk,” the man said.

Kurtz didn't take offense to it and kept walking but the man continued, audibly more upset.

“You hear me you bozo. Watch where you're going Kurtz!”

Kurtz’s heart skipped at the utterance of his name, like a passenger on a plane that’s losing elevation.

“Yeah, you heard me, interloper. Watch where you're going!”

He took his glasses and hat off, revealing a face with almost identical features to Kurtz's. The eyes from the Polaroid stared back at him. It was the man from the picture. A spitting image, made possible by what seemed to be heavy plastic surgery that was frighteningly well done.

“You remember me now?” the man said.

“Well no, except you're obviously the jerk who's been parading around as me."

“Wrong bucko. I'm Arthur Fielding, the guy you stole Frank Wheeler from.”

“Hell of a way to introduce yourself! How many tickets did you have to rip to get that plastic surgery?”

“That role was supposed to be my big break and you took it from me. You took everything.”

“Listen, Arthur...”

“I'm gonna make your life a living hell and there's nothing you can do about it."

“I’ll just sue the shit out of you."

“Go ahead, try. On what proof?” Arthur laughed. “Good luck with that.”

And just like that, Arthur walked away.

Kurtz immediately called Marty.

“Marty, I got the guy. It's the actor who lost the Wheeler part.”

“Are you kidding me? Whatever happened to him?”

“He's me, Marty! At least he looks like me. His eyes are different and he's got a gross mole.”

“Yeah that's why we passed him. We thought it was too distracting for the audience, plus he was short.”

“Oh, I thought I was the better actor?”

“You weren't. You played it straight and there was this emotional weight you had that he didn’t. I mean you were a star, he wasn’t."

“Well, it's bizarre how much he looks like me. Can we sue?"

“Probably not a good look, Chrissy”

“Am I not entitled to a clear name?”

“How ya think? We can't control your image and some guy is galavanting around town? Nah, we'll work something out with the trades or magazines."

The next day, Marty tipped off a few magazines informing them that there were multiple impersonators. The Times UK ran with the story, which opened with the headline:

“Awards Season Favorite or a Tale of Two or More Kurtz’?”

The story documents reports that Kurtz had multiple imposters all over the world. He could be anywhere at any time. It spread like wildfire. Most people assumed that because Kurtz was in such high demand, and so was universally loved by audiences, that the impersonators were paying some sort of weird tribute. The tawdry details of the night at Silver Spoons got lost in the coverage, and soon every trade picked up the story. The world was now on the lookout for Kurtz impersonators, as the buzz about The Coin Collector started to pick up steam. It became a sort of cultural flashpoint, wherein different audiences – high brow, art house cinema fans, and mainstream audiences – could participate in the fun of sharing stories about how they thought they had seen Chris Kurtz feed ducks with single moms in Prospect Park, officiate random weddings at Honolulu resorts, and guest DJ at private supper clubs. The PR helped immensely, as the Coin Collector eventually debuted, and smashed the weekend box office when it premiered.

Though this all angered Arthur, it did bring a certain satisfaction to him. Without Arthur, Kurtz’s new film would be half as popular. But how could he benefit from this, he thought?

Arthur, who had spent his early 20s as an understudy on Broadway, worked tirelessly to earn an audition for Frank Wheeler. He felt as though he were destined for big things, then Kurtz happened, and while Kurtz’s career continued down a bright new path, Arthur went back to doing smaller scale plays and shows. He eventually couldn’t secure enough good parts that paid well, and had to give up acting for a period and take a job as a movie usher. For the next 25 years, he planned his return to acting, and revenge. Though he, too, loved Kurtz’s body of work, he hated him. Arthur was incensed to the point where he saved all of his paychecks to get different facial procedures done to look more like Kurtz, and eventually take away roles from Kurtz, with the ultimate aim of making Kurtz a footnote in history. It almost worked.

After the awards season came and went, Kurtz’s Coin Collector didn’t win top honors, or any statues for his work in the movie. This was not quite the setback as it appeared to be, as Kurtz always had projects up his sleeve. It was also eventually revealed that Arthur kicked off the trend of lookalike Kurtzs’. As a result, he started to get invited to read for parts. Arthur landed a few roles, some bit parts, but his first big movie was a return to form, so to speak, for the “Kurtz” character in Space Furies 9. It was the biggest release of the summer. It just so happened to be released during Kurtz’s own film premiere: a dark comedy and period piece called the Waltz King, where he played famed composer Johan Strauss II, and, for the first time, both Kurtzs' shared a marquee. It was a strange sight for Marty, who for last year had been working tirelessly to clean up any of the mess left behind by Arthur and other impersonators who transgressed in the name Kurtz.

Over the phone to Kurtz, Marty shared some new developments in the ongoing saga of the Arthur and Kurtz feud:

“You know, Chrissy, you’re not gonna want to hear this, but people are saying that Arthur’s movie might be in competition with the Waltz King for best picture.

“What!”, Kurtz almost spit out his morning coffee.

“Yeah, it's apparently a departure of sorts for the franchise. The trades are saying just Best Picture, but Arthur has a producer’s credit on it, so he could, and it’s unlikely, but he could get an award before you do.”

“That’s impossible! It’s a franchise. I already did that in Furry Furries 5. This is ridiculous! I don't like to be competitive, but I can’t have some guy who made his bones impersonating me win before I do! There has to be a way to stop it. Right?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Just a few weeks before the awards officially kicked off, Arthur was sitting alone in a corner booth at a posh hotel restaurant in the theater district. He had just finished eating dessert, and as he sipped on his Bailey’s and Coffee nightcap, a young man came up to him.

“OMG, I can't believe you're here!”

Arthur blushed. The attention was all still new to him, and always caught him off guard.

The kid continued:

“Things got wild last night, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Arthur laughed,

“You know, you spotted me a bag. I'll get yours tonight.”

Rather incredulously, Arthur said “No, I think you got me mixed up with someone else. I'm Arthur Fielding. I'm in movies.”

“Yeah I know. I've seen them.”

“Well, I’m not into drugs, if that’s what you mean. I think you need to leave before they call security”

Very loudly, the kid said: “Take it easy. I just wanted to pay you back for the girls, the drinks, and all the drugs from last night. You're a legend around here man!”

Arthur was very confused. He did not like the association with drugs, at all. It was bad form, and bad for business. Everyone in the restaurant was looking in Arthur’s general direction. He felt everyone’s eyes on him. He started to sweat.

“Please leave”

It wasn’t until Arthur left the restaurant and hopped into a yellow cab that he realized what was happening. He checked his phone. There were 10 messages from his new agent, emails … all kinds of notifications. He was being set up. Someone, probably Kurtz, was doing what he did: making appearances, acting badly, leaving a trail. He immediately called Kurtz.

“Chris, it’s Arthur, listen I’m sorry, but please don't do this to me. I don't want to have to give this up.”

“Oh this isn't me, Arthur,” Kurtz said.

“What do you mean? Who else would do this?”

“It's Marty.”

“You think it's Marty?”

“I know it's Marty. He told me. Ever since you started this, he started hiring copycat Kurtz’. They’re great for pick-up shots. Stunt acting, you name it.”

Arthur hung up. His phone rang. It was Marty.

“Listen you little shit.”

“Marty?”

“Yeah, you prick.”

“Ok.”

“You retire tonight.”

“Fat chance.”

“You think I'm gonna let you cut the line? Get in formation, sporto, otherwise you might end up on a missing persons list. Or worse, back in the want ads looking for work. I’ll ruin you. You’re finished. Stick to Broadway and withdraw the nomination tomorrow.”

He hung up.

Arthur didn't sleep a wink that night. He knew he had lost the gambit and that Marty wasn’t bluffing. Arthur’s new career was over before it even started. In the morning he called the studio and demanded they remove him from the producer’s credits without explanation. He stopped answering calls from casting agents, and never again starred in another movie. He disappeared back into obscurity, as if he never existed, all to the delight of Kurtz, who continued his run and eventually was awarded his long-overdue Best Actor award. Marty never used another impersonator again, and the two went on to produce movies together for the rest of their lives.