The popcorn was stale, the soda flat, the attendance poor, and Zippo vibrated with joy. He floated each time he saw his baby on the big screen. Even the white guy masturbating and intermittently barking in the third row and the boozer snoring it off in the back could not extinguish his delight. When he considered his oddball journey as an artist—as a human being—Nefertiti’s existence offered proof of an invisible, benevolent intelligence somewhere. His friend Freddie had called it the Big Whatever. As good a name as any.
The reviews—the few that ran—were mixed. “Surely Zippo Flood is out of step when Claudine offers a more nuanced depiction of inner-city life and even television is stepping up with gems such as Cicely Tyson’s magisterial turn in The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman.” Dave Kehr of the Chicago Reader complained that the climactic fight in the mannequin factory was “a murky mess, and what little you can make out is devoid of life.” More than one critic puzzled over the repeated close-ups and lingering takes of fires.
Reviewers like to trap you in their idea of you, Zippo thought, like friends and family who can only see who you used to be. That’s why they reference other artists and movies to describe you—they can’t elude their own context. No one had a bad word for Lucinda Cole, who “transcends the genre with her deliberate grace.” Also: “Like a true pro [she] never lets on that she’s in a thorough turkey.” Also: “reminds the viewer of her debut performance in Miss Pretty’s Promise and makes you wonder why Hollywood can’t figure out what to do with her.” Zippo hadn’t talked to Lucinda since the premiere. Last week Doris said she’d caught her on TV as a schoolteacher or a social worker or something on that show Good Times. He owed her a call.
Zippo instantly forgave Lucinda when she returned to the set. To be frank he respected her for dropping out—he’d disappeared himself more than a few times, but no one had noticed. The shoot finished a week later without incident. Then it was in Zippo’s hands.
On the screen, Nefertiti said, “It’s up to me, then,” and something skittered over his feet. Given the carpet of Jujubes, Twizzlers, and mealy hot dogs, it wasn’t a question of whether or not the Playhouse had a vermin problem but only of the scope and magnitude. He dug his knees into the seat in front of him and lifted his feet from the floor. Best not to think about it.
It’s up to me, then. Zippo remembered choosing that take last fall. He had installed an editing bay in the windowless Grotto room where he kept his moth collection and cut off human contact to “hunker and bunker.” He was not a fast cutter. ZIPPO could be neither rushed nor coaxed; ZIPPO arrived on its own schedule. When he finished his snips and mad configurations, eight months had passed. He could not account for the time, only the result. American International Pictures had acquired Nefertiti soon after they wrapped and grew eager—then threatening and litigious—to get their mitts on it. Thus Zippo learned a lesson about retaining counsel to review your contracts, respecting deadlines, and the sanctity of final-cut approval.
While he “convalesced” in Bimini, AIP cut twenty minutes, including “Crisis Sequence #1,” a three-minute shot of stalled traffic—Zippo’s argument that the dead vehicles “conveyed the emptied soul of modern life” won few converts. They added three minutes of chase to the two car chases, inserted a brief love scene （body double for Lucinda）， and shot a new ending where Nefertiti survives instead of sacrificing herself for the valley people in the blast radius. The film now concluded with Nefertiti accepting her next assignment from the super-secret spy organization, though it had to wait until she ref’d the charity basketball game at the community center. “Duty calls—but so does the ’hood!”
Nefertiti’s glorious sacrifice in the explosion was the whole point of the movie—to find life’s meaning in fire and annihilation. Zippo had never found it anywhere else. Another artist might’ve despaired at this disfigurement. He didn’t care. His version still existed, even if the public never got to see it. Like a forbidden thought, it was enough to screen it in his own head. With the actors and crew to accompany him in his dream, his pastimes were no longer solitary.
When he emerged from the editing room the world had moved on. Blaxploitation was dead. The audience wanted finely calibrated blockbusters like The Exorcist and Jaws, not shabby entertainments. Sober dramas about black life, not ghetto shenanigans. Nonetheless, by the time it finished its run in the South, Secret Agent: Nefertiti had made its money back, and no one foresaw the rapturous overseas reception. The French adored it in particular and hailed Zippo as a “true auteur, a kind of Negro Preminger.” Zippo didn’t see the comparison but dug the enthusiasm. That’s where he was headed tomorrow—to Paris, for talks and interviews and a conference on “The Future of New Cinema.” Or “The New Future of Cinema,” he couldn’t remember. Robert Aldrich was supposed to show up for an award and maybe they’d talk about Kiss Me Deadly, you never know.
A gang of teenagers tumbled through the auditorium doors, claimed a section, and lit up some reefer. They were rude and boisterous, glorying over some earlier escapade. Even this interruption couldn’t curdle Zippo’s mood—anyway, the credits were rolling. What a crew he had assembled! Pepper—no last name. Zippo wondered if he’d seen the movie. Lola tried to track him down for the premiere, to no avail. The last time Zippo saw the man was when they wrapped and he asked to take his picture for his portfolio of the crew. “What do I need my picture taken for?” Pepper said. “I know what I look like.” Zippo tucked him in the credits under Special Thanks, below the legit investors. The silent partners remained unsung. No one from the Chink Montague organization, or front companies, or estate ever came knocking about the gangster’s profits. Like the toothbrush money, Zippo found a use for it.
Filmed Entirely on Location in Harlem U.S.A.
Zippo exited the Royalton and blinked in the late-afternoon glare. Hard to believe it was still light out. The old biddy in the ticket booth was asleep. Across the street hung a big billboard for Roscoe Pope’s new movie Chimp Cop. A cop with a chimp for a partner. Pope was already deep in mainstream crap by the time Nefertiti opened. It paid, Zippo supposed.
He turned uptown and hummed “Nefertiti Has Come （You Gonna Get It），” the closing theme. There was no talking Page out of the title even though it meant “The Beautiful Woman Has Come Has Come.” Zippo smiled—the one thing AIP hadn’t dared mess with was Gene Page’s magnificent score. Zippo had required an echo of the funky melancholy of Blacula, so he hit up the man himself. Page was amenable. He was currently arranging for Barry White, whom he’d met when they worked on Bob & Earl’s classic 1963 single “Harlem Shuffle.” Doing more and more solo work on movies. Zippo showed him a rough cut in the Grotto when Page came to town for the release of Can’t Get Enough. Page started scribbling notes during the first scene and didn’t stop until the final explosion. “I got you, baby,” he said. He delivered three weeks later. The strings were fucking bananas.