“Midnight” is a mystery several times over. The story began on May 2,1981, when Jim Williams shot a drunken Danny Hansford to death in Williams’s palatial Savannah, Ga., home. Was it murder or self-defense? It took four convoluted trials before a jury rendered a not-guilty verdict. And though Williams dropped dead at 59 in 1990, in the same room where Hansford died, people continue to whisper about the case. Still, when Random House published John Berendt’s account three years ago, no one had any idea that “Midnight” would become the publishing story of the decade.
Certainly no one predicted that this strange blend of true crime, travel writing and local gossip would sell 1.45 million hardback copies, go through 88 printings and spend almost three years on The New York Times best-seller list. Nor did anyone in Savannah foresee that tourism would increase 88 percent once the book appeared. Or that Savannahians would find so many ways to trade on their notoriety. “She’d stamp her underdrawers with ‘Midnight’ and sell ’em for $5 if she could make a profit,” one local says of another. Today you can read the “Midnight” newsletter and purchase the official “Midnight” afghan at The Book gift shop in Savannah. (“The Book” iswhat Savannahians call “Midnight,” to distinguish it, presumably, from The Good Book.) Hindsight has not made matters much clearer, because the book’s sales have followed no usual pattern. Instead of peaking, “Midnight” plateaued. In 1995 it sold 840,000 copies; in 1996, $69,000. It has become a sort of all-purpose read, famous for being famous. “Booksellers tell me that when someone asks for a suggestion, they don’t have to know who it’s for or what they’re like,” says Berendt. “They can just suggest ‘Midnight’.”
The latest surprise is that Eastwood, hard-edged tough guy, has come to this soft-focus seacoast city of 150,000 to shoot this movie. Maybe it’s because he’s nursing a cold, but up close Eastwood looks more mortal than he appears on screen, closer to his 67 years. Chatting with his crew, flirting with the extras, he’s up by the camera the second a shot is ready to roll, leaning toward the actors who’re waiting for his quiet “OK, let’s try that again.” Instead of “Cut,” he usually just says, “OK, that’s enough of that.” His productions are famous for their efficiency, but the real marvel is the relaxed mood that pervades an Eastwood set. “You don’t want to see him get mad,” says a long-time associate, “but he doesn’t get mad much anymore.” If much of anything riles him, then he’s a better actor than anyone has ever thought. Filming a best seller certainly doesn’t faze him much. “Every book has its problems,” he says. “With ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ it was the schmaltzy angle. On ‘Midnight’ you’re dealing with real people.”
Savannahians aren’t likely to give Eastwood any static. They stand for hours on the perimeter of the film set, like spectators at a golf match, and applaud every time he pokes his head out the door. Jay Self of the Savannah Film Commission gets calls around the clock from people demanding to know where the next day’s shoot will be. And while not everyone in town is tickled with the idea of a “Midnight” movie, a lot more people seem willing to don the T shirts that say GO AHEAD–MAKE MY MOVIE than to wear the ones that say THE BOOK WAS BETTER. Savannah has had cameos in movies like “Forrest Gump” and “Cape Fear.” But this time the city gets a leading role–the live oaks bearded with Spanish moss, the stately homes built around parklike squares like old dowagers playing bridge around a card table. “It’s the cinematographer who will sell this city’s soul,” Self exclaims without a lick of irony.
To a lot of the locals, the movie is also a valuable means to “fix” the book. The movie’s screenwriter, John Lee Hancock, who wrote “A Perfect World” for Eastwood, found himself being lobbied by two factions: “First, there were people who were in the book who wanted me to correct what they thought were inaccuracies. Then there were people who weren’t in the book who wanted me to get them into the story.” In the parking lot beside Clary’s restaurant, two women discuss the sad fate of a fellow citizen. “He wanted to play himself,” one says, “but when he auditioned he was just awful.” They shake their heads. “You mean to say,” the second asks, “he was too terrible to be himself?”
The only local who plays herself is The Lady Chablis, the book’s drag queen, who has since published her own autobiography, “Hiding My Candy.” (“Is it she or he?” a crew’ member asks. “She,” the movie’s publicist sighs. “It’s in her contract.”) The rest of the cast are professionals. Kevin Spacey plays the accused, John Cusack’s essentially the author and Alison Eastwood, the director’s 24-year-old daughter, holds her own both acting and singing. Stir in piano-playing con artists and society ladies who drink martinis in the graveyard. “These are characters that Tennessee Williams would have enjoyed meeting,” Spacey declares.
And yet they’ve met Eastwood. According to Spacey, people around Savannah wonder how a guy like Clint could make a movie about a homosexual who was quite possibly a coldblooded murderer. Those people haven’t looked very hard at Eastwood’s movies lately. Alienation, a flawed community, characters that seem both good and bad–Eastwood’s “Midnight” is just “Unforgiven” in a different century and with more humidity. The accused–like the protagonist of “Unforgiven”-becomes more mysterious as the story progresses, and you are invited to embrace this mystery, not solve it. “I like stories that aren’t cut and dried,” Eastwood says, “stories that don’t tell you everything.” “Midnight,” for one, just makes you wonder at it all.
