Author: Beau Montana

I’m four months behind on the rent and my credit score is 480.

Two thumbs up!

So while I was contemplating my mortality and the meaninglessness of existence it suddenly occurred to me: now would be the perfect time to make a movie about Siskel and Ebert.

But who would be willing to make such a low stakes dream about two unsexy guys that talk about movies? Well to me, the choice is clear: it’s Ben Affleck. What makes that choice so appealing is that not only can Affleck perform behind the camera, but he perform in front of it as none other than Gene Siskel. Just lose 50lbs, throw on a bald cap, and BAM…you have the film critic from the Chicago Tribune. Even better to play opposite of him would be his good buddy Matt Damon as Roger Ebert. Affleck can transfer some of his lost weight over to Damon, throw on a wig, and now we have the Pulitzer Prize-winning critic from the Chicago Sun-Times. It would be a great irony to have two very hot actors from the 90s play the very misshapen critics that reviewed them earlier in their careers.

The source material for this film would of course be Matt Singer’s Opposable Thumbs: How Siskel and Ebert Changed Movies Forever. Reading that book you realize that their on screen rivalry wasn’t a put on. They genuinely had a sibling-like love/hate relationship with each other. While Ebert was no saint (there’s one instance earlier in the show’s history that had me shaking my head), Siskel was so competitive that he’d deliberately do things to fuck with his co-worker’s career outside of the show. As the series progressed, their relationship became more cordial, but Siskel kept his battle with cancer mostly private with Ebert not knowing the full extent of it until it was too late. Ebert was hurt by this until his own death in 2013.

Would people be willing to go to the theaters to watch this? Fuck no! This is straight to Amazon Prime shit. Which is strange considering the subject material is about two guys who go to the theaters. But I think there’s enough elder millennials and Gen Xers who clamoring for this kind of stuff. So Ben Affleck should get to pulling the trigger on this project.

Quantum of solace

I don’t think there was a soul on this planet that wasn’t disappointed with Quantum of Solace upon its release, especially after the Bond franchise was riding high with Casino Royale two years earlier. But I have since changed my view. While I’d never argue that it’s the best Bond film, I will certainly argue that it might be the most interesting one.

But we should get this out of the way: the editing is atrocious. While the action makes more sense on second or third viewing , it presents itself as a mess on the first. Which is a shame because Quantum of Solace is a very fine looking film. It’s up there with one of the best in the franchise. While I think the filmmakers were going for a more rugged and frantic style that I think was in vogue at the time, they did themselves a disservice. Even by 2008, that look had overstayed its welcome. My biggest complaint with the movie is that they didn’t let shots linger and worse yet I hated some of the clunky transitions. Some have often wondered if there is missing material that, to my knowledge at least, has not been shown to the public. If that’s the case, then Marc Forster deserves to have his director’s cut.

But most of the complaints from the time were with the script and the rather low stakes that Bond finds himself in compared to other films. It’s not about world domination this time. The villain just wants control of Bolivia’s water supply. That’s pretty unsexy all things considered. But in retrospect, it’s the script (that I think was “hampered” due to a writer’s strike) that I quite like. Bond doesn’t go to his usual uppity Mediterranean stomping grounds. This time he’s in often overlooked locations like Port Au Prince and the aforementioned Bolivia. And I think that these unusual places (for Bond) works in the movie’s favor. This isn’t the usual travel log that we’re used to seeing. One thing that was never explored in these movies is the often cynical and political nature of clandestine operations. We’re only shown the sexy side. So I think Marc Forster did an excellent job at contrasting the luxurious high life of James Bond with the poverty stricken lives of real, discarded nations that we typically want to ignore.

But this leads me to a problem: should James Bond be political? While I don’t have an issue with the film itself being political, I could argue that it would be somewhat out of character for James Bond to be cognizant of these issues. As I’ve always said, James Bond is a dangerous man who’s found a profession that works for him. There shouldn’t be a political bone in his body. Obviously they wanted to expand the character under Daniel Craig, which I think was a rousing success. But some of the issues brought up in the script sounded like they were from Craig personally (I believe during the writer’s strike he had some input into the screenplay) and not something organically from Bond. But I digress. I can see both sides of the issue.

But what I liked best about Quantum is how many of the trends in Bond pictures are bucked. Despite killing numerous people, Bond doesn’t directly kill the bad guy OR the object of his revenge. Additionally, he doesn’t sleep with the leading lady (a very underrated Bond girl in my opinion) and the one woman he does sleep with, he later gets yelled at by M for taking advantage of her. There are many times where this outright doesn’t feel like a 007 picture and it works for me.

I think the best way to view Quantum of Solace is to see it as an extension of Casino Royale. In fact, watch it immediately after Casino Royale. While I praise Marc Forster, I think it was a shame that Martin Campbell didn’t return for Quantum. I think that would have added a degree of stylistic continuity that viewers missed in 2008. But as it is, I think Quantum of Solace deserves a rewatch.

And yet another shot at the title (part xxx)

Cassandra stayed pissed at me for three weeks. It was so bad that I couldn’t read the script. Then Greta was angry with me.

“What do you mean you haven’t read the script?!” she shouted. “We begin casting tomorrow!”

“Greta, you should know my methods by now,” I said. “I never read scripts. Besides, we’re casting Casper Van Diem.”

“We’re not casting Casper Van Diem! I don’t know who that is! We have a list of actors from the casting director that we’re scheduled to meet with! So you better get to reading the screenplay!”

“Can’t. Cassandra’s pissed at me.”

“So? Who isn’t? Here…,” she said and handed me an official leather-bound script. “Find a corner somewhere and read it!”

Instead I threw it in the trash and called up Casper’s agent. “Get me Casper goddamnit!” I ordered.

“But I haven’t been his agent in 20 years,” he said.

“Who’s his agent now?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“That’s ridiculous. Every actor has an agent!”

“He’s not an actor anymore.”

I was flabbergasted. “So one of the great thespians for a two year stretch back in the 90s is no longer performing his craft?!!! How is this not bigger news?!”

“No one cares my dude,” the agent said then hung up the phone.

So after a frantic 15 minute google search, I found Casper’s number in Holland and called him up. “Hallo! Wie is dit?” he asked.

“What? What kind of satanic tongue is that?! Speak English!” I ordered.

“Sorry,” Casper apologized in a flawless American accent, “I haven’t spoken English in 20 years. Who am I speaking with?”

“It’s James Pietermeister.”

“What? But I’m not an actor anymore. I’m the deli manager at Jumbo’s!”

“Now you shut your mouth! I know Starshit Troopers bombed but I saw something there. I watched the birth of a star before my eyes. And that Star was YOU. I have a script here that I think you’re perfect for. It’s the lead for Chatty Cathy!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shit at the title (part xxix)

So that night I got rip roaring drunk at Chili’s then drove to Cassandra’s apartment in Van Nuys. I careened passed the gates and my Rolls Royce Phantom III landed in the pool. I climbed out of the water and up to her front door. It was 2:30 am on Thursday morning.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Cassandra screamed. “Why are you soaked and wet?”

“He dumped me!” I wailed.

“Who dumped you?! What are you talking about?”

“Pablo dumped me as a client! Pablo and Greta hate me! Why does everyone hate me?!!!”

I sobbed uncontrollably.

“Damn it James! You’re waking up the neighbors! Get inside!” she ordered.

“I love you Cassandra!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

She handed me a dry pair of clothes, a pair of women’s shorts that were five sizes too small, and ordered me to sleep on the couch. Five hours later, I awoke to an obnoxious pounding on the door. I opened it and found a maintenance guy standing there holding a plunger resting on his shoulder.

“Is that your Rolls Royce Phantom III parked in the pool?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, my bad. I’ll have it moved.”

I closed the door and a groggy Cassandra came into the living room. “What the hell James?” she said.

“Woo! What a night huh? Welp, I guess I’ll be on my way! See you later!”

“No! Sit the fuck down and explain yourself!”

I shrugged and sat back down on the couch. My nutsack was dangling out of the extra small pair of shorts. I didn’t have a shirt on. “Why do you keep doing this?” Cassandra asked.

“Doing what?”

“Burning bridges! That’s what!”

“I’m not burning bridges. Everyone else keeps burning bridges. I’m innocent in all of this.”

“Pablo was your best friend and he dumped you as a client! What the hell happened?!”

“Hey! I’m not the bad guy here!”

Cassandra threw her hands up and changed the subject. “When’s the last time you spoke to Slick Rick?” she asked.

“Oh fuck! Slick Rick! I hope he’s okay! Did I abandon him?”

“He’s 40 years old, James! But you’re still his father! Do you even care about him?”

“Care about him? I don’t even know where he’s at!”

“He’s been living in Glendale for ten years!”

“What?! Really? How do you know this?”

“We still talk on occasion. He’s got kids, ya know?”

“You don’t say? So I’m a grandfather? Boy how time flies. I don’t feel a day over 97.”

“You need to go see them.”

“I would but my Rolls Royce Phantom III is under water right now. I need to go get it. Nice chatting with you Cassie. I’ll see you at work!”

“I will stab you in the throat if you come to my door again!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxviii)

Back at Chili’s, Pablo and I had our weekly get together. These things were an opportunity to talk shop or otherwise shoot the shit. I looked forward to these things. Pablo was a long time friend and I saw him as more than a business partner. So on this particular Wednesday afternoon, we gathered at our usual spot at the bar and ordered our usual strawberry daiquiris.

“Well Pablo,” I started off, “I managed to get Dick signed on as a producer. So I’m glad I got someone else in my corner.”

“Hell yeah.”

“But will you believe this shit? Greta went ahead and got her guru signed on as a producer too! I mean, has this town ran out of ideas?!”

“Fuck dude.”

“It’s like I have set every Hollywood trend since coming to this town. Me. James Cynthia Pietermeister. I’m telling ya, if I don’t get that star on the walk of fame then everything I’ve done has been for nothing.”

“Yeah, you right!”

“So what’s been going on with you Pablo? You’ve been awfully quiet lately. You’re not going through one of those suicidal episodes again are you?”

“Nah man.”

“So what the fuck is going on with you?”

“Just the usual shit man. My wife’s divorcing me and I’ve got cancer on my right nut. So I’ve been forced to sell my Lambo to pay for healthcare costs and my parents died in a fire.”

“Goddamn dude.”

“But the good news is that my son’s getting married next week.”

“You have a son?”

“Yeah. Oh, and also, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m dropping you as a client and taking on Greta.”

“Say what?!”

“Yup, my agent told me that you’re dead weight and this would be good for my career.”

“Your agent? Pablo, you are an agent!”

“Yeah dude. Greta’s a really cool client. She got me invited to one of Leonard Coster’s parties.”

“Leonard Coster?!! Chairman of the Board for Trainwreck Productions?!! Why didn’t he invite me?!!”

“I dunno. Something to do with you being a hack, a has-been, and a total fucking moron. But whatever man. Shit’s boring. Anyway, I gotta go. By the way, I ordered eight martinis before you got here and now I’m gonna drive to Long Beach to hang with Peter Fonda. Can you take care of the tab? See ya!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxvii)

“Alright, as executive consultants on this picture the studio is willing to pay out $850,000 in salary and you are entitled to 3% of the gross with an executive producer credit,” Kat explained to Mama Mohammed and Dick. “That is the best that we can do.”

Mama stood up and grabbed the paperwork from Kat. “I agree to these terms,” she said. Then crumpled up the paper and swallowed it whole. “I’ll have the paperwork mailed back to you in week’s time,” Mama concluded and left the room.

“Dick, what about you?” Kat asked. Dick took his paperwork, laid it on the ground and pissed on it. When he was done, he picked up the soggy and dripping paper and put it on Kat’s desk. He too left the room without saying a word.

“Well done Kat!” I said. “You’re a very talented negotiator.”

“What the hell do you mean?” she asked. “Dick rejected the terms!”

“Nonsense! If you noticed, he didn’t indiscriminately piss on the paper. With his urine stream, he very legibly signed his name on the signature line. He agreed!”

“That makes me feel a little better. I guess? But I’m still concerned about Dick and Mama working together. You heard Jimmy. He wants this production to go off without a hitch but I’m afraid that we have an explosive situation on our hands.”

“Never mind Jimmy,” I said. “Kat, when are you going to learn that you don’t need him? You are better than him. I’m just going to say it: YOU need to be head of this studio. We put a lot of work into rebuilding this company and we need to continue being the gold standard in Hollywood. Do you honestly think Jimmy is capable of keeping us on top?”

“Now you shut your mouth!” Kat said with fire in her eyes. “I will have no more talk of me replacing Jimmy, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said sardonically. “Loud and clear.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

To all my haters

Nothing makes me happier than seeing a washed up John Calipari donning the Razorback red.

To all my haters: you know who you are. I walked the streets of Fayetteville, proudly wearing Big Blue Nation garb. The Wildcats would storm into Bud Walton Arena and stomp Hog ass year after year. Then I’d have to suffer the shouts of “Fuck John Calipari and the Commonwealth of Kentucky” from Razorback fans…year after year. Well now the tables have turned.

The University of Kentucky men’s basketball club, perhaps the proudest basketball club in the NCAA, has been in purgatory for nearly a decade mostly thanks to the once great John Calipari. Realizing that he overstayed his welcome, he did me a favor and jumped ship to the bane of my existence: the Arkansas Razorbacks. Many Arkansas fans may see this as a win, but every Kentucky fan knows that this will only ensure that the Razorbacks will continue to dwell in tournament hell.

The curse that I have laid upon the University of Arkansas has been a rousing success. I promise…nay, GUARANTEE….that the Razorbacks will never win another championship as long as I live. You can take that to the BANK.

And yet another shot at the title (part xxvi)

Mama Anandra Sheila Mohammed Anard caught me staring at her superb supple breast fully exposed through her eclectic mixture of Turkish, Persian, Hindu, Swahili, Hotep, Aztec, Mongolian, Tibetan, Vietnamese, Hmong, and Puerto Rican garb. “What is it about these two exposed swelling glands that amplify the fertility of women that appeal to men?” she asks me.

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Personally I’m an ass man.”

Perhaps it was a game of one-upmanship between her and Dick who was sitting on the other side of the room wide legged with his nutsack fully exposed. Not his penis. Just his long, wrinkly scrotum. “Men are too easily entertained,” Mama continued, “certainly the lesser of the species.”

“No argument here,” I said.

Jimmy and Kat walked in side by side with Kat holding stacks of paperwork under her arm. Jimmy was inexplicably donned in traditional Sikh clothing. “This is absurd,” Jimmy said, “of course Mama should be a consultant on this project!”

He knelt down in front of the guru, cupping one of her breast in his hand. “Oh Mama,” Jimmy uttered, “the mother goddess graces us with her presence.”

Mama placed her hands on his face. “Of the evil that man doeth,” she spoke, “you are the one shining beacon of hope that lights up this cruel world.”

“Oh Mama, oh Mama,” Jimmy repeated. He shed a few tears then stood up and looked me square in the eye. “This woman is a saint,” he said to me. “Regardless of the beef between you and me, you treat this woman as royalty. Understood?”

“Whatever you say Jimmy,” I said.

He grabbed some of the paperwork from Kat and began signing away. Afterwards he threw down the pen and approached Kat. “Katherine, we’ve worked together a long time. I trust you. But with Mama Sheila Mohammed onboard, I require your utmost professionalism,” he warned. “No more shenanigans like in the previous pictures. This production must come in on time and on budget.”

Kat swallowed and nodded. “Yes sir,” she said.

Then he looked back at me. “And James…”

“Yes Jimmy?” I said awaiting his response. But he said nothing and departed the room.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxv)

Kat’s cold and sterile office on the third floor faced Burbank International Airport. I liked to go there, drink bourbon, puff on cigars and pray to god that those Boeing 737s would make it off the ground. This would always annoy Kat. But if I pestered her during her busiest hours that’s usually when I could pry a yes from her. So that’s what I did on that particular Friday afternoon.

“What do you think about Casper Van Diem?” I asked her while she busily signing paperwork.

“I liked him in that Star Track movie,” she replied, not looking up.

“Star Track?” I ask. “Don’t you mean Starshit Troopers?”

“No, he was in a Star Track movie. The one with all those space zombies.”

“Oh! I think you’re referring to Neil Dylan McDermott.”

“You mean Dermot Mulroney?”

“No, McDermott was in Star Track. Diem was in Starshit Troopers. I don’t think Mulroney was in anything.”

Kat continued to thumb through papers. “Why are thinking about actors no one has thought of in 30 years?”

I took another drag off my cigar. “I think he’d be good for the lead in Chatty Cathy.”

“Dermot Mulroney?”

“No! Casper Van Diem!”

Kat took off her reading glasses and leaned back in her chair. “I’d be fine with whoever you and Greta agree upon,” she said. “But wouldn’t someone with more, ya know, star power be better?”

“Star power?” I shrugged. “If we wanted to power a star, we’d need an untold amounts of energy compressed together to create nuclear fusion. But we’re not physicists. We’re filmmakers! Do you think anyone ever heard of Harrison Chevrolet before War of the Stars came out? Or what about Leonardo DeVincio for that movie about that boat sinking! Star power means nothing in today’s Hollywood.”

“Fine,” said Kat. “But why Diem?”

I turned back to the window to watch the latest plane depart. “I’m not sure,” I said thoughtfully. “I guess in my later years I want to be more like Quittin Tarantino. Ya know. Give actors a second shot at fame. I want to feel like I’m leaving behind a legacy.”

Kat was puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be this reflective,” she said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show an ounce of self awareness at all.”

“Yeah well, you get soft in your old age,” I said as I puffed. “You’ll learn that eventually.”

“We’re the same age James.”

“Whatever,” I said then tapped out the cigar. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about. I need to bring on another producer. Now don’t worry. He’s only going to be a creative consultant.”

She started rubbing her temples. “Who is he James?”

“Dick Warburton. He’s my spiritual guru I guess you can say.”

“Fuck me!” Kat yelled as she threw up her arms.

“What? This isn’t any weirder than all the other things I’ve done. In fact, this one’s kinda mild.”

“No it’s not that,” she explained as she tried to think. “It’s that Greta is also bringing her guru on as a consultant!”

TO BE CONTINUED…