And yet another shot at the title (part ix)

“I’m really happy that you came through on this, James,” Cat told me in her office. “I just don’t think this film could work without your vision.”

“Mmhmm, mmhmm,” I said as I sat contemplatively in my chair. “Tell me, what do you want?”

“I’ll go over all the pre-production notes from the studio once you and Greta sit down…”

“No no,” I interrupted. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, what do you want out of life?”

Cat chuckled. “James, this really isn’t the time. Where are you going with this?”

I leaned forward and spoke in low, serious tone. “Catherine, I’m gonna be real with you,” I said. “I don’t like the direction the studio is going in. Jimmy might’ve saved Trainwreck Productions after we nearly bankrupted it after Like a Fart in the Wind. But you and me together, we restored this place to a state of solvency. We’ve become what all the other kids on the block aspired to be. Now Jimmy did his job as being the steady hand in a time of trouble, but let’s be honest: he’s old school. You, on the other hand, you’re the future. Have you given any thought to taking his place?”

Cat was flummoxed. “Jimmy’s my friend,” she stated. “There’s no way I could betray our trust like that.”

“Come on, Cat. This is Hollywood. Yesterday’s friends are tomorrow’s enemies. Do you really want to be Jimmy’s errand girl for the rest of your career?”

Catherine threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know what Jimmy did to piss you off but we really shouldn’t be having this conversation,” she said. “Besides, the board would never approve of my appointment to President. Jimmy has too many friends.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I have friends too, ya know? Including many on the board.”

Cat stared intently at me for a few moments before looking at her watch. “We need to be in front of the press in an hour,” she explained. “There’s just one other thing I need to go over with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Now, because we’ve built up a good relationship over the years, I figured that you should hear this from me first,” she stuttered.

“Oh god, what now?” I groaned.

“Now, please remember that this is business so don’t get too offended…”

“Cat, just give it to me.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Okay,” she said, “Greta chose to rewrite your script.”

“So?”

“With another screenwriter.”

“Big fucking deal,” I replied sardonically.

“That screenwriter is Cassandra McHale.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xiii)

“So how do you want to do this Pablo?” I asked while we drinking at the hottest bar in Burbank: Applebee’s. “Do I need to call up my mob connections? Or do you think we can do this ourselves? Jimmy’s made plenty of enemies, ya know? So what do we do? Car bombs? Poisoned Bloody Mary’s? What?”

“Woah woah woah!” Pablo retorted. “Dan didn’t say we had to kill Jimmy. We just have to remove him from his post as president of Trainwreck Productions!”

I stirred my fruity mai tai as I considered my response. “Guys like Jimmy are cockroaches,” I said. “You can’t placate them. You can’t simply remove them. They only know, understand, and respect one thing: power. Jimmy’s a mere suit. We’re the talent. Or, rather, I’m the talent. Whatever happened to us, Pablo? What happened to the days when we could swing our dicks around, literally, and this town would bow to our demands? I wish we could go back to those days.”

“We’re still living those days, James,” Pablo said. “You faked a heart attack last week at Wendy’s. Free Frosties for life!”

“It just doesn’t feel the same anymore,” I lamented. “We’re nothing but fossils to these people. I think it’s time we show these folks that we still run this town.”

Pablo’s cell rang. “It’s Cat,” he informed me. “It probably has something to do with the press conference for Chatty Cathy. Greta will surely be there. So what do you want me to tell her? Are we still on?”

An ingenious idea suddenly came to me. I sipped on my mai tai as I marveled at my genius. “Yes,” I told him. “Tell her we’re still on and we’re ready to play ball.”

Yes, I thought, we were definitely going to play ball. But this wasn’t a game of cooperation anymore. This was another shot at the title.

TO BE CONTINUED….

And yet another shot at the title (part vii)

There was only one man in Hollywood that could save me from this fuckery. And that man was Dan Gillespie.

In the years since Lavtiavia, or whatever that dump of country was called, Dan holed himself up in his office in West Hollywood. He had become an infamous recluse. No one saw him. Not even his clients. But Pablo and me were out of options. So on one sunny Thursday afternoon, we paid him a visit.

“Dan I know you’re in there,” I shouted through the boarded up door. “You can stop hiding! I’m not here to kill you like I did to your client. You know the one.”

Moments later, Dan slid a shotgun through a small opening. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years,” Dan said. “I knew that you and Pablo would come here to finish the job.”

Pablo and me raised our hands. “Dan,” I pleaded, “I have no beef with you. Kev was trying to kill ME and I had to do what was necessary. Now please, put away your shotgun. We’re only here to talk business.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you’re the most powerful attorney in Hollywood for Christsake! If you were to end up dead, everyone in town would know it was me! I wouldn’t show up here if I didn’t have a good reason!”

After a few moments of silence, Dan pulled back in his shotgun and closed the opening. We could hear him inside fumbling away at the locks. “And what reason would that be?” he asked when he finally opened the door.

Pablo and I were shocked. What was once a proud man had withered away into a puny hermit. “Dan,” I said with some concern, “I need you. This town needs you. Whatever happened in Eastern Europe is over as far as I’m concerned. You are the greatest lawyer this town has ever seen! I just want you take my case.”

Dan invited the two of us in. His office was covered with newspaper clippings of my face. “Sorry about the decor gentleman,” he said, “I don’t have many visitors.”

“It’s quite alright,” Pablo explained as he laid his briefcase on the dusty table. “I have some legal documents I want you to look over. Trainwreck Productions is threatening to sue James if he walks away from the latest production.”

Dan put on his readers and perused through the papers. “I see,” he said, “and you didn’t look through the contract before you had your client sign it, Mr. Dunbar?”

Pablo shrugged. “I had my law degree bought and paid for. I’ve never stepped foot in a classroom.”

Dan shook his head and removed his glasses. “Gentlemen, this contract is pretty ironclad,” he explained. “And Mr. Pietermeister, I advise you to fire your agent and hire one that actually understands legal terminology.”

“Nevermind that,” I replied. “Can you get me out of this contract?”

Dan rubbed his chin as he started getting his wheels turning. “Probably not,” he said, “BUT, there is a clause in these contracts that us lawyers call corporatum morten which states that if there is turnover from studio leadership then all contracts overseen by them suddenly become null and void.”

“For fuck’s sake Dan, English please!” I begged.

“In other words, get rid of Jimmy Greco and you get rid of this contract.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part vi or whatever)

“This is the worst script I’ve ever read and I’ve been in this business for 40 years,” Jimmy Greco, head of Trainwreck Productions, shouted at me. “What were you thinking making Pee-Wee write this shit? Do you have an answer?! The man is hardly literate!”

“Does this mean you’ll fire me?” I shrugged.

“Fire you?!” Jimmy retorted. “I can’t fire you. Your movies make billions in streaming!”

“So what does it matter? What exactly do you want out of me, Jimmy?”

“Cooperation. Effort. A little thought into the details…”

“Name one time I ever gave any of that!”

Jimmy sat up in his seat and looked me sternly in the eye. “Now listen here buster,” he said. “I have two polyps in my ass that need removing. So I need your shit. I expect this production to come in on time and on budget! Do we have an understanding?”

“Nope!” I said. “Because I quit.”

Jimmy started maniacally laughing. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You think we haven’t gone through all this before? Do you really think that I didn’t anticipate this move?!”

“Jimmy, if you have something to say, you better spit it out.”

Jimmy poured himself a scotch as he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Here, you want a drink? You better take it,” he said.

“I’m about to leap over this desk if you don’t tell me what’s going on,” I warned.

“Fair enough,” he replied as he swallowed the scotch whole. “You’ve been able to run roughshod over this studio for so long that you’ve become predictable,” he explained. “You know all those pages of legalese in your contract? I know you don’t read any of that shit. So I put in a stipulation: if you walk away from this production, you will owe back all the money you have earned with Trainwreck Productions. So you want to quit? That’s fine with me! But have fun being only the 27th richest man in the world!”

Jimmy’s own ingenuity caused him to laugh even harder. I saw only red.

“Laugh it up, Jimmy,” I said. “But just know this: you’re a dead man walking.”

And I left him with those ominous words.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part v)

“Why do they want me to do Chatty Cathy?” I wondered aloud. “What is Chatty Cathy? What is a movie? Who am I? Why am I here?”

“I can’t tell if you’re going through an existential crisis or if you’re genuinely asking questions,” Pablo said.

“Can I get you two another bourbon?” the bartender asked.

“Make it a double,” I said. “Scratch that, make it a triple. NO! Quadruple it. Fuck it, just bring the bottle.”

“Is something on your mind?” Pablo asked me.

“No,” I replied. “I mean yes. I mean I hate I hate myself and all my life’s decisions.”

Pablo patted me on the back. “There there,” he said, “you’re still a young man. What are you? Almost 80? It’s only going to get worse from here.”

“I keep telling myself that yet nothing seems to get better. Pablo, tell me, am I an abject failure?”

“Hmm,” he pondered. “Well you’re a billionaire with multiple accolades to your name. You’ve inspired a generation of artists to enter the film industry and they renamed the Nobel Peace Prize after you. I personally wouldn’t call that successful but I’m sure somebody would.”

“I just don’t know what to do anymore. After Greta rejected me I feel like my whole career has been a waste. Why do you think I went into movies to begin with? To get laid of course! But I guess all those Academy Awards were for nothing.”

Pablo took a sip of his bourbon and nodded. “James, I’m not telling you this because I’m your agent and you pay me millions of dollars to talk to you,” he said, “but I think what you’re going through is called a ‘rough patch’. It’s personally never happened to me, but I guess it happens to other people. I care about you not because I’ve made a fortune off your work, but because I think we’re friends. I suppose. So I can’t in good conscience let you suffer like this. You’re seeing a guy for this stupid shit, right?”

“Yeah I’m seeing a guy. But all he has made me do so far is lend out my car to him and kick me out of my own house when he wants to host sex parties. I just don’t know about him Pablo.”

“Well I don’t know how all that psychological bullshit works but I think you should stick with it for the time being. It might do you some good.”

“Alright alright,” I nodded.

“In the meantime, we need to fix this Chatty Cathy situation.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part iv)

Back in Burbank, Kat (Kennedy) was prattling on about the usual bullshit, how I went over budget on Schindler’s List III, how everyone hates me for bailing on Chatty Cathy, blah blah blah. I just couldn’t shake the words that Dick told me in Palm Springs.

“James are you listening to me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Greta is also bailing from Chatty Cathy. She only signed on because she wanted to work with you.”

“So?”

“So…this is bad press! The studio has already spent untold amounts of money and we haven’t even started pre-production!”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“For starters, all of our jobs are on the line. Once when the papers get word that the production is already in trouble, bad word will spread and can cause this movie to bomb! Come on, we need to fix this!”

“Kat, we do this every time: The studio gives us carte blanche, I do something stupid that cost the studio millions, the movie bombs, and we’re right back here next week. Everything we make is a failure yet we still have jobs.”

“Now you take that back! Our films make billions in streaming!”

“So what are you worried about?”

“Goddamnit James! Why won’t you do Chatty Cathy?!”

“Cuz,” I said. “Greta hates me.”

Kat closed her eyes to calm herself. “Greta doesn’t hate you,” she calmly explained. “She just doesn’t like you in that way.”

I looked out the window to stare down a lone shrub in the parking lot. “Kat, why do we keep working together?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Because Jimmy wants us to.”

“You can always say no.”

Kat thought for a moment. “Sometimes we have to put aside ego to create something,” she said. “You’re one of the few directors of note still working in this town. People want to see what you make. Besides, you’re one of the few men in Hollywood that doesn’t try to fuck me everytime we meet.”

“But I did fuck you.”

“No you didn’t. You were briefly in a coma because you were shot in the head. As much as it disturbs me, Michael Cimino did not tempt you to forgo your talent and live a normal life. Your brain was simply losing oxygen. It was a death dream.”

“Damn it Kat! It was real! I was there!”

“I don’t care. Now will you please come to your senses and talk to Greta!”

“Absolutely not! Is this all you suits want?! You just want to give me millions of dollars to do something I love?! Not this time! You can’t fire me from this production! I quit!”

I stood up and grabbed my coat.

“Whatever dude. I’ll see you next week,” Kat said.

I stormed out and slammed the door.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Things n such

I’m gonna keep saying this until the internet listens: stop trying to adapt Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian into a movie.

But if Hollywood is hellbent on doing so, my instructions above is how you do it.

I actually agree with McCarthy, the novel is not unadaptable. The problem is that Hollywood thinks too big. Last I heard, David Fincher was interested in the project. But I can’t stress this enough: no typical Hollywood director can tackle this material.

Not Ridley Scott. Not Spielberg. Not Tarantino. Not Fincher.

The novel is a nightmarish interpretation of the old west and it needs to be treated as such. You need a director that visually speaks that language. Therefore you need maestro of horror to do the job.

The Paul Schrader method

Of course I worship the ground Paul Schrader walks on but our writing methods couldn’t be farther apart. I would be interested though in seeing if I’d make the cut for his screenwriting class. I’d think he’d let me in if I disclosed my insecurities over having an average penis. That would make a fascinating discussion over 10 weeks.

But Paul’s method is a little too structured. Naturally, writing 101 tells you to utilize metaphor in place of a real world problem. As Schrader said, fiction allows us to see all the drama and complexities play out through the filter of metaphor. I also agree that we need limitations in art (Nicholas Meyer has echoed a similar sentiment). But I think that’s where our philosophies diverge.

To me, I approach art, or writing, as an ongoing activity. It very much exits in the present. That’s why I rarely take time to develop a story. If I have a concept, I run with it. Of course, like Schrader, I filter my own concerns, thoughts, and insecurities into the story and watch it play out. But the spontaneity is where the fun is.

That’s why I wish I was a television writer. Give me a story and a deadline and let’s see what happens. I’m not saying that it will be any good, but I’d certainly have a good time!

Maybe my writing suffers because of this “method”. I don’t know. But this was an interesting lecture by Schrader.

Death of a theater

There’s a lot of bitching about the supposed death of movie theaters. The argument goes that the only way to appreciate filmmaking is on the silver screen with a fellow audience. Because of the proliferation of internet streaming, the communal experience cinema has fallen by the wayside.

Do I agree with this assessment?

Yes.

Do I give a shit?

No.

Perhaps I became a cinephile at the wrong time. I mean, I get it. I really do. But the dynamics of the filmgoing experience has changed. And that’s alright. EVERYTHING changes at some time or another.

But I quit caring about movie theaters a long time ago. Long before COVID even. The last time I’ve been to a theater was in 2017 to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi. This is largely because I have truthfully never bought into the “communal experience” of watching a movie.

I remember watching Joe Dirt in theaters long ago. I realized it was funny before everyone else did; before it became a cult classic. When Joe Dirt threatened to blow up the Grand Canyon and got poop spilled all over him, I laughed hysterically. Everyone else sat in their seats stone-faced. Audiences (except for me, of course) wouldn’t know what was funny if it bit them in the nuts. So fuck what other people think.

My argument is this: if you want to enjoy a movie, it has to be just YOU and the film. My love of cinema didn’t start in the theater. It started at 11 years old, after midnight, while watching Taxi Driver on Cinemax. Of course I was watching Cinemax at that hour to see some gratuitous T&A. At least initially. In fact, if anyone caught me, I would have probably quickly switched to porn and denied I was watching the classics of cinema. The first time I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey, it was with some friends and, to be cool, I had to say it was the most boring thing I’ve ever seen. But in my heart, I knew it was genius. At 12 years old, I stayed up late to watch The Deer Hunter and cried myself to sleep. I never told anyone that until years later. Enjoying a movie, to me, should be an intimate experience; it should reveal things about yourself both good and bad…things that you may never tell another living soul. THAT’S the power of filmmaking.

This isn’t to say that theaters don’t have their purpose. But I’d argue that theaters simply offer the spectacle of film. They serve a similar purpose to churches. Sure, everyone can come together and listen to a sermon, but to have a truly transcendental religious experience, one must transcend the spectacle and enter a state of gnosis; of opening one’s mind to things unseen. Movies can be more than a spectacle. They can be a revelation.

Honestly, the slow death of movie theaters probably started with VHS.

Oof

Other than the James Bond films, I typically don’t pay too much attention to new releases. But I was so blown away by Midsommar that I’ve been loosely following the career of Ari Aster. Originally called Disappointment Blvd, the trailer for Aster’s next film Beau is Afraid has recently dropped, and, well, I gotta say…Beau is afraid for Beau is Afraid.

Perhaps I should be glad that the same guy who made the short film The Strange Thing About the Johnsons is getting carte blanche in Hollywood, but a cursory glance at the history of filmmaking will tell you that’s almost never a good thing. Ever heard of Heaven’s Gate?

Damien Chazelle is the latest victim of this curse of talent. You make a few great films on a modest budget and suddenly you’re the toast of the town. Producers then give you $100,000,000 to do whatever you want and you create a three-hour, self-indulgent mess called Babylon.

Not to say that Beau is Afraid won’t be interesting. One man’s unfortunate adventure to visit his mother sounds like a hoot. But here’s the problem: it’s also three hours long!

Very few movies across history deserve to be that long; maybe, like, five total. And if there’s any genre that absolutely should NOT be that long, it’s horror AND comedy. Audiences should stand up and say to Hollywood: if you can’t tell a good story in under two hours, you don’t deserve to be making movies.

That’s a hill I will die on.

But maybe Aster has earned the benefit of the doubt. Allegedly, we’ll be shown Phoenix’s gigantic (prosthetic) testicles. Maybe when his mother says “I am so sorry for what your daddy passed down to you,” she’s referring to his abnormally large wang? So this might be a story about the burdens of having a big dick. If that’s the case, then I think three hours are warranted (because I can relate, of course).

But if we really wanted to maximize Aster’s talents (Hollywood, if you’re reading), here’s my suggestion: Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Producers have been trying to adapt that book for years, but the truth is that it’s nearly unadaptable. UNLESS you have someone like Aster’s sensibilities. Clearly, much of the novel would be cut out, but Hollywood needs a horror film director to tackle that material. Moreover, you need a director that’s willing to pull the trigger on disturbing subject matters. For a guy that made a short film about a dude that sexually abuses his father, Ari Aster is just the man for the job 👍