Brilliant!"
I
held my breath. There was a day when words like brilliant coming from a
director would send me into a double backflip and have me high-fiving Elmo. But
after years in Hollywood, I understood exaggeration was the norm and, further,
that it was sometimes used as a left hook to set me up for the right punch.
"I'm
over here in Paris seeing so many avant-garde films— films that take chances,
break barriers, change the way people think.
Groundbreaking
work and I'm thinking, my God, this film Teague Richfield is writing has that
same quality, that potential, and so I wanted to call you while I'm still
enthused from my last screening and give you une petite matiere a reflexion.
He
chuckled at turning a cliché like "food for thought" into
something that sounded a lot sexier. "We're not driving enough young
people to the theaters because we're frightened, don't you agree?"
I
never thought about young people or theaters, being interested in neither. I
only thought about stories: writing them, living them, breathing them, but my
breath alone would not resuscitate a screenplay into a motion picture. It was
Jacowitz whose creative CPR counted. So I agreed with him and then hated myself
for agreeing, because I had no idea what I was agreeing to—to Jeremy Jacowitz,
I guessed—agreeing that whatever he wanted me to agree to was fine so long as
he liked my first draft. I was no better than any other Hollywood wannabe, and
it put me in a bad mood.
"We're
afraid to be borderline, we're afraid to say everything is okay, we're afraid
to commit in the most fundamental, elemental, raw way. I want us to be
fearless, Teague, break open our heads..."
I
was getting more irritated as Jeremy Jacowitz led me on a forced march through
his mental recesses, a trip short on scenic variety. Give me the notes. What
the hell are you trying to say? I know you’re working up to something that
undoubtedly involves six-inch heels and a spiked ball.
"...and
so I feel strongly that we go back to the abused wife—"
He'd
apparently said several paragraphs between the time I was listening to him and
the time I was listening to myself.
"You're
right. It has emotional purity," I interjected, feeling myself grow
calmer.
"And
an alien comes down and has sex with her."
Left
hook, right jab, KO! "An
alien?" I said, reeling.
"Aliens
represent our primal fears, our alien selves, and this woman represents our
inner core as we confront that fear—"
"She's
raped by—"
"Attacked
at first, but then it's consensual." Jacowitz was serious.
"She
has consensual sex with an alien?"
"And
because she's been abused and no one has believed the abuse, why would they
believe she's had sex with an alien?" he said.
"SHE
CAN'T HAVE SEX WITH AN ALIEN!"
"EXACTLY!"
He had obviously mistaken my shouting for enthusiasm and was matching it with
his own. "So of course they COMMIT HER!" He shouted as triumphantly
as if the curtain had rung down on Gone with the Weird.
"I
should be committed for ever selling you my story. I can't write this
screenplay!"
"Don't
worry, we can hire a cowriter. I know a great guy—"
"I
want out. I quit! My attorney will call your...aliens."
I
hung up and turned to Callie, who seemed completely untroubled by my giving a
huge motion-picture director the figurative finger. "I'm fucked. I unsold
my screenplay."
"You
did the right thing."
"How
can I prostitute myself any further? It's ridiculous. I don't want to write
movies about abused women who have consensual sex with aliens, even if it attracts
every date-night teenage boy on the planet."
"What
happens now?"
"My
attorney calls and yells at me. Barrett Silvers calls and yells at me. People
threaten that I'll never work again and I fret."
"Great
business." Callie tried to pull me down on the bed and kiss me but I
fended her off reflexively, wanting to pace. "Come over here and lie
down," she said, wanting, I surmised, to relieve my tension in ways I
should have loved but
I
held my breath. There was a day when words like brilliant coming from a
director would send me into a double backflip and have me high-fiving Elmo. But
after years in Hollywood, I understood exaggeration was the norm and, further,
that it was sometimes used as a left hook to set me up for the right punch.
"I'm
over here in Paris seeing so many avant-garde films— films that take chances,
break barriers, change the way people think.
Groundbreaking
work and I'm thinking, my God, this film Teague Richfield is writing has that
same quality, that potential, and so I wanted to call you while I'm still
enthused from my last screening and give you une petite matiere a reflexion.
He
chuckled at turning a cliché like "food for thought" into
something that sounded a lot sexier. "We're not driving enough young
people to the theaters because we're frightened, don't you agree?"
I
never thought about young people or theaters, being interested in neither. I
only thought about stories: writing them, living them, breathing them, but my
breath alone would not resuscitate a screenplay into a motion picture. It was
Jacowitz whose creative CPR counted. So I agreed with him and then hated myself
for agreeing, because I had no idea what I was agreeing to—to Jeremy Jacowitz,
I guessed—agreeing that whatever he wanted me to agree to was fine so long as
he liked my first draft. I was no better than any other Hollywood wannabe, and
it put me in a bad mood.
"We're
afraid to be borderline, we're afraid to say everything is okay, we're afraid
to commit in the most fundamental, elemental, raw way. I want us to be
fearless, Teague, break open our heads..."
I
was getting more irritated as Jeremy Jacowitz led me on a forced march through
his mental recesses, a trip short on scenic variety. Give me the notes. What
the hell are you trying to say? I know you’re working up to something that
undoubtedly involves six-inch heels and a spiked ball.
"...and
so I feel strongly that we go back to the abused wife—"
He'd
apparently said several paragraphs between the time I was listening to him and
the time I was listening to myself.
"You're
right. It has emotional purity," I interjected, feeling myself grow
calmer.
"And
an alien comes down and has sex with her."
Left
hook, right jab, KO! "An
alien?" I said, reeling.
"Aliens
represent our primal fears, our alien selves, and this woman represents our
inner core as we confront that fear—"
"She's
raped by—"
"Attacked
at first, but then it's consensual." Jacowitz was serious.
"She
has consensual sex with an alien?"
"And
because she's been abused and no one has believed the abuse, why would they
believe she's had sex with an alien?" he said.
"SHE
CAN'T HAVE SEX WITH AN ALIEN!"
"EXACTLY!"
He had obviously mistaken my shouting for enthusiasm and was matching it with
his own. "So of course they COMMIT HER!" He shouted as triumphantly
as if the curtain had rung down on Gone with the Weird.
"I
should be committed for ever selling you my story. I can't write this
screenplay!"
"Don't
worry, we can hire a cowriter. I know a great guy—"
"I
want out. I quit! My attorney will call your...aliens."
I
hung up and turned to Callie, who seemed completely untroubled by my giving a
huge motion-picture director the figurative finger. "I'm fucked. I unsold
my screenplay."
"You
did the right thing."
"How
can I prostitute myself any further? It's ridiculous. I don't want to write
movies about abused women who have consensual sex with aliens, even if it attracts
every date-night teenage boy on the planet."
"What
happens now?"
"My
attorney calls and yells at me. Barrett Silvers calls and yells at me. People
threaten that I'll never work again and I fret."
"Great
business." Callie tried to pull me down on the bed and kiss me but I
fended her off reflexively, wanting to pace. "Come over here and lie
down," she said, wanting, I surmised, to relieve my tension in ways I
should have loved but
Similar Books
