I passed the 60-page mark on my current screenplay. This means it's beginning to be a real screenplay and not just 50 pages of shit. Although I suppose it could now be 60 pages of shit, but that's unlikely. I tend to believe the more pages you rack up, let less fecal a script seems. Less pages means more room for it to just flame out as you realize it was a bad idea from the get-go. When you're deep in there, 40, 50, 60 pages in, how can it suck? How can you have chased this sucky idea for that long? Answer: you couldn't have, your good sense wouldn't have let you. Then again, I once got coverage that said a script I wrote was a "bad idea badly written." So I don't know. Hemingway's got his opinion about the first draft of everything, so I guess by his lights it's all shit no matter how many pages I log - that is, until I turn it into a second draft. Funny aside... a quote from Jim Jarmusch, spoken to a NY Times reporter at this year's Cannes: "I don't do drafts." You tell 'em, Jim.
Had a major revelation yesterday that basically gave me the whole ending. It was a real eureka moment, one of those kind that come few and far between in a writer's life, and it was exhilerating (sp?). Really. I my emailed my old writing partner. I called my girlfriend. I wanted to call my mom, but it was too late in New Jersey.
Chatted up the writer of Crash and Million Dollar Baby, who works out of theOffice these days. Nice guy. Smokes a lot. I should smoke. He looks pensive when he does it. Of course it's probably the Oscar nomination that makes him look pensive.
Writing a 12 minute short with Matt, my newer writing partner, to submit to a festival and/or shoot ourselves. It follows the night and day Dr. John Barry Roundtree, spiritual guru, has a life altering meltdown involving his long-lost mistress and a contract killer. Prediction: HIGH-larity.
Submitted some writing samples to The Bedford Diaries, Tom Fontana's new show, which was picked up for next year. Those of you who know me know I've been trying for ten years to vie for a job with him. Now I'm in the running and it's all up to my talent. Whooooo boy. I'm doomed.
Still no script from the Get Low director. And here it is nearly Memorial Day. Hmm.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Small Change
A few of you, my devoted public, have mentioned that it's hard to post a comment on here since it involves getting an account, filling out shit, etc. Well, I've gone into the settings and made some changes to hopefully rectify this. Anyone wants to try and see if it's easier, go for it. It's worth it. For me. I need the attention.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Good Game
I should be at the gym, but as promised, here's a quick wrap-up of my first social engagement with the producers of Get Low.
I met the brothers Zanuck at their Beverly Hills office at quarter of 7, and was introduced to their friend, Bill. He was a nice red-haired Pacific Palisader by way of Canada, and we got along just fine. Turns out Bill is the guy who put together the budget & shooting schedule for Get Low. And through talking to him, I picked up a few tid bits about the status of the film, most notably that Louisiana now leads the race for locations (which is on account of the extremely friendly tax laws regarding film production). Sorry North Carolina.
We all took Dean's car to the game, and for a good long while everyone chatted about baseball and hockey while I watched traffic out the window, only to chime in with an occasional laugh whenever they referenced an obscure shortstop or a goalie's memorable facial hair. Getting to our seats (section 20, behind the visitor dugout) with a beer and a Dodger Dog took no time, and we were witness to a really great game in which Milton Bradley took the Dodgers, down by two, to a 7-4 win off an 8th inning grand slam. Now, I'm not much of a sports guy, but I'm not made of stone: it was unbelievably exciting, and Dean later told me he had never seen two grand slams in one game (the Braves lead was on account of an earlier grand slam, which Dean blamed on my mere sports-inept presence).
Bill and I sat next to one another and talked movies, and since the guy's been in the business a while, he had some pretty good stories about Pacino, Streep, Lumet, Costner, Eastwood and Johnny Knoxville. Soon enough the big fun of the game wound down and victory was imminent, and we left riding a high from the great 8th inning rally.
I was home by 11, greeted by my two neighbors sitting in the courtyard. They offered me a drink, and I thought it was a fine idea, so I obliged. They are both in their own ways - as are most people in this city - in the business, so we talked and gossiped and swapped war stories well into the night, promising to have an apartment complex BBQ in the near future. It probably won't happen, but - as with most people in this city - we were just talking a good game.
Okay, off to the gym to sweat off two Dodger Dogs and an $8.00 Michelob. Until next time.
I met the brothers Zanuck at their Beverly Hills office at quarter of 7, and was introduced to their friend, Bill. He was a nice red-haired Pacific Palisader by way of Canada, and we got along just fine. Turns out Bill is the guy who put together the budget & shooting schedule for Get Low. And through talking to him, I picked up a few tid bits about the status of the film, most notably that Louisiana now leads the race for locations (which is on account of the extremely friendly tax laws regarding film production). Sorry North Carolina.
We all took Dean's car to the game, and for a good long while everyone chatted about baseball and hockey while I watched traffic out the window, only to chime in with an occasional laugh whenever they referenced an obscure shortstop or a goalie's memorable facial hair. Getting to our seats (section 20, behind the visitor dugout) with a beer and a Dodger Dog took no time, and we were witness to a really great game in which Milton Bradley took the Dodgers, down by two, to a 7-4 win off an 8th inning grand slam. Now, I'm not much of a sports guy, but I'm not made of stone: it was unbelievably exciting, and Dean later told me he had never seen two grand slams in one game (the Braves lead was on account of an earlier grand slam, which Dean blamed on my mere sports-inept presence).
Bill and I sat next to one another and talked movies, and since the guy's been in the business a while, he had some pretty good stories about Pacino, Streep, Lumet, Costner, Eastwood and Johnny Knoxville. Soon enough the big fun of the game wound down and victory was imminent, and we left riding a high from the great 8th inning rally.
I was home by 11, greeted by my two neighbors sitting in the courtyard. They offered me a drink, and I thought it was a fine idea, so I obliged. They are both in their own ways - as are most people in this city - in the business, so we talked and gossiped and swapped war stories well into the night, promising to have an apartment complex BBQ in the near future. It probably won't happen, but - as with most people in this city - we were just talking a good game.
Okay, off to the gym to sweat off two Dodger Dogs and an $8.00 Michelob. Until next time.
Friday, May 13, 2005
TMI
I don't know what it is about being "self employed," but I seem to have way too much stuff to do; all these magazine articles to catch up on, all sorts of podcasts (mankind's greatest invention) to listen to, all sorts of news items to keep up with... and it suddenly seems too much. I guess if I was either 1) living in a mountain retreat, or 2) Busy with work, I wouldn't have the sheer time it takes to try and keep up, and I certainly wouldn't have time to complain about it on my bloggg. Maybe it's time to fill out that application at Borders.
Things progress with the screenplay. I sent the first third to my old writing partner Scott, all the way out in Atlanta. We'll see what he's got to say for me. Yesterday I spent at least five hours writing the same scene over and over, only to realize that it was crap, and that I had to go back and take another swing. It's the kind of thing that happens all the time, so I'm not mad. I guess that's the way it goes in writing (and life [resigned sigh])... you gotta plow through the seemingly important bullshit only to realize how wrongheaded and misguided you were, just so you can finally look at something the right way. Like deglazing a pan. Sorta. I don't know if that's an apposite analogy.
Open question to the four people who read this: in the spirit of file-sharing and freedom of information and all that good stuff, I was considering posting the first draft of my oft-delayed screenplay if and when I finish it. Lots of friends ask me to send them something to read and I never do. So I thought I might post the first draft, and some subsequent drafts just to sort of, I don't know... see what happens. I would copyright it, of course, thanks for asking, and I would, I dunno. Just. See where it goes. Anyone think this is a good / bad / legally actionable idea? Is there anyone out there?
Okay, for next time, I swear, I'm going to try and spruce up this thing, post a few pictures, a few more links, something. This is pretty dry, I know it. Also, next time, a full report on the Producers-taking-me-to-a-Dodger-game aftermath.
Things progress with the screenplay. I sent the first third to my old writing partner Scott, all the way out in Atlanta. We'll see what he's got to say for me. Yesterday I spent at least five hours writing the same scene over and over, only to realize that it was crap, and that I had to go back and take another swing. It's the kind of thing that happens all the time, so I'm not mad. I guess that's the way it goes in writing (and life [resigned sigh])... you gotta plow through the seemingly important bullshit only to realize how wrongheaded and misguided you were, just so you can finally look at something the right way. Like deglazing a pan. Sorta. I don't know if that's an apposite analogy.
Open question to the four people who read this: in the spirit of file-sharing and freedom of information and all that good stuff, I was considering posting the first draft of my oft-delayed screenplay if and when I finish it. Lots of friends ask me to send them something to read and I never do. So I thought I might post the first draft, and some subsequent drafts just to sort of, I don't know... see what happens. I would copyright it, of course, thanks for asking, and I would, I dunno. Just. See where it goes. Anyone think this is a good / bad / legally actionable idea? Is there anyone out there?
Okay, for next time, I swear, I'm going to try and spruce up this thing, post a few pictures, a few more links, something. This is pretty dry, I know it. Also, next time, a full report on the Producers-taking-me-to-a-Dodger-game aftermath.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Nothing's ever dead, only sleeping
New screenplay is going along well. I stopped blindly ploughing forward and looked back over what I had done and tried to think it all through. Man, it was thrilling. Nothing I like to do more than think; I'm not a doer, I'm a thinker. Isn't that what this blog proves, really?
The on-again-off-again pilot I wrote with my partner Matt ("Crime & Order: NY") has been once again resurrected from the grave and will get us a meeting some time next week with a company called A Band Apart. It proves what I'm coming to learn about show business, which I stated up there in the title line.
The other interesting/funny/slightly nerve-wracking thing is that after two plus years of a strictly business relationship with the producers of Get Low, suddenly they have invited me and my manager to a Dodger game. I will be going alone (as far as I know) since my manager will be out of town on business. And I am touched by the invitation to do something social, of course, but the Sicilian in me can't help but wonder if it isn't the perfect way to have me whacked. The sort of thing where they suggest I run up the concession stand and get a few bags of Cracker Jacks, and then while I'm waiting in line, some thick-necked goon asks me to follow him into a utility closet, where he then drapes a canvas bag over my head and beats me with a Louisville Slugger.
Or it could just be that they're being thoughtful and nice.
The on-again-off-again pilot I wrote with my partner Matt ("Crime & Order: NY") has been once again resurrected from the grave and will get us a meeting some time next week with a company called A Band Apart. It proves what I'm coming to learn about show business, which I stated up there in the title line.
The other interesting/funny/slightly nerve-wracking thing is that after two plus years of a strictly business relationship with the producers of Get Low, suddenly they have invited me and my manager to a Dodger game. I will be going alone (as far as I know) since my manager will be out of town on business. And I am touched by the invitation to do something social, of course, but the Sicilian in me can't help but wonder if it isn't the perfect way to have me whacked. The sort of thing where they suggest I run up the concession stand and get a few bags of Cracker Jacks, and then while I'm waiting in line, some thick-necked goon asks me to follow him into a utility closet, where he then drapes a canvas bag over my head and beats me with a Louisville Slugger.
Or it could just be that they're being thoughtful and nice.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
The Spine's the Thing
I'm back from New York and driving from place to place, living the life of an itinerant writer. No office, no desk, no smartly-dressed assistant. Today my exploits took me from Mani's Bakery on Fairfax, to the Beverly Hills Library (where there was a most disruptive fire drill), to the Noura Cafe (where I saw tattoo enthusiast Fred Durst), to the relatively new coffee shop on Cahuenga and Sunset, Groundwork (in front of which a motorcyclist was injured in accident, though not badly enough to forgo a cigarette while awaiting medical attention). I feel like I really got a mouthful of Los Angeles today. At least the coffee shops.
Digression: sooner or later, I am going to write about the coffee shops. The "public spaces," too. Anyplace that's amenable to writers and their particular needs. I'll rate them in the detail I expect you would expect from a writer, and might even employ a scale. Something like 1-5, 1 being Hell, i.e. writing while sitting on the men's room toilet in Jumo's Clown Room, 5 being Heaven, i.e. writing at that pay-as-you-go place theOffice... if it were free and in Los Feliz.
ANYway,
My task for the next five weeks is to finish the script I've been nesting on for, oh, the last couple of years. Long ago, I decided to take the I'll-just-let-it-tell-itself approach after spending literally years grinding out the structure, structure, structure on Get Low. I was exhasausted of fucking structure. I just wanted the freedom to write, man. Well, a hell of a lot of good that did me, four years down the pike. There's kind of a *reason for structure. Go figure. So guess what? Back to plotting it out moment for moment until the spineless blob of a "story" I've puked up makes some sense. And so that's what I've done for the last two days (my first two days back at it since I dropped the ball in NY). I've scrapped all the stuff that was going nowhere and laid it all out. It's all about the outline, I don't care who says otherwise. I've tried it every other way and it doesn't work any other way. It just doesn't. And it sucks.
Digression: sooner or later, I am going to write about the coffee shops. The "public spaces," too. Anyplace that's amenable to writers and their particular needs. I'll rate them in the detail I expect you would expect from a writer, and might even employ a scale. Something like 1-5, 1 being Hell, i.e. writing while sitting on the men's room toilet in Jumo's Clown Room, 5 being Heaven, i.e. writing at that pay-as-you-go place theOffice... if it were free and in Los Feliz.
ANYway,
My task for the next five weeks is to finish the script I've been nesting on for, oh, the last couple of years. Long ago, I decided to take the I'll-just-let-it-tell-itself approach after spending literally years grinding out the structure, structure, structure on Get Low. I was exhasausted of fucking structure. I just wanted the freedom to write, man. Well, a hell of a lot of good that did me, four years down the pike. There's kind of a *reason for structure. Go figure. So guess what? Back to plotting it out moment for moment until the spineless blob of a "story" I've puked up makes some sense. And so that's what I've done for the last two days (my first two days back at it since I dropped the ball in NY). I've scrapped all the stuff that was going nowhere and laid it all out. It's all about the outline, I don't care who says otherwise. I've tried it every other way and it doesn't work any other way. It just doesn't. And it sucks.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Indulgent Self-Pitying Bullshit
I have ideas. Things kicking around. Things I'd like to chase down, figure out, write about. TV scripts, film scripts; I still have the notion of trying my hand at a novel - but my priorities have recently been put in a new light. Right before I left L.A. for another round of freelance work in New York, three weeks ago, I was told about the projected start date for Get Low. Sept. 12, as I mentioned in the previous entry. Backtiming from then, it means the script that I'm currently writing has to be bagged, stuffed and mounted by the middle of June so that I have something to bring a producer or studio when the project is officially announced in the trade papers and I hopefully (nay, must) begin meeting people around town. And yet I feel stalled. I can't get any time to write here in New York, but I wonder if that's really the problem. I wonder if the script is begotten of a bad idea. I have been trying to write this story in some version or another since 2001. I wonder if I am a would-be one hit wonder. I am pretty sure I can bring it home, but I'm just as sure that it could languish in my mind forever.
It has been a difficult time for me lately, really for a while now. I guess I mean mentally or emotionally or whatever. I suppose us writers are prone to self-scrutiny and introspection and even neurosis since we lead lives of sensitivity and thoughtfulness and solitude. So maybe I've chosen a vocation that plays to my weaknesses just as strongly as my strengths. Or maybe it is nothing so conspiratorial as my profession's influence upon me. Maybe I was born melancholy and indecisive and destined to gravitate toward this oh so impeccibly tailored job. Or maybe, finally, I am in love with nothing more than the idea of being a sourpuss.
I do know that I suddenly feel under pressure to prove I can write, something I thought I had already done. I feel the urgency to write the right thing, thus proving my value as a commodity to Hollywood filmmakers. I also feel the need to be myself, write the kind of things I want to live with for years at a time; to develop ideas that I find interesting no matter the likelyhood of financial success; and to challenge myself to be not merely good, but excellent.
As I prepare to return to my home in L.A., I consider the choices I'm faced with in the coming weeks regarding my state of mental and emotional health, but also what work I devote myself to. There is weird static in the air and the sky is green. Something's coming.
The wonderful thing about writing is that it is an escape, a dream. By writing all day I escape the problems and decisions I, and we all, must make just as surely as though I were taking a narcotic. I live in a world of my own creation and while away the hours in a fantasy that ends only when I decide. Could that be why I can't finish my script?
It has been a difficult time for me lately, really for a while now. I guess I mean mentally or emotionally or whatever. I suppose us writers are prone to self-scrutiny and introspection and even neurosis since we lead lives of sensitivity and thoughtfulness and solitude. So maybe I've chosen a vocation that plays to my weaknesses just as strongly as my strengths. Or maybe it is nothing so conspiratorial as my profession's influence upon me. Maybe I was born melancholy and indecisive and destined to gravitate toward this oh so impeccibly tailored job. Or maybe, finally, I am in love with nothing more than the idea of being a sourpuss.
I do know that I suddenly feel under pressure to prove I can write, something I thought I had already done. I feel the urgency to write the right thing, thus proving my value as a commodity to Hollywood filmmakers. I also feel the need to be myself, write the kind of things I want to live with for years at a time; to develop ideas that I find interesting no matter the likelyhood of financial success; and to challenge myself to be not merely good, but excellent.
As I prepare to return to my home in L.A., I consider the choices I'm faced with in the coming weeks regarding my state of mental and emotional health, but also what work I devote myself to. There is weird static in the air and the sky is green. Something's coming.
The wonderful thing about writing is that it is an escape, a dream. By writing all day I escape the problems and decisions I, and we all, must make just as surely as though I were taking a narcotic. I live in a world of my own creation and while away the hours in a fantasy that ends only when I decide. Could that be why I can't finish my script?
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
A Date
September 12th. That's the projected shoot date. We'll either be in Georgia or North Carolina September 12th. Word came from the producers via email late last night. They're going to send us preliminary budgets and location stuff today. And so it seems like the pieces are being put into position.
Strange to have an actual date. It makes it sort of real. You can circle it on the calendar. The 12th. That's really only a couple of months from now. Four days before my birthday. I'd turn 32 on set. Celebrate my birthday with grips and gaffers and catering people.
Strange to have an actual date. It makes it sort of real. You can circle it on the calendar. The 12th. That's really only a couple of months from now. Four days before my birthday. I'd turn 32 on set. Celebrate my birthday with grips and gaffers and catering people.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Big News
So the big news is that I'm sick again, the third time in about nine weeks. I think maybe I'm dying. I gotta think the whole thing is cancer related, or at least the early stages of that disease where you freeze in one position for years at a time. Like in that Oliver Sachs book. I'm doomed. I gotta go to the doctor tomorrow for the official diagnosis. Probable scenario: "Plague, son. You have Bubonic Plague."
A few things have been going on here in LaLa town. The most significant is that the film is starting to take the shape of one of those hurricane reports. Certain meteorilogical phenomenon are unfolding off the coast of South America and everyone down at the National Weather Service is keeping an eye on things as they develop. It's too early to predict a path or a place of direct impact, but it all has the air of inevitability. Soon charts will be drawn up and computer models will animate courses and trajectories and The National Guard will mobilize and take appropriate evacuation measures.
The producers have hired a line producer, basically a nuts-and-bolts money guy, to draw up a budget; various film commissions have been notified of our intent to shoot this thing, and as a result are courting us for our business; and the director is back from shooting a pilot and is set to retool the script (if he hasn't already begun). The pieces are falling into place. Nothing is really happening to me, per se, but the production is more than ever seeming to take on a life of its own.
Me, I'm doing a little more work for that production company in New York, the one that does all the Food Network stuff. I'm also waiting for the official word on a job my writing partner and I pitched for. It's a improv show on Comedy Central that is loosely described as Reno 911 in a crappy San Diego hospital. We haven't heard no, but we haven't heard yes. In a way, we're not out, we're just not in.
Misc:
Tonight NBC's version of "The Office" premieres. Let's all keep our fingers crossed.
I do not pretend to have discovered this excellent web radio station, but I am giving it my full-hearted endorsement. If you care at all about good music, tune in and rejoice.
God bless Tylenol PM
A few things have been going on here in LaLa town. The most significant is that the film is starting to take the shape of one of those hurricane reports. Certain meteorilogical phenomenon are unfolding off the coast of South America and everyone down at the National Weather Service is keeping an eye on things as they develop. It's too early to predict a path or a place of direct impact, but it all has the air of inevitability. Soon charts will be drawn up and computer models will animate courses and trajectories and The National Guard will mobilize and take appropriate evacuation measures.
The producers have hired a line producer, basically a nuts-and-bolts money guy, to draw up a budget; various film commissions have been notified of our intent to shoot this thing, and as a result are courting us for our business; and the director is back from shooting a pilot and is set to retool the script (if he hasn't already begun). The pieces are falling into place. Nothing is really happening to me, per se, but the production is more than ever seeming to take on a life of its own.
Me, I'm doing a little more work for that production company in New York, the one that does all the Food Network stuff. I'm also waiting for the official word on a job my writing partner and I pitched for. It's a improv show on Comedy Central that is loosely described as Reno 911 in a crappy San Diego hospital. We haven't heard no, but we haven't heard yes. In a way, we're not out, we're just not in.
Misc:
Tonight NBC's version of "The Office" premieres. Let's all keep our fingers crossed.
I do not pretend to have discovered this excellent web radio station, but I am giving it my full-hearted endorsement. If you care at all about good music, tune in and rejoice.
God bless Tylenol PM
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
The Writer's Lot
Not much been going on since I been kickin it in New York. I mean there has, but since I'm ensconced in the dreamy chill of the city I haven't really had to pay all that much attention to my "career," such as it is, either here or in LA.
Life in Manhattan has been good, and I am glad to have been extended for these few more couple of weeks, although bedding on the brother's couch is growing more loathesome, the sleep more restless, and the routine increasingly discombobulating. I guess as good as a vacation from life can be, all good things must come to an end. To that point, I should discuss the ostensible subject of this blog, my life in showbiz.
These days, I have been sort of brushed aside as far as the current rewrite of my script is concerned. Early last week I got a call from the producers who asked for my blessing in assigning a new draft of the screenplay to the director. They felt the time was ripe for him to take a swing at achieving his vision. Now perhaps I have been numbed by the process, but I'm not as righteously indignant as perhaps you might think. I can sum up my feelings by quoting Bela Lugosi in Ed Wood. "Let's shoot this fucker." Seriously. If they think that getting him to make with the clackety-clack will hasten the process, God Bless. I sure am tired to death of flogging the horse's bloated carcass. Maybe he'll even bring some fresh insight to it. And I'll go one step further and be charitable; I think he'll do a good job. Might even improve it. Of course, he could never get it perfect because he's not me. But I don't expect perfection, only integrity (which I know is scarce in Hollywood, but go ahead... call me a naif). Above all the thing that lets me sleep at night is not faith, hope, or charity, but the iron-clad knowledge that there are too many checks and balances in place (the producers power to ameliorate grievances; my ability to dash the whole project by walking away) for all hope to be lost in some terrible new draft. Put simply, no matter how bad he might shit the bed, we can always clean it up.
So I say, good luck then. As long as no one fucks me on credit, no one fucks me out of having some say in the subsequent rewrites and polishes, and no one fucks me the whole way down the slippery slope, then I will be one secure, satisfied, Hollywood writer.
Oh I'm so fucked.
Life in Manhattan has been good, and I am glad to have been extended for these few more couple of weeks, although bedding on the brother's couch is growing more loathesome, the sleep more restless, and the routine increasingly discombobulating. I guess as good as a vacation from life can be, all good things must come to an end. To that point, I should discuss the ostensible subject of this blog, my life in showbiz.
These days, I have been sort of brushed aside as far as the current rewrite of my script is concerned. Early last week I got a call from the producers who asked for my blessing in assigning a new draft of the screenplay to the director. They felt the time was ripe for him to take a swing at achieving his vision. Now perhaps I have been numbed by the process, but I'm not as righteously indignant as perhaps you might think. I can sum up my feelings by quoting Bela Lugosi in Ed Wood. "Let's shoot this fucker." Seriously. If they think that getting him to make with the clackety-clack will hasten the process, God Bless. I sure am tired to death of flogging the horse's bloated carcass. Maybe he'll even bring some fresh insight to it. And I'll go one step further and be charitable; I think he'll do a good job. Might even improve it. Of course, he could never get it perfect because he's not me. But I don't expect perfection, only integrity (which I know is scarce in Hollywood, but go ahead... call me a naif). Above all the thing that lets me sleep at night is not faith, hope, or charity, but the iron-clad knowledge that there are too many checks and balances in place (the producers power to ameliorate grievances; my ability to dash the whole project by walking away) for all hope to be lost in some terrible new draft. Put simply, no matter how bad he might shit the bed, we can always clean it up.
So I say, good luck then. As long as no one fucks me on credit, no one fucks me out of having some say in the subsequent rewrites and polishes, and no one fucks me the whole way down the slippery slope, then I will be one secure, satisfied, Hollywood writer.
Oh I'm so fucked.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
a little something for the effort
The show that I worked on last summer is finally going to be given its day in court. You may or may not recall it was named Carmageddon, then for undisclosed reasons renamed Carpocalypse, and basically consisted of rednecks driving into each other on a Florida speedway for 42 minutes. Ten weeks I worked on that show - on one single episode - and then Spike pulled the plug. Put another team of producers on. I've no idea how it turned out. But I'll get a chance to find out! It has apparently been finished and will get its short flicker of life beginning next Saturday night.
Curiously, Spike TV is promoting it here... but nowhere else that I can find (no bus ads, no billboards and certainly no tv spots), which can only mean the poor show is being unceremoniously dumped and will most certainly have an anonymous and ignominious death. But, what are you gonna do? That's TV. At least I got paid. I may have even gotten a credit! Of course, it will be buried under the the dozens of other triage doctors who swooped in to try and save the friggin thing.
Curiously, Spike TV is promoting it here... but nowhere else that I can find (no bus ads, no billboards and certainly no tv spots), which can only mean the poor show is being unceremoniously dumped and will most certainly have an anonymous and ignominious death. But, what are you gonna do? That's TV. At least I got paid. I may have even gotten a credit! Of course, it will be buried under the the dozens of other triage doctors who swooped in to try and save the friggin thing.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Apple Livin'...
...By which I mean couch surfing, but I'll take what I can get. I arrived in New York yesterday afternoon and promptly bivouacked on my brother's couch. Life is good. I am happy to be walking around the city, bundled up, in and out of warm buildings, up and down stairs, and on and off subway cars. A Jersey boy like me never loses his romance for the Big City. Today is the slow start of three weeks doing production work on some interstitial programming for Food Network. "Slow start" is because things are already running a little behind. It's hard to pin people down in the business of show, and this gig is no different than anything else. The honchos over at FN (my abbreviation) are hemming and hawing with direction and my bosses here are already inquiring about possibly extending my stay. Apart from the little lady back in Showbizwood, it sounds good to me. But we'll see. This is only day one.
I was monumentally sick last week, like, epically so. Monday I had obligated myself to turning in a draft of the screenplay by Thursday, and believe me it was all I could do to muster the strength to actually do so. I was combatting a head cold that knocked my inner ear out of whack, so I was suffering dizziness, crushing headaches and nausea. I literally typed up handwritten notes, then put my head on the desk and moaned in agony for a few minutes, and repeated until I was done. It was emblematic of the whole experience of rewriting.
Friday we all met - my manager, the two producers and the director - to discuss what notes we could before I took off... and we were there for four hours. I sniffled and snorted mucous through it all, and generally felt what little will I had left to be a big fabulous screenwriter seep out of my nose along with my will to live. Funnily enough, the director left half an hour into it to go to the doctor. He wasn't even sick. Ah well. I was just so out of it and completely FINISHED with the writing process for a while that I just let all the bad news wash over me. Yes, bad news, as in there is much, much more work to do on it. But the principals need to get their heads together before they give me solid direction... and I need a few weeks to just fucking forget about it. But the day will come. I hate it. I hope it dies soon. Puts me out of my misery. (Of course, I'll sing a different tune when I get a big paycheck. But for now, kill me.)
I was monumentally sick last week, like, epically so. Monday I had obligated myself to turning in a draft of the screenplay by Thursday, and believe me it was all I could do to muster the strength to actually do so. I was combatting a head cold that knocked my inner ear out of whack, so I was suffering dizziness, crushing headaches and nausea. I literally typed up handwritten notes, then put my head on the desk and moaned in agony for a few minutes, and repeated until I was done. It was emblematic of the whole experience of rewriting.
Friday we all met - my manager, the two producers and the director - to discuss what notes we could before I took off... and we were there for four hours. I sniffled and snorted mucous through it all, and generally felt what little will I had left to be a big fabulous screenwriter seep out of my nose along with my will to live. Funnily enough, the director left half an hour into it to go to the doctor. He wasn't even sick. Ah well. I was just so out of it and completely FINISHED with the writing process for a while that I just let all the bad news wash over me. Yes, bad news, as in there is much, much more work to do on it. But the principals need to get their heads together before they give me solid direction... and I need a few weeks to just fucking forget about it. But the day will come. I hate it. I hope it dies soon. Puts me out of my misery. (Of course, I'll sing a different tune when I get a big paycheck. But for now, kill me.)
Friday, January 21, 2005
Phone Keeps Ringing
I can't get anything done here. I have to get out of the house. I'm going to go to theOffice (that's how they sPell it) which is a place in Brentwood where you can pay to work. They've got the Aeron chairs and the fong shwey plants and one of those burbling water things... all very nice, but most importantly productive. And right now, that's the name of the game. I've just landed a couple weeks work in NYC and the script is going to have to be done by the the time I leave (which is looking like a week from Monday). Matter of fact, I don't know how they're going to give me notes on the thing with me out of town, but it's not my problem. That's why God made email.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Humility, screenwriting is thy name
This article from the NY Times is harrowing, depressing, daunting and crushingly honest. And it is the best, most accurate article I've ever come across about being an aspirant in Hollywood. If only I had read it seven years ago when I first moved here... I probably would have turned around and gone home.
Truly, deeply, sarcasm be damned... I am very lucky to be where I am. I bitch and moan and complain, but given the odds, given what I could be doing (writing all day, dreaming) versus what I am doing (writing all day, dreaming with Robert Duvall, a producer and a director attached) I should keep my mouth shut.
Truly, deeply, sarcasm be damned... I am very lucky to be where I am. I bitch and moan and complain, but given the odds, given what I could be doing (writing all day, dreaming) versus what I am doing (writing all day, dreaming with Robert Duvall, a producer and a director attached) I should keep my mouth shut.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Winter in the City
Encouraging words from Scott, my spritual guide/sometimes writing partner/story guru/fresh set of eyes. He read the 80 pages of the script (still got 20 to go) that I managed to crap slowly out over the last month and a half, and though I maintain a constant level of doom and gloom, he bucked my opinion that it's a total loss; he thinks it may even be better than it was before. Whuh? ...Let me tell you what, that little ray of hope might actually be enough for me to run with over these next, last, terrifically difficult pages. Because a hopeless writer is a short walk to a miserable drunk.
I feel like I haven'd done anything else in ages. Haven't read much, haven't watched my Netflix's, didn't even catch the Golden Globes. Gotta get this thing out off the docket so I can move on. And, you know, I mean move on to starvation, since I have no job, no money, no hope, etc.
Not much to report, and not much time to report it this morning. Although Sissy Spacek has now officially responded that she likes it. It's not quite "I'm in," but it's a good start. Other than that, I'm taking a few meetings here and there and fielding an offer to work in New York for the glorious month of February. Oh, can I? Can I be sleeted upon? Step in frozen slush puddles and icy garbage water? Joy! (Okay, but really, in another, less sarcastic way... joy!)
I feel like I haven'd done anything else in ages. Haven't read much, haven't watched my Netflix's, didn't even catch the Golden Globes. Gotta get this thing out off the docket so I can move on. And, you know, I mean move on to starvation, since I have no job, no money, no hope, etc.
Not much to report, and not much time to report it this morning. Although Sissy Spacek has now officially responded that she likes it. It's not quite "I'm in," but it's a good start. Other than that, I'm taking a few meetings here and there and fielding an offer to work in New York for the glorious month of February. Oh, can I? Can I be sleeted upon? Step in frozen slush puddles and icy garbage water? Joy! (Okay, but really, in another, less sarcastic way... joy!)
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Tabula Rasa
Fresh start to the new year. I guess that goes without saying. So why say it, Chris? It's hackneyed. Cliche. I'm a writer. I should know better. But I guess it's true. Actually, it's not even really that true. My start to the new year is a lot like my end to the old year: working on the rewrite. Yesterday was the first real day back at it, the first Monday after the two week grace period of Holiday meshugas. You could almost hear The Business slowly waking from its slumber; people not used to thinking about whatever silliness was on the docket December 20somethingth. If my attitude and enthusiasm were any indication of anyone else's attitudes and enthusiasm, then it was a slow day indeed. Today is not much better, although I am proud of myself for actually getting up when the alarm went off.
Slow as things are, there have been a few signs that people are ready to shake off the torpor of a two week holiday and get caught up on what's what. I got a call from my manager, my writing partner, the film director and the film producer. No one - except Matt, writing partner - had anything much to say, they were all just taking the temperature. (This is an expression I use but am not sure I fully endorse, as it had some subtly rectal connotations. It is however a chic phrase here in showbizwood, and maybe other places, too. I use it only because I am undecided about my feelings. More to follow.)
Matt mentioned that our long-loathed pilot for the Cop Comedy was percolating some interest at his agency and that perhaps we were going to move things to the next level, which is to say shop the thing around. So far, the people who have not liked it have all been FOWs (Friends Of the Writers) and so nothing tragic has really come of their disdain, professionally speaking. Who knows, maybe new life can be breathed into the once-moribund project that is Crime And Order: NY.
As for my rewrite, well, what is there to say other than it is slow, slow, slow? I am still stuck at the precipice of the 3rd Act, attempting to shore up all the little directives from the director before I lurch ahead into the fray. Truth is, it was good to have a little while away from it to get some perspective. If I did nothing else yesterday (and I did) I realized that some of the things that I'd written over the last few weeks were crap. Ah, the joy of being a writer!
A quick note about Million Dollar Baby: see it. I don't care if a few reviewers call its sentiments cheap or whatever else their problems are, it is a damned fine film and I don't blame the guy (Clint) for taking it over mine.* I would have. It's probably a better movie that Get Low will ever be. Or, a little less self-critically, it's the kind of movie that I would have taken over my movie, if that makes any sense.
*Clint was exclusively courted for Get Low about a year and change ago. He was circling the project for a while, but never committed one way or another. When he finally said he "liked it but didn't love it" we suspected he was passing. Then the trade papers announced Million Dollar Baby, and we knew the horse was out of the stable. So to speak. This does not mean I liken Clint Eastwood to an animal. In no way whatsoever. Although, if he were an animal - specifically a horse - I suppose he'd be Man-O-War or Secretariat, depending on which one lived longer and aged more gracefully.
Slow as things are, there have been a few signs that people are ready to shake off the torpor of a two week holiday and get caught up on what's what. I got a call from my manager, my writing partner, the film director and the film producer. No one - except Matt, writing partner - had anything much to say, they were all just taking the temperature. (This is an expression I use but am not sure I fully endorse, as it had some subtly rectal connotations. It is however a chic phrase here in showbizwood, and maybe other places, too. I use it only because I am undecided about my feelings. More to follow.)
Matt mentioned that our long-loathed pilot for the Cop Comedy was percolating some interest at his agency and that perhaps we were going to move things to the next level, which is to say shop the thing around. So far, the people who have not liked it have all been FOWs (Friends Of the Writers) and so nothing tragic has really come of their disdain, professionally speaking. Who knows, maybe new life can be breathed into the once-moribund project that is Crime And Order: NY.
As for my rewrite, well, what is there to say other than it is slow, slow, slow? I am still stuck at the precipice of the 3rd Act, attempting to shore up all the little directives from the director before I lurch ahead into the fray. Truth is, it was good to have a little while away from it to get some perspective. If I did nothing else yesterday (and I did) I realized that some of the things that I'd written over the last few weeks were crap. Ah, the joy of being a writer!
A quick note about Million Dollar Baby: see it. I don't care if a few reviewers call its sentiments cheap or whatever else their problems are, it is a damned fine film and I don't blame the guy (Clint) for taking it over mine.* I would have. It's probably a better movie that Get Low will ever be. Or, a little less self-critically, it's the kind of movie that I would have taken over my movie, if that makes any sense.
*Clint was exclusively courted for Get Low about a year and change ago. He was circling the project for a while, but never committed one way or another. When he finally said he "liked it but didn't love it" we suspected he was passing. Then the trade papers announced Million Dollar Baby, and we knew the horse was out of the stable. So to speak. This does not mean I liken Clint Eastwood to an animal. In no way whatsoever. Although, if he were an animal - specifically a horse - I suppose he'd be Man-O-War or Secretariat, depending on which one lived longer and aged more gracefully.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
The Horror x2
Got an email from the director the other day. He was checking in. I told him things were moving ahead, which they are. I'm working my way ever further up river, toward the Heart of Darkness (the 3rd Act). Right now I'm somewhere near the 60 page mark - the point where all the easy comforts of civilzation begin to recede into the dense, otherworldly fog. I'm losing sight of the riverbanks, and strange sounds are in the distance. Madness awaits. But In is the only way Out. So every day I go over to Brentwood to work out of the Office. And it's going well. I guess, really, I can't complain much. Everything is going sorta well. I'm doing my part, you know?
I keep having these fantasies about getting paid, and having meetings, and fielding offers, and finishing some OTHER fucking script instead of this one, which has been my only output in, like, four years. Fantasies, fantasies, fantasies. Freedom. Money. New York. Money. Comeraderie. New York. An Oscar nomination. Money.
We're still waiting on actors. No answer from Robbins, Spacek, Cooper, or Poitier. Any one of them would be good. Any amount of money would be good. Well, not ANY. Like, six figures.
I keep having these fantasies about getting paid, and having meetings, and fielding offers, and finishing some OTHER fucking script instead of this one, which has been my only output in, like, four years. Fantasies, fantasies, fantasies. Freedom. Money. New York. Money. Comeraderie. New York. An Oscar nomination. Money.
We're still waiting on actors. No answer from Robbins, Spacek, Cooper, or Poitier. Any one of them would be good. Any amount of money would be good. Well, not ANY. Like, six figures.
Friday, December 03, 2004
The task at hand
Tuesday I met with the director for the last of the meetings devoted to parsing the particulars of his notes on Get Low. It went a good six hours and I left in a daze. Lots of information and scenarios and things that I didn't quite see how I could accomplish. I was in a shit mood afterward. I went to my ladyfriend's house later in the evening and found it difficult to do anything but sulk. But three days and one therapist's appointment later I'm feeling okay. The last two days I've been working out of The Office, a workspace in Brentwood that is a rip-off of the fantastic idea I had last year when bopping around Hollywood coffee shops doing a rewrite on a script: a place where you basically have everything you need to do your work, and you just pay as you go. You know, an office. So this guy beat me to the punch. Ah, well. I got bigger fish to fry.
I've begun the rewrites in earnest - although I'm dragging a bit today. There has been one somewhat major bit of work done on an early set of scenes, and I must admit that I feel good about them. I guess the irony of all my hemming and hawing and complaining and consternation is that ultimately, the words that go on the page are mine. So how much can I really bitch? I still get to create. And that is sort of what it's all about. I'm on pace right now: 30 pages in, although the majority of the challenging work is in the last third of the script, so there is a good chance that the inverse will occur: from 30 pages in 3 days to 3 pages in 30 days. Ah, c'est la guerre.
No actual news to report in terms of actors or money. Only thing that happened recently was that someone at CAA slipped the script to Sally Field, who immediately expressed interest.
As for other projects in the mix, the Cop Comedy TV pilot seems kind of DOA. It's gone around town and not lit anyone's fire. So maybe Matt and I are the only ones who thought it was funny. I guess that happens. The AC Jungle screenplay (once again, I'm afraid) is on indefinite hold as I endeavor to finish the Get Low rewrites. I'm going to miss another goddamn self-imposed deadline with that one. And from the department of Homeland Insanity, I'm gripped with an idea focussing on the JFK assassination and I've begun doing very rudimentary research. Why I think I've got the time or resourses to chase down a gargantuan idea like that, I have no idea. Oh, and I'm back to considering working on a novel, cuz, you know, those are a jif.
I've begun the rewrites in earnest - although I'm dragging a bit today. There has been one somewhat major bit of work done on an early set of scenes, and I must admit that I feel good about them. I guess the irony of all my hemming and hawing and complaining and consternation is that ultimately, the words that go on the page are mine. So how much can I really bitch? I still get to create. And that is sort of what it's all about. I'm on pace right now: 30 pages in, although the majority of the challenging work is in the last third of the script, so there is a good chance that the inverse will occur: from 30 pages in 3 days to 3 pages in 30 days. Ah, c'est la guerre.
No actual news to report in terms of actors or money. Only thing that happened recently was that someone at CAA slipped the script to Sally Field, who immediately expressed interest.
As for other projects in the mix, the Cop Comedy TV pilot seems kind of DOA. It's gone around town and not lit anyone's fire. So maybe Matt and I are the only ones who thought it was funny. I guess that happens. The AC Jungle screenplay (once again, I'm afraid) is on indefinite hold as I endeavor to finish the Get Low rewrites. I'm going to miss another goddamn self-imposed deadline with that one. And from the department of Homeland Insanity, I'm gripped with an idea focussing on the JFK assassination and I've begun doing very rudimentary research. Why I think I've got the time or resourses to chase down a gargantuan idea like that, I have no idea. Oh, and I'm back to considering working on a novel, cuz, you know, those are a jif.
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