Although it's now May, Halloween in NY is full on. I went to no less than six parties in one week, the highlight was being a zombie tourist on a Gravehound bus blaring skull-splitting techno in the massive Greenwich Village Parade. So by the weekend I was running a bit thin on costumes and party number four was in a few hours. That's when inspiration silently struck. I dressed up as a mime (as best I could) and made a cartoony cardboard clock that showed the time moving back from 2AM to 1AM. I even taped "fall" and "back" on my knuckles. I was (perhaps) the world's first DAYLIGHT SAVINGS MIME. What I failed to realize is that the costume I thought was so clever would come to be a metaphor for one of my creative failings.
This summer at a Church of Scientology theater near you Bryan Singer (Usual Suspects...and some other stuff) will be directing Tom Cruise in Valkyrie - a film about the real life Hitler assassination attempt by Count Claus Schenk von Stauffenberg. Now I'm not equating George Bush to Hitler (though there is a certain ring to it) but you gotta admit he's not winning any global People's Choice Awards. It's a safe bet someone, somewhere is plotting something - so next time my partner and I are pitching script ideas to each other, this is going to the top of my list...right next to the one about the Google dudes buying their own country (odds are on Yemen). <3G
PS Please ignore "Death of a President" while reading the above, that was fiction.
We have so many damn readers now that some of you with poor genes asked if we could switch to a more "readable" format. Sure, we aim to please your sister. <3G
You're a caveman (I don't need to say caveperson since political correctness has only been around for 0.000000000000001% of human existence). Your ability to effectively categorize shit is everything. Is that shadow moving in the woods tasty prey or a nasty predator? Is that berry fire engine red (granted you don't know what a fire engine is since the whole flame thing is pretty new) because it's delicious or deadly? Despite the body hair, protruding forehead and inability to really get your jokes, will that female humanoid bear you healthy Australopithi-babies or leave you for that asshole Uggghh and take you for your cave and wheel? Fast forward to now. The world is essentially stable (unless you're living in the majority of it that isn't). You don't really need to filter your world into boxes, but you do cause it's hard wired. Knowing this can help you to write screenplays, but if you're like me, it probably won't get your ass laid.
I’ll admit it, maybe I was tripping balls a bit inebriated. Actually, I’m admitting nothing, NOTHING. But, despite the fact that the first movie was superior in every regard, PJ and I were blown away by The Matrix Reloaded. We couldn’t stop talking about the Zion Burning Man Rave scene, the dead heat of Bellucci as Persephone, that sick car chase (come on, you know it), even the stupid babbling architect. What did it mean, how would the series end, what were the philosophical ramifications? It was too much. Then, as we slid down the twinkling streets and I gazed into pulsating clouds (see video at the end of post), it hit me – we had been tricked. Not by Keanu’s “acting” but by what could be most important secret to making movies…whoa.
It's a high school movie (not High School Musical, cause that's bullshit). The unsung hero likes the abnormally pretty girl with character who is generally saddled with the handsome, mean-spirited Alpha…you know, captain of the football team, leader of the pack, etc. of the etc. The protagonist has a beautiful soul, some extraordinary talent and is actually kinda cute himself come-to-think-of-it. It's just that the object of desire can't see the hero because of the shadows cast by her radiance. But we know better and root for him. Why? Because he is us. More accurately, he is our perspective since we all experience life as the hero. Too bad in any story there can really only be one (fucking) protagonist and, let's face facts, it most likely ain't you.
I'd been delinquent because of a Europe trip and spotty interweb access. But I've got some hype shizz lined up for y'all (they don't say "y'all" here btw - but they do say, "Hands off my daughter").
I was somewhere and I was about to leave (you will understand my vagueness momentarily). But I heard someone on a call that sounded so deliberately on the up-and-up it had to be on the down-n-dirty. So I lingered. For a second I thought it was a bad idea. I wasnt going to buy anything, what if he thought I was a narc? Then I remembered I was too stone-cold badass to be pegged as a cop (except maybe for the sex police). Before I had a chance to get all paranoid he arrived, didn’t give a shit that I was there and quickly produced a metal briefcase. Before he even cracked it open we all knew – it was on.
By the way, I'm not referencing Sweet Home Alabama and it's probably-racist subtext. Nah, this blog entry title is inspired by Barack okay? Because, as a man of partial color, I know he'd be pleased-as-punch to see we've made the Uber home page. That is, if he wasn't so wrapped up in his little primary thingy. <3g
Actually, our agent’s sexuality was a rumor. Maybe an inevitable one since his star client was a verified omg-hes-sooo-fuckin-hot teen heartthrob who was on network and, like, everything. It wasn’t a bad thing though. In fact it worked to our advantage since he basically signed us on as his sole literally clients to write a script for his megastar (more on that project in the future). Plus, he had previously represented some notable (albeit Canadian) writers so we were happy. In fact we were on a roll. Little did we know that roll was ass-over-teakettle* down the long hill of dumbass naivety into the eternal abyss of missed opportunity.
As good/great/amazing as Palme d'Or-winning Romanian 4 Months 3 Weeks and 2 Days was, maybe it wasn’t the best choice for a date movie. My gut was literally wrenching when the manipulative abortionist explained in blunt detail exactly what he was about to do – and that was before he demanded ‘fair payment’. At this point I realized that my companion probably would leave the theater wanting absolutely nothing to do with me, or any man, for the foreseeable future. In fact neither did I. We're bad newsfucking pigs .
We had both written for magazines. It wasn't that hard (really!). So how tough could throwing together a screenplay be? Since we knew sweet fuck all nothing about the form we decided the easiest thing to do would be to rape seek inspiration from something familiar, something well known. In fact what could be more universal than the galaxy...one far, far away (if you're not gagging like Jabba yet, hold onto your light saber)? The "wrinkle" would be that our Star Wars film would be set in the world of..wait for it...RAVES!!
As in when a proof reader turned stripper turned blogger turned author turns screenwriter and gets her first script produced, wins a bunch of awards, scores a buttload more work, is nominated for, and probably nabs, an Oscar, wins the Nobel Peace Prize and will most likely steal my next girlfriend ('cause she invariably eats beev better than me too). Ms Cody, in a pole-dancing final-drafting nutshell is the reason I stand whimper before you today.
