Welp. It sure has been a while, hasn’t it? Various events and situations have conspired to keep me away from this blog. For the moment, I’m not gonna go on about ‘em at great length, as if I do, I might never finish this entry, and the point of a blog is, well, to finish entries, I think. Don’t you?
Suffice it to say that most of it kinda sucked—not in the least a couple of personal losses. Maybe I’ll get into it later.
What I would like to get into right now is one of the most time consuming frustrations I had to face during this period: my efforts to shop my new screen play around Hollywood. Those assholes out there will eat your heart and soul—not to mention what they’ll do to your pride, artistic integrity and your sense of humanity. See, I’m stupid. I knew all this. I went to film school. But I’d been away for a while, and I’d let myself believe that my memories were exaggerated—that the film industry couldn’t really be that bad.
I tried everything to get people to talk to me, and I was real out of the loop obviously. I mean, I thought people in Hollywood still did coke in bathroom stalls! At one low point during a promotional trip out there, I managed to creep past studio security into a posh restroom wherein I knew a hotshot young exec had just traipsed. Sure enough, inside, amidst bespeckled Tuscan tile. I found a latched stall door. I slid into the adjacent stall and slid my cokespoon underneath toward the young mogul next door. A year's wages worth of Colombian powder lined it.
But the asshole's hairy leg bumped up against the spoon, startling me and knocking it across the floor. In fumbling about, my hand somehow ended up grasping his prostate. He wasn't retreating but was actually starting pant n' moan a little, and I thought, well, ya know, maybe this is another way to sell my screenplay and make a million bucks… And it was all going fine, and I was trying to figure out how to slip him a copy whilst continuing to fondle him, but I must've eased up the pressure too much, 'cuz he stopped moaning and said, say who's over there anyway?
And I just said the first name which popped in my head, which was Corey.
And he said, "Which one?"
And I was considering the wisdom of the choice I'd made (without thinking,) but realized I had his prostate in my hand and really needed to come up with something… 'cuz like, one of 'em's dead, and the other one's alive… so this was a pretty binary question. Basic. Good and evil. Life and death. But which one was which? And besides how did I know what this guy was into?
So I said Feldman. And I guess that was wrong, cuz the next thing I knew. I was in an LA county lockup with approximately 57 tazer burns on my face and smelling like a Ball Park frank that's been microwaved too long. Fucking Hollywood.
Now that I’ve crawled back into my little cyber-hole and had some time to recover, I’ve decided, fuck it! Who needs the movies? In this great age of technological interconnectedness, I’m just gonna share the thing with you—all of you from Argentina to Zimbabwe! Even you asshole Cardinal fans in St. Louis! We’re all pals on the internet, right?
A few quick introductory disclaimers: 1) I wrote this before I saw that Elevator piece a shit that M. Night Shamaylan let plop on the public last year; 2) blah blah Hawaii/New York/2010 playlist—have stuff for all of em almost ready to go; 3) I wrote this before the recent shootings in Arizona and do not intend for its contents to refer to the current debate on politcal language or commentators and their influence on acts of public violence; and 4) blogger's composition interface made it really difficult to maintain screenplay formatting, so 'tho I did what I could to keep this from looking like shit, it still ain't pretty. (Not meaning to bite the hand that feeds--for free--but still…)
So here it is! All 5 acts of brilliant Hitchcockian suspense! (Yeah, I know that movies are only supposed to have 3 acts! Did you go to film school? Oh, good point. You might’ve. Well, see, this is artsy. Which is probably why Hollywood didn’t want it. I’m too much of a true Artist for those pricks.)
IN THE SHAFT
ACT ONE
INT. HIGH-RISE LOBBY DAY
Harsh morning light filters through a preponderance of tall windows to glint like succulent drops from a loofa. The colors are pale, but clean—supra-real—as if this place were somehow mythic—a dwelling of beings that deserve its marble floors and soaring ceilings—if not its grumpy security guards and UPS delivery drivers.
Renowned Fox News Channel personality BILL O’REILLY stands waiting at the end of a cubicle of elevators. There is a lowered buzz of conversation, of electricity, of traffic. O’Reilly does not smile, but looks everyone and everything around him in the eye with with a gaze that is intense and dignified. O’Reilly is a being of hands—strong, precise, mannered hands that project crisply from shirt cuffs, with finger tips squared toward the floor as he waits for the interminable elevator.
Another man, younger, nondescript, white, in a sweater is the only other person waiting. For now, he will be known as THE STRANGER.
A BLOONG BLING! announces the coming of an elevator. A lumpen mass of elderly women, younger semi-employed ethnics of questionable naturalization, and a light sprinkling of professionals emerges in a dense crowd, obliging O’Reilly and the other man to step clumsily aside. Soon onboard, they stake out spaces on opposite ends of the elevator car. O’Reilly leans heavily with both arms stretched out diagonally on the elevator hand bar, his legs crossed casually at the ankle, head lowered, but eyes looking up intensely. His companion stands more lazily near the elevator keyboard.
STRANGER
Floor?
O’Reilly looks up at the younger man as if listening to radio signals in a dead language.
O’REILLY
Mmm... Sorry... What was that?
Somewhat theatrically, the younger man sighs, then speaks to O’Reilly as if the celebrity were developmentally disabled.
STRANGER
I asked to what floor you were traveling.
O’Reilly shuffles, impatient, perhaps even embarrassed.
O’REILLY
Well, young man, you caught me thinking.
Do you ever get caught thinking?
O’Reilly is pleased with his quip and resumes his prior posture.
The Stranger doesn’t blink, but his tone of voice is irritable.
STRANGER
Floor please?
O’REILLY
(savoring the word)
17. Thank you.
The Stranger pushes the button marked 17 and another button. The car lurches into motion.
O’Reilly wobbles a bit, looks at the young man with indignity, as if foreseeing the smug amusement he will find on the other man’s face.
The Stranger is, in fact, smiling with wide disdain.
STRANGER
A little rough.
O’Reilly nods, makes a sort of hat-tipping gesture with his hand, then resumes the exact same posture he’d held at the beginning of the elevator ride.
JUMP CUT
FLASHING WHITE LIGHT
OVEREXPOSED
Both men are NUDE and wallowing in a stew of indescribable FILTH.
O’REILLY
(screaming)
What just happened? What just happened?
STRANGER
They keep interrupting! I’m sick!
JUMP CUT
FLASHING WHITE LIGHT
NORMAL EXPOSURE
Both men are now clothed normally, dry, exactly as before, as though nothing strange had happened.
O’REILLY
I’m sorry, young man, I didn’t get that.
STRANGER
I said the start here is a bit rough.
MUSIC is playing from overhead speakers: “Lady Blue” by Leon Russell. O’Reilly hums along happily.
STRANGER
Some song.
O’Reilly’s smile assumes a combative shape.
O’REILLY
I beg your pardon.
STRANGER
(shrugging)
I just said it was some song.
O’REILLY
You know, I believe that, despite Leon
Russell’s rather hirsute image, this song
is one of the most beautiful popular
ballads of our time. One of the most moving
images I can think of was bride and groom
dancing, when my friends Brett and Colleen
tied the knot 17 years ago. It was...
everything marriage should be. Every man
almost swooned at the sight of Colleen...
in her gown...
He seems to become distracted by his own memory. He gazes dreamily into space.
O’REILLY
(CONT.)
...it just flowed around her... Her hips...
her lovely breasts...
O’Reilly is distracted by the sound of The Stranger HUMMING along with the song, louder than O’Reilly was previously, and badly, all the while smiling into O’Reilly’s eyes, as if he knows what he Bill is thinking and is amused by it.
STRANGER
Some song.
O’REILLY
(smiling indulgently)
That’s fine. You don’t have to appreciate
it. We’re only spending a brief moment
together. Leon will still be singing...
(sings)
“sand baby, blue lady...” when my loafers hit
the plush carpet of the 17th floor.
STRANGER
Maybe so. Maybe so.
Suddenly there is a terrific CRASH.
The LIGHTS FLICKER, DIM, GO OUT, then FLICKER BACK ON, but are now generally DIMMER.
LEON RUSSEL skips slows down to a distorted grumble, speeds up to a chipmunk chitter that chatters quickly into oblivion.
Both The Stranger and O’Reilly stand slightly off balance.
STRANGER
What happened?
O’REILLY
(irritably)
Well, well, the elevator stopped! Now I’m
going to be late!
He stomps.
O’REILLY
(singsongy)
This is just wonderfullllll!!!
The Stranger goes to the control panel hits several buttons, but nothing happens.
O’REILLY
Try the alarm!
STRANGER
But it’s only been, like, 30 seconds!
O’REILLY
But I’m very late, and it’s important!
The Stranger hesitates.
O’REILLY
Annnnnnndddd... It could be the work of
terrorists!!!
STRANGER
(bemused)
Terrorists?
O’REILLY
Yes. Can’t you see it? Visions of steel
towers, shattering glass and terrorism?
These images are real, solid, unavoidable
in my mind, as I believed they must be in
the minds of the vast majority of
Americans—even the liberals.
STRANGER
Don’t you think there would be more
dramatic signs of a large scale terrorist
attack?
O’Reilly shrugs.
O’REILLY
Look at how Die Hard started.
The elevator jerks sharply again, then sits still. Both men stumble a little. O’Reilly pushes past The Stranger and hits the ALARM button, but nothing happens.
O’REILLY
What?
He picks up the emergency telephone handset.
O’REILLY
(to himself)
No dial tone.
He turns to The Stranger.
O’REILLY
No dial tone.
An ambiguous expression passes over The Stranger’s nondescript features.
O’REILLY
Well, no matter. They know we’re here. And
there are people waiting for me who know how
important my business is.
He smiles reassuringly at The Stranger.
O’REILLY
No, my friend, we won’t be here for long.
END OF ACT ONE
