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“Uh…
its like any other job,” remarked the young, scrubbed
male of genus Brown Nose in his minimum-power office.
“And I want to keep it.” This last remark
dripped with ‘tude. His head was halo’d
by a framed poster of his boss’ latest stinker
film, a shove to the downfall of Western Civilization.
If I’d had a gun, I’d have laid it to waste.
“I
will say that the suits ruin a lot of creative decisions,"
piped the female. Duh. Luckily, there aren’t many
‘creative’ decisions to ruin.
Back home,
I revived on the floor of my tomb-like closet with my
good friend Margarita (rocks, no salt.) We decided that
we had to call Ty.
Ty’s
a compadre from the party days. He used to make dental
implants in a lab, a good job with health insurance
that left time for his true passion – retail heroin
sales. We lost touch for some years and next thing I
heard, he had hit rock bottom. He now spends his days
leeching off others, a dreg of society. Yes, Ty had
become Head of Production at a major film studio.
I didn’t
call him first because I thought it would be spicy to
hear from the less exalted ‘ground troops.’
Little did I know that they would pop cyanide before
they confessed.
Ty’s
office is mega-swell. Butter leather. First editions.
Ralph Lauren cashmere throws (labels showing.) I wonder
if he lets the stockholders hang out and watch the ten
grand plasma TV.
“How
did you swing this gig?” I yipped when we first
reunited. “You don’t give a shit about movies.”
He feigned
‘offended,’ then flashed his lovely, chilling
smile. “Oh, I do now.” He paused. “Let’s
just say that it helps to be bisexual.”
I believe
I rolled my eyes. “Since when are you bisexual,
Tyrone?”
“Since
I’ve been sober and ambitious,” he murmured.
“Everyone in Hollywood goes to NA.” A whisper:
“Some are former clients. Fish in a barrel, I’m
telling you. Most of them needy and not that bright.”
He moved his chair closer. “You’ve got to
plan, though. Otherwise you’ll just fuck your
way to the middle.”
When I arrived
at Ty’s office, his Borg-like assistant warned
me, “He’s not having a positive day.”
As I passed into the inner sanctum, Ty was nowhere to
be seen. Then I realized that he was doubled over in
his desk chair, breathing into a paper bag.
“Just
saw a rough cut of the sequel,” he wheezed. “Sucks.”
“Isn’t
that good news?”
“Don’t
be a bitch.” That was puffed out with anguish.
“The producer went Kaballah or something. We spent
millions on the car crashes. He cut out the car crashes.
He put in dialogue.” This last part was sneered
with a gale of disgust. “He changed his name from
‘Larry’ to ‘Falcon.’”
A wail: “I’ve got a major fight ahead of
me.”
“Buck
up, Sport. Worst that could happen is that they fire
you with a zillion dollar package. You’d get an
indie prod (independent production) deal the next day.”
“I
think I’m gonna pass out.”
Unsympathetic,
I lay down on the floor and shoved my tape recorder
under his swollen, red snout. “Explain about the
car crash world market stuff.”
“Time
out,” he said. Ty sat up, and dabbed his brow,
then took a ‘kit’ out of his desk that looked
all too familiar. Inside was a syringe, powder, spoon
– the whole deal.
“WHAT
ARE YOU DOING, TYRONE????”
“Oh.
Nothing. Chill.” He cupped the syringe and in
both hands. “I just like to remind myself at times
like these that I always have a choice.”
“But
you’ll never go through with it.”
“Doubtful”
he sighed. “When I’m high I can’t
get it up.”
“Excuse
me, Ty, the Kate Hudson conference call is in forty-five,”
his Borg assistant intercom-crooned.
“Is
she still fat?” he asked me. “Why do these
broads all need babies?”
“Stop
it!” I snapped. “Spill already! Friends?
Helping them? Are these concepts you recall?”
“Barely,”
he said, kidding, but not.
Most studios
have sold body and soul to those classic aesthetes,
huge corporations. The venerable MGM has devolved into
Sony, which also body-snatched Columbia and Tri-Star.
Vivendi ate Universal. Paramount is Viacom’s flunky,
and so on.
These corporations
have a love/hate relationship with their Hollywood plunder.
On the one hand, they’re like flashy hos –
fun to shag and show off. Movie stars, Laker floor seats,
Spago, Oscar parties, yachts in Cannes – all part
of the perks.
On the other
hand, them hos better perform. Big (Business) Pimp Daddy
paid a pretty penny fo dat tail, and they better turn
a consistent profit or heads will roll. Fortunately,
execs – panting lap dogs – wag tails at
any command. The insurance against failure is as follows:
Cater to
the male teenage mentality; they buy the most movie
tickets. Blessedly, many older males share the same
mindset. Blessedly, the lack of decent public education
has made these mindsets very low. Girls and women, the
wusses, will go along with anything to keep a man.
Address
the world market. That means not too much talk to translate.
Talk is cheap. Explosions, au contraire, are expensive.
Pack big explosions in with big movie stars and the
budget’s already a hundred mil.
The Good
News is, that according to the no-failure insurance
plan, all monies will be quickly recouped and soundly
exceeded. The Bad News is that the plan routinely fails.
So really, its no plan at all. Uh oh. Fear motivates
the Vegas grifter brain executives (like Ty) to throw
some artsy stuff into the mix for good measure, heave
it all on a wall and pray it sticks.
Most studio
execs have no skills to do anything else. At least nothing
else they could brag about loudly at Starbucks. You
know that old saying, ‘Those Who Can’t Do,
Teach’? Well those who can’t teach sell
auto parts. And those who can’t sell auto parts
collect cans. And those who can’t even do that…
go into the film business.
*
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