by Adam Novak
(Drive-by shootings in Beverly Hills had become as ubiquitous as jaywalking tickets. Celebrations of life held at Hollywood Forever were more popular than the cemetery screenings. A string of red carpet KAOS murders forced theater owners to lobby umpire Walter Nikolovski to declare certain areas off-limits for assassinations.)
The maître d’ retrieves a pair of menus and escorts “Mr Barnes” and his guest to a choice booth against the mirrored wall. Producers call out Lester’s name, drop their napkins, and rise up to pitch him projects. Lester speeds up his walk, then stops, causing Mersault to bump up against his back.
“Get your hands out of my pocket!” barks Lester.
Hispanic busboys look up from their trays. Lester ignores Joey Fatone and his business manager when a figure charges the agent with a raised spoon, which is sent clattering to the floor by a quick-thinking Lester, who runs over to a table in the middle of the room, his original target all along, where an Israeli arms dealer-producer never sees the magic marker swipe his forehead.
“You’re dead, Oren,” sneers Lester.
“I thought the Grill was a safe zone.”
“Take it up with Nikolovski,” says Lester, not giving a shit.
“Is that your witness?” Oren points at Mersault, marking him for death.
“You leave my reader out of this,” says the agent.
“Well, I’m wearing a safety so fuck you.”
“Safety? I don’t see a safety—”
Oren opens his jacket slightly, revealing a baby blue T-shirt: I MISS THE OLD BRITNEY.
Lester stomps his foot, “You son of a bitch.”
At their table, later, brass tacks, Fox exec Rodney Muir wonders: “Pay me, rape me, shit on me, I forget what the fourth fantasy was.”
“Strangle me?” offers Mersault.
“That’s not it. I can’t remember,” says Rodney.
Mersault: “Kill, Fuck, or Marry?”
Lester: “Pardon?”
Mersault: “Eva Braun. Tyler Perry. Big Bird. Which one would you kill, fuck or marry?”
Lester: “I’d rather floss my urethra with barbed wire.”
Rodney: “You guys should go on Christian Mingle. I have this friend who goes on those sites. I’ve seen pictures of his victims. He’s not discriminating—”
Lester: “You mean Brigham over at Universal?”
Mersault: “Aw, c’mon, do we have to talk about that guy?”
Rodney: “I hear Blacula’s unhappy with Famke.”
“Not anymore,” says Lester, sniffing his corned beef, “does this smell bad to you?”
“Don’t eat that sandwich,” says Mersault.
The Hispanic busboys are long gone.
Sickened producers retch over their poisoned lunch plates.
The crowd at the Grill stampedes toward the exit, covering their mouths in revulsion.
Prescription glasses and dentures bathe in puddles of vomit on the floor.
“Fucking janitors*,” mutters Lester.
SAVING SGT. KAMINSKY
Screenplay by Robert Riskin
Muscular WWII prestige piece is packed with gripping battle sequences and meaty characters you pray won’t get wasted by the Krauts. Epic script starts explosively with the Normandy invasion, then settles down to follow a group of GIs led by the cynical Captain Schindler on a suicide mission to rescue Staff Sergeant Kaminsky, who for political reasons must be brought home to his parents in Kansas (his four brothers were killed in action*). When the soldiers locate Sergeant Kaminsky, he is devastated to learn that several of Schindler’s men have lost their lives to rescue him. Last stand at a bagel factory pits our GIs against a horde of Nazi Panzers and everybody gets wiped out except for Kaminsky in the ferocious finale. Plenty of explosive action as tanks and tossed grenades keep the privates fighting, yet script could have used more dissension in combat, not with the enemy, but amongst themselves. Roles to die for are Schindler and the cowardly Kaminsky. The remaining members of the weary platoon are memorable, but not all of them make it out alive.
killed in action
CONFIRMED KILL LIST / WEEK OF 2.11.13 / KAOS
Garrett Izzo (New Line, Sharpie)
Diego Arriaga (Justice for Janitors, anthrax)
Jason Luntz (MGM, spork)
Sebastian Flynn (Lion Rock, cage drowning)
Dean Huggins (Insanely Creative, confetti bomb)
Tanya Gardner (Bellerophon Pictures, water balloon)
Ryan Marsh (Church of Scientology, banana)
Ross Voorhees (Hometown Films, roadside bomb)
Carl Skinner (Universal, whoopee-cushion)
Jennifer Zimmer (gang-raped by Justice for Janitors)
Priyanka Shaw (Overseas Film Group, drive-by shooting, funeral services TBA)
Beau Keene (7ate9, exploding cigar)
Bramley Nazarian (Omniscience/Ragnarök, silly putty garrote)
Alix Furst (Morgan Creek, pillow)
Natalie Sheekey (Maha Yoga, flour bomb)
Cleo Ravenscroft (Omniscience/Ragnarök, stuffed animal)
Alan Jimenez (Justice for Janitors, Soweto necklace)
Shelley Harkness (Sony Pictures Classics, hand-buzzer)
Ilene Gwartz (Imaginative Artists, light saber)
Stuart Epstein (Insanely Creative, firing squad)
Larry Mersault (Omniscience/Ragnarök, hammer, $10,500 reward posted by the Victims Advocacy Group, or VAG, to anyone with information leading to the arrest and conviction of Dollars Muttlan)
TRUE FIBS & OTHER LIES
Manuscript by Betsy Yarborough*
Amusing memoir behind the scenes (and under the sheets) relates Betsy’s adventures filming the expensive vanity project directed by her future ex-husband Thør Rosenthal and the outrageous action scenes she endured with costar Hugo Slater. Betsy’s remembrances are playful and compelling: production assistants argue over who will smear Cheese Whiz on a dog’s butt so the hound will lick its ass on camera; Betsy and Hugo Slater’s embarrassing sex scene that lands him in the hospital; the sushi chef slicing tuna faster instead of stopping when the director repeatedly shouts “Cut!” Highlight of memoir is when Thør whisks Betsy away to Mexico one weekend and they are snatched by narco-terrorists. The couple avoids being skinned alive when the crazed drug kingpin recognizes Betsy, begs her to sign his autograph book next to Cameron Diaz’s page, and sets them free. While some memories are stronger than others, the funniest chapters are Betsy’s memories of certain code-named costars and their icky sexual preferences. Told with honesty and humor, this rubber-necking of a sausage factory could be a Thør Rosenthal actioner starring Betsy Yarborough, who might think they’ve seen this movie before.
Betsy Yarborough
Missing actress, last seen in Santa Clarita as a guest speaker with professor-screenwriter Dollars Muttlan at College of the Canyons. If you have any information regarding her disappearance, contact www.valenciacrimesolvers.com
HIGH TIDE
Screenplay by Dollars Muttlan
Entertaining disaster movie delivers on its original premise of a madman who creates tidal waves and a scientist unjustly accused who’s the only one who can stop a giant wave from demolishing California’s coastline. Terrific premise has scientist Lee Hilton set up for murder by a villain who calls himself Scylla and gets blamed for creating tsunamis that wipe out entire beach communities. On the run with sexy but vulnerable blind date Rebecca, Lee must race against the threat of man-made disasters to clear his name and expose Scylla as evil industrialist Mr. Voris, whose disgraced Cowabunga project got shut down by whistleblower Lee who feared the energy-producing device was unstable. Pacing is brisk, complete with not one, not two, but three waves that provide epic thrills. Strong chemistry between Lee and Rebecca adds humor and romance to all the excitement. Winner of a scrip
t* delivers a character-driven tentpole that smacks of commercial success.
Winner of a script
Total horseshit; a glowjob; unreadable; see also Rusty Trombone, Dog in a Bathtub, Frothy Walrus.
STAR OF THE OCEAN
Scriptment by Samuel Glickstein
Outstanding period saga with a grand love story set on board the doomed Lusitania ship. Even in detailed treatment form (at 189 pages), this is already first class material. Present day wraparound story has a treasure hunter seeking a priceless diamond inside the sunken ship, but instead he finds a charcoal drawing of a gorgeous girl. Rosie, the subject of the mysterious sketch and a 101 year old survivor of the Lusitania, turns up to tell the real story of the boat and her romance with gambler Hank Lawson, who won a ticket on the Lusitania in a card game. Rosie’s obnoxious fiancé Albert gives her a diamond necklace called the Star of the Ocean only to lose Rosie to the gambler. The Lusitania sinks, Hank perishes, Rosie and Albert survive but never see each other again, and she finds the sparkly diamond in Hank’s coat pocket. Technically, story unfolds brilliantly with superbly drawn characters and an atmosphere evocative of its era. Huge in scope, high romance on the high seas, one for the ages* if everything falls into place.
one for the ages
You never forget your first glowjob. There’s an apocryphal story about then-Omniscience summer intern Larry Mersault recommending Star of the Ocean after learning he had two hours to review and write the coverage. Truth be told, Mersault passed on the project, Glickstein’s agent ordered him to “make it glow,” and the reader changed his evaluation to a recommend without protest.
WHITE HOUSE PARTY*
Screenplay by Noel Heller
Franchise actioner combines elements of Karate Kid and In the Line of Fire. Though it sounds derivative, script has a terrific concept that’s supported by an inspired execution. The straw that stirs the drink is the love-hate relationship between uptight Secret Service agent Dexter Moss and the President’s obnoxious teenage son Wally. Initially, they can’t stand each other but when Wally gets beat up by a bully, Dexter takes Wally to a karate class so he can defend himself. Middle makes Wally the target of a kidnapping plot by voters angered by the President’s domestic policies. When they attempt to kidnap Wally at a Benihana restaurant, his buddies from karate school stage a hilarious rescue. In Act III, the White House comes under siege and it’s up to Dexter to save the First Family. Memorable characters like Wally’s distracted parental unit, the President of the United States, and Dexter’s romantic interest Miriam, provide solid support. Nice touch at the end when Wally protects the bully who once tormented him. Meaty roles, snappy dialogue, high concept action-comedy deserves our attention. For Antwon Legion, this guy Dexter Moss reads like the next Axel Foley.
White House Party
As a thank you to the reader who found the script for his latest blockbuster, White House Party, Antwon Legion placed a double order of “egg rolls” to Mersault’s duplex in the Fairfax district. Unfortunately, the Chinese prostitutes that morning knocked on the upper unit and fucked the shit out of the wrong guy.
AVALANCHE!
Screenplay by Pete Boykin
Unrelentingly grim true story about a doomed expedition of mountaineers caught in a snowstorm until an avalanche wipes out the rescue chopper, the adventurers, and any hope for the family members praying for their return. Based on a true story of death and despair at 28,251 feet, AVALANCHE! never soars to such heights. Most of the characters are indistinguishable stereotypes climbing a mountain between Pakistan and China, covered in gear and goggles. Only standout part is expedition leader Ray Hampton, whose cocky refusal to head back to base camp ends up sealing everyone’s fate. Ending is such a downer it’s hard to imagine the after-party* at the premiere of this feel-bad movie. Plotting is non-existent, family members are bland cutaways from the slaughter unleashed by the insidious K2, picking off the faceless climbers like a slasher movie. Doomed expedition is dragged down by dull exposition about rock climbing and oxygen sickness. Instead of celebrating the triumph of the human spirit, script succeeds in boring everyone to death before the avalanche finishes the job.
after-party
Your date for the AVALANCHE! premiere is a D-girl everybody has slept with including Thør Rosenthal, Arthur Livingstone, and half the female motion picture agents at Insanely Creative. You skip the movie at the TCL Chinese Theatre when she blows you in the bowels of the Hollywood and Highland parking structure and that’s okay because you read the script and while the moment is shady you’re not complaining about her technique, which is totally pro, her Thierry Mugler perfume invoking a prized memory of that backseat soixante-neuf at the drive-in with the love of your life, the one whose heart you broke after her father threatened you with a fatwa if you didn’t end the office affair. You don’t ejaculate because she orders you to save it for later, back at her place, that is, she says, if you still want to, wiping a blob of shiny sack fluid off her chinny chin chin. Sounds like a plan, you say, and the VP of Fellatio, hurt by your comment, writes you off as cavalier. Your name on the list gets you ushered past the velvet rope imprisoning a fall collection of slim, coked-out models in existential-crisis mode waiting to ride the lift to the rooftop party. You ride up in silence with your date, not smiling when your eyes connect in the ceiling mirror. The elevator doors widen and chunks of man-made snowflakes swirl around you like dust devils. Entering this freezing playpen of the damned, your view of the Hollywood sign is blocked by a huge K2 mountain enveloped in a fake ice storm. Your director of derailment snags a Cosmo off a tray, snarfs a bacon-wrapped scallop from a Sherpa-themed serving girl before ditching you to join a circle of cackling execs from Bellerophon standing on mounds of snow with protruding limbs. Trolls come up to you, tap your shoulder, and ask, “Did you like the movie? Be honest.” Perched above the letters of the unlit hotel signage, Asian chick DJ cocks her headphone over one ear. “Am I the only one who finds the après-ski theme wildly inappropriate?” Nobody answers you when the rooftop shudders with a tremor. Then another, and another, as if an abominable Yeti were making an entrance. Everyone prostrates themselves on the ground, eyes downward. You drop to your knees in homage when cloven hoofs stop right in front of you. Antwon Legion barks at his bodyguards Fruity and Balthazar to pull you up on your feet so you are standing in the eye-line of the biggest movie star in the world: “Reader-guy! I feel like Fogo de Chao. Jew eat?”
NIGHTSHOOTER
Screenplay by Thurman Thonson
Disappointing thriller about a vigilante news stringer applies a hand-held aesthetic for tension and immediacy, but there isn’t much of a story here, certainly not a tale of redemption; it’s about a low-life criminal named Stu Broom, who’ll do anything to break news stories for a local TV station and get paid. Writer seriously undercooks his concept and offers an erratic plot drizzled in speed and car crashes mixed with the public’s insatiable appetite for human suffering. In this hybrid hand-held action-thriller, our nightshooter is a societal reject, mentally unhinged, hard to like, period. For Antwon Legion, there’s never a moment where Stu Broom acts heroically, no partner to bounce off, no romantic peach to pursue. Mostly, it’s about reckless ambition and cynical darkness. No humor, no lightness of being, not a pleasant feeling when this script ends. A shower sounds good right now*.
A shower sounds good right now
A rare personal attack from a reader who strived to achieve the perception of objectivity despite the highly subjective nature of script coverage. His dog must have died that day or, more likely, Mersault passed on Nightshooter ($12M budget/$88M worldwide cume) after learning about his neighbor’s double order of egg rolls.
A.W.O.L.
Screenplay by Wayne Sheehy
Outstanding writing fuels this commercial prestige piece about a man who can’t find his place in the world, an Air Force instructor who goes rogue after losi
ng his wings and his will to live. Combining Top Gun aerial action with a doomed pilot similar to Denzel’s troubled aviator in Flight makes for a mortality drama that’s strangely life-affirming. Aging flyboy Mickey Rivers, a showcase role for a star, takes off in an F-16 for one final ride with best friends Harris and Dawson struggling on the ground to save their lost pilot. Harris, the cowardly desk jockey selling his soul for military stripes, ends up giving the order to have Rivers shot down. Dawson is a terrific foil, the guy who married Lourdes, a stewardess they both competed for; script hints darkly that Rivers may have preferred Dawson over Lourdes, a rumor never repeated or confirmed. Going out in a blaze of glory*, his final moments looking into the sun, Rivers provides an ending that will haunt audiences. On his flypath to destruction, story sometimes feels one-note, but that’s a quibble when the people are so deeply drawn, their emotions soaring higher than any jet. Triumphant and tragic, let’s champion this for our top gun clients.
blaze of glory
“A studio executive, the Anti-Christ, and a script reader walk into a club. The bartender looks at them and says: ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ That’s it. That’s the joke. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Someone, somewhere, is tired of screwing Libra.”
Studying the credits of an autographed poster of Liquid Sky, waiting for the head of legal affairs to finish a call, Mersault grins at a Kevlar vest (bullseye target on its back) framed in bulletproof-glass with a message from Justice for Janitors: THE BEST NIKOLOVSKI IS A DEAD NIKOLOVSKI.