by Adam Novak
Hanging up, Nikolovski turns to the reader: “Lester and I had a conversation about you the other day.”
“Is that right?”
“We were discussing how to raise your profile.”
The lawyer opens his desk drawer, unfolds a dusty fuck towel from Abyssinia, revealing a gem-encrusted handle of a sacrificial knife.
“Antwon Legion must die.”
“Say it again?”
“You’re the only one in the industry he trusts.”
“And if I say no?”
“No is just a moment in time.”
“Does this have anything to do with Antwon cutting his commission?”
“We don’t do nickels.”
“Why do I get the Sophie’s Choice? I’m not even an agent.”
“I’ve arranged for you to play Longinus, the Roman Centurion who pierces Jesus in his ribs. Someone will hand you a prop spear on set. Affixed to the blade will be this ancient secespita. You will be the next I Am Legend and Golgotha will be his Samarra.”
“Is that like Two Bunch Palms?”
“A merchant in Baghdad sends his servant to the market square for groceries. Hours later, the servant comes back terrified, telling his master he ran into a woman he recognized as Death, and she made a frightening gesture toward him. The servant steals a horse and escapes to Samarra where he thinks Death cannot find him. The merchant goes to the market square where Death is sipping a green tea latte and demands to know why she made a menacing gesture at his servant. Death goes, ‘It wasn’t menacing. I was shocked to see him in Baghdad because I have a spinning class with him tomorrow in Samarra.’”
Nikolovski picks up the blade, walks around the standing desk and places a hand on Mersault’s shoulder—
“You’re asking me to murder my friend.”
“The Academy wants this to happen.”
Nikolovski jams the Nerf dagger into the reader’s neck. The weapon is made of foam rubber.
“Make sure there’s a witness,” insists the umpire, “or the killing won’t count.”
Meeting over, Nikolovski offers the reader a farewell fist bump.
“You could get the Thalberg Award for this.”
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE BENGHAZI
Screenplay by Ken Kinski
Chaotic, you-are-there approach drops us right into the long dark night* of Benghazi horror, another true tale of unfriendly Arabs, siege script is more Rambo than Argo, but fact-based thriller perhaps most resembles Aliens (script wisely keeps the enemy vague and scary). This might not be the best Benghazi project floating out there, but it could be the first out of the gate to cover the intense siege of the U.S. embassy by terrorists on the anniversary of 9/11. For two-thirds of the script, there’s tremendous action/gunfire with our guys driving around Benghazi like The French Connection, avoiding roadside bombs and mortar fire. For Antwon Legion, the role of Perry narrates the tale and outlives everyone; sidekick Flo-Jo is thinly written as a gun-toting cowboy; script doesn’t have the chops to humanize these heroes. The challenge will be to make this noisy script resonate emotionally. Ending is pure tragedy; when it’s all over, we don’t feel anything but relief.
long dark night
Larry Mersault haunts the city in his Chrysler LeBaron convertible like the Flying Dutchman, squeezing the lemon at every traffic light, running stop signs as if braking would cause his heart to cease beating; asking himself, at what point did his life go sideways?
(Maybe it was that time Arthur Livingstone called his office: “Stop playing hide the Nazi with my daughter. Crush her heart so Libra will never see you again. I need you to read a script for me.”)
Where would he be tonight if he had continued driving around sex workers after film school for that criminal who rented a photography studio on Ventura and Tujunga? Would he have ended up running the escort service? Mersault flashes on the entertainment delivery boss of Sunset Strip. What was the name of that ruthless pimp?
(Malice!)
The empire of whores had a frightening vice-president of dominoes. What was the name of that illiterate football player who played one season for the Raiders before the linebacker fractured his vertebrae?
(Roemello!)
God’s lonely reader takes Fountain, left on Highland, curving into La Brea, green lights passing over his head, Venice, Jefferson, right on Stocker, left on La Cienega, signs appearing for LAX, right on La Tijera, passing the Chuck E. Cheese’s, Wing Stop, and Harriet’s Soul Cuisine displaying the dreaded “C” rating from the sanitation department.
(Driving up Bronson Canyon, a hundred yards from Larry’s newly acquired house in the hills, Arthur Livingstone’s daughter texts her boyfriend of two months:
Libra: I can’t wait to suck your dick
Arriving at his one-bedroom house on Tuxedo Terrace, Libra finds the front door open—
“Larry?”
No response. Letting herself in, Libra surveys the empty first floor, fifty-inch TV blasting ESPN. She climbs the stairs toward his deserted bedroom, hears water running, enters the steamy bathroom, removes her clothes and steps into the frosted glass encased shower—
The water spray doesn’t stop. Neither does Mersault and the black chick he’s taking from behind.
“Close the door,” says Mersault, mid-thrust.
Libra collects her clothes; runs out of the bathroom; out of the house; out of his life.
“You’re an icicle,” says the escort from Sunset Strip.
“You should meet her old man.”)
The Chrysler LeBaron veers away from the airport where a Southwest Airlines ticket attendant checks in an African-American grandmother traveling on his 8:55 p.m. flight to watch her grandson play his first game at the point guard position for New Mexico State.
Right on Sepulveda, taking Lincoln Boulevard, past LMU, where Mersault taught a one-time only master class on script coverage that ended up being viewed 89,164 times on YouTube; passing Bali Way, where two roommate hookers took turns rocking his world for a year after Libra.
California Incline to PCH, no traffic at all, push the speedometer to ninety-five miles an hour, take Topanga to the 101 South, exit Van Nuys Boulevard straight to Bob’s Classy Lady, pull into the parking lot, which Mersault now sees is full; the Asian bouncer in a black Regis outfit says park on the street but the reader keeps going, back on the freeway, toward the 15 East.
Decision time: head home via the 101 or Billy Wilder Boulevard? Mersault decides to fill up his tank at the next 76 station. He’s got a long road ahead of him tonight; he’s going to take his talents to Taos, where he’ll arrive on set long after the Jonesy shot.
GOLGOTHA
Screenplay by Thør Rosenthal
Hardly the greatest story ever told. Head-scratcher of a script takes a lurid, pulpy approach to the last days of Jesus Christ. Imagine Angel Heart with Judas as a gumshoe recruited by Pontius Pilate to investigate a Jewish carpenter claiming to be the redeemer and preaching “Love thy neighbor, turn thy cheek.” What could have been a memorable mash-up of genres suffers from flowery dialogue and iconic biblical characters trapped in a bad pastiche of Mickey Spillane. Low point of the script is a gratuitous orgy sequence with the fraternal disciples and a totally game Mary Magdalene. Middle has a grim subplot of Barabbas stalking prostitutes and leaving their heads in a baptismal lake to be discovered by devout followers. Judas ends up saving Mary Magdalene, but it’s Jesus, not Barabbas, who is condemned by the bloodthirsty crowd. Intriguing faith-based noir, wobbly script, Last Temptation meets Se7en*, it’s not the savior that deserves crucifixion.
Last Temptation meets Se7en
Red and pink static in a circle, eye of an electromagnetic field, a mackerel sky; BOSE headphones over a crown of thorns blasts Creed’s “My Own Prison” in Legion’s ears. A camera assistant catches the flicked-away headphones, h
olds up a monitor on a selfie stick to an immobile Legion on the gore-soaked lumber, awaiting approval.
“Let’s do this,” says the redeemer-director.
All those on set steel themselves to shoot the crucifixion in a single, uninterrupted take.
First AD queries the crew: “Is everybody ready?”
(Earlier, in the garden of Gesthemane, Legion huddles with his followers, giving them props for enduring the last forty days in the desert: “I say to you today you will be with me in paradise,” leading them with the morning chant for the last time: “Say who, say ha! Say who, say ha! Say who, who, who, 1-2-3-GOLGOTHA!”)
“Speed,” yells the sound recordist, followed by “Camera A rolling!” and “Camera B rolling!”
The clapper loader fills the frame with a digital slate: ‘Scene two twenty eight, take one.”
The first AD bellows: “Action!”
Start on Legion’s exposed ribcage.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”
Legion turns to the thieves Gestas and Dismas execrating God for their crucifixion.
“I thirst!” cries Legion, his eye-line clear, storm clouds in the distance.
Extras raise a sponge dipped in sour wine on a sprig of hyssop to the star’s parched lips.
The one-take bravura shot continues.
Legion recognizes Larry Mersault playing a Roman centurion among the crowd of local hires, reluctant expression on his face, unclean blade attached to his pike.
All at once, the set disappears.
The sun is no more.
Gestas and Dismas, gone.
The extras.
The trailers.
The camera equipment.
The camera operator.
The focus puller.
All gone, as if making movies never existed.
Legion: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Shafts of sunlight knife through aboriginal darkness.
Gestas and Dismas reappear, cursing their predicament.
With spear of destiny upturned, the extra-turned-assassin Larry Mersault makes his move.
Everyone is back on set.
The epic one-take shot pulled off.
Mersault: “You’re dead, Antwon.”
Only then does the biggest movie star in the world unleash a thousand watt smile.
“It is accomplished—”
FRANKIE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD
Revised by Andrew Dufresne
Outstanding rewrite, perversely macabre retelling of The Modern Prometheus paints Viktor Frankenstein as an ambitious dental assistant who assists a mad orthodontist named Igor (a welcome reversal of roles) in resurrecting the dead, failing repeatedly until they succeed wildly with raising a mean girl corpse named “Frankie.” Viktor and Igor become fearful parents to their monstrous child, hiding her in the bowels of a South Robertson medical building. Frankie rebels when she realizes her body is made up of stolen parts; her entitled teenage brain, however, transforms her into a ghastly monster. There’s an extraordinary classroom scene when a sympathetic Fairfax High teacher tries to help Frankie answer a basic geography question, and the teen corpse murders the instructor in a fit of rage. Frankie is tormented by her lack of memories and existential shame. One of the script’s many highlights is the corpse’s gentle nature, her deep longing for affection underneath the scarred exterior. Viktor, Igor, and the Monster come alive (alive!) on the page. The talk* is marvelous. Darkly compelling, Heathers meets Young Frankenstein, a Gothic popcorn movie for the masses.
The talk
Larry Mersault peers over a podium at the rows of mostly Hispanic family members waving glue-glittered signs inside the Arthur J. Livingstone Auditorium. The student body texts away, lit up by iPhones, oblivious to the significance of this life chapter event. Projected on the curtains behind the commencement speaker are the words ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO EXIT HERE.
“First of all, I want to congratulate the class of 2013.”
(applause)
“I want to thank the prestigious Los Angeles Film School for inviting me to be your graduation speaker. I heard Roman Polanski was not available.”
(silence)
Larry Mersault places a Chivas Regal bag on the podium. He yanks down the purple velvet like a tube top, revealing a golden Oscar statuette. Sharing his triumph with the graduates—
“I had to kill someone to get this.”
(laughter)
“This Honorary Oscar recognizes extraordinary distinction in lifetime achievement, or exceptional contributions to motion picture arts and sciences, or outstanding service to the Academy. I wanted the Thalberg.”
(applause)
“All of you are going to Hell. Most definitely, as Dwyane Wade would say. Now, Hell is not ‘other people’ as said by Jean-Paul Camus. Hell is where the glasses have holes in them and the women don’t. When Saint Peter shows you a video and Hell looks fantastic, don’t believe him, it’s the trailer. Our receptionist, who I am no longer fucking, that’s a joke, she plays for the other team, told me yesterday she is leaving the business because she doesn’t know who she is anymore. That is an excellent reason for leaving any business.”
(silence)
“Hot tip number one: figure out what you like to do and do it well. Do it for free. Find a place to do it. Do it for money. Do it all night for money and you’re a professional.”
(silence)
“Let me get back to Hell, I mean, the movie business, the industry, the Coliseum you are about to enter. I watched Ridley Scott’s Gladiator on Netflix last night. What did the studio executive say to the screenwriter who first pitched the idea of Maximus? I’ll never say who it was, but Rodney Muir at Fox had this brilliant note for David Franzoni: ‘Does he have to be a gladiator? What if Maximus was a janitor who cleans toilets and gets into gladiator school?’ There’s one scene in that movie that sums up what the industry is really like. The gladiators are all standing in darkness under the Coliseum, the stadium chanting for their deaths, the guy next to Maximus vomits all over the guy in front of him, another gladiator pisses himself, one guy, eyes wide, looks like a total madman, probably can’t wait to get out there and start killing, and then there’s Maximus, steady as a fucking rock. Be that guy.”
(silence)
“Tip number two: get a mentor. That’s the whole ball game. Find that nine hundred pound mentor and perform any task that is asked, no matter how demeaning, and that gorilla will one day make a life-changing phone call to Alan Horn on your behalf.”
(silence)
“Tip number three: find someone to share your life with or you will die alone, your mummified body discovered by police after a neighbor calls for a welfare check.”
(silence)
“Number four: have children. They help to ease the boredom.”
(laughter)
“Nugget number five: be the best friend you can be and your friends will be your family.”
(applause)
“I did none of those things. I have no friends. I sold my soul to a movie star. I used to read for a talent agency. Now I work for a media hydra representing GMO corporations, asymmetrical militant extremists, and Chobani yogurt.”
(silence)
“If I have one regret in this life I should have said ‘yes’ to that Irish chick who invited me to her hotel room after we had dinner at Sushi on Sunset but she was married to the Irish ambassador and I chose not to upset the Belfast Peace Agreement.”
(applause)
“And finally, to the graduates of the Los Angeles Film School, my last bit of advice for all of you about to enter the industry: don’t do it.”
Author photo by Lawrence Raymond
Adam Novak is the author of the novels The Non-Pro and Take Fountain. He lives and writes in Los A
ngeles, California.
VERY SPECIAL THANKS
Lauren, Sara, Tabitha & Doctor Bombay, Reinhard, Greathouse, André, Cox, the Fisch, Jason, Jen, Lockhart, John Ptak, Brent Morley, WME, and J.D.
Mom, Dad, Jonathan, Barbara and Brian—your tough love rescued the novel from the abyss.
Henry Bean, Miranda Van Iderstein, and Nancy Guan—the best notes I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something.
Tyson, Alice, Julia, Hailie, and Andrew at Rare Bird Books—for your patience, for your passion, and for publishing me.