and received a five-minute primer on a kind of racing I wasn’t at all familiar with.
I found the initial dvd compelling enough to give the actual documentary a spin. Ninety minutes later, I was hooked. I found the sport visually arresting and the characters both exotic and full of wonderful human defects. Filled with a rush of optimism, I next reached for the script. I mean, how bad it could it be if it were based in such a riveting world?
Okay. So you’re ahead of me.
The reading experience was indescribable. I can’t say I’d ever read anything so God-awful. Sure. About every ten or so pages there was some pretty intense racing action crow-barred in just to break up the buddy-whoring-slash-cocaine-cowboy-lesbian-threesomes-fantasy that, in my view, appeared to preoccupy the writers to some kind of anti-literary distraction. There was no story. Zero characters in which to find even a casual rooting interest. And nothing that related to that damned fine documentary I’d viewed only hours earlier.
“Can’t say he didn’t warn you,” said my agent. “The worst script every written, right?”
I explained how disappointed I was considering how ebullient I’d been about the potential I’d found in the accompanying dvds.
“So look,” said my agent. “They want to have dinner with you—the movie star, the producer and the director.”
“Oh right. That won’t be awkward.”
“Forget the script. Pitch the movie as you see it.”
“Pitch the movie as I see it?” I repeated. “To the writers who wrote it?”
“They know their script sucks. That’s why they want to partner with you.”
I said I’d think about it. While I slept I let my subconscious wrestle while in a dream state. The fantastic movie I saw in my head, starring a great actor I truly admired—versus the script I’d just read. Did I have the stones to break bread with the writers who also happened to be the director and that much admired star?
Cripes!
Telluride sits in the Southern Rockies at ten thousand feet above sea level. So I blame the altitude and my oxygen-starved brain. A dinner date was inked with the star, the director, and the producer. And a week later I was meeting with the power trio at an Italian joint in Brentwood. We drank plenty and had loads of laughs. The movie star proved to be a guy’s guy with a hysterically ribald sense of humor. His friend, the documentary director seemed easy going enough. And the producer was there to keep pouring grease on the gears with more bottles of wine. Eventually, we arrived at the subject at hand. I pretended to have never read the horrible script and pitched out a movie inspired by the documentary. The movie star was gassed by my approach and we went on to discuss the movie possibilities for another hour. The producer was thrilled. The director, I noted, barely uttered a syllable.
The producer walked me to my car, telling me all the way how awesome the evening seemed to go.
“The director didn’t seem too happy,” I said.
“Oh, he’ll come around,” said the producer. “He’s nowhere without the star and the star digs where you want to take it.”
The next day, the director phoned me. He confessed that he knew his script wasn’t all that good, which was precisely why they needed me to come on board. We agreed to meet the following week at Junior’s in West
wood to discuss how best to proceed. By then I’d sketched a simple outline of the story I’d pitched over dinner. Despite the director’s continuous claims that he needed me, I could sense a weird discomfort leaking from him as we discussed characters and how I planned to structure the new story. It was as if he were putting a Herculean effort into exhibiting this peaceful warrior exterior as I was describing in excruciating terms how I planned to remove his spinal cord without anesthesia or an epidural block.
After breakfast, I called the producer and put forth a simple question:
“Is this the director’s very first script?” I asked.
“Yeah. Think it is,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“I was afraid of that,” I told him. “Gotta strong feeling it’s not gonna work out with him and me.”
“Naw. Stick with it,” the producer begged. “Once the movie star figures the director isn’t able to get with the program, he’ll dump him for someone who does.”
“Sorry. Not my job to be the wedge that busts up their friendship,” I said.
The producer argued. But I insisted on sticking with my instincts to run far, far away.
I explained that a first screenplay is rarely written with much skill or craftsmanship. Good or bad, a virgin script pretty much finds the page as if directly etched from the writer’s own dna. It’s about genetics. The same reason tigers can’t change their stripes.
It was my opinion that there was no way this talented, well-meaning director could ever get past someone toying with his internal wiring—let alone direct a subsequent screenplay with any veracity.
As far as I know, nothing’s ever happened with the project. I’d like to say I’ve moved on. But I sometimes wonder what could have been.
Dogfights and Rewrites with George Lucas
In January 2012 the movie Red Tails opened nationwide to some pretty decent business. It was a long time in the making. And I’d noticed that a lot of press surrounding the movie had to do with the difficulty George Lucas had getting it produced and into theaters.
No. I haven’t seen it yet. But some time ago I did read a version of the script. In fact, I’d been asked to look at it so see if I’d be interested in rewriting it. At the time, Thomas Carter was attached as the director. Of course, the producer of record was George Lucas. My agent set up the meeting.
I’d met Thomas Carter once before. At the time, he was the former-actor-turned-the-hot-tv director of the moment. Now he was coming off of his first feature, Swing Kids. I’d been told he wanted Red Tails to be his next feature.
I forget how long I waited outside Thomas’ Columbia Pictures office. While I was chatting up the assistants, the office door flew open. I turned to greet Thomas, only to find George Lucas standing there, hand outstretched.
“Doug? I’m George.”
Yeah, dude. I know who you are.
What’s it like meeting an icon? I guess it depends who the icon is or whether or not you view the person as an icon or just another guy who puts his pants on one leg at a time. Truth be told, I’ve never been a sci-fi or comic book geek. Nor was I much of a Star Wars fan—though I did learn to appreciate the series more as a parent of children who knew how to operate a dvd player. I recall a period of time when my house was filled with the distinctive sounds of light sabers thrashing the air.
Still, this was George Freaking Lucas standing in front of me. Hand shaking mine. A man who’d transformed movies right before my generation’s eyes. Okay, Mr. Jaded. Take the moment to be impressed. Oh. And try not to focus on the fact that, if I squinted, George looked like a silver-gray Ewok in a tweed sports jacket.
Thomas Carter was next to say hi. We were joined by the stock, legal-pad-wielding development Twinkie. I don’t remember her name but I recall her young, eager-to-please smile and more white teeth than Justin Bieber. She sat next to me on a stool while I occupied a chair that appeared leftover from the Mos Eisley Cantina. The usual small talk was dispensed with as George, very business-like, wanted to get down to the business of Red Tails.
The script and the resulting movie is the true story of the Tuskegee Airmen, a squadron of black aviators who fought in World War ii. I was quite taken with the prospect of working on the movie and expressed as much. The script was full of some incredible aeronautic sequences that, if filmed utilizing the special effects expertise of Lucas’ ilm, would be absolutely eye-popping. My problem with the script was the characters, most of whom seemed rather wooden and devoid of any substantive conflict. It was as if the Airmen were battling only the issues of race and history instead of the practical problems of learning how to manage fighter planes that were more engine than fuselage and working together
as a singular fighting unit—not to mention the German air force.
My suggestion was that we should rebuild each pilot from the ground up. Have them wrestling individual demons that only flying a p-51 Mustang would solve. I know. This sounds like screenwriting 101. But sometimes a filmmaker gets lost in the forest. Maybe even George Lucas.
I’d planted a seed. And it sprouted like a weed.
Thomas took on my suggestions. As a former actor, he was quick to internalize the make-believe demon. He began to improvise in the voice of the lead character. George scratched his beard and observed. I wondered if he might be prepping to give Thomas a bit of direction. Instead, George took on the role of the tough-but-fatherly squadron commander, suddenly barking commands. Thomas had himself an improv partner. He stood and began using the small office as his stage.
My instincts sparked. I’d imagined these inner conflicts manifesting themselves during battle sequences instead of through just another tired drill instructor versus cadet scene we’d seen a million times. I made the suggestion and, as if I were James Lipton instructing in a private workshop, George and Thomas shifted gears. Their improvisation instantly took on the lives of two Tuskegee pilots in the middle of an air battle against the Germans.
I must admit. I was absolutely delighted to be a witness. George Lucas and Thomas Carter, roaring around the office, one hand on their pretend control stick, the other on an equally imaginary machine gun trigger. Before the duo had finished their war game, they’d played multiple parts, made up a hundred classic lines of dialogue, and shot down twenty enemy aircraft. Bravo.
That eager D-Girl nudged me, big grin on her face and whispered, “You did it. They love this.”
Yes. I had done it. I’d somehow unglued the mega-mogul and his worthy director. The gig had to be mine. I threw down my final notes onto paper and we wrapped up the meeting. George and Thomas thanked me. We’d be in touch.
As I walked to my car, I performed my usual mental replay. I couldn’t get the images of the producer and
director engaging the entire German Luftwaffe in that minimalist studio office. The pair did everything but stick out their arms and zoom between the chairs as if they had wings. And those who might think that such behavior is silly and unbecoming of adults? Yeah, maybe. But who would ever doubt the infinite imaginations of children? Or the financial wisdom of playing out a childish fantasy?
And then, just before patting myself on the back for planting the immature seed, I secretly wished I’d been more of a participant. What had prevented me from taking flight myself? By the time George and Thomas had finished their play acting, I’d been reduced to a fly on the wall.
Once in my car, I phoned my agent. He’d just gotten off a call with that D-Girl with the gleaming white teeth. She’d informed him of how awesome the meeting had gone. And though she hadn’t yet been able to follow up with George and Thomas, she fully expected the job was mine.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“What?” asked my agent. “Were you in a different meeting?”
“Oh, I was there. I started it all.”
“So why do you think…”
“I may have started it, but I didn’t finish it.”
I described the meeting. My instinct was this: When George and Thomas eventually had a chance to unwind, digest, and return to the subject of whether I was the right guy to rewrite Red Tails, what would they most likely recall from our encounter? That they liked me? Appreciated what I had to add to their project? Or their own childlike imaginations, burning up the skies and winning both wars—against the Germans and racism?
I was dead certain George Lucas and Thomas Carter would best recall the participants in the meeting more than the observers. All the way home I kicked myself for not getting off my ass, climbing into the cockpit of my own pre-pubescent imagination, and flying around the office with the other Tuskegee Airmen.
My instincts proved correct. I didn’t land the gig. But I surely doubt I’ll ever forget the lesson.
The Sex Factor
*Warning. The following, though accurate and intended as comical, absurdist entertainment, uses offensive language and depicts crude behavior. Skip ahead a few pages now or hold your complaint.
It was an impromptu moment. I was connecting with a movie veep for lunch. After I’d swung by his office, we planned to stroll across the lot to the studio commissary for our protein-rich confab on life and potential picture projects. The quickest route was via a set of back stairs that, as it turned out, swung us by the studio president’s office.
“Hey you guys!” shouted the studio boss as we hoofed past. “Need your opinions.”
As we ambled into the generous power suite, The Boss dumped himself into a leather armchair and placed his stockinged feet up on the coffee table.
“I’m trying to cast the girl role in (like the names, the movie will remain for you to guess) and the (director) wants this skinny new actress named Leslie Bibb. Do you guys know her?”
“Heard of her,” said my pal, The Veep. “Got a picture handy?”
“Janey?” shouted The Boss. “Bring in that picture again.”
“Which picture?” asked the assistant.
“That blonde number (the director) is stuck on.”
“Leslie Bibb?” asked the assistant.
“The picture.”
The Boss’s assistant was quick to deliver us a color 8x10 of the actress. I recall she was very young, very blonde, and very pretty.
“Looks familiar,” I said.
“Don’t wanna know if she looks familiar,” said The Boss. “It’s a very simple question. Do you wanna fuck her?”
Okay. So what I’m supposed to say here is that I’m happy, married, and faithful to a fault and that getting jiggy with any actress would never ever cross my mind. That being said, over my years in the trenches I’d been subject to this particular conversation with other producers and executives. I understood the shorthand gist of The Boss’s question. Did I find the actress so attractive I’d be more inclined to buy a ticket for a movie with her in a romantic role?
“Wouldn’t kick her out of my hotel room,” I said glibly.
“Not a ringing endorsement,” said The Boss, turning from the writer to The Veep. “What about you? Would you fuck her?”
“Wouldn’t fuck her,” said The Veep.
“Exactly what I told (the director),” said The Boss.
“That it?” asked The Veep.
“No, that’s not it,” said The Boss. “We gotta nail this thing down today. So I need to know who you guys would fuck.”
“Okay. I’d fuck Jessica Alba,” said The Veep.
“Who wouldn’t want to fuck her?” said The Boss. “But she can’t act for shit.”
“Jennifer Connolly,” I volunteered.
“You’d fuck her?” asked The Boss.
“Plus she can act.”
“Does nothing for me,” said The Veep. “Too cold.”
“So who’d you fuck?” asked The Boss.
“That girl in The Island.”
“Scarlett Johansson,” I said.
“Yeah,” said the Veep. “I’d definitely fuck Scarlett Johansson.”
“Who else?” The Boss was looking at me again.
“Halle Berry?”
“Need to go younger,” said The Boss. “What do you think of Rachel McAdams?”
“Good actress,” said the Veep. “But she’s not hot.”
“She gotta be hot for you to fuck her?”
“It helps.”
“Who’d you say you’d wanna fuck?” asked a voice behind us.
We all swiveled to discover the studio’s Production Head leaning in the doorway, trailed by a Senior vp who—as it just so happened—was a woman. Not that her presence meant anything, as you’ll soon discover.
“Scarlett Johansson,” said The Veep.
“We were talking about Rachel McAdams,” I said.
“Not a fan,” said The Head. �
��What about you?”
“Me?” said The Senior vp. “Do I look like a lesbian?”
“Do you want me to answer?” joked The Boss.
“No,” said The Senior vp. “But if I was a guy? I’d soooooo wanna do Keira Knightly.”
“Way too skinny,” said The Boss. “What’s with all these women with no boobs or ass? Men don’t wanna fuck that.”
“You asked. I answered,” said The Senior vp.
“Penelope Cruz,” I added trying to move the conversation. “Salma Hayak.”
“Says the guy who married the Irish girl,” poked The Veep.
“Amazing Irish girl,” I defended.
“That girl on the o.c.” volunteered The Senior vp. “Mischa Barton.”
“Never heard of her,” said The Head. “Does Lindsay Lohan work for this role?”
“Wouldn’t trust anyone who’d wanna fuck that,” said The Boss.
“I did,” said The Veep.
“Slut,” said The Senior vp.
“Me or her?”
“I meant you. But what the hell? Both of you.”
“Who’s (the director) got for the guy?” asked The Head.
“Paul Walker,” said The Boss.
“Now him, I’d fuck,” said The Senior vp.
“Not me,” said The Veep. “Kind of a stiff.”
“Rather we went after Jude Law,” said The Boss. “He’s the next Brad Pitt. Women will wanna fuck him all the way to the bank.”
“Would you fuck him?” asked The Head.
“You’re asking me?” I said.
“Sure. What’s the writer think?”
“Asking about Law or Walker?”
“Either.”
The Smoking Gun Page 9