The Smoking Gun

by Doug Richardson

  I’ve got stories upon stories from a life of being underestimated, most of them more couch-worthy than for publication. But my point is this. After fifty years of fighting to not be the last one picked for the team, I’m

  not just comfortable with my spot in the food chain. I relish in it.

  For one, it makes me grind harder. It also affords me an immediate advantage. Underestimate me and I will most likely surprise you with not just a canvas-kissing left hook, but maybe a speech which moves you to tears or a plot-twist that thrills you enough to turn the page with breathless anticipation.

  I’m not suggesting anybody reduce their lofty standards. But who hasn’t sat down for a picture or opened a book or tuned into a television show where expectations were set close to neutral, only to walk away engaged or impressed and wanting to get your Google on just to find out more?

  Not that I mind anybody’s expectations of me being high. I want to both meet ’em and/or exceed ’em or fall on my ass from exhaustion trying. I just no longer mind nor lament anybody whose opinion of me lands somewhere south of average.

  As my yearlong reign as Quetzal Cup Champion came to its ceremonious end, I was forced to dig the trophy out of a dirty corner of my garage, dust it off, and return it to that Hollywood power couple so the next overly competitive combatant could lay his or her mitts on it.

  For awhile thereafter, every so often I’d be in a meeting on a project when, out of the blue, somebody would up and say, “Hey. Do you know so and so?” And “Weren’t you the guy who won that Scrabble cup thing?”

  “Yeah,” I’d say.

  “How do I get an invite?” they’d ask.

  “First you gotta learn some high-value words.”

  Boom. Kapow. Blam.

  The Coolest Deed

  Way back when The Shawshank Redemption was barely hanging on in theaters, squeaking out some pretty meager box office, and still years before it was regarded as one of the greatest American movies of the last thirty years, Academy and Guild members were not yet able to rely on screeners as a way to keep up with award-worthy movies. If you didn’t catch the flick in a theater, the best you could hope for was catching an invite for an evening showing at a studio or a talent agency screening room. It was either that or wait for the movie to show up on vhs at the corner Blockbuster.

  Shawshank was initially released with little fanfare and expectation. After it had already fizzled on the national scene, Castle Rock was doing whatever it could to keep it in a few theaters in Los Angeles and New York with hopes of salvaging some of its lost coin with some award nominations. By the time I got around to seeing the film, it was playing only once a day at some last chance triplex on Beverly. Though the industry word of mouth on the movie was terrific, it still wasn’t the highest on my list of wannasees. More than anything else, it was luck and timing that led me to purchase the ticket on that Tuesday. I had a big gap between a westside lunch and a meeting at Sony Studios. When that happens, I usually try to slide a movie into the slot in lieu of burning gas back to the Valley or finding a quiet space to flip open my laptop to bang out a thousand words. On that particular afternoon, The Shawshank Redemption fit both my mood and timing. Or so I thought.

  Though it doesn’t play as long as the numbers suggest, Shawshank clocks in at 142 minutes. (That’s two

  hours and twenty-two clicks for the mathematically challenged.) Before I parked myself in that squeaky seat with a popcorn and a Diet Coke, I’d already erred. I’d forgotten to check the running time on the movie and only allotted myself the standard 110 to 120 minutes to see the picture before tacking on another thirty to navigate from Hollywood to Culver City, zip through the studio gates, park, and hike across the lot to my appointment. So as the movie rolled on, I’d begun to uncharacteristically check my watch despite being completely wrapped up in the compelling tale of Andy Dufresne and Ellis Boyd “Red” Redding. The story wasn’t anywhere close to winding up and my meeting was fast approaching. I had two options: Bail on the meeting and watch the movie to its conclusion, then make some lame flat-tire excuse for blowing off the meeting to my agent; Or be the responsible studio scribe and break the movie off before it had its talons even deeper into me. There was a brief, death struggle inside of me, finally choosing the latter. It was, after all, just a movie. All I needed was a clean exit.

  But here’s the awful moment when I chose to make my escape: Tim Robbins, as the defeated and depressed Andy Dufresne, is seated in his lonely jail cell, staring at that poster of Racquel Welch, when he reaches under his pillow and removes the rope with which I fear he’s going to hang himself—just like poor old Brooks as portrayed by James Whitmore.

  Damn damn damn! What a bloody cliffhanger, created by my own mix of lousy timing and fiscal propriety. I jetted over to the Sony lot, beginning my meeting with a breathless recitation of what I’d just seen and my afternoon predicament. To this day I don’t remember with whom I met or what was discussed aside from the merits of The Shawshank Redemption, Frank Darabont’s

  unbridled talent as a writer-slash-director, and what the hell was Tim Robbins gonna do with that damned rope?

  When the meeting broke up, I had just enough time to skidoo back to Sunset Boulevard’s Cinerama Dome where I was set to attend the premiere of a movie I also don’t recollect. I parked, got my name crossed off the list of the invited, then entered the theater and went about trying to find myself a seat. It was already slam-packed. As I scoured the room for a single available seat, I bumped into an agent acquaintance, Robert Stein. I said hello, shook his hand, then was introduced to his guest.

  “Doug Richardson,” said Stein. “Meet Frank Darabont.”

  Understand, I was in movie-premiere-social-schmooze-remote mode. Smile on my face. Ready to shake hands and say my good evenings to a coterie of the usual suspects who populate these kinds of events, while deftly avoiding the few who hadn’t returned my call or those with whom I plainly didn’t want to speak. So it was as if my brain was on a three-second delay as I swung my short-fingered mitt to grip Frank Darabont’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Doug,” said Frank, warmly.

  When I finally put the face and the name into context I believe I performed something between a genuflection and the kissing of Frank’s ring. Involuntarily, I dropped my knee to the floor and then said something moronic about needing to explain myself.

  “You don’t have a clue what I’ve been through this afternoon,” I began.

  I followed with the tale about the gap between my lunch and the late afternoon appointment at Sony, and the couple of hours between where I’d tried to squeeze in a 3:15 p.m. showing of Frank’s powerful movie.

  “So I got up to leave right when Andy reaches under his pillow and pulls out the effing rope,” I said.

  Frank bellowed with a big laugh, clearly amused by the situation I’d just described.

  “Please,” I said. “Not at all trying to get you to tell me what happens next. I just wanted to express to you what a fantastic effect your movie had on me.”

  “Not the whole movie,” chimed in Stein.

  “He’s right,” said Frank, wise smirk on his face. “It might not finish so well.”

  “I doubt that very much,” I said.

  The lights to the room temporarily dimmed in a signal that the movie was about to begin.

  “I better find a seat,” I said. “Nice meeting you, Frank.”

  I shook the filmmaker’s hand and hiked up to the rear of the movie house where I found a corner seat. Like I said, I don’t recall a frame of the movie that unspooled in the Dome that night. In the fray of flesh pressing which usually follows a movie premier, I wasn’t lucky enough to bump into Frank Darabont to put a finish on our brief conversation. And since I hadn’t seen my wife all day, I skipped the after party and hustled myself back over the hill to my humble suburban shelter.

  Upon my arrival home, I discovered a simple package leaning up against the gate that guards the entry to my home
. This wasn’t an odd occurrence. Studios and agencies often messenger scripts and such, leaving a variety of paper envelopes in danger of being ravaged by my dogs or the automated sprinklers. Luckily, the package that night had escaped such danger. As I switched on the lights to my dining room, I dropped my keys and ripped open the seal. Out dropped a single, unmarked video cassette with a buck card taped to it, reading:

  “with compliments from frank darabont… I hope the rest of the film lives up to your expectations.”

  Damn damn damn!

  The man had somehow gleaned my address and had a copy of the movie hand-delivered to me just so I could see how things turned out for Andy and Red.

  I walked upstairs, kissed my wife a speedy goodnight, then retired to the den where I jacked the cassette into my vcr and fast-forwarded the tape to precisely where I’d left off with Andy, the Racquel Welch poster, and that rope he’d pulled out from under his prison cell pillow.

  Of course, the movie finished strong. Despite that, it was skunked in the awards race and slaved in its attempts to make a profit.

  I’ve since watched the movie a number of times. Always satisfied. Always remembering Frank’s coolest deed.

  Not long ago, I finally succeeded in convincing my fifteen-year-old son to watch the movie. The boy was pretty reluctant and it took him losing a bet before he sat to watch the movie from beginning to end. When it was over, I told him my story about the movie. Then I asked him to go on the Internet and check out Shawshank’s rank in the critical lexicon of American Cinema. He was not just stunned and excited. But inspired to make a list of other great films for father and son to experience together.

  So once again, Frank, your cool deed keeps on giving.

  A Rock and a Hard Place

  In this story I need to keep the names under wraps because some of the following are still “A” players. So for now, I’ll just say that an unnamed studio hired me to rewrite an unnamed script for an unnamed star. It was a two-step deal: one draft plus a set of revisions. I delivered on time and received good news. The studio was seriously jazzed and wanted to push toward production. This usually means a brief writing pause while they seek a director, followed by meetings, notes, and some relatively close supervision whilst I nudge the next pass closer to a start date.

  But this was an unusual situation.

  The studio, having felt burned by a variety of recent directors who’d steered scripts into story and budgetary oblivion, had an experimental business model they wanted to try. Shape the script without external input, set a start date, hire a talented helmer currently residing in director jail, and fire up the green light.

  Excuse me? Did he say “director jail”? What the hell’s that?

  Director jail is a metaphoric condo complex for experienced filmmakers who’ve somehow crashed their careers due to some kind of cinematic flame-out. Usually the culprit is a big budget flop or two. While serving time in the helmers’ hoosegow the stigmatized can usually be found treading water in commercials or episodic television. The theory goes that once released from the pokey, the reformed moviemaker is so grateful for the opportunity to work in features again that he or she wouldn’t mind being micromanaged by the commissary’s staff.

  However in the case of this rewrite, I had barely five weeks to deliver a prep-worthy draft so the studio could

  start production and make their precious holiday release date. Cool enough. I informed the War Department that I’d be spending nights and weekends in my office. I was temporarily excused from carpool duty.

  As for the star, he seemed chill enough. That and while I was supposed to be executing a laundry list of studio notes he’d personally agreed to, he was scheduled to be well out of my way, filming another picture on foreign sod.

  And so it began. I chained myself to my desk and attacked the script—a script for which the studio execs had professed much love. Yet the changes they wanted required significant thought and rewiring for me to retrofit them into the screenplay. At the same time I had to ensure the ripple effect of their notes didn’t turn into a structural tsunami.

  Then my phone rang. It was the movie star calling from his exotic locale. After a few days off from filming, he’d had a notion or two he wanted to discuss. Fine, I said. Let’s discuss. Only his notions were mostly dialogue related and in relation to the previous draft. Until I’d executed the studio’s macro notes, the dialogue earmarked for the star’s famed pie hole was pretty much irrelevant. Still, I made scribbles as to his thoughts, bid him a fond adieu, and continued on with my assignment. Until the next day when he called again. And then the next day. And the next day…

  Note to writers who think screenwriting is like scrawling anything else… only a notch more glamorous: Sure, I suppose fielding calls from movie stars sounds like something worth fantasizing over. And to some with more shallow ambitions, I admit there’s a certain caché factor in working in those celestial orbits. But when that same big time actor is shoving his or her “genius” down your gullet, all the while unknowingly

  dismantling what you just constructed the day before, planet earth suddenly becomes the atmosphere of choice.

  With my deadline fast approaching and the studio breathing down my neck, I worried that the daily distractions of Mr. Movie Star might hinder my successful delivery of the new script. So I packed a bag, gassed up my car and escaped to one of my preferred hideaways. The desert. Or to be more exact, the La Quinta Hotel Resort and Spa.

  Before the War Department and I were blessed with a pair of attention-seeking, private-school-attending tax deductions—and I was crunched for writing time—I found I could double to triple my quality output by shacking up in a suite at a sunny hotel with an adjacent championship golf course. The routine went like this. Up at seven to a warm room-service breakfast to write from eight until half-noon, followed by a sandwich and eighteen-holes of golf to clear the cobwebs from my brain. Then a shower and dinner in my room, writing from six until midnight. Repeat the next day. It was usually a mash-up of gut-grinding and writerly bliss.

  And the only person who knew where I’d vanished to was my beloved. Agents and the studio were both informed that I’d slipped away to better concentrate on the script. I turned off my cell phone, plugged in my laptop, and recommenced.

  I know. You’re already way ahead of me. The movie star. He’d gotten used to stepping from whatever film set he was currently gracing, climbing up the steps of his air-conditioned trailer and dialing me for a little script confab between camera set-ups. Once he realized I’d shut off my cell phone, paranoia must have crept underneath his skull cap because he assigned his minions to spare no expense in digging me out of whatever hole I’d crawled into.

  Then my wife called my hotel room. She told me both the studio and my agent had rung the house, urgently compelling me to call them back. What else was I going to do but as instructed?

  “What’s so damn urgent?” I asked the studio exec.

  “It’s (the movie star),” said the executive. “He’s flipping out that you’ve gone underground.”

  “And to that you said?”

  “That I didn’t know where you were. Which I don’t!”

  “So we’re good then,” I said.

  “Not at all. You gotta call him back.”

  “I came down here to escape him. Calling him back would kinda fuck up the whole purpose.”

  “Call him back.”

  “How’s this?” I suggested. “You call him. Say that I’m executing this draft for the studio. And I promise the next pass will be just for him.”

  “Why can’t you tell him?”

  “Already have.”

  “And?”

  “And now I’m here.”

  The studio executive cursed a blue streak, confessing to me this was a particular part of the job that he flat-out loathed. His bosses had passed the movie-star-management-buck to him. In essence, he was a lamb to the slaughter. Now he wanted me to wear the sheep’s clothes.
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  “Please,” he begged. “Why can’t you deal with this guy?”

  “Here’s how I see it,” I said. “You, the studio, are paying me to deliver a draft suitable for budgeting. Plus I’m on a time clock. I need to construct your movie. Yet you want me wasting my time talking to (the movie star) who insists on deconstructing the very same movie.”

  “Can’t you just hear him out, tell him what great ideas he has, hang up, then go back to working for us?”

  “Last time I talked to him he wanted to see pages to prove I was executing his changes. Says he has a fax machine in his trailer.” With that I thought I’d rested my case.

  That was me being diplomatic. What I really wanted to say was that managing the movie star was his problem. Not mine. And if he thought getting paid a mid-six figure salary wasn’t enough lubricant to ease his being stuck between a rock and a hard place, maybe he should try sitting in a cold passenger van at 3:00 a.m., trying like hell to pen clever dialogue while a hundred-man film crew looks on with blue-collar disdain.

  “I’ll deal with it,” was the last thing I recall the executive saying.

  An hour later, the room phone was ringing once again. I answered, expecting to hear either the voice of my wife or room service informing me that today’s roast beef had been replaced by braised pork loin.

  Instead. I heard the familiar voice of the movie star.

  “Found you.”

  “How’d you get this number?” was the most witty thing I could summon.

  “Why are you avoiding me?” asked the movie star.

  Here’s when I fibbed, insisting I wasn’t in fact avoiding him—just seeking privacy to meet the company’s five-week deadline. He argued that since he was the star and center of the known universe, I needed to listen and be available to hear his every thought and concern whenever they might pop in to his head.