The Writer's Cut

by Eric Idle

  I don’t know how he does it. He is a genius of the unexpected. I am going to have to buy a weapon, there is no other course for it. I have fantasies of strangling him, of hitting him over the head with a bottle of Dom Perignon, of electrocuting him in his bath, of shoving him over a cliff at PCH, or just shooting him dead in front of the entire Freedom Committee of The Writers’ Guild.

  Marvin Lutwig rejects the settlement.

  I stare at the story in the LA Times in sheer disbelief. I watch him in person on Fox News Local Edition publicly standing up for me. He thinks I have been leaned on by powerful figures in the Industry. He wants to save me from myself. He is adamantly opposed to any solution to my lawsuit which involves a compromise or a sell-out. He is backed by a small crowd of people with placards. Some are holding scissors.

  “No sell out!” they say, shuffling past the cameras.

  “Don’t cut free speech!” they say, waving scissors.

  Fucking writers. They’ll do anything rather than write.

  On second glance I’m not convinced these are writers at all. They are far too diversified. Indeed, mostly Hispanic. I believe Marvin has rented these protestors from downtown. Some of them look like they don’t speak English too well. Frankly, they look puzzled, standing behind this florid-faced man and staring at the camera. No cell out says one poster. Some writers.

  “We are going to fight this,” says Marvin, who has chosen a midnight blue crushed velvet jacket by Shanghai Tang for his mid-day news appearance. His hair has been fluffed and newly coiffed and he is wearing full make-up: rather too much eye make-up for my liking, and certainly too much pancake for a concerned screenwriter, which is how he describes himself.

  “We are going to stand against these people, we shall stand up for the rights of free speech, no matter what it takes, even …” and he says this very sincerely, “even if it means Stanley goes to jail.”

  Wow. Can you believe it? Marvin Lutwig has just volunteered my ass for jail.

  Thank you, Marvin. Thank you for your heroic self-sacrifice, for going on public television and volunteering my butt for San Pedro. Good for you Marv, standing up for freedom of speech. I see now what no cell out means. My cell, no out.

  *

  My PR people are furious about the settlement.

  “You settled your lawsuit?” says Janey. “What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “We have a major Gala against Censorship tomorrow night at the Writers’ Guild, with full media attendance and a celebrity yes list of over a hundred faces coming to stand up for your right to be published, and you settle out of court?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “We are presenting you as a the leader of the High Moral Ground in the fight for freedom of speech and you drop the fucking case?”

  “They dropped the case.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Marvin Lutwig is an interfering turd …”

  “Forget Marvin. You have a Gala Event, a blue ribbon protest, all based on your noble stand and you sit down? Do you realize who’s coming? We have the Mayor, we have Pierce Brosnan, we have both Democrats and Republicans coming, Tom and Roseanne Arnold, we even have Schwarzenegger and he never turns out for liberal causes. Now what are we to tell them? Don’t worry, he changed his mind and gave up.”

  “It was the lawyers.”

  “You know you can’t rely on lawyers in legal matters. You should have consulted us first. That’s what PR is for. The important issue is what the public thinks, and the public thinks what the media says and the media says you sold out. They had you pegged as a martyr, now you’re a turncoat. They were prepared to stand up and fight for your right to be published, now they despise you.”

  “But now I am going to be published.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  I’ve lost the point. In fact, I’ve lost the plot.

  “Are you suggesting I should have rejected a settlement which allows me to be published in order to protect my right to be published?”

  “Yes.”

  Go figure. I’ve gone from Tom to Benedict Arnold.

  In fact the only person who likes the settlement is Richard Hume.

  He is ecstatic.

  “Now we can make the Beach Blanket market.”

  Suddenly I’m Annette Funicello.

  On the phone from NY, Richard Hume sounds half nuts. Morty says he’s been away all week at a big meeting in Frankfurt. Something is stirring at Pangloss. Rumors of a sale to a German giant.

  “It must be a big relief to you,” says Richard. He seems unworried. Perhaps it’s Prozac.

  “Oh it is,” I lie, as convincingly as I can.

  “Being a victim of censorship is a violation,” he says. “A form of intellectual rape.”

  Wow. Now I’m a rape victim.

  “So now we can have the text right away?”

  Oops. The text. I forgot that detail.

  I promise I’ll Fed Ex it to him overnight, but he’s wise to that.

  “Don’t bother with Fed Ex,” he says. “We’ll send a messenger from the de Becker Security people, they’ll courier it by hand.”

  “To New York?”

  “They do it all the time.”

  “Hardly worth all that trouble, is it?” I say, hoping against hope.

  “It’s far more secure than Fed Ex,” he says.

  And I was having fantasies of faking a Fed Ex hijacking.

  “We can’t take any more chances. You have no idea how much we have at stake here. The printer is about to sue us for work lost while we have had him on hold. This is like the arrival of the cavalry.”

  Calvary more like. They’ll crucify me.

  Shit.

  Twenty minutes later the de Becker people call and say a courier will be over in half an hour, is that enough time?

  Enough time? To write a 200 page book.

  I don’t think so.

  What am I to do?

  I panic and pull out the six pages I have just written about lunch with Les Girls. It doesn’t look like a novel.

  I spot an old movie script on my shelf, a piece of shit Sam and I wrote on spec for a Belgian who claimed he could get German tax dollars to shoot an American film in Canada. Of course he couldn’t, but we made the mistake of writing it. Snip, Snip was about a Hairdresser with a pair of magic scissors. A cross between Sampson and Mozart. I rip off the William Morris cover and stick all 120 pages behind my six new pages. It still doesn’t feel long enough, so I add a couple of editions of Penthouse. That feels better. When I seal it up, it looks and feels absolutely like a novel. Quite a good novel, in fact.

  I hold the package in my hand and weigh it carefully. I fantasize that I have just finished an important piece of work and I’m sending it off to New York. This is exactly how it would feel. It feels good. I feel the glow of authorship, the pride of creation. I hand the package to the Special Delivery courier, trying to look suitably modest.

  “Looking good,” he says.

  I’m not quite sure whether he means me, the day, or the package.

  12

  The PR people call back. They have decided to go ahead with the Gala but they have switched the venue. The Writers’ Guild won’t allow it on their premises. Too controversial, they say. There have been protests from their members. They are now no longer backing me. They are supporting Marvin Lutwig and his freedom committee in their attempt to have the settlement thrown out. But the Gala is to go ahead. There is still tremendous interest. Pangloss have sent two hundred pairs of scissors and printed a thousand covers. I’m going to be signing these in lieu of books. The original artwork for this cover, complete with my fake signature, is being auctioned on eBay, and has currently reached $500. Why bother with a book, I wonder? Why don’t I just sign covers and be done with it?

  The bad news is that the new venue is Book Soup. I still haven’t recovered from my nightmares. I’m worried I may be suffering from Bibliophobia.


  Bibliophobia: a pronounced fear of books.

  All day I can feel the panic rising.

  *

  Next day is total hell. Nobody should have such a day. I’m wakened by an extremely agitated Richard Hume. Pangloss have received my delivery.

  “What’s this?” he says.

  “What’s what?”

  “The package.”

  “Has it arrived safely?” I try and sound innocent.

  I listen to him carefully outlining the contents.

  “Oh no,” I say. “I must have picked up the wrong script.”

  “And the Penthouse magazines?”

  “Must have been underneath.”

  Even I don’t believe me.

  Richard Hume is very serious.

  “Stanley, please answer this very carefully. Is there a novel at all?”

  I try laughing out loud. It’s something I once saw an English actress do in a bad production of Noel Coward.

  “Ha ha ha ha ha.” Down the scales. They must practice it at RADA.

  It doesn’t work for me either.

  “I’m sorry to say this, Stanley,” says Richard Hume, “but I have to go into a meeting with our lawyers now. I suggest you contact yours.”

  Oh shit.

  My day continues. I’m headline news in the trades. Both carry a report about the mounting scandal over tonight’s Freedom of Speech gala. Variety reports that the Writers’ Guild have pulled the plug on the event following complaints from their members. Marvin Lutwig the screenwriter, that’s how he is billed, is quoted as saying he wants my unique voice to be heard.

  “Stanley Hay has earned the right to tell it like it is. Unafraid, unbiased and utterly uncensored.”

  That is why he is suing me.

  Yes you heard it right.

  Marvin Lutwig is suing me to protect my rights of freedom of speech.

  The Lawyers confirm it.

  “What is this shit, Stanley?”

  “Who is this character?”

  They are going apeshit. They have just received an injunction from Marvin Lutwig, restraining them from making a settlement with “actors unknown”.

  They are on speaker phone, I can hear all three of them, their voices shrill with alarm.

  “Who is this clown? He says he’s a friend of yours.”

  “He’s not. He’s a self-promoting piece of shit.”

  “Can’t you call him off?”

  I try and explain but I don’t think I can.

  “The settlement was your idea,” I say weakly.

  “None of us could have imagined this,” Holstein says. He sounds scared.

  “Why are you so worried? There isn’t a settlement so how can he injunct it?”

  “Have you ever heard of the word conspiracy?”

  Well at least I won’t be in jail alone. I can watch Holstein’s skinny ass being butt fucked in the stalls of San Pedro.

  I picture a CNN breaking news story. Anal Rape. Cruel and Unusual Punishment or a Freedom of Speech issue? Footage at eleven.

  Well at least things can’t get worse.

  Wrong.

  Things immediately get worse.

  Morty calls. The Pangloss board has been on to the directors of William Morris. There are serious allegations of fraud.

  “What’s going on, buddy? Where’s the text? Tell Uncle Morty. I can protect you.”

  Tell Uncle Morty. That there is no book? Hell no, I’m not going to quit lying now. I swear to him on his life that there is a novel and I just sent the wrong package to New York. I lie superbly. Morty is utterly convinced.

  “Fuck those bastards for not believing you,” he says.

  I ought to have stayed in acting.

  I’m really buzzed about my abilities until I realize that Morty was my last chance to come clean. That’s when I start looking for my Passport. Cabo San Lucas is sounding like a very good idea. A couple of margaritas, a change of identity, perhaps even plastic surgery.

  What am I thinking? I’m broke and I’m busted. In my state I wouldn’t even make it to the airport. I’m a millionaire with no money. There is no way out. And the limo is here. What can I do?

  I’m Cinderella. I must go to the Ball.

  *

  I am wearing my dark glasses so I look like Marcello Mastroianni as I slide into the long white limo. Janey, my PR Madonna, is already inside. She is unusually quiet, which for her is a real bad sign. We head off down Sunset Plaza Drive. Her silence is beginning to get to me.

  “I suppose a blow job is out of the question?” I say.

  Wrong move. Janey is tense. Even hostile.

  “I gather there is some kind of problem with Pangloss,” she says.

  I attempt to brush it off.

  “It’s just some kind of silly misunderstanding.”

  “I do hope so, Stanley,” she says, “because they owe me a lot of money. Your PR has cost a fortune.”

  “It’s been fantastic, Janey.”

  “We shall of course be holding you ultimately responsible for that fee.”

  “I see.”

  Et tu, Janey?

  “It’s nothing personal, Stanley. I think you’re adorable, if a little self-involved, but I have to tell you where you stand.”

  What does she mean I’m self-involved? Self-involved. Moi?

  I worry about it all the way there. We’re turning onto Sunset when I hear the protestors. There’s about a dozen of them and they’re making a lot of noise. They’re between us and Book Soup.

  “No sell out. No settlement. Silence is worth freedom of speech.”

  Whatever that means.

  “Stop the car,” says Janey. “I’ll see if I can head them off.”

  She’s small but she’s very determined.

  “Don’t worry, Stanley,” she says as she climbs out, abandoning me.

  What, me? Worry? What have I got to worry about? I’m only the author of a non-existent bestseller, outed as a Judas by the Writer’s Guild, attending a Freedom of Speech gala held in my name, at a bookshop for which I now possess a unique terror.

  What’s to worry?

  *

  It’s a total zoo. It’s far worse than I could ever imagine. People are all over Sunset. Kleig lights are on. There are barricades and cop cars and a valet parking line and tables for picking up passes and even a red carpet. It’s the full Hollywood press corps. Walls of photographers are waiting. First the still cameras and then, beyond, squads of video crews with waiting interviewers holding hairy microphones all looking expectantly in my direction.

  Flash flash. “Over here, Stanley” go the photographers. “One over here. To your right. Up here. Straight into the lens.” Even behind my dark glasses I’m blinking.

  A slinky girl in a beautiful gown takes my arm. “Hi honey,” she says and the cameras flash.

  “I’ll blow you if you get me in,” she whispers in my ear.

  Janey magically appears and pulls her off me.

  “Did you hear that?” I say. I’m shocked.

  Janey shrugs. “She’s a lesbian anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  She just gives me a look.

  “Welcome to Hollywood,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Welcome to Hollywood.”

  She’s looking at me like I’m dumb.

  “What?”

  “It’s from your book.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “Stanley,” she says, “you did read your book?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Please tell me you wrote it. It wasn’t a ghost job?”

  “What, now I’m a writer who hired a writer to write my book?”

  She laughs.

  “Come on,” she says. “We have books to sell.”

  The book that Hollywood fears.

  This is on a ten foot banner slung over the entrance to Book Soup. The press line is endless. Janey brightens considerably.

  “Lots of lovely coverage for yo
u, Stanley.”

  I can see genuine celebrities disgorging from limos. There is a stand of bleachers across the street at Tower records, held back by LA’s finest. There are cheers for each new arrival.

  Bruce Willis climbs out of his car and waves to the crowd, who go nuts.

  Bruce Willis for godsake is here for me.

  Two powerful young men in identical Armani suits slot in on either side of me. They have earpieces.

  “Security,” says Janey. “There have been one or two threats on your life.”

  I find that really reassuring. In fact, I’m so nervous of entering Book Soup that I look forward to being shot. I’m shaking like a leaf blower.

  The red carpet and its barrage of cameras looms ahead. I can see more celebrities in their expensive tuxes and gorgeous dresses. I think I spot Brad Pitt and Jennifer. Did I put her in the book?

  What am I thinking?

  I haven’t written the book.

  I’m beginning to believe my own PR. Still, I have to be convincing if I am to face the questions that lie ahead. It takes all of my acting skill and is even enjoyable in a Zen way. It’s not hard to imagine I am a potential award-winning author being muzzled by society. My twin guardians shepherd me from camera to camera. I keep moving; a little stop here, a little stop there, a schmooze, a smile, a shrug and it’s on to the next. The rude questions I fend off easily. I talk about freedom. I deny I’m compromised, I deny I’ve sold out, I utterly refute the suggestion that I have been silenced by money. On the contrary, I say, I’m thrilled by all the attention the book is getting. I can honestly put my hand on my heart and swear that I have done nothing to censor myself. (Post Irony.) The Writer’s Cut pulls no punches, I assure them. No, I will not name the names of any actresses here. No, I’m not going to say if Jennifer is in the book or not. No, I’m not going to say who is. You’ll just have to buy the book, I parrot.

  I’m doing pretty well until half way down the line I notice the protestors. They have clustered near the major networks. They seem more concerned about showing the cameras their messages.