“And you are…?” she asks me.
“Oh, like I said, I’m Maddy Carson.”
“Yes, I know, you said that.” She looks and sounds exasperated. “I mean, who you are? What shows have you done?”
“Um, well, I work on The Wrong Doctor…” I see them perk up a bit. “I’m the script supervisor.” Is it my imagination, or did they deflate?
“So you have no experience selling or running a show?” This time it’s the guy with glasses.
“Well… no, not exactly. But I—”
They cut me off before I can even finish, which irks me at first but is actually probably a blessing since I don’t know exactly how to convince them of my credentials. Even though it seems hopeless, I continue to stand in front of them. Frankly, I’m not even sure how to leave. Tail-between-my-legs isn’t my style, but I can’t see another way out, so I’m stuck with my pride. Standing tall but silent. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly theme music plays in my head. After endless excruciating seconds pass, the guy on the right caves. He seems the youngest of the four. “So, let’s hear your pitch,” he says in a chipper voice, as if nothing happened.
I take a deep breath and smile. “This is a show about America. It’s a show about getting by when times are tough. It’s a show about heart. Let me introduce you to Wolf County…” I go through my whole spiel. I pass out the handouts I made, prop my iPad up on the coffee table in front of them, and play my sizzle reel. They politely lean in to get a view of the screen, but when the video ends, they sit straight and offer semi-sincere smiles, asking no questions. After another awkward pause, one of them says, “Thank you.” And like that, I am dismissed.
I keep my shoulders straight all the way to the hallway, but once the door closes behind me and I’m sure I’m alone, I wilt against a door. It took all my willpower to tough that one out. They can’t all be that brutal, can they?
The next room seems much more cheery. It’s for one of those female cable networks—bright pink logo and four women in fantastically glamorous outfits laughing and, if I’m not mistaken, drinking champagne when I am escorted in. As they size me up, one of them compliments my dress. I silently thank Sophie Atwater.
“Go ahead when you’re ready,” a woman with short spiky blond hair directs. Her slim figure is accentuated by cigarette pants and a fitted black cashmere sweater.
“Oh, okay. Well, I’m Madelyn Carson. I’m representing Hogan Chenny Productions today. And I am really proud to be here to pitch you our new reality show.”
“Let’s hear it,” the blonde says.
“This is a show about America…” Again I get through my presentation relatively flawlessly. As I pull out my iPad, I notice the women exchanging glances. I focus on the blonde, clearly their leader, for some idea of what’s going on here.
“Sweetheart, thank you for your pitch. It sounds very exciting, really. But I’m going to stop you. We don’t need to see the presentation. Your show really isn’t right for our network. It’s just not what we’re looking for at this time.”
The other women nod, and as I look around, they actually don’t seem bitchy, just honest. Well, okay.
“Thank you for your time.”
The blonde gets up and walks me to the door of their suite. She holds the door open and as I pass through, she says quietly, “It’s a good pitch, but slow down. It’s not speed dating.” She smiles at me and then the door shuts in my face.
And so it goes… room after room.
Some rooms are nicer than others. The reactions range anywhere from crickets—complete silence followed by a “we’re not interested”—to polite applause and even one “Oh, I go skiing there every winter! I love Wolf, but it’s not really the right show for this network. Sorry.” The worst is when I play the sizzle reel I sweated over and worked so hard on and fought for, and I watch executives check their smartphones and even take calls while it plays.
Going from room to room, pitching these people is physically and emotionally exhausting. And having been around actors long enough, I know I’m still not doing it exactly right. I still sound too forced, like I’m repeating something I’ve memorized. Which is exactly what I’m doing. I take a minute and brace myself against a doorjamb near my next appointment with new appreciation for how much harder “acting” is than I realized. It’s a humbling thought as I take a bite of a half-eaten protein bar I found in the bottom of my purse. It’s now 3:00 p.m., and I haven’t eaten since… I can’t even remember when. Before the whole Craig thing happened. I couldn’t eat at Billy’s since I was so busy trying on clothes, perfecting my script… and kissing Adam. Thinking about Adam, that kiss, I feel the blush creeping up my cheeks. I haven’t had a moment to think about it all day. I have no idea what, if anything, it means…
A head pops out of the doorway. “Craig? Are you here?”
Ugh. I wish there was some way to get ahead of this. The ghost of Craig Past is haunting me at every meeting, as I have to explain his absence over and over.
“I’m here,” I call out. “Maddy Carson.” I shake hands with the intern as we walk into the room and make a point to remember his name—Louis. Over the last six hours, I’ve learned if I give the intern some attention, some respect, they’ll reciprocate and introduce me with more enthusiasm to their bosses. “Sorry, Craig’s not here. I’m representing HCP for the meeting,” I explain to the cute kid in a bow tie. I look around waiting for him to point me in the direction of the executives’ room.
“Oh, it’s just you and me,” he explains apologetically. “The gang had to leave—some sort of emergency.” He gestures for me to sit with him on the sofa against the back wall. “I’m a junior executive now, so I’ve taken pitches before.”
But we both know that I’ve been stood up by the real decision-makers. He sits patiently and waits. What the hell.
“It’s a show about America…”
I get through the whole thing and Louis hasn’t said anything, which I now know does not bode well.
“Any questions?” I ask as I fold the iPad back in the case.
“It’s a good idea, Maddy. I like it, I really do.” His tone still has its apologetic undertones, so I’m not getting my hopes up or anything. “I’m going to mention it to Angela and the rest of the team…”
“But?”
“Well… I know what they’re going to say. The stakes aren’t high enough.”
“What does that even mean?” I don’t expect him to really answer. This isn’t the first time today I’ve heard that—and it’s just so frustrating, everyone speaking in these phrases that I just don’t understand. They’re speaking English, and yet it feels like I need a dictionary.
“It means that you haven’t made me feel like I can’t wait to find out what happens next. Especially when you pitch a show, you have to have me, us”—he gestures to the empty seating area where invisible network executives are hypothetically sitting—“on the edge of our seats, imagining the endless series of dramatic moments for every episode. It’s a programmer’s dream, a series filled with cliff-hanger moments, you know?” He’s escorting me out the door, still talking. It’s not until I’m alone in the hallway yet again that I realize I should have argued with him. There are tons of dramatic moments in the show. But it’s too late.
I am thinking about what Louis said as I dash to the bathroom before my next and last meeting. I think about ways I can make my pitch more dramatic. I am nervous to leave the script I’ve perfected, but hey, what have I got to lose if I go off the cuff a little bit? It can’t get any worse.
So in the next pitch I make sure to hype up all the dramatic aspects of life in Wolf, and how we could create very dramatic cliff-hangers. I feel my tweaks are very compelling, and I think Madame Executive of Home Living Network would agree if she heard one word I said. Her phone defeated the purpose of being on vibrate because placed as it was on the metal coffee table, the sound echoed louder and longer than a beep would have. Since it’s gone off every ninety second
s while I am talking, and she is reading and replying to every incoming e-mail, I’m pretty sure she has no idea what I’m saying. And yet I keep going, determined to finish until…
“Oh, sorry. I have to take this one.” She interrupts me right as I’m getting ready to finish. “Thank you for coming by.” She doesn’t even glance up as she answers the phone.
Beaten. I just feel beaten. Limping down the hall back toward the elevator, the high-heeled shoes I’m not used to wearing have rubbed identical blisters onto each foot. I am not really a crier, but the exhaustion, the sleep deprivation, and the humiliation of knowing that Craig would have sold this show and I couldn’t all contribute to a weight on my chest that make it hard to catch my breath.
In the hotel lobby, the quiet bar catches my eye. The pitches are over, but I see a sign saying there’s still a speaker session and cocktail hour taking place at 7:00. I have maybe fifteen minutes of quiet before everyone will be here socializing and networking, another major part of this event. I order a vodka and soda and sip silently, wondering if I have the stamina to try again. To socialize, schmooze.
“You look how I feel.”
I glance over to see a slightly older man sitting down next to me.
“Um, thanks?” I reply, not caring that my sarcasm is apparent.
“Sorry, that was unkind. I just meant that this event can be exhausting.” I look over at him and take in his grandfather-style argyle cardigan and kind eyes, and see he wasn’t trying to be a jerk.
“No, you’re right. I never knew pitching a TV show could drain everything out of you.” I take a big swig of vodka.
“Any prospects?” He calls the bartender over and orders a whiskey neat.
“I heard everything except a yes. In one room, they green-lit another show while I sat and waited, but that’s as close as I got. I also learned today how completely shitty network executives can be.”
“Indeed.” He chuckles, sipping his drink. I swallow more vodka.
“Half the time I wasn’t even given the courtesy of their attention.” Now I’m on a roll. “I mean, isn’t that their job? The point of even being here? Why take a meeting with me if they’re not going to actually listen to my pitch?” I’m twisting my cocktail napkin into little pieces. “I would. If it were my job. I’m sure you would too. You seem like the type of person who would listen if it were your job to listen.”
“So let me hear it,” he says casually, as he scoops up some mixed nuts from a nearby bowl.
“I just meant figuratively. You don’t really have to hear about my show.”
“I want to. If you’re up for it.”
And knowing it doesn’t mean anything, except perhaps to have this random stranger agree that I’m right—everyone here are idiots for not buying my idea—I tell him about Never Cry Wolf.
“They say the stakes aren’t high enough? Are they kidding? They couldn’t be higher. This is a show about a community trying to survive. Everyone doing everything they can every single day, to not just earn their livelihood, but also to rely on each other, to keep their hearts and spirits up too.
“Someone today said ‘the characters aren’t big enough.’ ” I put air quotes around that preposterous statement. “You couldn’t ask for bigger, more vibrant people. They’re not just characters you can sum up or put in a neat little box. These people, like the Gordons, for example, are bigger than life. He’s into taxidermy—which is only one tiny part of this huge Paul Bunyan–type guy, who also knits, makes moonshine that’ll put hair on anyone’s chest, and stops every night to appreciate the night sky with his wife of forty-plus years. Or Pete, who is the third-generation owner of the local tavern and keeps it open all year, even when the only people who go are teetotalers who drink water with no ice and bring their own Ritz crackers. Pete cares about his community, and it’s more important to him to be there when people need a gathering place than to shut down when times are tight.” Having finally found my voice to contradict every negative comment I heard, I can’t seem to stop myself until it’s all out. I barely take a breath before going in for the next argument.
“And talk about ‘demographics’? There’s a whole team of blasters who risk their lives to set off explosions after every snowstorm to prevent avalanches during the season. There are ski bunnies in bikinis at the hot springs. It’s a guy’s fantasy—things that blow up and hot chicks, right? And women will love watching the way everyone supports each other, how couples support each other to find their way through these tough financial times. Tons of sports advertisers would love to have a show like this to buy time on. Never mind the integrations we could organize, the clothing sponsors, the equipment we use… I can’t imagine a sponsor who wouldn’t want in on this show.”
Through it all, my new friend sits and listens, his eyes widening slightly, the only give-away that my passionate defense of my show surprises him. I’m sure this is not quite what he was expecting when he asked to hear the pitch.
“I worked so hard on the sizzle. I didn’t sell out and fake shit that didn’t happen.” I don’t even care that I cursed; I don’t care what anyone thinks of me anymore. “I fought for this show, and then I get here and no one even wants to see it.”
“I want to see it.”
“Well, sure you do—it doesn’t matter to you,” I say dismissively. “Here.” I pull the iPad out and slam it in front of him. He has to find the video and press PLAY himself as I’ve turned back to the bartender to order myself another round. “You want another?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Yeah, sure.”
Our second drinks come as he’s wrapping up the video. He thoughtfully closes my iPad and hands it back.
“It’s really good. What’s your name? We haven’t formally met yet.”
“Maddy. Hi. Sorry about my outburst. This has been a tough couple days. I’m not normally this worked up. I swear.”
“That’s okay, Maddy. I know what it’s like to know you have a good idea no one will listen to.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. I know it would be a great show, if someone will just give it a chance.”
“I love your show. Never Cry Wolf? It’s great. Different. And warm and exciting. I was really drawn in.”
“Well, how ’bout we go back to all those rooms today and you can tell those idiots to buy my show?”
“Why would I want to do that?” He looks up as people start milling into the bar. It’s almost time for the cocktail hour/networking event, and this place is going to fill up soon. I want out of here before that happens. I’m completely burnt.
“What do you mean?” I try in vain to flag down the bartender to get the check.
“Why would I want to convince anyone else how great your show is? As it is now, I know I don’t have any competition.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending.
“I want to buy your show,” he clarifies.
“What?” I am sure I must have misheard.
“It’s perfect for my network. It’s the best pitch I’ve heard today. And in fact, I’m shocked you weren’t on my pitch list.” He gets the bartender’s attention while I’m trying to understand what just happened. “Put her drinks on my tab. Suite 920.”
“Of course, Mr. Greenling.”
Greenling? Ed Greenling? Oh my God. Even I know that he’s the billionaire tycoon who invested in a struggling cable network a couple years back and turned it into the Outdoor Network, a major competitor in the adventure programming genre, a cross between Discovery and Nat Geo. In other words, the perfect network for Never Cry Wolf. And I was a total raving lunatic to him.
“Oh, Mr. G-Greenling,” I stammer as he turns back to me “I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”
“Clearly.” He smiles. “I haven’t had anyone be so straightforward with me in years.”
“Oh, God.”
“I liked it. We do this show together, you promise me you will always be so forthright with me.”
“I promise,”
I dutifully echo.
“Good. We’ll work on the paperwork next week. In the meantime, shake my hand. I’m old-fashioned that way.” We shake, and then I get up and start to reach for my things, still completely stunned by the turn the night has taken. It doesn’t feel real yet.
“Well, um, thank you…”
“Where are you going?”
“Well, I just thought…”
“Stay. You must.” Without waiting for my reply, he takes my coat and sets it back down on the bar stool. “Everyone is going to be gathering here. You should get to know the players.”
“Well, if you think I should…” I look around at the growing sea of people drinking, talking, laughing. I had nothing to laugh about ten minutes ago. I look at Ed Greenling again, and it’s starting to sink in that I have a big reason to smile now.
“That’s better, my dear. Take my card; we have lots to discuss on Monday. For now, let’s go share with people your good news.” He takes my elbow and leads me toward a tall guy who is telling an elaborate story involving loud helicopter sound effects to an entranced group.
“There are some show-runners you should meet. Maybe someone we want to engage for Never Cry Wolf? You’ve got a show to get off the ground.”
I’ve got a show. And now I’ve got to get it off the ground?!?!
Scene 004
Int. Nobu restaurant, evening
“To Maddy!”
“To Maddy!”
“MADDY!!”
“Yay, Maddy!!”
I am beaming as all my friends toast me. “Thank you, everyone! Seriously, I don’t know how to thank you enough. Everyone here helped make this happen.” I look around the table and know it’s the truth. Billy is sitting next to Janine, who is seated next to Sophie Atwater, who brought her gorgeous husband, Jacob. Brian came down from Wolf with Lily, and Matthew surprised me by coming along. And on the other side of Matthew, seated to my right, is Adam Devin. I’ve lived in LA for ten years and never ventured over the hill into Malibu, but Billy and Sophie insisted that Nobu would be the perfect place to celebrate selling a show. And it is.
Scared Scriptless Page 21