Today we have a guest post from Hollywood producer Max Millimeter. As usual this is a transcription of a recording Max made up at his Laurel Canyon home:
Okay, the God’s honest truth is this: Basically we hate you guys.
Now lemme drill down on that.
By “you guys,” I mean screenwriters.
By “we,” I mean producers and studio execs. Agents and managers don’t count ‘coz they make their livelihoods off you guys although, trust me, there are plenty of times when they think, “Jeezus God, why am I representing this schmuck?”
You can be whiny, you can be irritating, you can be stubborn, you can be
fucking stupid. But that’s not why we hate you.
We hate you ‘coz you can write.
See, we can’t. And the fact we can’t and you can… that eats at us.
Know why? ‘Coz you can come up with an original idea. You can figure out a story. You can pound out pages and end up with script. And that means you are in control. That story is yours. You own it. There’s nothing to get in the way of you typing FADE IN to you typing FADE OUT.
Us?
We can not control actors and their moods.
We can not control directors and their visions.
We can not control studios hiring and firing.
We can not control “creative differences.”
We can not control a green light turning into a red light.
We can not control a tsunami, hurricane or other act of God smashing our sets.
We can not control labor strikes.
We can not control the starlet suddenly falling madly in love with… how shall I put it… a prodigiously amorous producer sending her swooning over the moon, which pisses off her numbnutz co-star who had the hots for said hottie, plunging him into a funk and the production into hiatus.
Okay, that was a bad career choice. But my loins still tingle from that particular belly ride.
Where was I? Okay, yeah. The thing is we can’t really control a movie. It’s like a roller coaster on crack without the tracks. But you? You can write any goddammed thing you want. You have that freedom, that creativity, that power to make a story.
And we hate that.
I tried writing a script once. Some thieves, they’re gonna break into a bank, right. But instead of robbing the joint, they gotta return the cash. Or something like that, I can’t remember. Whatever the hell it was, I thought the idea was hot shit. And I was talking to Eddie’s people, Rodney’s people, Whoopi’s people, everybody pumped. Action comedy ensemble. Pure gold.
So I say, “Hey, it’s my idea, why the hell don’t I write it?” I fiddled with it here, futzed with it there, then went away to Palm Springs and locked myself up for a weekend to pound out Act One. I was completely convinced this was a smash.
Did a table reading. Invited Eddie’s people, Rodney’s people, Whoopi’s people. You know, give ‘em a taste of this hot throbbing hit. Sure that would lock ‘em into the project and next stop? Box office champ!
Not one laugh. Zero. Deadsville.
They despised it. I mean actively, big-time repulsed by my ever single word. Rodney’s people? I kid you not, they changed their goddammed phone number on account of that crap draft just so I couldn’t reach ‘em.
I was blinded by my own bull shit. The thing is, I can tell you what’s wrong when it’s your story. But when it’s my story, I don’t know squat. One of life’s great mysteries, but there it is.
That’s why we sit where we sit, and you sit where you sit. We can’t write. You can. And that pisses us off. ‘Coz the fact is, we need you.
So guys, whenever you’re in a meeting with a studio exec or a producer, after the assistants Chad or Ashley have delivered your bottled water, after all the opening chit-chat and schmoozing and blowing smoke and what-not, you gotta realize the people smiling and nodding their heads at you…
Secretly we loathe you.
‘Coz you can write a story. And we fucking can’t.
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