A Day in the Life of a Script
It’s astounding how many bad scripts are floating around Tinseltown. It’s unfathomable how many exist. These days you can find me sitting in my boss’s office on the Disney lot reading script after script, weeding out the crap, finding writers worthy to be staffed on our shows, wondering why these scribes have representation and I don’t. There’s the one written by the guy who has one stint from the Sci-Fi Channel under his belt. There’s the spec of a popular ABC drama written by a BU alum I know, a script that was purchased by her boss (a producer I shouldn’t name) and apparently broadcast this season (damn girl!). There’s even the one written by…well, whaddya know? My old boss Jack. His agent submitted the "Book of Daniel" pilot to our office for consideration. Oh, how this maniacal machine works. Swimming in this sea of scripts got me thinking. What if scripts could talk? What would they say?Would they vent about the drama they go through?…
"Hello. My name is Untitled Bruckheimer Project. I was born out of a HP Laser printer over at the Gersh Agency on a bright Wednesday morning. I was placed into the moisturized hands of my agent’s assistant, Carl, who soon tucked me into a warm manilla envelope. A gruff messenger by the name of Eli soon arrived to pick me up and throw me into the backseat of his ‘96 Toyota Corolla. My first trip in the outside world was spent sliding over fellow manuscripts and Zone Bar wrappers stuck to a sun-baked Thomas Guide from 2002.
"12 noon: I arrive at my new home, the tastefully decorated office of a hotshot producer whose name I have yet to learn. Shelves are littered with awards. This guy must be big.
"12:15pm: I am placed into a file box, squeezed in between my new neighbors, a "Nip/Tuck" spec and an original pilot about the days and nights of a sex-addict police detective with major daddy issues.
"1:00pm: Scotty, the assistant to said hotshot producer, plucks me from the box and splats me down on a cold glass surface. All of a sudden I am blinded by a harsh light that flashes repeatedly. My pages are quickly shuffled and processed, and my clone is soon spat out onto a tray.
"1:15pm: Scotty ruffles my pages and scars me with a hot mug of coffee he neglects to remove from my cover (that stain will never come out).
"2:13pm: Scotty finishes ravaging me and sticks a pink Post-It next to my stain. For some reason he writes the letters P-A-S-S in red Sharpie. I am viciously thrown into a new box, this one not as crowded. "
2:30pm: I overhear a conversation revealing the identities of the villains in "Spiderman 3" (I’ll never tell).
"3:04pm: After spending an hour in this tattered file box that reeks of Aveda teabags and spearmint gum I realize I am surrounded by a bunch of losers. Have I been exiled?
"4:24pm: I can hear Scotty anxiously deal with his boss via a conference call that has gone horribly wrong. The room grows cold.
"5:44pm: The day darkens. All I hear is the distant ring of a telephone. I grow tired.
"6:30pm: I get tossed around like garbage and find myself staring at the black void of a recycling bin. My destiny awaits me.
"7:00pm: What is that noise? Some strange humming mechanism. Now I hear the screams of my banished brethren. Dear God, it can’t be…the shredder…"
Poor things.
When I was jobless six weeks ago, who knew I would find myself standing in a cemetery watching Denise Richards make out with "General Hospital" bad boy Tyler Christopher? Who knew I’d be brushing hands with Angie Harmon while reaching for some utensils at a catering truck?
A brief rundown on my current gig, while it lasts (next week I shall bid adieu to my Disney haven):
I have been working for the two producers of three ABC pilots that have just entered post-production. "Secrets of a Small Town" is a murder-mystery soap filled with beautiful people, hoping to be slotted behind "Desperate Housewives" on Sunday nights ("Grey’s" fans, don’t fret; ABC may be shuffling it to Tuesdays if this happens). "Sixty Minute Man" stars David James Elliot ("JAG") as a suburban dad thrown into a government conspiracy (one hour of his memory is erased from each day of the week). And finally, there’s "Drift," a script I have yet to read, but all I know is that it’s another procedural crime drama with insomniac cops, attractive lawyers, and dead bodies.
The commute can be a hassle, but this being production, the free lunch makes up for it.
"Time goes by…so slowly."
I am in one of those lulls right now. You know the kind. It’s that boring time during which nothing bloggbale really happens. Nothing to report. Nothing to reveal or share (oh yeah, I’m seeing Madonna kick off her world tour next month and seeing Daft Punk and Depeche Mode this weekend). Just…life. And work. And the overwhelming sense of 90s nostalgia I’m already experiencing. I blame it on my iPod. Lately it’s been shuffling TLC and Gin Blossoms tunes, and I can’t help but think back to those Clintonesque days of yore. Come with me, won’t you?
Purchasing Crazysexycool at Nobody Beats the Wiz in Yonkers. Learning to "slam your body down and wind it all around" during a weekend speech-and-debate tournament. Tuning in to see Kimberly blow up Amanda, Michael, and Billy. Falling in love with Lisa Loeb. Finding out blowfish goes better with a side of Hootie. Rooting for Julia to steal Dermot Mulroney away from Cameron Diaz.
God, it seems like it was just seven years ago. Um, wait…
"Summer-summer-summertime…"
I am trying to catch a whiff of the approaching summer season. So far, billboards with the always-larger-than-life Tom Cruise are signaling the upcoming cinematic fireworks known as "M:I III." My only motivation for shelling out eleven dollars for this Scientologist extravaganza is J.J. Abrams’s directing prowess and the absolute pleasure in seeing a banged-up Felicity aim an Uzi at international baddies. Then it’s off to see a drenched Josh Lucas tell an upsidedown Kurt Russell his career is over in "Poseidon" and a raven-haired Tom Hanks learn about Mary Magdalene’s baby daddy in that "DaVinci" flick.
Who knows what other morsels the megaplexes will serve up this summer? I’m sure they will be just as empty and crap-filled as last year’s smorgasboard of junk.
And on that note, go see "American Dreamz." I order you. HYS-TERICAL.
April showers bring May blockbusters,
H.P.M.
