Blackened Big Fish: The Dark Side Of Hollywood

"Blackened Big Fish: The dark side of Hollywood and the people who thrive there." If, in my current mood, I decided to write one this would be the title of my tell-all. There is a morbid, borderline pornographic fascination with movie stars that with each new headline appears unquenchable. I don't understand the curiosity unless it's used as a comparison that reassures us mortals that our lives are better off as is.

Do we need to know "Mel B hired a witch doctor to get Eddie Murphy back?", that "Keith Urban cheated on Nicole while they were engaged", that "Cris Judd isn't mad at ex-wife Jennifer Lopez?" Do we really need to know that Brittany Spears parties without panties? (Apparently, and according to Google, we do)

Now (those of you left) can point fingers and say I am writing about Hollywood so I'm guilty by association. Perhaps I am. But I have tried to stay in the realm of the positive, the uplifting, the creative. Well, the last month or so, I have gone to the dark side. And this is why there has been a dearth of writing. I suppose 'dearth' would be an exaggeration since it implies a shortage.

I also suppose it's ironic that the day before the largest holiday in the western world I finally had the time to write a post but the subject is not spiked with Christmas Cheer. (That by itself puts a Grinchian smile on my face.)

My instinct says the dark side always leaves a scar so I have stayed away from it for several months. But the Reel Hollywood wouldn't be real without a few stormy nights. And the truth is I do have some scars after this long in the business. On the lighter side I see an end to this particular gloomy night inside of the next two months. The challenge will be to walk on those two coals without getting burned. And the challenge is probably good for the ego. I think it's ultimately cleansing for the soul but not a helluva a lot of fun while you're doing it.

Without names I can tell you I am working for the devil and his mentor-father. They are despotic filmmakers whose fate has propelled them to such heights that they cannot be brought down unless divine intervention prevails. I know it sounds dizzyingly melodramatic but that's Hollywood. And right now these guys are at the top of the heap.

These are snakes appearing as men. With two heads, one can charm while the other can spray venom accurately into the face and eyes of their hires. Their need for acting like mean, unpredictable alcoholics is likely rooted in their insecurity. Their biggest fear, I would guess, is that their peers discover they have no inate talent.

So how did they get there? Beats me unless the definition of inate talent includes the ability to fool masses of people. In that they excel. These are not dumb luck fools. They know how to hire expendable creatives. They know how to talk and act like real filmmakers. The world is their oyster (whatever that means) and people would kill to work with them. Now that's irony.

The good thing (for me) is I don't wish them ill will. My recent go-round left me with a bruised ego and the gut nausea feeling like I wanted to throw up for a day. Had I not offered to walk, things may have gotten worse. (I was later offered an apology by one of the producers) Still these guys are like dead bees - they can still sting and that is where the challenge lies. To walk on the ground barefooted and avoid the deadbees. That means to go in each day not knowing anything based on prior knowledge. Today can be a neutral day or an explosive one.

On the plus side I am being paid top dollar to work with these guys which is Hollywood's way of assuaging its guilt. (If it is possible for Hollywood to feel guilt) Therefore I have only myself to blame. Actually I am being overpaid by my usual fees. And according to my friend who knows these guys - "You aren't being overpaid for nothing."

On the bright side we're gonna have a helluva Christmas. I know, I know.... It's about the spirit of giving, reaching out to old friends, giving to strangers and feeling the love of hummankind. As I write my two girls are seated on the couch and playing together like a couple of angels in the manger. And as god is my witness I hope they never end up in Hollywood.

Happy Chanukah. Merry Christmas. Seriously. Happy Holidays.

Portnoy

Good Morning Chief Bromden

Lately it's been a lot of staring into space with no payoff from space. I am staring for an idea. To the outsider I probably look like BROMDEN.

My wife asks if I can pop in 3 waffles as she hurriedly readies the girls for school. I have not written in days. I would like to tell her I'm busy staring into space waiting for a post.

What passes through my mind is the following excerpt from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

INT. MEN'S DORM - OREGON STATE HOSPITAL - DAWN

Strange HUMMING SOUNDS, CLANKING PIPES and HISSING RADIATORS
as we see beds, with patients lying asleep, line two walls.
The third wall is a heavy gauge steel grill, with a door that
opens on to the day room. The door is open. On the far side
of the day room, a long hallway with other doors opening into
rooms: the latrine, washroom, tub room, mess hall, seclusion
room, psychiatrist's office, visitors' room, etc.

Across the day room, a glass enclosed nurses' station where
TURKLE, a Negro night attendant, is seen preparing to go off
duty.

The CAMERA PANS the beds in the men's dorm. One man turns,
another twists, a third lies as if dead.

CAMERA PAN ENDS on BROMDEN, who lies still, eyes wide open,
very alert. He reaches down, plucks a stale piece of gum from
under the bed frame, puts it in his mouth and starts chewing.

Maybe some gum would help. The wife and kids have left. It's quiet now. No excuses. If we had a clock it would be ticking to distraction. The time is dragging me towards work. I could lie to myself. If I only had enough time I could write the best damn post ever. BUZZ says the BS detector in my head. 'No, really,' BUZZZ. 'Stop calling me a liar!' BUZZ. Okay, uncle.

Why do kids say 'Uncle'? I should google that.

What's wrong with this picture?

I am now the Head of a major motion picture studio. It is my job to greenlight movies and television. I have unlimited funds but I am also responsible to the shareholders. The stories, the cast, the music, the final say is entirely up to me. This is what I would do.

I would hire 5 full time writer consultants. And these would be very experienced writers who have a track record in creating a traditional 3 act screenplay. These writers would read and comment on the top scripts that are in development/submission process. Remember the guys who chased Butch and Sundance? Those are the guys I would hire. And they would be paid handsomely. They would be happy, funny and crotchety all at the same time.

Before shooting any film the script would be in perfect working order. Meaning exactly that. Could they be modified in shooting? Possibly if the direction or character takes on a life of its own.

I have 15 shooting stages on my lot. I would keep them all busy with films of modest budgets. Every film would include a budget for additional shooting.

I would make one blockbuster (tentpole) film a year. (with a script that is in perfect working order)

I would create an internship program that finds new talent in every area of film making and hook these 'kids' up with the departments they are interested in.

I would create a documentary film boutique and a vanity film department. The vanity films would be the projects that are difficult to make but close to the heart of the film maker. To participate in a vanity project the filmmaker would need a proven track record. I would make sure the vanity film offers participation to every key player involved in the film since everyone takes a huge hit to their usual salaries.

I would create an animation department and get Miyazaki to run it even if we had to buy an animation studio in Japan.

I would cultivate foreign films and filmmakers like never before.

I would rein in A list salaries by offering legitimate participation. I would also create an in house casting department where actors are found through legit theatre and other venues. There would be a secret motto in my casting department. It would say something like this "we don't hire models, we hire actors" I would offer Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Reese Witherspoon, Angelina Jolie and actors of quality extra incentives. They could make any vanity project they wanted.

I would take a reasonable but not ridiculous amount of money to run the studio.

Once production starts the studio would take a hands off approach to the film maker. Let directors direct with all of the creative powers they have. If a film isn't working it is our fault because the script didn't work in the first place.

For the TV department I would hire WC Dixon, Dennis McGrath, Ken Levine and anyone else they wanted except Aaron Sorkin. (Just kidding boys)

So that's my idea on how to save the film business. Create a company where people love coming to work on movies that just might say a little something. Or not. Comments certainly welcome. If I get any major studio offers I will also get those 5 writers to contribute to Reel Hollywood.

As a side note - at my Mom's Thanksgiving dinner she has a friend who is a cop. He came by on his motorcycle, in full uniform. He ate with us. I mentioned the Chris Rock video on how not to get your ass kicked by the police. He laughed and said it was awesome. At the end of the meal he quoted from the Rock video. And I wish I had a video camera because you would have seen an East Indian motorcycle cop saying "He got weed, he got weed!"

Follow Up to Reel Judaism

Because it makes me smile, AND scratch my head.... Zen Wizard, this one's for you. (Thanks to my friend Rob for sending this my way.)

Reel Judaism Sunday

I have dabbled in Buddhism and Jewish mysticism. Both practices appeal to me although I am both a bad jew and a bad Buddhist. Anyway, because I found Winkler's latest newsletter so appealing I wanted to share it. This is their website. Walkingstick.Org

MUCH ADO ABOUT EVERYTHING...
from Gershon

They say we are living in uncertain times. I say, with certainty, that there has never been a moment in human history when things were not uncertain. Every moment is uncertain, unknown. I could die of an aneurysm while writing this, or worse: experience a power outage. Being conscientious about how unpredictable and uncertain life really is, helps us to not set ourselves up for disappointment, and not get cardiac arrests when well-meaning friends throw us a Surprise Party at 85. More importantly, on a deeper level, it helps us cherish every moment, and make the best of our time, our time with our loved ones, our time with our work.

I myself don't have the luxury of being conscientious of the preciousness of my time here, busy as I am reminding everyone else how THEY should be more conscientious of THEIR time here. But that's my job. That's my personal excuse for being here and for doing what I do. We all need some excuse for living. Other-wise, we would be wracked with guilt beyond any guilt we'd ever otherwise experience. Life is so awesome, that who we are and what we do pales in comparison to the value of the gift that life is and that life offers us in every moment.

Then again, you and I, we never asked to be put here. So why feel guilty for living and thus having to drum up some lame excuse for the favor of existing? Exactly. We don't owe nobody nothin' and what we do gift to others and to the ever-elusive Creator of the ever-puzzling Universe is purely altruistic, from the goodness of our hearts, our own sweet, unadulterated volition. Like the ancient rabbis quote God as saying: "I owe my creations nothing, not even their very existence, yet I gift to them abundantly." So same here with you, me. We owe nothing to our being here since we never asked to exist, to begin with, and therefore the value of what we give back is immeasurable.

Take pride, then, in what you bring to this world, to this life, whether in meaningfulness or in aiding and abetting the lives of others. Take pride in every sandwich you make for someone other than your self, and in every time you pass the local bank without robbing it, or every time you are inspired to yell at your kids and you don't. Get more in touch with the benefactor you actually are even if you never gave a penny to any charitable organization or participated in a Peace march. To the world you might be an apathetic miser, but in the eyes of God you are a saint, just for that one time or two that you microwaved a dinner for someone, or made someone smile, made someone feel good about themself. Do not underestimate the degree of your righteousness, the value of what you have accomplished in your life hitherto and forevermore.

The ancient rabbis again and again emphasized this important lesson with stories of pimps and thieves who were considered more righteous than the righteously righteous just because they did one or two really nice things for others. In one such story recorded in the ancient Jerusalem Talmud (1:4 [or folio 5b]), a miracle-working rabbi is asked to pray for rain during a season of severe drought, but to no avail. He prays and prays and prays until he develops a migraine, when finally a heavenly voice says to him: "Go seek out Pentakakus the Pimp, for his prayer for rain shall be heard." The rabbi is pissed at such a suggestion but he looks for this Pentakakus fellow in the Red Light District of ancient Israel and when he finds him implores him to please pray for rain. The pimp prays for rain and it rains immediately. The rabbi, of course, is curious as to why someone of such ill-repute can succeed where he couldn't in bringing down the miraculous rain, and so he interrogates the guy. The pimp finally 'fesses that once this woman came to him pleading that he accept her into his brothel. He tried talking her out of it because she just did not seem like she was really really into it. But she persists, cries, weeps, pleads, begs. He realizes she's desperate and asks her why. She explains that she needs the money to redeem her imprisoned husband from the Roman authorities. The pimp then removes his expensive cloak as well as his expensive blankets and pillows and gives it to the woman and says: "Here, take these and sell them and redeem your husband."

The rabbi gets it. Do you? Do I? Can we please remind ourselves that we are so sweet and good and wonderful, that we have already accomplished so darn much in our lives worth not only our existence, but even a couple of reincarnations into more lucrative circumstances? How about an all-expenses-paid cruise next time, or pre-paid health insurance?

Another ancient Jewish teaching goes simply like this: "God says 'Just do, and whatever it is that you find to do, it is pleasing to Me'" (Babylonian Talmud, B'cho'ro't, folio 17b). Not much is asked of us other than we try and do our best now and then, and be a little creative about it. Like, when you microwave a dinner for someone, remove the wrapper for them and put the food on a nice dish for them. When you offer to make someone a sandwich, also ask them if they want something to drink with it. Very easy.

"If you decide to give to the poor," goes another teaching, "and you actually give to the poor, God rewards you for deciding and for giving. If you decide to give to the poor and then realize you don't have the means to do so, God rewards you for deciding and also as if you had actually given" (Midrash Sif'ri on D'varim 15:10). Or as the First-Century Rabbi Tar'fon put it: "The work is not upon you to complete; and neither are you exempt from trying" (Babylonian Talmud, Avot, 2:16). Even in religious matters, the ancient laid-back rabbis like the revered Second-Century Rabbi Yish'ma'el taught similarly: "Accept not upon your-self the fulfillment of the entire Torah, but also do not abstain from her altogether" (Babylonian Talmud, Avot D'Rebbe Natan 27:2). Or as his disciples would later paraphrase his teaching: "Let not the Torah be upon you like an obligation, nor shall you abstain from her" (Babylonian Talmud, Menachot 99b).

Gift of life? Gift of existence? Both are great. Awesome. Cool. But bottom-line let's not forget the most important gift of all. You. You and what you bring to it all.

And not just on Chanukah.

Gershon Winkler is both a renowned scholar as well as a rabbinic trickster. He has authored eleven books, including seven works on Jewish mysticism, philosophy, and folklore, and was initiated in 1978 by the late kabbalist Rabbi Eliezer Benseon of Jerusalem. For the past twenty years he has lived very close to the earth in remote wilderness regions and currently resides at the Walking Stick Retreat Center as its caretaker.

Tags:
Rabbi Gershon Winkler, Walkingstick.Org, Jews For Buddhism

Portnoy and the Pong Bitch

At work there is a ping pong table. The guy I play with is called The "Pong Bitch". He played so much on his last movie, and beat everyone doing it, they made a bumper sticker for him. I am out to beat the Pong Bitch into submission. So far I'm at 3 wins 17 losses.

You know I have said I have been mistaken for Richard Gere? Now I want to be mistaken for the player in the background.

Happy ThanksGiving. If you don't celebrate ThanksGiving, or know anything about it - it's a holiday warm up to Christmas where you gather with your relatives and pretend to like each other.

Blog, Frog, Dawg, Egg Nog. James Cromwell

As I watch the sitemeter decrescendo I am reminded that a new post would be a good thing. The title may be misleading but those are the words streaming through my head as I won't admit to writer's blogk. Truly the new job is consuming a lot of creative energy. For those who are visiting for the first time I would encourage you to check out the stories that are boxed in the sidebar.

It's been so busy I couldn't make the "Iraq in Fragments" screening. The new job is quite interesting but I can't say much about it. It's a film that is so controversial I wonder how much of it will be sanitized by the large corporation that is distributing the thing. But onto Cromwell.

Last week we met some friends for dinner at, what I consider, the best Indian food in Los Angeles. It's called The Clay Pit. The way we were seated I had the 'John Wayne' chair. For those who don't know what that means, it's the chair with its back against the wall which enables Wayne to spot any badguys he might need to shoot. From my vantage point I spotted James Cromwell two tables away. He was dining with - I would guess - his son because there was a younger Cromwell prototype with that... Profitable Cromwell proboscis.


We were well into a bottle of wine and I was feeling pretty, pretty puerile. I rarely drink. But feeling happy I concocted a little plan. I started thinking of movies and various lines that my wife would know. (And she knows quite a lot) Thus I would try to tell a little story and get her to fill in the blank. And she's quite good at that. There are times I will call her and ask her some IMDB question. She answers and I hang up so I can carry on with whatever conversation I'm having.

Part of my plan included goading her about something silly, like how she never gives me credit for editing her poetry - and she admits that to our friends. But, she reminds me, I never credit her for her jokes so I cop to that. Only I am purposely trying to drive her voice a little louder. Just a couple of notches. The wine helps. She is already a few decibels louder. Now I stir gently. You don't wanna boil the milk (or mix the metaphors) I poke, I prod and then I ask, "Hey, what's that line at the end of Babe, the Pig movie?. Is it, 'Nice Pig? or Good job Pig?' And she loudly puts me in my place with "That'll do, pig. That'll do." I think it was just loud enough for Cromwell to hear. Then I quietly said, "Hey, guess who's two tables behind you?"

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Because it's so cool

Pink Tentacle

I'm really into this Japanese high tech blog. The images are amazing. It gives you a good look at a world that I find more than fascinating.


Printing On Water

Subtitles

As Will from Uninflected Images says "Because it makes me laugh."

Marshal Jed Cooper

I have always wanted to meet Clint Eastwood. My father worked with him in White Sands, New Mexico on a film called Hang Em High. That was 3 years before Dirty Harry, I don't think Eastwood was a household name yet. My dad came back from that film with a cowboy tan. Very dark arms, tanned face but with legs whiter than Will Ferrell. I can't remember any stories about the movie or Clint. I wish the hell I could. My dad died about 11 years later.

The Clint story I have is second hand. I heard it from Brian Helgeland, one of the top screenwriters in town, who was working with Eastwood on Mystic River. Helgeland has a quiet, very smart way about him. His Payback Straight Up Interview reveals a man who can not only write well but tell great stories during interviews.

Mystic River. Directed by Clint Eastwood, the mysterious drama Mystic River is based on the novel by Dennis Lehane and adapted by screenwriter Brian Helgeland. Set in an Irish neighborhood in Boston... I think Helgeland had to do some cajoling to get Clint to shoot in Boston. I don't know how much, and I don't know for sure if that's what went down. But Helgeland and Eastwood were scouting neighborhoods in Boston. It was a hot summer night. Insurance wise you have a Film Corporation and a twice nominated Oscar screenwriter walking by themselves in a neighborhood where they could have been hurt. As Helgeland described Eastwood he explained that Eastwood is a man of few words. He's incredibly thoughtful and when he speaks everybody listens. So they were walking quietly down the street at Eastwood's deliberately slow pace. They walked to the early evening sounds, getting the feel and maybe considering images for the film. Or maybe they were just walking off dinner.

Because of the summer heat everyone had their windows open. It was around 7 pm. Helgeland said they walked down a row of houses and as they passed one house he heard a man yelling to his wife. "Hey, Come to the window. You won't believe it! Clint Eastwood just walked past our house!" They kept walking. The wife's angry voice said "Shut Up! I told you, you drink too much." Helgeland and Eastwood were nearly at the end of the block. The Husband, "No I'm tellin ya it's goddamn Clint Eastwood! He walked right past our house!" As Helgeland told it they kept walking. Quietly. While the house with the angry couple yelled at each other, Eastwood's face didn't crack a millimeter.

A few weeks back, at night - I was hanging alone on a quiet street near The Blue Whale (The Pacific Design Center) It was a strangely sad night. I stared up at the building as it changed colors. I reviewed things as you do when you can think without distractions. Then I saw the unmistakable outline of Marshal Jed Cooper. It was goddamn Clint Eastwood. He was walking a young woman to her car. She was a film director by the way they spoke. She thanked "Mister Eastwood" for watching her movie. He wished her luck and walked down Melrose. By himself. Slowly.

And I wanted to yell at my dad and tell him that I just saw goddamn Marshal Jed Cooper.

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