Script First

Jack Webb may have been one of the world's most wooden actors, but as director of Pete Kelly's Blues, he had some pretty cool moves. One memorable shot early on is from inside a pizza oven, beginning as a pie is pulled out, flames coyly dancing at the left of the Cinemascope frame--as if from the point-of-view of the alchemy that turns dough into bread (or weaklings into toughs). No wonder Martin Scorsese thought highly enough of the film to add it to his collection.

But my favorite moment in this atmospheric film has nothing to do with camera moves or plot twists or acting moments. It's part of the credits. They begin with Warner Bros. (of course) and Webb--but as actor, not director. No announcement of "a Jack Webb film" or anything else of that ilk. Instead, right after "Jack Webb as Pete Kelly," come words to warm a writer's heart: "in a screenplay by Richard L. Breen." Not "in a film by Jack Webb" or "in a Mark VII Production."

It's a rare acknowledgment that the script comes first, that without it there would be no film: no producing, directing gripping, gaffing, editing, and photographing; no roles for Janet Leigh, Peggy Lee, Lee Marvin, and their fellows.

They don't make 'em like that anymore, but I'd sure like to see somebody try. Maybe one of these days, an innovative director will relinquish the usual vainglorious opening credit, and put the script first again.

A Tale of Two Events, Part II

ShowBiz Expo East

Exhausted though I was from concentrating on 144 performances by the end of TRU's Saturday auditions, I'd have returned to watch more on Sunday had I not already paid to attend ShowBiz Expo on Sunday.

It had been a few years since I'd taken in the Expo--a trade show held on East and West coasts, featuring all kinds of equipment and services for those working in film and theater.

Now and then I'd gone to a panel at the Expo, but mostly I'd just cruised the exhibits, which are free. In my film school days, I remember being dazzled by major equipment on display, grabbing copies of Variety, Hollywood Reporter, and all manner of other trade publications, and talking with reps of film offices from Montana to Oklahoma to Connecticut.

Last time I showed up at ShowBiz Expo, after not having been in a while, I wasn't willing to wait an hour in the huge, slow line of those who hadn't paid for priority admission.

This year, I decided to spend the $10 required to avoid the line, and also paid for a panel, a directory of attendees, and the after-party.

I was shocked by the difference since my last visit. The exhibition space had shrunk--and where were Hollywood Reporter, Kodak, and DuArt?

There were, however, many, many more vendors of services for actors than I remembered: headshots, workshops, etc. Ironically, I thought, given the opportunity TRU offered that very weekend, actors could pay for individual auditions.

The one panel I had paid to attend didn't match the description of what I had signed up for, and was, in effective, a promotional event for the two panelists' business, which should have been free.

I saw my fill of the exhibits in an hour or so and returned home.

The after-party, from 6:30 to 9:30 in a downtown lounge, had, for my taste, music that was too loud, light that was too low, and way too little food to accompany the open bar.

Luckily, I'd eaten a bit at the TRU auditors' reception, where I'd started the evening, and where, in retrospect, I should have lingered longer.

And I'd known that, arriving at the Expo party at 7:30, I risked missing the food.

"What food?" said a guy who'd been there since the beginning, when I asked how the food had been. "They just brought out a couple of few platters like that one."

"That one" was a plate-sized tray of tiny egg rolls. Maybe 20 minutes later, I encountered another of miniature, highly salted cakes of something meant to be crab.

I spoke with a beginning actress who had auditioned with her sister. "It wasn't what I expected," she said. "There was one guy, who I guess was a producer. My sister and I did our thing, and he didn't say a word." I wondered how much she'd paid for the privilege.

The last person I spoke with at the party--an exhibitor--gave me his opinion of the organizers' attitude: "We need to extract as much money as we can from these folks, and we have one day to do it."

Sounds about right, I thought.

I won't be back.

Time for a new Oscar?

For my money ($1 in an Oscar pool), The Hurt Locker, with its powerful script, brilliant directing, fine acting and cinematography, well deserves to be named Best Picture.

But what to do about Avatar. . . . 

The Hurt Locker gets my vote for the components of which Best Pictures are usually comprised, but Avatar feels to me like another kind of Best Picture--the kind that enlarges our sense of what films can do.  

There should be a special category of Oscar for such pictures:  an award for Special Achievement in Film-making,  Boundary Breaking, something like that.

It would honor extraordinary and innovative artistic achievement in a film as a whole--in contrast to typical Special Achievement awards, a new special effect or technological breakthrough wouldn't suffice--and it wouldn't be given every year.  Foreign films and docs would be eligible, and the winner could also be chosen as Best Picture. 

I'd have given such an Oscar to Citizen Kane. 

How about you?

Danger at Jones Beach

Could New York's next helicopter disaster be at the beach?

Two Saturdays ago was a gorgeous day for beach-going--clear, sunny, not too hot or humid. Christine and I had arrived early at the west field of Jones Beach and were about to enter the water and play in the frothy waves, when we saw an ominous sight maybe a hundred yards from shore.

A helicopter swooped down with a rope ladder dangling below, and a guy at the end of the rope. Was he looking for a swimmer in trouble--or a body? Maybe he was being trained for something, we thought, when the copter dropped him in the water, and cruised away. Then we noticed that the guy was somehow back on the ladder.

The pleasure of the day had been darkened by what we'd just witnessed, whatever it was--that copter had been way too close to shore for comfort. We watched it fly out of sight before we ventured into the waves.

A couple of hours later, the copter was back, and this time we found out what it was doing: promoting the GI Joe movie.

Pretty outrageous--scaring the public, and perhaps endangering them, at what is actually public property: Jones Beach State Park.

I hope you'll join me in urging officials in charge to ban helicopters from flying low over our beaches for any but emergency purposes.

Film Biz Recycling Open House

It's a lovely day for a trip to Long Island City, and from 3 pm to sunset Film Biz Recycling, a new, nonprofit "set dressing salvage and reuse center" offering prop rentals and sales, is hosting an open house.

It's at 43-26 12th St., 2nd floor; for further info, check their website: www.filmbizrecycling.org

Pitch Meeting: ELECTION 2020: RUNNING MATES

Back in May, while on the train from Los Angeles to San Diego, I was thinking about the development process in Hollywood--pitch meetings, notes, etc.--and started fantasizing about the kind of fodder Hollywood could make out of the current election. Here's what I came up with--what would your scenario be?


"See, it’s Barack and Hilary all over again, only she’s a Latina firebrand married to an ex-priest and he’s a rabbi married to a feminist scholar who’s a dean at Harvard."

"Hey, what if he’s a rabbi and dean of the religious department at Harvard, and his wife’s the prosecutor who cleaned up Houston?"

"Works for me."

"So they hate each other’s guts, but it’s not because of the religious and ethnic differences."

"Though that’s gotta be a factor, right?"

"Sure, but it’s mostly their platforms and personalities. She’s a founder of the so-called Happiness wing of the Democratic Party. Their goal is to put the party back in the party the way our Founding Fathers intended when they made all that noise about the pursuit of happiness.
"In her stump speeches, she says happiness will be greatly enhanced when we start providing health care, education, a living wage, and retirement security for all, and when we withdraw from those armed conflicts so destructive to happiness both here and abroad.
"But her main programs are all about dancing: dancing lessons in school, free public dances, paid-to-dance holidays, dance therapy on demand. She says it's a well-known fact that more dancing equals fewer prisons--enough dancing, and we won't need prisons.
"She points out that in the days of our Founders, dancing was an essential political skill, and she thinks it should be so again. She wants dancing to become part of the legislative process–no bill should be passed until its proponents and opponents have given it a twirl on the dance floor. Instead of filibusters, they should have dance marathons, with free tickets offered to the public by lottery.
"Needless to say, he calls her a total flake. Whereas he’s the serious one, the only one who can do the job that needs doing. His program’s all about education and immigration reform. We’re falling way behind on education and he wants to turn that around. Plus, it’s a known fact that illegal immigrants are the main engine of our economy, and they’re all going to Europe, Asia, Australia–anywhere but here. We need to replace obstacles to immigration with incentives, and we have to get them to go to our schools and colleges, so we can improve our educational performance enough to meet UN minimum standards."

"Wow, heavy."

"I know it’s just the beginning, but what do you think so far?"

"You’ve got some great stuff there, only too much politics is gonna put the audience to sleep. We need to sex it up."

"I know, get rid of the spouses. She’s a wild woman and party girl, the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind. She’s had affairs with the hottest heads of state, and some athletes and artists and generals–"

"And the head of a major studio."

"Great, that’ll feed certain people’s egos."

"Whereas he’s divorced. His wife left him for a woman, so feminists love him. He has models and rock stars and reality show hostesses falling all over each other to take her place, show him what a real woman is like."

"Only he’s playing it cool, nursing his heartbreak, waiting for the real Ms. Right–"

"Great challenge for a writer–have him calling her a slut and her insulting his manhood, but with humor and dignity."

"‘Dignity–always dignity.’"

" Let’s cut to the chase. How soon do we get them to bed?"

"Good question."

"Okay, they’re having these debates, and the angrier our candidates get, the hornier they get."

"And she always has her stud of the week waiting to relieve her tension, whereas he’s still chasing the broads away."

"But they both start fantasizing about each other."

"They have to be on the ticket together and still hating each other before they have sex, otherwise we lose the tension."

"Who’s number one and who’s number two?"

"Hey, what if she’s a hunter and a crack shot and a big hit with the second amendment crowd even if they don’t really buy that dancing stuff?"

"We’ve gotta have a wedding in the White House."

"Baby in the White House–"

"Two babies in the White House!"

"Twins in the White House!"

"Fertility drugs in the White House!"

"Quints in the White House!"

"Sextuplets in the White House!"

"Sextuplets–wow, what a concept!"

"Works for me."

"That’s it, guys. We’ve cracked it."