Justice

(Years Three/Four of Robb’s Illustrious Career)

My third/fourth year in the business I worked for this show-runner who was a real piece of work. He was the most hated figure I’ve ever worked for. He made The Weasel look like a normal, well-adjusted human being. From the writers room to the production office to the stage, everybody hated him.

This guy was a harsh dictator. I’ve never seen anybody better at shutting down creativity in a room. Writers pitching jokes or brainstorming ideas would be cut off and dismissed mid-sentence, mid-pitch. Nice. The in-joke in the writers room was that if he was looking for an integer between 2 and 4 and you pitched 3, you would get shot down.

Strangely, this guy was also helpless. He couldn’t do anything by himself. He had no personal assistant, so we were ALL his personal assistant. I was personally called by the guy on a weekend and compelled to help him out with something personal. Let me repeat, I was NOT his personal assistant. My son was an infant at the time, but apparently the guy didn’t think I had anything more important to do on a Sunday morning than get in the car and go help him out. The in-joke in the production office was that you might get a call from the guy in the toilet demanding that you come help him with the paperwork.

One day Mr. Sunday Morning said his computer monitor “flickered.” I was called into his office and yelled at when I could see no flickering. Well, actually, he didn’t yell, he rolled his eyes condescendingly and told me to go find somebody else – anybody else – to come in his office to confirm the flickering. No matter how many assistants and then producers were called in, NO ONE else could see any flickering. The line producer called the computer rental company and had the non-flickering computer and monitor replaced. Twice. Guess what? Mr. Sunday Morning said it still flickered. I will never forget this: I was personally in his office, along with the line producer and all the writers and some of the cast, when Mr. Sunday Morning became enraged and literally shouted to the heavens, “Why does no one else see this flickering?!”. Everybody in the room was acutely aware of the obvious reason. Everybody except him.

He was fired. Well, I got ahead of myself. First the executive producer was told – by everyone – about this guy. Producers were running around in circles wasting time and money on crap for him. The executive producer’s hand-picked writers were not being allowed to write or even contribute, and were threatening to quit. Nobody was happy. A few shows in, production was shut down and Mr. Sunday Morning was given a serious talking-to. After that, he was on his best behavior. At considerable expense, we spent weeks retooling. An additional writer was brought in to clear the air and “reset” the writers room. Writers’ contributions were welcomed and accepted. Everything was back on track, and everyone was happy.

Until we started taping again. With the stress of production, the dictatorial prima donna control freak jerk returned and everything went back to the way it was. A few shows into this second part of the season, the executive producer unexpectedly appeared on the lot, went into Mr. Sunday Morning’s office, and fired him. Security escorted him off the lot.

It was wonderful. It was… justice.

For weeks afterward it was like the laws of gravity did not apply in our little world. As my Uncle Bernard used to say, “When you hit your thumb with a hammer as hard as you can over and over and over… it feels so good when you stop.” The rest of the season was filled with sweetness and light. And with cruel, unrelenting jokes from everyone about the disgraced, fired jerk. The satisfaction was overwhelming. The world is fair after all.

Or is it?

Four years later, I saw Mr. Sunday Morning’s name on a movie poster. And I about lost my lunch. He wrote a movie – a big, successful, $100+ million Hollywood blockbuster. And later that same year, he did it again. He wrote ANOTHER big, successful, $100+ million Hollywood blockbuster. Movies with BIG HUGE stars. And prominent, beloved, cult-following directors. I am not making this up. The guy made it big. Twice in one year. The disgraced jerk hadn’t faded away, he just moved… into movies. And looking at imdb, his plate is still quite full. This guy is a huge success. We got cancelled, but he made it big.

He sure showed us.

In the years since, I have tried to figure out the true meaning of these events. You know, the big, cosmic truth. Was Mr. Sunday Morning really a jerk? Yes. Is he really a successful writer? Yes. Is he successful BECAUSE he is a jerk? Or in spite of this? Or is there any relationship between these whatsoever? For me, this is the question. Young P.A.s and assistants often ponder this issue, because the vast majority of the time in the business the people in charge (like Mr. Sunday Morning and The Weasel) are dictatorial prima donna control freak jerks. So do people become dictatorial prima donna control freak jerks BECAUSE they are successful and are allowed to get away with anything? Or do they become successful BECAUSE they are dictatorial prima donna control freak jerks to begin with? Is one a prerequisite for the other? If so, which one? Can you really be successful if you are NOT a dictatorial prima donna control freak jerk? Or will all normal, nice, well-adjusted writers become dictatorial prima donna control freak jerks once they become successful?

And which one am I?

Random Question #49

How long do you think you could go without communicating with other people?

“The Thing About Lunch” or “The Worst I Ever Had”

(Year One of Robb’s Illustrious Career)

Let’s get one thing straight. Television production is about one thing and one thing only: lunch.

It was my first job in the business. I was working on a real TV show, on a broadcast network, with my name in the credits. I was psyched. 

I would soon be crushed. It was the worst job I’ve ever had.

At the bottom of the bottom, I had many duties: phones, drive-ons, filing, getting the latest script pages to the writers, director, and executive producer. But I soon learned that none of these mattered.

What mattered was lunch. My real job was to take care of lunch.

“Lunch” sounds so simple, so uncomplicated. It isn’t. First off, there’s more than one. There’s the office lunch, which is lunch for the writers, producers, and P.A.s. But then there’s the catered lunch for the art department. There’s the stage lunch. There’s the taping lunch. And on very special weeks, the screening lunch. 

Don’t get me started on the editing breakfast.

There’s the old line in Hollywood: “What I really want to do is direct.” Well, what I actually got to do was catering.

TV production revolves around lunch. Why? Two words: powerlessness and control. The largest group in the production office is the writers. Writers are moody creative types who are crushingly self-critical and are convinced they are powerless (I’m not pointing fingers here – I’m one myself). The problem is that they’re, well,… actually correct about this. In the big world of production, writers control nothing. NOTHING. And if there’s one thing that makes perceived powerlessness worse, it’s real, actual powerlessness. But where was I? Oh yeah: writers control NOTHING. Oh wait – there is one thing I forgot to mention that they actually DO get to control: lunch. So when they get in to work and get knee-deep into a series of impossible problems they have to solve but cannot control, where do you think they vent their frustrations and lash out in a desperate attempt to overcome their powerlessness?

Lunch.

The thing about lunch is that it happens every day.

Worst job I ever had.

Now, I see you rolling your eyes. I mean, jeez Robb, it’s only lunch. How bad can it be? It doesn’t sound serious, you say. But lunch is very serious. I saw P.A.s fired for picking up lunch and bringing writer/producers back the wrong salad dressing. This was not unusual.

Plus the show-runner, the head writer, the guy who got to most control lunch, was a monster who made my life a living hell. Okay, that’s too harsh. The Kevin Spacey character in Swimming With Sharks – that guy is a monster. This show-runner, he was more of… well, a spineless weasel. A passive-aggressive spineless weasel. With arbitrary dietary requirements.

Before you jump on that last sentence, let me be clear: this gut did NOT have food allergies. Or health concerns. Or food tolerance issues, or anything like that. Nothing health-related. So when I say “arbitrary” dietary requirements, I mean arbitrary. He didn’t eat meat, except when he did. He ate protein only, except when he didn’t. He would let someone else pick the restaurant we would order from, then yell and scream when the menu had “nothing he could eat.”

And when I say “yell and scream,” I mean real, actual yelling and screaming. This was not unusual.

Yes, I went to grad school for this.

By mid-season I finally gave up. Or got smart, depending on how you look at it. Whenever I’d have to coordinate a big lunch, like a screening lunch or a cast reading lunch or a pre-taping snack/lunch thing, I would just go directly to The Weasel and ask him what he wanted. Yes, this would reward his behavior and be unfair to everyone else, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to prevent the drama and the yelling and screaming. And the firing. Especially the firing. This new system would be foolproof, wouldn’t you think? Wouldn’t you?

Are you kidding?

I went to his office one evening, pitching him three of his favorite restaurants for the next day’s screening lunch. He picked a restaurant and I already had a few options figured out, entrees and sides I knew he usually ordered. All that was left was for him to pick. Once he did I made sure to VERY CAREFULLY give him the recap of what he picked, what I would order, the complete spread all 25 of us would be eating from. I was determined – there would be no surprises the next day, no yelling or screaming. Or firing. The Weasel rolled his eyes – my anality was SO annoying – and condescendingly said yes, all this would be fine. I mean, jeez Robb, it’s only lunch.

When lunch came the next day there was yelling and screaming. He came THIS CLOSE to firing me. There was nothing he could eat. Nothing. This really happened. In front of the entire crew. This was less than 24 hours after he himself chose all the food. 

I later learned from a producer that The Weasel had gone on a no-carb diet an hour or two after our little meeting. After our little meeting where he had chosen platters of pasta and breaded chicken. My job was saved when a P.A. agreed to run across the street and get The Weasel a 100% plain grilled chicken breast – no butter or seasonings of any kind (The Weasel complained that it was dry). This was not unusual.

The thing about lunch is that it happens every day. Every. Single. Day.

I had that job for almost two years. That’s a lot of lunches. I had that job until the president of the production company finally read my script and promoted me. The new job was awesome. It wasn’t a writing job, but it was a lot closer. And some other unlucky bastard had to take care of lunch.

I Thought I Saw You

It was 2006 or 2007. I was leaving work, pulling my car onto Flower Street, when you zipped by right in front of me on your bike. I had to brake to miss you. I could have sworn it was you. But what would you be doing – at our age – zipping a bike through downtown L.A.? 3,000 miles and 20 years away from home? We made eye contact and you disappeared behind parked cars. I know it was you – you gave me that look. It was 1987 you, the last time I saw you. But it was you.

Are you even still alive? Google won’t tell me.

Last night I had this dream. My two sons (age 9 and age 4) and I had broken into your house. And you were pulling into your driveway and we were desperately trying to get out before you could get inside. But we couldn’t find our way out. You were putting your key in the door and we had to hide from you and get out before you could discover us. You try doing this with the 4-year old whose idea of playing hide and seek is yelling out where he is as soon as you stop counting so you can find him. Terrified of never being found again.

Somehow we made it out and walked past on the sidewalk just as you went inside. But you knew. You knew. You glanced backward and gave me that look again. That look like you knew something I didn’t.

My dad was in the military when I grew up so we moved around. Not nearly as much as some do, but I changed schools a few times. Different states. It’s rough when you’re a kid, but one huge thing I learned was how to come into a new situation and figure it out immediately. Intuitively. The politics, the dynamics of the relationships, all that. Every time we moved my parents told me not to be sad about the friends I left behind, but instead to just go to school and make new ones. I got practice at this – I got good at it. Figuring out who to be friends with and who not to. But there was one thing I never learned.

When my dad would come home from work and tell us we were moving again, we would be devastated. We would cry, we’ll never see our friends again, all that. But you learn to put that aside because it hurts too much. You learn to figure out the place you’re moving to, not to dwell on the one you just left. You learn to forget your old friends. But I never learned how to say goodbye – it hurt too much. Terrified of never being found again. So I never have.

So I never did.

Are you still alive? I saw you. Are you a ghost? I see ghosts. Different states. I see dead people. I saw you. Sometimes it feels like I can’t see alive people anymore.

Random Question #45

What is the thing you still have to prove?

First Time In My Life

Tonight I wrote emails to my U.S. Congresswoman, to both my U.S. Senators, and the the President. I guess you could say I was pissed off and scared. This was the first time in my life I have ever written to any of my elected representatives (and I let them know it). 

Did it make me feel better? Eh.

In Deep

This is what I love about writing. This is what I hate about writing.

I wrote a scene of Psycho Ex last night. A quick, simple, self-contained, direct, 1-page, 2-characters-in-a-room scene that I has pretty happy with. So what did I do? I screwed it up and asked some people to read it, with a couple of simple questions. Of course, instead of answers they had loads of questions, all of which I thought were irrelevant: do we know these people? do they know each other? why are they in the same room? But what else should I expect from sending people a scene on page 80-something with nothing else to go from?

If the script wasn’t so overlong and fat I would send the whole thing to this point, but that would require me to shift over from “creative” mind to “critical” mind, and then a lot of time to edit and tweak, and I don’t want to take myself out of “creative” mind until the first draft is done. Plus I don’t want to waste all the first impressions of a large number of readers – must wait until the big obvious problems are fixed, otherwise they will just focus on the big obvious problems. The first draft will be WAY long but I can’t worry about that now. I just have to write scenes. 

The writing process of this script is so unbelievably different from any I’ve ever used before. But then again they are all different and there is no “standard” process. Despite all my efforts to sit down and map out the specific timeline of the rest of the script (I have the note cards all written up), I cannot seem to do this. My process lately has been to just look at the note cards, take a scene that I know will HAVE TO be in the script, and then just write it. Then I go to the next one. I will sequence them later. Usually I will figure out that scene X would be perfect right after scene Q while I am deep in the middle of writing scene F, so I’ll switch over and move them into sequence with the screenwriting software. This is the most random access digital editing process I have ever used to write. Some times my brain cannot really do it, and I cannot figure out how to resume this way of thinking/working, and it kills time with all the gear-switching. But as soon as I get into the flow of writing a scene I am okay. This is why I say “I just have to write scenes” and not think about the structure at all. Currently the “document” (script outline with full scenes written until page 80-something) comes in at 108 pages. An overlong disorganized monster that keeps growing with many many scenes to go still. The bad news is that I am deep into it. The good news is that I am deep into it. I guess this means I have hit critical mass of brain involvement so there is no going back now. Now I just have to go forward without a plan for going forward. This is what it is – not necessarily fun but a waking dream that is impossible to stop. This is the zone. Is the script/story any good? That is an impossible question with an unknowable answer that is less than irrelevant. Must… shut… up…

Does the Twist Ending Have to Come at the End?

If you’re thinking I’ve forgotten about The Challenge, I haven’t. I just continue to struggle with Act Two of Psycho Ex. You know, the easy script. And it’s weird because although Act Two is always the hardest part, the problems I’m having this time are problems I’ve never had before.

Here’s the deal: The script has a twist ending. Or maybe it’s a twist “middle.” I’m not exactly sure. That’s the problem.

I know my story. I know it well. I’m just not so sure about the plot. Big difference. The story is the chronological timeline of events. The story is what happens (In The Sixth Sense, Bruce Willis dies in the first scene and lives the rest of the movie as a ghost). But the plot is the timeline in which information is revealed to the reader/viewer. The plot is how the story is told (Neither we nor Bruce know he is a ghost until the very end). Story vs. plot.

Psycho Ex has a twist. The big problem I am dealing with now is the revealing of this twist and the issue of surprise vs. suspense. Surprise is what happens when the reader/viewer gets information at the same time as the characters, as in The Sixth Sense – we find out that Bruce is a ghost at the same time that Bruce does, and we are  just as surprised as Bruce is. We don’t suspect this is coming, so when it comes we are so surprised we jump out of our seats. Suspense is different. Suspense is what happens when the reader/viewer gets information before the characters do, and then we squirm in our seats or yell at the screen as we wait for the characters to learn the truth the hard way (“Don’t go downstairs! The killer is in the house!”). The only person who knows all the information all of the time is the writer.

Which is me. But halfway through Act Two, I can’t figure out if Psycho Ex is supposed to make you jump out of your seat or make you squirm in it.

When I originally got the idea for the script and started laying it out, I didn’t doubt for a second that it had a surprise twist ending. I had a love triangle – one man and two women, one of them pregnant. After chasing the women, the man finally catches up to them – and then does something that turns the whole movie upside-down. Everyone jumps out of their seats, the climactic twist plays out, and we Fade Out while people are still shocked. 

But then it occurred to me – what if, at the midpoint, I reveal the guy’s plan to the audience, but not to the women? This way I still get the surprise and the movie turning upside-down, just earlier. And I also get much more – the chase will still happen, but it will suddenly be more charged instead of just standard action. You will know the secret but they won’t. Everything the women do would be in preparation for the WRONG climax, so you’ll squirm and yell “Don’t do it! You’re doing the wrong thing!” We get surprise and suspense. I don’t want this to get too Lifetime-y, but suspense with a pregnant woman in danger – man, that’s some powerful territory with a huge built-in squirm factor. That could propel the script into a whole different league. Surprise alone would never get us this – you can milk surprise for half a page, but you can get reams from suspense. Very pleased with myself, I decided I should definitely go with the suspense plan. The twist “middle.”

Unless that doesn’t work. Because usually – always? – it doesn’t work. The twist has to be the climax, it has to be a last-minute surprise. Doesn’t it? I mean, Psycho, No Way Out, every episode of The Twilight Zone… you build to a climax, you reveal a huge twist, these two are actually the same thing, and you Fade Out. Because if a “plot twist” overshadows your climax, you’re in trouble, right? After the twist, you don’t have anywhere else to go. That’s why they call it a “twist ending.” Right? I mean, what if The Sixth Sense had revealed that Bruce was a ghost halfway through the movie? What if The Usual Suspects had revealed the Big Reveal to the audience halfway through?

Then they would have been The Crying Game.

Crap. 

They would have become completely different movies. I’ve got big problems.

I like the suspense option, I instinctively want to go there. I’m just not sure if the climax would still be the climax, or what the new climax would be, or if the story would really work anymore. The idea was engineered and constructed with the twist ending climax. But maybe it doesn’t have a “twist ending,” maybe it actually has a killer “plot twist.” But then… that means the old climax isn’t the climax anymore, just the middle. And if the old climax isn’t the climax anymore, then what is?

Hey – remember before, at the very beginning, when I said “I know my story”?… Turns out I was really lying.

See? Twist ending.

Random Question #42

What is the biggest thing you have ever given up on?

Random Question #40

Let’s say you came into some cash (through the lottery, an inheritance, screenplay sale, etc.). What would be the minimum amount you would need to receive to feel comfortable enough to quit your day job and pursue your passion/art/writing career full-time?