John Domini: Movieola!

Come on, let me hear you, empty board up here. You see the empty board. You know what we need. The story starter, the first inkling, the concept on the back of a business card. Now come on. And ah-one, and ah-two, and…?

Tired, is that what I’m seeing, a whole lot of tired? Just finding the auditorium was enough for one morning? Sure, and back when the seminar started, you had the perfect project for this. You had the winner, the movie of your dreams, with a narrative arc that curved overhead as clear as a cable car over the fairgrounds, gliding along and nary a hitch. Nary a hitch or a glitch all the way to sole screenplay credit, and then to the gold for Best Original, and then to a name above the title. Producer! Executive Producer! But now that’s gone, you’ve lost it, right here at the seminar. We’ve been shouting at you too long. We’ve been shouting all weekend, and come Sunday morning, it’s practically a miracle you could find the auditorium. It’s the wrap session, the final, and you’ve got nothing left.

Really, you think I don’t hear it, that whimpering in your head? That cryin’n’pleadin’?

Cryin’n’pleadin’ won’t do no good. I’ve heard it a hundred times, and every time, there’s only one thing for it. I need to do some more shouting .

Come on . Empty board up here. Ah-one and ah-two.

You there, what? Smalltown America, the smalltown South, and? And a teenager, sure, teenage boy of a sensitive nature. Okay. Okay, and stop groaning, the rest of you. Don’t I know it’s a fallback? But sometimes it’s a fallback and you land on a mattress full of money. I’m putting it on the board.

High school boy, not the most popular, and this single mom moves in next door. Single mom, and pretty, uh-huh. Doesn’t escape the boy’s notice, our sensitive boy, uh-huh. Even in the rental she’s got, a three-room junker, a rust-garden lawn. First time our boy stops by he starts talking about going to college. The neighbor’s a college girl, sure, an MA from NYU, no, an MFA, Fine Arts. Uh-huh. Just like that, our boy’s all bright lights, big city.

Okay, I get it, Sprout. Don’t forget I do this for a living. We all get it, everyone and his inner child, his inner thirteen-year-old. The kid sneaking around with a skin mag under his jacket. Anymore, don’t forget, a kid doesn’t need to sneak a magazine. Anymore, it’s just a log-on, you dream up a name and check the box that says you’re over twenty-one. But then there’s you, my child, my outer child. You, now, you’re going to go old school. You’re going to write longhand. You remember the notebook we gave you the first day? Your seminar notebook? Uh-huh, nice, wasn’t it, all those empty pages, and they’re still empty, aren’t they? Empty as a masturbator’s mind. And it’s time, now, you put something on that first empty page. Longhand, put it down: Never confuse your movie with your fantasy .

Lost in a fantasy, I mean, that’s the masturbator. That’s spending all day up in your cable car, up over the fairgrounds, riding back and forth. Back and forth and who gives a fuck? We sure don’t, or we’re not supposed to, here at the wrap session. The third day! We’re supposed to be making a movie . Filling the board, nailing the pitch, thrilling the house. But a rookie mistake like getting lost in your fantasy? Don’t you remember, the first day, we wouldn’t even give you a Starbucks break till you’d learned the Starbucks Pitch. We whittled your pitch down so you could slip it between the order and the pick-up. Till it was all snug and money and fit on the back of a business card. And after lunch we took you straight into Title Scrabble. Title Scrabble, where the Z’s no 10-point letter, not with Biker Boyz , Venus Boyz , Boyz N the Hood , not with EZ Streets . Not with EZ Money or Attack Force Z or World War Z . Or plain Z by itself.

Plus you’ve got to think different when it comes to the 2’s. 2Fast 2Furious , I mean, tip of the iceberg…

Okay, up there, in the balcony. You, yes, what? The neighbor, the new neighbor—you’re saying she’s black?

Interesting. Even post-Obama, you know, interesting. Balcony says she’s black and, okay, on the board.

Well, we don’t see so much empty space now, do we? And how about we double underline? How about we remember why you came to me in the first place? You signed up for this, not just the weekend but the wrap rap: Arc Mojo. After this, all you’ll have is books out in the lobby, the seminar discount. After this it’s Happy Hour. Happy, uh-huh, a whole hour. Jamba-lye, crawfish pie, fillay gumbo.

My children, this is your last, best chance. This right here, and take a look, the mess on the board is getting interesting. It’s getting all the way to To Kill a Mockingbird . Or should I say, I mean I can hear you thinking, To Fuck a Mockingbird ? I think even Helen Keller could hear it. Everyone’s putting our Mayberry boyo together with his Sophisticated Lady. You, sure, down to my right. You spell it out. Evenin’ in Dixie, waitin’ on the levee, don’ the moon look pretty…

Look, even post-Obama, it’s still one of the best plays in the deck. Red Opie on black Hottie. Just look at the space it takes up on our wall. We’re not riding any cable cars now. We’re taking a chance in the hall of mirrors. In one reflection, you see something squatty as a munchkin, and then in the next, it’s all high, wide, and handsome. It’s a long way from just any old fantasy. It’s handsome and light on its feet, and that’s your bankable narrative, my children. If it’s danceable it’s bankable. It’s what I like to call the two-step…

Excuse me, what, balcony? Up in the balcony, what, the Koran ? Koranic Studies?

The Fine Arts, you’re saying, that’s the fallback. That’s not enough. Our girl needs a degree with an edge.

Interesting. Koranic Studies, because I mean, she’s dark already. She’s dark and her book learning, I’m with you, it ought to have an edge. She ought to have a verse of the Koran tattooed above her heart. Cleavage that comes with a code. Plus, when she translates for our doofus hero, they’re down in the back acreage. Wetlands, piney woods, fire ants.

Balcony, I am so with you, and the rest of you, come on, you get it, don’t you? You see it, the space it takes up, on the board? It rocks us right out of the comfort zone. We take a woman of mystery and put her down in Plain’n’Simpleton. Come to think, she’s got no visible means of support either, other than the permanent erection she gives the hayseed next door.

That’s the way we roll. That’s the two-step on the edge. My children, think about it, we’re trying to catch an alien. The golden alien, the Oscar for Best Original, a creature with no eyes and no ears but a mighty big sword…

Okay, okay you, front and center. What? The woman’s kid, you’re saying, her love child?

A single mom, right, a girl next door who’s been someone’s Playmate. So her kid, it’s a boy you’re saying, we need to put that boy together with our cornpone. I get it. Our cornpone may not have a clue when it comes to the Dark Lady herself, but when it comes to her kid he’s a buddy, he’s a big brother. A natural. Our guy and her kid, there’s sympathy there, a relationship.

Okay. Teachable moment. Let’s see if we can use what we’ve learned since Friday.

My children, it’s what I like to call the two-step, when our Catwoman’s got a kid. I mean, it takes us from edge to heart, mystery to sympathy. Now, ah-one, ah-two…

In the good old summertime, we’re ambling along with our Mama Mystery, and it’s not like you don’t notice her cleavage code. Not when she’s in spaghetti straps. But to one side there’s her new Daddy, he may be one dumb sucker but he’s still a Daddy, because to the other there’s her Lil’ MacGuffin. I mean, that’s what the kid is, isn’t he? The kid’s the question left dangling, isn’t he, the cable car half off its hook? But we’re ambling along with these three, down in the back acreage, down where the loam starts to get gushy, and our Papa surrogate, he’s starting to play with her little clitoris…whoa! How’d I make that mistake? What was I thinking?