October 27 – Hot Werewolf Chicks
Pitch mania!
Of the 12 companies I pitched to, eight of them were today. They weren’t exactly one right after the other, but they were sufficiently close together that I had no time to attend any seminars except for the guest speakers much later in the afternoon. So except for sitting out on the Marriott patio with my boxed lunch, I pretty much spent the meat of Saturday at the Renaissance. Here are the companies I pitched to as well as the times I pitched to them. Unless otherwise noted, the people representing these companies were only slightly north of legal drinking age.
William Morris (literary agency) – 10:15 a.m.
United Artists (movie studio) – 10:50 a.m.
Kennedy Marshall (production company) – 11:25 a.m.
Barnes Moris (entertainment law firm) – 1:10 p.m.
Brillstein (management agency) – 2:40 p.m.
Varsity (production company) – 3:25 p.m.
APA (literary agency) – 3:45 p.m.
Creative Artists Agency (literary agency) – 4:10 p.m.
Notice how I didn’t note anyone being older than 22? That’s because there weren’t any fitting that description. I kid you not. Everyone from the above companies was a good decade or so younger than me. Every. Single. One. In hindsight I should have expected it really. It’s got to be such a thankless job, giving up your Saturday to come listen to innumerable hopefuls bombard you with their story ideas. I sympathize with them. For the most part. A few of them could have been nicer. You have to remember that we Expo-ers were paying healthy coin to be there, and that doesn’t count the pitch tickets. Those go for $25 each. So if I’m paying you $25 for not one second more than five minutes of your time, the least you could be is nice.
It sort of got off to a weird start with William Morris. Ever heard of the William Morris agency? It’s easily one of the biggest, most prestigious agencies, like, ever. And I do believe it’s the—not one of the, but the—oldest agency on Earth. Seriously. Look ‘em up. The guy representing them was a young, blond, smooth-faced chap named Brooks. He was nice ‘n all. When I say pitching to him was weird, I don’t mean he was mean, he was just sort of not all there, if you know what I’m saying. Off to Alpha Centauri on a one-way ticket. I pitched the kid two of my scripts, and he nodded and gave me stock compliments like, “Good story ideas, Thomas.” And then when the five minutes were up, he was like, “Well thank you, Thomas. Those were good ideas.” And that was that. No “Do you have a card?” or “No thanks, I’ll pass.” or anything in between. You have good ideas, now off with you. So I thanked Brooks for his time and walked away with the weirdest feeling because the pitch was left open ended.
The young gal from United Artists was much more receptive, even if I never did hear back from her. I pitched her my comedy script about the President, and she told me one of her favorite movies was Dave. She loves flicks that poke fun at the Executive. With a script like mine, a response like that was perfect. She took my card and wrote down my name and the title and all that…and I never heard a peep. While pitching to her, I caught a cute blondie giving me the eye from a table to the right and behind my United Artists stand-me-up. I noted blondie’s table number, looked it up on the wall chart out by Bob Hoskins, and saw that she was from a company called Varsity. I hadn’t bought a ticket for them online, but the Expo was selling all leftover pitch tickets right there at the Renaissance. I saw Varsity specialized in comedies and scooped up a ticket for the 3:25 p.m. slot, the silly bastard I was.
Both Kennedy Marshall and Barnes Morris had more young bucks like Brooks. Unlike Brooks, though, they couldn’t even fake a "Good ideas, Thomas." I pitched them my comedy script, they asked me for my card, and that was that. Whether my script sounded good or not would be up to their bosses. Even worse, they didn’t even write anything down, like what the title of my script was or what it was about, just so they could remember me. They added my card to their pile and left it at that. Like they were going to look at my card the next day or the day after or the week after—whenever they met with their bosses—and remember my pitch among the zillions of other pitches they’d heard already and were yet to hear? I suppose they thought taking my card was a diplomatic way of telling me to scram. But no. In fact, it would’ve been better if they had actually done just that.
Davita, the cute young black gal representing Brillstein, was pretty much the same as the gal from United Artists. She absolutely loved my Presidential comedy. Since she was black, I made it a point to pitch her a paranormal drama I have wherein most of the characters are either of African descent or birth, but she wasn’t really into it. She absolutely loved my Presidential comedy, though, which she made a point of telling me more than once. Again, like the UA gal, she took my card and wrote down all my information…and I never heard from her again.
And now we get to good ol’ Varsity Productions, the ticket for which I bought on the spot earlier that day because the blondie representing them had been giving me the eye during my UA pitch. And I don’t delude myself in saying she gave me the eye. There’d been no one at her table while I’d been at the UA table, and she was staring at me hard. When I saw that her company was specifically looking for comedies, how could I pass up the chance to pitch to her? Wouldn’t you know it, though, that I found out first-hand why the long-legged princess had had no one at her table when she and I clapped eyes at each other. I’m guessing there had, in fact, been someone at her table during my UA pitch, but that she’d sent them packing well before the five minutes were up because she shot down their idea. Why would I suppose that, you ask? Because the bitch shot down my idea. I barely got the premise out of my mouth before she was like, “Okay wait! Wait! I can already tell you that my company won’t accept your idea. We’ve already got a sort of political comedy in the works. But if you want to practice your pitch on me, that’s fine.” I tried to explain to her that even though my protagonist was the President, the film itself wasn’t political at all. I wasn’t taking a stand on either side of the aisle. She would hear none of it. I’m sure she thought she was being clever when she tried poking holes in my story, but unfortunately she hadn’t given me a chance to tell her the whole story. She paused, thought about that, and reiterated what she’d said at the beginning, that her bosses wouldn’t go for it because they were already developing a political comedy. Really, a political comedy? What in Judas Priest does that even mean? Is her company’s film parodying Rush Limbaugh or something? I tried throwing Dave at her, but she told me Dave wasn’t any good. Oops. So much for the UA gal. I personally think Dave’s a classic, and lots of other people think so too. It’s one of director Ivan Reitman’s most precious gems. Considering her youth, I was tempted to ask her if she even existed when Dave came out. Way back in 1993. I resisted. Well, I suppose the movie biz is like the novel biz: One person’s terrific is another person’s terrible. Or as William Goldman puts it: In Hollywood no one knows anything. I know I’m going on about this, but I don’t think I was at goldie’s table for more than two minutes or so. She wished me luck on the rest of my pitches, but I just ignored her, got up, and walked away. Yeah, I know I was sulking. Yeah, I know she doesn’t have to like my idea. But she could’ve been a wee bit more courteous. I was paying $25 for the privilege of her ear, after all.
The APA Agency didn’t work out much better. Representing them was a carrot top with a cap pulled low over her eyes. I pitched her my Presidential comedy, but she didn’t get the logic. Mind you, I’ve pitched this idea to a lot of people by now, both formally at the Expo and informally to writers, friends, and family. Even if not everyone’s liked it, most everyone’s been able to understand it. Not the APA gal. Toward the end she shook her head quickly from side to side, as if she'd been slapped in the temple, and was like ,”Whoa! What just happened? I didn’t get that logic at all.” She thanked me for my time and my pitch, but she reiterated that she didn’t get my logic.
And finally we have Creative Artists Agency, or CAA as we call them. Ever hear of them? They don’t only handle writers. CAA reps everyone who’s anyone. They’re just as big as William Morris. Look ‘em up when you get a chance. As with William Morris, I probably should’ve known better than to pitch to these guys. But really, why shouldn’t I? If you’re going to take aim, why not aim for the moon, right? Representing CAA was a nerdy-looking kid named Matt. He wore big black-rimmed glasses and wasn’t afraid to smile. No sooner did I get the premise of my script out of my mouth than he started laughing. A great sign! And then he sat fully engaged in my pitch. When I was through, he asked various questions that showed he was interested. He took my card and wrote down my information and added it to the already huge stack in front of him. Besides other business cards and various treatments and synopses, I saw that people had given him CDs. What in tarnation were people putting on CDs that had to do with their pitch? At any rate, it was after 4 p.m. at this point, so I really sympathized with Matt and thought it was really nice of him to give me the full five minutes and take all my information and feed me false hopes that his supervisors would have the slightest interest in my idea. So like the Dave fan from United Artists and Davita from Brillstein, Matt really dug my idea but never got back to me.
Before I conclude talking about today’s pitches, there’s one more little gem I’d like to share. While waiting out in the lounge for Bob Hoskins to call my time slot, just leaning against the wall and spinning my most recent pitch around in my noodle to analyze it to death, I couldn’t help overhearing two fellow Expo-ers having a conversation a few feet away. They were both sitting down on the floor against the wall. One was a young stud clad in a black tee, black jeans, and black boots. His black hair was slicked back, and his biceps bulged with tattoos. He started chatting with this other guy, who could not have looked more different. He was a little older and dressed much more conservatively. The black-clad dude started talking to the other guy about his script. The genre, you won’t be surprised to hear, was horror. Oh, but wait. It was more than that. It was horror porn! The story concerned a gang of hot women who turn into werewolves. The one and only way to stop them from going all lupine was, as the black-clad chap put it so eloquently, “to fuck ‘em.” “Are you serious?” the other guy said. Of course the dark dude said he was serious. Yeah, you had to have sex with these hotties to keep them from turning. Accordingly his script had scenes where the hero would bang one of the she-wolves while she’s in the midst of turning. So there he’d be, rolling in the hay with a dame who’s perhaps already sprouted the hair all over her body but hadn’t quite grown the snout yet or what have you. Actually I thought it sounded kinda creative and is bound to have an audience. Shit, I’d watch it. Wouldn’t you? And the fact that he talked about his script with a perfectly straight face made me laugh for some reason. No, really. I had to turn away and hide the fact that I was chuckling. I’m not sure what tickled me. Maybe it was the fact this guy’s script highlights so starkly the vast variety of writers you had at the Expo. That’s why I don’t quite agree with what Cynthia said the night before. We’re not all competitors. I’m not competing with the werewolf guy. He’s writing for a completely different audience and was pitching to production companies who would look for stuff like his, not mine.
I had no time for seminars all day, but I could still make the guest speaker event. From 5-6:30 p.m. in the ballroom back at the Marriott, tonight’s speakers were writers Ted Elliott and Terry Russo. Never heard of them? They’re the two guys who wrote all three Pirates of the Caribbean flicks, among other things. While I loved the first Pirates, I was only mildly thrilled by the second and third ones. They were a bit overwrought to my liking. Still, at the very least these two were no doubt the wealthiest lads at the Expo, so I figured why not go see what they had to say.
Both Ted and Terry are at least in their forties. Terry, the one with hair, might even be in his fifties. Both have a little meat on the sides, especially Terry. My general impressions of them were that Terry was the touchy-feely guy. He was very soft spoken and eloquent and likes to connect with people. Ted, glossy bald on top and wearing Revenge of the Nerds specs, was pretty much the opposite. He liked to laugh, but his humor seemed mostly cynical. As with all the guest speaker events, this one was moderated by one of the writers from Creative Screenwriting. The first question he asked Ted and Terry was something like how they worked together, what their process was like. Ted was immediately like, “Aw man. I swear, if I had a nickel for every time we were asked that…” In other words he complained about the question but didn’t really answer it. Terry, though, gave a very thoughtful response. It makes me wonder if they play good cop bad cop on purpose or if it just worked out that way. Maybe the whole opposites-attract rule applies to writing partners as well. At any rate, Terry talked about how much they outline. They’re huge into outlining with cards on a cork board and can sometimes spend months noodling the outline before they actually type FADE IN.
They broke into the biz back in the eighties with this one script they had called Little Monsters. Ever see that? Actually I haven’t. Maybe I should toss it on the queue. Anyway, it was produced by the same studio that did Dirty Dancing, which was a huge hit for the company. But then came a string of no less than nine consecutive flops which led to them going belly up. Little Monsters, as it turned out, was the ninth of those flops, the proverbial nail in the company’s financial coffin.
Because their oeuvre includes both live action and animation, Terry made it a point to say that writing for one is no different from writing for the other. It’s always about the story. Ted, meanwhile, made it a point to say he hated the three-act structure because, as he sees it, it’s an extension of the auteur theory. And if you’re familiar with the auteur theory, you’ll know that it pretty much renders the screenwriter immaterial to the authoring of a film.
One thing they talked about, which demonstrates they might have more gold than you and I might imagine, was how descriptive they were when writing the Pirates films. For example, when they first introduce the Black Pearl in the first script, Ted and Terry were very particular in describing every part of it, and then they did the same thing when describing the Dead Man’s Chest in the second film. Then, when the little toy Dead Man’s Chests and toy Black Pearls sell like hot cakes, Ted and Terry actually get a piece of that action. They have the copyright on those images. See what I mean? Think about that. This trilogy earned some of the tallest piles of coin, like, ever. And as was the case with a certain other trilogy from the late seventies and early eighties, this always translates into lots of little kiddies going to Kay-Bee or wherever and buying the action figures. Just like this one nerdy kid (raising my hand) did back in the late seventies and early eighties.
I have to say I was a little disappointed the moderator didn’t ask them about the critical responses received by the second and third Pirates. The second one received lukewarm praise at best, but the third one was critically bodyslammed. Of course, it’s the money that matters in the end, right? But still, if they’re like most writers, their egos are fragile. When you spend so much time putting together a script or a novel, it’s a very precious object to you. You feel protective toward it in a sort of parental way. Brisk sales certainly help, but you also want the powers that be to like your piece. Unfortunately there was no discussion about that. Amazingly they said it was possible there’d be even more Pirates films. Personally I think they should move on, but I’m not the top dog at Disney with dead Presidents raining on my head courtesy of the Pirates flicks.
For now, though, Ted and Terry are moving on. Their next piece is going to be The Lone Ranger. Terry explained the premise this way. Yeah, we all know the Ranger rides a white horse, wears a white hat and a mask, and uses only silver bullets. But have you ever wondered why? He didn’t spill it all but said it had to do with the death of the Ranger’s brother. The backstory is that the brother was killed with two bullets in the chest. Apparently the Ranger’s mask was made from part of the shirt his bro was wearing when he was murdered. Those two eye holes are actually the bullet holes.
And now it was time for another decompression for tonight’s networking party. Before heading out to the patio, I went to that same gift shop off the lobby and, instead of getting a Diet Dr. Pepper like the previous two nights, got myself a can of Amstel Light. When I went out to the patio, I sat myself next to a woman who was sitting out for a smoke, a fellow Expo-er named Julie. Originally from Scotland, Julie now lives in Midtown Manhattan. That is, on the weekends. Her job requires her to travel most weeks. She was already with another Expo-er, a middle-aged gal named Montana, who came from Arizona. We ended up talking at length, they nursing glasses of white wine, me finishing off my Amstel before starting on a trail of Coronas. We had nothing else to talk about so of course we told each other about our scripts. Montana vented about her writing partner, a dude in Tennessee named Gammon whom she hadn’t actually met yet. They were having disagreements over their current project, which Montana was there to pitch even though she and Gammon had only just finished the first thirty pages or so. Julie’s script, meanwhile, was a romantic comedy set in Britain.
Montana eventually went off to the networking party, but Julie and I stayed out and talked until, I shit you not, one in the frickin’ morning. We probably started talking around seven or so. The six hours went so fast they practically didn’t exist. You know how it is when you hit it off with someone and start telling them your biography, and then they tell you theirs. And then you start telling them all kinds of shit you probably couldn’t confide in one of your other friends whom you’ve known for years. Amazingly, we were never the only ones out there, even after midnight. A lot of the Expo-ers stayed at the Marriott, and I suppose a lot of them had nonsmoking rooms. Anyway, it was always a happening scene out on that patio. Lora walked by at one point. She’d taken my advice and enrolled in the CS Open writing tournament and actually advanced to the second round. She was outside waiting to meet a guy she’d met earlier, a local Expo-er who was going to take her to Venice Beach. This was the Saturday night before Halloween, so I’m sure Venice was a happening place.
Julie and I finally parted ways sometime after one in the a.m. and promised to meet up one more time the following night. Tomorrow was the Expo’s last day.
