You might notice that I've called a full lid half a year ago on news about The Movie (that pesky one I was supposed to have started shooting last September) (but didn't). Up until tonight there was nothing to report except I was sitting back, quietly and patiently trying to get jigsaws to fall into place. Mostly this involves lots and lots of waiting. And emails. And rejection. And quarterlife crises.
I now understand why so many major filmmaker's have had projects languish. In fact, I feel like I have a personal picture of the gridlock of Hollywood for the last, well, ever. You hear these stories about great and stalled filmmakers only to wonder, Why didn't anyone give them the money to make a movie? Now, imagine if they'd never made a movie! Also, imagine if
no one had faith in them? Ha ha!
'Cause that'd be terrible.
But that was the last few months.
Today I got the call I've been waiting on since I graduated high school.
An agent. He said he was from
William Morris.
The path to this phone call, as the interested agent, Ted Evans, explained, was long and started, as I should have expected, from the last place I would have seen. OK. While I'd never admit this if this weren't one of the greatest days of my life, but: basically: (ahem):
When I originally put out the casting call last summer, one of the 100 women who sent in a headshot and resume was from Oklahoma. This wasn't odd; you'd be surprised how many people ignored the "locals only" part, mostly because they have that hope within hopes that a movie will take them out their trailer park. This particular girl sent a resume link, which not only had pictures of her that looked like she was crying while doing porn, but also had a self-description where of her best acting asset, her breasts ("they are a 34D"). It was even funnier still when, months later, I actually found unclothed,
genuine porn of this girl.
Now here's the rub that I can freely talk about: One dark night of the soul last October, I emailed her. I sent her the script. As usual for anything that seems stupid or self-destructive, I told myself it was just a lark and I'd have a story to tell. I'm not one of those writers who worries about my ideas getting stolen (it's already stolen and they're all about the execution anyway), but I did had to take measure when I heard nothing from her.
Then, in December, ironically on the day I was supposed to have finished shooting if my original schedule had gone through, I got a call. From her boyfriend. Who, guess what, was a producer. I tried harder to get off the phone when he told me they were both in Austin and wanted to meet, no matter what the freakshow aspects of this were. But then, he resorted to the lowest of the low: flattery. He said he'd seen my YouTube clips and
one in particular, featuring Kim (a girl, mind you, I've known since Kindergarten), displayed "eroticism." We set up to meet at a public coffeeshop. It'd be a lark. And I'd have a story to tell.
I met them later that day, on a usual Saturday afternoon where I wasn't doing anything. They weren't wearing the gym suits and halter tops I was expecting; they wore business suits. They talked good talk. He asked me how much my movie would cost. I bluffed just to scare him and said possibly $1 million. He flinched and came back with $500,000. I asked him if he was serious. He said he had it in a bag in his car. I almost pulled a Bill Paxton and shit my pants. Then he laughed.
Adapting to the situation (even though I'd wavered on this subject for the movie), I told them I was expecting lots and lots of nudity. They were in town for a week but they wanted more to go on than a YouTube clip. They asked about what camera I had now. They asked what lights I had. They asked about my editing equipment. They asked about my sound. Then, so that I might prove I was an amenable director who could adjust to any situation, they asked if I'd come to their hotel room later that week and film them having sex. This time I didn't pull a Bill Paxton. But also, unfortunately, this time he wasn't fucking with me.
Let me tell you. I was so freaking close to actually showing up when I was supposed to've.
And until today I never heard back from anyone who knew them. But, how (we inevitably come back) did the script land in Ted Evans's hands? The big boobed porn star's boyfriend. You can't make this shit up: they are cousins. "He's a douche," Ted said, "but I still feel obligated to read one 'producing project' of his per year." (Luckily, the big boob's boyfriend, Rand, won't be having anything to do with me from here on.)
Ted told me everything I wanted to hear. People will actually
read my script. Including actors. He's unofficially sending out the script to a bunch of producers, and I might be flying out to LA later this month. Before the end of the year's over, I might be paid a living wage to write for a living.
When Ted called I was composed enough to ask for a client list and their phone numbers. But even so, it took an hour to calm before I called my dad and asked if his lawyer (who's handling the aunt's lawsuit) would look it a contract. He'll ask tomorrow.
If this ends up being an April Fool's joke, I will cry myself to sleep.
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