EXT. Biohazard Discharge - TWILIGHT
AN EXCERPT from a pulpy bio I pounded out this morning.
A good script is like the outfit that turns my head at Miami Beach. Mostly thin strands of black spaghetti with enough black patches to cover the things that you want to see later, with plenty of angles and coverage, in the privacy of a dark room. Dialog should be limited to whatever it takes to convince her to do it with the camera running. One word too many -- and -- in the morning that art deco room will reek of cheap, slippery hand lotion and the zen of one hand slapping. Like every wannabe screenplayer south of Sunset Blvd., my heart beats a little bit faster for that one dame, that femme fatale, who knows when I should quit talking so I don't have to. That's right. She lives in a dank room stacked high with 20lb bond and 1" solid brass brads. She finishes my sentences. She dots my eyes. And crosses my tees. And best of all, she's JD Magna Cum Laude from Stanford Law. Neither of us has any real reason to be doing this. And that makes three of us, counting the late, great Billy Wilder.
I rewrote my LOST parody script
. I kept having this recurring dream, no doubt due to the mysterious powers of The Island. Yes, The Island
told me to rewrite my script. And now, it's a thoroughly post-modern script, self-cleaning oven, the whole bit
. So I won't be tempted.