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Article Excerpt
DAZZLE FOUND HIS FIRST script conference a lot less painful than he expected.
"I see a dog with severe personality disorders," envisioned Syd Fleishman of Sony Tristar, seated in his overstuffed leather armchair with a plastic liter of Evian propped between his knees. "I see a dog with closeness issues, and issues about his dad. I see a dog with lots to say about the terrible problems facing mankind--such as the destruction of the ozone layer and the rainforests, and the tragedy of Native Americans and all that. But I also see a dog that, well. If he spots a human being in trouble? That dog comes running. An all-faithful sort of dog, but an all-faithful sort of dog with attitude. You gotta earn the respect of a dog like that. But once you earn that respect, he's your buddy for life."
Syd was flanked by the Head of Creative Development and the ViceHead of Corporate Production. Dazzle couldn't remember the names of either of these high-flying, barely post-graduate executives, but throughout the entire forty-five-minute conference nobody let him forget for one second that the CEO's name was Syd.
"It's a bold new animal movie for a bold new millennium, Syd," piped up the Head of Creative Development.
"It's got heart, Syd. It's got action. And what's more," interjected the Vice Head of Corporate Production, "it's got abstract topicality. Abstract topicality, see, is this term I kind of invented."
Dazzle was leafing through a telephone-book-sized legal contract. The redacted passages alone were terrifying in their opaqueness.
"Kind of like Capra or Spielberg," continued the Vice Head, even though everybody had already stopped listening. "You know, like stuff that seems to be about current affairs? But once you look closely, it's not about anything at all."
This particular lull wasn't on the morning agenda.
"Any questions?" Syd asked, getting to his feet. It was the only appointment that Syd was never late for: lunch.
Dazzle took this opportunity to gesture at the as-yet unsigned contract with a flaky forepaw.
"Look, Syd. I've been reading through this rancid sack of worms, and if you don't mind my asking, I'm still hazy on a couple details."
Syd, frozen in an attitude of benign departure, smiled stiffly.
"What a cute little doggy," whispered the Head of Creative Development. She looked about nineteen years old. "He wants to discuss his contract. He wants to be part of the legal process, too."
Three sets of executive eyes, Dazzle thought. And once they start exchanging ironic, bemused glances, it's impossible to tell them apart.
"As I understand it," Dazzle went on, "you guys aren't trying to produce a major motion picture based on my life. Rather you're buying the rights, and I quote, 'to develop a long-running, multi-format entertainment entity based on the [possibly fictive] events and characters inspired by the legally recognized intellectual-commodity-unit known as Dazzle.' Which leaves me wondering, guys--why so much trouble and expense? Why not just make up your own character and call him, oh, like Harry the dog, or Bozo the cat or something. Then you could 'develop' any damn thing you pleased, and you wouldn't have to pay me anything, or negotiate so many clause-belaboring details with my annoying agent. I may be a dog, guys, but that doesn't make me stupid. All I'm asking is what could I possibly possess that you guys can't invent for yourselves? Give it to me straight, Syd. I really want to know."
Syd was smiling at the memory of something he had once said, or a person he used to be. It was a self-enclosed, inviolate sort of smile. He didn't have to share it with anybody.
"That's simple, Daz. You got the only thing money can't buy in this town."
Dazzle waited. So did everybody else.
"Authenticity," Syd said.
And left the building.
According to The Who's Who Hollywood Guide to Selling Your First Screenplay, Fred Prescott had won an Oscar during the Eisenhower administration for his collaborative work on some long-forgotten skirt-and-sandal biopic, and his consequent A-list status had kept him going through lean years and fat. But his work habits were rudimentary; he lacked even the crudest of social graces; and most mornings, his biggest achievement seemed to be dragging his sorry butt out of bed for black coffee and a cinnamon bagel.
"You can't make a whore of Lady Inspiration," Fred often said. "You can only leave the front door open and hope she stops by for a while. Never sweat art, Daz-baby. That's rule numero uno at the House of Fred."
Dazzle, who had never stared into the eyes of a looming contract deadline before, couldn't quite adopt Fred's free and easy manner. He knew it made him sound pro-establishment; he just couldn't help himself.
"I'm not saying we should make a whore of Lady Inspiration, Fred," Dazzle explained in his most laid-back, diplomatic manner. "I'm just saying it's been three weeks, and we don't have a title, or a two sentence plot summary. Just that rather vague opening scene in the garbage dump with two topless teenagers, which you say is modeled on Italian what?"
"Post-war existential nouvelle-vague," Fred said sharply, giving Dazzle a slow once over, like a school guard scanning for concealed weaponry. "Are you saying you've never heard of Antonioni, pooch? What sort of writing partner did they saddle me with, anyway?"
The funniest thing about movie people, Dazzle thought, was that no matter how laid back they pretended to be, their fuses were always incredibly short. It was as if Dazzle had to apologize constantly for all the things they thought he said.
"I'm not saying I don't like the garbage dump scene, Fred. In fact, I probably like the garbage dump scene a lot. I just don't think it's enough material to deliver to Sony after six weeks' work. It might need, you know. A little embellishment."...
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