10.29.2006
A New Soap (part three)
So there we are - Jerry Bruckheimer and Malamar disguised as Imperial Stormtroopers, and yours truly wishing he was disguised as an Imperial Stormtrooper - in the midst of the nerds. The sci-fi convention. The place is literally dripping with them. Lurking from stand to stand with their petty concerns about TV shows and movies that no one else gives a-
Hey Jerry, hold up,
I say, seeing something.
I gotta go sign this petition to bring back Dark Skies! I gotta find out if John ever rescued his kid from the Ganglions.
Jerry spins and speaks angrily through his mask.
We don't have time! And don't use my name. He could have spies everywhere.
Jerry's right. I couldn't let my desire to see Majestic-12 overcome the alien threat get in the way of finding Natalie and saving Star Wars from Lucas. We head onwards, avoiding contact with people as much as possible (though I think I would've been doing that even if there wasn't anyone looking for us).
There!
Jerry says. A doorway leading backstage - to where Natalie was being kept - or so Dave's information had led us to believe. There's a bustling crowd between us and the door. We make our way into it.
All around us I can hear indecipherable nerdspeak. Then, a hush falls over the people to our left - it spreads quickly until everyone is silent. Jerry puts an arm across Malamar and myself: We have to blend in.
We stop and turn to see what the crowd is facing. A figure, moving among them. The people are in awe of him. I get a glimpse of the guy when two women standing in front of him faint. It's Lance Henriksen.
He smiles benevolently at the silent crowd. Then, a young nerd steps forward - dressed as Maud'Dib from Dune. Although, I gotta say, Klicker MacLachlan pulled it off better. He's wheezing heavily, each breath an effort. He reaches into his pocket and takes out an asthma inhaler emblazoned with the insignia of House Atreides. He fumbles with it nervously before bringing it to his mouth.
Wait.
It's Henriksen. He reaches forward and takes the inhaler from Maud'Dib, tossing it aside. The nerd is now gasping desperately for breath. Henriksen places a firm hand on the nerd's forehead and speaks three short words.
Breathe, my son.
The nerd's next breath comes easily. Completely unlabored. His eyes open wide as he takes several full deep breaths. Henriksen smiles on him.
Hear this.
The crowd draws closer to Henriksen. Eager to hear his next words.
Consider the farmer, who sows a great many seeds here and there in a fertile field. Not all of them will take root. So it was with the script writing for Alien 3. Many scripts were written, but only one could be filmed.
He smiles, nodding calmly. The nerds' jaws drop. A few of them turn among themselves and whisper quietly.
Of course, I'm pretty familiar with the Alien 3 situation. There were dozens of scripts in the running, including one by me and Chris Van Allsburg. You probably know Chris as the man behind Jumanji and Zathura. Alien 3 was the highlight of our brief writing partnership. The idea was this:
Far in the future two children, a brother and sister, are looking around the storage bins in their space-house. They come across an unfamiliar board game called Alien 3. They play. Unknown to the children, the large gooey mass in the center of the board is a facehugger egg. It hatches and the creature inside gets a hold of their cat. It looks like the kids are done for, but then one of them rolls two sixes, causing Ripley to be thawed out of cryosleep in time to save the day. It was a tight script but, as I'm sure you know, Vin Ward's was the one they finally shot. I'm sure it's nothing to do with the fact that the director (Dave Fincher) ran over Vin's kid in his Buick. I'm mean the kid wasn't hurt so bad, but it left Dave feeling pretty guilty. And I'm sure that anyone who says Vin's kid actually jumped onto the hood is just being cynical. Yeah.
I'm pulled out of the memory by Malamar, tugging at my purple-grey arm. He and Jerry are slipping through the crowd. A moment later we're speeding through a system of corridors, following the instructions Dave had given us, looking for the room where Natalie was cooped up. We finally reach it - but not without a problem. Just outside the door we see Rick McCallum and Robert Evans. We stop just out of sight. I get a glimpse of Evans, speaking animatedly, pointing here and there, but being careful not to spill his Cosmopolitan.
Now I'm not one to kiss and tell Ricky, but just in case it wasn't clear, that story was about Julia Roberts.
He takes a sip from his Cosmo. Ricky looks frustrated.
What the hell does this have to do with anything Bob? This is almost as stupid as your plan to capture Natalie.
Stupid? Maybe. Useful? Probably not. But does having Natalie locked up in there make more sense then her running her pretty little mouth off to people all over town? Ha! If Coppolla's a jerk-off then it does. Besides, I'm just getting through a divorce. It doesn't hurt to have a couple prospects lined up.
Ricky is clearly not happy with Evans answer. He mumbles something under his breath.
What was that Rick? You're gonna have to speak up.
I said... I don't know why George decided to hire you... You're a relic from a bygone age. You and the followers of your ancient religion don't hold the power you once did.
Woh! Don't go all Gibson on me Ricky. George hired me because I get things done. Case in point, when production of The Saint ground to a standstill, I came on set and took Kilmer aside.
"Kilmer," I said, "You're killing us here. Why wont you go on?". He looked at me with those steely eyes and says,
"Evans. I'm a big star. You understand? A big star. I'm six foot and half an inch. Who else we got here? Shue? She's only five two!"
I hadn't heard anything like it before. But Kilmer's an actor. And I know actors almost as well as I know women. You gotta keep em happy, and the only way to do that, is to tell em what they wanna hear.
"Kilmer. You know me. I'm Robert Evans. The Robert Evans. I've worked with them all - Hoffman, Nicholson, Pacino, Gere. And you know what? You make em all look like midgets!"
"Little people," he says.
"Sure, whatever. Now get out there and be the best goddamn six foot and half an inch Saint you can be."
And did he? You better believe he did. He was no Zane in The Phantom, but who is? Billy Zane that's who! Nobody does it better. Nobody.
This is the guy I was warned about? What was Jerry's problem? As I watched Evans standing there, knocking back his Cosmo, smiling to nobody in particular, I couldn't help but think: What a guy! Just then, Evans flicks his gaze in our direction. Jerry pulls me back from the corner.
What is it?
Rick asks.
Hmm... I sense something... A presence I haven't felt since... Since I visited the set of Days of Thunder back in 1990. What was Robert Evans doing on the set of some race car picture? Ha! Let's just say a certain young starlet wanted me to have a look under her hood.
I turn to see Jerry sweating beside me. Mal's there holding his breath. If Evans steps one pace back we'll be in his line of sight. Finally Evans speaks,
...Nicole Kidman.
That's great Bob. How about we get back to work, huh?
Sure thing Ricky. You head back to George. I've got... something to take care of.
They both leave. When we hear their footsteps die away, I speak to Jerry and Mal.
Keep a lookout. I'll go get Natalie.
I roll across the hall, dash forward stealthily, and open the door to Nat's room. There she is. Just lying there on a couch. I'm expecting her to leap up and thank me, but she just stares. Finally,
Aren't you a little short to be a... What the hell are you?
What? Oh... the costume. I'm a Saw Boss from Jason's Wheeled Warriors.
Nat doesn't get it. I lean forward and struggle with my giant purple head. It comes of with a loud pop!
Matt!
That's right babe. I came here with Mal and Jerry to save you.
I lead her back out into the corridor to find a troop of security guards going to town on Mal and Jerry.
Dammit Mal! Stop holding back! No one's gonna deport you for using your skills at a time like this!
He's still refusing to break the headlock and flip over the other guards. We really need to work on his reserve. Alerted by my encouragement the security men charge towards Nat and me.
This is some rescue.
Nat says, before grabbing my Saw Boss head and throwing it at the approaching guards. They trip and fall in a heap. In the confusion Jerry and Mal struggle free. In the next moment all four of us are charging down the corridor. We find a stairwell and head down, moving fast.
We crash through the door at the bottom, emerging in the parking lot where we left the Die Hard Ambulance. But we're not alone. Standing there, right between us and the DHA, working on a fresh Cosmo, is Robert Evans.
I knew you'd come Bruckheimer. It was only a matter of time. The completeness of the circle? Not in doubt. The end of the road? For sure. That little tree of yours has been struck by lightning for the last time.
He steps forward slowly. Jerry speaks to us without turning from Evans' stare.
Get to the car. I'll hold him up.
No way Jer, we do this togeth-
Dammit Matt! Do as I say!
He was right. We had to make it out. I lead Nat and Mal in a wide circle, paying close attention to the two great producers striding towards one another. Evans continues to taunt Jerry.
You think you got a chance, old man?
Old man? I'm fifteen years younger than you! You've had three strokes!
That's right! When we first met, I was the master. Now? I'm still the master.
Only a master of How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, Bob.
Yeah? Well what've you been doing with yourself Jerry? CSI? Pirates of the Caribbean? Hey, if I wanted to see Depp staggering around like some doped up lady boy I would've just called into the Viper Room back in '92.
I try to watch but Mal and Nat are pulling me back towards the DHA. Evans starts up again,
Well, Bruckheimer... is there anything else you want to say before I- Huah!!
Catching him off guard, Evans throws his Cosmo forward splashing it all over Jerry's face. Jerry falls to his knees.
AAAH!! Dammit Evans, what the hell's in that drink!?
Ha! A good Cosmo's like a good woman Jerry. Mix her up just enough and she stays sweet, but let your guard down, and she'll burn out your eyes.
He steps forward while Jerry, blinking unnaturally, struggles to get up.
You can't win Evans. If you strike me down, I shall become more-
Before Jerry can finish the sentence Evans clocks him across the face, smashing his empty cocktail glass against the head that gave birth to National Treasure and Kangaroo Jack. Jerry falls to the floor in a heap.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
I cry out. I make an effort to run back, but Mal overpowers me and before I know what's what, the three of us are in the DHA revving up the engine. I look back in time to see an assistant rushing to Evans' side and supplying him with another Cosmo. He looks at me, makes eye contact, and raises his glass in mock toast. All I can do is promise myself that some day I'll cut Evans down to size. I gun the motor and we blast out of the lot, escaping into the anonymity of the strip.
After seeing Jerry being taken down I'm in no mood to talk. I guess Mal and Nat sense this, so they move into the back, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I drive for an hour - a little way out into the desert - and pull over.
I step out and look up at the night sky - at the stark contrast between the dull mustiness of the star field above and the brilliant elegance of the Luxor beam behind us. Even in this darkest of hours I can appreciate the scene: Truly, Nature has been surpassed by Vegas. Mal and Nat join me outside.
I'm sorry about Jerry Matt. It must've been hard for you to see-
I don't wanna talk about it Nat.
She's silent for a moment, then speaks again.
Well, thank you Matt. For saving me. Malamar told me everything you went through to make it here.
I nod... then her words hit me.
Malamar told you?
Yeah.
She turns to Mal and he nods agreement. I figure Nat must be some kind of linguistic genius - when I first met Mal he didn't speak a word of English. I didn't even bother trying to find a translator who could handle such and obscure language as the one spoken by Mal and his tribe. Over time we hammered out a common base to communicate over. Malamar's learned a lot from me.
I'm impressed you can communicate with Malamar so easily.
Well, I'm not fluent but I took some Italian in school.
I blink at Natalie's sudden change of topic.
...So?
...So I can talk to Malamar.
I laugh,
You were talking to Mal in Italian? Man, that must've been confusing for him.
I pat Mal on the back, who joins me in my laughter - a brief reprieve from my thoughts of Jerry's downfall. Nat doesn't see the funny side of her mistake.
Matt... Malamar is Italian.
Oh come on Nat, you think I'm some kind of fool? Mal had never even seen a European until the missionaries came to his tribe a couple years back.
I turn to Mal and nod. He nods and turns to Nat... She's staring at the both of us like she can't speak.
Matt. Where are you getting this stuff!? He just told me half an hour ago that he's from Naples.
Malamar interrupts with a frankly bizarre statement of the obvious. Clearly he wasn't following the conversation and just wanted to join in.
Yeah Mal, I can see her too, but it's Na-ta-lie not Na-pa-lie.
He looks puzzled at me.
Na-ta-lie.
I repeat. He nods slowly.
Oh my God.
Natalie just stares wide-eyed at me. She's a stubborn girl. Too proud to admit her mistake. I decide to leave her be and get back to business.
Listen Natalie. What about Star Wars? What can we do to stop Lucas?
She shakes her head a little, trying to get past our previous conversation.
I don't know Matt. George is planning to show a sneak preview of the series at the convention. He doesn't have anything filmed yet. It's just animatics with some voice-overs... but once the crowd sees it... It could mean the end of Star Wars. It's hopeless... Even if we could get back inside how would we stop George from showing the preview?
I think for a moment. Then it hits me.
Oh, there'll be a preview alright. But not George's.
What?
We'll film our own preview. I've got a camcorder in the DHA. You can play Padmé, Malamar can be some alien or something. I'll write, direct and star as... someone. It doesn't have to be perfect. All we need to do is show George what a great show he could make if he developed it more carefully.
Are you kidding me? George will be showing the preview in..
She looks at her watch,
..Less than two hours. We're already an hour out of town. Do you really think you can write and film a decent Star Wars short in forty minutes? With no sets... no costumes... It's impossible Matt, even for you.
It's not impossible. I used to make whole movies that way with my 16mm back home. Enough slow motion and you can even get a full length picture from twenty minutes of footage. But we've gotta get to work...
Nat's pessimistic view wasn't completely unwarranted. It was a tough task. It only took me a couple seconds to come up with the premise for the short, but I needed at least one more actor. Luckily we'd passed a gas station on the way through the desert. The attendant - a Mexican guy in his seventies by the name of Pepe - agreed to play Bail Organa for $200 - A helluva lot cheaper than getting Jimmy Smits to reprise the role - who, by an unimaginable coincidence, was also at the gas station filling up his Porsche. To be honest, I think Jimmy overplayed the role in Episode III. Pepe's understated charm was just what we needed.
Jimmy agreed to hold down the fort while Pepe and the rest of us got to work. We filmed a couple Tatooine scenes in the desert before heading back to Vegas. The rest, we filmed in the DHA. Mal would drive whenever he wasn't onscreen, and Pepe took over when Mal's alien bounty hunter was called for. In the one scene that had us all, we just left a cinder block (kept in the back for just such an occasion) on the accelerator. It all went flawlessly.
I'm impressed we got it done Matt,
Natalie says, as we drive down the strip.
But I'm not sure your plan will work.
Are you kidding me Nat? The nerds in there will lap this up. George'll realise he needs to rework the series, and we'll be set.
But... what if...
She seems reluctant to finish.
What if they don't like it?
I'm puzzled.
What do you mean?
Well, I mean... I'm not saying it's not good. It is. I really like it, especially the song you wrote... but maybe... maybe we should just let George show his version.
What!? But if the audience see something that bad it could kill Star Wars! You said it yourself.
Yeah... but... maybe it's not so bad as I thought. I mean... it could be worse.
This was a complete U-turn by Natalie. I had no idea what was bringing it on. I said so.
I know there were problems with the new Star Wars Matt, I do... but maybe the people who say they could do a better job... really couldn't. Maybe they'd just make complete garbage.
She looks up quickly, like she's afraid she's offended me or something... She goes on,
I mean, George is far from perfect. He gets too caught up in things that he shouldn't - special effects, merchandising, Ewoks... But when he does something right, it's really right. He's made some of the most beloved films ever. He's entertained generations of movie-goers with his work. Who are we to tell him he should stop?... What if someone who didn't like Return of the Jedi convinced George to stop working? We'd never have had Indiana Jones! What if the prequels had fallen to someone other than George? We could've ended up with Battlefield Earth, Starship Troopers 2 and Robocop 3... Matt. Maybe we should just leave him be.
I have to stop and think. First of all, I'm pretty surprised that Nat's seen Hero of the Federation - I mean, it's gotta be one of the most underappreciated video releases of 2004. As for the rest, she was right about George. He's hit the mark before and maybe could again - but did we dare risk it? And if we didn't, what did Jerry take that Cosmo in the face for?
I picked up the scraps of paper I'd scribbled my script on. I thought over Natalie's powerful words while reading a few lines...
BAIL ORGANA Padmé!? How can this be? You're... you're dead!
PADME I was dead baby, but the midichlorians brought me back... and this time, that podracing championship is mine!
I quietly hummed the tune of Kenny Loggins' Danger Zone - the song which Malamar, Pepe and I had sung (with ingenious new Star Wars lyrics) over Padmé's training montage. Sure, this was an explosive concept I'd put together... but Star Wars is Lucas' baby. How would I feel if someone decided to write a sequel to No Rule, Israeli Ninja or Body Poppers from Space without telling me? Well... BPfS was really a piece of it's time, I don't think anyone could make a sequel work. But it's the principle. If there's more Star Wars to come, Lucas should be at the driving wheel.
You're right Natalie. It's not our place to interfere.
She breathes a sigh of relief.
I'm glad you agree Matt... but just to be sure, I think maybe we should destroy that tape.
Woh Nat! Let's not go nuts. We change the names of the characters in this and we've got something to pitch to the studios.
I dunno Matt... I'm not really looking to do more sci-fi.
It doesn't have to be sci-fi. We can cut the podracing. You could be a zombie ex-queen who drives Indy Car.
I don't think so Matt.
Formula One?
No.
Nascar?
No Matt.
She wasn't budging...
Ok... but it'd be a shame to see all this work go to waste. Hey! Do you think Keira Knightley would do it? I can just tell everyone it's her on the tape.
That sounds like a great idea Matt.
She smiles warmly. I turn to Pepe, still at the wheel.
Let's go home Pepe... Let's go home.Pepe spits a wad of tobacco out the window before replying:
If you want me to drive you back to LA Mr. Evans, it'll cost you more than $200.
Needless to say we dropped Pepe off at his gas station. I mean, he could handle the Die Hard Ambulance like a natural - knew just how to pull the wheel back towards himself before trying to rotate it - but his place is in that gas station in the Nevada desert. Just like Lucas' is in a giant empty warehouse with blue floors and walls, telling a group of confused actors which direction to look to watch the sunset.