Lou Milner - The Rewrite

The Rewrite

by Lou Milner

Luella Lacuna, a talented, willing, but undiscovered playwright of the screen variety, had no shortage of ideas. She had scripts coming out her wigglewag. They were everywhere: on her desk, at the dinner table, on the couch, on the floor, in her glove compartment, and in her noodle steaming to al dente. It occurred to her one day that no one would ever know what a great writer she was if she were to keep her talents to herself. And this is where her trouble began.

As instructed by countless how-to books, Luella began searching the Internet, libraries, industry directories, and fried-chicken take-out menus looking for the names and addresses of producers, directors, actors, agents, and assistants-to-somebody-who-might-know-somebody-who-could-get them-in-the-hands-of-somebody-else-who-might- know-somebody-in the-future-or-even-in-the-present. Luella methodically and compulsively developed her list. One day, when the list totaled 478 pages, Luella decided it was time to send some queries.

It had taken Luella so long to develop the list that by the time she mailed the queries, many of her prospective contacts had moved, died, or were selling oil paintings at garage sales in the suburbs and were so brain-damaged they could barely scrawl their signatures beneath a glob of color. But Luella persevered, as is apparently part of the formula for success, and was delighted when there arose from the pile of rejections three requests for scripts. Two so-called producers wanted to see Give it to me now, Baby, a grotesque black comedy about a mother who strangles her child while trying to pry her welfare cheque from the kid's evil clutches. And the third was interested in reading What Now Hairball?, a bittersweet comedic disaster story about a man named Jack who so loves his cat Ciro that he undergoes an animal transplant operation enabling him to more deftly follow in Ciro's paw prints. The operation is a success but Jack dies shortly after when struck by the rear wheels of a Nissan Pathfinder whose front tire treads are already gummy with the remains of the cherished cat.

Luella quickly sent off scripts to all three producer types and sat by the phone for weeks awaiting an option to purchase. No such offer came. Taking the bull by the receiver, she decided to do some keying herself. First, she spoke to Mr. Adam Abstruse.

"Yes?" said he.

"I was wondering if you'd had a chance to read my script yet," said Luella.

"Uh, sounds familiar. What was it about again?"

She told him… blaa, blaa, blaa … baby killer.

"Oh yes, yes, I remember now. Sounds good, but I don't think I've seen it. Could you possibly Fed-X the script again, and address it directly to my attention?" said Abstruse. "I'll tell my girl to expect it." Luella reverently said she would do as he asked, and she did - at untold courier expense, which she could little afford, but what price success?

Next, Luella called the second requester of Give it to me now, Baby. His name is not important, as he was so rude and obnoxious, she made a point of forgetting it immediately except to mention to everyone she met for the next seven weeks what a yutz Ben Stillborne of Stillborne Productions was. Anyway, he wasn't interested in optioning the script.

When she finally worked up the courage to phone Reel Animals Incorporated, Luella was overjoyed by the reception.

"Oh, I am so glad you called," said Meri Tail, director of development. "I read the script. Loved it."

"You did?" said Luella, her heart dangerously close to the 9-1-1 stage.

"Oh yeah. Loved it. Absolutely. Totally. Took it to our weekly story meeting, and my partners loved it, too. We thought it had warmth and edge, pathos and ethos, the right number of pages, and exactly two brads. I was going to call this week with an offer to option but I couldn't find your agent's name on the script," said Meri Tail, bating Luella.

"I don't have an agent," Luella stupidly said.

"Oh well, Fuck 'em, bunch of phoney crooks anyway. I'll just fax you the contract, you can sign it and send it back."

"Uh…I hope you don't think me ungrateful, but I was wondering, uh, well, um, what kind of an option?" asked Luella.

"What kind? Well, you know, the standard. Two years," said Meri Tail, pulling on an organic tobacco cigarette.

"And, um," um'd Luella, working up the courage to ask: "What's the fee for two years?"

"Fee? Hey, listen, we're taking a big risk on you - some unknown never-been-heard-of-before hack writer from the toolies. It's going to cost us plenty to raise the capital to get this thing off the ground, and we're going to need heavy cash to woo some big names and create the Buzz, cap B. Know what I mean? We simply need your permission to shop this thing. So sign the paper and flip it back."

"Hmm, well, I'm, maybe I should check with somebody first?" said Luella, trying not to make her statement sound like a question.

"Of course, sure, talk to whoever you like. But bear this in mind, Girlfriend: Dozens of animal transplant stories are scurrying around L-A right now, and the longer you wait, the less chance your little musical, What Now Hairball, has of being picked up. But it's your call," said Meri Tail, sounding trés impatient.

"Uh, okay, I'll sign the papers. And by the way, it's not a musical?" said Luella.

"It's not? Oh well. We can talk about that later," said Meri Tail, cheerfully, as she clicked off.

The contract arrived with all the standard clauses which can be adequately summarized thusly: $1 (one) (U.S.) buys Reel Animals Incorporated all, any, and exclusive rights throughout the known universe and any as yet undiscovered universe that may be discovered during or after the existence of Reel Animals Incorporated in all media, manner and means of communication incorporating any kind of performance, publicity, likeness, similarity, merchandise, rights, interests, licenses… and save harmless the Producer (Reel Animals) from all liabilities, causes of action, damages, costs and expenses, including actual and reasonable legal court costs and fees… In other words, the contract seemed to say, "If you want your dollar, Luella, you'd better sign here."

What was the capricious woman to do? She signed. (Luella later went to a lawyer who told her she was an idiot to sign a contract like that, and he charged $375 to read it and tell her she was an idiot. But that's another story.)

The contract went back to Meri Tail at Reel Animals, and the mighty American dollar arrived. Next came a bevy of phone calls wherein the writer received "notes" - those heaven-sent words dictated by the production gods.

As the "suggested" changes were always prefaced by the words "We love the script, absolutely," Luella obediently reworked the pages. Even though they loved Ciro, the cat character, whose name was a tiny bit too ethnic sounding, they thought he would work better as a dog. And if the dog were both blind and three-legged, they thought the audience would be more sympathetic when the inevitable day of reckoning came.

Luella lamely argued that she didn't think Jack was the kind of guy who would fall in love with a three-legged, blind dog named Pooch. Meri Tail agreed and said that was why they were suggesting that Jack not be a man but a small retarded girl who didn't know any better than to run out in the street and get run over. Luella failed to see the humor in this but Meri Tail said comedies didn't win Academy Awards so they were going to change it to a drama, and make it a true story.

Luella was dumbfounded. A drama? Meri Tail said, "You're a writer. Do some research - goes with the territory, n'est-ce pas?"

By now, Luella was losing interest in the project, but what could she do? She had signed the contract. Three months went by before Luella was able to track down a true story about a three-legged blonde girl, who'd been befriended by a National Enquirer reporter named Buster. Meri Tail said that was close, but not close enough. Eventually 213 re-writes went by. The two-year option expired, and the rights to the original story and any rewrites contracted by Reel Animals Incorporated reverted back to Reel Animals.

Years later, Luella was at the online digi-store looking for something to view when she came across the words "What Now Hairball? - a touching musical based on some actual events that occurred between a stylist and one of her customers." Luella scanned the credits, and there it was, in tiny, almost indecipherable letters squeezed between the names of the 4th AD's gofer double and the Xerox operator: Script Title by Luella Lacuna.

In retrospect, Luella suspected she had given in too easily, that she had possibly been pegged as a sucker and perhaps contributed to the script's lost integrity, but had she not gambled and taken a chance on Reel Animals Incorporated, she would never have experienced that feeling of elation that comes with seeing your name listed in the trail of credits at the end of the movie when everyone else has left the theatre - even though she didn't bother to see the movie and only experienced the elation on a computer monitor.

Postscript: Luella sent Mr. Adam Abstruse two more copies of Give it to Me Now, Baby, but it was apparently never read and her phone calls ceased to be answered. However, another production company, Someday Films, picked up the story, paid $175 for the rights into perpetuity, and is still, six years later, trying to raise enough cash to hire a proper writer for the rewrites.

Luella remains hopeful and continues to take tremendous risks by playing the animal diggers at 7-Eleven and talking to the characters at the coffee counter - one of whom is her current husband and inspiration for the true story of a burn victim, entitled It Happened One Day at the Coffee Machine in 7-Eleven.

Author's note (in case the point was unclear): You never know which vessel holds the love potion, so you had better be ready when it's time to pour. Still too esoteric? Wake up and smell the coffee. Love can burn any time, anywhere.

Also, of course, if you're going to follow your dream, forget about the money. Whoever said the money would follow was lying.