Disquiet, Please!
Page 16
HOST (cont.): Query as to audience’s familiarity with behavior of recently disgraced cultural icon. Incredulity and displeasure at said behavior. Command for icon to discontinue behavior. Description of outlandish new consumer product created as a result of icon’s behavior.
Pause for laughter.
HOST (cont.): Praise audience for sense of humor. Query as to their readiness for program’s continuation. Introduction of two participants who will begin process of bestowing honors: an unattractive, humorous male renowned for his portrayal of other unattractive, humorous males, and a female of great physical beauty who has achieved fame for her skill in walking while wearing expensive clothing.
Add music and applause as host leaves stage. Bring humorous man and beautiful woman to podium.
MAN (to woman): Compliment concerning sexual attractiveness.
WOMAN (stilted, as though reading): Acceptance and return of compliment.
MAN: Lurid sexual innuendo. Winking proposition with broad physical gesturing.
WOMAN (stilted, as though reading): Unusually intelligent rebuke of said proposition.
MAN: Surprise at intelligence of rebuke. Feigned lack of disappointment at rebuke. Conceited statement of missed sexual opportunity for the woman, again with broad physical gesturing.
Pause for laughter among audience and presenters.
WOMAN: Query as to the identity of the author of previously read statements and indictment of their ability. List of possible honorees.
Stand man and woman aside. Show each possible honoree performing the task for which each is to be honored. Show all present possible honorees in the audience waiting for the result of their effort.
MAN (opening a sealed correspondence): Announcement of honoree.
Great rejoicing among the believers of the verdict. Reflection and bitter questioning among the others. Bring the honored one to the stage. A female of surgically enhanced sexual attractiveness hands a totem of achievement to the honoree, who grasps it with great reverence. Audience applause.
HONOREE: Breathless surprise. Self-effacing remark concerning previous outcomes of similar events. Feigned lack of preparation. Expression of gratitude for inventors of the totem as well as constituents of totem. Expression of gratitude for believers in verdict. Expression of gratitude for members of blood lineage and Supreme Exalted Being. Expression of gratitude for creators of shown task. Expression of regret concerning those who have not received expressions of gratitude. Statement of non-harmful intent for those who have not received gratitude. Plea for group subjected to persecution to be no longer subject to said persecution.
Swell music.
HONOREE (cont.): Regret at musical interruption and self-criticism at lack of organizational and communication skills. Sudden remembrance of those still in need of expressions of gratitude.
Dim music slightly.
HONOREE (cont.): Fear of further recrimination if closing remarks are not forthcoming. Hurried expression of love for those present, viewing at home, or living.
Swell music. Audience applause. Honoree is escorted away by presenters while displaying totem to the audience. Host appears.
HOST: Perceptive remark concerning unexpected length and emotional tenor of honoree’s presentation. Example of previous presentation famous for such characteristics.
Pause for laughter.
HOST (cont.): Introduction of corpulent woman, well known for recognizing and satirizing her physical condition, and an adolescent known for imitating another adolescent known for contracting a fatal illness.
Repeat as necessary.
998
ANDY BOROWITZ
THEATRE-LOBBY NOTICES
WARNING: In Act II, there is gunfire, an explosion, and a lengthy monologue by a character named Mr. God.
WARNING: Owing to a typographical error, the Times review of this play omitted the word “horrible.”
WARNING: When the curtain rises, you may be startled by the sight of a former movie star’s ravaged face.
WARNING: In Act III, there is full frontal nudity, but not involving the actor you would like to see naked.
WARNING: During this afternoon’s performance, there will be a chatty women’s group from Great Neck seated directly behind you.
WARNING: People who do not find plays about incurable bone diseases entertaining should probably go home right now.
WARNING: The lead actor in tonight’s play is a veteran of the Royal Shakespeare Company who always showers the first five rows with spittle.
WARNING: In interviews, the composer of tonight’s long-delayed musical has referred to it as both “a pet project” and “a labor of love.”
WARNING: Any audience members you may hear laughing this evening have been paid handsomely to do so.
WARNING: Tonight’s play is being produced despite explicit instructions in the dead playwright’s will to “burn all remaining copies to a crisp.”
WARNING: The role usually played by Sir Ian McKellen will be performed tonight by the actor who played Isaac on The Love Boat.
WARNING: This play has a title that is very similar to that of another play currently running on Broadway, which is the one you meant to buy tickets for.
WARNING: In order to enjoy this play, it is necessary to have some knowledge of Basque dialects.
WARNING: Tom Stoppard found the play you are about to see “confusing.”
WARNING: Tonight’s play is performed without an intermission and you will be stuck here forever.
PATRICIA MARX
REVIEW
—Is everyone here?
—What about Mrs. Kimball?
—She’s still in the hospital.
—I thought they pulled the plug.
—She’s having a chin implant!
—Let’s begin, then. Anyone?
—Well, basically I liked it, but it definitely dragged.
—What doesn’t? Everything is twenty minutes too long.
—He’s right. Even when I really like a movie, I think, This is great! When will it be over?
—The only reason to do anything is to talk about it afterward.
—Isn’t that why we’re here?
—People, can we return to the comment that everything is too long?
—Sex isn’t too long.
—Yeah? You should meet my husband.
—I felt the end was uninspired. I mean, death is a cliché.
—The whole thing didn’t make sense. For instance, what was with the concept of weather? Room temperature wasn’t good enough? It was always too cold or damp or—
—Are we still talking about sex with her husband?
—You know what I did like? The food. Aside from that silly drizzle thing restaurants started to put on dessert plates in the, what, seventies? Still, looking back, I had a lot of good stuff to eat.
—Oh, God, remember the seventies? Why did they have to end? That was such a great decade!
—Except for the part that Rod McKuen wrecked.
—See, it’s not that it was too long; it’s that it was too long in the wrong places. They should have let you freeze some of your time and tack it onto the end—the way the Wyndale Health & Racquet Club lets you freeze your membership for up to three months.
—Another perk for the rich! Everything was always geared to them.
—Not nature. What about nature?
—I felt there could have been more colors. Not hues—primary colors. They could have come up with a fourth one, something sort of … bright drab.
—Oh, they were too busy developing the quote-unquote perfect sunset.
—You’ve got to admit, though, the idea of putting Chicago on a lake was excellent. They should have done more of that.
—You know what I could have come up with? The wheel.
—Sure, anyone could’ve. Once you have round, which they did, you’re pretty much there.
—But in a million years you’d never think of luggage on wheels.
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��I enjoyed errands; did anyone else? And I got most of them done.
—Could we discuss the guests? How did so many jerks get invited?
—I know. There were, like, billions of people. I would have preferred a smaller guest list.
—Who says you would have made the cut?
—I say if they’re going to have that many people they should make them wear nametags.
—I just wish that it had been a true meritocracy.
—No, no, absolutely no! I wish they’d based everything on alphabetical order, and I’m not just saying that because—well, yeah, I am.
—I hate to be catty, but did anyone ever meet that guy? He was from Philadelphia?
—Did he have a mustache?
—You’re thinking of someone else. This guy was born in the early fifties. He was married to … oh, you know, what’s her name, whose family was in that business?
—I met him. He bugged me.
—I didn’t like his taste in shoes.
—I always wondered if he was latently gay.
—Or latently Jewish.
—Or dormantly Mormon. I love saying that.
—Excuse me. I’m not comfortable talking about people who aren’t, uh, with us yet.
—Jeez, I can’t think of any category of people better to talk about.
—Yes, at last we can speak ill of the living.
—Hello. Is this Banquet Room B?
—It is. And you are …?
—Mrs. Kimball. Surgical-gauze accident.
—Eeew!
—Pull up a chair, Mrs. Kimball.
—I have some questions. I wrote them down. Is there a God? Are human beings born good, bad, or neither? Does a low-carb diet really work? How did Mia Farrow get so many good husbands? Are psychiatrists crazier than non-psychiatrists, or is it just ironic that they are equally crazy? Was it my mother’s or my father’s fault that I developed bursitis? What really happened that night with Larry?
—I’m sorry, Mrs. Kimball, we’re not about Truth with a big T. All right, now, who thinks that Shelly Oughten was cheating on Eric in the early nineties? You in the striped shirt.
2003
STEVE MARTIN
STUDIO SCRIPT NOTES ON THE PASSION
DEAR Mel,
We love, love the script! The ending works great. You’ll be getting a call from us to start negotiations for the book rights.
—Love the Jesus character. So likable. He can’t seem to catch a break! We identify with him because of it. One thing: I think we need to clearly state “the rules.” Why doesn’t he use his superpowers to save himself? Our creative people suggest that you could simply cut away to two spectators:
SPECTATOR ONE
Why doesn’t he use his superpowers to save himself?
SPECTATOR TWO
He can only use his powers to help others, never himself.
—Does it matter which garden? Gethsemane is hard to say, and Eden is a much more recognizable garden. Just thinking out loud.
—Our creative people suggest a clock visual fading in and out in certain scenes, like the Last Supper bit: “Thursday, 7:43 P.M.,” or “Good Friday, 5:14 P.M.”
—Love the repetition of “Is it I?” Could be very funny. On the eighth inquiry, could Jesus just give a little look of exasperation into the camera? Breaks frame, but could be a riot.
—Also, could he change water into wine in Last Supper scene? Would be a great moment, and it’s legit. History compression is a movie tradition and could really brighten up the scene. Great trailer moment, too.
—Love the flaying.
—Could the rabbis be Hispanic? There’s lots of hot Latino actors now, could give us a little zing at the box office. Research says there’s some historical justification for it.
—Possible title change: Lethal Passion. Kinda works. The more I say it out loud, the more I like it.
—Is there someplace where Jesus could be using an iBook? You know, now that I say it, it sounds ridiculous. Strike that. But think about it. Maybe we start a shot in Heaven with Jesus thoughtfully closing the top?
—Love the idea of Monica Bellucci as Mary Magdalene (yow!). Our creative people suggest a name change to Heather. Could skew our audience a little younger.
—Love Judas. Such a great villain. Our creative people suggest that he’s a little complicated. Couldn’t he be one thing? Just bad? Gives the movie much more of a motor. Also, thirty pieces of silver is not going to get anyone excited. I think it’d be very simple to make him a “new millionaire.” Bring in the cash on a tray. Great dilemma that the audience can identify with.
—Minor spelling error: On this page, in the description of the bystanders, there should be a space between the words “Jew” and “boy.”
—Merchandising issue: It seems the Cross image has been done to death and is public domain—we can’t own it. Could the Crucifixion scene involve something else? A Toyota would be wrong, but maybe there’s a shape we can copyright, like a wagon wheel?
—I’m assuming “The dialogue is in Aramaic” is a typo for “American.” If not, call me on my cell, or I’m at home all weekend.
By the way, I’m sending a group of staffers on a cruise to the North Pole, coincidentally around the time of your picture’s release. Would love to invite your dad!
See you at the movies!
Yours,
Stan
2004
LARRY DOYLE
WHY WE STRIKE
Many in showbiz don’t have a clear understanding of the writers’ demands or the reasoning behind these demands. —Variety
OUR BELIEFS:
We are artists. We may not dress all cool like artists, or get chicks like artists, and none of us are starving, quite obviously, but Hollywood screenwriters are certainly artists, perhaps even artistes, and we suffer just the same. Not in a showy, oh-I-live-in-a-tenement-and-turn-tricks-to-buy-paint-and-have-this-special-tuberculosis-only-artists-get kind of way. We suffer as we slave over our screenplays alone, staring into blank laptops, often blinded by pool glare. And we smoke real cigarettes.
We are not in this for the money. Management would have you believe that we all make $200,000 a year. That’s funny. We wouldn’t even eat something that cost $200,000, unless it was actually $200,000, drizzled with truffle oil, the way Silvio makes it. Yum. The only reason we require payment at all is so we can support those little people we keep telling you about—the assistants, amanuenses, baristas, Rolfers, scarf carriers, and erotic muses we need to create our art. Oh, and our babies. And various charities.
We are not cogs in some machine. While many of today’s blockbusters are written by that machine, we are not cogs in it, despite having originally written all the dialogue and characters and plot that this machine endlessly recombines and maximizes. When a bitter cop with a shattered family and a monkey on his back flees a narco-terrorist’s fireball while cracking that he’s getting too old for this, some writer wrote some parts of that, some time back.
Nor are we trained chimps. The last decent show written by chimps was Jojo’s Poop Party, which was largely improvised.
OUR DEMANDS:
An end to the lying. Just kidding. We recognize that without lying, Management would be unable to exhale and would thus perish. However, we are asking for a manifold increase in White Lies about how we are brilliant geniuses and the like, and a corresponding decrease in Brown Lies, about what might happen in the future.
A fair share of newfangled revenue. Management is currently offering us adjusted bubkes of what they are making off Internet sell-through, streaming, ringtones, Webisodes, cellisodes, iPodisodes, celebrity-narrated colonoscosodes, or the psychotic episodes they’ve been beaming into your brain, brought to you by Clozaril™. All we are asking is 2.5 percent of revenue, based on 40 percent of gross receipts, divided by zero, in bullion. We believe that this is a fair formula, yet one complicated enough for Management to continue to find ways to exercise their cheating rights.
Meaningful consultation. While we acknowledge Management’s right to rape our material, pervert its meaning, and cravenly dilute it for commercial use, we demand to participate in this process. We would like to be on set, or contacted by iPhone if the director doesn’t want us there, and simply be asked, “Is this okay?” We stipulate that our opinion, coming, as it does, from the creator of the material being dramatized, is meaningless, and that Management can walk away or hang up before we even answer the question, but it would be nice, for once, to be asked.
A renunciation of droit du seigneur. As it stands, studio executives, from chairman down to associate producer, have the right to deflower us on our wedding night, or any other night or time of day of their choosing. We believe that this change can be written into our contracts without affecting a similar agreement they have with the Screen Actors Guild.
2007
ARTISTS AND AUTHORS
WOLCOTT GIBBS
THEORY AND PRACTICE OF EDITING NEW YORKER ARTICLES
An internal editorial memorandum from the 1930s, first reproduced in James Thurber’s memoir The Years with Ross.
THE average contributor to this magazine is semi-literate; that is, he is ornate to no purpose, full of senseless and elegant variations, and can be relied on to use three sentences where a word would do. It is impossible to lay down any exact and complete formula for bringing order out of this underbrush, but there are a few general rules.
1. Writers always use too damn many adverbs. On one page, recently, I found eleven modifying the verb “said”: “He said morosely, violently, eloquently,” and so on. Editorial theory should probably be that a writer who can’t make his context indicate the way his character is talking ought to be in another line of work. Anyway, it is impossible for a character to go through all these emotional states one after the other. Lon Chaney might be able to do it, but he is dead.