Hollywood Hack Job

by Nathan Allen

  Fr. Gerdtz opened the script at random pages and ran his eyes across the text. It didn’t take long to get the gist of the plot. It centered on a lifelong bachelor, a lothario who wasn’t ready to settle down and behave like an adult yet, and how his whole world is turned upside down when he falls for a bridesmaid while best man at a wedding. Throughout the course of the film he is forced to confront his own issues regarding commitment and monogamy, as well as being hassled by an overbearing mother and stalked by a crazy ex-girlfriend.

  It was easy to see why every other church in the area had refused to allow this to be filmed on their premises. Blasphemy and vulgarity filled almost every page. In one scene, the lead character has a deviant sex act performed on him by a female wedding guest inside the confessional while a clearly aroused priest listens in. Three pages later, a drunken old man stumbles naked through the church and relieves himself in the holy water. And the less said about where the bride and groom’s wedding rings end up after a raucous bachelor party, the better.

  Fr. Gerdtz did his best to hide his distaste. He liked to think of himself as a fairly open-minded person; he enjoyed the odd risqué joke or dirty limerick as much as anyone. But this was a piece of writing so utterly loathsome and completely devoid of wit. If this was what masqueraded as popular entertainment in this day and age, the modern world was in a lot more trouble than he initially feared.

  “I’ll be completely honest and upfront with you,” Madeleine said. “You’re kind of my last hope. Every other church I’ve approached has rejected us outright due to the film’s content. I respect that, and I imagine much of what is depicted here may not be in accordance with your teachings and values. But as I said, we are prepared to make a very generous offer in exchange for just a few days of your time. That’s money that could do a lot of good for the many wonderful programs you run here.”

  She lit a second cigarette with the lipstick-stained butt of her first. Fr. Gerdtz wondered how a heavy smoker could maintain such gleaming white teeth.

  “I’m curious,” he said, trying not to choke on the growing fog of menthol and tar filling the air around him. “Will any celebrities be appearing in this film?”

  “Oh yes, we have several big stars attached to this project. The two leads will be played by James Franco and Bella Thorne. Seth Rogen has been cast as the groom.”

  He flicked back a few pages. In the short time he’d had to evaluate the script, the character of the groom appeared to do little else but smoke marijuana and make repeated references to his own genitals and bodily fluids.

  “Courtney Cox and Billy Bob Thornton are also playing the groom’s parents,” Madeleine said.

  A brief smile appeared on Fr. Gerdtz’s face. This woman, turning up out of the blue due to a misunderstanding, promising to deliver a number of celebrities right to his door? This was no coincidence. It could only be a sign.

  “I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,” he said.

  “I have a meager seven million followers, Bevan!” James Franco said into his phone, his voice rising so he could be heard over the groan of the Jacuzzi pump. “Seven million! That’s nowhere near enough for an artist of my caliber!”

  “Seven million is huge, James,” his agent assured him. “Do you know how many people that is? I mean, have you really thought about it? Your fans could fill the LA Coliseum seventy times over! That’s the population of Paris! You basically have an entire European capital following you.”

  “You know what else I have? I have five million followers less than twelve million, which is how many Chris Evans happens to have. And who do you think was cast as the lead in the new David O. Russell film? Was it me, or was it Captain Underpants?”

  “Oh, James. You don’t honestly think Instagram numbers had anything to do with being passed over for the role, do you?”

  “No, I think it was his superior acting skills that landed him the part.”

  “Well ... he does have a vaguely likeable screen presence.”

  “That was sarcasm, Bevan. The guy couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag. Have you seen any of those dumb Marvel movies he’s in? That’s some of the worst acting I’ve ever seen, and I watch a lot of porn.”

  A heavy thumping against the door rattled the trailer. “They’re ready for you now, Mr. Franco,” a voice called out.

  “I’ll be there in a minute!” James snapped.

  “I really think you’re overreacting,” Bevan said. “David’s a clever guy. He wouldn’t cast anyone unless he really, truly believed they were right for the role.”

  “That may have been the case ten years ago, but times have changed. Social media presence is all anyone cares about these days. The fact that I’m an Oscar nominee, a published author, a philanthropist and a licensed pilot – that all means nothing. The only thing that matters is how many people want to gaze at photos of me when I’m working out and eating my breakfast.”

  He reached for the Jacuzzi’s control panel and switched off the bubbles.

  “Even if that was true, I’m not sure there’s anything we can do about it,” Bevan said.

  “Of course you can do something about it! You can start by buying me another ten million followers!”

  The line went quiet. “You want me to purchase followers for you?”

  “Don’t act so shocked, Bevan. Everyone does it. Literally everyone. You don’t really believe sixty million people want to see Katy Perry goofing around backstage or having her hair and makeup done, do you? They’re mostly fake accounts. It’s Hollywood’s dirty little secret, like hair transplants and casting couches. The thing everyone does but no one will ever admit to.”

  “I, uh, I’ll see what I can do,” Bevan said, just before the call ended.

  James tossed his phone aside. He leaned back in the warm water and looked up at his reflection in the ceiling mirror. Not for the first time, he toyed with the idea of parting ways with Bevan. He may have been his agent for the past fifteen years, but times were changing and Bevan wasn’t keeping up. James was growing tired of having to constantly spell out how he should be doing his job.

  He held his breath, then slid beneath the water until he was fully submerged.

  Today had been an endless cortège of disasters. It all started when he arrived on set to discover the “gym” he had requested for his trailer was nothing more that an exercise bike and some free weights. The Jacuzzi was coated in grime, and when switched on was louder than a lawnmower. The refrigerator was stocked with Diet Coke when he specifically asked for Coke Zero.

  But that was nothing compared with the fiasco of having to cancel his weekend in Vegas at the last minute in order to fulfill his promotional duties at Comic-Con for Hemisphere, his upcoming sci-fi film. He honestly could not think of a more depressing way of spending his precious downtime. He hated Comic-Con. Hated it. Every actor did. To them, Comic-Con was purgatory. They would rather have their faces chewed off by rabid AIDS-monkeys than pander to a screaming crowd of excitable film nerds, the very people they had spent a lifetime making fun of. It reminded him of when he was a kid and his parents would force him to attend the birthday party of the most unpopular kid in school. He had to smile and act nice and make it look like he was having a good time, pretending that he hadn’t mocked the fat loser behind his back every other day of the year.

  He reluctantly hauled himself out of the Jacuzzi and reached for a towel.

  The icing on today’s cake came when he learned he had been overlooked for a highly-coveted role in the new David O. Russell film, the one he was certain would deliver his long-overdue Oscar, in favor of a bland waxwork model who was yet to enjoy a hit movie that didn’t involve pulling on a ridiculous spandex outfit and surrounding himself with a more talented and popular cast. Despite being a veritable black hole of charisma, Hollywood still appeared to be doing everything in its power to make Chris Evans happen.

  He was midway through drying himself off when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tr
ailer’s 8x3 ft. wall mirror and decided this was a moment that deserved to be shared with the world. He snapped a quick twenty or thirty shots, his wet hair slicked back and the towel hanging loose around his waist, then uploaded the best one to Instagram.

  His Dolce & Gabbana embellished ripped jeans were barely on when the comments started rolling in. Even though they were pretty much the same as every other photograph he had ever posted – “OMG James u r so hott!!”, “I luv your new mustache!”, the weirdos who called him “daddy”, the usual discussion surrounding his nipples – it still delivered the validation and sense of self-worth every performer desires. James smiled. This was the perfect relationship to have with his fans. He gave them exactly what they wanted, but at a comfortable distance. He didn’t have to meet any of them face to face and put up with their inane questions or halitosis or unsolicited critical analysis of his work. Of course, if he did want to meet any of his fans face to face, that could easily be arranged too.

  There was a further pounding at his trailer door. He threw on a tight white v-neck tee, then flung the door open.

  “I said I was coming–”

  Expecting an acne-faced PA minion, he instead found himself looking at a wrinkled old man. He wore wire framed glasses and dressed entirely in black, with wavy white hair that was unusually full for a man of his age. James thought if he grew it out a little it would look like one of those wigs that judges wore in court.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Are you James Franco?” the stranger said. He had the accent of an eighties action villain.

  James let out a long sigh. “Have you read your contract?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Page three, about two thirds of the way down,” he recited in a bored voice. “Background artists are forbidden from approaching the talent and face instant dismissal if they in any way attempt to communicate with an actor.” He offered a shrug in lieu of an actual apology. “I don’t make the rules, man. I’m sure your daughter, or granddaughter, is a huge fan. But if I sign stuff for you I have to sign for everybody.”

  This wasn’t the first time James had been forced to reprimand an extra for forgetting their place in the film set caste system. The situation had been getting progressively worse for some time. He believed this was due to many contracts removing the “no eye contact” rule that was once standard. They took it out because it made actors look like prima donnas, but the rule existed for a reason – to keep the extras in line. As soon as it was omitted they began to see themselves as equals. They were given an inch and they took a mile.

  James made a mental note to have the rule reinstated for any future films he was a part of.

  “I’m a nice guy, so I’ll let it slide this one time,” he continued. “But if you speak to me again, or to any of the other real actors, I’ll have no choice but to have you fired.”

  The old man’s forehead creased. “Who do you think I am?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” James gestured to the man’s cassock and detachable white collar. “You’re the dude playing the dirty old priest. Aren’t you?”

  The old man shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

  “Well, you certainly look the part,” James smirked. He pushed past the stranger and made his way towards the set.

  “You know, you really are an arschloch,” the man said as James left.

  “So shoot me,” came the dismissive reply.

  James took out his phone as he walked. He fired off a quick tweet: Can’t wait for #ComicCon this Sat 2 talk about my new film #Hemisphere. See u all at Hall H!

  Seconds after this was posted, a deafening blast rocked the film set.

  Crew members rushed to the scene to find James Franco lying motionless on the gravel. He was face down, with blood gushing from the grapefruit-sized hole in his back.

  The brutal slaying of five actors resulted in an unprecedented outpouring of grief, sending shock waves through Hollywood that were felt in every corner of the globe. Fans flooded social media to post their overwrought tributes and mourn the loss of their heroes. They struggled to comprehend how someone could simply walk onto a film set, murder James Franco, Bella Thorne, Seth Rogen, Courtney Cox and Billy Bob Thornton, and then leave without anyone noticing.

  Television stations switched to round-the-clock coverage as reporters tried to articulate the mix of raw emotion surrounding such an inexplicable event. The devastating mudslide in Bangladesh, responsible for the loss of over two hundred lives, slipped from the public’s consciousness after being overshadowed by a much greater tragedy.

  A period of intense anger and soul-searching followed as the world attempted to make sense of it all. Some blamed violent movies and video games, while others took aim at national gun laws. But until the police made an arrest and uncovered a motive, the public would be left with no real answers.

  The one thing everyone could agree on, and the phrase that would be repeated over and over for days and weeks to come, was that today was Hollywood’s Darkest Day.

  Watching from the comfort of his couch with a hot cup of Earl Grey and an oatmeal cookie, Fr. Gerdtz could barely conceal his delight. Hollywood’s darkest day? Not even close.

  Not if they had any idea what he had planned.

  Chapter 5

  The St. James Cathedral was filled beyond capacity for its next Sunday service. From front to back, every space in every pew was occupied. Latecomers had to squeeze through the crowd to find a spot in the standing room only section. Many more would crowd around outside the door to listen in, unable to get any closer.

  The tragedy on the set of Where’s the Love? had shaken the world to its core, coming less than one week after the murder of reality television starlet and social media influencer Krystal Blayze. And then just two days ago, a popular musician known as Skrillex and celebrity clothes horse Cara Delevingne were both gunned down in separate incidents.

  If one silver lining could be gleaned from the horrific events of the past week, it was that they had brought everyone together. Famous people dying was too much for many to handle, and the public needed a way of making sense of these slayings. For some, it was like losing a family member. For others, it brought their own mortality into focus. If their favorite actor or model could die so suddenly, they could too – especially since a large percentage of the population harbored the grandiose delusion that one day they too will become famous.

  People longed to be comforted during this bleak moment in history. In such a godless and materialistic world, demand for spiritual nourishment far outpaced supply. Some who hadn’t set foot inside a church in years rediscovered their long-lost faith. They had been reminded of what a precious gift life was, and how it could be snatched away at any given moment.

  But while the past few days had been a sobering experience for many, it was a hurricane of activity for Fr. Gerdtz. Due to the massacre occurring on the grounds of his church, it fell upon him to assume the mantle of spokesperson when the media descended. He fronted up before the cameras the morning following the tragedy to offer his condolences to the families and fans of the deceased. When asked how or why an alarming event like this could occur, he could provide no real answers other than to wonder aloud as to whether it may have been a sign that the world was no longer listening to God. He suggested it was time for everyone to take a step back and consider what was truly important in their lives, and that maybe we should cease this illogical obsession with the rich and famous.

  His words struck an immediate chord with both the community and the wider public. It was exactly what they needed to hear, perfectly articulating their thoughts and feelings at such a bewildering time. He soon found himself in high demand, agreeing to dozens of media appearances over the next three days, from local morning TV shows, to satellite link-ups with late-night news programs on the opposite side of the world.

  His schedule was at times exhausting, but inside he was buzzing. This was the most invigorated he had felt i
n decades. Something extraordinary was happening here, and it was all his doing.

  His many media appearances boosted his Twitter followers to 8,571. A Google search for “Fr. Arthur Gerdtz” returned over one hundred thousand results.

  He now faced an unfamiliar sight as he assumed his position behind the pulpit. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were looking back at him. Never in his life had he performed Mass for so many people. He expected to have at least some nerves, but he felt nothing but serenity. This was exactly where he deserved to be. These people were in need of a spiritual rebirth, and he would be the one to deliver it.

  He took a sip of water and cleared his throat. The congregation leaned forward slightly, ready to absorb his every word.

  “In times of great crisis, when terrible things happen to decent people for no good reason, it is natural to ask questions,” he began. “We ask ourselves what kind of God could allow this to happen. We wonder if God cares for us at all. It can be difficult to accept that God has a plan, but He does. It may be something we fail to understand it at first, but the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Three nights later, police were called to a party at the Malibu mansion of Hollywood super-producer Martin Krauth after the bullet-ridden body of actor Ansel Elgort was discovered in the hot tub. Police cordoned off the scene and took statements from the guests in attendance, but as yet no arrests have been made.

  Later that same night, rock musician David Lee Roth was found backstage at the Whisky a Go Go following a performance with his band. The cause of death was currently being investigated by the coroner.

  Meanwhile on the opposite side of the city, a twenty-three year old pharmacy assistant by the name of Nicola Jeffries dialed a number and waited for an answer. It rang four times before she heard a click and a recorded message:

  “Hello, you have reached the home of Fr. Arthur Gerdtz. I am unable to come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and contact details and I will return your call at my earliest convenience. Thank you and God bless.”