MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
I'm sorry, what?
Mister begins to shout, waving his device-free hand above his head.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
Oh ... right.
Mister stands back, and the camera enters the house now, POV swinging rapidly downward when it fails to anticipate a six-inch drop from the stoop to the entryway. When the camera repositions itself, we discover Mister's house is littered with cupboards and shelves of various porcelain figures. There's a smell like rotting. The camera scans the figurines, lingering longer than necessary on a small sad-faced hobo clown with a broken foot until the viewer begins to question (in a voice a little louder than necessary) whether some kind of anonymous interview is about to take place here or if the camera just invited itself over to this poor man's house to stare at his goddamn clown all day.
The camera shakes for a moment and finds Mister, relocated on the sofa. Close-up of Mister's blurry, backlit face.
JEREMY MARTIN (CONT'D)
So you said you were commissioned to write the screenplay for Elvis Presley's last, and until now lost, planned film?
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
OK, I was worried about this. That homemade voice distortion apparatus just isn't working.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
What's wrong with it is that no one in the audience will understand a word you're saying.
Mister makes a fist with his free hand, shakes it.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
Of course I understand you want to be anonymous here, but this one-sided dialog is forcing me to adopt a sort of Bob Newheart-style banter where I'm repeating whatever you've said and trying to inconspicuously incorporate it into my response. It's completely unnatural, and I refuse to do it anymore.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
No, not even then. Let's just get on with the interview.
JM gnaws on his pen while he flips through his notebook.
JEREMY MARTIN (CONT'D)
You said you knew this film had no hope of ever being made. Why?
Mister scratches his blurred neckline and unblurred chest with his alternately blurred/unblurred free hand.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
Yes he could've. He so could have.
Mister shakes his head, causing even more blurring.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
Well yeah, but what about crystal meth? He was already pretty heavy into pills at that point, you know.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
But I heard you drop like 15 pounds a week on that ... but like five of that is probably just teeth and hair.
Mister begins scratching again, harder. The scraping of fingernails on neck skin is audible.
MISTER
(distorted)
JEREMY MARTIN
I dunno, really. I think Drano is involved somehow.
[…]
The film's first version of the takeoff flashback is a 37-second clip wedged between the mild innuendos of the seduction scene. The motivations of mechanic Manshadow, his buzz-cut revealing the oblong curve of his head and his regulation-issue-mason-jar-lens-corrected eyes signifying advanced intelligence, are unknown. According to O'Rion's voiceover, Manshadow simply thought collecting surplus aircraft parts in order to make a superior officer's unused motorcycle (a standard military job, olive green and obviously not the shiny Harley chopper of the interview scene) air-worthy would be a "real good idea." Several short scenes showing the passage of an undefined period of time focus on Manshadow hard at work adding airplane parts – propellers, engine valves, what appears to be a comically oversized sparkplug – to the motorcycle with no apparent blueprint in mind.
When he's not handing Manshadow tools, O'Rion seems completely disinterested, flipping through a probably anachronistic gentleman's magazine while Manshadow works. The end result seems to be a rough prototype of the current, sleeker model: The sidecar has been removed so that a lengthy and wobbly pair of wings can be attached, and a much-too-tiny propeller extends upward on a pole protruding from behind the seat.
Manshadow guns it, them scoots forward on the seat to open up about six inches of room on the back, which he then gives a gentle pat. For a moment, O'Rion considers climbing on, going so far as to straddle the bike standing up, a position which puts the crotch of his blue canvas jumpsuit in contact with Manshadow's mid-back. Whatever it is O'Rion says before shrugging his shoulders and scooting away cannot be heard.
O'Rion ends up watching on the runway while Manshadow's bike gathers speed. When he pulls back on the handlebars, it looks at first like he's just popping a wheelie on this clunking bike, but then the rear tire follows and spins free. He pulls up until he's silhouetted dark against the sun. The film's most beautiful shot, or what would have been at least had the film ever actually been made.
[…]
INT. OFFICES OF ––– STUDIOS – DAY
The posh offices of a successful Hollywood producer. A caption reads: "The office of HUGH JASSPRICK (not his real name), who, after considerable surprise at finding someone sitting in his locked office waiting for him to return from lunch, has agreed to a brief interview before calling security, provided his name and/or likeness will never be associated with this project."
Jassprick sits behind a heavy-looking oak laminate desk, his fat, stupid face hidden from a litigation-triggering medium close-up by 457 pages (what's happened to the other 209 is anyone's guess) of the newly reconstructed "Hog Heaven" screenplay. He attempts to discreetly plug his phone back into the wall socket while he speaks.
HUGH JASSPRICK
You've got time for one question, asshole. Make it count.
JEREMY MARTIN struggles to read the sweat-obscured notes on his hand, the most legible of which says, "Was Margret's pregnancy a social commentary or [illegible]?"
JEREMY MARTIN
Um.
Jassprick continues to fiddle with his phone chord.
HUGH JASSPRICK
Let me ask you one, then. Let's pretend for a second we really were planning on making this movie at some point.
JEREMY MARTIN
If he had dropped some weight and cleaned up his act?
HUGH JASSPRICK
Sure, whatever. And let's pretend he laid off the bacon and bananas long enough to delay his heart giving out on the fucking toilet–
Jassprick stops to laugh at his own joke, like the Falstaffian nard-juggler he is.
HUGH JASSPRICK (CONT'D)
– long enough for him to squeeze out this metaphorical piece of shit instead.
JM clears his throat.
HUGH JASSPRICK (CONT'D)
We'll pretend all that. Hell, I'm willing to overlook the fact that your evidence reads like it was written by that hack-turned-addict, (distorted), who's started lurking around the studio again. And we'll even try to pretend that the love song I'm looking at here isn't a blatant rip-off the one from that Disney movie where the lady sucks off a, a wildebeest or whatever.
The phone cord slips from Jassprick's slimy pickle fingers and pops across the desk. He snatches it back up.
HUGH JASSPRICK (CONT'D)
Even if all this were true, even if you did find evidence of some half-baked idea that never got made...
SFX: Phone cord snapping back into its socket.
HUGH JASSPRICK (CONT'D)
What the hell are we supposed to actually do about it?
The camera now swings down to observe as JM checks the notes on his palm for an answer, but they've been sweated to smears. JM coughs silently into his fist.
HUGH JASSPRICK (CONT'
D)
That's pretty much what I figured.
SFX: The sound of the phone's receiver (offscreen) being lifted from its cradle.
[…]
1. Why is his middle name misspelled on his tombstone?
2. Why isn’t his grave where he wanted it to be?
3. Why did pallbearers claim the corpse looked nothing like him, but instead like a wax dummy?
4. Why was the identity of the masked singer who emerged shortly after his death – and bore an uncanny resemblance in voice and appearance – never satisfactorily resolved?
5. Why would a small human interest story about a flying motorcycle pilot, published in a weekday edition of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, cause both American and Japanese covert operatives to infiltrate a run-down circus?
[…]
EXT. BALDWIN HILLS PUBLIC LIBRARY – DUSK
In the distance we see a man pedaling a bicycle toward the library, which, because of altered holiday hours, will close in approximately 12 minutes. The camera pulls in to show the biker in greater detail. This, it's now apparent, is JEREMY MARTIN. He's standing up on the pedals, riding hard and fast.
A backpack, overloaded with several unauthorized biographies of Suzanne Pleshette, hangs from his shoulders. The weight of these overdue books causes the bike to wobble. In the background we hear the buzzing of several still-crisp collectible trading cards, clothespinned to the spokes.
Now in front of the library JM gives the handbrake a squeeze too light to bring him to an actual stop, and he hits the steel bike rack harder than expected. The backpack's momentum pulls it up, almost over his head, and for a brief but terrible moment we're worried our hero will flip over the handlebars. He does not.
CUT TO:
INT. BALDWIN HILLS PUBLIC LIBRARY – DUSK
An Attractive Older Librarian is organizing her desk, killing time until the end of the workday, which the clock behind her indicates is now approximately 10 minutes away. The quiet scene is interrupted by a door (offscreen) slamming open, followed by the muffled clomping of a pair of Air Force Ones rapidly carrying the poorly distributed weight of a shorter-than-average man and several hardcover books across Berber carpeting. The librarian's expression is one of brief surprise followed by a mix of acceptance and dread. After some offscreen zipper-fumbling, unseen hands dump a stack of books on the desk. The camera cuts now to the librarian's POV.
JEREMY MARTIN
I finally found those books.
The Librarian blows a loose strand of molten red hair away from her soft-featured face.
ATTRACTIVE OLDER LIBRARIAN
Great.
JM breaks eye contact to look down at the books he's returning.
JEREMY MARTIN
You didn't get too many complaints while they were out, did you?
The Librarian laughs, then stifles it.
ATTRACTIVE OLDER LIBRARIAN
The last person to check them out was either you or Suzanne Pleshette.
JM looks up, visibly excited.
JEREMY MARTIN
Really?
The Librarian opens a book to stamp its inner cover.
ATTRACTIVE OLDER LIBARIAN
No.
She adds the book to a cart behind her desk.
JM scratches at the stubble on his neck.
JEREMY MARTIN
Oh.
The Librarian grabs the rest of the stack of books and dumps them on the cart without bothering to stamp them.
ATTRACTIVE OLDER LIBARIAN
Well, we're about to close now, so…
When she turns back from the cart JM is already jogging back into the stacks.
He's heading for the fiction section, specifically for the shelves labeled BE-BR. The camera spins as JM rounds the corner, and without scanning the shelves lands on a thin paperback on the top shelf. We get a close-up of this book, written by one G.B. Giorgio, the camera breaks out of JM's POV now to show the top of the book (which JM will not be able to reach unaided). A quarter-inch of a torn piece of typing paper juts from the book.
[Note: The low-volume soundtrack for this scene is an extra-exultant and underappreciated cover of "Hey Jude."]
We get a wide-angle profile shot of JM, reaching up toward the now-offscreen book, which is about eight inches above his grasp when he rocks onto the balls of his feet. After a few moments of useless stretching, he grabs the shelf below the book, and plants a foot on the case's base. After a few test pushes, JM jumps off bottom shelf, taking an uncoordinated swipe at the desired book, but he lands empty-handed. His second effort - this time pushing off the bottom shelf with both feet - is more successful. He gets enough height on this jump to reach over the book and pull it down, but the toes of his shoes wind up wedged between the second shelf and the books below it.
JM lands on his back and the soundtrack's "nanana"s (growing progressive louder) are momentarily interrupted by the dull crack of his head against a shelf behind him. He lands hard, legs spread and feet still stuck, but he's got the book and he's still conscious. The moment of small triumph is interrupted however, by the camera's subtle upward shift. The collision with JM's head has dislodged a thick, improperly shelved reference book (a circa-WWII guidebook for comedic performers in traveling attractions). The book now briefly teeters at shelf's edge before tumbling over. A corner of its spine lands first, its direct collision with the ground cushioned by JM's left testicle.
The song achieves its famed crescendo.
[…]
We know instantly that the peanut vendor is a Yakuza/Kamikaze sleeper cell. His heavily accented solicitation lacks the season of a practiced nut man, and his underhand toss is herky and unconfident. Plus there's a radio antenna protruding from one of his translucent paper nut sacks. He's got the corner of his mouth twisted toward the antennaed bag, French-exhaling a quick stream of Japanese and completely ignoring the customer trying to get his attention.
The man waving a strip-club fan of singles at the vendor is obviously FBI. An electrical wire, not at all concealed by his ill-fitting gray wig, protrudes from the right earpiece of his faux-bifocals. He's only pretending to be interested in the peanuts, concentrating instead on whispering inaudible English into his microphone-equipped lapel pin, which proudly proclaims "Ask me about my grandson!"
The camera pulls back, and we get the whole audience, sitting in rows of splintered wooden benches. Approximately 97 to 98 percent of the audience is composed of males between the ages of 25 and 50, average-to-above-average height, either Caucasian or Pacific Asian. An abnormal population disbursement for a low-budget circus for sure – a fact poorly disguised by the pseudo-familial groups into which the men have attempted to organized themselves. Some only slightly stretch credibility as sweater-clad, pipe-chewing father figures, but discretion dictates that many more disguise themselves in sundresses and floppy straw hats, propeller beanies or pigtailed wigs, clutching rag dolls or homemade slingshots. Offscreen, a drum rolls, and the camera spins ringward toward the swirling spotlight. An engine putt-putts, too anemic for the expected Harley.
In its lieu an overheating clown car in need of a valve job enters to the tune of a wheezing calliope. Through the windshield we see the clowns who, suspiciously, are all sad-faced. (Barnum and Bailey's Encyclopaedia Clownananica [1942 edition] dictates a ratio of five-to-six happy-faced for every sad-faced.) The clowns are sad-faced in both the figurative and literal sense because their mouths strain to contain their discomfort at being so tightly wedged. When the car finally comes to a stop, its continued shake is due not to an idling engine, but because these "clowns" struggle and shove, apparently ignorant of how to extract themselves.
Don't Bother Page 6
