The Pitch

March 26, 2005 at 1:15 pm (Uncategorized)

“You’re out of your rabbit-assed MIND if you think I’m going to green-light this, Quentin.”

“But–but–but it’s so retro! You know retro’s in–and anything with my name on it makes a fortune at the box office!” Quentin looked truly confused. He hadn’t been told “no” by a studio in years, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer now.

The guy in the suit gestured, moving the large pile of typewritten pages, storyboards and photographs into a fan, covering the deep-stained grain of the desk’s mahogany top. Nothing else littered the immaculate expanse–just the pieces of paper outlining Quentin’s entire life for the last week. “Look at this–gangstas about to go camping in California? For Christ’s sake, no one’s going to even BEGIN to buy that premise, Quentin, let alone the rest of this crap!”

Quentin might look inbred, but behind the stupid expression ticked a genius-level mind. “Last year this studio put out a major action star as a motherfucking NANNY and you’re telling ME no one’s gonna buy a good old-fashioned horror flick? Have you even LOOKED at the garbage you’ve green-lighted in the last year?”

Another gesture and another picture flies from the pile to land neatly in front of Quentin. His eyes flicked to the photograph of young, good-looking corpses littering a floor. He sighed, amazed at how someone can completely miss a point even when illustrated in living color. The suit continued, “Let me make sure I have this right–four guys go camping in Cali, find mushrooms that look just like the ones they saw pictures of on the Internet, the ones that make people hallucinate. These dipshits eat the mushrooms, start tripping, find a Goddamn SCHOOL in the middle of a state park, and because they ate especially strong, EVIL mushrooms, they hack and slash their way through the school.”

“Don’t forget the satan-worship. That’s very important to the plot.”

“WHAT fucking PLOT? All this bullshit is is an excuse to shove hot bodies into a movie that doesn’t HAVE a plot to keep it going!” The suit flicks the photo away. It floats, much like shit will in a toilet, to the floor, to join the growing pile.

Quentin takes yet another deep breath, wishing once again he had another fatty’s worth of that weed he’d been smoking all week. “There is a plot. There is a great plot. It’s all right…” He reaches over to the file.

The suit smacks his hand away. Anger bulges the vein at his temple, pulsing in time with the geometric progression of aggression, dismay and pure irritation building in Quentin’s head. Visions dance there as well. Graphic visions, more graphic than the dance and massacre in the picture relegated to the floor. Visions starring the practicality-bound executive he finds himself having to kiss the ass of. Anything to get this picture made–if Quentin has to blow this guy, this picture will get made. All this excellent imagination can’t go to waste–he can’t get more of the insane weed he smoked to come up with it, so a movie idea this great will never come again.

“All right,” the suit sighs, “Let’s assume the box-office crowd actually swallows this pile of shit so far. They won’t believe this–or this–or, Quentin, a Goddamn terrorist training camp? They’re not going to go for this either.” Each “this” is punctuated with a flick and a fall as each outline, storyboard and subplot joins the pile of discards. “They’re NEVER going to believe Gooze-fucking-ZILLAS feasting on AIRPLANES! They’re dumb, the moviegoing public, but NOT that dumb! No matter HOW many times you remind them that the whole thing’s a hallucinogenic drug experience, they’re not gonna get it.”

One more deep breath–one more reminder that the machete in his briefcase will only mean having to go through another inane meeting with another clueless studio exec. “You know the best parts of my movies are the ones that go just a little over the top…”

The suit breaks in “A LITTLE? A LITTLE OVER THE MUTHAFUCKING TOP? That’s like saying Angelina had a little COLLAGEN in those lips!”


“All right–that’s it–you’re out of here Quentin! Get the fuck out of my office and pick up every single scrap of that thing you have the nerve to call a movie pitch!” The suit picks up the phone, presses two numbers, and begins to speak. “Security?”

Quentin rises from his chair, barely able to contain his rage as he picks up the papers littering the suit’s office. Biting his lip so hard he nearly draws blood, he shoves the disarranged paperwork into the file and loads it into his briefcase. Before opening the office door, he looks back at the exec, who sits back in his leather chair, red-faced and fuming.

“Just remember–you said exactly the same thing about ‘Kill Bill’ The exact. Same. Thing.”


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