2006-03-24 - 11:29 p.m.
Yesterday, or perhaps the day before, I found myself at Quackenmeyer, the tiny production company for whom I have been reading scripts at perhaps a fraction of my usual rate. Times are tough, though, and we all must do what we can -- and at least I am not sucking hose on Santa Monica Boulevard and LaBrea yet, anyway.
Quackenmeyer has been using me for the past two or three months, giving me a script here and a script there -- but it’s one of those places where all the business with the readers is done via e-mail. It’s all quite congenial and pleasant, and I never have to actually come into contact with a living soul, except for the loathsome skanks of the Novel, which is more my natural milleu anyway.
At least, that was until this week, when the little bushy tailed and beady eyed D-boy (D-boy is short for Development Boy, for those of you living in France or in one of the delightful Flyover States) decided that he wanted to meet me in the flesh and ordered me to come in for a meet-and-greet interview post haste.
Quackenmeyer is, if you have forgotten, a little production company that was formed following the buyout of Pathetica. I know that I have raged about having been fired from Pathetica, only to be hired back by the same chief executive for pennies on the dollar. But whatever: That is life and we must make our way in the world.
But early this week, I found myself on the Megalith Lot, as Quackenmeyer’s offices are in the Ron Jeremy Building, which is one of the bungalows in the lot’s periphery. It felt a little bit odd to be there, given that most of the time I visit Megalith I am going into the Main Building to pick up scripts for the larger main studio.
Quackenmeyer is a rather quiet backwater, on the 4th floor of its building, in a little white suite of offices that have the quiet, laid back atmosphere of a production company that is going to have its deal yanked. If you asked me to define the mood of Quackenmeyer, I would have to call it “anesthetized.” There is not much action going on there, I have to tell you! The little assistants sit around in the main office, gossiping and giggling, while the executives seem to be wheeling and dealing in their offices, arranging lunches, which, I suspect, come to nothing because the execs are so low on the totem pole.
I have been around these places for long enough that I recognize the atmosphere as being that of a non-starter even before they do. It would not fool a real movie executive, of which these guys are not. But as long as their checks cash, I’ll be fine. Right now, they are being comparatively free with their money – there is plenty of work, and they are allowing me to fix everything with a surcharge for rush scripts. However, soon they shall receive their budget reports and decide to cut costs somewhat.
They will then tell me that they are no longer going to have “rush” jobs, so I will lose at least 20 bucks a script. This will go on for another few months – and then the number of scripts will start to peter down to three or four a week, then one or two, as they decide to just let their interns read them, instead of Highly Trained Professionals such as myself. And a few weeks after that, the work shall dry up entirely. Fortunately, a few weeks after THAT, I shall read in Variety that the production company will have had its three picture deal revoked. I have seen this happen many times over the last 15 years, believe me.
But at the moment, it is Golden Days at Quackenmeyer, I assure you. And when I arrived at their offices, how pleased they were to see me! The little baby executive, who is really little more than a trumped up assistant, whisked me into his office. I had done my due diligence on the fellow, of course, by Googling his name, and had learned many things.
For instance, did you know that two years ago he was a cheerleader at the University of Michigan? How delightful! And that every one of post two year college career has been spent on useful chores. Why, he interviewed the great director Danny DeVito for his campus newspaper, that’s how well connected he is! And now, just look at him: Bushy eyed and bob-tailed, with his happy, happy triangle-shaped smile and perfect teeth. He is bound for success with the ease and inevitability of a plant growing up towards the sun. And good for him, too.
The meeting was little more than a chat-and-chew with the young fellow, so he could be sure that I did not have 10 heads or anything like that. And also to ensure that I was not the sort of lunatic who would sell all his scripts on E-bay. It was a pleasant, upbeat sort of meeting, and I comported myself fairly well. It is unlikely to get me more work, but at least I didn’t get in my own way.
As I left the production offices, I passed the men’s room. As I approached the elevator door, the men’s room door opened, and out came none other than Cecil B. DeFoneBone, the president of Quackenmeyer. De FoneBone was formerly the President of Pathetica, before Pathetica was bought out by Megalith. As part of the deal, Megalith bought Pathetica, and Mr. DeFoneBone was given Quackenmeyer, which, it seems to me, is an almost unendurable come down. He was a fellow in his late 50s, I’d say, barrel-chested fat, wearing an expensive Argyle-sweater over a surprisingly sloppy t-shirt and baggy jeans. Mr. DeFoneBone, as he walked past me, fixed me with a glare that was as embittered and as venomous as any that I think I have ever experienced.
What was the reason for his hate-filled look? He certainly didn’t know personally who I was. It is even unlikely that he’d remember my name from my coverage reports if they were right in front of him. Nor is it likely that he was looking so unpleasant because he might have been constipated and could not defecate as to his pleasure. No, his nasty look was more evidence that he clearly felt he was in disgrace. And why wouldn’t he feel disgraced?
At Pathetica, he would surely have had a power suite, with his own bathroom, complete with shower and steam room. He would have had four or five assistants, and studio presidents at his beck and call. Now he was in exile, sharing the same rest room used by visitors and his own secretaries. And his office, I saw, was nothing more than a cheesy room, decorated with old posters advertising Pathetica movies. Sad. But, really, I hope you will not take it amiss if I tell you that it amused me to see him suffer so.
