| What I really want to do... |
[21 Oct 2007|06:18pm] |
"Max, got a minute?" George Roberts rapped his knuckles on the door frame to Max Bickart's office.
He'd just finished shooting a scene as GW performing with the Cajun Devildogs that had taken all day, but he wanted to get started on this before things got busier for his character and he didn't have time to think about it. It was time for him to start thinking about the future beyond just acting, and Birthright was the perfect place to work on it.
Eighteen hours and four pots of coffee, and the writer slash director of OZTv's supernatural drama was no closer to solving the figurative Chinese puzzle on his desk. The show had a small but critical fan base but they couldn't break through with the numbers that attracted advertisers. Focus groups complained about storyline length and several politicians running in mid-term Primaries used Birthright as an example of moral corruption. Then there were whispers in the hall, rumors even Ed wouldn't share. They were beseiged on all sides and Max's boss demanded a game plan by midnight.
To ask for a minute of Bickert's time was like asking for his kidney while dangling a bottle of vodka just out of reach.
"One and a half," the black-haired man finally answered, tossing his pen onto his desk. "What can I do ya for, George?"
George took one look at the harried expression on the exec's face and thought about trying to come back later, but he'd never backed down from a challenge in his life and that included being called up from the reserves for not one but two combat tours in Iraq while in the Marines. With that thought in mind, the actor strode through the door confidently and sat down in one of the chairs in front of Max's desk.
"I've been thinking about this for a couple months, and I wanted to talk to you about learning how to move behind the camera. I'd like to learn how to direct." George figured that given Max's current state it was better to come right out and say it rather than try to go the round about way. He had a little directing experience from back in college, but other than that his only experience as a leader was through the Corps.
( The next Steven Spielberg? Or Ed Wood? )
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| Strike the Sets, Tear Down the Lights |
[21 Oct 2007|11:20pm] |
Max barrelled down the corridor, pushing past the dozen or more dark-suited gentlemen that filed out of Ed Lambert's plush corner office. "What the hell?!" he cried out as he entered. "An email? This is how you tell me? What the fuck, Ed? I thought we were friends."
The elder man, (former) owner of OZTv had the glasses out, both filled to the brim with scotch. "Don't. Okay? No one could know. I couldn't afford a leak to Variety."
"But Ed," the dark-haired man protested. "A merger with FX? This is huge! And given what we have to offer--"
"Yeah, about that," the balding executive cut off his protegé. "It's not so much a merger as it is a... take-over."
Max sat in the leather chair opposite. "Excuse me?"
Ed downed his glass and poured another. "Everything I put into this. You know the reality, Max. You sink or swim with content and the advertising dollar. We just weren't pulling it in. And then FX came over with an offer. A generous one. Enough for me to get out of this game and onto a plane to Honolulu. I saw the writing on the wall."
"So you're out." Max kept his composure. Barely.
"It's my time," Ed offered. "And look on the bright side. You can concentrate on that period drama movie that's collecting dust in your drawer."
"Sure, in another year." Max took the other glass but didn't drink. "Five-year plan, remember? I tell the story, hand off Birthright to a showrunner and use the street cred to get financing. Of which you said you would be a part of."
Ed blanched, even his scalp turning white. "The thing is Max. FX already has Mickey's show. They think it'd be confusing to have two supernatural dramas on the same network. And something had to give. I'm sorry."
"C'mon! Wraith is a blatant rip-off! Mickey Rubles stole discarded storylines and sold it and you're telling me they'd rather run a second-rate piece of crap like that?" If Ed was white, Max was blood red.
Ed nodded, emotionless. "It's got a smaller cast, which keeps the payroll down. Less special effects."
Max finished his drink and begged for another. "So that's it. We finish out this season and it's done."
"No," Ed contradicted. "Birthright has been cancelled effective immediately.
FWASH.
The two men sat in silence for long minutes.
"Uh, Ed?" Max finally enquired.
"Yeah."
Max downed his second scotch. "What just happened?"
The older man sat passively. "I'm not sure I wanna know."
"But." The dark haired man tried to form words but his thoughts were a jumble. "If we... and they... and now we're... I remember. But it couldn't have happened. Right?"
"No," Ed responded. "I'm no rocket scientist, but I think that'd be breaking a few laws."
"So it's just some... dream sequence." The younger man could wrap his head around that. It was an easy out-clause in television, ever since 'Dallas'. "I just hope they don't remember." Max rubbed the stubble on his chin.
"That's why I'm still going to Honolulu, Max. You might wanna rethink your future too." Ed emptied the rest of the bottle into both of their glasses.
"Damn," Max added. "I was gonna try and tap Anna, too."
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