On Answering Your Dumb Little Questions #1

Dear Jeremy and Dan,
I’ve heard that if you want to break into the film industry, you need to live in Los Angeles. Or, failing that, have talent. What’s your take on this? Do I need to move to California to be taken seriously as a screenwriter?
Sincerely, P. Haggis

“Taken seriously as a screenwriter?”

First of all, Paul, the only professions that are taken less seriously than screenwriters are Hungarian dignitaries, ice cream truck drivers and unlicensed elk masturbators. Nowhere is this more true than California, where studio executives, security guards and titty-club bouncers will welcome the arrival of another goddamn screenwriter the way Ted Nugent greets a raccoon rooting through his dumpster.

Remember, we’re talking about creative professionals who will spend decades of their lives honing and polishing their craft, ignoring their health, hygiene and child support payments, writing their fingers down to bloody, shriveled nubs, just on the off-chance that someone will someday bestow upon them the industry’s highest compliment: “So Tim Allen likes your script, but he wants a bit more crotch-punching.”

And when you hear those magical words, oh, how you’ll cavort.

Still, on those rare days when the smog parts and that big honking HOLLYWOOD sign peeks through, it’s easy to see why so many headstrong fools heed the industry’s siren call and move to Los Angeles. Let’s break down the dream, shall we?

You step off the cross-country bus and drink in your first taste of the place where the magic happens. The sights, sounds and mysterious fluids splattering against your calves are overwhelming. Gridlocked cars blat out mournful little honks of pure despair. The air itself has the cocaine sweats. Across the street, delighted Japanese tourists are taking pictures of a vicious knife-fight between a pair of harelipped Romanian whores. Just beyond that, a hobo who looks suspiciously like Kate Bosworth is vomiting into a Krispy Kreme bag. You feel a tug on your leg and glance down to find Kuato gurgling happily while he pries off and eats your left shoe.

Cut to one year later.

Your first screenplay has been optioned, greenlighted, fast-tracked for production, rewritten, cancelled, re-optioned, wrestled from your control, assigned to some guy who used to be Adam Sandler’s stupid fucking roommate, hopelessly gutted, greenlighted again, filmed, radically altered in the editing room, and finally finished. Tonight is opening night, and your precious little labor of love is about to hit cinema screens nationwide with all the grace and dignity of a fat woman rolling down an escalator.

But ignore those scathing reviews. Forget about the fact that it took two SWAT teams and a hail of angry bullets to convince your agent to stop shooting everyone who walked past his office. Try not to concentrate on the fact that your film only exists in the first place thanks to a dodgy Nigerian tax loophole. Tonight is your night, and that beautiful red carpet is stretched out before you.

The flashbulbs explode. The fans scream. Autograph books and bare breasts are proffered in equal measure. Not even the sight of Kate Bosworth vomiting uncontrollably in the bushes can distract you from the glory that is your new life. The heavens part above you in a starburst of holy light, and God Himself flashes you a double thumbs-up.

It’s GREAT to be a screenwriter.

Wait, what were we talking about again? Should you move to Los Angeles? What? How the fuck should we know?

Leave us alone, Haggis.