Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (11 page)

“Yes. And a tragedy about Jasper Jones,” Stephanie Pooley add-

ed. “At lunch if any of you would like to have a moment of silence, we will be behind you, spiritually, on that silence, one hundred percent. And so will
Entertainment Tonight
and the E! Channel. But one minor note. Actually—one
major
note: Make sure when the cameras are rolling you also pay tribute to Minnesota B. Moose.

That’s very important to the network.”

“My wife is right. If anyone from the press asks any of you for a sound bite, you must mention the death of Minnesota B. Moose

and the birth of Kalamazoo P. Kardinal. Is everyone clear?”

Mick McCoy, the director of photography, leaned back in his

chair and crossed his arms. With a slight smile he asked, “What about the death of Jasper? Would you like us not to mention his death? I guess what I’m saying is, Where does it rank in the moose and cardinal universe?”

“Good question, Mike. Very good question. We don’t want

to appear uncaring, so what we should all do is mention Jasper’s death but then use that as a really nice segue into Minnesota B.

Moose’s death at the network, which will lead you directly into the birth of Kalamazoo P. Kardinal!” Marcus bounced a little, pleased with his logic.

“Um . . .” William whispered for everyone to hear, “we already

had a moment of silence. It was very touching.”

Marcus went from zero to executioner in a whopping milli-

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W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

second. “You what? You did
that
without either me or Stephanie giving you the green light? We’re supposed to have our moment of silence when
Entertainment Tonight
is here, you dipshit!”

William shrank into his chair like a frightened serf. Marcus

Pooley I had half risen from his throne, palms on the table, and was leaning menacingly toward William. Queen Stephanie was

slightly breathless, arousal glinting in her eyes. That tableau gave J.T. the complete history, brief as it was, of the show’s dynamics—

as if he needed telling.

“Yes, we not only had a moment of silence, but William chose

to do it before we were on the clock,” J.T. interjected, reflexively sticking up for a crew member of his, even though this one had just as reflexively stabbed him in the back. “It was a mini-moment.”

Stephanie Pooley would’ve been offended by the smirk on J.T.’s

face if she’d looked at it. “Well, at least you could’ve waited for us,”

she grumbled. “That would’ve been the decent thing to do. Even if it was just a mini-moment.”

“Would you like to have another mini-moment now, Ms. Pool-

ey?” William asked, sincerely relieved. “I’m sure that’s not against the rules of . . . What rules would that fall under?”

“You are kidding, right?” J.T. whispered to William.

“What? Oh. Of course I was kidding,” William said, feeling

foolish.

“Well, you shouldn’t kid about death. What time is it?” Stepha-

nie demanded.

“Almost forty-five minutes after ten, Ms. Pooley,” William said.

Sincerely.

“We don’t have time for a mini-moment. We’ve got everyone

coming in at eleven for the table read. So we all feel badly. That he’s dead. Dead and not directing. That’s what is important. That we feel bad. Now—page one. Let’s go. ‘The Best Ever Christmas.’ Go!”

“‘The Best Ever Christmas,’” William said, about to go through

his very professional notes.
At least he knows his job,
J.T. thought.

R o b b y

B e n s o n

7 7

“Okay, page one, page two, page three—anyone have questions

so far?” William asked, sincerely.

J.T. stared at William.
Okay, so I was wrong,
he thought.

Everyone in the room was used to this. J.T. was flabbergast-

ed. The script called for snow, explosions, and the use of a large number of children. They

had just signed off on it all

The Hollywood Dictionary

without discussion.
And ex-

plosions aren’t funny,
J.T.

CHILDREN:
Underage actors

who, for the most part, are paid

thought.

(a lot) more than their parents.

“Excuse me,” J.T. said be-

SPECIAL EFFECTS/CHILDREN/SAFE-

fore William could sincerely

TY:
Don’t see
John Landis.

say “page four.”

“What?” Marcus Pooley

jumped up out of his pre-

cious seat.

“Don’t you think we should at least have a conversation about

the snow and explosions? Special effects? Children? Safety?” J.T.

asked.

“What’s to talk about? It says
the best ever Christmas
. It says
the best ever explosion
. What’s to discuss? What is it that you find challenging to understand? What don’t you get?” Marcus Pooley

sat back, arms crossed, looking smug. He thought he’d trumped

the director.

“Well,” J.T. took a big breath and saw a vision, a mirage of Natasha in the reflection of Stephanie Pooley’s glass mug of not-hot coffee.

“Yes, well,” J.T. said, still gathering himself, “since I don’t see a unit production manager here or a line producer—”

“We don’t need those people. They are excess baggage,” Steph-

anie explained.

“Excess baggage? I see. So should I discuss how much the best

ever Christmas and the best ever explosion,
with children in the
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W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

shot,
will cost with the two of you, or with Carl Hayes, who has to sign the checks? There are practicalities to discuss, don’t you agree? I’m speaking to the two of you as seasoned showrunners,

and we all know that a script is not a novel. Nor is it animated.

I can’t just go ‘boom’ and believe that you will have the best ever explosion. I can’t have actors throwing imaginary snowballs in the snowball fight that has been written on page two.”

“Are you saying you can’t direct ‘The Best Ever Christmas’? Is

that what you’re saying?” Marcus Pooley demanded.

“Because if that is what you are saying, then you are not the director for us!” Stephanie Pooley made her feelings known as loudly as she could, for the entire room’s benefit.

J.T. looked at the reflection in Stephanie’s cup of untouched

coffee again, and saw Natasha slowly shaking her head.

“Well, as a
guest
on your set, I am not familiar with how much you are willing to spend to create your vision of
the best ever,
” J.T.

said, holding his temper at bay with difficulty. He got out of his chair and lay down on the filthy carpet. He began to stretch, and then started doing sit-ups.

“We want it to look better than . . . What the fuck are you

doing?”

“I’m stretching my back out, Mr. Pooley.”

“No you’re not. You’re doing sit-ups!”

“I’m strengthening my stomach muscles. It’s good for the back.

Now, you were saying . . . You want it to look better than, what?”

“Better than
Mr. Deeds Goes to
. . . um,
Miracle at Madison
Square Garden
. . . no,
It’s Your Life!
It’s your job to make it look like that. You are paid the big bucks to direct. It’s our job to write it. It’s that simple,” Marcus insisted.

“I’d like to know
simple
things, such as how much snow you’d like to see? And I’d like to tell our wardrobe department how many extras are wearing winter clothing? I’d like to tell our location manager if you want this to be an exterior shoot or an interior?

R o b b y

B e n s o n

7 9

If it’s interior, the cleanup time will be an issue, so it should be a preshoot. If it’s a preshoot, we will have to discuss which crew will be available.
Also,
if it’s an interior, we’ll have to do this without an audience, because it’s against the law to have an explosion on an enclosed set with bystanders.
Also,
the children will have to be written out, if it’s an interior shoot, for safety reasons—unless you want to use little stunt people.”

“Little stunt people?” Stephanie laughed.

“I think he means, um, midgets,” William said, trying to look

important.

“Midgets? Fucking midgets? Dwarfs? Fuck—although that did

just give me an idea. Midgets. Dwarfs. Hmm. It
is
the
best ever
Christmas. We will be wanting elves, will we not?!”

“You’re brilliant. I had the same idea driving in this morning.

But I’m glad you brought it up.” Stephanie looked the teeniest bit annoyed that Marcus had in fact come up with the idea first.

“Hello? Back to pages one through three?” J.T. tried to get the focus back to practical issues. “
Also,
if it’s
the best ever Christmas
and
the best ever explosion,
what does that mean
to you,
as compared to me? Because to you, the best ever Christmas could be an image, a look, or it could be the amount of presents the children are receiving.
Also,
if it’s the best ever explosion, does that mean you want to visually compete with all of the high-action Armageddon films, or with the best ever explosion seen on a sitcom?” J.T. thought he’d managed to say all this without even a hint of being patronizing.

“Are you patronizing us, Mr. Film School Professor? I have a

distinct feeling that you are being condescending. And that stuff just doesn’t fly in the real world of filmmaking,” Marcus Pooley said, very pleased with himself.

J.T. looked around the table at the members of the crew. His

eyes came to a stop at his buddy Mick McCoy. Mick mouthed,

Don’t—leave—us!
J.T. subtly nodded.

J.T. sighed. “No, Mr. and Ms. Pooley. I am asking serious ques-

8 0

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

tions that must be addressed.

But maybe the
production

The Hollywood Dictionary

meeting
is not the time or

place to discuss
production.

“MOVING ON”:
See
Ed Wood.

You know . . . why don’t we

just . . . move on.”

J.T. could see his son’s brave face as he was hooked up to the dialysis machine for the first time. Jeremy always tried not to cry, but he squeezed his daddy’s hand tightly whenever he was afraid or it hurt.
He’s such a brave child,
J.T. thought.
He should cry
.
Little boys
should feel that it’s okay to cry . . .
“It’s okay to cry,” he mumbled.

“How dare you?” Stephanie Pooley exclaimed in horror. “How

the fuck
dare
you tell me and my husband that it’s
okay to cry
!”

“I wasn’t talking to you. To either of you,” J.T. whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Marcus Pooley shouted.

“Because I prefer whispering to shouting,” J.T. said. Something had momentarily died behind his eyes. “Please, continue, William.

You’re doing great. The floor is yours.”

J.T. sat back, deflated but certainly not defeated. He knew that every filmmaking skill he had ever acquired was going to be necessary—mandatory.
I have to

make it through these three

weeks. Surely I can do that,

The Hollywood Dictionary

he thought, again and again

PULLING A SHOW OUT OF YOUR

The production meeting

ASS:
Buy stock in Preparation H.

ended a few minutes later.

Nothing from a production

standpoint was discussed. It would
just happen,
according to the Pooleys. And if it didn’t happen, they would throw more tantrums and blame would be ascribed and crew members would be fired,

so J.T. was ready to pull
the best ever Christmas
with
the best ever
explosion
out of his ass.

The Table Read

The production meeting room doubled as the table-read room,

losing none of its aura of confrontation, passive aggression, power struggles—of war. The cast members trickled in and gathered

round the chuck wagon—er, food—er, craft service table—each

one doing the obligatory round of hugs and air kisses as they arrived. There they were—the Buddies. Their lives had forever

changed because of the show’s instantaneous global popularity.

If there were Tivo on Mars, these young actors would be Mar-

tian celebs. NASA astronauts were downloading shows onto their

spacecraft’s computer and actually screwed up their avionics with the episode about the orangutan.

J.T. watched the Buddies interact for a while, sizing them up.

Betty Balz, whose big break had come in a toothpaste commercial, was just as perky-cute in person as she was on TV. Rare. Anorexic-thin, she had a perky black bob and small perky breasts with perky nipples never covered by a bra, and wore a perky shade of red on her lips—thin lips, her one feature that photographed perky on

TV but in real life was less than, well, perky. Despite this flaw, she was drop-dead gorgeous—in other words, anyone involved with

her would eventually drop dead. Very high-maintenance.

Devon Driver was doing shtick trying to impress her. Devon’s

shtick was attitudinal: he gave advice to the other Buddies, espe-8 2

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

cially the hot ones—okay, mostly to Betty Balz. Betty was so perky with excitement when she spoke to Devon, her voice sounded like the piccolo trumpet on the Beatles’ “Penny Lane.” Just now, he

was tut-tutting Betty for having signed on to promote a cosmet-

ics company.

“But the company is offering me a million dollars for a one-

day photo shoot. One million dollars. For one day!” Betty trum-

peted. “Obviously they’ll have the right to use the photos on buses and billboards, but why do you think
that’s
such a bad idea?”