Zeke and Me
Back when the Super-Hot Pothead and I were on speaking terms (i.e., any time before February), she suggested that we team up. Her longtime boyfriend (damn him!) was apparently quite the director, I was the writer, and she was, I dunno, hair and make-up or something. Actually, she would have been the producer; I’m just not sure what all she would have done in that capacity. Doesn’t matter since it never amounted to anything more than idle conversation.
I haven’t heard a word from her since February, and I didn’t think I would. I was concerned, so I called her a few times to make sure she was, you know, alive, but she never got back to me on that. I did see her once, walking up Wabash, and she totally snubbed me. I’m not sure if she didn’t see me, or if she saw me and pretended not to, but I only noticed her right before she walked by, and she totally ignored me. I thought of going back and saying, “Yo, bizatch, talk to me!” I decided against it, logically assuming that if she wanted to say something to me, she would’ve.
In June, her boyfriend, Zeke, called me out of the blue. This was a week or two after I’d gotten to Seattle. He was taking Directing II as a summer class, and he wondered if I’d be willing to write his final project, a four-minute script. He had the concept; he just wanted somebody to write it and make it work. I called him back and told him I was interested, and he called me a week or so later and pitched the entire idea on a VoiceMail.
He didn’t actually need somebody to write it or to make it work. He had every single beat of the story worked out; I would basically have been acting as a transcriber. I saw through his crafty ruse and realized that, perhaps, the Pothead was feeling guilty about her unnecessary ignoring of me. This was either his secret way of getting us talking again, or it was being instigated by her for the same reason.
Two days after he pitched the idea, I was honestly thinking about writing the idea, but I hadn’t called him back. I was called for an interview at the single greatest coffee chain in the history of the universe, and I got the job immediately following the interview, and I started training the following Monday (the interview was on Friday), so things kind of became a whirlwind and all of a sudden I was working full-time and trying to juggle that with writing a 60-page sample for a fellowship application, and I forgot about Zeke. I wasn’t taking it seriously to begin with, because I knew he didn’t need me, and then it dropped right out of my mind.
By the time I remember, he had already finished shooting. I thought, “Fuck, I should call him and let him know what happened,” and then I thought, “Dude, it’s not even worth the effort. It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again, especially the way Pothead’s avoiding me.”
One of the most important bits of practical advice we’re given in film school is: don’t burn bridges. This wasn’t technically a bridge burning. It was more like snubbing the protective troll as you cross because you figure you’re not going to have to come back to that bridge. It’s a problem easily solved with a brisk apology: “Oh, sorry, bridge troll, I didn’t notice you the first time you came there.” The problem was that I neglected to actually give said brisk apology to Zeke. I just let it hang, because I didn’t care too much.
This fall, I’ve been taking a class called screenwriting practicum, which is modeled as a microcosm of a real-world studio. A producer finds a story, gives it to an appropriate writer to adapt, the writer adapts it, and the producer tries to hustle it to anyone who will listen. It’s tied in with the producing, directing, and cinematography practica, all of which run in the spring semester. Right now, we’re working with Producing IV students who will go on to the producing practicum in the spring.
Three weeks ago (sorry I haven’t updated in awhile — I’ll be catching up this week), we had professional actors come in and do table readings of each script. As an added bonus, Directing III students came in to watch the readings and consider which scripts they may or may not want to direct in the coming semester. The reading of my script went rather poorly, in part because it was the first one of the morning (they were supposed to get the scripts in advance to rehearse but didn’t for a lot of stupid reasons I don’t feel it necessary to detail) but also because it’s very light on dialogue and therefore pretty dull for actors.
During the break, I had to piss like a racehorse (more on that in what will prove to be an extraordinarily disturbing entry), so I went to the second floor (nobody ever goes on the second floor, so you don’t have to fight to use the can), did my business, and when I came back up, I saw two of the directing students standing in the hall, talking. I walked toward them, and one of them stared at me. Fucking directors.
“Hey man, what’s up?” he said amiably.
Taken aback by his surprising niceness, I said, “How’s it going?” and moved past them back into the classroom. I immediately started thinking of the possibilities of why he would’ve greeted me. I knew he wasn’t just trying to be polite; there was an angle there, but what could it be? I don’t really know many directing students, so I didn’t just snub somebody that —
Wait. Directing III. Zeke was in Directing II over the summer, so it’s logical that he would’ve moved on to Directing III now in the fall. But he didn’t look anything like Zeke —
Except he did. Zeke, the two times I talked to him two summers ago, had long, hippie hair and was generally unshaven. In the fall of 2003, he chopped off his hair and started going clean-cut, but he has a natural white-man fro, so even though it was short, it looked pretty goofy. Now, the hair was slicked back (but it was still obviously naturally curly), and he was wearing stupid-looking emo glasses, but aside from those physical differences, he could be Zeke.
After the break, when we were all assembled in the room, I kept looking toward the back, where the directors were hiding, to see for sure whether or not it was Zeke. Whenever I’d look at him, he was looking back, so I’d avert my eyes and suddenly find my notebook extremely fascinating. But a few cursory glances, coupled by his seeming fascination with me, made it clear that this was, in fact, Zeke.
So I had two choices after class: (1) approach him, apologize, and hope for the best; or (2) run away. I don’t think it will come to a surprise to anyone, but I opted for the second choice. I turned my back to him and talked with some friends, pretending not to notice him, and then slid out the door as quickly as humanly possible.
And then I started feeling guilty. I should’ve at least apologized at that point, since I had long since lost his phone number. I debated briefly about calling the Pothead, even though I’d heard she and Zeke had since broke up (which, you’d think, would be even more reason to call her), explaining the situation and asking her to have Zeke called me back. I also thought about finding out when his Directing II class met and “accidentally” running into him so I could both apologize and say I didn’t even recognize him until later.
In the end, I did what I always do: nothing.
I still think I should have done something, and maybe I still should. This really has little, if anything, to do with rebuilding personal connections with people I didn’t know all that well to begin with. It’s mostly about the fact that, in the spring semester of the practicum, I want somebody to shoot my script. Now, it’s possible — even likely — that the practicum will make my script. My producer’s great, she loves the script and hustles it like a madwoman, and I’m sure she could at least lure a director to the project, which automatically ensures that it’ll get made.
But here’s the problem: what if she doesn’t? There are 12 screenwriting students, together writing a total of 24 different scripts to go into the practicum pool, which already has a dozen or so scripts from last year that never got made. In additon, there are 9 producers, and it’s not even a guarantee that all 9 of them will move on to the practicum. In addition, there are 7 directors, meaning 2 of the 9 producers won’t even have scripts shot.
So again, the odds for me, personally, are good because of my producer and the quality of the story (the original one — my adaptation doesn’t do much in the way of changing it), but couldn’t they be better? If I already have a director going into it with whom I have some sort of established business or personal friendship who will know he can come to me with revision possibilities and equally know that I’ll give him quality material?
With that said, I’ll probably still do nothing. But I may just give a shout-out to the Pothead under the guise of “happy holidays oh and by the way —” to see what happens. You never know.
Posted by Stan on December 19, 2004 2:50 PM | Permalink | School Rants | Digg It
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