Category:script notes

Don't know quite where to file this. It's from the Detroit Free Press. [via The Revealer]

October 23, 2004

Manolo, Manolo, Manolo!

And I thought two was a trend. Manolos are breakin' out all over:

  • "I have been feeling good lately. Monolo's got me on some new Zinc program and I am in week two of my Bowflex program." Manolo, [not] Nick Nolte's trainer/nutritionist/manservant
  • "He can't sleep, so at 5 a.m. he takes his valet, Manolo Sanchez, to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. They meet protesters, whom Nixon engages in repartee about ... surfing." Manolo, Richard Nixon's manservant
  • "Manolo is speechless." Manolo is writing the Manolo's Shoe Blog [via Rexblog and Buzzmachine]

  • Today's Boldface Names column in the Times is a ready-to-shoot script for a Hemingwayesque short. The story: James Gandolfini, who's putting the Ernest H. in HBO, gets into character by putting the moves on...on the reporter for the New York Times. The whole thing takes place during a benefit at Elaine's.

    I'd shoot this myself, but I'm still too traumatized over losing my shaving kit last week on the exact spot where this love scene takes place. Think about it.

    The Old Man and the She [NYT, via Gawker]

    September 16, 2004

    Now THAT'S a Health Care Crisis

    "As for her walking barefoot, The Doctor's orders are for her to wear Uggs or tennis shoes and it's just too hot for that."

    Uggs? Uggs??? You might as well bleed her to rebalance her humeurs. Mrs. Spears.

    [via Defamer, who keeps track of Britney's toilet footwear so you don't have to. Unless you work for InStyle, in which case, it's your job, and what your parents shelled out $140,000 so you could go to Brown for. They must be so proud.]

    INT - NYC Friday, 7:30AM

    A groggy mid-30's MAN with bedhead and a 4-day growth of beard crawls into the t-shirt, khakis, and flip-flops dropped the previous night along the trail to his bed. Alternate side parking.
    INT - CAR
    Sitting in his car, he figures, why not go to this Costco he's heard of, get those Pampers, that baby formula, maybe a rack of ribs. He crosses the 59th st bridge, drops into LIC, and pulls into the Costco parking lot. When the store finally opens (at 10) he enters, and is stopped by an ATTENDANT.

    ATTENDANT
    Membership card, sir?
    MAN
    Umm, I guess I need to pick it up.
    ATTENDANT
    To your right.

    The man wanders to the membership desk and shells out more than he would have saved on his baby gear. Guess he'll be coming back here again.

    MEMBERSHIP DESK CLERK
    Step to the end of the desk for your picture.
    MAN
    I need a picture? What for?
    CLERK
    It goes on your membership card.
    MAN
    I just-- Had I known, I would've gotten all dressed up.
    CLERK
    Would it be that much better?

    INT - A SCRUFFY CONFERENCE ROOM, LATE AFTERNOON

    One by one, the bleary-eyed IndieWIRE staffers stumble into the room, looking in vain for the bagels and coffee.

    JONNY LEAHAN
    Where's the spread? Who the f(*& schedules a meeting this early and doesn't order breakfast?
    No one even looks up. Managing Editor WENDY MITCHELL, facedown on the table in a slowly expanding pool of drool, stirs briefly at the sudden noise, but doesn't move. From this position, her jacket collar separates from her neck, which turns out to be covered with fresh hickeys..
    BRIAN BROOKS
    Nan da, korya!, baka-baka-shii jikan tsubushi. Hima ja nai, ore. Maa, jitsu wa hima da kedo...

    J.D. ASHCRAFT
    (wearily spitting out the punchline to an office joke gone stale) Suntory Time!

    ANTHONY KAUFMAN
    Cut with the Lost in Translation, already.

    BROOKS
    Ore no daihon was saisho datta! Sofia no Tokyo Story to zenzen chigau!

    KEN TABACHNICK
    Dude, she beat you to it. It's over . She won.
    He headnods to WENDY, who still clutches a MoMA giftbag from the night before.
    KAUFMAN

    Write about something else, Kahane. Move on.

    EXT. SATURDAY NIGHT - WASHINGTON, DC

    A WEEKENDING NEW YORKER approaches the entrance to Agua Ardiente, an "upscale," "hip tapas restaurant" on the "DC Latin circuit." He is wearing a vintage suede jacket, black cashmere turtleneck, black Prada Sport loafers with that silly little red stripe that he neverthless insists be cleaned with glycerine every time he gets them shined, and, embarassingly, the slightly weathered pair of Banana Republic khakis with the little black label carefully picked off the back that he'd been househunting in all day.

    Two skinny DOORMEN, dressed all in black, brace themselves in advance of a confrontation.

    DOORMAN 1
    Good Evening.

    NEW YORKER
    Hi.

    DOORMAN 2
    Sir, I'm afraid we can't let you in with sneakers.

    NEW YORKER
    No, it's OK. These are loafers.

    DOORMAN 2
    I'm sorry, sir, the policy is no sneakers.

    NEW YORKER
    But they're not-- they're loafers. Prada Loafers.

    I got them at Harvey Nichols.

    (An empty lie. But he'd rather get turned away for lying about Harvey Nick's carrying Prada than for not abiding with some obtuse provincial dress code. Besides, the man figures, it already can't get any worse than announcing your brands at the door.)

    DOORMAN 2
    I'm sorry, sir.

    DOORMAN 1
    You're welcome to come back without rubber-soled shoes.

    NEW YORKER
    So the definition of "sneakers" is rubber-soled shoes?

    DOORMAN 1
    Yes, sir.

    NEW YORKER
    What about the khakis? Should I change those, too?

    DOORMAN 2
    The khakis are fine, sir.


    The man walks back to his car, contemplates the parties he's missing in New York, and heads home to rewatch Gerry, now available for rent or purchase on DVD.

    Directors: If you are concerned when your writer proposes to populate your circa 2003 New York City streetscape with the following characters, please rest assured that these are not fantastical or implausible, but just the opposite. They are as real as real gets.

    1) An older man in a yellowing undershirt and trousers carrying a large zither many blocks from the nearest zither repair shop or flea market.

    2) A younger woman in an ever-so-slightly too-small Chanel tanktop and slacks, with large (Chanel, obviously) sunglasses on her needs-a-touchup blonde hair, Jimmy Choo shopping bags in the crook of her tanned arm, screaming into a tiny cell phone nestled gingerly between her french manicured nails and her made up face, "Well then I AM a bad dog mommy, because I still have to go to Barney's!"

    A bustling Manhattan mid-day. A female EVENTS PLANNER, 30 years old, shoulder-length brown hair, Barney's Label sleeveless blouse and pantsuit, stands at a glass display counter. She shops for silkscreenable trinkets with which to reward attendees for an impending business conference. A mid-30's SALES ASSOCIATE with not-so-recently applied blonde highlights makes smalltalk as she retrieves digital clocks and desk caddies for consideration.

    SALES ASSOCIATE
    Do you like your job?

    EVENTS PLANNER
    Wha--? Oh-- sure.

    It's been so hectic lately.

    SALES ASSOCIATE
    What is your exact title?

    EVENTS PLANNER
    (hesitant, slightly confused) I plan special events.

    SALES ASSOCIATE
    Ah, so you're not in actual public relations, then.

    EVENTS PLANNER
    (getting up to speed, but not jumping fully into the conversation) No, I only do special events.

    This one's been real tough. To get everything pulled together... And I worked through the weekend...

    SALES ASSOCIATE
    Oh, I know. I've had a rough few days, too.

    I have breast cancer.

    November 21, 2002

    A Scene from Smoke

    9. INT: EVENING. THE BROOKLYN CIGAR CO. [search for "9" on the page]

    ...

    AUGGIE (Harvey Keitel)
    Sometimes it feels like my hobby is my real job, and my job is just a way to support my hobby. ...

    Screenplays for You, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. [thanks to Lightning Field]

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    Since 2001 here at greg.org, I've been blogging about the creative process—my own and those of people who interest me. That mostly involves filmmaking, art, writing, research, and the making thereof.

    Many thanks to the Creative Capital | Warhol Foundation Arts Writers Program for supporting greg.org that time.

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