, August 23, 2024
Redemption Arc
He COLLIDES with the concrete wall of the OVERPASS and COLLAPSES into a heap. BLOOD GUSHES from his chest, but THE ANGEL stands. He PEERS over the edge at the ROARING TRAFFIC and says (quietly), I am already dead.
Not dead enough for me, ANGEL. MARLEY rounds the corner, GUN IN HAND.
THE ANGEL takes one STEP BACKWARDS. Your eyes have changed. He takes ANOTHER STEP BACK. They are the eyes of a killer. His legs cup the edge of THE OVERPASS. They are my eyes, MARLEY.
THE ANGEL DIVES OFF THE OVERPASS.
I sit in the back row underneath the projector, inhaling the Milk Duds I smuggled in my purse. It is 11:00 a.m. on a Friday. This is a reconnaissance mission. Four people watch the screen. I watch four people. I am, sadly, getting the better end of this arrangement when it comes to entertainment. There is no reaction to the Angel diving off the overpass; no reaction to Marley following him. The crowd is spectacularly indifferent.
I am in theater number four of The Hollywood Galaxy 6 but am certain this same ennui permeates multiplexes nationwide. This audience—two octogenarian women, a young bald man with a ponytail, and a vagrant in a trench coat whose right hand has yet to make an appearance—is ubiquitous. They are the first responders: whenever a new cannon blast of diarrhea rockets from Hollywood’s asshole, they are there to be smeared. These are not film fans. They have not come to see my movie. They have not even come to see a movie. And that indifference makes this crowd the most powerful cadre of tastemakers in Hollywood. Raw, idle stupor, anything to chip away two of their twenty-four hours, in this dark, butter-smeared, excessively air-conditioned room is the sum total of their desires. If I can hook these people into my story—if I can hook just one man looking for a loud and dark place to publicly masturbate—I will hook the world.
Papa, the shrink to whom Adrian has assigned you, believes your antipathy towards cinema is a manifestation of a deeply rooted self-loathing. He is wrong. Not about your deeply rooted self-loathing, that’s a fact, but in his characterization that you hate movies. You love movies. It just so happens that loving movies means mostly hating movies, because movies are mostly feature length advertisements meant to sell poison to children.
Papa pretends to cough but yawns into his sleeve. He wants to circle back to this, he says, and you notice for the first time how profoundly hairy he is. There is only a sliver of flesh separating the end of his hairline and the beginning of his eyebrows. His beard extends to the very top of his cheekbones and hair bursts from the cuffs of his sleeves like he is hoarding cotton candy. If it weren’t for the glistening bald spot at the top of his head, he could be the Wolfman.
Papa does not smile when you relay this information. Papa is not the smiling type. His real name is Dr. Armand Papazian, and according to Variety he is the premier therapist to the stars. His patient list is the most objective power ranking in Hollywood, in which you clearly do not belong. Papa is Adrian’s gift, such as it is. Papa will keep his beady little starfucker eyes on you.
TWO CONCRETE WALLS FRAME THE HIGHWAY.
THE ANGEL effortlessly hoists himself up and over the furthest one.
MARLEY stands at the opposite side while TRAFFIC RUMBLES past.
You were always good at Frogger, MARLEY says (sarcastically) and CHARGES INTO TRAFFIC.
Trench Coat Man emits a sound which could be a laugh at one of Marley’s zingers. I risk it and look. It is not a laugh. I return my eyes to the screen and do not move them. Marley continues to crack wise in her observations of the Los Angeles freeway, has three near-misses with speeding cars, and arrives safely at the opposite wall only to discover she is too short to scale it.
This is, regrettably, a major dramatic moment in the film. I have set it up painstakingly, peppering the script with references to The Angel’s abnormally long arms. This occurs most explicitly on page thirty-three, when Marley’s irreverent partner Grimes locates The Angel using the delivery receipt for a custom-tailored suit with abnormally long sleeves. Adrian thought the script too subtle and demanded further explanation, so I made Grimes quip that he could paint an eavestrough with no ladder, which still required the addendum because of his long arms. Now, having masterfully enacted the principle of Chekhov’s Abnormally Long Arms, I give the audience their payoff.
You’ve circled back. Papa asks why you hate yourself.
You have your reasons: below-average intelligence, lack of moral character, hideous appearance, what you did to poor Grace—
Papa clears his throat, looks at his watch. We are almost out of time. You note that twenty-two minutes remain in your session. Papa does nothing for two of those remaining minutes, staring hairily at his watch until the silence grows unbearable and he suggests a breathing exercise.
THE WALL IS TOO TALL!
MARLEY says (deprecatingly), This can’t get any worse.
AN EIGHTEEN-WHEELER TRUCK APPEARS!
MARLEY says (ironically), I spoke too soon.
I set-up Marley’s escape in act two. Marley and Grimes travel to her childhood home and discover her father’s music box. In seven minutes of exposition, the audience learns Marley’s father, a renowned Jewish pianist, died in the concentration camps when he was betrayed by The Angel, his best friend turned Nazi informant. Grimes, through a series of irrelevant questions, has Marley recap how an ominous letter arrived from The Angel on her twenty-fifth birthday with the ominous threat You must learn from your father’s mistakes Marley or be doomed to repeat them. The scene ends with Grimes, inexplicably aroused after learning the tragic circumstances of Marley’s father’s death, kissing her. They hump frantically (clothes on, it’s PG-13), and the music box plays Marley’s Theme.
Hot breath hits you in the face, tuna salad and mouthwash, and Papa asks you to recall a moment of triumph. He claims this will shatter your negative schema, but the idea is just to run out the clock and get you to blabber away the remaining twenty minutes. You take the bait and shamelessly describe your ascent.
Your first screenplay was written by plucking two pieces of paper from adjacent hats. The first hat contained one sheet with the words Die Hard in a _____ written on it. The second contained dozens of different locations excluding the office building from Die Hard, the bus from Speed, the plane from Executive Decision, the cliff from Cliffhanger, the boat from Under Siege, the airport from Die Hard 2, the NHL hockey game from Sudden Death, the boat from Speed 2, the prison from The Rock, the plane from Air Force One, and the plane from Con-Air. It’s been done.
You selected volcano. Erupt sold for a quarter-million.
In 1995, you were feted like all new hot writers and immediately fired. Though you couldn’t be trusted to guide your own screenplay into production, you were paradoxically entrusted to rewrite every single other script in production. This was well-paid work but done in anonymity. For an attention whore such as yourself, it was hell. You sold more scripts. None are made. Someone sells Die Hard in an Office Building. The studios awakened to your bullshit. You were twenty-six and all washed up.
MARLEY finds THE MUSIC BOX in her purse.
THE TRUCK IS A METER AWAY.
She places the box on the ground.
THE TRUCK IS CENTIMETERS AWAY.
She steps onto the box.
THE TRUCK IS MILLIMETERS AWAY.
She grabs the top of the wall and pull—
Marley’s Theme blares from the speakers. Every hair on my body stands. The audience knows as well as I do that Marley will not die, lest the movie conclude with fifteen minutes of dead air as she is scraped off the highway, but we all grip our armrests as the truck approaches. Even Trench Coat Man claps, his right hand for the entire world to see. We cheer when Marley makes her inevitable escape and I remember why I love movies. Only religion and movies can foster this level of mass delusion.
Papa’s disappointed in your negativity, which he classifies as all-encompassing. He points out that your career is hotter than ever. He cites your upcoming film. He’s read the novel and found it quite moving. He thinks it should be something truly special.
You were aware of the book’s reputation even as you butchered it. Important is the adjective. The problem is that with an important doorstop of a novel featuring an unflinching portrayal of the concentration camps across its fifteen different locations and two dozen characters is that the book was unadaptable.
Dozens of writers failed before you. As the only remaining writer in Hollywood, destiny decided to give you a shot. You forewent reading it—it being easier to kill through ignorance than intentionality—and authored an atrocity. It appealed greatly to Adrian, who also had not read the book. He was so impressed he granted you an audience.
MARLEY follows a trail of BLOOD.
The crowd is enraptured. They watch Marley arrive at the conveniently located, highway-adjacent piano bar with an unwavering focus.
Adrian will make you. Adrian will break you. By entering his presence, you force his hand. His assistant, their will long-since broken, conveyed the details of your meeting with the numb intonation of a B-movie zombie.
Adrian’s hotel room was glorious. You guzzled wine on a couch the size of your apartment. The window had a view of Los Angeles that made the city appear habitable. Adrian praised your draft. He praised the way you stripped the book of everything that made it special, every element that compelled people to read it in the first place. Though he smelled like deli meat and was hideous by every metric, you were drawn to him. It is not charisma he possessed—you are never charmed—but pure, unalloyed power.
You signed the contract, sealed your fate. Adrian did not. Instead, he grabbed your hand and called the signature a formality. His hand was twice the size of yours and preternaturally hot. Your burning hand is what alerted you, finally, to the fact that you were alone.
MARLEY KICKS down the door of THE PIANO BAR.
Police, MARLEY screeches (loudly). Everyone evacuate the area!
Customers STAMPEDE out and MARLEY is ALONE with THE ANGEL.
He sits with his back to her and PLAYS THE PIANO.
It’s me and you, MARLEY says.
It has always been us, THE ANGEL responds.
HE BEGINS TO PLAY MARLEY’S THEME.
Don’t you dare! MARLEY screams and COCKS HER GUN.
The arc has reached its apex. Only one question remains: Will Marley succumb to The Angel’s final taunt and kill him? Will Marley do what is right and follow the rules? A current runs through the theater.
They are still on the line. I haven’t lost them yet.
The aloneness is an entity. Loud. Dangerous. Suffocating.
Do not play another word!
THE ANGEL KEEPS PLAYING.
MARLEY crosses the bar and comes FACE TO FACE with THE ANGEL. She LINES UP HER SHOT. Her finger DANCES ON THE TRIGGER—
—but she lowers the gun in realization.
How do you know this song?
The score quits. The theater is deathly quiet, all eyes on the screen. They care. Somehow, they actually care. I writhe in my red felt seat. It’s a hit.
Grace wasn’t her real name, just what you called her because of her resemblance to Grace Kelly. Her beauty was astounding. Even her obvious fear did nothing to diminish it.
Adrian released your hand when he spotted her and introduced you as the writer. He thought you two should talk, that you would get along. You smiled because it was what Adrian wanted for you and when Grace fell for it and took a seat, Adrian finally signed the contract.
How do you know this song? MARLEY repeats.
THE ANGEL continues to play, EXPERTLY. It is answer enough.
Papa?
Yes, THE ANGEL says (smiling). I’ve longed for this day.
MARLEY steps towards him into a POOL OF BLOOD. Papa you’re dying.
I died many years ago my dear. I died the moment I left you.
Why Papa? Why did you torment me?
My daughter, I love you. I watched over you all your life. With pride. He COUGHS: BLOOD splatters the piano keys. But I see an anger, deep within your soul. I put it there and I thought I could take it away. I never meant to torment you. When you rage, my daughter, the world rages back. The letter was simply meant to help. THE ANGEL sighs. I have been where you are. I succumbed to the allure of comfort, threw away morals simply because it was easy. You cannot make the same mistake. THE ANGEL SLOWS DOWN. It’s not too late for you.
It’s not too late for you Papa. I forgive you.
THE ANGEL’S EYES CLOSE. But I don’t forgive myself.
Papa! MARLEY screams.
BUT HE IS GONE.
The ending makes no sense. Why, just for starters, does her father send his heartfelt message in the form of a vaguely threatening letter that lends itself to misinterpretation? Why is this trite moral lesson worth the death of countless civilians? Fortunately for me, film does not deal in logic. Film deals in bullshit and this ending is perfect bullshit. The audience weeps, but they are happy. This is what they want. I have coaxed out their false tears, so they will never have to cry the real ones.
Papa wonders. Why is it that you never found out Grace’s real name? Why are you so eager to implicate Adrian? Isn’t this all just your tendency toward self-sabotage? He posits that it is just like you to tarnish this break in your career with an elaborate delusion about Adrian. He is animated, practically screaming, when he commands you forget about Grace and just enjoy yourself.
A COP enters the PIANO BAR and finds MARLEY cradling THE ANGEL.
Marley, he says (winking). I was here the whole time. I saw him pull a gun. MARLEY lets THE ANGEL drop. She stares into HIS EYES and then turns to THE COP.
Book me.
Captain?
Book me. She HOLDS OUT HER HANDS and MARLEY’S THEME BEGINS AGAIN. From now on I play it straight. We all do.
I don’t understand.
MARLEY smiles (proudly). And now you will. Book me.
The theater empties, but I stay for the credits. I am fifth billed. My name, fifty-feet wide and blinding, astounds. I think I am prepared. I am not.
I float down the aisle and through the lobby. It’s only when I step outside and the heat thaws me from my air-conditioned deep freeze, and my eyes readjust to the natural light, and the stench of popcorn leaves my nostrils, that I become myself again.
I remember Grace. But mostly I remember my name. I see it in neon every time I blink.
The ease with which I forgot Grace pains me, but the pain is less than the pleasure, so I ignore it and call Adrian to set up my next project.