A Paul Schrader Protagonist Journals on the Death of Hollywood
I have decided to keep a journal on the same typewriter where I used to write screenplays. A relic of the past—both the typewriter and myself.
I will write about the filth and scum of this city, about the sordid dogs who have forced my eviction from my studio apartment in Silver Lake.
The same apartment where I now sit, and will be forced to vacate, unless I soon come up with the money to pay.
But I don’t have the money. Not anymore. Not since original content was replaced by Jurassic Park 10 and screenplays written by Trust Fund Kids and AI.
I write to fight back.
Here is a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against private equity monopolies, Cinderella remakes, and traffic on the five. Here is a man who stood up.
***
I feel much better today. I awoke early, and made myself an espresso from the machine I stole from a Netflix wrap party.
I wasn’t a writer on the show, so I crashed the party, then gifted myself the espresso machine as recourse for getting stuck in a thirty-minute conversation with Matt Rife.
Espresso is a colonic for the soul.
After my morning routine, I am clear-headed, and will now immediately set about my daily tasks.
I have taken it upon myself to find the party who is responsible for the death of scripted content.
And when I find that person, I will make them pay—either literally, or figuratively. Money, though—I need money.
***
The difference between success and failure can be miniscule but meaningful.
I haven't yet found the person who has vanquished my dreams, but I did have lunch with a screenwriter friend at Granville in Burbank.
He can afford to be a screenwriter due to his weekly allowance from his father, Jonathan Taylor Thomas.
He said he had work for me.
"Work is good," I said. “For it is endowed by our creator with purpose. Every day, we are one step closer to death, but without work, each of those steps are tiny suicides."
The job?
An upcoming episode of Bluey.
How much did it pay?
“Nothing,” JTT’s son replied. “But the execs will really appreciate it.”
Execs. The people in charge. The vultures who control the business, a graveyard whose only sustenance were the corpses my peers—and me.
One step closer to the execs meant one step closer to righteous glory.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
I then asked him where the bathroom was. But instead of entering, I veered left, and walked out the door to the bright outdoors.
There was no way I could pay for my wagyu steak sandwich and apps.
***
The space around my typewriter is littered with dead cigarettes and empty whisky bottles.
I finished a draft of my assigned Bluey episode.
The plot: Bluey gets a job making six figures on a regular television series. Bingo also needs a writing job and Bluey hires her for the show. Lucky, Chucky, and Chloe also need writing jobs and they also all get hired. Everyone is happy.
It was time for a break.
I went to my new job serving coffee at Warner Brothers Studios gift shop.
My screenwriting friend Jane has been working there for the past six months and got me the job. Jane was an award-winning playwright back in NYC. Here, she is food for cattle. We all are.
The story inside every screenplay: the ultimate reckoning of the protagonist’s initial desire.
I’d love Jane if I thought it’d end well, which I knew it wouldn’t. Our collective ending is an apocalypse of spirit.
A Suit walked in. Not in itself surprising. I see Suits all the time. But this one was different. He had the look of someone who had stared God in the eye and told him where to put it.
The Suit came to my register. I asked him what he wanted. Surprisingly, he said he didn’t know.
“Espresso?” I asked.
“The espresso here sucks,” he retorted.
“Tell me about it,” I said, with a knowing smirk.
Smirking was my only poker face in the card game of life.
“I have the best espresso machine in LA,” I continued.
“Why isn’t it here?” the Suit asked.
I smirked, then shrugged. “Rules,” I said.
“Rules,” the Suit chortled. “Rules are the death of this industry. They’ll be the death of humanity.”
“We both followed the rules,” Jane replied. “That’s what got us here.”
“You both screenwriters?” the Suit asked.
“How’d you know?” I replied.
“I know that look,” the Suit replied. “I had it myself.”
***
A black town car picked Jane and I up from my apartment at Dusk. The sky went black as the car took us skywards through Hollywood Hills. My pages for Bluey were in my left hand.
Jane reached out and held my free hand in hers. For the first time in forever, I felt calm, and fell asleep. I woke to the whirring of a mechanical gate.
We were led to a pool in the back of the house. The patio was lit by fire light; the Los Angeles horizon was dotted with the embers of dying dreams.
The Suit was sitting at a table with his back to us. He was in jeans and a t-shirt.
Jane and I sat across from him.
We all stared at each other.
“I used to be a Screenwriter,” the Suit said, blinking first.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I lost my spirit.”
“Maybe you never had one,” I replied.
“You think I’m the bad guy,” the Suit replied.
“I know death when I see it,” I said.
“I hate to break it to you,” the Suit replied. “But no one’s in charge.”
“Well then what are you?” I asked.
“I’m the guy that’s going to make your screenplay.”
I took my Bluey script and slid it across the table. The Suit didn't even look.
"Not that script," he said. "Your script."
A good idea, with one big problem. I didn't have a script. Because I wasn't a writer. I was just another delusional parasite.
Jane grabbed my hand.
“We have your screenplay,” Jane said. “It’s going to be a hit.”
The Suit looked pleased.
“Only thing,” the Suit said. “It needs a star.”
Jane looked at me, but I looked at the Suit.
“I got the perfect guy,” I replied.
***
I stood on the back lot and watched as Jane prepared for the movie’s final scene. The Suit and I stood in matching suits.
We watched Jane go to work.
No, I wasn't a writer anymore. But maybe I never was.
Jane yelled “Action!”
Jonathan Taylor Thomas walked on set in slicked back hair and a black suit.
A man holding a gun walked up behind him. Without turning, JTT noticed him there.
“I’m not a bad man," JTT said. “Just had bad luck."
"All the same to me," Tim Allen responded.
"You won't get out of her alive," JTT said.
"Neither will you."
JTT, gun in hand, turned towards Tim Allen.
Tim Allen shot first, then he walked towards JTT as he emptied his clip into JTT’s chest. Blood poured from JTT’s body--dead.
And that was a wrap on "Home Improvement: the movie."
***
Jane and I drove to our house in the hills. We sat arm in arm and watched as the sun went down.
"What will you write next?" I asked Jane.
"Whatever they want," Jane replied.
"Does that make you happy? I asked.
"You make me happy," she said.
"That's my line," I replied.
This was a good life.
No, I wasn't a writer, but my dream was sitting next to me. That was all the reality I needed.
Well, that and a shit load of money.