True Hollywood Stories: the Stranger in the Room

The producer calls the writer, says "I’ve got this fantastic property I want to develop." The writer says "Oh I love that property, by all means let’s do this." The producer and the writer have a series of meetings where they talk about what would make a good movie based on this property. The writer has ideas, the producer also has ideas, they work together to come to an agreement of what the movie should be. When they feel like they’ve got a firm handle on the idea, they call up the studio people and set up a meeting.

The day before the meeting, the writer gets an email from his representation: "Writer," the email says, "Mr. So-and-so You’ve Never Heard Of will also be in the meeting tomorrow." There is never an explanation as to who Mr. So-and-so is, just a dismissive "FYI"-style note so they can cover their asses. If the writer then calls his representation and says "Wait a minute, who is this guy and why is he going to be in the meeting?" the writer’s representation invariably answers "Oh, don’t worry about him, he has no power, he’s just some guy, he’s just happy to be there."

This, invariably, turns out to not be the case. Oftentimes, the Stranger in the Room is the rights holder, or perhaps a representative of some tributary aspect of the property (a publisher, an animator, the author’s agent) and, in spite of the fact that the Stranger has had absolutely nothing to do with the development of the project up to this point, and has, perhaps, not met either the producer or the studio folk before, the Stranger nevertheless feels that the meeting is actually about himself and his interests in the project, and will direct the meeting thus. The other people in the room, who care nothing about the writer or the work he’s done, will cater to the Stranger’s point of view, in spite of the fact that he has no power, no talent and no control over the project.

So, an imaginary pitch might go like this:

STUDIO FOLK: So, I hear you’ve got a project for us.
PRODUCER: We do indeed. Writer and I have been putting this take together and I think you’ll like it. Writer, go.
WRITER: So there’s this big shark, see, and the big shark is eating swimmers off the coast of this island town in New England. And there’s this new police chief, and he wants to get rid of the shark and nobody will help him. The mayor is this greedy bastard who puts the town’s financial interests before the lives of its citizens. And the police chief wants to hire this crusty old sea-captain guy to hunt the shark, but this smart-alec oceanographer comes along and has completely different ideas.
STRANGER: And it’s a musical.
PRODUCER: I don’t hate that.
STUDIO FOLK: A musical! I love musicals! Remember Chicago? That was great.
PRODUCER: Musicals are guaranteed moneymakers these days.
STUDIO FOLK: Our marketing people tell us that. Perfect crossover hits. I’m thinking of Reese Witherspoon and Hugh Jackman.
PRODUCER: I actually have a relationship with Reese.
STUDIO FOLK: And Hugh actually owes us a picture. Anyway, we’re getting off track. (to Writer) So, shark, police chief, crusty sea captain, musical, go.
WRITER: Um, well, the police chief, the crusty sea captain and the smart-alec oceanographer go out to sea to hunt the shark —
STUDIO FOLK: How big is the boat?
WRITER: Well, that’s the thing, the boat is really small, too small really, there’s actually a line of dialogue about that, I’m thinking it’ll be really funny if the police chief, the first time he sees the shark, he backs into the pilot house and says —
STUDIO FOLK: If it’s a really small boat, where are they dancing?
PRODUCER: That’s a good point, the boat has to be bigger. It has to be big enough for some real razzle-dazzle production numbers. And they should have a crew, like twenty, thirty guys, to function as a chorus.
STUDIO FOLK: Women like sequins.
PRODUCER: I see no reason why the police chief can’t wear sequins.
STUDIO FOLK: Anyway, I’m loving this. So, we’ve got this big boat with a huge crew, out at sea, hunting a shark, singing and dancing in sequins.
PRODUCER: It’s like Pirates, but present-day, with songs.
STUDIO FOLK: I love it. I’m thinking of Reese as the police chief, Hugh as the crusty sea-captain, and maybe someone younger to play the smart-alec oceanographer, like Zooey maybe, or Miley. So you’ve got the two women fighting over the guy between songs. (to Writer) Anyway, continue.

And so on.

_____________________________

Here is my worst Stranger in the Room story:

A Studio Executive calls me up. He says "Todd, I’ve got a great property, Sexy Space Fantasy, that we’re developing as a vehicle for Hot Effervescent Starlet, I’d love for you to take a look at the material." I say "Wow, Sexy Space Fantasy starring Hot Effervescent Starlet sounds like a surefire hit, Studio Executive! Send the material over tout suite and I will happily develop a pitch for free!"

(Where is the producer? I hear you ask. Well, in this case, there wasn’t one, which made the project that much more attractive to me — one less step between me and The Job.)

The material arrives. I read it. It’s sexy, funny, full of action and spectacle. An idea forms in my head: this project is Female James Bond, In Space. This is a science-fiction fantasy that will appeal both to teenage girls because the protagonist is a girl who gets to have sex with at least three cute guys, and will appeal to their dates because the protagonist will appear in scanty outfits while kicking ass in space. The key, as I say, is to make the protagonist a Female James Bond. She’s not caught in a romantic entanglement, where she’s in love with two guys and must choose between them — no, she’s an empowered, independent, smoking-hot woman who moves through the galaxy sleeping with whoever she wants to, and pays no emotional price for her decision. I put together a whole three-act take on the project, full of action sequences, colorful bad guys, thrilling last-moment escapes, cute boys and skimpy outfits. I have, I believe, a completely fun adolescent escapist fantasy, tailored perfectly to the attributes of Hot Effervescent Starlet.

I call up Studio Executive. Studio Executive says "So, Todd, what do you have for me?" I say "I’m thinking of this project as "Female James Bond in Space." Studio Executive says "Perfect! Brilliant! When can you come out and pitch?" I say "Wait, don’t you want to hear the take I’ve put together?" Studio Executive says "No! ‘Female James Bond in Space’ is perfect, it says it all! Come out next week and pitch it to My People and let’s get started on this thing."

I hang up the phone and think "Well, that was easy." And phone calls are made, and the next thing I know Studio Executive has arranged to fly me from New York to Los Angeles, and I am booked into Pricey Pretentious Hotel, so that I can pitch my take on Sexy Space Fantasy to Studio Executive’s People.

So I fly to LA, I check into my hotel, and the next morning I drive to Big Studio Over the Hill to make my pitch to Studio Executive’s People. I walk into the room, and there is Studio Executive, Junior Studio Executive I’ve Never Met Before, and Complete Stranger. And, after some pleasantries, Studio Executive tells me that His People couldn’t make it to this meeting, so Complete Stranger has come instead. Complete Stranger, it turns out, is there to represent the interests of Hot Effervescent Starlet. Mind you, she does not actually work for or with Hot Effervescent Starlet, and she knows nothing about the project that Studio Executive and I have been discussing, but she does know Hot Effervescent Starlet well and is there to hear the pitch on her behalf.

Um, okay, why not? I conclude. Can’t hurt, right? So what? I’ve been flown 3000 miles to pitch to a specific person, and that person isn’t actually in the room now, but what is my choice? Am I to say "Hey, Studio Executive, call me when you get your act together?" No, I am not to do that, that would be rude, and unprofessional. No, I am now expected to pitch to Studio Executive, Junior Studio Executive I’ve Never Met Before (who has no power to make decisions) and Complete Stranger, who is there to represent Hot Effervescent Starlet.

Well, okay. Whatever. I have my pitch and I’m ready to go.

I start in. "Okay. So, out in space, we see a spaceship. This is the private spaceship of our protagonist. And she’s just waking up from a hot night she’s had with a really cute astronaut who she met the night before. Okay, so — "

At this moment, Studio Executive’s assistant, a perfectly nice young lady, walks into the room holding a Post-it note. Without introducing herself or apologizing for the interruption, she thrusts the Post-it note under the nose of Studio Executive. The Studio Executive, after divining the significance of whatever is written on the Post-it, gets up and, without a single word of explanation or apology, leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Which leaves me and Junior Studio Executive I’ve Never Met Before (who cannot make a decision) and Complete Stranger, who knows nothing about the project. And I give a little laugh, as though to say "Well, now what? The reason I flew 3000 miles to tell you this thing just walked out the door," and Complete Stranger leans forward and says "Go on."

And I think "What? ‘Go on?’ I don’t even know who you are or what your agenda is, you know nothing about this project or its development, why am I pitching to you? And how did you getto be the senior principal in this meeting?" But I don’t say that, because that would be rude and unprofessional. So instead I gather my wits, think "What the hell," and continue with my pitch.

I pitch for about a half-hour. I tell the whole story of the movie. The highs, the lows, the killer set pieces I’ve devised, the action-filled climax I’ve constructed, the sexy trouble the protagonist gets into, the comedy inherent in the escapist, campy premise. I wrap it up with a big finish, where the protagonist saves the galaxy and ends up taking off in her private spaceship with her latest conquest and on to more adventures.

As I’m pitching the last sentence of the take, Studio Executive walks back in and, again, without a single word of apology or explanation, rejoins the meeting. And I say "And so, our protagonist sails off into space with the cute young astronaut and onto more adventures," and Studio Executive says nothing. He says nothing, rather, he turns to see what Complete Stranger thinks. And Complete Stranger looks at me quizzically and cocks her head and says, as though to a child, "But, Todd, isn’t Sexy Space Fantasy really all about a journey to love?"

I splutter at the absurdity of the question. "No," I say, "it’s not about ‘a journey to love,’ it’s an escapist action fantasy, it’s not about anything so deep as ‘a journey to love’, it’s just pure escapist fun, it’s Female James Bond in Space." And I turn to Studio Executive for backup, as if to say "Right? Isn’t that what you flew me 3000 miles to pitch?  Isn’t that what you asked me to develop?  Isn’t that what you wanted, Studio Executive?  Isn’t that what I’m doing here?" And Studio Executive stares hard at me and says "Well yes, but isn’t it also a journey to love? Where is the journey to love, Todd?" And I’m thinking "The hell with the ‘journey to love,’ it’s ‘Female James Bond in Space,’ what the hell does that have to do with a ‘journey to love?’  What the hell are you doing flying me 3000 miles to pitch to Complete Stranger while you leave the room?!" Keep in mind, Complete Stranger isn’t working on the project, doesn’t work with Hot Effervescent Starlet, is not a producer or a studio executive or an agent or a manager, does not run Hot Effervescent Starlet’s production company or have any connection whatsoever to the studio where I now am pitching, and, to top it off, Complete Stranger has never heard of the project and has no vested interest in how it turns out. But, with one sentence, Complete Stranger has completely invalidated my pitch.

(Later, I find out that Complete Stranger, in addition to being friends with Hot Effervescent Starlet, is a Former Studio Head, and thus "outranks" Studio Executive, in spite of not being involved in Sexy Space Fantasy in any regard whatsoever.)

Anyway, the meeting ends and I go back to New York and I don’t get that job, and Sexy Space Fantasy never gets made, and Studio Executive never returns my phone calls. Later I have an even stranger adventure with Junior Studio Executive, about a completely different project, but that’s another story.

(And, as long as I’m here, let me add that, occasionally, the Stranger in the Room turns out to be a boon — I have been in rooms where the Stranger was the one saying "But what about the protagonist and what he’s going through at the moment?  Could we talk more about that?"  A question I’m all too happy to answer, but which rarely gets asked by studio folk, who’d rather hear about what the poster looks like and how the trailer will cut together.)