All the news coverage of the ongoing writers strike in Hollyweird reminded of a moment that occurred outside the Directors Guild of America a few years ago, where my writing partner Cary Carpe and I had screened a spot for the 7th Annual Filmmakers Alliance Screening.
The event served, in part, as a tribute to “Sideways” director Alexander Payne who was on hand to rally the throng of independent filmmakers to overtake the “moribund beast” of the studios.
The spot featured Carpe and I kvetching about the woes of indie filmmaking in an homage (French for “rip-off”) to Gordon Willis’ lauded longshot of Woody Allen and Tony Roberts in “Annie Hall.” It was shot by Abe Levy and cut by Raymond “He Who Goes By Scott” Daigle, now with FilmArt3.
Having had my fill of cocktail-time accolades and my pockets weighted with as many business cards as Virginia Wolf had stones (must I remind fellow scribes that we, by nature, are as acquisitive as thieves and the last people one should ask to read one’s script?) I stepped outside for some refreshing mid-summer Los Angeles air (yes, I was still smoking at the time).
“Daedalus Howell?”
I stoked my resolve before turning and absently blathering my line, if a bit ahead of cue, “I’m glad you liked the film, thanks for coming, send your script to my manager.”
A knotted hand seized me by my shoulder. It belonged to a bearded man in a rumpled suit — haggard, as if he had traveled a great distance — a refugee, a fugitive, a hobo.
“It’s me, Howell. It’s Cary. Your partner.”
The old man did bear an uncanny resemblance to my writing partner Carpe who I had left in the DGA swilling green apple martinis and telling bedtime stories to the talent just minutes before.
“I’ve come from the future,” he sputtered, then caught his breath. His furtive eyes searched the DGA lobby for his younger self. “You have to stop me — now — before it’s too late.”
He then pressed into my hand a parcel hastily wrapped in Variety and lurched down Sunset toward Fairfax. I followed, but when I turned the corner, he had vanished. Puzzled, I tore into the trade — a headline caught my eye: “Carpe Flick Hails Humanity’s End.” It was dated 2024. Inside was a revolver, which I jammed into my pocket.
Anxiety washed over me as I contemplated what this strange visitation portended: “The jerk got a movie made without me…”
