“Smash hits!” flames Karl Wolf, president of Wolf, Lion, and Mane Studios. “If Danny Day-Lewis unretires, all the world’s a stage!”
Around the conference table, a dozen producers stare into their lattes as the metaphor floats above them like coffee froth.
“And just in time. Who do we have left? Tom Hanks? A Man Called Otto? He’s reprising Gabby Hayes and Andy Devine. How many granddad movies do we need, when Eastwood’s churning them out like baked beans? What next, Planet of the Aged?”
The room echoes.
“As soon as Danny climbs down from Scorsese’s new movie, a Jesus-tells-all, we’ll need scripts to keep him unretired.”
Silent bobblehead nods.
“Damn, do I have to write this myself?” Wolf screams his favorite threat. “It took Scorsese and Jesus to resurrect Day-Lewis from retirement. Now we’ve got to keep him or—
Walt Corman raises a hand. “Sir.”
Wolf, disoriented by the interruption, appeals to the Great Almighty for guidance,
“Meryl Steep, why did you forsake me? Was it because of the People’s Choice Award banquet?”
“Sir,” Corman persists, “who needs these old guys? Lewis is 66! He should be playing King Herod. There’s new blood, like Ryan Gosling and—”
“Ryan the gosling! His contract restricts him to just playing Ken. You’re fired! Don’t let the door kick you in the ass!”
As the door is kicking Carmen in the ass, Wolf throws out his arms, assuming a nailed posture. “Unless you generate ideas to lure Danny back into acting, you can kiss your offices, houses, cars, and lattes goodbye.” He lurches toward the window, skims the scene on Wilshire Boulevard, then swings back with a snarl. “And that’s the good news! After this building crashes into that drug and rat-infested street, after all of Hollywood breaks away from the state of California and plummets into the Pacific Ocean, the public will come after each and every one of you like a hungry tsunami and eat your entrails.”
This, at last, stirs the producers. They’ve heard Wolf spout off daily, but now he’s fusing reality with his greatest box-office hits.
“Pardon me, sir,” ventures Gloria Steinway, producer of such blockbusters as Tall, Dark, and Vampire, Women Prefer Vampires, and the musical LaLa Vampire, “but we’ve never used Day-Lewis or Hanks at Wolf Studios. So, what…”
“You’re missing the point. It’s not what we do. It’s what the public expects of us. Sex, sure. Violence, yes. Depravity, on the side. But what’s the thing this entire squalid industry has in abundance?
“Talent?” ventures Steinway.
“Almost.” Wolf beckons with his stubby fingers. “Not exactly talent, but the…?”
Silence.
Wolf heaves a dramatic sigh. “The magic of perception. Because of Danny and Tommy, they think we’re all talented. Without them, credibility derives from a few old broads like Streep, Sally Field, and Diane Keaton, each with one Oscar in the grave. Danny Day-Lewis could save us from becoming X’d to death—formerly known as employed.”
“But,” murmurs Bobby Hopper, producer of the unfortunate megahits Spiderman vs. Scissorhands and Row vs. Wade, “what about Ben, George, Brad…”
“Tied up with Ocean’s Fourteen through ad infinitum.”
“Leonardo!” shoots out Cindy Conon, the force behind Tall Dark and Husband, I Married a Paycheck, and Husband in the Rear.
“He’s on a mission to out Brando Brando. And then…” Wolf gestures toward his own rotund girth. “He’ll soon be a contender.”
The stable of producers murmurs like a Biblical crowd scene.
“Our only salvation,” Wolf continues, “is bringing Danny down from the cross for a miracle appearance at our studio. And we do that with scripts that pound into an actor’s brain like a… Do I have to come up with all the metaphors?” He slaps the table. “I want ideas for Danny Day-Lewis: penetrating, nail…biting, actor movies that cause audiences to look up and sing Halleluiah!”
Monty Anaconda chimes in with, “My Ugly Drycleaner. Danny’s character thinks drycleaning fluids are turning him Pakastani…”
“I’ll check with legal.”
“What about,” David Loud whispers, “Rutherford Hays: A President? Daniel has never played short.”
“Or,” Milo Post inserts, “Gangs of Newfoundland? And, for the ladies, Last of Sacajawea.”
Wolf pulls at his beard.
Wade Bond says, “Just off the top of my head: My Left Ear. Day-Lewis plays Brady, a Civil War vet, a Confederate, blown up during the battle of Gettysburg. All that’s left of him is his left ear. He’s barely alive. He’s given up hope. Out of the smoke of battle arrives a man in a stovetop hat – Abraham Lincoln – also played by Day-Lewis. From his hospital pillow, Brady hears the Gettysburg Address. Revelation! He bonds with the Union patients—mostly legs, arms, or toes – and renounces the Confederate cause. Returning to his home in the South with the help of his new friend, a Black Union soldier, pushing him in a wheelbarrow, he frees his slaves. Among the slaves is a young boy felled by a cannonball to the head, leaving him earless. Inspired by Lincoln’s words, Brady gives the boy the ultimate sacrifice. Fade out on ear.”
“This off the top of your head?” Wolf exclaims. “Patriotism, Lincoln, war, suffering Blacks, and Day-Lewis playing all the parts! Give yourself a raise.”
“I’m an unpaid intern, sir.”
“What I’ve always said: hunger motivates. Off the top of his pointy head, this kid came up with a derivative tear-jerker staring DD-L and a CGI ear. Let’s hear more ideas, or I’m making you all unpaid interns.”
Tony DeNerdo’s hand shot up. “Diseases are always popular. How about a man surviving Cystic Fibrosis? There Will Be Mucus.”
“No,” blurts Syd Wiley. “Sex sells: The Age of Incest.”
Wolf tries to hide a satisfied smile from his young acolytes. Maybe there’s hope for Hollywood after all.