“Colan.” From a different voice.
He jerked awake. “Yeah, yeah what is it.”
“I can’t even describe how rude what you’re doing is.”
Colan wiped his face and resettled himself in his chair. “It wasn’t intentional I had a rough night last night. I apologize.”
The four people at the table stared at him.
“Please continue.” He gestured loosely at the man speaking.
“So here is where the film actually moves . . “
What movement Colan thought to himself. Another horror film where people disembody each other in horrific ways. There is no movement in a film about brutal death. There is brutal death, a half to fully naked chick and oh yeah a glorified psychopath. Alfred Hitchcock knew what horror was. It was an element of the mind. He understood that what the human mind could imagine was much more horrific and gruesome than what he could ever show on a screen. Even with today’s technology he would only redefine darkness, horror, true terror. He would create art. Film making was an art. True film making, movie making however was a tired racket. He could always tell within the first 30 seconds of a pitch if he was talking to an artist or a hack.
The horror flick being pitched, “Until Dawn” was a movie, not a film. The screenwriter had cobbled together the shock value factors of the last 4 years of highest grossing horror movies and was selling them like they were fresh stock. And because Colan was in the business he was in, he would have to underwrite it and start production as soon as the hack was ready. Because he was not a film producer, he was a movie producer and never should the two actually met.
If he had known that a Bachelor’s from Berkeley and a Master’s from NYU would’ve gotten him here, he would’ve saved the money. That way at least he’d be like Paul sitting next to him, none wiser about the difference between art and crap.
“You hear that Col, the ending, it’s totally unique.”
“No it was done in 1976. It’s a variation on the original ending of Carrie, the one they didn’t have the funds to do during that time period, the one Stephen King actually wrote.” Colan corrected without really thinking about it. He sat up straight.
“Bottom line, it’ll easily be the Halloween blockbuster the year its’ released.” He paused as the pasty man’s excitement started to fill the room. His partner nodding in agreement. It was always like this when he talked to these guys. Had to be how music producers felt about most rap styles that had nothing to do with the original slam poetry and hip hop styles they so carelessly discarded yet have to thank for their future success.
“Any plans for sequels?” He asked carelessly.
The man grinned from ear to ear. “Well I was trying to produce a stand alone but if the studio would like a franchise I am more than willing to negotiate those terms.”
Colan stood. “Wonderful, you and Paul here can hack it out. I mean hash it out.” He fixed Paul with a blank look. “In the current media market we can shoot for 3 total, with a possible 4th upon villain restructuring. Get me 2 in the can in 28 months.”
Paul was taking notes and nodding. Colan stared down at his pristine bottle platinum blond locks carefully and artfully moussed and gelled into hip spikes. Reflexively he ran his hand through his own shoulder length blonde mane trying to remember the last time he’d even washed it with shampoo and conditioned it. Felt pretty rough to the touch.
“Done.” Paul confirmed and looked suspiciously up at him with his dark brown eyes.
Colan smiled at the look of suspicion. He was always wondering what he was up to. What angle he was playing. Wouldn’t he be surprised the day he told him there never had been one. He turned and left the room.
Couldn’t blame Paul. That was the life. Movies made a lot of money, they also spent a lot of money. Those two factors together drew a certain kind of person. A land shark. But there were levels of shark and cannibalism was not only tolerated it was often encouraged. To reach the level and status that Colan had reached required a lot of guilty memories. Paul was just being careful because you never knew when one of those beasts was going to turn on you.
Colan would’ve had a guy like Paul for lunch eight years ago. He had been without remorse when it came to getting to the top and being able to call the shots. He had been a fool to believe that being at the top of this industry would do anything but change his priorities. People have this fantasy that once they get to the top of something, they can just instantly change the entire institution and structure. They think they have a noble cause and noble goals.
Colan had been no different. For most of his 36 years of life, films had sustained and carried him. He would never forget his first drive thru experience. His mother and father had taken them to see something he thought he really wanted to see until he turned around to look at another screen in the tri screen theatre. There he watched, without sound, Superman. Shortly there after his father had left and he fell completely into the world of moving pictures as his mother had to leave him to fend for himself as she had to work more. So he watched movies, every kind he could watch.
He was raised in a back water Oklahoma town called Chandler right outside of Oklahoma City. When he had become high school age he had talked his mother into letting him go to the best high school in the state located in Norman Oklahoma near Oklahoma State University. There he had started the process to get into the University of California Berkeley. From there he had gone to Tisch with New York University with a 4.0.
Colan had graduated full of zest, zeal and an appropriate amount of artistic angst and he had hit the independent film scene a blaze. His first three movies had been shot down instantly. The people he pitched to insisting that America didn’t want to think, they wanted blood guts and senseless violence. He had been unconvinced. The public took what they could get. He was going to make films again.
All of his professors had seen the idealist in him and knew what that meant. One by one over the years they had warned him away from Hollywood. Make films overseas first, he had been advised. But he had been a patriot. He had only wanted to give his creations to American audiences first.
With the choices being Disney and Hollywood, he had chosen the later.
With the choices being Disney and Hollywood, he had chosen the later.
So there he had gone. Hollywood was everything he thought it would be and a slew of other things he hadn’t expected. He had expected to be disgusted to be insulted as the art he loved was being canonized and mass produced without thought or originality. What he hadn’t expected was to be lured in by the potential of ultimate power. To be held enwrapt by the bright lights the lifestyle, the parties, the drugs, the sex. Some of those women he had met along the way had been willing to do anything. Anything at all for a shot. It isn’t until it’s much too late do you realize what you had to become to get there.
But the most seductive lure of it had been the competition. Being better, doing better hopefully in a way that shows everyone how bad someone else is at this job. Colan had started as a rigging grip. After 5 years of wheeling and dealing, flaunting his degree, his good looks, and southern charm, Colan Abrams from bumfuck Oklahoma and a broken home was the most sought after movie producer in Hollywood. He had gotten to be an assistant of a producer within a year and half of being in the company. Produced his first film within the next six months as the man he was working for cracked under the pressure. Pressure Colan had eagerly and liberally applied. That year he had turned a summer blockbuster that would’ve fallen on its ass with the previous producer into a multi-billion dollar worldwide hit.
The rules are simple for success in Hollywood. Money is the name of the game and the only resume item that’s respected. Rule one summer, you got lucky, rule two summers, you might just have what it takes. Three summers followed by a killer Halloween and an amazing Christmas showing, baby you’re a star.
Colan was a country boy at the core of his being. And like any boy not used to women that looked like Hollywood wanna be starlets did or men willing to prostitute like Hollywood wanna be leading men did, he had lost his way. He had been exposed to it during school, but it wasn’t the same. In the end, the purity of the art always held him first and kept him focused. But with the purity of the art gone, all that was left was this sickening people pulsing floor show. When the lifestyle had started not to be enough he was a little worried. When the drugs had started to not be enough, his worry escalated. When the sex became practically another form of currency he had started having full blown panic attacks.
Two years ago Colan Abrams, multi billion dollar movie producer, film company executive, and all around Hollywood behind the scenes badass, had a nervous breakdown. And his perception of the world had never been the same since.