What Wows

            Beasts of the Southern Wild is one of those movies that makes you feel cooler just for watching it. First appearing at the Sundance Film Festival, this movie definitely deserved all the praise that it’s been getting. Once again, I’m happy to discover that People Magazine can be an academic source as well as something fun to read. In an article about the must-see movies of 2012, journalist Alynda Wheat lists Beasts of the Southern Wild at number four in her list of top ten movies to watch before the world ends (the article is a little old). I’m glad the Mayans were wrong and the world did not cease to exist after December 21 because what would I do if I had missed the opening of Les Miserables?? However, if the Mayans had been correct, at least director slash writer Benh Zeitlin gave us Beasts of the Southern Wild before our inevitable doom.

            There’s no other way to put it. This movie is just cool, in every sense possible. Told from the perspective of a six-year-old, Beasts of the Southern Wild is a story about a different end to the world where global warming on fast forward threatens the lives of a scrappy group of survivors living on the outskirts of society. You would think that this story screams political persuasion, posing as a cautionary tale to all of those who believe that global warming is a fairy tale constructed by “crazy environmentalists”. However, I could tell that Zeitlin’s true purpose in making this film was to simply tell a story about survival from a unique perspective. For the people watching Beasts of the Southern Wild with a background in environmental studies, I could imagine that their minds might wander during the film to the controversial problems relating to global warming. However, if I could speak for the rest of us, I found the story so enthralling that my mind didn’t have time to wander.

            Speaking of time, Beasts of the Southern Wild showed me how time could be used to further the plot without intense action or dialogue. In more ways than one, this movie definitely marches the beat of its own drum. With a flow of faster scenes and slower scenes, the pace of this movie matched the ebbing water that was its focus: building up and crashing and building up and crashing like waves of the shore. The constant change of pace kept my attention from scene to scene. When there was a lack of dialogue, my nose would be pressed up flat against my computer screen while intently soaking up all the details. And due to this infrequent dialogue, I appreciated the conversational scenes so much more.

            Another thing that I have touched much on in my blog so far is the importance of a name in a film. Blake Snyder stressed the importance of a name in the beginning of his book Save the Cat!. In the fictional world of film, a name gives a character certain expectations that they have to meet. Knowing this, many writers address the naming process with the same level of seriousness that they would use if they were actually birthing a child. Because in a way, without all the hee-hee-hoos, that’s exactly what they’re doing. There’s a reason that the super hero is rarely named Eugene and the mean girl is never called Gertrude. It just wouldn’t work.

            Hushpuppy. Benh Zeitlin’s choice of name for her main character immediately assured me that this movie was going to be rich with character. When I first heard the six-year-old actress Quvenzhane Wallis introduce herself with that name, I was insanely jealous that I hadn’t thought of it first. It also helped that Quvenzhane’s crazy afro, adorably high-pitched voice, and spunky personality made me fall in love with this main character right away. Her sweet and innocent, yet impeccably true commentary on life outside of society grabbed the audience by the shoulders and shook them awake. This was the kind of movie that grabbed my attention. And how easy is it to fall in love with a little girl named Hushpuppy?

            Not only did Zeitlin get the names of her characters spot on, but the language she uses to paint Hushpuppy’s world also made this fantastical film seem like reality. When referring to her home on the outside of the levees protecting America from the melting icecaps, Hushpuppy tells the audience that she and her daddy lived in “the bathtub”. This term stuck out to me because it’s able to seem completely unique, but at the same time, totally logical. I can imagine Zeitlin in a meeting with Hollywood executives pitching this idea, saying, “It’s a story about a girl named Hushpuppy who lives in the bathtub with her existentialist daddy.” Zeitlin’s logline must have had such a great POW!; it’s the kind of idea that I imagine a Hollywood executive would remember.

            Watching this film, I think I felt cooler because I witnessed originality at its peak. In a world where girls are named Hushpuppy and truck beds are made into boats and levees are broke with alligator-bombs, how could I not feel cooler by being a part of it? Even if only for ninety-three minutes. This is the kind of movie where I’m at the end of a lengthy blog post, yet I still have so much more that I could’ve said. Seeing her world unfold before her eyes, I wish I could see everything from Hushpuppy’s perspective.

            MOVIES WATCHED: 14

            SCREENPLAY PAGES WRITTEN: 44

            NOVEL PAGES WRITTEN: 70

Mile in a Man's Army Boots

            When you pick up a script, and can’t put it down to start the movie, you know you’ve stumbled across some talented screenwriting. In an effort to discover yet another way to watch a movie, I read Oliver Stone’s Platoon scene by scene, watching only after I’d read a good chunk of dialogue first. Or in some cases, long very long action sequences. I was still able to enjoy every word of it despite my lack of knowledge in military terminology that only comes along with being a seasoned veteran, like Oliver Stone himself. It’s clear throughout the film that Platoon is immersed in Stone’s actual experience from his service in the Vietnam War. I’d like to start off by saying that I have the utmost respect for a man willing to put his life on the line for our country, survive, and then come back to tell us what he learned from it all.

            While I don’t pretend to be an expert on Vietnamese or Cambodian geography, Stone’s detailed descriptions set the stage for Platoon, making each moment feel real, despite the lack of modern-day special effects. In scenes that were heavy with action, Stone used a concise language that kept the script flowing but was still able to capture the image he had in his head of how the scene should look. This makes for a “thick script”, taking about two pages for every two minutes of film, but Stone is able to make all that reading worth it.

            What also helps add to the believability of Platoon is that it was filmed in the Philippines. This exotic location in the same general corner of the world shows the audience the essence of Vietnam without going into the territory that was still reeling from the war in 1985 when the film was shot. Also, I’m sure most movie-goers couldn’t tell the difference. I still felt the several climate changes through my computer screen, from rain, to intense heat, to rain, to rain, to more rain. The reality of the backdrop helped me sympathize with our main lead, doe-eyed Chris Taylor (played by the infamous Charlie Sheen).

            Speaking of which, Platoon was the movie that jump-started the careers of many Hollywood “Big Shots” today. In Charlie Sheen’s case, feel free to deliberate whether or not this was a good thing. However, many others took advantage of the golden opportunity that Oliver Stone was handing them, and definitely made a name for themselves. If you are an avid movie-goer, names like Forrest Whittaker, Keith David, Johnny Depp (pre-Burton), Mark Moses, Tom Berenger, Willem Dafoe, and John C. McGuinley, just to name a few. With so many great actors begging for our attention, at points the movie seemed a bit chaotic. In the first twenty minutes alone, we were introduced to over twenty new, important faces that continued to show up for the entire two hours. Since reading the script while watching the movie is kind of like watching the movie twice, I was able to keep up.

This chaos seemed to go hand in hand with the content of the movie, again making war seem real to those of us who are sitting safely on a couch, bag of popcorn in hand. However, in doing so, Stone lost some of the backstory and character development that can be crucial to a film. The entire plot is structured by these voice overs by Sheen, narrating the letters sent back home to Grandma. From the first voice over to the last, we still know the same amount about Christ Taylor’s life: that he dropped out of college to enlist because he didn’t want to end up like his fiscally-focused parents. As the ending credits rolled, I wished Stone had played more with Taylor’s troubled past because I think it would’ve helped make Sheen’s character more dynamic. However, without this, Sheen’s portrayal of the transformation of an idealistic 20 something to a true soldier still reached a fulfilling climax and resolution.

            Stone begins this movie with the quote, “Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth…”, foreshadowing a transition in the first few seconds of the film. The irony of this quote is that most of the young men surrounding our main character are killed before they get the chance to mature, forever “rejoicing” in their youth. I think the point of incorporating so many characters with such little information for each was to make the point that in war, you can’t keep track of the number of soldiers who are killed in action. While this deprived us of the chance to grow attached to Platoon’s many supporting roles, it made the point that war is never about one man, but thousands. Although I still yearned for more information, I got through the movie without needing it to enjoy the experience. I felt like I was the nurse over seeing an open heart surgery; I could only look over the shoulder of a masked man at something cold, disconnected from me, yet nonetheless scary. This disconnect gives us an objectivity when looking at the questions the plot asks, like what’s the difference between rage and bravery and who’s the real enemy in a war like this. Although these questions are never answered directly, they drive the film to reach the viewers moral limits, and thus proceed to ask the questions that no one likes to ask.

            After watching this movie, or others like it, including Saving Private Ryan and Apocalypse Now, I wanted to tell the same, powerful story that only a war movie can tell. But I can only comment on a true war story, because I’ve also learned that the only way to portray war with any truth is to speak from experience. And so, ironically, I write an novel about boys pretending to be soldiers, knowing that the only way I can tell a powerful story like Platoon is through pretend.

            MOVIES WATCHED: 13

            SCREENPLAY PAGES WRITTEN: 44

            NOVEL PAGES WRITTEN: 70

The Art of Being a Child Star

            There are some child stars that we really want to see do well. I think its because we see them at their sweetest state, and we get attached. Take Home Alone, for example. The painfully cute, equally mischievous Macaulay Culkin wins our hearts when his family leaves him behind over Christmas vacation. But whatever happened to those big blue eyes? For the beloved Parent Trap star, Lindsay Lohan, we don’t even need to ask the question. If you pick up any magazine at the grocery checkout counter, you’re sure to find an article on Lohan’s latest rehab visit or drunk driving stunt.

            With so much pressure on these young celebrities, it is particularly impressive when they are able to reach adulthood without the long list of DUIs. To be able to grow up in front of the big screen and still lead a normal life is a feat that should be recognized. Maybe this is why I have always gravitated to Dakota Fanning films. I Am Sam being one of my favorite movies of all time (despite Tropic Thunder’s jabs at it), Dakota Fanning has always been on my radar as one of the great child stars in Hollywood. Although I wouldn’t argue that our childhoods were even remotely similar, I always felt that she could be just another girl in my grade; she never ceases to be genuine and down to earth.

            Because I wanted to blog about one of my favorite actresses in Hollywood, I just watched The Secret Life of Bees. This movie was based off of a book by Sue Monk Kidd that tells the story of a young girl, Lily, in the 1960s who runs away from her abusive dad with her African American housekeeper, Rosaleen (played by the equally wonderful Jennifer Hudson). This story is told by a collaboration of Hollywood greats, also including Queen Latifah, Alicia Keys, and Hilarie Burton. Unlike Playing for Keeps, The Secret Life of Bees was able to take full advantage of its studded “super cast.” In a film about finding one’s family, each of these leading women is able to make us as the audience feel at home on the other side of the screen.

            While I would like to give credit to the screenwriter, Gina Prince-Bythewood, for such an eloquent adaption, the true hero of this production is the author of such a unique, heartfelt story, Sue Monk Kidd. This movie proves that a truly great story can be appreciated on more than one level. Both the setting and characters are completely unique to The Secret Life of Bees. While they say that all stories come from other stories already told, Kidd does a great job at making us doubt this. Like a shiny new toy at Christmas, screenwriting has swept me off my feet these past few weeks. It has fascinated and intrigued me, and is definitely something that I’d like to explore more. However, The Secret Life of Bees reminded me not to give up on novel-writing either. There are so many ways for a story to be told and shared, passed around and told again. In his book Save the Cat!, author Blake Snyder makes an excellent point: think of the story first, and then figure out which is the best way to tell it. So here is the first bit of my novel, Pink House. While there is a lot more than this snippet, I thought I’d share the words that my script sprouted up from. Also, if you’ve been keeping tabs on the updates at the bottom of each blog post, you should notice that watching The Secret Life of Bees really inspired me to work on my novel this morning. Enjoy!

PINK HOUSE

 I’ve always wanted a house on the cul-de-sac. One with green shutters and a blue door and a dog named Elvis Presley. A mailman would hobble to our mailbox shaped like a golf ball and ask me what I thought of the weather. I wouldn’t know what to say, but I’d smile and nod and let the man with the leathery bag walk down to the next driveway.

            In Parma, Ohio, 1963, it’s considered normal for the mailman to know your name. It’s considered normal for the ten Bradley children to fill up the school bus with their hand-me-down sweaters and brown-bagged lunches, and for the drunk Mr. Keeler’s cat to eat tar off the pavement. And so it wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary to wait for a thunderstorm from your screened-in porch in the middle of July.

Today, the trees are bowing to our coarse brown lawn and I know a summer storm is coming. I panic, but then remember that my flashlight’s under the bed and the extra batteries are in the top drawer of my dresser. I remember this because I’m claustrophobic, but only when it’s dark. However, when I told Mother this an hour ago she rolled her eyes.

Go play outside, she said. So I sat on this doorstep and haven’t moved since. I pull at the collar of my red sweatshirt and try not to sweat. Today, the mailman would say it’s never been this hot before. But I’m wearing a sweatshirt anyways because of the breeze. Every season’s flu season, Grandmother used to say.

I sit with my back to the house so that I don’t have to look at the slanted, rusty gutter, or the pink paint flaking away from the siding. We should get that fixed, Mother says. But by now I know not to believe her.

I think it’s easier to walk away from a pink house. To sit with you’re back to it. I love going out to the mailbox in the morning to look out at the other houses and pretend that behind me, mine looks exactly the same. Grandmother used to love going to church on Sundays because she hated that thin coat of pink paint. Sometimes, if I listened hard enough, I could hear her praying for a different colored house. Or at least, I pretended I could. Because that was much more interesting than counting each of the linoleum tiles on the chapel floor. Even Mother, although she’d never admit it, loves going to her weekly Bridge game to walk away from the pink house. Yes, my mother plays Bridge. And although I can’t explain why, I am intensely proud of her for it.

And when a yellow taxicab had pulled up to the house—the romantic cabs you watch pull up in movies—, I strangely understood why my father stuffed his black suitcase into the trunk.

The week after he left, Mother made me grilled cheese sandwiches. I guess she thought they were my favorite, and I guess I didn’t have the nerve to tell her that they weren’t.

The grilled cheese making started one day when Mother took all the cheese from the fridge—the only food that was still in there, since Mother refused to go to the grocery store alone— and melted slices on Wonderbread using her metal iron and the stained ironing board. I never have friends over for dinner for exactly this reason: my mother can’t cook. Eating bread soggy and smushed too flat, I nodded and tried to smile with sticky cheese stretching across my teeth. Any good? Mother would ask. And then, she’d spin around and make another before I could say no, not good at all.

Late at night, after Mother made her final wet cheese sandwich and fell asleep on the couch, I’d take a preventive swig of Pepto-Bismol and brush my teeth twice. Just in case, Grandmother used to say. And I would brush my teeth again.

Then, I’d lie down on top of my plain white sheets with the fan spinning above. And just before I would close my eyes, I pressed on my kidney, or the place where I thought it should be, and checked for kidney stones.

From my seat on the doorstep, I can see a legion of boys in t-shirts and baseball caps coming towards me, and at first I’m scared. I try to stand up, if only to block the view of my pink house. Stand by the mailbox; it’ll look cooler. I worry about whether or not I put on sunscreen, but only for a moment, before the boys are calling my name. But they’re just shouting hey Kid or hey You, and I look up. I lean on the mailbox, but feel it quiver beneath my elbow. Stand up straight; you’ll get Arthritis, Grandmother used to say. I scratch at the top of my hands; I don’t want Arthritis.

Hey, you have a glove? We need one more, a boy asks. His hair is reddish and freckles look like they were spat on his round face. But he laughs and the others laugh and I wish I were him, but only for a second.

            I slip my sweaty palm into my father’s hand-me-down mitt, but quickly take it out again. Mother always tells me I was horrible at making decisions. You wanna come play? They ask again. But I hate sports.

            I start to make a list in my head, with a leaky green pen on blue-lined paper. I could trip, sprain my ankle, break it, the bone poking through my skin. I could chip a tooth on a baseball, get a knot in my leg, fall. I start muttering about Achilles Tendinitis under my breath.

            Is he retarded? The boy asks, and the others laugh. I scratch the top of my bony hands again, and they start to bleed. I rub them pink, and think about my pink house and how badly I wanted to walk away from it.

            He’s weak, my father said just before he left. I think he knew I was listening, because he saw me on the staircase and stared at my scarred hands; I tucked them behind my back. I remember it soggy, like far away and I’m looking at him underwater and he leaves the pink house and doesn’t look back. And although I hate my father, I wanted to be him at the same time.

            A boy with jet-black hair and crooked teeth comes up to the mailbox. He’s short like me, but his strides are long and he’s grabbing my mitt before I can lean against the mailbox again. I push at the glasses falling down my speckled nose.

            Put it on, the boy says, shoving my glove into my chest, and I cough, almost dropping it. Sweat mats my brown hair to my forehead and I try to wipe it off with the back of my hand. It stings. The sun is staring at me and the boys are waiting and I look down at my un-scuffed converse.

Sorry, I can’t— I start to say. But someone’s tapping on a glass window, and I turn around.

            Go, Mother says, even though I can’t hear her from outside. She shoos me with her hands, clicking the window with her long pink fingernails. I turn to face the boy with the crooked teeth.

            C’mon, he says, and so I slip on my baseball glove, the dark leather rubbing against my raw hands, and walk towards the cul-de-sac.

            MOVIES WATCHED: 12

            SCREENPLAY PAGES WRITTEN: 44

            NOVEL PAGES WRITTEN: 70

A Decade Long Movie

            Speaking of blogger “firsts”, I have also yet to write about screenwriting for television. While television scripts use the same format or “codes” as movie scripts, the pace and story structure have to be fairly different. At first, I thought that a TV episode was simply a movie condensed to roughly forty-five minutes. However, after looking at them more closely, I’ve come to realize that a movie is more accurately a condensed TV series. Unlike a movie, a television show has to tell the same story over and over again, dragging it out with a string of never-ending obstacles for our lead. I would imagine that the logline for a TV series is much more crucial than a logline for a movie, because the main idea for a TV series has to exist for multiple years.

            This morning, I revisited Gerald DiPego’s advice from Tales from the Script, urging eager screenwriters to read a script on it’s own, claiming that a good screenplay should be just as captivating as a good book. The first time I tried this with The Breakfast Club, I started by reading the script first. While I still enjoyed the experience, this made watching the movie less exciting because I knew everything that was going to happen before it actually happened. This time, I watched the second episode of the BBC hit, Sherlock, first, and then read the script afterwards. By doing so, I was able to go back and really understand why each scene was crucial to solving the case of the episode.

            I noticed a few differences between British TV and shows here in America. While this may be stating the obvious, the British accents seemed to change the flow of the dialogue throughout the episode. Since I’m convinced that the Brits speak faster than we do, reading the script separately really came in handy this time. Also, another British fun fact that I learned from watching Sherlock is that a typical episode on a British TV show is an hour and a half long. Considering that an episode of Spongebob is capped at fifteen minutes, I had to stretch my attention span as the quirky Holmes gallivanted around London with his pal, Doctor Watson.

            In the script, I saw a lot of similarities to Christopher Nolan’s 2008 film, The Dark Knight. Both Sherlock and The Dark Knight take iconic characters from the past and resuscitate them for audiences today. Because of this, both of the scripts read more casually, as if the screenwriter was confident that the movie or TV show would be an automatic success. And rightly so. In episode two, “The Blind Banker”, Sherlock creators Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat write, “look behind you, Sherlock!” when describing a scene in which Sherlock is surprised by an assassin. I have to say that I was amused by the writers’ attempt to become involved in the story here. This makes the script easy to read and meant to do what the episode is meant to do: entertain.

            The fun, relaxed style of writing in this script may also have to do with the fact that this is a TV show, and therefore requires less rigidity in the language. When reading, I felt that I was revisiting my favorite pals Sherlock and Dr. Watson. I think this feeling of friendliness is necessary for an audience to care about what happens to the main characters from episode to episode. We want to look forward to that Monday, or Tuesday or Saturday, when the next episode of Sherlock is released and we get to embrace our pals one more time with friendly phrases like it’s been too long and we need to catch up.

            So, here lies my attempt to write a pilot episode for a television show I’ve come up with. Or part of it, at least. While it won’t be the traditional hour and a half British premiere, I hope it will have the same loveable quality that I found in BBC’s latest hit, Sherlock. More to Come…

INT. APARTMENT, LOS ANGELES – MORNING

The apartment is small and cluttered with stuff: books, papers, magazines covering every surface. A WOMAN, mid 20s, stands in front of the fridge, grabbing a carton of coffee creamer. She shakes the creamer but its empty. We can’t see her face.

This is YANI. She has long, dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a trendy suit on, ready for work. She is in a hurry. We hear FOOTSTEPS behind her.

               YANI

     Erin, did you use the last of the creamer?

YANI turns around and we see her face for the first time, tan, serious. A MAN without his shirt on has a Styrofoam cup in his hand, and smiles weakly. He grabs a coat, and leaves the apartment. YANI GROANS.

She tries to drink the black coffee out of her mug, but SPUTTERS, then pours it down the sink.

               YANI

          (mumbling)

     Just great.

               ERIN (O.S.)

     What?

ERIN enters the kitchen in a robe, her hair a mess and lipstick smudged on her face.

               YANI

     Can you go out and buy some creamer today?

               ERIN

          (groggily)

     Can’t. I’ve got an audition.

Beat.

               ERIN

I mean, unless you wrote me into your show. Then I wouldn’t have to go to the audition...

YANI SIGHS; they’ve had this discussion before.

               YANI

     I’m late.

She grabs a briefcase off of the kitchen table and runs out the door, leaving Erin and all the mess.

EXT. STREET – MORNING

YANI’s blackberry rings and she answers it, holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear, a Starbucks latte in one hand, briefcase in the other.

               YANI

          (on phone)

     What is it, Perry?

YANI is walking briskly, pushing around an OLD MARRIED COUPLE checking out a STREET VENDOR’s necklaces.

               YANI

          (still on phone)

I don’t understand the problem. You locked your set of keys in the storage room? How’d you do that?

Beat. YANI polishes off her latte before throwing it into a garbage can; then checks her watch.

               YANI (CONT’D)

Yes, I’m still listening. Odette can wait until I get to the studio and unlock it.

YANI jabs the crosswalk button and waits to cross the street in A CROWD OF PEOPLE.

               YANI (CONT’D)

It’s not my job to calm her down, Perry; it’s yours.

Tell her she looks sexy today. That should do the trick.

THE WOMAN standing next to YANI turns and stares.

               YANI

          (to woman)

     I didn’t mean that.

               PERRY (V.O.)

          (through phone)

     What?

               YANI

          (into the phone)

     I wasn’t talking to you.

               WOMAN

          (offended)

     Excuse me?

               YANI

Sorry, not you. Well, I was talking to you and now I’m not.

Beat. THE WOMAN looks confused.

               YANI

     Gotta go, Perry. Another calls coming in.

We hear PERRY’s faint protests, but YANI hangs up the phone. When she looks up, THE CROWD has already crossed the street. YANI hurries to cross when...

A taxi SCREECHES to a halt right in front of YANI. YANI jumps, and the TAXI DRIVER HONKS his horn. Still rattled, YANI runs to the other side of the street, short of breath.

CUT TO:

INT. PRODUCTION STUDIO – DAY

The set is cold, and it looks as if it once was a garage. Cameras, lights, and miscellaneous cords clutter the room, all focused around a stage furnished with a couch, coffee table, and fake living room backdrop.

CAMERA MEN fix their lenses, A COSTUME DESIGNER rushes past, rolling a rack of dresses alongside her. AN AGENT talks into a phone in the corner. EVERYONE seems preoccupied.

ZOOM IN on PERRY, a skinny man who can’t be over 25, wearing floods and a headset. At the sight of YANI, PERRY brightens.

               YANI

     Bring these back when you’re done.

YANI throws him a set of master keys and PERRY fumbles them, before scurrying off.

ODETTE, a woman in her late 40s, walks up to YANI in yoga pants and a sweatshirt. She looks too old to be wearing them. Her arms flail in the air: distraught.

               ODETTE

Yani, my feng-shui beads are in the storage room and I can’t start without them.

YANI exhales slowly.

               YANI

     Perry’s working on it.

ODETTE runs off, following PERRY. It seems that YANI is used to conversations with ODETTE ending abruptly.

On her way to an office in the back, YANI is stopped by RICHARD LAWSON, a tall, proud man, with a permanent smirk on his face. He waves a stack of paper in front of YANI’s face.

               LAWSON

          (furious)

I thought you said I was going to have more lines in this episode.

LAWSON pushes the papers into YANI’S chest and she grabs them, then flips through the pages.

               YANI

     This is seventeen more lines than last week!

LAWSON takes his copy of the script back, and points to his lines on the first page.

               LAWSON

I didn’t mean that I wanted to say more mhmms and okays.

          YANI

I don’t have time for this, Rich. I have that meeting with Carl this morning, remember?

LAWSON nods.

               LAWSON

     Hence the suit.

YANI looks down at her suit, not sure if LAWSON is insulting it or not.

               LAWSON

          (grumbling)

     Fine, fine. We’ll deal with it later.

LAWSON stomps off, and YANI enters her office, finally. She shuts the door and leans against it; she EXHALES.

YANI stacks up some papers on her desk when...

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

            MOVIES WATCHED: 11

            SCREENPLAY PAGES WRITTEN: 44

            NOVEL PAGES WRITTEN: 65