"You do what I say, homeboy, or I'll shove your severed dick down your cacklin', chokin' throat," threatened the seasoned old actor in the indie producer's office.
"You'll never get away with this," replied the very white female casting director in an emotionless monotone.
"Just try me, nigga," said the white actor to the white girl.
The twenty-three-year-old African-American director, I'll call her Savannah Jones, was beyond unimpressed. This familiar-faced bad guy was the total antithesis of the statement she wanted to make. As she did with all the other Jack Palance knock-offs she had seen over the weeks, Savannah yawned to let the respected actor know he didn't have a prayer.
The paying tenant of the office, whom I'll call Cedric "Ciggy" Ostroff, was one of the top independent producers in the country -- which meant that he still had to struggle to raise financing for every single picture he made. Ciggy couldn't help but notice Savannah's rudeness but, having been in the business for close to forty years, an impolite director was nothing new to him. The poor conduct only bothered Ciggy because it seemed to bother his executive producer, his money guy, who was growing increasingly impatient with the temperamental young upstart.
The exec producer caught Ciggy's eye and nodded understandingly, trying to show his new white partner that he was as accustomed to artist bullshit as anyone else. The truth is, he wasn't. I'll call him Norman Jackson, and this was his first picture.
Norman was one of L.A.'s top civil rights attorneys, one of many black attorneys who were deeply offended when Johnnie Cochran didn't ask them to second on the O.J. trial. Norman had achieved tremendous notoriety in a great many civil rights cases on behalf of his impoverished brethren, and a great deal of money on behalf of his disgustingly rich brethren. It always amazed Norman how many multi-millionaire record producers, sitcom writers or drama directors got stopped and harassed by police while driving in their own hundred-thousand-dollar Porsches on the way to their own multi-million dollar mansions. Each time it happened, it meant more money for them, and for Norman.
By now it was down to a formula, and it was boring for him. So he had the giant staff of his law firm handle the nuts and bolts, coming to him only with problems. It was the problems that were interesting, the difficult cases he enjoyed, but they were few and far between, and the poor South-Central ghetto kid needed new challenges.
When Cochran didn't choose him he knew, as he had all his life, that no one, white or black, would ever give him a leg up. So he looked for a new challenge himself.
He had learned much about entertainment by representing the civil rights cases of many Hollywood millionaires. He had worked with their entertainment lawyers and knew that what they did was far more boring than criminal or civil rights cases. But the production side seemed cool. It was where the glamour was, it was where the ladies were, and if you succeeded, everyone knew about it. Fuck Johnny Cochran!
But Norman had also learned from those he represented that a big studio would merely take what he could offer them, then toss him aside. Indie prod was the way to go... at least for now.
So, diligent as he always was, he researched the top indie producers, figured out who might need him, and called Ciggy.
When the sixty-plus-year-old producer realized Norman was offering full financing, it took him less than a second to stick his tongue up Norman's ass. Norman relished this kind of respect, especially from a white guy.
Ultimately, Ciggy and Norman hit it off beyond their self-centered needs. Norman's career reminded Ciggy of his father's -- a Jewish-Polish immigrant who emigrated in the 1930s to become a civil rights lawyer, helping poor Jewish socialists express their beliefs, and helping rich Jewish socialites get into goy country clubs. Similarly, Norman loved that Ciggy's immigrant mother referred to Christians as "the white man."
The friendship would last forever, but they both knew the partnership would only last a few years. Ciggy would get three, maybe even four movies financed through Norman's clients, and Norman would learn everything he needed about the film business from Ciggy. They knew what the deal was, and they both appreciated it.
Norman's only caveat to Ciggy was that they had to support black artists. Ciggy was truly colorblind in this regard -- in fact, the second of his three wives was black, and he barely saw the difference. To Ciggy, as long as the story was poor versus rich with a lot of gratuitous sex and violence, the movie would sell.
Ciggy never spent much on salaries in his ultra-low budget films, but for the first time it was a delicate matter. To underpay a white director made Ciggy a sleaze, but to underpay a black one made him a racist. He figured being considered a sleaze was bad enough, so he headed straight for the colleges to give some lucky kid his big break.
But the black film grads from N.Y.U. that year were too artsy for his taste, while the ones from U.S.C. and U.C.L.A. were being wooed by the studios, and Ciggy simply couldn't compete. Norman was getting discouraged with the lengthy process and started to look towards other adventures when Ciggy finally brought him a brash, overweight young black woman from the University of Nevada, hailing her as the next Spike Lee. Norman didn't even know Nevada had a film program and was dubious about the mouthy director, but Ciggy insisted that it was the artist not the school that counted. Spielberg came from Cal State, after all.
Together, they watched Savannah's twenty-minute student film which had gotten into the Cannes Director's Fortnight -- the only American student film accepted that year. Norman wasn't overly impressed with the story or character development, but the camera work was pretty, and the political point of view was one that he shared, albeit presented in a very trite manner. In the end, Norman realized he wasn't particularly impressed with most films that made money, but at least this would be a good chance to give a black kid her start.
And that's how Nocig Productions was born.
So when the very recognizable villainous actor said his final, "The torture will only end when you die," everyone applauded. Ciggy told him he was brilliant and they'd call him. Norman knew Savannah would never hire him, but followed Ciggy's lead because the guy could be right for the next project. Savannah said nothing.
It was the morning of July fifth. Norman had thus far never heard of Robby Rockman, and it was still a good hour before he showed up at the Van Nuys Police Station as the TV star's attorney. For now, all Norman knew was that he was finding Savannah's prima donna antics more tiresome than the law practice he had abandoned.
"I'm sick of these dastardly duo white boys!" shouted Savannah as soon as the door was closed. "I told you I wanted a villain we could trust!"
"But you rejected every one of them, too," responded the weary casting director.
"Because the Donny Osmond boys you been bringin' me ain't never gonna sever no one's dick," Savannah snapped back. "So get off your bony white butt and go to work, princess."
"Knock it off, Savannah," Ciggy said.
Princess, as Savannah condescendingly called her, had been the assistant to one of the top casting directors in Hollywood before branching out on her own. She had cast some of the biggest studio films in history. Now that she saw that the indie world offered the same kind of assholes for significantly less pay, she couldn't help wonder if she had made a huge mistake.
"In real life, the people who fuck you don't come at you with scars and 'tude," Savannah continued. "It's the white folk that make us homeys believe we been wrong about you all the time. It's the smart, educated niggas like Norman that make the white folk think they don't have to be 'fraid of us no more. It's the people we can't imagine doing nothin' bad, even while we're watching 'em do it. That's what's so freaky about it. It fucks with our mind because we all know, black or white, that it's true. Our biggest enemies are masquerading as our fuckin' friends, and we're all alone in this great white world.
"I want a guy who can slash off your dick and you'd still lend him money."
Norman and Ciggy both shared Savannah's philosophy of the casting of this role. Ciggy and Savannah had discussed it over many a lunch, and Ciggy was its main champion. The problem was that production had started a week ago, and no actor was right enough for the young director. According to their schedule, the villain was to begin the next morning and was to work in all but three of the remaining eighteen days. There was no room to delay for the casting of the bad guy... unless Norman could come up with more money.
"I agree with you," said Ciggy. "You know I do. But there's no money to push back the schedule. You've GOT to pick someone from the people you've already seen."
"No fuckin' way," Savannah insisted. "Just get 'smore fuckin' money, boy."
"There is no more," Norman cut in pointedly. "Because I'm thinking of pulling everything and cutting my losses right now."
"C'mon, Norman," Ciggy jumped in quickly. "It's not that big a problem."
"I don't need this, Ciggy," he said. "No offense, but I find your business very offensive. It's just not worth the aggravation."
"You fuckin' Tom!" shouted Savannah. "Just when we need you, you turn your back on your own fuckin' kind!"
"I am not your kind, you foul-mouthed, arrogant child," Norman said with an icy chill in his voice. "Just because we come from similar backgrounds and share the same politics, do not ever believe that we are the same kind."
"I'm going to wait outside," said Princess nervously who scurried out, only to stop in the doorway and look back at Ciggy.
She motioned her head towards the outer office, suggesting to Ciggy that he leave along with her. When he refused, she silently mouthed the words, "It's a black thing."
Ciggy shook his head and mouthed back, "No. It's a movie thing."
Meanwhile, Savannah stared at Norman with gangsta death in her eyes. Norman simply gazed back calmly. He had taken on the Alabama Night Riders and the U.S. Supreme Court -- a punk-assed kid wasn't going to scare him.
"Think this through, Savannah," Ciggy cautioned. "You don't know when your next break will come. It's not like anyone was beating down your door before us."
"I thought you said you'd defend my artistic vision, you bastard."
"I'm doing better than that, kiddo," said Ciggy. "I'm trying to save your movie."
Savannah took a deep sigh, then muttered, "Awright. You win. Shit. But I'm gonna need to do callbacks."
"As long as they can be done today," Ciggy answered.
"One day? Shit!" Savannah shouted. "We can fuckin' push one day!"
"Come here! Quick!" Princess suddenly shouted from the outer office. "Hurry!"
Prior to turning on her six-inch-screen TV, all the beleaguered casting director had intended to do was eat her little orange and rethink her career options. Assistant on studio films was leaps and bounds above this minor league bullshit. She only turned on the set as a distraction while she rummaged through her Rolodex for more casting choices.
But, purely by accident, she saw it.
Savannah, Norman and Ciggy ran out to catch it, too.
There on the tiny screen through a handheld camera on the morning news was Lisa on Mulholland Drive. It was the middle of the night. Smoke and flames lit up the Valley skyline, and she cried, "Him! That man tried to rape me!" Swishpan over to a disheveled Robby Rockman as a cop pinned him against a squad car. A shot of Robby being dragged into the Van Nuys Station followed, as the handsome woman reporter claimed he had spent the night in custody, but had yet to deliver a statement.
"Is that Mr. Bell?" asked Savannah in disbelief.
"Yup," the casting director answered proudly, knowing she had just found what everyone was looking for.
Norman had never been a fan of episodic television, so he didn't know who Robby was. But between the handsome woman's news report and the looks of excitement on those around him, he knew that their search was over.
"That sacchariney-sweet do-gooder committed rape?" asked Savannah.
"And everybody knows about it," boasted Princess.
"That's my homeboy!" shouted Savannah as if she was dunking the winning basket. "I want him. He'll be my Travolta. I'll be his muthafuckin' Tarantino!"
"Who's his agent?" asked Ciggy, springing into action.
"Artie Eichman," answered the casting director.
"That shark'll never agree to what we can pay," said Ciggy.
"I want him!" insisted Savannah. "That pablum-coated hypocrite is going to take my joint to a whole new level!"
"The guy hasn't worked in years," said Ciggy, calmly, the wheels turning. "He'll want to do it. We just got to get to him directly and bypass the agent. Any thoughts?"
"He'll need a lawyer," responded Norman gleefully. "And a good one."
Norman may not have known who Robby was, but he could tell by the reaction of the other three that this guy single-handedly could solve their problems.
"Don't you think he has his own lawyer?" asked the casting director.
"He doesn't have me," said Norman. "I'm going to Van Nuys. His case will never see the inside of a courtroom, and this movie proceeds as scheduled."
And just as he reached the door, Ciggy stopped him with an after-thought.
"Norman?" he began. "Get him off, sure, but let it go to trial. In fact, make sure of it. Keep it high profile. Hint to the press that you think he did it. The more the country hates him, the better our picture does."
"Good thinking," said Norman with a wink as he left to save our hero.
*** Up Next: "Jackson v. Chavez, Round One" ***
The main characters in this e-novel are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual individuals, whether living or dead (except for Jeff Abugov who is a real screenwriter, director and producer.) Although certain real people and companies are mentioned in this e-novel, all of the events are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual events.
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