On Spec

by Richard Rushfield

Genres: Humor & Satire

Synopsis

A brilliant, dead-on debut about what it takes to make it in today's Hollywood. On Spec follows the paths of six Hollywood hopefuls--a screenwriter, an agent, a development girl, an actress, a studio chef, and an aspiring producer--as they experience the pitfalls and payouts of life on the hollwood fast track. More than just a novel about the entertainment industry, On Spec is a parody of modern life, where winner takes all and the losers are tossed to the wayside without a second thought.

Release date: April 1, 2010

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 192

Sample

One
STU BLUMINVITZ
The Writer


Dateline: Hollywood.
No, no. That's wrong.
Dateline: Bluminvitz.
That's it. That has a nice ring.
Dateline: Bluminvitz.
Kyle says that no spec written on a laptop has ever sold, but I saw no less than Chris McQuarrie, author of The Usual Suspects, working on one at Stir Crazy last week. If Bukowski had had the technology, he would have used it.
I'm still looking for a buyer for Kennel Break, my Tarantino meets Turner and Hooch spec about two small-time hoods trying to break Scooby, their girlfriend's Rottweiller, out of the pound. My framing device gives the hoods the chance to get to know each other and hook up with some pretty weird characters while staking out the pound. I think my scene where they bury the night watchman while drinking Yoo-Hoos and rattling off their favorite Starsky and Hutch episodes really underlined the absurdity of American culture and the small value it places on human life. But at the same time it is an homage, not a mockery. I am trying to take a reverential approach toward kitsch.
Unfortunately, trying to do something different and make a statement doesn't always guarantee you an immediate payoff in Hollywood. My friend Josh, who works in the Praxaline Productions mailroom, slipped me a copy of the coverage they did on it. In the comments summary, the reader wrote, "A vapid, third-generation Reservoir Dogs rip-off drowns beneath its tedious one-note characters and incomprehensible Die Hard in a kennel story line." What do these readers know, anyway? I have faith that somewhere in this town at least one person will get the serious commentary I am making.
I have been hanging out with this really cool guy called the Pit Bull. He was a huge screenwriter back in the fifties (he did a rewrite on Touch of Evil, he says) but he burned out when the studios went corporate in the eighties. Now he spends most of his time hanging out at the Dresden drinking gin martinis. He really loves what I am doing and has given me tons of direction. He says I've got to stab Hollywood in the jugular and suck out its brains and that is what I am trying to do.
Despite the nasty coverage, things are beginning to turn around for me. Yesterday, I was at Eat a Pita, this falafel patio where I lunch when I'm sick of the Gumbo Pot. A stranger sat down to share the table with me and he turned out to be Eric Whitfield, one of Hollywood's hottest up-and-coming young producers, or so he told me. Over lunch, he asked me what I was working on and I told him about Kennel Break and he said it was exactly the kind of project he's been looking for. Small-time hood pics were his "numero uno" genre, he said. I am taking a meeting with him tomorrow night to pitch it.
On top of that, I finally met a really cool girl. Last night I was hanging out at the Formosa, this cool old forties Chinese bar, with the Pit Bull. As we were leaving, a beautiful blonde spilled her drink on me. I offered to buy her a new one and made a joke about how I used to drop my ice cream cones at Baskin-Robbins to get a new scoop for free. Instantly I could tell that we connected, not just on some Hollywood "let's do lunch" bullshit level, but as human beings. She let me buy her about eight more lemon Stolis and said she thought Kennel Break sounded hot. Her name is Chelsea and she is an actress. At the end of the night, she even gave me her number. I left a few messages today, but she must be out. I think Chelsea is the one I've been waiting for!
Oh, shit. My mother is yelling for me. All day she has been after me to clean up my room. When I sell this script, I am definitely getting my own place.



DEANA COHEN
The D-Girl


Okay, you guys. Can I just tell you, I have had the day from hell, do you know what I mean? First of all, my alarm clock goes off like fifteen minutes late; I've got to get that fixed. That means I'm running so behind at the gym I have to cut short my time on the Stairmaster, which sucks because last night after the screening at the Beverly Center, I went bonkers and ate like six Cinnabons with frosting. I can't believe I did that but I was so stressed there was literally no choice. Okay, then I'm on the Stairmaster and this towel boy is walking by totally scoping me out. I mean great, like I pay ninety dollars a month to get checked out by the towel boy when I'm all sweaty and gross.
So he's so busy ogling me that he knocks into my machine and the script I'm reading falls off the rack and gets stuck in the stairs. So I'm like, "Hello! Look out, you freak!"
And he says he's sorry but he recognized me because he was going to direct this Jackie Chan type action-comedy project that I was trying to set up last year but got put into turnaround because Jerry, my boss's boss, hated the title.
So I'm like, "Just get the script back together or it will be your ass if we miss out on this project, you loser."
But then he can't fish a few of the pages out of the Stairmaster and it's a spec and I have to give my boss a report by 9:00 A.M. So what can I do but just tell him it's a pass? I change the title page and give him the coverage of a script I read last week. He never looks at the reports anyway, do you know what I mean?
Then I take a meeting with this lame-ass writer about the rewrite of his script that he gave us a two-year option on. I totally want to go to Jerry with the project but we're on like the ninety-seventh draft and he still can't get it right. Can I tell you, I gave him all these notes last month and he totally did them like dead-on. So I told him that when I said I wanted the bus driver in scene fourteen to be older I meant like, Harrison Ford older, not Obi-Wan Kenobi. I mean, God! If he's going to do the notes exactly like I tell him and not even think about it I could just write the script myself.
So he starts like crying and saying he can't take it and he's broke or something. And I'm like, maybe you should be in a different business if you can't take the heat. God, men in this town are literally the biggest bunch of babies I have ever met in my life.
Speaking of which, I'm supposed to go on a date with Todd from the Neutron Agency tonight. He is so cute but I totally need to focus on my career and not be in a relationship now. It will still be cool though 'cause he'll buy me dinner at Matsuhisa and if I let him think I might sleep with him he'll probably let me read the spec by Rick Drain that he's going out with next week.
I think this nightly development-support group conference call is such a great idea. Kayla, you are genius for setting this up. People in our business, especially women, get so overlooked. It is great to have a place to share with people who truly understand. I'm literally dying to hear what you guys have going on, but I'm so late now that I have to hang up this second.
But before I go, can I just tell you guys, if I don't go in for a massage and a pedicure soon, I will lose it, do you know what I mean?



TODD HIRTLEY
The Agent


THE NEUTRON AGENCY
Memo: #14456
Agent: Todd Hirtley
Date: February 28, 1997



Write this down.
Write it.
Yes, slave, everything. This is your job. Do you want to keep your job? Then write, turd boy, now. Turd boy.
Paragraph. Where was my smoothie this morning? No, my Jamba Juice boysenberry-mango smoothie with protein boost. This is not a Jamba smoothie. This is shit. Are you getting this down? Because I am going to check every word, turdler. One spelling error and it's no company Christmas party for you.
Paragraph. The new Palm Pilots are here but I didn't get one. Did Marty's assistant order me one? It's a fuckup, no cause for alarm, right? Does Marty know I don't have it? Find out. Quietly.
Paragraph. That cheese-breath writer has been stalking me in the lobby. He is not to enter this building again. What was that script he tried to slip me? Kennel Break? A dog heist for fuck's sake. He's banned from the building. Forever. Call security and tell them I want to set up a permanent ban. Persona non grata. In perpetuity. Tell Yvonne what's-her-name at reception. He calls, I'm out. When he calls back ask him what he wants. Wait two hours, call him back. Whatever it is, we can't help.
Paragraph. Conner from Variety is coming by this afternoon to do a piece on the young partners. Me and the boys. Did you see the Calendar section on Sunday? They're calling us the Wolf Pack now. The hottest sextet of up-and-comers Hollywood has ever seen. And now our party-boy agenting juggernaut is on the brink of ascending to the throne of this, the largest talent agency in the world. Find out what the others are wearing for the meeting. I want to look distinctive, stand out above the pack. Show the world that while the team is rising to the leadership of the agency, Todd Hirtley is rising to the leadership of the team.
Paragraph. Let's roll some calls. Jerry's nephew. Then try Jerry again. Schedule a lunch. Morton's. No, Cicaida. Closed? It did? Okay, Morton's. Call that development slut Deana Cohen. Supposed to dinner with her tonight. Tell her she's coming with me to the premiere of the new Michael Bay western. Meet her at the parking lot down the block. Half hour before screen time. Be nice. I'm sending her Drain's script next week. A slam dunk. I predict Drain's highest purchase price ever. Here's the sell: the pioneer of the slick-talking action comedy takes you inside the mind of a serial killer who is stalking himself. Take the Something About Mary concept inside out, but play it straight. The spec can't miss as my juggernaut rolls onward.
Now lemme see the memo, ass-face.
P.S. Buy suede shoes.



CHELSEA STARLOT
The Actress


Wow. Fucking diary.
Fuck this.
My acting teacher, Morton Karmellian, says it's good to take a look at your day so you can use the shit that comes up in your performance.
Whatever.
Marion, one of my four roommates in that place on Harper, kept a diary. When she was in Cedar's detox, I read it. It was all about clothes, a catalogue of what she wore every day. How the clothes made her feel. How they made her look. Who she fucked wearing them and what happened to the clothes in the process. She kept recoordinating these outfits like she was going to find the perfect formula to get fucked and hired by the perfect guy.
That diary was the most heinous waste of a life I've ever seen. But when I took it to class and performed it as a monologue, Morton said I had made the most complete breakthrough to honesty that he'd ever seen. It all would have been cool if Courtney hadn't told Marion about my reading when she got out of the hospital. And that's what happened to that apartment.
Diaries are the lamest.
Anywaysssss, so let's take a look at me.
Well, for starters, I am completely screwed right now because even though I'm expecting enormous profits from my Staples ad—which plays a zillion times a day—my old commercial agent is in the Caribbean or something and I can't get my check or line up any new auditions until I get my reel back from her. She was really good with that shit. No one else at her office gets it. Dude, her assistants are all so on drugs I want to kill them. Anyway, by myself, I booked a phenomenal cigarette campaign for air in Korea. I used every technique known to man or woman but I got that fucking job from Ilene what's-her-face, the casting agent on every job I go out for. Cigarettes are a lotta fun. I don't care what anyone says.
The Sunset Plaza Coffee Bean is exactly what I need right now. I could sit here until I die slurping mocha blendeds and checking out all the hot musicians stopping by after sound checks on the Strip. Judy says she gets tons of work just from hanging here two hours a day, sitting at a table right by the sidewalk. Every producer in town spends their days here. Most of them are full of shit and never produced anything but I just met the nephew of Jerry, the studio guy. He asked me out for tomorrow night. Psyched. This could be major.
Got to get back to class soon. I totally dig Morton Karmellian but there is no way I am becoming a Scientologist. They say Travolta might be at the Celebrity Center workshop though. That's worth considering.
I'm getting sweaty. Met a nose-picker writer named Stew at Formosa last night. I had to listen for a year about some Lassie Alcatraz movie Stew says I'm perfect for. Whatever. Gotta find new reps. I'm not going to settle for any half-assed representation. I want it all and I've come too far to take no for an answer.
Those British guys are back. What are you looking at? They are that band Inertia. That singer is hot. I wanna take full and total credit for that band. I was going out with the guitar player when they got together and I swear the entire concept of the band was my idea. But I'll bet they didn't even put me on the list for their show tonight. People'll rip you off if you let them.
I am not a prostitute. I don't have a sugar daddy. I just have me. You have to work for it. Omigod, I'm getting a parking ticket.
Fucking bitch gave me a ticket.



ERIC WHITFIELD
The Producer


Note to self:
Read more. I know it sucks, bro, but got to fucking do it.
The classics. They are high-concept gold mines. That's why they're classics. Look into the rights for the Iliad. It's one location. Everyone knows the name. Nobody knows what it's about. Eric Whitfield presents Iliad. It's so big it doesn't even need the the. Katzenberg's animated the Bible. Just genius. Try to get a copy of that old Katzenberg memo. He was so right. Budgets are out of control. Gotta go indie this year. Sundance was a fuck fest for Bobby and Kent.
Pursue conversation with that writer Stu from Eat a Pita who had puppy meets Papillon project. Could be large. Can I get a treatment? Did he get my card? On card, instead of producer, put productions. The producer part is de facto. Is ipso facto. Study more Latin before Iliad pitch. Set up some meetings with Todd at Neutron. I've got an in through his assistant. He's gonna love it.
I got the game plan rigged to the seams. I get some writers to hand me over their scripts, get them practically gratis because stories are a dime a dozen here. Look for some real hard visual stuff with explosions aplenty and lots o' prime parts for my chicitas to show what they got. Then, with the project under my belt, I get the boys back home to invest. They're all suffering at their brokerages, but earning bundles. I'm promising to introduce them to the fine babes when they come visit the set. This town is wired for a mover like me to make a splash.
That chick getting the parking ticket was at the Friends wrap party. Chauncey? So fucking hot. Lock and load, pick and roll, baby. Green jeep, oh yeah. Look her up in Academy pig book. Ingenue section. Does she come here a lot? I should come here a lot. There's acres of tail here. The iced blendeds draw the hotties all day long. A man who wants to get a leg up in the producing game could do well to spend some serious time on this patio, scouting the talent. El problemo is it's thirty-five minutes from my house. Got to move to Hollywood proper. Sunset Plaza area, but definitely hills.
We're dialing, we're styling, we're growing large to charge. Oh, yeah boy.



JERRY
Chairman, The Hotatsi Studios


Hello … . Helllloo. Hello! Cheryl! Cheryl! This thing is busted! Who the hell picked this out! I want their asses—(muffled voice in background)
No! It's fucking busted! I talk into it and I can't hear a goddamn thing … . What? I know it's a Dictaphone and when I pay for one of these I want to hear a fucking voice on the other goddamn end and if I don't by two o'clock there is going to be such a world of shit around here—
I just record? There's no one on the other end? What the—? Just to record, huh? All right, all right. Fine, get back to work before I find myself an assistant who doesn't spend the whole day exercising her jaw.
Okay. Record. Dr. Birnbaum says I got to talk to this thing every day. Express my anger. Listen to it later. Grrrr. Stupid worthless shrink. Paying him five hundred dollars, an hour to tell me to listen to myself. Wouldn't be wasting my frigging time with him in the first place if Jane wasn't threatening to divorce me unless I deal with my god-fucking-damn hostility. And what's more, she could have the divorce and take the pain-in-the-fucking-ass kids with her if I could just get the stock price of this lousy studio to some reasonable pigshit level where I could cash in my options and afford a fourth ex.
But since that blunder years ago, every time I try to leave my office, I'm dragging around this fucking albatross tied to my neck. Jerry, the man who passed on Jurassic Park. After all my years of service to the entertainment industry, that's all anyone thinks of me. And don't think it hasn't gotten back to the Japs. Oh no. They're just looking for another fuckup to give them the chance to take me down. And how the hell was I to know that anyone wanted to see dinosaurs? Back in the seventies, buddies of mine lost their shirts on the One Million Years B.C. sequel. Sunk everything into a caveman picture, never saw a dime. Well, for damn sure that's a mistake I don't make again. People want dinosaurs, they'll get 'em. If I could ever get this joint off its lousy butt and working again.
Anyway, hostility. There's not much to say. I'm feeling pretty good today. I'm in a cheerful mood, all and all. These pills Birnbaum gave me must be working. Life is good. Although it might be a hell of a lot better if I wasn't surrounded by a bunch of no-talent bloodsucking parasites who do half the goddamn work of a pack of trained monkeys and cost me ten thousand times as much plus benefits. And the goddamn so-called talent you spend three un-fucking-believable years developing a project for and decide they want to tour with their fucking band and leave me with Keifer fucking Sutherland to try to open a one hundred-and-twenty-million-dollar budget with. Try explaining that to the Hotatsi Corporation while they're already complaining about the billions they've thrown down the toilet on this place. And then some schmuck kid agent Todd something or Ivy League pain in the ass calling me hanging outside my office trying to meet me about some God knows what … .
Ohhhhh … but life is good. I am very happy today. (voice in background)
Wha? Mr. Morahitsu? On the phone now? Holy Christ on the cross. Does he know I'm here? Good, tell him I'm in the G-5. Phone's down. Can't be reached until tomorrow. Hurry, hurry. Christ. The Japs are looking for me. Gotta hide. (tape ends)
ON SPEC: A NOVEL OF YOUNG HOLLYWOOD. Copyright © 2000 by Richard Rushfield. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.