Screenwriter Cynicism

I'm on day three of the migraine from hell. Can't look at a computer monitor or television screen for very long and every noise sends pulsing daggers through my temple so I basically have had plenty of time to sit in the dark with a damp rag over my eyes and THINK.

What about? Well, are elephants really the only mammal that can't jump? When I take a shot of tequi--, I'm mean an aspirin, how does it know where the pain is? Do women need bras in space? And, does there come a time in every screenwriter's life when they can longer watch a film without dissecting it like an eighth grade science experiment?

I know an engineer who drives down new streets while wondering about the subgrade of the road, an auto mechanic who can't ride in my truck without observing every ping or knock, and a chef who simply cannot go out to eat anymore -- everyone else's food sucks.

Yeah. We're doomed.

A lot of aspiring screenwriters sound just like that chef. Look at any wannabe screenwriting board and you rarely find anything positive. I wonder if, having never opted or sold or produced anything of their own, some of these writers aren't just a little bit full of themselves. On the other hand, I don't have to win a Heisman Trophy to tell you when a college football game sucks.

Films have faults and I hate spotting them. I really, really wanted Eddie Kim to get his butt kicked in Snakes on a Plane or, at the very least, lose his family jewels to a set of exotic fangs (get your mind out of the gutter - I mean a snake). But he didn't and even my son's girlfriend left asking why we didn't get to see the bad guy face justice.

Fortunately, the film's shortcomings didn't stop me from enjoying Snakes on a Plane but I can't say that about all films and I'm growing increasingly concerned that I may be in danger of becoming the kind of writer who nit picks her senses out of the thrill of the moment.

Do doctors ever miss how attractive some people are because they've examined so many bodies that when they pass a hottie they're thinking, "that gal's excessively large mammary glands could mean thyroid disease" or "that guy took one too many little blue pills"?

Okay, that's just silly. Doctors must still find people attractive so filmmakers can surely still enjoy a movie and a bag of popcorn.

There's hope. There's always hope.

But it does give me an idea for the worst sequel ever (like I said, I've had way to much time to think) -- that guy in Snakes on a Plane whose unzipped pants became a reptilian buffet -- what if he'd had one too many little blue pills and the snake that bit off his willy survived the fall from the plane and wound up in the sewers of Los Angeles? Since the snake is still in mating mode from the pheremone soaked leis and all dangling wiggly things look like kin folk to him...

Somebody get me Samuel L. Jackson's number so I can pitch Snakes on Viagra in a Toilet!

Or -- maybe I'll just sit here in the dark and think.