Chapter 59.5: Meth-OD Man

Chapter 59.5: Meth-OD Man

Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures Offices, LA. January 2011.

“Raise your hands if you’ve ever done drugs.” My loose remark caused a sudden wave of tightening spines and sphincters in the gallery. Men and women in executively pressed suits awkwardly shuffled their polished shoes as they surreptitiously glanced at each other. As soon as the gazes fell back on me standing in front of them, I did the Disney parks point at them - two fingers out and thumb tucked. “Don’t lie!” A few hands hesitatingly went up. 

I fuckin’ knew it! 

Leslie Dixon, the screen-writer who’d penned the initial draft of the movie’s adaptation, whispered next to me. “Uh… Bas? Maybe we should stick to the script?” As much as she might’ve liked that, she was high if she assumed I would allow that to be the case. Not during this presentation, nor the movie itself. 

An essential requirement for anyone buying a ticket to my film is me actually having to get up and go sell it first. Which is why I was at a meeting with the distribution department at Disney, pitching Limitless to them.

“No need to be nervous. I’m not wearing a wire for narcotics enforcement, or anything of the sort. Neither am I enquiring about coke or whatever new designer drug’s available on the streets these days.” I exaggeratedly shook my head and shrugged my shoulders; this was a stage performance after all. “Coffee doesn’t always kick in on dreary nights when you’ve a backlog to get through, I get it. Adderall, Ritalin, I’m sure more than a handful of you’ve pinched a few of those off your hyperactive kids’ stash.” Holding up a tic-tac I’d raided from Leslie’s purse earlier, I used it as a prop stand in. “This script is precisely that - pharmaceutical induced focus. Imagine amphetamines with a healthy dose of sci-fi excess.” 

As the crowd of suits lowered their hands, one left hers up. I nodded at her, welcoming her question. “So is your intent to glorify its usage, or serve as a cautionary tale?”

At face value, her query may appear ridiculous. In reality, though, it had some merit from a Hollywood perspective. Had my answer been aimed at glory, there was a non-zero probability that her follow up question would entail figuring out what pharma companies we could potentially approach for product placement. However, “the latter, of course,” I had something more representative of my inward and Disney’s outward morals in mind. “This is my first foray into filmmaking following my days as Harry Potter. Obviously, I’m planning on setting an example rather than exalting drug abuse. I’d rather not see my young fans trainspotting on the Hogwarts Express, aye? The screenplay’s first few pages fully explain the premise.”

A story is told in three parts. The beginning must be snappy and clamp your audience to their seats from the get-go. Just like how NZT hooks its victims.

The launch point of whether a film, a show, a game, or even the start of the latest arc in a fictional series, is vital. Simply because the piece of media in question has to adequately answer one question: ‘Why should I care about any of this?’. 

If I want butts to stay in seats, it’s imperative that viewers answer their question with another of their own: ‘What’s going to happen next?’

My philosophy regarding engagement was straightforward. Tell the full story in the opening act. Primitive, perhaps; but I was betting on effective, too.

Leslie took over the summary. “Our hero - or I should instead say Eddie Morra fits the anti-hero archetype better - is a loser. An indolent author, who fails to write anything of substance, seeks creativity and escape through narcotics - to very little avail. Reaching out to his usual contact for a re-up on his chemical cocktail, Eddie’s dealer suggests a new prescription. NZT; our fantasy amphetamine in question. He flippantly takes it and finds his whole world view - courtesy of VFX - flipped over. NZT works like a charm, he accomplishes everything he sets out to do during a days long high. Desperate for more once it wears off, Eddie rushes over to the dealer for a fresh batch. Only to find that the price is now a lot steeper. Unable to afford it, though; Eddie is chased off by his dealer, who tauntingly tosses him a last free sample on his way out. Unbeknownst to either of them, the drug has certain side effects. When Eddie once again returns to try his luck with the dealer, he finds a corpse instead; but he also discovers his prize. Seeing the direct impact the drug has, Eddie has a choice to make. Does he leave well enough alone, or go down the rabbit hole?”

I hopped in on that last line. “He inevitably chooses poorly. This sequence of events is then later mirrored throughout the rest of the narrative, bringing everything full circle. So, what do you think?”

Glances were shared, chins were rubbed, and hushed contemplations were wispily whispered between them as they debated my fate. Leslie and I waited with bated breath - hers stank as if it was baited with something wriggly, and I wasn’t talking about chewing gum. Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen her tic-tacs. She clearly needed them. Not prepared to suffer the stale stench any longer, I lobbed the one I had in my hand into her gaping mouth. I wonder what would be worse, her choking, or me risking an audible gag?

Finally, the one lady with the questions braved herself as the spokesperson for the cabal. “We are amenable to a distribution deal. Of course, that is pending the completely detailed contract, as we will have to discuss and agree upon the finer details such as production schedule, release dates, the number of screens, etc.”

“Naturally. But it’s reassuring to know that producing the movie here on out won’t be wasted effort.” Or money, for that matter. 

“Also… the decisions branch would similarly like to relay that while we are comfortable exploring our first project with you, Mr Rhys. An independent production such as this poses a not insignificant risk…”

Ah, first the carrot, now the stick. Annoying, but not unexpected; RDJ had already primed me for such an eventuality. I’d have to play their game to get mine going. “A little slap and tickle to keep me from being fickle, eh?”

“Nothing so sordid, Mr Rhys. We merely feel that this relationship has potential for mutual benefits.”

Even should politics make for strange bedfellows, I was determined to not take this beyond a one-night stand. 

–

Netflix Offices, LA. January 2011.

My onboarding efforts continued with a couple more passengers I wanted on this ride with me. Netflix had graciously lent one of their private chambers, keen to let me do my thing, but still casting a watchful eye over my progress. 

Ted Sarandos joined me alongside George Miller and Zoe Kravitz. Thankfully, no Leslie, this time raining hell with her halitosis. She had yet to wash her mouth out of the distaste of the script alterations thus far. I hadn’t so much trimmed, instead completely eviscerated large chunks of her original draft. Namely, the entire superfluous section with the pointless inclusion of Eddie and his on-again-off-again girlfriend back and forth. It wasn’t as though I lacked appreciation for why that sort of character had been written in. On the surface, a stable, female foil to Eddie’s boyish fuckups - with fogged-up glasses on, however, her substance mostly amounted to a steamy scene and some emotional exposition. Sexposition, more like.

Leslie’s intuition wasn’t wrong. A little skin in these types of films was only par for the course, it was only her execution that left a lot to be desired. I had a more streamlined, and plot cohesive solution that fell somewhat more in-line with the novel.

“Alright, I get the gist of the story. Where exactly do I come in, though?” Zoe was being a brat, which was an auspicious sign for her character. 

She appeared bored as she listlessly swiped through the pages of the script. Slouched in her seat, face smushed against her palm, and half-lidded eyes skimming through the text. It was all artifice. Feigned valley-girl disinterest to mask her brimming eagerness for the role.

Unfortunately for her, my upbringing at Leavesden was a thespian crucible (and that wasn’t just a witch joke). Uncovering her performance - because that’s exactly what it was - was a casual formality. I clocked each time her finger feathered greedily across her character’s dialogue as she mutely recited the lines in between put-on pouts when she thought nobody was paying attention. I reckon she’d do whatever it takes to secure her first mainstream lead. 

… That came out far skeevier than I intended to. Best hide that one-liner as a figment of my imagination forever. The gutter bled into when next I spoke. “Your arrival heralds the rising action. Pun intended, and entendre very much doubled.” Damn you, Hollywood; and damn you too, Leslie. What kind of lewd surname was Dixon - I mean honestly! “Why don’t you tell me what you consider her purpose to be?” Besides the eye-candy, that is.

Vindicating my voyeurism, Zoe analysed the character for herself. “She’s the bridge that allows Eddie to traverse into the high-roller life. For Eddie, she goes from a name in the drug dealer’s black book, to the face of the wealthy party scene, then eventually to loggerheads against her business magnate father. In a way, she’s the personification of NZT.”

“Good instinct, you’re right,” I praised. “She’s basically daddy issues on svelte legs that trip Eddie knee-deep in shit. Fitting for you, yeah, femme fatale?” Then, I teased.

“I’ll walk outta here, right now!” Zoe bantered in rebuttal. I didn’t miss her rolling up her copy of the screenplay to walk away with. That, or she was gonna smack me with it.

Either way, she wasn’t gonna let this opportunity go. “No, you won’t.” Yeah, seriously, my verbiage was super iffy today. New rule, Bas; meetings need to be conducted out from under the Hollywood studio shade. Escaping exhibit ‘A’ of my trial evidence, I switched focus to my potential director. George was peering down through his round specs, perched halfway down his nose, as he - skrtch, skrtch, skrtch - doodled storyboard squares on the blank edges of the manuscript. “Any further convincing required on your end, George?”

“Nawr.” George was saying ‘no,’ - truly the only word in the English language the Australians had fully appropriated as their own. “Arri Alexa’s a good bit of kit. We’ll get some gnarly shots off it.” Plot is plot. Dialogue is dialogue. Ultimately, though, a film’s true language and means of communication is the visual medium. George had vision. “Colour-grade switching, plenty of rack focus, composite layering, maybe even some steadicam hyper-fixation. Should be a feast for the eyes. Setting the table, though, is what’s got me hung up a bit, Bas. I’ll ask again, and there’s no hard feeling if you change tack. Are you really certain you want to hand the logistical reins to me?”

I gestured at our silent partner. “Ted and his team will help facilitate. But, yes. Assemble the crew you want, get the equipment you want, and just give me the cheques. I’ll sign them. You’ve got carte blanche - go paint the town red.”

“Mate, fair warning, make sure this is what you want, because I need to stretch my muscles with something human after spending eons tangling with animated penguins. I’m not above taking advantage - for example, I’m hiring my wife to do the editing.”

“Do what you need to.” My voice nor my gaze wavered. “I demand only that we deliver,” I flung myself back in my seat and lazily spread my hands up on either side of me, “absolute cinema.”

“Alright, have it your way. I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re a generous young bloke, Bas. Makes my skin itch if I’m honest; don’t yet know you well enough to decipher whether or not you’re being genuine.” George took his pen and scratched at his scalp.

“If it makes you feel any better, I promise to carve a pound of flesh out of your hide someday. Sound good?”

“Staggeringly, yes.”

A while after, Ted and I ushered them out of the office at the conclusion of our first pep-rally. “It’s infectious, Bas.”

Reflexively, my hands jolted towards my zipper. “What is?”

“Your optimism for this project!” Ted jutted his chin at the retreating backs of my first two hires. “They’re excited - I am too, for that matter. Still, though, I’ve gotta ask - any niggling reservations or qualms about taking on this role? It’s such a massive departure from anything you’ve ever done.”

I mulled it over for a moment; running my tongue across my molars as I weighed my words. “Well, I’m confident my fans’ll enjoy seeing me play a relatively bad guy. Even my detractors might get a thrill out of it - given how the film ends. It’s like that scene with Pacino at the end of Scarface - I’m angling for this movie and my performance to be in a similar vein. If I can garner even a fraction of that notoriety, I’ll be satisfied.”

“Tony Montana, huh?” Ted extended out finger guns. “Fwoosh! You’ve got practice there, at least.”