The Script Doctor Will See You Now


by @James_Killough

“But, James,” you say, exasperated, while you wait in vain for the newly reborn Harvey “Phoenix” Weinstein to return your call. “You incessantly bitch about the poor quality of the films in the running for the Oscar this year.  If you’re so good, how come you’re not up there yourself?  And, by the way, OMG! I loved The Artist, you are so wrong about that!”

When Garbo finally talked, nobody cared that she wasn't from Connecticut.

And you are quite right, except I take exception to one part of your comment in particular because it reminds me of a spat I had with an Indian director I rewrote a script for back in the latter part of the last century.  “If you’re so good,” she hissed, “Why aren’t you in Hollywood?”

“You really don’t get it,” I hissed right back.  Defending script rewrites is a blood sport.

Hollywood Drowns in Its Own Crap, Vanishes. News at Eleven.


by James Killough

I didn’t watch the Golden Globes last night, not only because I don’t have a TV, but because Tuttle and I had something of a PFC editorial meeting about this blog’s new format, after which Kimball and ten others come over for a potluck dinner.  I believe I drank three bottles of wine, so if I sound as unfunny and needlessly venomous as Ricky Gervais in this piece, you know why.

If I were an Academy member, Brad Pitt would have my vote this year. Photo: Robert Wilson.

We did half-heartedly keep up to date with the awards via a live blog from the Guardian on my laptop, but nobody was really interested.  I barked out winners every now and then to almost zero interest, which is notable because we were in Hollywood and half the party was involved in The Business to one degree or the other—okay, one guy shoots porn.  Details.