Read Online The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly - Free Book Online

that?”
    “There's no God scene. That's not God.”
    “Well, who is it?”
    “Does God have wings? I don't think so. Angels have wings.”
    “God doesn't have wings?”
    “No. And you don't call God 'Bernie.' “
    “So what is that? Is it supposed to be real? Is it in his head?”
    “Yeah, I mean no, I mean it's whatever you want it to be, that's up to the viewer.”
    “You're leaving too much up for interpretation. You can't do that in a mainstream movie.”
    “No offense, Levine, but I don't think you're giving the public enough credit.”
    Levine whipped the ball against the backboard. It ricocheted around the room, knocking a pile of scripts off the windowsill.
    “Goddamn it, if you want me to represent you, you've got to start paying attention! I'm not gonna argue with you, man, 'cause I
know
I'm right.”
    Suddenly I felt very stupid. Who did I think I was coming up here telling the man his business?
    “Now I realize you probably just spent the last year of your life busting your ass on this script, and you're hoping that everyone back in Peoria will see it on the screen, because despite what you say, we both know it's half-autobiographical.”
    “Not really, and I'm from Rhode Island.”
    “Start agreeing with me.”
    “It's partly autobiographical, and I'm from Peoria.”
    I was relieved to see him smile.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    Levine straightened the backboard, picked up the ball, left the scripts on the floor.
    “You see, I'm thinking on a grander scale than you, Henry. I don't want to just get this movie made, I want to give you a
career'
His tone softened. “Let me ask you this: What are you looking for out here? What are your goals? You just want to get this movie produced and get the hell out of here?”
    I hadn't thought much past getting this first movie made, but I didn't want to seem like an idiot, so I said, “My goals are fairly modest. I want to make movies. Nothing big, just a few good movies. And it would be nice if none of them ever aired on
USA Up All Night.”
    “Would you like to direct someday?”
    I'm a major dreamer and you can't be a major dreamer without having a healthy ego. Because if you don't sort of believe in your dreams—by that I mean
daydreams
—then what's the point indreaming? You'd have to be a damn psycho to dream about saving a house full of sorority girls from a raging fire, or spanking a home run over the Green Monster to win Game Seven, or spending a weekend on Nantucket banging the shit out of Elle McPherson if some part of you didn't believe it was possible. To imagine those things without believing would be hellish. Well, I'd had all those thoughts and many more outlandish ones, but never in my life had I permitted myself to dream about being a movie director.
    “Sure, I'd like to eventually direct my own stuff. You know, have a little more control, do it right.”
    “Well, that's what I want, too. And if you do what I say, you actually stand a chance. Your script made me laugh out loud a couple times. I never laugh out loud. And your stuff isn't typical, you've got your own style. Ninety percent of all comedies written in the last ten years were written with Bill Murray in mind. And they're all the same. Some are good, most suck, but it's the same smart-alecky shit that only Bill Murray can get away with. Yours is a little smart-alecky, too, but there's something about it I like. I like the way you go for it. If you can make people laugh, you can work around here, that's the good news. The bad news is … you're a loose cannon and it worries me.”
    Levine looked me in the eye. I tried to send positive vibes, but what I felt coming out was pathetic.
    “Listen, Levine, I know I can be a pain in the ass and I have a lot to learn about this business, but I'm a quick study. Give me a chance, and I'll do what you say.”
    There was a buzz and Levine put his headphone back on. “Yeah, put him through.”
    While the agent talked on the phone, I looked