The Writing Room Floor
Aaron Duran is convinced that he saw a rebel frigate slamming into the Death Star, despite the fact that it doesn't appear to happen on any of the officially-released versions of the film.
Mailman Chris swore for years that he saw The Goonies get attacked by an octopus, only to be disbelieved and mocked.
A handful of test-screening souls witnessed an alternate reality in which Clark Griswald breaks into the home of Wally World founder Roy Wally, later forcing the CEO and his family to dance, at gunpoint, for the Griswalds' amusement.
The history of cinema is littered with discarded endings, middles, and prologues. Hell, Mallrats has a fucking hour-long intro that was cut early on. And thank sweet merciful Christ for that.
Throughout the evolution of Bigger than Jesus, we've made our own stylistic cuts---killing our darlings, even though it breaks our selfish, petty, scribblers' hearts.
Many folks from the Clinton Street performance will remember the long monologue which led into Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me." I, however, will only remember the resounding fucking silence that greeted this section of the script.
The "Home Sweet Home" section is another example of cutting for length and narrative flow. This piece was always a favorite of ours, but having cut it after the Imago Performance, we found that things flowed just fine, anyway.
The long series of rock and roll lyrics that I spouted off, poetry-style at the beginning of performances #2 through #5? Gone. The "wake up and French kiss the morning" joke? History. Alice Cooper telling his own dead baby joke in order to cheer up the narrator? Toast.
All great, all touching...all completely and totally disposable, as we found out. (There are those who would would argue that this sums up most of my career.)
What we discovered, is that each of us is a princess, and a criminal, and a basket case, and a-----no, wait, that's not it.
What we discovered is that cutting only hurts for a second, and that, when you've cut correctly, it's immediately obvious. If it keeps hurting, you take a second look, but most of the time, you realize that your joke about Britny Fox wasn't all that crucial to begin with, you know?
Some folks, like Director of Photography Nate Baker, saw things that were never, ever seen again by anyone but Joni DeRouchie and myself.
Nate was one of seven people who attended the Bigger than Jesus focus group way back when---when I Shanghaied my immediate circle of friends, and demanded that they assess this thing I was writing. (A thing which, at that point, was called Heavy Metal Memories.)
I reserved the Clinton Street for an afternoon, and I stood onstage with a wooden stool, a boombox, and several pages of stream-of consciousness ramblings.
"You know the thing about 'Freebird' is that...heh..."
"You know what I hate? It's prog rock."
"What is the deal with that guy who's always going 'wooo!' at every concert?"
They were brutally honest, and told me what sucked, and what was good. (Little did I know how kind they had been...if you ever want a good laugh, compare the original script I gave Joni DeRouchie to our Clinton Street script. Except that you won't, 'cause I'm fucking burning it. Or saving it for retirement. One of the two.)
Later on, Joni truly whipped the script into shape, urging me to jettison the stuff that bogged it down or kept me from my goal of advancing the story. (Actually, all that "story" stuff was her goal; I just wanted to dance like a monkey and make Winger jokes.)
Lines were cut, pages were attacked with all the efficiency of a Panzer division, and slowly but surely, it all took shape, and I'm better for it---and so are you, whether you knew it or not. The script we shot at PSU was basically cybernetic skin over the titanium-alloy skeleton of the original. That first, rough draft did the job of making people laugh, but it didn't sweat, or breathe, or look like a living thing. That took re-writes, and arguments, and yelling, and coffee, and cigarettes, and enough fried food to kill a small country. It took this whole...thing we've created, in other words.
It's been quite a journey...and it ain't over yet. I'll get that goddamn Monkey's Paw story in if it kills me...
Missing in Action:
...But He Never Meant Shit to Me: a long, acrid rant attempting to, once and for all, dismantle the Godlike status accorded Elvis Presley. A sort of companion piece to BtJ's Kurt Cobain section.
In Defense of Nu-Metal: a discussion of rap-metal hybrids, and why those kooky kids are all wearing their pants so low these days. Why, I oughtta....hey! Get off my lawn!
All Blings Considered: alright, that wasn't the name, but I did have a section dealing with the distinctly different ways that rock and rap deal with material success. Ah, it's just as well that I cut it, since the word "bling" would have come out of my mouth at some point, and that's just retarded.
This One Time, I Made Out With This Really Hot Chick to "You Shook Me All Night Long", and it Was, Like, the Coolest Moment Ever: 'Nuff said.
The "Freebird" Syndrome: sort of got summed up in that one closing line about "Freebird" in the final BtJ script. Great song...and in retrospect, doesn't really need my defending...the song speaks for itself.
...and others either forgotten, or repressed. Some will find their way out, eventually; others will stay buried in the mists of time, my basement, and Nate Baker's memory. However much I love them, though...they can't compare to what we eventually committed to film. And for that, I would make these sacrifices all over again. It was worth every edit, every cut, and every unmercifully-killed darling.
Worth it, and then some.
Mailman Chris swore for years that he saw The Goonies get attacked by an octopus, only to be disbelieved and mocked.
A handful of test-screening souls witnessed an alternate reality in which Clark Griswald breaks into the home of Wally World founder Roy Wally, later forcing the CEO and his family to dance, at gunpoint, for the Griswalds' amusement.
The history of cinema is littered with discarded endings, middles, and prologues. Hell, Mallrats has a fucking hour-long intro that was cut early on. And thank sweet merciful Christ for that.
Throughout the evolution of Bigger than Jesus, we've made our own stylistic cuts---killing our darlings, even though it breaks our selfish, petty, scribblers' hearts.
Many folks from the Clinton Street performance will remember the long monologue which led into Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me." I, however, will only remember the resounding fucking silence that greeted this section of the script.
The "Home Sweet Home" section is another example of cutting for length and narrative flow. This piece was always a favorite of ours, but having cut it after the Imago Performance, we found that things flowed just fine, anyway.
The long series of rock and roll lyrics that I spouted off, poetry-style at the beginning of performances #2 through #5? Gone. The "wake up and French kiss the morning" joke? History. Alice Cooper telling his own dead baby joke in order to cheer up the narrator? Toast.
All great, all touching...all completely and totally disposable, as we found out. (There are those who would would argue that this sums up most of my career.)
What we discovered, is that each of us is a princess, and a criminal, and a basket case, and a-----no, wait, that's not it.
What we discovered is that cutting only hurts for a second, and that, when you've cut correctly, it's immediately obvious. If it keeps hurting, you take a second look, but most of the time, you realize that your joke about Britny Fox wasn't all that crucial to begin with, you know?
Some folks, like Director of Photography Nate Baker, saw things that were never, ever seen again by anyone but Joni DeRouchie and myself.
Nate was one of seven people who attended the Bigger than Jesus focus group way back when---when I Shanghaied my immediate circle of friends, and demanded that they assess this thing I was writing. (A thing which, at that point, was called Heavy Metal Memories.)
I reserved the Clinton Street for an afternoon, and I stood onstage with a wooden stool, a boombox, and several pages of stream-of consciousness ramblings.
"You know the thing about 'Freebird' is that...heh..."
"You know what I hate? It's prog rock."
"What is the deal with that guy who's always going 'wooo!' at every concert?"
They were brutally honest, and told me what sucked, and what was good. (Little did I know how kind they had been...if you ever want a good laugh, compare the original script I gave Joni DeRouchie to our Clinton Street script. Except that you won't, 'cause I'm fucking burning it. Or saving it for retirement. One of the two.)
Later on, Joni truly whipped the script into shape, urging me to jettison the stuff that bogged it down or kept me from my goal of advancing the story. (Actually, all that "story" stuff was her goal; I just wanted to dance like a monkey and make Winger jokes.)
Lines were cut, pages were attacked with all the efficiency of a Panzer division, and slowly but surely, it all took shape, and I'm better for it---and so are you, whether you knew it or not. The script we shot at PSU was basically cybernetic skin over the titanium-alloy skeleton of the original. That first, rough draft did the job of making people laugh, but it didn't sweat, or breathe, or look like a living thing. That took re-writes, and arguments, and yelling, and coffee, and cigarettes, and enough fried food to kill a small country. It took this whole...thing we've created, in other words.
It's been quite a journey...and it ain't over yet. I'll get that goddamn Monkey's Paw story in if it kills me...
Missing in Action:
...But He Never Meant Shit to Me: a long, acrid rant attempting to, once and for all, dismantle the Godlike status accorded Elvis Presley. A sort of companion piece to BtJ's Kurt Cobain section.
In Defense of Nu-Metal: a discussion of rap-metal hybrids, and why those kooky kids are all wearing their pants so low these days. Why, I oughtta....hey! Get off my lawn!
All Blings Considered: alright, that wasn't the name, but I did have a section dealing with the distinctly different ways that rock and rap deal with material success. Ah, it's just as well that I cut it, since the word "bling" would have come out of my mouth at some point, and that's just retarded.
This One Time, I Made Out With This Really Hot Chick to "You Shook Me All Night Long", and it Was, Like, the Coolest Moment Ever: 'Nuff said.
The "Freebird" Syndrome: sort of got summed up in that one closing line about "Freebird" in the final BtJ script. Great song...and in retrospect, doesn't really need my defending...the song speaks for itself.
...and others either forgotten, or repressed. Some will find their way out, eventually; others will stay buried in the mists of time, my basement, and Nate Baker's memory. However much I love them, though...they can't compare to what we eventually committed to film. And for that, I would make these sacrifices all over again. It was worth every edit, every cut, and every unmercifully-killed darling.
Worth it, and then some.
