Read Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood Online
Authors: Robby Benson
study at his own pace . . .
“and fuck the books!”
). It was the fastest route, if not the most economical use of his parents’ Internet service (dial-up, on the old system that charged by the minute), and he wanted that degree, dammit.
Lance then found his calling in entertainment law. It suited
his winning nature—er, his nature to win. At any and all costs. He vowed to pay his parents’ Internet bills back, and did so within the first year of “earning” his degree, by lucking out on a live-action cartoon that was being sued by the Screen Actors Guild
because none of the actors portraying the action heroes were
union. Lance came to the rescue of the wounded producer, set
up a fake loan-out corporation, and moved the filming of the
show to Vancouver, Canada, where SAG had no jurisdiction at
the time. The producer rewarded Lance with a piece of the syn-
dication rights—after profits. Instead Lance bargained for mer-
chandising, and lo and behold, the plastic action figures became the top-selling Christmas gift that year. Lance was now an entertainment force to be reckoned with: rich and opportunistic, and he
never
played by the rules. Those qualities landed him the job as vice president of production at the studio. His job description now included being the point man on the studio’s hit show
I Love
My Urban Buddies
.
“Quiet, please! Let me summarize!” Lance thundered. “Jasper
Jones will not be directing the next three episodes. He’s dead.”
“He’s dead to you?” a voice quivered.
2 2
W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
“No. He-is-dead. De-
ceased. Departed. Lifeless—
The Hollywood Dictionary
like our production sched-
TABLE READ:
The first time the
ule! We begin tomorrow
script is read aloud. Often ex-
with a production meeting,
udes the stench of death.
then a table read with the
cast, and then a few minutes
of rehearsal with a dead di-
rector. Unfortunately, we need a
live
director. It is my—um, I think it should be
our
stance, as the studio, that the schedule
not be altered
. If we shut down to look for a live director, it will cost the studio dearly. It will also be perceived within the business that our hit show has suddenly run into troubled times. It is my recommenda-tion that we bring in . . . J.T. Baker.”
A pall fell over the room, then tripped.
“He’s far too
passionate
,” said someone in the back.
“He’s burned every bridge in this town—at least twice!” an-
other voice blurted out.
“He’s an
idea guy
. I don’t like it.”
“Precisely,” said Lance, who exuded so much confidence that
every thought sounded like a solution. Lance had a reputation at the studio as the ultimate problem solver, though a look at his track record would reveal a brilliance at causing problems he knew he could solve.
“My strategy,” Lance continued, “is that we create a big media
sensation with the death of Jackson Jones—”
“Jasper
. Jasper Jones . . . Sorry.” It was a female voice. That was all Lance could tell. But he was determined to find out who had contradicted him with such a minor detail during his strategy oration.
“J-A-S-P-E-R Jones,” Lance continued, truly peeved. He pon-
tificated, “You see, if the public takes to the story, we accomplish R o b b y
B e n s o n
2 3
different strata of triumph. One: more
product recognition
for our new show. We not only make headlines in the arts section
but
we milk the national headlines on the front page and the business section. Not to mention the obits. Three: we’ve got
product recognition
from all media sides, so our sponsors will be ecstatic!”
“Excuse me. You left out
two,
” the same female voice corrected.
“Fuck! One, two, or three! Fuck the details! Listen to my god-
damn take on this mess and how I personally will spearhead the
dead stuff
and spin it to the studio’s advantage!
I
am assigned to
I Love My Urban Buddies,
not whoever you are! I’m the one who was there when it was a
nothing
show. Now it’s the biggest sitcom in eons.”
There was no response. Lance took a deep breath. “Now,” he
went on, “most shows would kill for a dead guy. I say let’s milk it but never lose a penny. Also, if we pitch J.P. Baker to the Pooleys, they’ll shit and want to postpone a week and find a new director.
This way we can say that the shutdown was their fault because we approved J.P. Baker and we’ll force their production company to cover the cost of a shutdown, and we won’t be out a single penny!
It’s kinda like the Jack Ritter thing.”
“Um . . . it’s
John
Ritter. And, um, his name is J
.T
. Baker, sir,”
the female with the detailed facts couldn’t resist interjecting again,
“not J
.P.
Baker.”
The nerve of her to actually know any facts! Lance was seeth-
ing. He glanced nervously at the president of the studio. “The
fucking particulars don’t matter! What matters is that the studio not pay for a week to shut down a goddamn prime-time television sitcom!”
“How do you know that J.T. Baker will accept an offer? Espe-
cially at this late date?” the president of the studio asked, finally contributing to the conversation.
2 4
W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
Lance smiled. He was ready for this question. “J.
T
. Baker,” he began, “has a kid on dialysis. He needs to shoot a few sitcoms a year to get his Directors Guild insurance and health plan to kick in with the hospital costs. We’ve got him by the balls.”
“Very good,” was the president’s quiet response.
End of conversation. End of Studio Emergency Meeting.
Stephanie and Marcus Pooley monopolized a tiny booth at a hip
coffee shop, inhaling their coffee with a giddy Dick Beaglebum.
“J.T. Baker. Ring a bell?” he asked them.
The Pooleys looked at each other. They didn’t like looking at
each other.
The Pooleys had had a meteoric, typical rise to fame and power
as creators-showrunners in the business. They lived in Malibu.
They both came from wealthy families. They’d both had stars in
their eyes and wanted to be in show business, but every attempt had failed—until one day, the couple next door with five kids had a barbecue on the beach
and, trying to be neighborly,
invited the Pooleys.
The Hollywood Dictionary
The neighbors were a
THE CREATORS/SHOWRUNNERS,
particularly dysfunctional
THE STUDIO, AND THE NETWORK:
family. The Pooleys may
A perpetual ménage à trois,
have lacked all creative tal-
with each participant trying to
ent but they were leeches
achieve the biggest orgasm and
when it came to the talent of
claim the biggest genitalia in the
stealing other people’s lives
relationship.
and recording their prey’s
2 6
W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
personal problems on paper,
The Hollywood Dictionary
and they saw the family next
door as a possible gold mine.
COVERAGE:
An evaluation by an
They began finding reasons
Executive who agrees to read a
to hang out with their neigh-
script. The Executive gives it to
bors, help with the kids, go
a college freshman in screen-
writing school. The freshman’s
on outings—all the while
evaluation determines the life or
wearing a wire. They taped
death of a script. (Not to be con-
every conversation and then,
fused with
film coverage:
“I want
verbatim, translated the
another close-up, dammit!”)
transcripts into scripts with-
out adding a single original
thought. Dick Beaglebum,
as a favor to a client who also lived on the same strip of beach in Malibu, said he would send the
script
out for coverage.
The coverage came back with hyperactive kudos and the sen-
tences: “This could be the best animated show on TV. I know I’d watch it and so would all my frat brothers.” The animated show
about a dysfunctional family was an immediate hit. The Pooleys
were immediate players.
Their next step: to get out of animation and earn credibility.
That meant wearing a wire and recording a group of twenty-
somethings whose parents leased a house for them on the prized
Malibu beachfront property to the north of the Pooleys. Other
than the transfer to an urban setting, the pilot episode echoed verbatim how they all met, lived in this one house, and interacted.
The coverage came back: “Totally awesome, dude! This is how
it really is. I’d watch these Buddies! So would my frat brothers.
And my girlfriend says her sorority sisters would too.” Thus, the Pooleys became A-list players with two megahit shows, and were
feared and admired by the industry.
“Who the fuck is
J.T. Baker
?” Stephanie asked, with a wicked look plastered on her Aryan, surgically altered face. She was the R o b b y
B e n s o n
2 7
pit bull of the two Pooleys—not necessarily the most dangerous, she just had a bite that wouldn’t let go: an important survival skill when dealing with the network and the studio.
“No offense, but you two are a little too
young
to know J.T.’s work,” Dick wisely explained.
“Young
is good,” Stephanie replied, like a trained dog.
“Young
is
good,” her husband repeated grudgingly.
Dick echoed the Hollywood mantra. “Yes.
Young
is
always
good.” He continued, “J.T. Baker is an old client of mine.”
“Old?” the Pooleys said in concert. “Old is bad,” they said in
unrehearsed harmony.
“He’s been my client for fifteen years,” Dick explained with a
mischievous smile. “Every once in a while, I throw him a bone.”
Dick took a sip of his coffee and began laying out his strategy with the Pooleys. “No one likes him. He’s far too
dedicated
. And—
get this—he’s a
college professor
!” Dick said with disdain. “He lives in the mountains of Bum-fuck Someplace back East, and here’s
the kicker:
He used to be famous!
”
“Well then, why the fuck
do we want this
old has-
been
?” Marcus screamed.
The Hollywood Dictionary
“A fucking
has-been
?
You represent us and you’re
YOUNG:
Good!
pitching a fucking
old has-
OLD:
Bad! (This definition has
been
to direct
our baby
?”
become a mantra that cannot
be repeated—or overstated,
Stephanie Pooley bared her
teeth.
or overclarified—enough. So:
Young, good! Old, bad!)
“That’s the point,” Dick
smirked. “Hear me out. If
we go in with the M.O. that
J.T. and J.T. alone is our man, the studio will have to take us seriously. They can’t say we’re
not
playing ball. We are! We’ve got a replacement! And his name is J.T. Baker, folks! Now—they’ve
got
to 2 8
W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
shut down the show! They’ll die when they hear his fucking name!
I mean this guy is . . . an artist! He’s . . . got
vision
! Vision, for chrissake! He’s got passion! He cares! Can you imagine the nightmare?!
Believe me, it’s a foolproof plan!”
Dick was practically bouncing in his chair. “The studio will
recommend to the network that the show be shut down for the
week, you can find some other schmuck to direct, and you’ll get some rest and have your people do another pass on the eighty-page script. That way, the studio must—they
have
to pick up the tab for the week. Not you guys, or your production company!”
He could tell the Pooleys, with their steamy pile of ambition
and taste for delicious manipulation, liked this idea.
“Now think, guys,” Dick continued. “How is the studio going
to get J.T. Baker here in time for tomorrow’s production meet-
ing? We’re putting them in a no-win position! And—he lives in
Bum-fuck Someplace where there are real people and stuff that’s
. . . real and stuff. In other words: he’s ‘rural’! They’ll shit! We’ve got a rural guy directing an urban show. Fuck! They’ll never say yes. Oh! And oh! Get this: Even though I represent him, I also represent you, too! So . . . I’ll tell him I can’t get involved in his salary
reduction
! We’ll offer him . . . director’s scale! Odds are, he’ll throw a hissy fit and never get on a plane. It clears you guys on even another level!”
“We’re not fucking actors. You don’t have to explain things,”
Marcus said. “But you’re sure this will work? This J.T. Baker
thing?”
“Foolproof,” Dick Beaglebum beamed.
“Brilliant
,” Stephanie Pooley said.
“Genius
,” Marcus Pooley agreed.
Not the end of the conversation, but who wants to hear more?
End of Meeting.
By now, J.T. Baker’s name was speeding through Hollywood like
a derivative idea. Joseph Thomas Baker. It took thirty seconds at Ellis Island to chop down the Bäcker family tree and plant the
seedling thereafter to be known as
Baker
. No matter; family and enemies just called him J.T.