Ghost World
© James C. Hess
Among its many claims to fame (excluding Matt Stone and Trey Parker) is the World Affairs Conference, held annually.
I am not sure of the exact original purpose of the Conference. It doesn't matter, I suppose. The Conference, for me, is a great excuse to catch up with those I don't have opportunity to see any other time.
Several years ago, under the guise of attending the WAC (who can actually stomach Molly Ivins or Roger Ebert, regular, self-appointed and self-annointed fixtures of the Con?), I went to CU-Boulder and met up with several people I really would like to spend more time with.
We found a quiet place, grabbed something to eat, and began to tell one another about our lives to that point.
Of course, given this is Reality, we quickly exhausted that topic and moved to the more preferred past time:
Shooting the bull. (As they say in mixed company.)
Because I make a buck or two from writing and things writing, I immediately became the center of attention. Thankfully someone sneezed and that particular focus shifted to something like: What Is Wrong With Hollywood?
Of course, before long, because we were actually enjoying ourselves, we attracted a crowd and effectively ended up having our own, little, mini conference, with the aforementioned topic the catalyst.
Which brought the focus to me. So I dug my heels in and began answering questions and assertions flung at me like so much zoo poo.
Finally, a frustrated Artist stood, hands to his hips (I kid you not), and said, 'All right, Mr. Knowitall. If you had final say over Hollywood, what would you want from films and movies?')
What do I want from the Hollywood Machine, I replied.
Yes. (Imagine Daffy Duck with purple hair and a sneer manifested by a lower lip piercing and you can easily picture the person questioning me.)
A good story, I said, without hesitation.
The room went silent. There it was. The answer, the solution to what burdens the Hollywood Machine, and it was so simple:
A good story.
Obviously there was no one in the audience, the gathering that day from Hollywood, and if there was my remarks, my suggestions, my requests fell on unhearing ears, because the bile that continues to be ground from the bowels of the Hollywood Machine is unchanged.
Now one could argue that the fault for the excrement that regularly stinks up multiplexes across the American Heartland does not belong to the director or the actors (excuse me: S*T*A*R*S*), but the screenwriter, who cobbles up much of what finds it way to the silver screen because of manifestations stemming from a wet dream he had previously.
