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Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow. Tomorrow even your eggs will be hardboiled.
You're a wealthy actress, living in a big house in Hollywood, when a neighbour comes knocking. She's from down the hill. Turk Street perhaps. She tells you a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow.
You got the part, in your biggest movie yet. Which doesn't fit with the big house, but continuity isn't a problem. It's called On High In Blue Tomorrows, and it's about. Well maybe it doesn't matter what it's about. It's about yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow.
So you do the table read with Justin Theroux, and Jeremy - don't mention L*lita - Irons tells you in fact that this is a remake. No, it's not Mulholland Drive II, or Wilder at Heart or International Blue Velvet - there was a Polish film called36 47 which was never completed because the actress was murdered. Spooky.
But someone is watching you, watching you at the read through, and Theroux goes to see who it is but he can't work out who it is.
Cut to Donno Darko: The Sitcom. Dig those rabbits, though those rabbits don't dig. Beatrix Potter and Fire Walk With Me?
Your husband warns your costar off you, or maybe that's part of the movie. You were hypnotised to kill someone with a screw driver. Or maybe you committed suicide with one. Cut to Donno Darko: The Sitcom.
Bring on the dancing dwarf, or was that Carnivale? Today you will write about a movie.
You go to see someone, someone down the road, you go to reason with them, or maybe steal a screwdriver. You walk down a maze of twisty corridors, all the same. There are people at a table, reading a script. One of them is Jeremy Irons, one of them is Justin Theroux, and you are the third. You watch yourself. You running away, wanting to be caught.
Time to go to the cops, or, if not the cops, a PI. Or maybe an analyst. You want to tell him a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie.
In Poland they have a barbecue and your husband squirts ketchup on himself.
Let's bring on the dancing girls. Gratuitous breast shots. Actually, they're all whores from Hollywood and Vine. They laugh at you and want your screwdriver. Time to go to the cops, or, if not the cops, a PI. Or maybe an analyst. You want to tell him a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie.
Cut to Rabbitman. The Rabbit Story. Lost Rabbit. Even. Nothing is wasted.
You've been stabbed. With a screwdriver. On a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Dorothy -----. There's no place like home. Her name was Lula, she was a showgirl. You crash and die among the street people, a long way from your big house. A Japanese women tells you a story. With subtitles though she speaks perfect English. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow. On High In Blue Velvet Tomorrows. Tomorrow even your John Woo movie will be hardboiled.
The camera pulls back. You know this is a movie, right? The camera films the camera.
Maybe all this will happen tomorrow. You need to get rid of your visitor from Turk Street.
You go and watch yourself in the movie house. You watch yourself go upstairs to a PI. Or a shrink. You want to tell him a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie.
More bloody rabbits. They breed like rabbits.
You reach for a gun. Don't shoot the director. LP is scrawled on the back of your hand. Laura Palmer. Long Player. Longlife Pint. Sorry, LB. It's that cosmic ordering thang. Deal or no deal? Shoot someone. Fire over their head. Repeatedly.
Cut to the wrap party. Cue Nina Simone, 'Sinnerman'. You sit uncomfortably while others dance. You need a new agent. Tomorrow you will appear in a movie.
Did I mention there's about forty seconds of William H. Macy? If you choose to walk out, walk out there. Not at ninety minutes, two hours, or more, as people did. It's an endurance test, right? We have come through.
You're a wealthy actress, living in a big house in Hollywood, when a neighbour comes knocking. She's from down the hill. Turk Street perhaps. She tells you a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow.
You got the part, in your biggest movie yet. Which doesn't fit with the big house, but continuity isn't a problem. It's called On High In Blue Tomorrows, and it's about. Well maybe it doesn't matter what it's about. It's about yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow.
So you do the table read with Justin Theroux, and Jeremy - don't mention L*lita - Irons tells you in fact that this is a remake. No, it's not Mulholland Drive II, or Wilder at Heart or International Blue Velvet - there was a Polish film called
But someone is watching you, watching you at the read through, and Theroux goes to see who it is but he can't work out who it is.
Cut to Donno Darko: The Sitcom. Dig those rabbits, though those rabbits don't dig. Beatrix Potter and Fire Walk With Me?
Your husband warns your costar off you, or maybe that's part of the movie. You were hypnotised to kill someone with a screw driver. Or maybe you committed suicide with one. Cut to Donno Darko: The Sitcom.
Bring on the dancing dwarf, or was that Carnivale? Today you will write about a movie.
You go to see someone, someone down the road, you go to reason with them, or maybe steal a screwdriver. You walk down a maze of twisty corridors, all the same. There are people at a table, reading a script. One of them is Jeremy Irons, one of them is Justin Theroux, and you are the third. You watch yourself. You running away, wanting to be caught.
Time to go to the cops, or, if not the cops, a PI. Or maybe an analyst. You want to tell him a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie.
In Poland they have a barbecue and your husband squirts ketchup on himself.
Let's bring on the dancing girls. Gratuitous breast shots. Actually, they're all whores from Hollywood and Vine. They laugh at you and want your screwdriver. Time to go to the cops, or, if not the cops, a PI. Or maybe an analyst. You want to tell him a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie.
Cut to Rabbitman. The Rabbit Story. Lost Rabbit. Even. Nothing is wasted.
You've been stabbed. With a screwdriver. On a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Dorothy -----. There's no place like home. Her name was Lula, she was a showgirl. You crash and die among the street people, a long way from your big house. A Japanese women tells you a story. With subtitles though she speaks perfect English. Tomorrow, you don't care about tomorrow. On High In Blue Velvet Tomorrows. Tomorrow even your John Woo movie will be hardboiled.
The camera pulls back. You know this is a movie, right? The camera films the camera.
Maybe all this will happen tomorrow. You need to get rid of your visitor from Turk Street.
You go and watch yourself in the movie house. You watch yourself go upstairs to a PI. Or a shrink. You want to tell him a story. Yesterday you went to see a movie. Today you will write about a movie.
More bloody rabbits. They breed like rabbits.
You reach for a gun. Don't shoot the director. LP is scrawled on the back of your hand. Laura Palmer. Long Player. Longlife Pint. Sorry, LB. It's that cosmic ordering thang. Deal or no deal? Shoot someone. Fire over their head. Repeatedly.
Cut to the wrap party. Cue Nina Simone, 'Sinnerman'. You sit uncomfortably while others dance. You need a new agent. Tomorrow you will appear in a movie.
Did I mention there's about forty seconds of William H. Macy? If you choose to walk out, walk out there. Not at ninety minutes, two hours, or more, as people did. It's an endurance test, right? We have come through.
