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Silly pitches...

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Rich.

Rich.

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There's been a lot of talk of late in the Writing Groups about the mind-bending task of constructing the perfect pitch, so I thought a little light relief might be in order.

There I was, in the elevator, and in walks none other than Peeyou Blisher, resplendent in polar-necked ball gown and smoking a cigar.​
​
"Hey there, kid," she growled, "I see that look in your eye. What have you got for me?"​
​
Sweat moistened my palms. One shot, that's all you get, and this was it.​
​
"It's a thriller," I muttered. "A thriller!" -- finding my voice. "It's Harry Potter meets historical John Le Carré: The Cuban Wizard Crisis, complete at 350,000 words!"​
​
Blisher tapped her cigar. "I see it, kid. 'Don't blink till you see the whites of their wands', right?"​
​
I nodded, a little too fast.​
​
We arrived at floor 666, and Blisher stepped out, throwing me a line over the curve of her shoulder.​
​
"Don't call me, kid. I'll call you!"​


Silly pitches, let's have yours...
 
I'm having lunch, so I thought I'd throw in a little anecdote.

Leicester Square. The premier of Schindler's list. A mass of people are waiting for the stars to come out. Everyone wants to see Steven Spielberg and ask his reaction to his own movie. I want to see him to ask him for the lead role in his next movie. It's 15 mins before the ending of the screening. I've managed to manoeuvre myself to the front of everyone, right near the exit of the cinema; Steven Spielberg will have to go past me on his way out. Well done, Barbara. I'm ready to throw my CV at him. I wait. This is going to be my big break.

Then, lovely. The first movie goers are coming out. Excellent. The film must be over. My eyes scan the audience as they stream out. I hold out my CV, ready to smack it against at his chest. People, more people, none of them are him. Come on, Steven. I know you are here. People saw you go in. Maybe he went to the loo after the film. Then the stream of people thins out. For goodness sake, where are you, Steven. You need my CV. The stream turns into a drip of nobodies ambling out of the cinema, one of them carries a mop. Then the doors close. No Steven. The security guard locks up. I ask him:

'Erm, what happened to Steven Spielberg?'

The security guard looks at me. His eyes tell me I'm not the first weirdo he's dealt with - just one of those wannabe actors. He smiles wryly.

'Sorry, sweetheart, Steven Spielberg went out the back door.'
 
Listen, listen, Spielberg's doing a new one: Jurassic Park meets Saving Private Ryan. They breed these dinosaurs and then send them off behind enemy lines -- Normandinosaurus, they're gonna call it, and they want you to play all the human parts, Barbara. You're going to be a star!
 
Yeah, yeah, that's another project in the pipeline: Innerspace meets M*A*S*H -- a set of internal organs are enlarged to the size of people and then injected into the jungles of Vietnam...

I tell you, it's gonna be massive!
 
Rich. said:
I should dig out that draft I have of Kill Bill with flumps.
Click to expand...
Flumps? Do you mean the marshmallow sweet?

1581624984308.png

In that case I'd like to audition for it, please. A yellow cat suit, a samurai sword and some marshmallows. I think they call it typecasting, don't they. Kill Bill with Flumps. Yes, siree.

How a flump will kill Bill though, I don't know ... I guess we'll find out.
 
Exactly that. I was very small, at an age when such things are burned in your memory for ever. I can still whistle the theme tune.
 
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