 |
|
Chapter 5: Cortisone Cream and Some R & RThe man arrived by jet later that day for Dr. Daniel to examine, and when our doctor walked into the examining room, he found famed blockbuster producer Robert Bingham sitting on the table, wearing his paper gown and talking on a cellular phone. While the man carried on the conversation, V. B. did the routine exam work, looking into his eyes and ears, checking reflexes, the usual. But it was the phone call that offered the most insight into the Bingham's disorder. The guy was a bundle of raw nerves. Expletives flew out of the guys sputtering mouth, as he talked furiously with a screenwriter on the left coast. Sweat droplets popped from his brow, drenching the gown. The pink spots on the man's chest and arms glowed more viciously with each vulgarity-laced sentence. Dr. Daniel made a note on his pad -- "Stress Related Dermatitis Condition" -- and sat back to hear the rest of the phone discussion. Nothing in this Bingham's project was working out. All of the rewrites were horrible. Plot points were contradicting each other into oblivion. Character development was stymied by lack of motivation and the original flavor of the bestselling novel they were adapting was all but lost. Eventually, the producer hung up in disgust, availed of no solutions to his growing laundry list of difficulties. Dr. Daniel explained his diagnosis, and jotted out a prescription for some Cortisone Cream and urged the man to get some R & R to cope with his problems. The man nodded absently, and our Doc asked Nurse Jaynell to show the man back to the lobby after he changed clothes. V. B. headed for his office, and then -- struck with a thought -- turned back to the director. "Mr. Bingham, can I see you in my office, please?" Dr. Daniel urged the patient. Sitting down on the office chair, Bingham nervously asked, "Is there anything else wrong, Doctor?" No, no, V. B. assured him. Bingham sighed, relieved. "Mr. Bingham, I know this is none of my business, and, if you wish, you can tell me to stick it," V. B. offered. "Sir, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation on the phone a bit ago. I heard that you're having your trouble with your film. Could you tell me what the movie is about?" Bingham looked a bit puzzled, but he obliged and explained the plotline, an atmospheric Gothic horror movie, sort of an Interview with the Vampire meets Poltergeist. It was to be scary, not gory, and concern an antebellum home with a ghostly presence in it. There was some business about a curse and the previous owner who dabbled in the Black Arts, atmospheric incantation scenes, and a voluptuous voodoo princess with a heart of gold, yadda yadda yadda. The producer griped about the illiterate director who wanted all the dialog to sound like a Schwarzenegger vehicle with lots of punchy one-liners. The cinematographer was a young buck, who won a bunch of awards at Cannes for a Pulp Fiction ripoff, who couldn't shoot a scene without splatter effects. And the screenwriter was actually a team of five former "L. A. Law" hacks, who spent all of their time sharing daiquiris and Helen Keller jokes. A litany of other complaints flowed like a leaky canteen and when spent, the producer slumped in his chair blank. Dr. Daniel paused, drew a steadying breath, and then offered, "Mr. Bingham, I know you probably see me as a small-town doctor with a prescription pad and a twangy accent, but I swear on all that is holy, if you give me three hours of your time and an open mind, I can help you make this film into a cinematic masterpiece." GO TO THE NEXT INSTALLMENT: The Weeping of Greystone |
