[Martin Scorsese (whom we’ll call “Marty” so we can pretend to be on a first-name basis with him) is looking for some help “punching up” his latest script. The calls begin to roll in. Let’s listen.]
David Mamet: Marty. It looks like you pretty much have “fuck” nailed down. I’m not sure what I could add. Perhaps a few “cunts?”
Marty: That’s exactly what Mike Leigh said. I’ll consider it.
Quentin Taratino: Marty? Quentin. Look. Here’s the shot: camera pans low across the blacktop. Music comes up. Something funky and sexy from the ’70s. Shit-hot chick steps out of a muscle car. I’m talking brick shithouse in Blowup hot. Short shorts. Fro? Maybe. Camera starts a slow pan up, lingering on her luscious toes with red nails in some black sandals—
Steven King: I’ve got “fuckadoodledoo,” “fuckarooni,” “fuckashimsham,” “fuckabobanna”—
Marty: You realize nobody has ever talked like that, right? Never. Ever.
Steven King: Well. Then obviously you’ve never been to Maine. Why, my boyhood friends used to ride our bikes—
Guy Ritchie: Here’s what I’ve got: camera pans low across the blacktop. Music comes up. Something funky and sexy from the ’70s. Shit-hot chick steps out of a muscle car. I’m talking brick shithouse in Blowup hot. Short shorts. Fro? Maybe. Camera starts a slow pan up, lingering on her luscious toes with red nails in some black sandals—
Marty: Quentin, I already turned you down.
Guy Ritchie: This is Guy Ritchie.
Marty: Bullshit. Work on your accent, Quentin. It’s terrible.
Mel Gibson: Shit’s coming loose here, Marty. I really need a drink.
Marty: I’m not your sponsor, Mel. Joy Behar is. I don’t know why you keep calling me.
Mel Gibson: [Drunken gurgling.]
Marty: Mel. Mel. Have another.
Mel Gibson: Really?
Marty: The fuck do I care.
David Hasselhoff: Marty, I really need a drink.
Michael Mann: Marty, I think you should shoot in pure digital. Film’s going the way of the CD. Day for night, that’s the key.
Marty: Mike, I’m looking for help with the script, not the cinematography.
Michael Mann: Sell your film stock, Marty. Day for night!
Marty: You sound like Lars von Trier. “Day for night.” “Masking tape for walls.” “Imagination through abuse.” I’ve got Tony Scott telling me to shoot in 8mm, project it on a wall and film the projection. This I don’t need.
Gregg Araki: I think we change the leads to bisexual and the rest writes itself. The dynamic shifts to the road-relationship—
Marty: Who’s “we?” And how the fuck did you get a copy of the script?
David Lynch: I got the script, Marty. I think it’s swell. Great job.
Marty: [slowly] OK… Thanks, David.
Marty: You still there?
David Lynch: I’m still here, Marty.
Marty: Was there anything else?
David Lynch: No, Marty. I’m just listening…
[Slightly shorter long silence.]
Marty: I’m going to hang up, ok?
David Lynch: That’d be fine.
[Sudden buildup of industrial noise, fading into television static. A muffled “hello?” Indistinguishable dialogue. Marty’s desk light begins to flicker wildly. Fade to black.]