Lindy posted a piece from this guy's blog - Seraphic Secret.
He's a conservative Hollywood screenwriter and an excellent writer.
I just stumbled across this 3-part series -- "My Hollywood Gun"
Part I
January 08, 2007
My Hollywood Gun, Part I: The Burning
Los Angeles is burning.
Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, switch off all the lights.
Gazing from our bedroom window, we watch orange flames licking at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the burning.
"Look how close they are," says Karen.
"That's just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away."
Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze and asks:
"What do we do if they come here?"
"After this is all over," I say to Karen, "I'm going to go out, and buy a pistol."
Karen says: "How about a shotgun?"
Dissolve to:
Two Hours Earlier:
The mob is surging towards the front doors of the theater. They are shouting, but the glass doors are so thick we cannot hear what they are screaming. One look at their faces is all we need, visages twisted into expressions of raw hatred. There is no doubt that the mob is intent on some serious violence.
This Hollywood premiere is a charity event for, get this, inner city kids. I'm friends with the film's producer and she's invited me to this screening.
"Bring Karen and the kids," she chirps on the phone,"it's a kid-friendly movie, and there's gonna be a reception, great food and really Robert, it's gonna be fab-u-lous."
And so: because this producer is my friend and I want to support her movie, and because I'm a Hollywood screenwriter, and because personal relationships grease the wheels of the business, and because this lady producer is a player and admires my work, I schlep Karen, Ariel ZT'L and Offspring #2 to this classic Hollywood event.
Why not, what could be so bad at a simple movie premiere?
It is a Wednesday evening, April 29, 1992.
The film, a real stinker, has, at long last, cut to its final fade to black. Everyone is now mingling in the reception area. Guests congratulate the producer, director and stars, assuring them that the film is "great, just great," "fabulous," a "sure thing," and "the best work they have ever done;" all the expected and acceptable lies we tell eachother -- when suddenly a chill sweeps through the room.
Something is happening.
It's happening outside.
I step towards the large plate glass doors of the theater. The security men, two burly rent-a-cops, deeply alarmed, start locking the row of doors.
Snap, click.
Snap, click.
Snap, click.
Snap, CRACK!
Mesmerized, I stare as the rock bounces off the thick glass. There is a tiny white wound.
"Step back from the doors," the security men call out in surprisingly firm voices.
I stay put. I want to see what's happening.
"Please, step away from the doors," they plead repeatedly as more guests press forward trying to glimpse the fearful gathering outside.
I see it happening. A classic shot unwinding in slow motion: the mob swarms towards the movie theater, towards us: a thick wave of fury marching with a terrible velocity towards this cocoon of well-intentioned Hollywood -- there's no way around this -- several hundred well-intentioned Hollywood Liberals.
Sheesh, talk about a target-rich environment.
It's almost funny.
Here we are, inside, raising charity for inner city kids and --
-- and these inner city kids are actually outside trying to get in, not, mind you, to express their ever-lasting appreciation for our spectacular largesse. Nope, hard as it is to believe, but it looks as if the objects of our charity would like to lynch us. Or burn us to death.
Almost funny. But not quite.
Abruptly, the lights go out, and we are plunged into darkness.
Offspring #2 leaps into my arms. Trembling like a frightened rabbit, she stutters:
"D-d-d-aaddy, what's happening?"
Karen grips my arm:
"Robert?"
Ariel squeezes my hand. Hard.
"Where are the lights?"
And now panic sets in.
Screaming.
Desperate shrieking.
Just like in the movies.
seraphicpress.com |
