The Koepp and I (Part II)

So where was I?

Right. Driving around Los Angeles counting billboards with my name on them (too high, can't see, who cares) and posters without my name on them (eye level, every bustop and movie theater, drive by two of them five times a day on my way home from anywhere). But whatever. I'm bigger than that.

Did I mention the trailers?

I try to find my happy place and look forward to the big Westwood premiere. I tell myself I'm bigger than this but I know part of my excitement for the Westwood premiere will be walking around afterwards and NOT having to tell the 1200 suits who saw the movie that I wrote it.

And in case you don't know how this is going I'll get right to it: there is no Westwood premiere. Only a New York premiere. A big fancy Red Cross Benefit downtown at the Ziegfield Theater with a big hoo-hah afterwards at a Museum somewhere.

An away game.

Here are three important factors:

1. I hate to travel.
2. I hate to travel on airplanes due to a previously discussed motion sickness issue and a very real fear of death.
3. I won't know anybody at the premiere other than Wife whom I can confidently say is going to speak to me.

So I decide to go.

Agent's assistant calls the studio: Josh and Wife are coming to New York for the premiere.
Studio: That's well and fine for Josh and Wife. But don't think we're paying for his airfare or his hotel.
Agent's assistant: It's in his contract that you have to pay for his airfare and hotel.
Studio: No it isn't. Prove it to us.
Agent's assistant: I'm faxing over the relevant page right now.
(sound of fax machine...)
Studio: Would they like a smoking or non-smoking room?

This is how they do you in Hollywood.

So Wife and I get our shit together to go on our first trip away from our baby and I try to convince myself everything's gonna be fine and no one's gonna stop me at the door and ask me for a secret handshake I don't know. The night before we leave I'm packing everything up and I take a look at the fancy invite I've had sitting on my desk for three weeks. There's an RSVP number on it that I've never called because I'M THE WRITER OF THE FUCKING MOVIE and it's never occurred to me that after a dozen phone calls with the studio coordinating flights and hotels and limos, etc. that I should have to RSVP TO MY OWN FUCKING MOVIE.

You see where this is going.

I call. Just...to be sure.

RSVP WOMAN: Hello, War of the Worlds RSVP line.
ME: Hi, yeah. This is Josh Friedman. I'm calling to RSVP. I know I'm four days late on that, but...I mean this RSVP wasn't really referring to me was it?
RSVP WOMAN: It refers to everyone, sir.
ME: But not, like, me, right? I wrote the movie.
RSVP WOMAN: Everyone.
ME: So what does that mean?
RSVP WOMAN: It means I don't have seats for you.

Now understand something: the office with which I am dealing is the SAME OFFICE that is handling my airfare, hotel and limousine service. There are TWO PEOPLE working in this office and THE OTHER ONE is the one we've been talking to. But these are two different people and two different desks and clearly two different yet parallel worlds. One world I exist in, the other I don't. It's enough to make me miss dating Stephen Hawking. I cannot help but wonder aloud (but not too aloud) whether or not Tom and Katie RSVP'd.

So six phone calls later (including one where Agent tells me I'm an idiot for not RSVPing) we get the thing sorted out. But this is RSVP WOMAN'S WORLD and she has the last laugh. Which is this:

"Don't worry. Josh's got tickets SOMEWHERE in the theater."

Thanks for coming to Chevron. Have a nice day.

Wife and I wing off to NY and have a lovely time in First Class on Studio's dime. Wife watches three DVDs on the personal player supplied by Fancy First Class Attendant and I take two Ativan and stare at a couple very small pinhole cracks in the plastic bulkhead in front of me wondering what kind of g-forces it's gonna take to bust them wide open and bring this puppy down.

(If you're wondering who thought up the plane crash sequence, stop wondering.)

The next day the limo picks us up for the premiere. We're on the early side and our limo is the second one to get there. The first one belongs to the future Mr. and Mrs. Tom Cruise. Now this post is not called "The Cruise and I" so I will not analyze the man despite being asked Tom Cruise questions at a rate of 20 to 1 compared to all other WOTW-related questions.

All you need to know is this: the man is a fucking movie star and even if he didn't travel with two hundred flashbulbs surrounding him he would still glow.

So the Cruises-to-be exit their limo and the Friedmans-already exit theirs within two minutes of each other. The Cruises-to-be make it maybe five feet onto the red carpet and the world explodes in flashing, yelling, posing, kissing, big smiles, two guffaws and at least one gasp.

PR WOMAN: Maybe the two of you should just, you know, wait a sec or two to head down the carpet.
ME: Yeah. Good idea. Kind of what I was thinking.

Five minutes later no one has moved and it becomes clear to me that the reason the Cruises-to-be are here AN HOUR AND A HALF before the movie starts is because it's going to take them that long to get down the red carpet.

The reasons the Friedmans are here that early is because we're dorks.

Finally the PR woman decides to shuffle us past the Cruises-to-be and down the red carpet. We slip past the happy couple and I resist the urge to give Tom a big hug and say "We did it, man!"

Instead the Friedmans slide by quietly and head down the red carpet--fifty yards of empty red rug with NO ONE ELSE on it and surrounded by THREE HUNDRED photographers.

No one takes our picture. No one even bothers to ask us who we are. We look like no one in the movie and thus cannot even be mistaken for maybe the DESPERATE MOM or RAY'S DOCKWORKER FRIEND.

Which would've been cool.

Inside the theater I'm terrified to find my seat in case RSVP WOMAN has put us up in the balcony with the radio contest winners. Every row in the main section has a name tag on it: CRUISE. CHATWIN. SPIELBERG. FANNING. ROBBINS. KOEPP.

Don't think I've forgotten about Koepp.

But two rows back is FRIEDMAN and even though my wife and I don't command the whole row we do have nice seats in the middle and I almost take back all of the revenge fantasies I've had about RSVP WOMAN.

So we sit and sit and sit and it's now ten minutes before curtain time and occurs to me that a lot of people must be coming in but they're not filling the theater. I realize I've made a tactical mistake because everyone who's involved in the movie is probably now in the lobby hanging around with each other telling inside jokes and war stories and getting congratulated and humbly nodding and eating free popcorn.

So I tell my wife I have to pee and I head back outside to see what's up. And there he is. Surrounded by what we in the business refer to as "friends and family".

David Koepp.

I know what he looks like because I met him years ago on the Panic Room set when I was working with David Fincher on Black Dahlia. I count on him not recognizing me and I slip by him, heading for the bathroom but really trying to get a sense of the man and his mood.

He seems pretty happy. I go pee.

Minutes later I return to the theater and he's sitting in his KOEPP seat. I decide to take him now even though he's got eleven other people with him and I've just got Wife and Best Friend (who's in New York on business and weaseled himself a ticket (Fuck you RSVP WOMAN). Koepp's a tall man but even though he's got reach on me I'm pretty sure I outweigh him by forty pounds. I've also got the element of surprise.

But here's my big problem. I like the movie. I like the script. I like most of the changes he's made. I'm proud to share a credit with him even if he's disappointed to share one with me.

So that's what I tell him.

And he's happy to see me. And touched that I would come talk to him. And excited for the movie. And he's proud to share a credit with me. I end up spending more time talking to David Koepp at the premiere than I do anybody else. He comes to my table to meet my wife, I go to his to meet his fiancee...We're both a little drunk and there's hugging and email exchanging and promises to stay in touch.

It's a serious fucking love fest. (I'm sorry to disappoint.)

But throughout the evening (because at the core I'm still a horrible person) I will admit to glancing over at Koepp's table to see who's coming to congratulate him (because I know they ain't coming over to talk to me). And frankly, he spent the evening much as I did: talking with loved ones. (For this particular evening my loved ones included the guy who played RAY'S DOCKWORKER FRIEND--who didn't rate his own table and instead shared one with us.)

Because if there's a lesson it's this: you can be David Koepp or Josh Friedman or fucking Shakespeare...If you're a screenwriter you're a screenwriter and if you want people to give you love at your premiere you better bring 'em with you.

AND THIS LAST PART IS COMPLETELY TRUE:

So it's all over and after the premiere I've got a warm glowy thing going except that I've gotta wait in a line to get back our cellphones which have been confiscated so no one can pirate the movie. (No comment.) The line's ALL THE WAY DOWN THE CITY BLOCK and it's going to take AN HOUR to get our phones back. Wife is not good standing in lines so I send her to try and find PR WOMAN to see if I can wield my mighty influence and get our phones back sooner. While in line I chat up the woman next to me who's complaining about waiting an hour. Here's word for word how it goes:

LADY: I can't believe we have to wait in this line.
ME: I know what you're sayin'...
LADY: It's gonna take all night.
ME: If it makes you feel any better...I wrote this movie and I'm waiting in this line.
LADY: You're David Koepp? I thought you were taller.

And so it goes.