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30. Assuming, as you grow older, that you're the guardian of the world's wisdom, even if you haven't necessarily lived enough to know what's right and wrong.
31. Going to a charity tea party and thinking that you've done your bit toward putting an end to social inequality in the world.
32. Eating three times a day even if you're not hungry.
33. Believing that other people are always better than you--better-looking, more capable, richer, more intelligent--and that it's very dangerous to step outside your own limits, so it's best to do nothing.
34. Using your car as a weapon and as impenetrable armor.
35. Swearing when in heavy traffic.
36. Believing that everything your child does wrong is entirely down to the company he or she keeps.
37. Marrying the first person who offers you a decent position in society. Love can wait.
38. Always saying, "I tried" when you didn't really try at all.
39. Postponing doing the really interesting things in life for later, when you won't have the energy.
40. Avoiding depression with large daily doses of television.
41. Believing that you can be sure of everything you've achieved.
42. Assuming that women don't like football and that men aren't interested in home decoration and cooking.
43. Blaming the government for all the bad things that happen.
44. Thinking that being a good, decent, respectable person will mean that others will see you as weak, vulnerable, and easy to manipulate.
45. Being equally convinced that aggression and rudeness are synonymous with having a "powerful personality."
46. Being afraid of having an endoscopy (if you're a man) and giving birth (if you're a woman).
The "friend" laughs.
"You should make a film on the subject," he says.
"Not again," Javits thinks. "They have no idea. They're with me all the time, but they still don't understand what I do. I don't make films."
All films start out in the mind of a so-called producer. He's read a book, say, or had a brilliant idea while driving along the freeways of Los Angeles (which is really a large suburb in search of a city). Unfortunately, he's alone, both in the car and in his desire to transform that brilliant idea into something that can be seen on the screen.
He finds out if the film rights to the book are still available. If the response is negative, he goes in search of another product--after all, more than sixty thousand books are published each year in the United States alone. If the response is positive, he phones the author and makes the lowest possible offer, which is usually accepted because it's not only actors and actresses who like to be associated with the dream machine. Every author feels more important when his or her words are transformed into images.
They arrange to have lunch. The producer says that the book is "a work of art and highly cinematographic" and that the writer is "a genius deserving of recognition." The writer explains that he spent five years working on the book and asks to be allowed to help in the writing of the script. "No, really, you shouldn't do that, it's an entirely different medium," comes the reply, "but I know you'll love the result." Then he adds: "The film will be totally true to the book," which, as both of them know, is a complete and utter lie.
The writer decides that he should agree to the conditions, promising himself that next time will be different. He accepts. The producer now says that they have to interest one of the big studios because they need financial backing for the project. He names a few stars he claims to have lined up for the lead roles--which is another complete and utter lie, but one that is always wheeled out and always works as a seduction technique. He buys what is known as an "option," that is, he pays around ten thousand dollars to retain the rights for three years. And then what happens? "Then we'll pay ten times that amount and you'll have a right to two percent of the net profits." That's the financial part of the conversation over with, because the writer is convinced he'll earn a fortune from his slice of the profits.
If he were to ask around, he'd soon find out that the Hollywood accountants somehow manage it so that no film ever makes a profit.
Lunch ends with the producer handing the writer a huge contract and asking if he could possibly sign it now, so that the studio will know that the product is definitely theirs. With his eyes fixed on that (nonexistent) percentage and on the possibility of seeing his name in lights (which won't happen either, at most there'll be a line in the credits, saying: "Based on the book by..."), the writer signs the contract without giving the matter much thought.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.
The producer starts knocking on the doors of various studios. He's known in the industry already, and so some of those doors open, but his proposal is not always accepted. In that case, he doesn't even bother to ring up the author and invite him to lunch again, he just writes him a
letter saying that, despite his enthusiasm for the project, the movie industry isn't yet ready for that kind of story and he's returning the contract (which he, of course, did not sign).
If the proposal is accepted, the producer then goes to the lowest and least well-paid person in the hierarchy: the screenwriter, the person who will spend days, weeks, and months writing and rewriting the original idea or the screen adaptation. The scripts are sent to the producer (but never to the author), who, out of habit, automatically rejects the first draft, knowing that the screenwriter can always do better. More weeks and months of coffee and insomnia for the bright young talent (or old hack--there are no halfway houses) who rewrites each scene, which are then rejected or reshaped by the producer. (And the screenwriter thinks: "If he can write so damn well, why doesn't he write the whole thing?" Then he remembers his salary and goes quietly back to his computer.)
