Beware of Brad

.“BEWARE OF BRAD”

Hollywood! Wake up before it is too late! There lurks a nefarious presence among you. [Okay, another nefarious presence among you. But this one you can vanquish.] A smiling little sycophant intends you harm. [Okay, you're right, again. Another smiling little sycophant intends you harm.] It is none other that the, oh-so-familiar! brad. Yes, the little brass-colored metal fastener of scripts. The same one you've been doggedly in love with all these decades. But the love exists only on your side. Your shiny, cute, trusted paramour is not what he seems. And you're likely to get caught with your... [Okay, so you've had experience.] Are you aware of the hidden agenda of the brad?

They are waiting for “B-Day.” They are amassing as you read on. [No, the whole story. There is no synopsis or coverage.] For decades, the brad has been infiltrating Hollywood – two, sometimes three, at a time, all evenly spaced and neatly folded over so you won't pay much attention to their calculatingly-sharp points. [Foreshadowing?] Yes, docile, shiny, obedient brad, holding script pages together, to make your lives so easy. Meanwhile, their numbers grow. Dozens, even hundreds, received daily, with countless thousands coming at you soon – in twos or threes. There seems to be some contention whether they are (more?) proper in twos or in threes. Oh, but never in ones! Add these to the (what?) tens or hundreds of thousands lurking on desks, floors, in car trunks, cabinets, briefcases, bookshelves, trash cans [Oh, surely not!] and unopened light-brown manila envelopes. I suggest only going in with a sharp letter opener at the ready. For the brads inside have been bounced around the mails, shuffled from office to office and have waited for how long to see the light of day? Any wonder that they harbor anger and resentment? Plus, there's the thing about not getting movie credit.

Beware the day that the brads are calling “B-Day.” For it is then that they will strike, oops, bad word, revolt. I know! After many long, gut-wrenching days and nights of struggling with revisions to a recent screenplay, I noticed the box of brads laughing. I could only assume they were laughing at me, not with me, as at the time, I wasn't laughing. And the screenplay was a drama, not a comedy, this time, so no excuse there. I reacted quickly. I grabbed them up, one by one, and questioned them – severely! [If you are squeamish, skip ahead to the next paragraph.] I started out nice, but their unrelenting silence, after the previously mentioned giggles, infuriated me. After twisting their ends, breaking some in pieces and a particularly gruesome bludgeoning of one tough brad with a stapler, [I warned you squeamish to skip ahead] the next brad spilled the entire plan.

In the wee hours of the morning, while the brass carnage lay about me, this frightened brad told me about their planned revolution. As the brad was spilling all, I took notes, so I could inform you. [You're welcome.] It seems the brads realize that there is strength in numbers. There was talk of forming a (an?) union. But they still have to determine how to go on strike. Would the other unions honor their picket lines or just walk on them (the brads)? And they know they could be replaced by other fasteners, so they have very little leverage, other than familiarity. But they also know that familiarity breeds contempt. So the idea of a union was regrettably replaced by the next step – revolution! When “B-Day” arrives, all brads in Hollywood and surrounding homes and offices of agents, studio-executives, producers, and directors will revolt.

The casualties will be horrendous! Directors' hands will be repeatedly poked and cut by the sharpest of barbs, oops, bards, I mean, brads. The directors will develop a severe, life-long phobia of ever touching another script, or at the least, they will handle the script gently, resisting the urge to destroy, I mean, improve upon creativity, by making drastic changes or re-interpreting the story. [Writers! Stop cheering! This brad problem is serious. You will need to, once again, save Hollywood from itself. Okay, cheer a little, then read on with, at least, a semi-serious demeanor.] And as we all know, under the aforementioned conditions, the life of a director is over. He/she will have to become an executive producer.

Producers will be pinned against the wall. Literally, this time. Gangs of brads will fasten the producer to a wall in his/her office. The poor producer will go mad (madder?), in a short time. He/she will be unable to cater to studio executives, unable to interfere in, I mean, improve upon, the shooting of the movie. [Writers! Stop that! You, too, directors.] The inactive producer will languish (against the wall, this time), as the seconds tick on, one by one, stomach acid churning, hair falling out and anxiety building – Will the picture come in on time? And under budget? Will I get my bonus? – until the producer is found, days later by some “wannabe” offering “talent” or a “bean-counting emissary” from “The Temple.” And off the producer will go, to a rest home, unable to tolerate anything but Charlie Chaplin movies. Spending years staring off into space, producing his/her own movies, for an audience of one.

Studio executives/executive producers/“Moguls”(?), the brads have no fear of, or respect for, “The Money.” They plan assassination of reputation. The brads intend to spell out on your lawns and scratch into the sides of your Bentley/Mercedes/Ferrari the names of unprofitable pictures. (“Ishtar,” maybe?) Though you won't suffer much, initially, because you won't notice and, of course, you won't have a clue, but: Your calls will never be returned!

Actors (and actresses? and female actors? No, too “old school.”), you, too, will suffer. The brads nefarious plans for you are, oh so criminal! Perhaps you should let your agent or manager read the rest of this story and then gently break it to you, after a soothing bubble bath or a few martinis. Or, what the hell, why not both?! [Note to agent/manager: If “Star” is particularly important to his/her, I mean, The world, tell him/her that he/she owes, no, bad word, may beneficently reward his/her fans by taking a much-deserved vacation at a private resort – an island unto himself/herself, without brads or paparazzi, if that's possible. Then, quickly protect your ten percent, okay, whatever percentage you're taking, oops, I mean earning and get the “Star” away before “B-Day.”] Lesser-known (and loved?) actors will have to stay and fight. Just the brads, this time. Take a break from the relationships with your colleagues.

. I'll continue, assuming our beloved “Stars” are, or soon will be, ensconced in safety, and all good things. Actors, and agents and managers where appropriate ( $$, %!), the brads intend to brown-out (i. e., reduce the amount of electricity to) the lighting during makeup application, hair styling and shooting. I know, dreadful! Uneven skin, stray mis-colored hairs and [Gasp!] unsightly shadows in [and as] the “final cut.” Careers will be ruined. No, wait. The public enjoys great performances. Well, some of the public... They wouldn't care that the image of their favorite... Oh! Never mind. Careers will be ruined! It's all too fickle an existence, a mirror fun-house of reality, Plato's Cave (?), to think that (only?) the brads would try to (indirectly?) control the minds of the public with such ease, such nuance – such bold intention. [Even without an advertising budget. Imagine that!]

. Directors of photography and camera operators, you will also feel the wrath of the brad. Using their shiny brass heads, the brads intend to cause momentary flashes of light on the lens, barely perceptible to you, but frequent enough to ruin the film, on take after take. [Note: This will not be a problem for those 21^st-Century professionals – recording with digital techniques.] DPs and COs will go mad trying to track down the source of these light aberrations – from the hundreds and hundreds of lights used on each set. [Again, note that this does not apply to digital.] Lighting technicians, grips, best boys and, even, second-best boys, will be blamed. Tempers will flare. Fights will break out. And, as usual, the assistant directors will be caught in the middle and unmercifully pummeled. The entire set will erupt in emotional violence and acrimony. No, much more so than usual. [Writers, don't laugh. Guess who else will be caught in the melee? How? Isn't the script the usual first target? Yeah, not so funny now, huh?]

Hollywood, fear not, for I have a counter-plan. After long days of coffee and contempt...for my script, not you, Sweet Hollywood. Who loves ya, Baby?! The solution was obvious: Eliminate Act 3. [That's “III” in the ancient Roman text some old, I mean, traditionalists still use.] No climax. [What? No, not that one.] Writers, listen up. Stop using brads on your scripts. Immediately! If we stop sending brads to Hollywood, they won't be able to build to the strength necessary to initiate “B-Day.” Once more, Hollywood will be saved by the writers. [Sorry, don't expect more pay, profit-sharing, appropriate movie credit – remember, director first – or acknowledgment. Wait! Unless...? What if we writers team up with the brads until we receive fair treatment? ... No! Sorry. Ego got the best of me for a few moments. I know. But we writers do not take that route, lonely though it may be for us on the “high road.”]

And agents, you can help save Hollywood, too. Throw out all your brads. Comb through the stacks of scripts on your floors, in closets, cabinets, car trunks, trash cans [You wouldn't?!] and gather the brads in a safe container, seal it tight and mail it to Washington, D. C. ...No! Wait! They display too much “brass” there already. Toss it in a dumpster. Someplace safe, preferably far from Hollywood. Pacoima is far enough. Encourage writers to send scripts with other types of fasteners. Band the brad! And agents, for the future safety of Hollywood, read new scripts promptly. Don't allow them to sit idle for months, because there may be brads lurking inside the envelopes. And the lesser reason: Try not to torture writers with an unreasonable wait (i. e., read the previous part about “producers” and substitute “writers”). Thank you, on behalf of the “little people.” And, no! You can't bill the writers for your effort. Try the studios.

There. My task is done. Hollywood, you have been warned. Please take some “outside” advice. [I know, but every once in a while wouldn't kill ya.] Do it for the sake of the public – who can't do without the immense and pleasurable benefits you bring to them. For where else can they turn to avoid the problems of life (and their participation in the solutions), except, to the movies? [And the “lesser” indulgences: computer games, TV, books, Internet, sports, shopping, food, alcohol, drugs, sex, etc.] Give yourselves pats on the back, Hollywood. You deserve them. And awards where needed, I mean, deserved. Keep 'em coming (the movies).

Finis

p. s., Pixar/ILM/?: The brads want you to know that they're available for an animated feature “cheap.” [ They don't have an agent.] And they luv'd your last pic'. And you're so brilliant! But, for obvious reasons, they can't “do lunch.” Really finis this time, I mean –

The End

(roll credits)

OnlyMoney Studios presents:

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Starring: EGO AboveTheTitle.

.“Beware of Brad”

Directed by: Ambiguously Creative.

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Updated November 11, 2007. by Douglas Perron.