Being inside for so long brings back some of life's unexpected moments, like a cow re-digesting some grass it chewed on six months ago. I was a film festival in Oaxaca, being asked to pitch my tv pilot on the wrong day at the wrong time to people I did not know. Typically you get some background about who you are presenting to, and rehearse but I had to wing it. I rambled about
The Radioactive Kid for ten minutes, talking as fast as any New Yorker does. At one point early on, I asked the three people sitting in front of me if they think people are fundamentally good. They stared back at me like fish Picasso might have painted. Their eyes grew big, sliding to one side of their noses as they bit the insides of their cheeks. Would I run out the door and tell everyone what they said? Was this a prank I was playing? No. It was the central question of my script. I egged them on, to answer.
They all said people are good.
"I think that they may want to be good, or pretend to be good, or plan to be good but let's face it - most of the time people could give a shit about someone else." I said.
Their faces fell.
"When we are faced with the tough choices, we think of our own needs." I added. "It's human nature, basic survival instinct."
I went on to cash out the setup and the mechanics of the pilot, the experiences I had gone through in life that inspired me to a paint a picture in these specific colors.
My ten minutes was up. They let out a collective sigh, and lectured me about talking about the inspiration for the story too much (which of course goes against a lot of prevailing advice about how to pitch). They mostly shrugged their shoulders and said a bland "thank you". It was a fairly pointless exercise.
I had no idea who these three people were - the older guy, the guy with the beard and the young woman who looked terribly uncomfortable in her tiny chair. If you told me they were really math teachers, or in real estate I would have believed it.
I explained to them that the story had no violence or sex in it, no drugs or car chases, just the mechanisms of a complex relationship between a teenage girl, a social worker and a small time criminal. I don't think they even heard me.
A few days later, I was taking pictures in the street and ran into the young woman from my pitch. She did not try to avoid me, but did not say hello either. I waved at her, and approached. She painted one of those giant smiles on her face that people do these days.
"So how is it going?" She asked.
"To be honest, I'm a bit disappointed with the reactions." I said. "Coming into this I was told I had a really solid story but it doesn't feel like anyone liked it here."
Her mouth twisted around.
"It's so dark." She said. "So sad."
She flipped her hair once and trotted off.
I stood there in the afternoon sun for a little while. It was laughable. I was shoulder to shoulder with people telling stories about drug cartels and prostitution rings, guns and revenge and naked women being cut in half, zombies and cannibals left and right and I was being too dark without showing an ankle. I let out a sigh just just like the one they let out at that table when I was done. Fuck them. I said, out loud in the noisy street. Fuck them all.
Comments