Short Story

Geplagt von der Angst, der Film könne ein Flopp sein, warten die beiden Drehbuchautoren nach der Premiere auf die Reaktionen von Publikum und Kritikern. Haben sie die Feuerprobe bestanden? Von JAMES SCHOFIELD

Romcom

The lights dim and the audience goes quiet. As the curtains open and the music starts for the premiere, I look at Ed from the corner of my eye to see how he’s doing. Not well. Popcorn is going from bucket to mouth on autopilot. “Jane,” he whispers, “this film could destroy our careers as writers in Hollywood!” “So what,” I answer. “I’m only writing scripts until I can break into waitressing.”

He laughs a little at my joke, and then his eyes go back to the screen and his hand to the popcorn. Maybe he’s right, I think. Maybe this will be the last screenplay either of us ever writes. I mentally fasten my seat belt. This could be a bumpy night.

***

Ed and I have known of each other for a while. He does mostly spy thrillers with plots so complicated you have to see the film twice to understand it. I write family sagas, with people losing the love of their lives only to find them again in the last ten minutes of the film — just before one of them dies. When a studio suggested we try writing together, it sounded interesting.

“But not a romcom,” I tell him. “I don’t do banter. It must be something serious.”

Ed nods. “I agree. All that gender-war, jokey dialogue between the romantic characters is awful.”

So, the studio rents us a house near the beach for two weeks, fills it with food and drink, and we set up our laptops opposite each other.

We sit there on the first morning, waiting.

“I have an idea for…,” we say at the same time, then both stop.

“You first,” I say.

“Okay,” he agrees, which annoys me.

“I have this idea for a sci-fi detective story. Very Bogart, very film noir, but set in another galaxy: ‘A murder in a high-security prison colony brings Special Agent Logan Fist to the planet Krickin…’”

I interrupt. “It sounds like a fast-food chicken restaurant run by Jedi knights.”

He looks hurt. “I thought it would be fun to try something new. What’s your idea then?”

“Okay: famous classical pianist Anton Dropski hears a beautiful young woman playing a piano at a train station and falls in love with…”

I stop. Ed’s head is on his keyboard, and he’s fake snoring.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “I must have dropped offski. Let me guess: they lose each other, but he finds her again in the last ten minutes of the film while taking part in an international piano competition where he’s one of the judges. Am I right?”

I MENTALLY FASTEN MY SEAT BELT. THIS COULD BE A BUMPY NIGHT

“IT SOUNDS LIKE A FASTFOOD CHICKEN RESTAURANT RUN BY JEDI KNIGHTS”

I feel hurt. “Well, yes. But he’s also got a brain tumour and is dying. You didn’t get that, genius!” We glare at each other over our screens.

“I’ll work on the veranda,” I say. “Have fun with Special Agent Fist.”

***

Over the next ten days, we make no progress on a joint script. One morning, we try mixing our stories, but this is all I manage to write: “Keys to the Heart: Special Agent Fist travels to the planet Krickin, only to find that his long-lost love, Vera Steptanz, has been imprisoned by Commander Dropski. Only by winning a pan-galactic piano competition can he hope to save her.”

While Ed produces: “The Lockdown: Anton Dropski, evil spy-master for the Krickin Empire, forces the beautiful pianist Vera Steptanz to steal the plans for a time machine from Special Agent Fist. Can Fist rescue the plans and Vera before the universe is destroyed?”

That evening, we drink too much and start writing imaginary film reviews: “However many films you see in 2021, make sure NONE of them is Keys to the Heart,” suggests Ed.

“The Lockdown does for love stories what Jaws did for swimming in the ocean,” I propose.

But then, probably thanks to the alcohol, something happens that night. The block is gone, and in only two days, we manage to produce a script to send to the studio.

We’re surprised when the bosses love it and production starts. But the real test of a film is always the first-night reviews. And so, completely terrified, we sit through the film premiere of Lock Down Your Heart.

***

The next morning, I wake up early. The audience enjoyed themselves last night, but what do the reviews say? I pull out my mobile phone and am about to read the review by Harrison Whittle, film critic for The Washington Times, when it rings.

“Read the reviews for me,” Ed begs. “I can’t do it myself.”

I skim the article, and I can’t resist teasing Ed.

“Hmm,” I say, slowly. “On the positive side, he loves the actors.”

“Well, that’s good. What’s on the negative side?”

“Let’s see: ‘However, the performance of Boris Tupov as Anton Dropski is…,’” I sneeze. “Hold on a second; I have to get a tissue.”

I get one and blow my nose loudly for about two minutes. “Where was I? … ‘The performance of Boris Tupov is…’” “IS WHAT?” screams Ed.

“‘…is extraordinary.’”

“How does he mean that?” asks Ed in a voice so pathetic I take pity and read him the whole article. Whittle loves the film, loves the stars and, most of all, loves the writing. It’s brought the classic romcom formula into the 21st century, he says. How could two writers best known for cheesy thrillers and melodramas write something so sophisticated and witty, he wonders?

You just need enough wine and some of your own romcom, I think to myself. Ed is now dancing around the kitchen and singing.

“That’s enough,” I shout through the house. I hang up the phone. “And bring me some tea — we can look at the rest together in bed.”

Oh, yes, you read that right. Ed was dancing around my kitchen. As always, he had been too lazy to come speak to me.

“And then … maybe a little bit of romcom?” he asks as he sets the breakfast tray on the bed.

“I suppose so,” I answer. “But no banter, all right?”