Thursday, 25 September 2008

The Case of the Wild Weinstein

It was a Thursday in September, and I was pondering about whether or not to make this a Hollywood Babble On & On post, or just knock off one of my cautionary parables in my Case Files. I decided to go with the meta-fiction, because I hadn't done it in a while, and there was a knock on my office door. There's no rest for the wicked when you're Furious D, Private Dick.

"Come in," I said pulling out a Colt .45 to handle any surprises. The door swung open and in stormed Harvey Weinstein, and he was about 10% more livid than usual.

"Gimme a swig of that," barked Harvey as he grabbed my malt liquor and downed it two gulps.

"I'll bill you for that," I said.

"Fine," he growled. "Listen, I need a private investigator."

"So," I said, "we're not going to run around with the 'private dick' jokes this time."

"I don't have time for that bull
spit," growled Harvey, then he paused. "What happened to my ostentatiously colourful language?"

Dang it," I said, "I'm being edited for television. Fudging censors!"

"Forget them," said Harvey, "I need someone to find out something! Some really serious ship is happening. There are reports that MGM has dropped almost all of my movies from their fudging release slate!"

"I was hoping that you were going to ask me to find out why independent filmmakers still sell you their flicks," I said.

"That's none of your business," snapped Harvey.

"Or why anyone would still invest with your company."

"Enough of the snide commentary on my
fudging business practises! Will you take my case?"

"Got nothing better to do," I said, "but like all of my Hollywood deals, it's cash up front."

Fudging heck."


"Paging Mr. Hoshana," said a voice on the intercom as I drove by the headquarters of Dreamworks. "Will Mr. Hoshana please report to reception." I s
miled at the misunderstanding, and remembered my days as a Shabbas Goy for a non-observant family, it was a good job, not much to do, but good work nonetheless, then I realized that despite all my skills, I was a really bad driver.

When I regained consciousness my classic '38 Lincoln Zephyr was halfway up a palm tree, which was really odd, because I was driving a Toyota. But I was just outside MGM headquarters.

"Hello Sugarbuns," I said to the temporary receptionist Sugarbuns McGee, her twin sister Sweetycakes worked over at United Artists.

"Hi Furious," she said, flashing me her pearly whites, then she smiled at me.

"I need to someone in charge," I said, speaking crisply, like iceberg lettuce in a badly botched metaphor, "someone in the know, someone with his pulse on what's going on in this meshugginah company."

"You need to see Mr. Leo," said Sugarbuns.

"Right away," I said, "all snappy like."

"Do you think you can just swan in here and speak to the head of a major studio without even an appointment?"

"Do you think we can repeat a joke from another story," I said, "somebody might actually read these things."

"Well, he's in a lunch meeting with some folks from William Morris," said Sweetycakes, " so he's gonna need something to wake him up, go right on in."


Leo The Lion was MGM's top honcho, the headman, the big cheese, the grand kahuna, the Royale with Cheese, and all those other metaphors. He was also the logo for the company, and a lion.

"Hey Leo," I said, as I came into the office. The agent from William Morris turned from his Waldorf Salad to face me, royally
passed off.

"You can't just walk in here like..." I then took out a mirror, and the agent was instantly enraptured by his own reflection.

"Hey Leo," I repeated so I could be heard over the sound of Leo munching on his lunch gazelle.

"Hi Furious," said Leo.

"What's the rumpus," I asked.

"What rumpous?" asked Leo, cocking his heavily maned head to one side, to show of the grey streaks he had died in to make himself look respectable.

"The word on the street," I asked. "There are reports that you've dumped the Weinstein Company's product."

"Well they dump product every day," said Leo, "hell, I forgot that they were even in the business of releasing movies."

"What about the Kevin Smith film?" I asked.

"Oh that," said Leo, daintily wiping some gazelle from his chin with a napkin. "Listen, who is going to take their date to a movie with the word 'porno' in the title? And it's not like his movies have burnt up the box office lately. I mean he's got some talent, and his films are cheap, but we need crowd pleasers, and outside of 1408, the Weinstein Company hasn't been making many crowd pleasers. In fact they've been mostly stinkers."

"Whaddya mean?"

"They stink up the joint, they're money-losers, no one would pay to see them if they were the last movie on Earth," said Leo, "even they don't like their movies. Hell, they even started a whole new company to dump them where no one will see them."

"So it's nothing personal," I said, "it's just business."

"Business is personal in Hollywood."

"Good point," I said.


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