CALL ME SNAKE

Many years ago, an L.A. friend and I wrote a screenplay, a romantic comedy. While we were shopping the script, I contacted an accomplished (Academy Award-nominated) screenwriter I knew vaguely through college, to get advice on how to make a deal. Midway through our conversation, he said, “Sorry Steve, can I put you on hold? I’ve got Steven Spielberg on the other line.” I told him that was OK, we could talk later. I was used to that sort of thing, being told that Steven Spielberg was on the other line. Anyway, there was always tomorrow. Or the next day…

Looking back now, I can’t remember if we ever did have that follow-up conversation. I think not. In any case, a few years ago, Spielberg came out with a movie (a bomb, I gather) that was awfully close to our story–so much so that another friend told me: “How come Spielberg made your movie?”

I doubt that he did. A guy like that probably has no shortage of ideas, and even if he did, there’ll always be an endless supply of people trying to tell him THEIR idea (trying to make it HIS idea). Still, I can’t help going back to that phone conversation many years back, when both Spielberg and I were talking to the same guy. At the same time. Almost on the same line. In the end, of course, my movie was never made. Spielberg’s was and, speaking objectively, I’m sure it sucks. But it’s out there in video stores and mine just remains a stack of papers, sitting in a box, collecting dust. Of course, that’s what happens when the two Stevens go head to head. Because in Hollywood, there’s still only one. Well, maybe two if you count Soderbergh. (Sorry Steven Segall. Please don’t karate chop me, as I’m still smarting from the body blow the other Steven already dealt me.)