I've got so many invoices on the Constantine project that it would make Linda Blair's head spin...again and.. again..and.. again. Lots of weird stuff that defies explanation. Some of it was explained to me by some co-workers who sat down and typed out the script through a few drafts. One stage actually had a swimming pool installed inside it- which really got me stumped. According to a script transcriber co-worker who works in my department, there is a wicked scene in one of the drafts that concerns a telepath and the only way she has of seeing the future and rescuing John from intiment danger is through a almost near- drowning experience. I, for one can't get a hold of the script to verify this, as they are locked away in a vault awaiting to be shredded or destroyed. Bills have come in for fabric for a headboard for a exorcism scene, drapes for the Midnight Club (for voodoo man Papa Midnite's hangout) and the Roosevelt Hotel, and some signs from the signs department for a bowling alley scene. other miniscule things came in from special effects building materials such as installing a air conditioning unit for the biggest stage on the lot of where they're set to shoot some major scenes.
One of the few props I've spotted walking around the Constantine stages is an ambulance with it's entire roof cut out so that cameras can be mounted to shoot overhead. Around the corner are pallets of fake concrete parking dividers that felt like they are made of rubber. My deduction would be that some evil demon manifests on the way over to the hospital and in the process of breaking free from it's restraints, takes the time to take these fake parking dividers and cracks open a few innocent bystanders' skulls. That's some weird made up shit, heh?
I had a little monotone on the spot interview with some of the on set construction workers- I spotted on my way out the gate.
Me: Hey, guys- is that the Constantine set you're working on?
Me: Any chance you guys are building the Midnight Bar set?
See how easy it is? And they were very articulate, too. But, like I said before in a previous post- I can't be pushy or anything otherwise, some security guards will be hauling me off to the back seat of a golf cart - I'll just be patient and ask the right person for permission to take a peek hopefully without trying to freak anyone out.
Well- it looks as if the new Deposit Man book will be off to Brenner Printing first thing Monday and I won't be able to see the finished product until the Vegas show. I'll be shipping half of my order to my Dad's house. Oliver Simonsen has really knocked the shit out of my socks on this one. The cover is a knockout even though Oliver had to widdle a third off of Mas's original painting to make everything fit. The result is nothing short of spectacular- and I understand Oliver's logic for doing things. Portions of the dialogue have been tweaked yet again due to space- but in this case, it may be a better read because of the clearer and concise fonts that Oliver is experimenting with. So, this is shaping to be a magificent looking product for the careers of all involved. And wait until you see Oliver's design for my publishing masthead. It's a fucking knockout.
Now for part three of my negoiations with a madman.
As I've explained in previous posts- Matt the Ocean Beach psycho who will be serving as a blueprint for a Deposit Man antagonist sometime in the future was within a pubic hair's width from getting his throat slashed by the local doped out neighborhood unwelcome wagon. In awe of his close resemblance to Al Pacino in his world reknown Scarface role, he's been up at all hours of night blasting Sinatra music and loud gangster videos such as the Pope of Greenwich Village and the Godfather, he's been purposily setting off his car alarm and pointing the blame towards others and impaling his own front door with steak knives. Not a guy of who you want to borrow a cup of sugar from that's for sure. Even though Matt made threatening gestures towards me, he somewhat considered me a kindred spirit because of my friend Dave's big mouth (it's been now ten years since he's passed away due to a heroin overdose) telling him that I was dabbling in comic book script writing. Matt had mentioned to me a few times if I wouldn't mind reading a movie script that he was trying to sell - (never really realizing that he was living in the wrong town to be doing that sort of thing- supposedly fresh off the plane from Brooklyn - but hey, I came out from Jersey to San Diego with that same mentality too) - and due to this public outcry of wanting to spike his head on a fence post and then calling the cops to play show and tell with, I concocted a plan to maybe put an end to all this peacefully and get to the root of this guy's problem. So I got up and knocked on the front door to the mouth of madness. Reluctantly Matt let me in and I told him that I finally had time to check out his script- so Matt got me a few cans of beers and I sat down on a bean chair and opened to the first few pages of his script, trying hard not to crush all his discarded bottles of perscription
medication imported from Tijuana.
I read the first ten pages.
Goddamn thing sucked.
It was if he copying word for word - the Pope of Greenwich Village- the same premise, the same kind of characterizations siphoned off of Mickey Rourke, Eric Roberts and Daryl Hannah. It was just fucking unbeliveable. I gave him a bullshit run-a-round story of to what he can do with this script-
-and that's all I have time for tonight.