Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here. Knowles has just called me with some preposterous story about actually being tired. After the past couple of weeks solid of spy activity with me and the opening day of South By Southwest, I'm sure he's just being a baby. After all, Knowles is supposedly invulnerable. Or at least that's the story he tells people. Hmmmmm...
Anyway, when I got back to the Labs yesterday, I found several items awaiting my attention in my e-mail box, including a letter from an old friend. I met this guy years ago at an Evil Genius Society Convention in Sydney. He's a great chap, years ahead of the curve in terms of his work with brains. Had a pretty hot wife for a while, too, even if she was a bit on the bitchy side. His report concerns a script I've been curious about since I heard about its astonishing sale price. While I was away, Mongo managed to pilfer it from someone. I haven't dared ask how he did it. He can be a bit of a thug. Now that my old friend and I are back in touch, I plan to press him into service here on the site at every possible opportunity. Allow me to introduce the esteemed Dr. H.
Dearest Knowles and my esteemed college Dr. Moriarty:
Imagine my surprise and delight when early last week, whilst attending a lecture on "Overcoming and Manipulating the Traditional Flatline Electroencephalogram Response in the Brain Activity of Supermodels, Boybands and Fans of Michael Dudikoff," I overheard the following tidbit of conversation:
"Whoever paid four million dollars for that script should have their brain removed!"
My ears immediately perked up. As your readers may or may not know, brain removal is a bit of a hobby of mine. After all it was I, Dr. Michael Hfuhruhurr, who invented...
The Cranial Screw-Top Method!!!
(Pause. Wait for applause to die down. Then continue.)
As I have for the past several years been doing some extremely clandestine work with brain transplants among movie studio executives, I was doubly intrigued by this comment.
(But first I must apologize to you and your readers for the horrible mix-up that occurred while working on the brains of the Warner Brother executives. I had meant to replace their brains with the cloned brains of Irving Thalberg, but thru some clerical error I inadvertently replaced them with the brains of dyslexic, down-syndrome squirrels. When I tried to correct the error, I discovered, quite oddly, that their bodies rejected any form of intelligent brain anyway. Thus I decided to leave them with the abnormal squirrel brains since it was somewhat of an improvement over the originals. But I digress.)
Anyhoo, after some investigation and accidental torture I discovered that the script that was being discussed was David Koepp's spec, The Panic Room. I then offered a handful of brightly colored acorns to one of my WB clients and, in exchange, obtained a copy of the script. Gets 'em everytime! As I am always up for a good yarn as a way to escape the drudgery of brain removal, I quickly delved into the screenplay. With the turning of each new page I began to realize: these chaps I had overheard were quite right! The thought of a potential new client had me overjoyed.
But before I discuss this script (which I suppose I should do at some point being that your site is not called "Aint-It-Cranial-News"), let me first say that I find it very difficult to criticize any screenplay. The fact that someone gets all those words on a page in a somewhat coherent form simply amazes a man of science and lobes such as myself. It truly is a remarkable accomplishment. Lord knows, I've seen enough screenwriter brains to be all too familiar with the kind of abuse they take. It's no wonder that most of them become drunkards, psychotics or habitual monkey-spankers.
So I must begin with a tip of my screw-top to Mr. Koepp. Good show, old boy. Fine effort. Now go cash that four million dollar check before they realize what they've done and try to get it back from you!
The script begins with the following words to the reader:
This film is short
This film is fast
To that, I'd like to add:
This film is boring
This film will not make money
Here's the plot: Soon-to-be-divorced MEG and her 9-year old daughter SARAH purchase a four-story Townhouse on Manhattan's Upper West Side. This lovely Yuppy home was most recently owned by a reclusive, paranoid Hotel Magnate who was worth thirty million bucks when he croaked. His kids are all suing each other over his estate, but half of his wealth is unaccounted for.
One of the selling points of the home: it's got this cool hidden room called a Panic Room. The real estate agent explains that it's "a safe room. An inner sanctum. A castle keep, in medieval times." And, best of all, "it's quite in vogue in high end construction right now."
This in explained on page seven. And, I believe, this is when the calls were made and the bidding war began. Can't you just see all the hoity-toity pampered studio execs frothing at the mouth:
"Wonderful! Absolutely captivating! Not only is this movie about townhouse shopping in Manhattan, it's also about all the latest and stylish home fashionings! People will absolutely trample each other to see this movie!"
My apologies. I digress again. Nothing worse than a brain surgeon with A.D.D.
Anyhoo, Meg buys the townhouse, she and Sarah quickly move in. But before you can say "obvious set-up" some burglars come a callin.' During a milked-for-everything-it's-worth, this-is-supposed-to-keep-you-on-the-edge-of-your-seat-but-really-doesn't scene, Meg and Sarah evade the burglars and lock themselves into the seemingly impenetrable panic room.
Now here's the biggest problem with the script: the bad guy burglars. They're not all that threatening. And they do one of those things that immediately checks you out of the movie. Let's meet them, shall we?
The leader is JUNIOR. He's the dead Hotel Magnate's grandson. All he wants is the shitload of cash that he knows is hidden in the panic room. Sounds fair enough to me. Gramps is gone anyway and, let's face it, the inheritance tax is just plain immoral. More power to Junior. Just wipe your feet on the mat before you come in and you'll have no quarrel from me.
To help him accomplish this, Junior hires BURNHAM, the guy who designed the panic room in the first place. He seems like a really nice guy. In fact, he is a really nice guy. He even assures us that he has no intention of hurting our damsels in distress. They just want to get the money and leave, no harm no foul. And since it's not Meg or Sarah's money anyway, what do we care? Kinda sucks out the tension doesn't it?
And finally there's RAOUL, the token minority who you know will eventually turn all evil on us because he's got one of them foreign names that implies he could never afford a townhouse and could give two shits about "in vogue high end construction." Good God almighty, he's poor! Keep him out of our neighborhood! Kinda makes you want to root for the guy.
Now here's where the not-so-bad guys do the one stupid thing that immediately checks you out of the movie. It's one of those things that William Goldman was complaining about in Moriarty's last "Rumblings." It's when characters do something that is so completely unbelievable that you immediately loose all interest in watching the movie. Here it is:
When the bad guys begin the home invasion, they think that it is going to be empty (Meg and Sarah moved in too damn soon). When they discover that the house isn't empty, what would the realistic, smart thing be to do? (And remember, these are not professional burglars or crime-loving psychos -- they just want to sneak in, grab what sorta, technically almost belongs in part to one of them anyway and get the hell out of Dodge.)
More than likely, they'd just scope out the place for a few weeks and wait for mom and daughter to go to an N'Sync concert or to take a weekend trip or something. No big shakes. Why risk getting caught and losing everything when you can hold out just a little while for a more ideal opportunity? When they decide to go for it, you just don't buy it. Check please.
The rest of the movie is a whole-hearted, admirable attempt to drag out this ill-conceived scenario as much as possible. The bad guys try to break in to the Panic Room. Can't. They try to force Meg and Sarah out. Can't. Then complications ensue. Sarah's a diabetic and needs medicine (this is the kind or forced plot element that you'd pick up at a Robert McKee seminar). Raoul realizes that he's the token minority and gets greedy and mean. Pretty much predictable and, as a result, tension free. As a world renowned doctor I can assure you: no one's pulse is going to increase one bit while watching this movie.
I'm not saying the script is horrible. It's not. I'm not saying it's unfixable. It's not. But what I am saying is this: it is not worth four million dollars! The very, very best version of this movie staring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere will be lucky to make four million dollars! It's just one of those "who cares?" premises.
So why would anyone pay four million dollars for a tiny, tiny movie like this that would be more at home on the USA Network? I suspect dyslexic, down-syndrome squirrel brains. And that's what's got me all excited.
I'm off to investigate.
Dr. H.
