The rumors are true: we’re making a movie. The gang’s all here, money’s in the account, and people are checking into their hotel rooms. Things are happening, and it’s going to be great. No one has done any drugs yet, no one’s drunk, it’s all very positive and 1990s. It’s easy to forget how much we had then, in that decade; there was the Gap, but also Banana Republic. And Wild Wild West came out at the end.
Not much happened for a while; many years, in fact. But now, in the summer of 2025, things are happening—at Netflix. Jordan Ruimy at World of Reel has the scoop: “The film is reportedly planning a very ambitious shoot. The current schedule has production due to start on July 28, 2025 and leaking all the way to January 16, 2026. That’s a whopping six months of production. Additionally, Deadline‘s sources have 128 actors, 428 crewmembers, and nearly 4,000 background-actor workdays tapped for the project. The qualified in-state spend is projected at $106M — a hefty portion of a still-undisclosed overall budget. Rounding out the cast are Carla Gugino, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, Elizabeth Debicki, and Scott Caan — an eclectic mix suggesting Fincher’s vision for this project may not be your typical Tarantino knockoff. In fact, the production details scream epic.”
Believe me, it’s epic. We’re taking it to the streets and to the max. Theretofore known phrases and sensations don’s apply to this big-screen extravaganza, one that will largely be seen on televisions at home, in bars, in airports, on televisions and smartphones, not in movie theaters. I like movie theaters. It’s easy to hide in there. I’m a rooster, not a hen, and I don’t make noise or excessively peck. I’m made of feathers and a meat called “chicken,” which is hidden by the aforementioned feathers; it’s a “delicacy” in your world, and as I’ve written many times, you’re deranged. Deformed. Our flesh is poisoning you. The only revenge is your cholesterol readout. Stop battering us with butter and spices. It’s not funny anymore.
The craft services tray, for hundreds of people, includes “chicken.” I’m disgusted. I take my grievances directly to the director, David Fincher. We were “friends” in pre-production, but now that The Adventures of Cliff Booth is actually approaching principal photography, he’s distanced himself, presumably to avoid being influenced by an artist as strong as me. Mr. Fincher isn’t responding to my texts, nor my knocks on his trailer door. Someone comes to fetch me, believing I’m a prop or early dinner, but I hurt them, and it’s easily blamed on an random college-aged PA who gets off fine (fired with a warning). I’m listening to Mr. Fincher exit his trailer and try (and fail) to suppress his SHRIEK at the sight of a real dead body. I’m walking along—forward. Can you sing? I’m whistling.
Mr. Tarantino was more forthcoming. We talked for seven hours about “chicken” and veganism; somehow we got around to Brian Cox and British wine. Quentin (a friend) is that kind of guy. Now that his job is basically done, Quentin gets to lounge around chiming in when he wants on set. He spends most of Fincher’s hundreds and hundreds of takes talking in here to me. “Benny, you have to get over the fact that most people—human beings, the planet’s dominant species—want to eat you and your kind. It’s just… a fact of life. That’s reality. So now what are you going to do about it?” I reminded him that I was hundreds of years older than him and he reminded me that he was a rich and famous director; that’s when our conversation ended. Am I going to be relegated to extra status once principal photography begins?
I miss my friends. Mr. Fincher and Mr. Tarantino are no fun when they’re working.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits