My Sensei, Mr. Quentin Tarantino, has felt wistful lately. “I tried for that second Palme d’Or, but, ah… it was not to be…” I told him that he still had one shot left with his last movie. Wouldn’t they coronate him? Maybe the Oscars would finally catch up with him as they did with peer Paul Thomas Anderson just last month. True, Anderson had no Oscars prior to March 15, while My Sensei won Best Original Screenplay twice, for Pulp Fiction and Django Unchained. “But I had to share the moment with Roger the first time, and it was awkward, there was heat and it was my fault. It was my beef. It was self-inflicted beef. And then Django, that was my consolation prize for not winning for Inglourious Basterds. I told Chris Innis in 2012 that he wasn’t beating me this time, and guess what? HE DID-N’T!!!!!!!!!!” My Sensei laughed that laugh you all know so well by now. Coronate him next time, please.
“Do you have any regrets, Benny?” This is a tough question. For me, I have to work at scale, time-wise, so when people ask me about regrets, I always stick to the last 150 years, but I don’t go beyond 100 really unless I’m trying to freak someone out. I’m not going to tell My Sensei, “Oh, yeah, I really wish I went to the 1903 Rose Parade in Pasadena,” although he’d probably think that’s pretty funny, maybe put it into a screenplay. He’s writing for Mr. Fincher now—all bets are off. He may be finished directing after his next movie, but writing? “I’ll be very, very busy. It’s my job to create. I don’t ever intend to retire from writing. Movies are just too much at my age and I know the history. I’m not immune to the same patterns that fucked up so many of the directors I loved and studied. I don’t want to have a body of work like Peter [Bogdanovich, a friend], where only half the movies are any good at all. It diminishes the good ones. Nickelodeon and That Thing Called Love diminish What’s Up, Doc?” What about The Last Picture Show? “I was never big on that movie.” Why?! “Not my kind of thing.” O-kayyy…
“You’re dodging. What’s your biggest regret, Benny?” I told him about Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, I told him about my cousin’s bitch wife Monica, and I told him about Roger Corman, who got me back on my feet and in the industry again after I was blacklisted during the… uh… blacklisting period. I wasn’t a communist, I was just really annoying. It was an easy way to get rid of me. Mr. Scorsese brought that up at the audition, where I was reading with Ellen Burstyn, who, if memory serves, was also producing. “These are the sides?” They looked at me like I being funny. I wasn’t. I’m a very serious actor. “Alright…” I closed my eyes and centered myself while in Lotus Position. I did my “om’s” and Mr. Scorsese got up and started pacing around the room. Ms. Burstyn read her lines and I improvised, running around the room like a dog and punctuating my scene partner’s words with carefully placed squawks, creating a rhythmic, almost musical energy. I was to be the family pet, and because they were so peripatetic, I’d have to be locked up in a cage for most of the shoot. This audition was my only chance to fix that.
Despite all my rage, I wasn’t able to convince Mr. Scorsese to allow me to be a free-roaming “chicken” [I acquiesced to the slur because I wanted the job. I wasn’t desperate, just a businessman. I’m a capitalist, unlike communist Rooster (he’s red—don’t you think that’s a little weird? I’m straw colored)]. “We really want you,” he pleaded. Burstyn butted in, “It’s a choice role!” And I chose not to do it. I told them it was against my principles. “Against your principles?” Mr. Scorsese was cackling, although clearly furious. “Then why the fuck did you audition?” I told him the truth: I needed the money. And the only thing I could remember about The Exorcist was Ms. Burstyn. Those gams! My word. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job, or any other projects involving Martin Scorsese (I’d later reunite with Ms. Burstyn, unbeknownst to her, on a Japanese cellphone commercial around 2005).
My Sensei said nothing. Wide-eyed, he looked at me not as a peer, nor an employee, but something greater, something above, a creature of great provenance and adventure brimming with knowledge and the kind of first-hand historical experience he, as a mortal human, will never know. My Sensei is smart enough to realize he’s in the presence of a great being, if not a world historical figure; this is the moment he finally grasped who I was and where I’d been—and what I was capable of. For the first time, he asked me about Monica and Rooster.
“Why don’t you have them come over next week?”
“Aren’t you and Rooster friends? He visited the Cliff Booth set that one time. You don’t remember?”
“…”
“What?”
“…”
“What is it?”
“Benny, we almost had to fire you. You were a mess. Why do you think you spent so much time in your trailer? We couldn’t figure out if it was speed or some horrible disease. We’re just glad you’re better now.” This filled in a lot of holes in my memory. How much of the movie was I actually in? Was I even listed in the credits of The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth? My Sensei could tell something was nagging me. He put his hand on my right wing and said, “I never met your cousin before. Or his wife. But I’d like to meet them now.”
And then he was gone. What the fuck?! Okay, so now am I sane or am I seeing things? Where’s my hammer? Why am I wearing an ascot? I need to stop drinking seltzer after eight p.m.
The next morning there was a note waiting for me from My Sensei. “Rooster + Monica — don’t forget!” FUCK. He was serious, and he was real. They better be on their best behavior or I’m going to stim out soooooo insane.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits