I’d barely wiped the last tread mark from my floor and deflated the last tire that I read the news, oh boy: David Fincher orders reshoots on new film just four months before its planned release. Do I care about David Fincher? No. Good director, but he’s been on Netflix for over a decade, and I won’t use Netflix. Ever. It’s a matter of principle. When you have the CEO of one of the most prominent entertainment companies in the world talking about movie theaters and calling them “obsolete” and “an outdated business model,” you’ve got to do something about it. I could write letters to Congress, write three times a week about it, post endlessly on social media, but I’ll just complain to whoever I’m talking to at the moment, and right now it’s you (You) reading this. I’m inside your house and I’m standing right behind you.
The news kept coming: “Fincher ‘isn’t especially happy with how the film turned out’ and pushed for significant reshoots that would have come at ‘significant expense.’ Netflix refused those demands but has agreed to a few days of additional photography this month. Fincher has had a really hard time finishing this film, and it could slip to next year if key deadlines aren't met. It's not just the reshoots. Remember, Fincher also had to put editing on 'Cliff Booth' on hold earlier this summer due to personal issues. At this point, a delay to 2027 wouldn't be the least bit surprising.”
Was Bennington involved? He must’ve been. Look at him: he looks guilty as fuck. “Who, me?” He was still chewing on my copper wire, sitting inside the drum of a deflated tire. “Yes, you,” I grunted as I reached down and grabbed him by the hackle. I held him up to my face for less than a quarter second before he propelled himself into my face and ran to the other side of the room. I fell back onto the stairs and wiped the blood off my nose.
These kinds of injuries were becoming too regular to explain away. Last month, my friend Katherine asked why I was wearing a cast on my leg. “I fell,” I said. “What?” She misheard me. “You feel? Feel what?” Right then, just as we were walking into a movie, I tripped and fell and broke the cast open. She could see my leg wasn’t broken, hardly even cut—was there anything wrong with me? “Uh… I fell.” All I could was repeat myself like an idiot. The fact is Bennington and I made a bet that his little Cliff Booth side movie with Fincher and Quentin Tarantino (or as Bennington calls him, “My Sensei”) wasn’t coming out this year. I kept asking him when I could see it, if I could be invited to the premiere. “It’s not ready yet,” he said. I decided to make him a bet: if the film had a full trailer released before the middle of July, he’d owe me $500; if not, I’d wear a full cast on my uninjured leg for the second half of July. Weird parameters, I know, but as you probably know, I lost regardless.
Now I find out the movie probably is getting delayed, and I’m trying to get him to make good on our bet. “I did,” he said, still sitting in the drum of the deflated tired, “and I’m not paying you a penny. Or getting into a cast. You’re dumb. We could’ve done something cool and high stakes, like a duel at dawn, or Russian Roulette.” His little beady eyes lit up as he realized the potential for a Nicky plus Quibbits family game of Russian Roulette. “I’m gonna make SO much money!!” He was jumping up and down in the deflated tire as I, along with a horrified Rooster and Monica, stared him down in silence. Eventually he got the picture and squirreled himself away as always. That’s our Benny…
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NARCFILM