No one knows anything. I can’t tell you anything. What’s the word? Any news? I don’t have none—I’ve told you all there is to tell so far. We had some secret shooting dates, some dinners, some meet-and-greets, some long boozy nights, and, already, frayed nerves. Just a little more than a month before filming is set to begin on The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth, and now I don’t even know what the title is. Is it still The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth? Or just The Adventures of Cliff Booth? In all of the articles from the entertainment press regarding the casting of Carla Gugino, the movie’s referred to as The Adventures of Cliff Booth; I think I saw the same title when Yahya Abdul-Mateen II was hired. What movie are we making here? “The Adventures of.” Is this the complete adventures of Sir Cliff Booth? Or merely the stretch that the script refers to—primarily the late-1970s and early-1980s (with an epilogue in 1991).
I asked Mr. Fincher what was up, and he avoided me like I had COVID-25. He was setting up for take 68 of a rehearsal of Brad Pitt walking through a door, and he was taking his time indeed, so I took Mr. Tarantino aside, and asked him what the title actually was. “The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth.” Okay, so it’s been settled: Mr. Tarantino told me, Benny Quibbits, that the already announced “working title” will indeed be the title of the movie. I’m glad—The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth has a certain flair to it, an expansive quality that reminds this rooster of sequels like The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training, Part 2: Walking Tall, and More American Graffiti. It’s like, yeah, we want more of it. Give us the sludge. Feed me. I am become Netflix, destroyer of worlds.
I also asked Mr. Tarantino how he felt about working with a corporation which has made killing movie theaters its business. “Well, our movie will be getting a theatrical release, and I’ve talked to David, they’ll strike prints, I’ll be able to play it at the Vista and the New Bev.” Okay, well how about Todd Haynes and his May December? Richard Linklater’s Hit Man? Olivier Assayas? WASP NETWORK?????!?!?! “I don’t think about that kind of stuff, Benny,” he said, spearing another baby dill off his plate. “And as far as Netflix goes, I like them. I agree with you, but I like them. They paid me $20 million for the script. Who am I to bite the hand that feeds?” I told him that I do it all the time—in fact, it’s a point of pride for certain Northern Roosters to bite and peck the hand that feeds until it bleeds. Only then will the human know who is the true master in the relationship. It’s a way of establishing dominance, something that movie directors know intimately.
He shrugged me off and went back to his paperback, something by Lionel White. “Are you reading Clean Break again?” He nodded. “Yeah, I’m thinking of remaking Reservoir Dogs as my last film, but in black and white with an all-black cast.” I blinked. “Well, I’m not actually going to do it, but I’m thinking about it.” Thank God. I’m not black and I want to be in Quentin Tarantino’s last movie. I told him as much and he nodded. “You’ll be on my last movie, Benny,” he assured me. “You can count on it.” It was so nice, but a little awkward for the rest of the cast, who asked Mr. Tarantino the same thing, and to a one all got blank stares. He left quickly. Now I’m persona non-grata among these semi-famous actors. What to do? Bite and peck the hand that feeds. I’m biting Yahya and Carla right now. They’re screaming. They’re not happy. Brad is just laughing. Mr. Fincher is setting up for take 69. Disco, baby.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits