After my disastrous meeting with A24, I decided to call it a life. This was going nowhere and it was wearing me down like nothing else. I just wanted to get home and write and not worry about studio executives taking my friends—my “characters”—and raping them in slow motion. Go ahead, dismember my imagination, destroy the mind, destroy the body, but don’t shove your cock down my friend’s beak. The AI rendering of the Roosters made me sick every time I thought about it, and I knew that wouldn’t be the last of it. Soon everyone in Hollywood would be trying to hawk horrifying AI mutilations of Rooster, Monica, and Bennington at me, and the only way I could stop it is to finally resolve to never come out here again. I don’t need Los Angeles. I hate it here. I always knew I could never live there, but for most of my life I enjoyed visiting, and kept a positive view of the place in mind; whenever anybody would put Los Angeles down, I’d remind them of all the good things Easterners conveniently forget: the weather, the food, the architecture, and the weather.
The food is good, too. I went to Casa Vega for tacos before my flight. Every restaurant I went to in Los Angeles was featured in the movie Once Upon a Time in Hollywood: El Coyote, Casa Vega, Musso & Frank, and Taco Bell. You could do a lot worse. I never could find that all-natural green juice place they go to in Annie Hall.
My flight was at 10 p.m., so I went straight to the airport from Casa Vega. It was 2:45 p.m. Plenty of time for traffic, and browsing at the fancy little book shoppe in my terminal. I hoped it was in my terminal, otherwise I’d be stuck browsing the menu at Chipotle. You try it—it’s not long. Luckily I got it right, and was able to buy a new copy of Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer and a John Steinbeck novel. I don’t remember which one because I didn’t read it. I got on the plane and somehow managed to fall asleep within the first half hour in the air. First class was nice; really the only way to go from now.
When I woke up, the woman behind me asked what I was reading. “William Gaddis,” I told her. It was true: I’d packed JR and was about 30 pages into it. Really bad. I wasn’t that into it but she seemed to think I was. “Oooooooh,” she went, “William Gaddis.” I told her it’s not that long. “What are you talking about?” I meant the book, not the flight. “It’s long.” Okay, well, not for a six-hour flight. “It’s five and a half.” No it’s not, it’s six. “Haven’t you ever flown back from LA to New York?” All of a sudden she thinks I’m a New Yorker—then I remember I am one. Nevertheless, I’m not going to New York. I’m going to Baltimore. “Why?” I live there. “That’s too bad.” What do you mean? I like it. “It’s not New York or LA.” So what? “So all the movies open in New York and LA. You can see everything.” I can see plenty in Baltimore. “I doubt it.” Have you ever been? “Yes. Disappointing. Four movie theaters. And they’re all more or less playing the same thing.” How recently were you in Baltimore? “Don’t tell the chickens.”
I turned around, but she was gone. A ghost on an airplane. Wow. That’s a first for me. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen a ghost before, much less gotten into an argument with one. Maybe she was an angel. We were in the sky. I looked up the aisle and saw Edward Norton of all people sitting up and over one. What was he reading? The Count of Monte Cristo. Unbelievable. We’re not flying to Australia. I hope the ghost gave him shit for that one. I didn’t care about William Gaddis or JR anymore, I was fixated on Edward Norton and how fast he could read. Was he actually reading Dumas? He was. He was engrossed in the novel, and about two-thirds of the way through. Hey, good for him. We all wanted to be well-rounded men, but it’s not easy. This guy? He could’ve been President, he could’ve married Courtney Love, but instead he decided to become a really famous actor with a bad reputation for acting as director on set. I saw that one movie he directed, Motherless Brooklyn. It sucked. More like Directorless Movie. I wasn’t going to bother him, but, like so many others, on and off the plane, I couldn’t stop thinking about Death to Smoochy. Did he still like it? Did he rank it among his best work? Will there be a 30th anniversary theatrical re-release and 4K restoration? It was still a few years away, but these things take time. Still, I didn’t want to interrupt his flow. Dumas is a master storyteller, or so I’ve heard. Have I heard that? Probably. I don’t know where, though, or when.
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NARCFILM