Pussycat Dolls, Kelly Brook and a Bloody Chin

I had signed with a new manager, whilst living at the Beverly Hills based W Hotel, in Westwood many moons ago. During lunch time, my newly acquired LA literary manager and I were sat pool-side, chomping on a delicious burger, served to us with sheer elegance and a sparkling smile by that of Bonnie.

My manager wore a ridiculously bright colored Bluetooth ear-piece for his cell phone. He resembled a type of cyborg and detached the device, strategically placing it on the table by the sauces. He’d wince every so often, tugging at his fingers on his left hand. Once we had finished our meals, my manager retrieved his unused knife, held it horizontally and grit his teeth, moving it slightly. “Hollywood secret.” he said, checking his teeth for signs of stray food.

I sneered and believing we had struck an early bond and in a foolish attempt to mimic him, I took up my fork, and raised it, however my elbow slipped on the table and I accidentally stabbed myself in the chin with the prongs. I instantly clutched my jaw, widening my eyes with fright.

“What the hell did you do?” said my manager.

“I tried to copy you.” I replied.

“With a Goddamn fork?” he blurted. “It’s bleeding. You chin is bleeding.” And so it was. Lowering my eyes, I could plainly see, let alone feel, blood. “Idiot.” he said, passing me a napkin.

I held the napkin to my pierced chin and noticed the manager’s eyes widen. I frowned, wondering whether he’d stabbed himself, too, as he arched his back, clutching his fingers, wincing once again. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to take my wedding ring off.”  he struggled.

“Why?” I was confused, but he gestured, with a nod of his head, for me to look ahead.

“Two Pussycat Dolls coming this way.” he was sweating as he leaned back on the chair, desperately tugging his fingers.

I squinted to see two members of the famed singer dancer troupe strutting towards us, but no doubt making their way to pass us.

“Two Pussycat Dolls. Two Pussycat Dolls. Up ahead.” he chirped excitedly, yet somewhat flustered.

“And you think you have a shot at them?” I quipped.

“Not with this ring on, but you might. One of them for sure.” he continued as the two girls stopped by the table, looking at the painful smile upon my manager’s face.

“Hey.” said one PCD, with a faint look of recognition on her immaculate face.

“Hey back. This is my new client, Ben. He’s British.”  An odd introduction, but an introduction it was at least. I received two brilliant white smiles. Teeth like a row of fridge doors, but mouths soon pouted to an ‘ooh’ as their glistening eyes fixed on my face or more precise, my bleeding chin.

“Your chin is bleeding, honey.”

“Idiot.” mumbled my manager.

“What are you doing there?” one asked, pointing at my manager’s peculiar posture.

“Oh, chair exercises. I put my back out, just stretching.” he bluffed, deflecting the fact he was actually trying to remove his wedding band and with that, the girls continued their swift glide across the terrace and inside.

My manager straightened, checked his wristwatch and eyed his Bluetooth ear-piece by the sauces.

“OK. I’ll drop you off to Paradigm, then I’m gone.”  he said, standing up, towering above me. 

I had a meeting with British actress and model Kelly Brook and her agent. Kelly, who I had championed for Lara Croft a few years prior had expressed interest in a female spy character I had written.

With my manager behind the wheel and me riding shotgun, I was still holding my bloodied napkin to my punctured chin.

“Dab it. Dab it. Idiot.” he blubbed, as he dialled a number on his cell. “Hi, this is ‘Mister Manager from Mister Manager and Co, who am I speaking with please? – Hi Bonnie. Mister Manager from Mister Manager and Co. How are you? Good. Good. I had lunch with a new client of mine, who is a guest at your hotel and I accidentally left my Bluetooth device on our lunch table. – Well, if you’re able to get it for me personally, Bonnie, then that would be most appreciated. Thank you. Thank you. What I’ll do is drop my client off and I’ll come by the hotel at say.. Well, when do you finish your shift, Bonnie?”

Yes, my manager, it seemed, was hitting on one of the restaurant staff. He had actually set this up from the moment he sat down at the table to have lunch. “Nice. Nice. See you then, Bonnie.” he completed his call and scowled at me. “It’s still bleeding! It needs to dry. The blood needs to dry, stick your head out the window.”  he instructed, scrolling the window down.

I leaned my head out of the passenger window and was instantly yanked back into position. “What are you? A dog? Get back in here, idiot!” he yelled.

We pulled up outside the Paradigm Agency and as soon as I stepped out of the car and closed the door, it sped off.

Inside, after talking with the reception staff about a party which I had actually been to and described in equally bizarre detail here, I was met by Mr Young Handsome Agent.

“Ben! Why are you here? Man, your chin’s bleeding.” said Mr Young Handsome Agent.

“Yeah, I stabbed myself with a fork. Why shouldn’t I be here? We’re meeting Kelly Brook, right?” I said, with a beaming, excited smile.

“Well, you should be meeting her, Ben, but not here. She’s at your hotel, dude! Did you manager not pass on the message?”

My heart sank, especially at the thought that my pest of a manager was making his way back to the world of Bonnie, Pussycat Dolls and Kelly Brook without me!

“Man, seriously, maybe we can get you a cab back, but it’s like half hour away. Ah, dude. She has the script and everything. She’s at your hotel, Kelly Brook is at your hotel!”

He only had to say it once.

And so, I got a taxi back to the W, with the Armenian driver telling me he had written a screenplay, asking if I could do anything with it. I informed him that I couldn’t really do anything with my own, but wished him luck with his. It was mostly a silent ride back, until he added the fact that my chin was smeared with blood. At least it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

A friend who worked the pool bar at the W approached me.

“Brother, there was a super hot chick asking for you for like twenty minutes, man. ‘Are you Ben? Are you Ben?’ She seemed so disappointed you weren’t around. Shame she didn’t stay. Ah, man, I so wished I was you, but like, without the blood-stained face. Kelly Brook! I’ll never forget that name.” he chuckled as he poured me a beer.

Bonnie tussled my hair and gently wiped my chin.

“Look at you, Hollywood Ketchup face.” she said, passing me a blinding smile. 

With the sun going down, I tasted my beer and knew that I would never again use a fork in pretending to mimic someone using the side of a knife for a mirror, as not only did it take an age to stop bleeding, it also prevented me from meeting Kelly Brook!

The Golden Goose Shower Commandos

A friend of mine got married in Hawaii recently. She’s awesome and has married an awesome guy, too. He’s one of the main dudes behind the Call of Duty games and has some amazing stories. She was an actress and a bar tender.

There was a time when I was practically living in the W Hotel in Westwood, Los Angeles. I like the neighbourhood. It’s bordered by Beverly Hills and Bel-Air and such like. It was at this hotel where I first met my friend. She was prepping some mojitos and cutting up some limes. One morning, when I headed pool-side for breakfast, she was doing her usual prep, but asked if I would mind the bar for half hour or so. “Just cut a few limes. It’ll be OK.” she instructed. I naturally obliged as she headed out for an audition. Whilst cutting some limes, one of the managers approached. “Morning, Ben. Howya doin’.. uh, behind the bar?” he said, frowning curiously. As he was a good bloke, I told him the truth of the whereabouts of my friend who I was manning the bar for. “Ah, yeah, I forgot. I’m due for an audition on that show, too later.” He said, casually. “I don’t think we’ll get away with you covering me though.” He quipped as he took up behind the bar and assisted me with my lime chopping.

Nearing my two-month stay at this particular hotel, I became a known face and I got to know some of the regulars who frequented there. It was also quite a trendy hotspot at the time, so said regulars were often privy to some top secret information. Some took pity on this pale Brit and kindly offered me some money-can’t-buy things. One money-can’t-buy thing was an invite to a party.

“OK, just be yourself. Well, kinda. Maybe a better version.” He chuckled, though with more than a touch of seriousness to his tone and in his eyes. “Here’s the address and listen up.” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, firmly and moving his mouth closer to my ear. We were stood at the side of the bar. It was early evening. A healthy number of people were milling around. The well-groomed and beautiful, sipping their desired beverage through a straw and there was me, with my whatever-it-was on-tap beer. Then there was this fifty year old suited guy about to whisper in my ear. “It’s not a password, it’s a pass phrase. You understand? That’s how you get in. You understand?” he told me a pass-phrase, the all-important pass-phrase that would apparently enable me access to a party up in the Hills. The Hollywood Hills. I curled my lip when he told me, frowning as I did so, accompanying it with a sneer. He gripped my shoulder, clasping it as he drank his Scotch and lime. A lime stuck on the side of his glass. A slice of lime, one I had bizarrely cut that day. He even turned his back on me to speak with somebody else, all the while grasping my shoulder. It was quite uncomfortable, however my mind was thinking more about the pass phrase he had just whispered discreetly into my ear.

The following evening, I got ready and asked one of the doormen I had befriended to get me a cab. “Whoa, seriously cool. I’d drive you there myself, buddy, but I gotta stick here tonight. Shame you have to arrive in a damn cab.” he said.

“It was?” I thought to myself.

And so, the Beverly Hills Cab, with its blue and white colors glistening in the light of the hotel, pulled up outside and the door was opened for me to clamber inside. Across Beverly Hills and West Hollywood and up into the Hills I was driven, right up, weaving this way and that, into the night and to a set of gates. “Exactly half an hour.” said the Armenian driver. I paid him and as soon as I had got out and closed the door, he was already backing up. I was stood alone. In the night and not really knowing where exactly I was or who I was supposed to be invited by.

Actually, I wasn’t completely alone, for there, stood by the large gates, blocking any kind of view of beyond, was a well-built guy who could only be described as being SWAT-like. Decked head to toe in black, complete with cap and earpiece, he acknowledged my arrival with a quick jut of his head. “Can I help you?” he asked.

I eyed my surroundings. Pitch black. The sound of the taxi cab’s engine becoming more and more distant. The sound of crickets.

The sound of me swallowing as I stepped up to the guard and I randomly said; “I have a golden goose, would you like to see it?”

The guard in black stared at me for a few seconds. It seemed like minutes. He tightened his mouth into a thin, rock hard smile and nodded his head. “I would very much like to see that golden goose, Sir. Please, step this way.” He depressed a button on a device held within his hand and the gates slowly opened to reveal an extremely long driveway.

I think I was more fearful as to what was beyond the gates than when I had to say my pass-phrase to the modern-day Ninja looking dude stood near me.

As soon as I had passed the gates, a golf cart pulled out of the shadows, squealing to a halt in front of me. The driver was a young woman. She was dressed similar to the guy I had just seen, but had a Sonya Blade from Mortal Kombat feel about her. “Hi. Please get in the cart, Sir.” she said, with a somewhat robotic smile on her face. It was like being in Westworld or something. I gestured to a glimmer of lights fifty feet or so ahead. “I can walk, it’s no problem.” I replied.

“No, Sir. Please. Get in the cart.” she said more forcefully, complete with a Terminatrix stare.

I got into the golf cart and she accelerated up the driveway. Within a second of our journey, a black limousine passed us. I caught my reflection in the shiny black metal but it was gone in an instant as another vehicle traveled past. An orange Lamborghini Gallardo. I wanted to say ‘wow’, but before I could even pout my lips to say ‘w’, the cart had stopped by a fountain and the Terminatrix whipped her head round to me. I frowned, looked at a set of grand steps, then eyed the fountain and thought it must be the end of the short ride, so I got out.

I looked up at the steps, exhaled and was about to set foot up them when I heard a voice cry out; “You there! You! Hello?” I turned around and saw an incredibly slim, well-groomed suited young man and very, very camp. I approached him in the shadows of the fountain. In his hand was one of those bulky looking devices you use to electronically sign deliveries in with. “I’d like you to put your name and zip code in here, please.” he commanded. “I don’t really live here.” I replied.

“It’s OK, we have a list of all the hotels in the US”. he quickly responded, holding up his electronic pen. I asked him what this was for and he snapped at me his reply, like it was the most obvious thing on Earth. “It’s for you to state you haven’t seen the actor producer ‘X’ at this party.” he held his look on me, awaiting me to take up his pen and sign on his LCD. “That I haven’t? I haven’t seen my mate Rob either, have you got a form for him?” I quipped, only to receive a more harder, more camper stare back at me, accompanied by a hand on hip motion. “I’m serious. Your name and hotel, please.” I was about to pinch his pen when another voice hollered out; “Would you leave my goddamn guests alone! Everybody knows your client is gay. Who cares! Stop lurking in the shadows, damnit! I want you to leave. Now. NOW!”

The voice belonged to a man I won’t describe. I didn’t recognize him, but he was extremely welcoming and as he escorted me up the steps to the mansion - his mansion - I halted us both and naively said; “’X’ is Gay?”

“Of course! You just worked on their movie, didn’t you?” he replied.

“Yes, I still am.. working on it.. I guess..” I said.

“Not what I heard. You were fired a while back. Still, party on, right.” the guy responded. 

I didn’t know what I was more taken aback with, the A-list talent I was requested to sign to say I hadn’t seen at this particular party as well as being informed was Gay or told I had been let go from a big Screenwriting break. Of course I went with “Hang on, didn't they recently get married?”

“So! Their other half is Gay, too!”

“What? But they’ve just had a baby!” I blurted.

“It was a sponge baby!”

“I got fired... Pardon? What? A what baby?” I was more confused now than ever.

“A sponge baby. A sponge baby! The woman wore a suit. Three different prosthetic suits each trimester. The woman gave birth to a damn sponge baby.”

“So who did have the baby?” I asked, being led up the steps once more.

“Who gives a damn? This is Hollywood. You can buy anything and anyone. If you want a baby, but don’t want to have a baby, then you pay someone else to have it, but some people want their cake and to eat it, too, so go through the most insane.. listen, I need to speak with other people. Let me introduce you to coupla guys.”

“Are they Gay, too?” I chirped, mockingly, as we stood by the door to a grand hall. The man looked me in the eye, seriously and frowned.

“No. Actually they’re ex-Special Forces.” he replied, introducing me to two Australian guys before he left the room.

The Aussie guys advised on weapons and tactics for movies and took me back outside to a massive pool area. To say it was a stereotypical movie pool scene is an understatement. It was that and so much more. Bikini-clad babes equaled the muscle-bound guys in ill-fitting, tight shirts and all with teeth whiter than fridge doors. 

“What beer d’you like?” one of them asked me.

“Er, I don’t know. What have they got?” I asked, as I continued my stare at the walking-photoshopped beauties on parade before me.

“Everything.” he replied, gesturing to a jacuzzi literally filled with every type of beer imaginable. 

“You can drink yourself around the world, buddy, here.” the other commando said, tossing me a bottle of beer and sitting down. “We're on beer letter 'E'."

Swigging my Elephant Beer from Denmark and talking about the past ten minutes of my arrival, the Australians laughed and pointed his beer towards the pool, gesturing for me to turn.

“Go to bed with me! Bed me! Bed me! Go to bed with me! I’m hot. I need to cool down! Bed me! Cool me down! Cool me down!” shouted the A-list talent, (the same talent I was supposed to sign to say I hadn’t seen.) I couldn’t believe my eyes. The A-lister was chasing, in an extremely aggressive manner, around the pool, another person, who looked quite fearful. What was weirder was the fact that nobody was really taking a blind bit of notice, except for me, of course. 

I turned to my new-found Special Forces friends. “Isn’t that..?”

“Yep.” answered one, swigging his beer.

“Been doing that all night. It's really quite annoying.” added the other, swigging his beer.

“Who’s the other one being chased?” I quizzed them.

“That’s their partner. They’re [insert totally cool profession, unrelated to media or the arts here]. Been with them for years. Had an argument or something. Crazy how we were all forced to sign that weird electronic form to say we haven’t seen squat.” one reeled off.

“I didn’t sign anything.” I said, explaining why I hadn't.

“No way! Awesome.” said one, swigging his beer, before telling me some of his gung-ho tales of old, with the occasional aggressive tone of the A-lister not too far away yelling; “Bed me! Cool me down! I’m hot! Cool me!”

It was then that one of the Aussies sighed, exhaling his breath louder and with more force than a twister. He dumped his bottle of beer to one side and turned to me. “You gotta phone?” he asked. I nodded. “You gotta wallet?” he asked. I nodded. “Hand them over.” he demanded. I did so, without question. “Take ya shoes off. Quick.” he ordered and I once again did so and as soon as I had, he stood up and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting really hacked off. He wants to cool down. I’ll cool him down.” the ex-special forces beefcake said before literally picking me up off the ground, twisting, pivoting and then hurling me four meters through the air like a sandbag. Before I could complete my thought of whether I looked like Superman learning to fly for the first time, it was touch down time.

SPLASH!  

I had made contact with the water of the pool with such accuracy and precision that the water, which was ejected from the force of my impact, rained down all over the A-lister, soaking them right through, stopping them still in their stride.

Despite being underwater for what was only around two seconds, it was enough for me to realize what situation I was now in. What facial expression should I emerge to the surface with? I decided it was to be a grin. My pleasant, smiling face gently broke out to the night air and my eyes locked onto the A-lister’s own stare, along with my ears experiencing dead silence, until the star’s lips slowly curled into a brilliant smile and released a; “I’m cool! I’m cool! Yeah! Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! I was hot, now I’m cool! You are crazy and we need to hang out! Yeah! Now THAT was a shower!”

Whoops and cheers erupted and a couple of bronzed good lookers leapt into the pool. A gigantic, welcoming hand then reached down to my wet face. It was the Aussie who hadn’t thrown me. “You can stop smiling now, mate.” he said, yanking me out of the pool and to my feet, with ease, like I was the weight of a toddler. 

I trudged back to the ‘beer jacuzzi’ to where the other Aussie patted me on the pack and handed me a beer. “Had to be done, fella. You’ll dry off in a couple of hours. No worries. Cheers.” The three of us clinked bottles and continued to enjoy our night, without a single interruption of annoyance or muttering from the A-list talent I had drenched. 

“We're now onto 'G'. I think your beer is quite an apt one, buddy." said the Aussie commando who threw me into the pool. He smiled and winked. 

I frowned, rotated my bottle and saw the name of my new beer. 

 NOTE: I have of course naturally changed the pass-phrase used in this blog, but my undisclosed beer still matched it nonetheless.

Val Kilmer's Helicopter

In 2005, the first draft of a spy script I had written was completed. I was quite surprised to learn that at the time there was some buzz surrounding it. A lot of cool brands were keen to get on board the project and I suddenly found myself in a main producing role. It was scary and exciting, especially when I was in Cannes. I had already gained the oddity that was the Die Hard 4 spec association and also Mission Impossible 3 was in production. Whatever the big fish / small fish / size of the pond analogies, I felt that I was, at least, still a fish – whether I could swim or not was a prominent question as it does today.

Names were being banded around and I had interest from Kate Beckinsale, whom I had originally penned the lead role for. I naively chatted to someone in a bar, loose-lipped, in Cannes. The next day, when strolling the Croisette, I received a telephone call from Kate’s agent, laying into me about whether she gave permission for me to mention that I had Kate in my movie. Told off for not disclosing there were water scenes in the script (can’t disclose the answer to when I questioned ‘why is that a concern?') and then told off for unwittingly telling a national newspaper that Kate Beckinsale is reading the script! I had no idea. Yep, that person in that bar in that Cannes was that national newspaper. Oh, what the heck, it was all publicity.

Taking a break from the film festival madness, I took a trip with some US friends into Grasse – (if you haven’t been and do attend the Cannes film festival, then take advantage of where you’re at and venture out). One of my indie producer pals, who was more like a big sister to me, said; “Know who you should get in ya spy movie? Val Kilmer. He’s a Bond nut. He’d love to be in a spy picture.” And with that, I made that my quest.

2005 was a particularly mad year. Being told that I should go to Paris to meet Bruce Willis by Bruce Willis, living in a hotel in Beverly Hills for a while, Will.I.Am, The A-Team, an American girlfriend and in between... tracking down Val Kilmer.

Now, Val was starring in ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’ in London in May 2005. I thought, once again, with my young naivety kicking in, I could get to Val and have him read my spy themed screenplay. I wrote him a letter, got it to the top people at the theatre to have it on his dressing room table along with a copy of the script.

So whilst he was or was not reading it, I received a bizarre email regarding Val and an incredibly lavish James Bond anniversary party. The email went something like this ‘We have been passed information regarding your spy-themed feature film, described by the British tabloid press as being a ‘female James Bond’ and that the Hollywood actor Mr. Val Kilmer is interested in taking a pivotal role in it. We would really appreciate your assistance with helping us gain Mr. Kilmer’s attendance for our James Bond party.’

I thought ‘Hey, I’d like to go to a James Bond party! If they want my assistance, then I want in, too.’ I wrote them back and said I would try and reach Val and inform him of this 007 bash, but on one condition; I’m invited as well.’ They agreed.

I did my bit and contacted Val again at the theatre, where his play was being well received. I also informed his PR and agent, but didn’t gain any form of response, despite me not particularly expecting a reply, let alone a positive one – but that’s what a Yahoo! address occasionally does for you in this business.

Whilst sitting at my desk, awaiting the reply that would never arrive, I began to wonder how Val Kilmer would actually get to this all singing all dancing James Bond event. The distance was around 40 miles, but that was leaving from Central London and would take forever. I decided to tell those who initially contacted me about the event that travel was a serious deal-breaker for my and Val’s appearances.

They came back with something I really wasn’t expecting at all.

‘We can arrange for a helicopter for yourself and Mr. Kilmer to fly out from London and land in the grounds of the hotel where the event is taking place. Rooms will be provided as will a return flight back to London the following day at noon.’

Gulp. Val had to come. I tried the theatre and his reps one last time…

The day arrived. The East London heliport was readying itself for a forty-mile flight out of the city into another county. The rotor blades whirled round. Whumph. Whumph. Whumph. The door opened. The pilot leaned out and shouted: ‘Please get in, Sir! I thought there were two passengers! Where’s Mr. Kilmer?’

‘It’s just me!’ I yelled.

The pilot shrugged his shoulders and nodded. ‘So you must be Ben? Well, OK, Sir. I was told to fly no matter what!’

The helicopter journey out of London and across the skies was a smooth one. My permanently fixed grin as I gazed out over the city wasn’t dissimilar to The Joker’s. The landing in the grounds of the hotel couldn’t have been a more awesome experience either.

A suited member of staff opened the door and I clambered out of the chopper and onto the grass.

‘Welcome, Sir.’ said the suited, well-spoken man. ‘Nice tuxedo, Sir.’ he continued.

‘Nice audience.’ I said, acknowledging the 50 Bond Girl-esque women, stood in awe watching me approach the back of the hotel terrace.

The suited man gestured for me to look at his beautiful female colleague, an equally stunning red dress, carrying a silver tray housing one single class of Champagne, treading her high-heeled shoes, elegantly and carefully, toward me.

‘Champagne, Sir?’ said the suited man, as his glamorous assistant smiled a blinder and edged nearer.

I exchanged a smile and took the glass, just as a sudden rush of wind picked up, due to the rotor blades still rotating several feet behind. Her red dress rode up to reveal – well, let’s say it was pretty much like Kelly Lebroc in ‘The Woman in Red’.

The woman gasped, albeit with a beaming smile.

I raised one eyebrow, lifted my glass to her and said, ala Roger Moore; ‘Bottoms up.’

I sipped my Champagne, placed the glass back on the silver tray and together with my tuxedo, I walked towards my very own Casino Royale where for the rest of the night, I was ‘Trebilcook, Ben Trebilcook.’

The Russian and the 500 million Euro

A few years ago I had the good fortune with being associated to two super-huge action movie franchises. Mission: Impossible and Die Hard. It's not surprising to learn that when such a thing occurs, one starts to receive various degrees of attention; be it from the press, squirmy managers wanting to represent you to old school friends. I received these and more, one in particular being that of somebody stating they could assist in the financing of a movie I was producing. Two in fact. Yes, they, being an independent investor could finance both feature films entirely.

Initial contact was made via a friend who once starred in Baywatch. I had previously written another sequel spec to yet another action franchise owned by Warners and wrote a significant role for the former red swimsuit wearing babe. It wasn't long before the words "I know a guy who knows a guy who can put you in touch with a guy." came into conversation one day and thus began my correspondence with said guy who could lend financial assistance. 

I spoke with two close producer friends. One from Germany. One from Australia. "I think dis iz our larst conva sashon, Benny!" said the German, chuckling, yet seriously meaning what he had just stated down the phone to me. "I just say go for it, mate. Ya never know!" said my Australian pal. "Russians and movies don't mix, Benny!" said the German. Yes, did I forget to mention that the investor of potential millions was Russian? Well, I'm mentioning it now.


So, whilst on board my Easy Jet flight to Milan, where it was arranged for me to meet said investor, I started to laugh to myself. "I am flying to Milan to meet a potential investor for my big budgeted movie. Two big budgeted movies." I said to myself, just before a moment of split-second panic took place in the form of a quaking, shaky hand and fast, heavy breaths.


I arrived at my hotel and called the investor, who then informed me with this: "I am not the investor. I am investor's lawyer. I speak on behalf of investor." Well, I was there now, so I may as well meet nonetheless, I thought to myself, so I asked when and where and received the second, little nugget: "I will call you in a moment on where to meet." I wait. I wait some more. My cell phone battery was not waiting so much. And then it came. "We will meet at the 'x' hotel." I ask what time and then he continues with "Wait. I call you." I wait. I wait some more. I thought, actually, I'll just look it up online and head over there and maybe save some time, get some food perhaps. So, upon looking online for the hotel, I discover that there are in fact two of these hotels with exactly the same name, at opposite sides of the city. I call him up and mention this tiny fact and ask him which one I am to meet at, to which he responds with, yes, you guessed it, "Wait. I will you call."

I clamber into a cab, frustrated and tell the driver to head to whatever one is most popular. Enroute I receive the call to say "Two o'clock, 'x' hotel. Main one." I was heading to the right one. 

Upon arrival at the hotel meeting place, I waltzed in and headed for the bar. It was empty and reminded me of a saloon from 1878 in Texas. Dark, with shards of light, jetting across the dusty wooden floorboards and a barman in a white shirt and black bow tie, complete with white towel, polishing a glass and wiping down the counter. Gulp.


He looked up at me and nodded his head to acknowledge my presence. I approached the bar and asked for a Coke. When pulling out my wallet, the barman reached across to my hand and said "No. No, for you, no pay." I frowned at this and glanced around briefly to see if he was actually speaking to someone else, but no, he was speaking to me in his very Russian accent. I smile as he fixed my drink and I took it to a table and chair near by only to receive a loud, fake cough, drawing my attention round to the barman again. He gestured to another chair and said "Please, this chair. Sit here." I frown at this statement, too and look at the chair being referred to. Upon inspection, the back of the chair had the word 'King' carved into the wood. I shrug and sit myself down, checking my watch. 13:30.


At around 13:45 I look up and out of the window to a pool to see a big, beefy looking man in a suit and shades and occasionally touching his ear. Squinting, I noticed it was an earpiece of some sort. The man looked alert and touched his ear every so often and did a perimeter of the pool. He then stood by a doorway outside.

At 13:50 a similarly dressed man, with a bruised eye and bandaged hand stomped into the bar. His footsteps echoed as he entered and he, too, had an earpiece. He sat down in a far corner, by a door.

At 13:55 an elegant, slender young woman, dressed in a tight white dress and dark Gucci shades and high heels clip clops her way upon the hard floorboards across the bar, sat down in another corner, crossed her legs, dipped thin, pale hand into her expensive Mark Jacobs handbook, retrieving a magazine and began to read it.

As the time raced by, I felt eyes from all angles were watching me. I began to fidget and toy with the folders which contained the various documents and relevant details of my film projects, looking at the pictures of talent who were attached to the film or talent who could be attached if financed came into place.


The man outside did another perimeter of the poolside and I saw a quick flash of a holstered firearm within his jacket as he walked. He tilted my head and then glanced at my watch. It was 15:00. 


At 15:05 I reclined into the chair and it was then that I felt a hand clutch my shoulder. I jolted with fright and gasped. I must have been falling asleep. Maybe it was the barman waking me up, but as I turned, I was shadowed by the towering figure looming above, staring down at me.


"You are Ben. I am here. Let's talk." It was the Russian, but which one? The lawyer or the investor? "When I tell you I was lawyer, I wanted to see if you would still be here. I thought you would leave. I am not lawyer." he continued, baffling the heck out of me. "I am he. I am investor." he said, chuckling and slapping my arm as he did so. He was a big man, well built, well groomed, in a well-expensive suit. I slid my feet under the coffee table, hiding them, embarrassed by the scuffed brown Marks and Spencer shoes I had on. It was a waste of time and thought as the coffee table was glass and you could see them magnified even more so through it, so instead I just straightened and rolled my feet back behind and under the chair.


"Which movie we make? One, two, three?" he asked me, keenly and still without any apology for his lateness. The woman in white caught my eye as she lowered her sunglasses, looked over to our table and sighed, a sigh which echoed throughout the empty bar, causing my non-lawyer investor to look up. He spouted something in Russian, aggressively and she shrugged, "Nyet!" she replied. I understood that much. 


We discussed the two projects and he became more and more interested and excited. "Now comes money talk." he said. "How can I get money to you?" he asked me. I asked him what he meant exactly. "I can get it to your house, in armored car, but that will cost you 7% more on top of what you will owe me. This may prove difficult. I could -" he paused and nodded to himself, then taking hold of my arm, he stood up, pulling me upwards with him, causing me to do a slight hop. This man was strong and intimidating, with a crazed stared. He was Putin-esque.


The man said something in Russian to the barman who nodded his head and walked to the end of the bar. The man with the earpiece moved round closer and I was led to a door. The door was opened and a light turned on. Inside was..

 

"500 million Euro. I cannot get rid. You understand?" I stared at the bulking mass of half a billion in Euro bank notes stacked up before my very eyes, within a stock room of a hotel bar in the city of Milan, Italy. "We could... strap..." he pressed his hands against my chest as he spoke. ".. say 20 million to your body today and then we discuss what happen to the rest later when you get home. Yes?" Was this a joke? Was there a hidden camera show in Italy I was unaware of which preyed on hungry film makers from the UK, foolish enough to go along with this kind of situation? Nope, it was real.


I pointed at the length boxes along the side of the room and remarked on whether or not they were filled with cash, too. "No, inside are probably guns. AK or RPG. You know the type of thing?" I certainly did not know that type of thing. In fact, this type of thing was fast becoming something I would write in a script. Had I gone mad? I really didn't want to have my very own John McClane moment. That was for my Dad. He can deal with all that, I'll just write it. "It is difficult to me to get rid of such large amounts. You understand?" he kept asking if I understood, which I clearly did not. How could I relate to this man in any shape or form? I chuckled nervously and said something along the lines of "you could make a coat and clothes made out of money." the man even nodded and perhaps was pondering this for a moment. "So what we do?" he said, clapping his hands and having the door closed and locked for him. 


"It doesn't have to be rushed. Things take time." I replied, which he nodded and probably pondered this made perfect sense. He patted me hard on the back, spun me round and looked me dead in the eye. "This could be good or this could be bad." he said, staring at me. I instantly thought of when my German friend said to me that this is probably the last conversation I will have with him. I was foolish. Naive. I was on my own and not many people really knew where I was or who I was with. Then again, neither did I. What did this man mean? "This could be good movie or this could be bad movie. I don't care which. I just need to spend 100 million."He clutches my shoulders in a Spock-like Vulcan death-grip, gritting his teeth like Nicholson's Joker in Batman and taking a deep breath, looking into m eyes as he towered above me. My mind started racing and I started to think about that German guy, Armin Meiwes, who was in fact a cannibal. I wondered if I, too, was going to be eaten alive, but then my mind split and I disagreed with myself that this was a silly thing to think as I'm quite a skinny bloke and I'd probably be more useful as a toothpick than for a cannibal seeking a hearty meal, but then Armin Meiwes struck again. Didn't he eat another bloke's penis?

"You OK? - Of course. Wait." said the Russian, as he turned around and relaxed his clutches. After several seconds of Russian between him and the guard-like man, he nodded to me, said he may or may not  be in touch, but if I wanted to get in touch, then that was acceptable. He then left the room, followed by the heavily sighing woman in white and then the pool-side guy. I turned to the barman, but he, too was gone. It was all so very weird.


Later that evening I headed out for dinner, on my own, into deepest Milan some place and ending up recounting the event to a waiter. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke. He patted me on the back and said that he plans on opening his own restaurant one day and that I will be a very special guest whenever I am in town. "You want your movie to be made? Of course you do and it will. I am sure." My new-found waiter friend said, as he poured my wine. "You are a writer and this is a life-experience for you to learn from and to tell people about. If you had not come to Milan, you would not have found this place and not have had a great meal and great wine for free." he continued. He called me a year and a half later to say he has his own restaurant and remembers me and my story.


And what of the Russian and the 500 million Euro? Let's just say I'll leave them all there, in Milan, where I found them. 

In Hollywood, there may be no such thing as a free lunch, but in Milan, there was certainly a free dinner.

More Stories from the Trenches (Tom Cruise Told Me Not to Name-drop - Part 3

This is the Part Three, the final part of my guest blog for the guys at Stage32.com, which was originally posted on their site back in November 2011. The original can be found here:

Guest post - More Stories from the Trenches (Tom Cruise Told Me Not to Name-drop - Part 3)

Editor's note: This is part 3 in a series of guest posts authored by Ben Trebilcook. Check out Tom Cruise Told Me Not to Name-drop (Part 1).

RB

DUAL ROLE

I'm a Screenwriter through and through. I've written scripts based on other people's ideas, loglines and treatments. I've sold mine and even sold pages of scripts, bizarrely. I've been paid weekly, monthly, half up front and half on receipt of the finished product. I've been paid by the page. I've negotiated my own fees and terms that suit me and that suit those hiring me. There comes a time, however, when your passion for a particular script you have written takes hold of you in a way you just cannot explain. Be it the story as a whole or the central character or the genre or what the character does. Their occupation or purpose. Some part of it sucks you in and attaches itself to you inside and out. You and it become one and you want to see it to its fruition, no matter how long it takes. I'm a creative producer. I like finding the talent who best suit the characters I have written. I approach acting or directing talents either directly, because they're friends of mine, or via their representative. I've been fortunate to be able to send material to agents and managers for their clients to read because of the producing hat I have worn at the time. In a producing role, I have dealt with lots of agents who have responded in quite an off-ish manner, saying the script wouldn't suit their client or 'it is not a project nor character my client would care to be involved with'. I've since gone on to meet with said clients and discovered their reps hadn't even mentioned the project and when discussing and receiving the script, they've gone on to love it! No wonder certain star talents do the same old project types over and over. I'd say they either feel content and don't wish to venture out of their comfort zones and thus enjoy the pay-packet they receive, or that their agent doesn't pass them different material, making the talent feel nobody is penning anything different for them, genre or character-wise. I was chatting with my stunt director pal, Peter, who's up for directing my spy picture 'Vauxhall Crossed' and he said he'd just love to shave Hugh Grant's head, beef him up, stick a gun in his hand and make him one mean badass.

It's a different feeling being a writer / producer or producer than simply being a 'writer'. It's almost like having a platinum card as opposed to your normal run of the mill current account Bank Card. Film is one, big club, but there are definitely different levels of the club. Being a creative producer isn't enough to get your project up another level. It helps to attract the 'named' talent of course, but you also have to attract the financial folk. The internet for me and especially the social networking sites have been a valuable tool to aid me in that quest. Just type in 'film finance' or 'private equity' into Twitter and see who's talking about it. Investors aren't just buying into a script or a movie, it's practically an entire universe. Transmedia is becoming massive and it's so exciting to have other creative discuss with you the different avenues an element of your project could go down.

DEADER COUNTRY:

I'm listed as a producer on the film 'Deader Country'. It's an Australian schlock horror sequel. A good friend said a guy he knows would like to use my name in order to gain finance. What! My name can't even get me finance, how could it get anyone else? After much correspondence, sighing and hesitation and saying the word 'no' and 'OK' a lot, I agreed to write a few scenes for the film. It was a film that didn't even have a full script, let alone a proper outline. It was set in Australia, with an alien zombie or something roaming around and infecting people. I said I would shoot some footage here in the UK, setting it inside a building, so it could double for somewhere in Australia. I know a fair few Aussie actresses, one in particular, my trusted friend Angela Peters, who I cast in everything and will continue to do so. She's the most genuine, fun, helpful, respected, respectful, professional and gifted actress you could hope to work with. I called Angie up and also my producing partner, who was an Exec in a division for one of the majors. He had access to some cool HD cameras and also an office block. I penned myself a role and on a Saturday and one evening during one weekday, we shot a bunch of fun footage. Blood, zombies, running, eerie stairwells and corridors and the obligatory horror shower scene complete with topless actress (no, not Angie, but another very willing actress friend). Some intentionally cheesy acting followed. We even shot some behind the scenes footage for the DVD. Why some of what we filmed was left out, I have no idea, but what we shot, I think was better than the entire film put together! I was promoting it online for people to buy and I hadn't even seen the finished product, let alone a single penny. I bought my own copy and felt quite embarrassed towards those who had purchased it. One buyer said to me: "I liked the bits with you in it, but the rest is like Gothic horror soft porn." I didn't mind doing the guy a favor. He loves films and me helping him got his film financed and he made a film and got it out there. He's making films at least.
Hey, we all have at least one dodgy piece of work in our repertoire, right? I'm sure it won't stop there for me either! That's another thing about some talents starting out. Writing, acting or whatever, they want to be in an instant hit immediately, turning their noses up at the little work, because they might break a nail, bust a gut, be on YouTube, or have a non-speaking part or God-forbid, end up in a soap opera! Don't be afraid to get your hands dirty, because this business isn't really that clean at all.

A COUPLE OF CURRENT PROJECTS

Knockout:
As martial-arts projects are trending like crazy, it was time to fast-track a script of mine. I know a champion martial-artist / actress in Zara Phythian and wanted to write something for her, so reworked an idea for her and my friend Sean Brosnan. It's a very heart-felt story about a young woman, distraught from witnessing the murder of her parents as a child, develops her own unique martial art by playing video games. It's because of this she suddenly finds herself embroiled in the world of underground fighting It's a $1m and under picture and we have some terrific talent on board. We're still seeking to secure finance as we were let down heavily a couple of months ago.

VAUXHALL CROSSED:
It's an ambitious project and has gone through many guises. The central character, 'Daisy', began her life in a short I wrote, back in my supermarket days in 1994. Daisy was an adventurous, two-gun toting female, who studied antiques and history. That's another aspect of this business. Lawsuits. I've sued and won cases and I have attempted to sue and been advised to stop as it was costing me a fortune, but if something is unjust in life, you pursue, no matter what the cost. Moving on swiftly, top dog lawyers stated to me that if I could write a 'female Indiana Jones' then I could certainly create a 'female James Bond' and so my 'Daisy' character soon evolved and matured rapidly into exactly that. She grew up and got herself a career in the Secret Intelligence Service. Daisy Scarlett was born. A character and screenplay I wrote for actress Kate Beckinsale, five or so years back. She would have been perfect. It's another story regarding agents with that matter and perhaps kept for the pub only. Writing, to me, can also be likened to painting. A touch-up here, an additional brush-stroke there. You can forever change and tweak your own work. Tastes change, too. Audiences and expectations change. Dialogue becomes dated and boundaries can be pushed. I'm fortunate to be friends with Pierce Brosnan's son, Sean. A great actor in his own right and a talent I've written a few projects for. When I heard Pierce and Tarantino had discussed reworking Casino Royale, I leapt for joy! How awesome would a Tarantino James Bond movie be, with Pierce still in the role? It'd be brilliant. It also had me thinking about my own spy project and that it had to be more realistic. My Dad lent me his experiences yet again and arranged for me to meet some spies and discuss my script. One who read it said, 'taking into consideration the commercial factor, it was quite on-the-money.' Finding finance has been a crazy journey and could be another blog all together. I have recently decided the project needs an overhaul and complete shake-up.

I'd like to thank the guys here at Stage 32 and various other interested talents and film fans out there. Whatever your dream or goal in life, pursue it. Without a doubt be realistic, but reject rejection. An actor friend, Chris Showerman, signs off with 'All Things Possible'. He's absolutely right.

I'll end on a joke:

How many producers does it take to change a light-bulb?
Does it have to be a light-bulb

Mission: Impossible 3 (Tom Cruise Told Me Not to Name-drop - Part 2)

This is Part Two of my guest blog from my good friends at Stage32.com. The original posting can be found here, amongst the many brilliant talents who have also provided insights and valuable experiences of this often peculiar business.

Guest post - Mission: Impossible 3 (Tom Cruise Told Me Not to Name-drop - Part 2)

Ben Trebilcook

Editor's note: This is part 2 in a series of guest posts authored by Ben Trebilcook. Check out Tom Cruise Told Me Not to Name-drop (Part 1).

RB

I soon received a message left on my answer machine. It was from a development exec at Cruise/Wagner, inquiring about another action screenplay I had written and upon hearing of my connection to the Die Hard series, they were curious to read what else I had in my desk drawer. Once the folk at C/W had read my script and after several discussions with me and my Venice-CA-based agent, I was asked if I could place Tom Cruise's character from the Mission: Impossible films into this action script of mine. Of course I could! The original script was entitled 'Breakneck' and had a CIA Operative chasing down an ex-girlfriend, who was also a former spy, who was blowing up wonders of the world, trying to gain his attention, but causing extreme tension between China and Russia instead. The ex-girlfriend was more than a little scorned. It was mentioned in the UK film magazine Total Film that John Cusack was circling the project. I'm dubious about that, but who knows. I re-worked 'Breakneck' to fit Tom's Ethan Hunt and the IMF Team. I'm such an admirer of Emilio Estevez that I set the story as a prequel to the first film, bringing back Emilio's character. I received message from Emilio a month or so ago. Apart from what veggies he's recently harvested, he said he thought he was much more believable than Ving Rhames as a computer hacker MIT nerd and that Tom was bummed 'they' killed him off! I wanted to bring him back.

When 9/11 occurred, action movies were pretty put on hold, with people questioning what entertainment was. I mean, whatever your thoughts are, conspiracy or alternative theories or emotional heartache overload, you can't disagree that the events of that day played out like a Hollywood disaster movie. In fact, in one of my M:I:3 drafts, I had a light aircraft crash into the Statue of Liberty! It was a very exciting time. I recall my script and the movie was being discussed with Ang Lee, who left to do The Hulk. I heard Darren Fincher was going to helm the movie, then Oliver Stone! Amazing talents. It eventually went to Joe Carnahan, with Scarlet Johansson and Kenneth Branagh on board, too. After another stab at the screenplay, this time whacking in human organ trafficking, Ethan Hunt getting married, speedboat chasing down the Zambezi River and seeing my name with the awesome Frank Darabont's on IMDB, the project and indeed myself, were placed on hold. Embargoes and NDAs aside, I was told the agent I had wasn't powerful enough. I was also told my agent had ruined certain aspects of a potential deal for me. I was in London. Everyone else in California.

Every few months or so, my agent would ask me to send out a few Dollars to cover faxes, post and stamps, etc. Was this normal practice? I had no idea. I'd oblige and pop a fifty in the post. This was before the days of emailing a script. There was no 'convert to PDF' option for me. There was no fancy Final Draft software for me. It'd write a script in MS Word, tabbing five times for a character's name and then tabbing 3 times to type their dialogue, printing it all out on special US sized paper, three hole punching them, getting the beige card for a cover and binding them with three brass fasteners. I then FedEx'd the beautiful looking screenplay across the pond and it cost a fortune each and every time!

I honed my craft by reading other people's screenplays, watching more, reading forums, despite being instructed not to read certain ones. The feeling I had when I first called up Fox eighteen months or so earlier started to creep back inside me. My agent would never once get me work, arrange any meetings, discuss me with any producers or studios. He'd simply send out a script to those who I got in touch with beforehand, with a cover note saying 'per your recent correspondence with my client, please find enclosed the screenplay 'x'. The racing heart pumping frustration kicked in and I instructed my agent to send scripts to certain talents who had their own production companies, saying I had written 'x' Screenplay especially for them. Jennifer Love Hewitt at Love Spell, Drew Barrymore at Flower Films, the list would go on. Somebody had to bite. I would email 'x' who would then agree to read 'x' if my agent sent 'x' to them. Fed Ex sent scripts to my robotic agent who would then send them on to whomever. After several of these, I decided to part company. I was doing all the work! I wondered if a manager would be any different. I thought I'd find out and so, after an extremely bizarre experience consisting of much exhausting, excitement and confusion aplenty regarding the Die Hard 4 sequel (I had penned drafts to two very different Die Hard 4 stories. One had John McClane with his daughter in the Caribbean, battling it out on an island with violent wreck looters on the hunt for Nazi Gold. The other had the famed character back in the Nakatomi Corporation, but this time in Japan, where his son was working. McClane visits his son and discovers his boss and the company are Yakuza. The former, for some reason, gained the most press attention. My own father was in that line of work and had some very McClane-esque experiences of his own, so I base a lot of my work on his policing and intelligence service working life.

I acquired a manager, who I think contacted me first. I went to LA to sign with him and stayed a while, making some great friends, but once again, he never got me work or any meetings or bigged up any of my scripts. I was doing all the correspondences myself. Agents of actors liked my screenplays, but they weren't selling! I didn't understand. I'd set up meetings myself and wondered what I was doing with this characters, who seemed better suited in an episode of Arrested Development than anywhere else. I'd gain my own writing jobs, uncredited, without advice, but carrying out work doing 'quick-fix-sign this NDA' rewrites. 'Untitled Teen Comedy Sequel', 'Untitled Extreme Sports Action Thriller', I even managed to get a Western to Robert De Niro at Tribeca, which I had written for him and Hugh Grant. I pitched it as 'Lethal Weapon meets Unforgiven' and apparently De Niro thought it to be quite funny. It wasn't intended to be funny at all, but if Robert De Niro thinks so, then quickly so did I! I thought acquiring an Entertainment Attorney would supersede the agent and manager I had previously, but he, too, would turn out much the same. Was I destined to have poor representation? To this day, I still don't have any. Each one actually told me to stay away from the main agencies like WMA, ICM, CAA and UTA. Maybe they had a gripe with them when they worked for them and thus set up on their own, I don't know. As I was writing for certain talents, actors and even directors and getting scripts directly to their reps and gaining their interest in such a way that some wanted to attach themselves to certain projects of mine, I asked myself this: What was I? A writer / producer? Oh dear.

Stay tuned for part 3 – More Stories from the Trenches and What's Next...