I’m receiving, I’m taking in, I’m analyzing and processing information. I’m not saying anything. I suppose you could call me a “bystander,” but this is a cliché, really a meaningless word used by people who live on such things. Platitudes exist to comfort the stupid to the moderately intelligent, and also, especially, the young. For those who are as wise and old as me know that no human platitude is true, not even the bad ones. “The only sure things in life are death and taxes.” That’s not true; it’s usually true, but billionaires, for example, live in flimsy houses made of cash money called “tax shelters” nine months out of the year so that they may avoid paying taxes. It doesn’t sound very comfortable, living on an island in a house made of paper money, but simply on the score of proving a single platitude untrue, I must salute them. Do they have clothing in the tax shelters? Is there air conditioning? It really can’t be very comfortable in there.
There still isn’t much to do on the set; I’m writing this from the production offices now, right off Pico. Kind of a scuzzy place to set up such a major motion picture, but I suppose Mr. Tarantino wants to maintain some kind of “grind house fuck” authenticity to the calculated, 100-take approach of Mr. Fincher. Despite spending many hours with them, and watching movies they recommended, I still can’t say I know either man particularly well. Their recommendations are exactly what they’ve given the public: for Mr. Tarantino, he’s on a kick of Italian police thrillers and Westerns directed by George Sherman; Mr. Fincher is still obsessed with The Graduate and Chinatown. How original. Every time I get the feeling that Mr. Fincher is a hack, I remember that he directed Fight Club, Panic Room, The Social Network, and Seven. He may not have written any of them—nor any of his movies—but they’re all distinctly his. I’m sure it will be an honor to walk through a doorway 100 times for him whenever we actually start shooting.
So I’m scrolling Wikipedia, looking up Scott Caan… what has he been in that I’ve seen… hmm.. okay… Nowhere by Gregg Araki, the first two Ocean’s Eleven movies, Enemy of the State, Meet Dave… not bad. Honestly, I’m the kind of rooster to hang it up after that kind of run. What happens if I have a flop? See, this is where Mr. Tarantino is right: you’ve got to leave them wanting more. And, because of pseudonyms, and an apparent inability in human beings to be able to tell any animal apart from another, I can become a movie star again. Maybe I’ll finally have my name in the credits, even above the title… things are looking quite Bennington lately, I must say… would you also like a toke and some cream cheese powder?
Mr. Fincher has arrived. “Benny,” he starts in, “who’s the most beautiful woman in 1967?” I answer the obvious: Katharine Ross. “Exactly.” He sits down, presses a button, and within two minutes he has a veggie burger and green shake at the door, still hot. I ask him how he does it. “What?” You know, it. Things revolve around you. I’ve only been able to capture that aura briefly in my long life. You’ve been famous since the early 1990s—how do you do it?”
He wasn’t paying attention to me—he didn’t even answer me. He cared more about that veggie burger. I can’t blame him, it looked really good. Aromas of… veggie, I suppose. I realize now that I passed another test with my director: a shared taste in women, even if I could never really make love to a human woman, given that I am a male rooster. Still, it’s a nice thought, Katharine Ross. I could kiss her. Let her pet me… why not? Ah, no—that would be lovely.
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