And the master roared: “Say it with me, everybody: FUCK AI!” The crowd cheered and screamed “FUCK AI!” at the top of their lungs. I was waiting in the wings, my word on a wing, while my (temporary) employer stood on stage at the end of his new Netflix-produced film and encouraged his fans to rudely dismiss the work of so, so many people in this industry and in the world. Does Guillermo Del Toro know how much a single data center makes in a week? I’m talking raw income, not gross, the net. It’s in the billions, so six figures, at least. I decided to quit that night, unsatisfied with my work and unimpressed with the film, yet another retelling of Frankenstein, yet another stoned joke made between family and friends out of snowbound boredom nearly 200 years ago. What does this story say about us now? Nothing, except that the monster looks cooler when he has a flattop and big steel bolts jutting out from his neck.
Del Toro and I didn’t get along. Please don’t make any jokes about his weight. This world has become incredibly hostile to people of size and I’m not having it. The wide used to rule us as kings, they were feted in elite social circles and high society, but now? It’s common, totally normal, only right and natural, and the intolerance is crazy. Shouldn’t Americans know by now that the rest of the world considers them A-grade number one FATTIES? I guess not—I mean, yes, they should, but, apparently, they don’t know that they’re, uh, considered, that… I guess. You know, I had to think about this a lot when I was working for Mr. Del Toro, because while he’d never mention it, everyone around him would, in weird, passive-aggressive, almost put-down ways that insulted their boss while ostensibly trying to make sure that he never got insulted, offended, or had his feelings hurt.
Netflix people are weird.
That’s why My Sensei decided to sell his script to them, under the condition that David Mr. Director Fincher direct it. Brad Pitt, of course, came with the package (I call him Brad now). Unlike Frankenstein, Netflix is planning a lavish theatrical rollout for our film The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth next summer, and the promo machine is already approaching full steam: Jay Glennie’s massive coffee table book The Making of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood was released last week, sold for $75 to super fans and other people dumb enough to pay that much for a fucking book. It’s big, though, and quite nice—but I wasn’t featured in the film, so I declined a copy. I’m not interested in anything that I’m not involved in.
I asked My Sensei if the theatrical release of The Continuing Adventures would actually be “sizable.” Would it approach the thousands of theaters that Lionsgate is preparing to re-release Kill Bill in? He took me aside and told me that, “You know, Benny… look, alright, it’s not gonna be a thousand theaters, alright? It’s not gonna be a thousand theaters. It’s not even gonna be 700 theaters, alright? It’s gonna be 50. It’s gonna be 50 theaters, and two of them are gonna be ones I own, and we’ll be playing the movie on glorious Kodak 35mm film for the whole summer, fall, and winter next year. That’s a promise.” And with that, he was off to another production meeting that was delayed because the previous meeting was delayed because the previous meeting was cancelled because I wanted ice cream and My Sensei took me to Cold Stone because he was worried I was going to have a tantrum.
We were eating our mint chocolate chip in peace, until a strange man came into the ice cream parlor. He demanded that the employees sing for him, an outdated custom at the chain from the early-2000s. He wouldn’t order anything, and he kept bothering the staff, so I went over and cut him with my claw. He was disoriented, and by the time I got back to our booth, blood was pooling by his Achilles’ tendon. He limped out while My Sensei and I finished our treats in silence. The employees were shaken up and even more confused than us, since they didn’t know how he got cut. “Maybe he just came in like that,” one of them said. “It’s crazy out there.”
My Sensei was uncharacteristically silent on the way back to set. I asked him what was wrong. “I abhor violence. Why did you have to attack him?” I said that it was obviously about to escalate and become a self-defense situation for the employees, so I decided to spare them and let him off with a small avian warning, from one Bennington Quibbits. “Benny, you can’t just cut people. Even if they’re dicks. Even if they’re breaking the law.” I corrected him, spur-clawing specifically was allowed in cases where the target is breaking the law. “…Nevertheless, that wasn’t the case here. You didn’t allow the situation to play itself out. Granted, he looked demented to me, too, but maybe he was unarmed. He probably was. You and I have no way of knowing, and besides that, violence begets violence. I doubt that’s the last time he’s going to be involved in an altercation of some kind, and I know he’s gonna be the one to draw first blood next time. Why? Because the body keeps the score.”
Whoa, wait a second. Pause. Did My Sensei just say, “the body keeps the score”? I told him I couldn’t believe he would use such a stupid and contemporary cliché. “FUCK!” My Sensei furrowed his brow… and keep furrowing… furrowing… and furrowing… oh my god it’s a mask… My Sensei clawed at his “face” until he became My Director. Too stunned to speak, Mr. Fincher took the opportunity to tell me that he loved the look on my face. And then he left. Just pulled over and left me in the car. What the fuck? Was My Sensei in on this? I know he doesn’t like practical jokes. I’m going to have a stern talking with him about the mental health of Our Director, because at the very least, he’s imperiling mine… hmmm… I shouldn’t have gotten mint chocolate… makes me cranky… mmm… hmm… mood.
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