The Biggest, Best Open Huge on Friday Idea. Ever.

The returned scripts were beginning to pile up. The studios wanted something edgier, more au courant, a slasher picture with Ben Affleck or Heath Ledger, a moron comedy with Cedric the Entertainer, anything with a teenager whose bare belly alone would attract the acne crowd. Who was I writing about? Humans with real problems . . . . Gimme a break, buddy. The box office is down 15% so you’d better come up with something fresh, fast-paced, hot. “Pablo, you’re one of our great screen writers but you’re writing stuff that won’t open big on Friday,” my agent told me. “They’re not looking for ‘Harry and Tonto.’ No more movies about a granddad and his pussycat, please.”

I was fed up with rejection. I racked what was left of my brain for an idea. I went to Starbucks every day to eavesdrop on the young crowd on their cellphones, but all I heard was the deals they were making. Jealousy began to rip me apart. I was burning with frustration when, in the middle of one sleepless night, it came to me. An IDEA! A big, fat, open huge on Friday idea!!! It was so gross, so cliche, so disgusting that even in my semi-sleepless state I was embarrassed.

It would be a gigantic hit.

When I awoke for real that morning, I found myself trembling with anticipation. I told my wife the idea. She thought I was kidding. “Why don’t you write a play or a novel?” she asked. The kiss of death. I tried it out on my daughters. One laughed sweetly thinking it was a joke; the other looked at me as if Alzheimer’s were setting in.

Excellent. It was time to pitch it to my agent.

I made an appointment with his secretary for the next day. “I’m sure he’ll be very interested,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

The more I worked the idea through, the more I hated it. That meant that it was very possibly a monstrous Open Big on Friday pitch. I had somehow dreamt up a gold mine. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

The morning of the next day found me full of doubts. Both of my knees hurt and I was beginning to get a cold sore. My idea was moronic, and I was about to pitch to my agent of 35 years and likely lose any respect he still had for me. But my uncertainty didn’t last long.

When I showed up at the Farmers Market for my usual nonfat latte and cinnamon bun, the boys were all there, already deep into depression about the war in Iraq. “If we lose the midterm elections, I’m moving to a small town in Italy,” said Charley the artist. He began each morning with the same line. David the writer wondered if anyone had seen “Der Rosenkavalier.” Nobody responded. Len the critic opined that the new “King Kong” had opened very big. “Was it huge?” I blurted out. “Was it very big or huge?” “Very big, but not quite huge,” said Len. “But it looks like it could have legs.”

I was now dying to try my pitch out on the boys. But I knew that if they said they loved it I wouldn’t believe them, and if they said they hated it I would be too depressed to pitch it to my agent. I dunked my cinnamon bun into my latte and got my blood sugar working again. No way was I going to tell these lads my new money-machine idea.

An hour later I was in my agent’s office. He was on the phone with Sam Mendes, who was shooting in Romania. He motioned for me to sit down. “Right, right Sam . . . . Well you can’t do anything about the weather. You’ll just have to ride this snowstorm out. Anyway, don’t they have snow in Brooklyn?” I fidgeted in my seat, working over my idea. Hmmm, I thought, maybe I could shoot “Breakout” in Romania? If it worked for Mendes, why not me? Finally my agent hung up after promising Mendes to remind the studio that Mendes wasn’t God. “What’s he shooting in Romania?” I ventured. “A remake of ‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,’ ” he offered with a straight face. “But it’s been updated very cleverly and it’s mostly interiors. Anyway, what’s your idea?”

“OK,” I almost shouted, “here it is and promise you won’t laugh?” “I promise,” he smiled. I began my pitch. “It’s called ‘Breakout,’ and it’s the story of three prisoners who are in for life who attempt a breakout in a prison that’s never been broken out of.” My agent looked at me with pity in his now glazed eyes. “I know,” I said quickly, “you’ve heard this before. But listen carefully to my casting, and believe me, with your help I know we can get this cast.”

My agent began chewing a piece of Kleenex, a nervous habit he had acquired from years of listening to maniacs. “Three prisoners in for life. A pedophile, a double murderer and a wife killer. Here’s my cast. I want Michael Jackson, O.J. Simpson and Robert Blake.” My agent practically swallowed his Kleenex. Then he shot up from his chair and almost hit the ceiling with both hands.

“My God,” he shouted, “it’s a home run with the bases loaded!!!” I nearly passed out with joy. “Thank you,” I said. “And what about Clint Eastwood for the warden?” I threw in for good luck. “I love it, I love it,” he said. “Have you told this to anyone, Pablo? And I mean anyone?” “No. Well, yes, my wife and kids.” “Good. I’m setting up a pitch for tomorrow morning,” he said as he barked in his intercom. “Get me Bob Shea at New Line. Tell him it’s urgent.”

I was beside myself but I tried to stay calm. “By the way,” I said, “we could shoot this in Romania if it could save a few bucks.” “No way. Michael wouldn’t go to Romania unless they have a Neverland ranch there.” The secretary interjected, “Bob Shea is on a plane to Bulgaria.” “Hell,” said my agent. “Try Jeff Katzenberg.” He turned to me. “Whoever hears this pitch will buy it. I am going to ask for gross points.” “Do you think we can get O.J.?” I queried. “Easy. What does he have to do with his day except sign autographs on golf balls? Believe me, we’ll get O.J. And Bobby Blake is a cinch. He’s broke and begging for work, and if we have any trouble with him we’ll get Downey.” I shook my head no. “Bob Downey is a great actor, but I want someone who maybe murdered his wife.” I wasn’t going to let my agent recast this picture. “Katzenberg is on the line,” interrupted the secretary.

In a matter of minutes, my pitch with Katzenberg was set up for the next morning. My agent ended the call by telling Jeff that this was the biggest Friday opening he had ever heard. Ever. “It’s huge!” he shouted at Katzenberg as he hung up. “Pablo,” he turned to me, “the ball is in your court. But don’t tell Jeff any more than you told me.” I started to worry. “Don’t you think he’ll want a little story, some plot?” “No,” answered my agent. “Just be sure you use the same language you did so brilliantly with me: Pedophile, double murderer and wife killer. That’s all you need to say. Those are the magic words.” My agent rose and indicated that the meeting was over. But not before he put his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. I knew then that this was a Huge Open Big On Friday idea.

The meeting with Katzenberg was a love-fest. He bought into everything I said in a matter of minutes. “I love it, I love it, I love it!” he shouted, pounding his fist on his desk as he reached for his Diet Coke. “How soon can you have the script ready, kiddo? I want this ready for Memorial Day. It’s a monster.” Since it was already September 9 (a day I’ll never forget), I knew I had to lie. “I think this will pour out of me in about four weeks,” I responded. “Great,” said Jeff. “Then you’ll need a week for polish and we can start prepping in November.” I felt dizzy with a combo of fear and desire. How the hell could I have a script ready in four weeks, etc., etc., etc.? “OK,” I said, “I’d better start work this afternoon, Jeff.” “Wunderbar!” he smiled. “I’ll get the deal worked out as soon as you leave. And I am going to contact Jackson, Simpson and Blake right away.” He shook my hand and kissed me on the cheek.

I called my agent on my car phone as I weaved in and out of traffic on the freeway. I was delirious. “He’s already called me,” shouted my agent. “It’s a seven-figure deal going in, plus gross points, and your own dressing room if you’re the sole writer. Hit the computer, Pablo. And congratulations. You’ve done it again.” Before I could respond, he said “I’ve got Sam Mendes on the other line. Talk to you later.”

Well, the rest, as they say in showbiz, is history. The script flowed out like hot lava. Katzenberg loved it. I despised it, which meant that it was perfect. In fact, everything was perfect. I was about to begin prepping for a Toronto shoot when the bad news came in, hurled at me like a poisoned dart in the jungle. “I’ve got some terrible news,” whispered my agent. “Can you talk louder?” I asked. “Did you say wonderful news?” “No. Terrible news. Terrible. Maybe I should call you back on a hard line.” He was calling from his Lexus. “No. Tell me now. What’s so terrible?”

As I’m sure you know from the trades, the news was beyond terrible. It seemed that a 19-year-old film student from NYU had not only come up with the same idea, but he’d already shot it in Super 16. His film was finished. And he’d done it with a comic slant, using look-alikes for the three stars. Look-alike teenagers also from NYU. The film, which was called “Celebrity Breakout,” was opening the Telluride Film Festival. It was being released by Miramax. The word out on the Internet was that it was a masterpiece. The kid director, his name was Irving Kazamarov, was hailed as the new Orson Welles. I was speechless. “Are you there, Pablo?” asked my agent. “Yes, I’m here. You’re not putting me on are you?” I almost begged. “No, this is not a joking matter.” “But wait a second,” I said, “We’re going to do this with Jackson, Simpson and Blake. Doesn’t that make it completely different?” “I’m sorry to tell you that the three of them have all passed. Once they heard about the Kazamarov film, they felt they would look silly. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

You’re probably wondering how much I made on the deal, so I’ll be blunt. The studio got out of it by hinting that I misrepresented the originality of my pitch. My agent advised me not to fight it. The legal bills would kill me. The writers’ guild agreed. I ended up with $25,000, just enough to pay for two new implants. But the good news is that I learned something from this experience. Never try to write an Open Big On Friday idea. Forget about it. Work from your heart!

So what am I doing now? What am I working on? I’m writing a script that can be done for under a million. Something that can be shot with no studio interference, with no celebrity names, and with money raised from a group of 10 wonderful dentists from the Valley. It can all be done practically in my backyard, plus a couple of days on the bike path in Venice. I’ll shoot it in Hi-def, and if all goes well, we’ll get into the Berlin Film Festival in February. What’s it about? Sorry. I’ll keep this one to myself until it’s finished. In the can. I’ll only tell you the title, but don’t ask for anything more. “Rosh-ha-Shona in Kiev.” I’m very excited about it. Very.