If the Tram Tour Passes By, You’re Part of the Lore

The spec script had gone out “wide,” as they say, but sadly failed to sell. It did, however, snag me a handful of meetings with development people intrigued by my storytelling skills. Not so intrigued to actually plunk down cash for my script, but enough to tolerate speaking with me for roughly 20 to 30 minutes.

Entering the Universal lot felt like crossing a national border; I was asked to open my trunk for inspection by one security official, while another walked the perimeter of my car, searching its underside. Sent on my way with a studio map so detailed it rivaled the Thomas Guide, I found the right bungalow and parked.

This wasn’t the first of such meetings, and with luck it wouldn’t be the last. Usually they ask, “What else have you got?” or “What are you working on?” Though not a pitch meeting, it seemed smart to have something coherent to say, rather than “I don’t know . . . something about a guy . . . who likes this girl . . . it’s a comedy, but with dramatic overtones . . . umm . . . it’s more a kernel of an idea than an actual story.” Because who would buy that movie?

I eventually was summoned into the executive’s office. The executive complimented my script, my character development and use of dialogue. Said I was funny.

Then, the question.

“What else are you working on?”

I took a deep breath and described this one-act play I’d written that I wanted to expand into a feature: the story of a young Irishman who worked for Guinness and was sent to America to sell stout to bars and teach bartenders the proper handling and distribution of the beverage--an actual profession I’d read about in several articles and which seemed to present endless comedic possibilities. Previous success stories such as “The Full Monty” and “Waking Ned Devine,” combined with the rising stardom of Colin Farrell, suggested a receptive marketplace for such a film.

The executive listened quietly, thoughtfully, smiled often. She loved the idea, or more precisely, the core of the idea. In a matter of minutes, she extrapolated that notion and turned it into something along the lines of “What if Reese Witherspoon inherited a brewery?” Seriously. It was amazing to behold. It was a work of pure genius alchemy.

But there was no way I could write it.

Leaving the meeting, dejected, wondering how my quirky little comedy about Colin Farrell teaching small-town America to pour the perfect pint had morphed into “Legally Blonde 3: Bottled Blonde” (my title, not hers, thank you very much), something strange and wondrous happened. I had my first brush with fame; my first taste of that sweetest elixir, recognition.

The Universal Studios tour tram was passing, the guide regaling his guests with Tinseltown insight. His exact wording eludes me, but it was along the lines of, “Every year, thousands of aspiring screenwriters submit their scripts to Universal, hoping that movie magic will be spun from their words.”

As I stood there, bearded, bespectacled, carrying a messenger bag, I realized that he was talking about me. And for a moment, I was in some pretty exalted company with the likes of Jaws and King Kong, and alongside the Bates Motel and Marty McFly’s time-traveling DeLorean. For that brief, shining moment, I was part of the Universal Studios tram tour. Not exactly 15 minutes of fame, but those 15 seconds were pretty sweet. It felt like I’d arrived.

And even though a kid on the tram threw gum at me, I was unfazed. Hope restored and melancholy abated, I was reminded of another memorable character on that back-lot tour. In my best approximation of an Austrian accent, I found myself vowing, “I’ll be back.”