Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, September 12, 2005

A Missive From America

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Hollywood film-maker in possession of a good fortune must be in need of a script doctor."

Hello everyone. Yes, it's me, Jane Austen here, back from the dead and living out here in Los Angeles for this moment in time while I labour like a veritable workhouse urchin in the sweatshops of a variety of film studios. At this very instant I'm putting the finishing touches to the re-make of something called The Omen, but this is merely the latest in a slew of intended re-imaginings which I have piled beside my steam-powered reticulated counting machine. Or my Apple Mac, as I believe it is called.

Now the secret to a re-working of the past is to take the essentials of a classic and write them large. One is frequently warned by those in the know (journalists, agents, PR people) to ignore elements that lesser minds might consider the classic, and to remain focused on the essence of the story. The Omen is a wonderful case in point. The essential horror is of someone suspecting that they have been infiltrated (and goodness, that has not happened to me in 192 years) by the damned or the horrific. But the Son of the Devil is a bit passe now, so we've set the film in a middle-class British household, where the father begins to suspect that an evil influence is inherent in his son. So far, so goose-pimply, don't you think (though again, it's been years since I've been either goosed or pimpled)? There are Eldritch omens (you see, as in the title, oh yes, it is all clever stuff) such as the father looking out of his semi-detached home to see that a heron's had his goldfish, that a particularly randy Miniature Pinschera has danced the fifth-leg cha-cha-cha with his bird bath, and that a family of benefit-scroungers has moved next door.

It all pays off when the father is investigating his son's wardrobe, and discovers, to his utter horror, a hooded-top hidden away under a bag of skank and some eye-wateringly pornographic material. His child is indeed an uncontrollable agent of destruction, about to bring forth the end of the world. Cue - I am assured - much terror in the cinema interiors across middle-England, and fainting and palpitations and trembling fits. It would be my advice to you, dear reader, to invest in the finacial area of smelling salt manufacturers before next summer.

Of course, I have had to remove sequences which lesser intellects would have considered essential. In my draft, nobody gets a huge rod shoved through them. Well, it's not happened to me in 200 years (not since that New Year Ball at Lady Minterly's) so why should anyone else get any? And as we've had to go for a PG-13 rating, this time the photographer actually gets a nasty shaving nick which really, really stings when he puts on his Old Spice aftershave while listening to Carmina Burana on his I-Pod musical replaying machine. Believe me, it may not have so much impact on paper, but when the cinematographer sobers up and gets to work on it, it becomes the film's set piece, and I'm assured will be $18.4m well spent.

Anyway, my dears, the dawn has just begun to turn the dark sapphire of the eastern skies into a rich golden hue, and so I?m reminded that not only must I start work anew, but that I've still got half a catering tub of Ben and Jerrys' in the refrigeration machine. So I will bid a fond goodbye, dear reader, and look forward to our next meeting, when I will tell all about the scientific miracles which brought me to your time, and why it's thrilling that you can use words like "jizzbucket" and not cause the Duchess of Wessex to swoon into the punch.

4 comments:

Snooze said...

A coworker of mine has been bathing in Old Spice recently. It is indeed a bit of a frightening situation in an of itself.

Cav said...

He should watch himself. Old Spice has a half-life of roughly 258 years. If that stuff starts irradiating his body with such quantities he could find himeself in a whole heap of trouble.

Hair falling out. Teeth rotting. Mutation. Hearing Carmina Burana wherever he goes...

The exile said...

Jane, honey, be a doll and finish Sanditon would you? Spice it up with an action scene and an orgy if you feel you must but...you know...enquiring minds.

(we are so lucky to have you. Breath of fresh air after that other bloke ya know. Shh! He'll hear).

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