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Wilhelm Scream

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[26 Sep 2004|11:30pm]

[ mood | cynical ]

I don't write often enough.

China is . . . well, it's China.

I've yet to speak to anyone involved with this project, but I'm nice and settled in my hotel room anyway. Mini bars, yay. Alcohol, a man's true friend. Plane rides only serve to make me feel my age. It's catching up to me. I still have jet lag . . .

Oh well.

Time for another beer. I can't stand the sound of Chinese.

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[26 Sep 2004|08:13pm]

[ mood | dazed ]

Ach. Mein Kopf...

Wo bin ich? Wer bin ich? Warum habe ich Kopfschmerzen? Wo sind alles Leute?




And why the hell is the room upside-down?Collapse )

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Arriving silence. [26 Sep 2004|12:15am]

[ mood | calm ]

Well, I'm here. "Here" is Guilin, China, and it's an odd sort of place. I made it to the hotel with little trouble, after the flight from Australia. Plane tickets and the hotel room were provided, which is a nice thing, but the name of the movie and who was working on it? Not provided. All extremely fishy, of course, but I've never been called especially sensible -- so here I am.

Everything's very quiet in this hotel, and I've been trying to get used to the place. It's very beautiful; I've been taking pictures mostly nonstop. Can't help it, it's the photographer in me. Already I'm getting ideas for opening shots and establishing shots.

The only problem is, there's no one else here. Or at least, not that I can find. I haven't been approached by anyone, not even wandering around the hotel, which is what I've been doing most of the time here.

Maybe this is all a hoax.

But I'm sticking around, just in case. If it turns out to be a stupid move, like the kind horror-movie characters make, I'll be cured of this lack of sensibility. So, really, no winning or losing, here.

...It'd be nice to know a director, though!

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Meep. [21 Sep 2004|03:53pm]

[ mood | confused ]

So I got this weird invitation in the mail, to be apart of this Guilian thing. Helena told me she and the baby would be fine. I hear China's a nice place, very...busy. Lots of things going on all at once. Like L.A., except with Chinese people. Danny's going, too. He didn't seem too happy about it, sat on the phone asking me all these questions. Thinks this is my idea. Very funny, Danny. Haha. Yes, I dropped everything for Corpse Bride to go to fucking China to work on this MYSTERY!project. I think he may punch me when we meet again. Hell, if he does that much, it means he still cares. Fuck, I can't believe he's stayed around this long. But anyway. The woman I was next to on the plane seemed to be slightly afraid of me. I usually get pity or asked if I'm That Guy who did That Movie, You Know, That One With That Dude. Either way, the coffee was absolute shit. What did they put in it, fucking sawdust? I can make better coffee than that. I have to, kinda dependent on it. Hope Billy's all right. Helena will be fine, if she doesn't try to do a million things at once. Women, they're from Venus.

I'm going to go sketch now. I'm sick of sitting in this damn airport, waiting for the cab or whatever it is to pick me up.

I wish I knew what the hell was going on!

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[20 Sep 2004|09:33pm]
[ mood | argumentative ]

Fucking hell.

Goddamn shit. I hate fucking jet-lag. Where the hell is this place? Goddamn. Where the hell's the taxi? Where's the hotel? I'm about to fucking collapse. 20 hours and food like dogshit even Mewes wouldn't eat after a binge.

I mean, what the hell was I thinking? Get a ticket in the mail for some weirdass city, suggestion I brush up on my Chinese, oh brilliant. Anonymous my fucking fatty ass. That's the Weinstein brothers' work plain as anything. Probably making me repent for Jersey Girl. Hell, I wanna repent for Jersey Girl. You try to step away from dick and fart jokes just a little bit, and the whole fucking thing bombs on you and Miramax wants your flabby ass kicked to China. This is how these things work.

Shit, they say this is some movie opportunity? They aren't giving any details. Goddamn, if I got mistaken for Michael Moore again, I'm gonna kick someone's ass. I'm not about to go make a fucking documentary on living conditions in-- in-- whatever the hell the name of this city is again. Not my thing. Who the hell thought this was my thing? What the hell do they expect me to do with these cityscapes? Plop a camera down and hope it picks something up? Come to that, just what do they expect me to do here? Write, direct, act, what? If I'm directing I'm sure as hell not doing someone else's script. Not unless I at least get the chance to do a once-over. And who do they expect me to direct here? Never mentioned any actors. I'll be damned if I have to do a movie without at least a few staples. They'd better be prepared to ship in a few people if they haven't already. And where's Scott?

Goddammit where the fuck is that taxi?

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Huh. [20 Sep 2004|09:48am]

[ mood | blank ]

I should check my mail more often.

I've gotten pretty attached to my laptop and caffeine lately. Caffeine has always had a weird effect on me. I was just standing on the balcony this morning thinking about how I should at least do something for the day when I thought to go to my box. Nice envelope. It caught my eye. Strange that it did. Hand-written. Contained tickets to China. That got my interest. Flight for the next day and no obligations. Huh.

I should definitely check my mail more often.

Free hotel reservations too. Someone must like my work. Some director.

All right. Curiosity has me. I'm packing my bags.

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Airplane Blues. [19 Sep 2004|12:13am]

[ mood | discontent ]

OOC: I'm not sure if they've touched down in Guilin already. If they haven't, here's this.

I don't mind airplanes. A lot of people hate them, but I don't mind travelling on them once in a while. After all, when you're routinely shipped to London for a recording session on a blockbuster, you can only pitch a fit feasibly every once in a while.

Could have done without that woman using my shoulder as a pillow all of the flight to Shanghai, but I wasn't about to dislodge her, really. If she fell asleep, good for her; I couldn't. I've got a funny feeling in my stomach about this, all of the sudden, and while talking with Famke (can I use her first name now?) helped, it won't go away.

I wonder who else is working on this. Who the director will be.

Just, please, let it not be some whiny person. I can take a lot of things, I can live through a lot, but whining? No. Gets on my nerves real fast.

...not that I'd say that aloud.

And, come to that, I should make sure the housekeeper does a more thorough job, now that I'll be gone for a while. Now that I know this thing is legit. Hopefully there will be a decent phone in this hotel.

...and a bookshop nearby. Please, God. Please.

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[18 Sep 2004|01:51pm]

Damn filtered airplane air. No fuckin' moisture in it whatsoever. So of course, right as some pretty young thing was telling me I looked like a young Frank Sinatra, and I was about reply that I was a young Frank Sinatra and would she like to retire to the airplane bathroom so we can get to know each other better, suddenly every goddamn dead mummified cell in my body dehydrates and I'm left sitting there looking like King fuckin' Tut while she runs off to the airplane bathroom by herself to take a handful of pills or something. What a fuckin' waste.
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Calm. [18 Sep 2004|09:11pm]

If someone gives me a free vacation ... why not.

Er, maybe I do have something ... to work on. Probably should. I couldn't have ended up in this hotel room (one of about 630, mind) by sheer accident. And that definitely was my name on the envelope, clearly handwritten in ink.

Perhaps this is Peter's way of thanking me. Not complaining, me.

This hotel seems quite nice. Am writing from my room, sitting on my bed with the lights off. Trying to get settled here, and being accustomed to the room in darkness always helps me. Makes me comfortable, makes me feel at home, familiarizes me with those strange shadows, helps rid of that ... you know, feeling that I'm being watched by something sinister.


It's quiet.
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Seating arrangements of providence. [incomplete] [18 Sep 2004|10:25am]

OOC: It got all late and we didn't get to play this out, and it'll likely be finished, but I'm adding it just 'cause I can. And the banner is beautiful.

Famke: *looks up from her book after the plane's finally taken off the ground and the seat belt signs are off* Excuse me ... excuse me ... oh, damn it. Qing jin! *waves an irritated hand at a stewardess, calling in Chinese* Qing, qing ni gei wo heshui? *ignorant to the fact that a lot of the passengers are probably staring at her like she's insane, even if the airline staff ARE Chinese*

Elliot:*fully engrossed in his novel, however bad it is, he only hears the "...wo heshui?" and his brain automatically says, "native." But a wandering eye reports, "NOT native," and he looks up a moment with his usual sleepy-eyed expression. He wishes, fervently, that he knew the language, but imagines that he'll be picking it up. He picked up German easily enough, although that's very old knowledge.* I imagine they know some english, too, *he murmurs, eyes returning to the book in his lap. Famke Janssen? What's she doing here?*

Famke: *after taking water from said stewardess, who graced her with a "Bu ke qi,"* They usually do, but it's easier when -- do I know you from somewhere? *She doesn't have the best memory of faces or names, but plenty of voices. Belatedly, she remembers she's holding the water and takes a sip* And before you even answer that, drink all the water you can, and once this plane touches down in Shanghai, be sure you don't drink it with ice.

Elliot:*he looks up, smiling faintly. Tiger's Eye angsts on, in the absense of his eyes.* Thanks, I'll remember that. And, possibly. *The Academy Award and all... jeez, that seems like years ago.* Goldenthal, Elliot Goldenthal, *he says, still in that same murmur, his eyes a little more alert now in the addition of some humor. I'd like the thank the Academy for putting my face, my sorry face, on television...*

Famke: Right, right! Musician, correct? *sips the water again, tentatively, wondering if maybe it too is tainted. Hopefully it's American tap water, anyway ...* And ... why're you going to China, if I dare ask?

I think our stalkers are stingy.Collapse )
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Some screenwriters are not as nice and friendly as others. [17 Sep 2004|05:32pm]
[ mood | mischievous ]

*brushes off hands, smiling maliciously*

*talks to self*

Note to self, April 30th, 2004: there, that's done. Every note has been sent out, and more can always be added. My, will this be an adventure.

It's always helpful to blend in, I must say. They should know I'll be watching them, but I hope they won't expect to see any more of me than my handwriting. It isn't happening.

If any of them go off thinking this is a prank ... well. They will be reinformed.

I didn't buy all of those plane tickets and near-permanent hotel spaces for nothing.

Hopefully either they start getting to like each other a lot better, preferrably in the kinds of twos (maybe even threes) that like to be as close as possible, or this hotel grows, because all of these single rooms are going to get costly for me very fast.

Either way, it will be an adventure.

They should all arrive within the week.

You've done yourself well, Anonymous.

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