As far as I know, producers are simply the resource people (ie the sugar daddies) of a movie. Someone else can do that part, not me.
There really isn’t any way I could be lead performer unless the movie was about some sexless Asian-American old lady with hair like wild grass.
I tried out for a play once. From the inside I astounded myself on how believable my angst was as I cried and howled on about whatever it was I was supposed to be acting. Maybe they thought I was over-acting, but I was impressed with myself even as the exit door slammed behind me. All right, so I’m much too talented for the world to handle yet, I accept that.
That leaves directing: the guy that wears the French cap and smashes a wooden clacker as he screams “CUUUTTTT!”. I like that cap. Caps are right up my alley. I wouldn’t even have to walk around. I’d get one of those guys who drives the cranes with the chair at the end of the arm to fly me around the set so I can monitor every detail. Ah… what a gloriously exciting life that would be:
“Cut cut cuuuuttt!” I say with impatient frustration. “It’s not ‘two bears’, it’s ‘THREE bears!’ Speaking of which, where the hell is our third bear?”
“The trainer took Lily out for a tinkle,” someone yells back.
“How long is that going to take?”
“Dunno, ask Lily.”
“Hey you, wolf! Get back here!” I jump off my chair and storm to the wolf. “Do you have ANY idea the time pressure we’re under? We’ve been working on this for three days and have not had a single successful take! Now where the hell are YOU going?”
“I’m hot in this damned suit, and it stinks. Did you really feel that it was necessary for a taxidermist to be my seamstress? Couldn’t they have at least cleaned this stinking fur? I need a break since we’re not doing anything anyway.”
“And you! Bear! Stop eating our set!”
“Her name is Buttercup, not Bear!” The trainer pats Buttercup on the head and kisses her nose. “There there, Sweetheart, that bad lady didn’t mean anything. You go ahead and munch on the hut if you want, we can always build another.”
“Wha….?” I slap my forehead and shake my arms up at the sky “Ay-ay-ay!!!”
“Take an Ativan and chill out,” a voice inside me whispers. So I pop an Ativan and take a toke or two.
When I wake up, the set’s gone. I’m in my office, looking up from where my head was snoozing in my arms in front of the computer. I wipe away a string of drool and see a large icon in the middle of the screen that says “click me.” I click the icon with a yawn. The movie has been completed, replete with Disney splash screen and credits. Only I’m not the director, I discover. I’m the lead actor.
The movie starts off with me admiring my French cap in my dressing room, trying to figure out which angle conveys the most authority. Then I march out to the set with my wooden clackers screaming “Let’s go everyone! TAKE ONE TAKE ONE, hubba hubba! We have a deadline to meet!”
If you were involved in a movie, would you rather be the director, the producer, or the lead performer? (Note: you can’t be the writer!).
The Show Must Go On