David Mamet Must Die

Who told this man he can write? This movie is fun only because you're wondering to what degree everyone is involved in the con, and you're not even sure that the conclusion is the truth--after all, the Good Guys might be in on it too. But there are no characters, with the possible exception of Steve Martin, kinda. As for plot: everybody acts like an idiot. And the dialogue...oooh, don't get me started.

I recently read the script of The Edge, which Mamet wrote. And all of those fits and stops, all of the ellipses, all of the repetition--right there on the page. I know it's his trademark, but it's self-conscious and pretentious--it doesn't ape actual human speech, because it's so obvious. In The Spanish Prisoner the dialogue goes straight into self-parody. "This is David Mamet's dialogue, dammit! Listen to me!" If I handed in dialogue like this, my classmates would have thrown it back in my face.

However, the absolute worst thing about The Spanish Prisoner is the main female role, enacted by Rebecca Pidgeon. Not only can Mr. Mamet not write for women (not that that's a huge flaw--I'm not sure I write for men that well, but I try, at least), but Ms. Pidgeon cannot act her way out of a toilet-paper commercial. Problem: the movie is written and directed by David Mamet; Ms. Pidgeon is Mrs. David Mamet.

As Darin says, "Once you've seen Sofia Coppola, you've seen the depths to which nepotism goes." Let me be the first to say: Rebecca Pidgeon approaches Sofia Coppola in terms of awfulness.

After the movie, I dropped Darin off at The Boys' and headed home to take a nap. As I walked in the door, I thought, I should give Len a call now, leave a message--he'll probably call me back tomorrow.

Phone rings: it's Len. What a movie moment.

He called to ask what I'd found out about an online service for writers/producers that he'd asked me (the computer geek) to check out earlier in the week. So we chatted. And chatted. We must have talked for an hour. I can't repeat most of it, of course, but we talked about my writing and about Carolann. Let me just say: he had her pegged. Len may be old and may appear foolish, but he ain't no old fool.

He said he'd read the Rewrite Script in 4 weeks, after the majority of his projects have ended. Cool. He thinks the Rewrite Script will get me attention faster than the Thesis Script, but that's because the Thesis Script is such an odd duck.

He did save an ad he'd seen about a book that I would be interested in, and he was right: a book on conwomen, which is right up my alley.

After I hung up with Len, I went and listened to the messages. One of them was from the car dealership: my car had come in. I called Darin at the Boys', went to pick him up, and we went to the dealership.

3.5 hours later, I drove my new car off the lot. I traded in my old car--bye bye, Acura Integra, it's been a great 10 years--and we signed more forms than we did when we bought the house.

I drove home like a little old lady. The car is a 4WD vehicle, so I am way high up, and it's way bigger than my Integra. I want to learn to drive it in daylight.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Rome: not built in a day.