He is a practicing screenwriter and has been awarded for his work by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences; the Writers Guild of America, East; the Screenwriters Forum (University of Wisconsin); and the Sundance Institute. He has written over twenty screenplays and teleplays and his adaptation and co-production of F. Scott Fitzgeralds "An Authors Mother" won awards from the Scottish Association of Filmmakers, the London International Film & Video Festival, and the Festival Internacional de Video do Algarve, Portugal. He has taught or conducted screenwriting seminars and workshops throughout Latin America, Europe, and the United Kingdom as well as the United States including stints at: the Escuela Internacional de Cine y TV in San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba [the school founded by García Márquez]; the Goethe Institute, Santiago, Chile (with Antonio Skármeta [author of Il Postino]); with both SICA, the Cinematographers Union of Argentina, and Proyectos Culturales in Buenos Aires; at the National Film School of Denmark, Copenhagen; the University of Art and Design, Helsinki, Finland; the Gri
45. INT. OLIVEIRA'S BANK-SAME DAY
Recently (actually as I was finishing this novel) I sold an option on the film rights to Bombay, California to Parshiveh Production Company, Los Angeles. Seems they had heard about this novel through some Brazilian friends of mine who had some connections with a French filmmaker (a distant relation of Mlis) who knew a cinematographer who once studied with Nykvist and who once worked for a friend of Bergman's who had sexual relations with one of Fassbinder's secretaries whose ex-lover had once been a hair stylist for an extra in Greenaway's The Cook, The Thief, The Wife and Her Lover before giving up film and working for a Japanese toy manufacturer whose Italian villa was used in the off-season by Scola's next door neighbor whose maid's aunt once attended a pig roast given by Fellini and met the cousin of an Argentine pit bull breeder whose ex-wife's ex-husband had shared a meal with Jean Renoir's postal carrier whose American cousin had an ex- student who worked at Farrar, Straus, Giroux and whose brother-in-law's maid once worked for one of Jeffrey Katzenberg's rabbis (now deceased) whose brother's banker played handball at a Sherman Oaks racquet club with the creative director of Parshiveh Productions. Hence the connection.
They read the opening chapter of the novel and were so impressed by it and by the fact that Gallimard was interested in publishing it in France they offerred me $10,000 for a one- year option with an option to option an additional year at another $10,000. I thought it curious that (up until that time) I had not optioned any of my screenplay ideas, but had optioned a novel-in-progress for what, I thought, was a huge sum of money. As I was to find out (also while finishing this novel, but, unfortunately, subsequent to signing the option) 10K in Hollywood terms translates to just so much excess film left scattered on a cutting room floor. But I was rather fascinated with the idea of adapting my own novel to the screen and had asked the director of creative development how he intended to take Bombay, California and cinematize it.
"Easy," he said. "We scrap all the chapters that are impossible or cost prohibitive to adapt, rewrite the plot so it conforms to the Hollywood methodicum, cast a bankable star for the lead and throw out what's left."
"But, but then it's not my work," I said, not a little dismayed by how he so whimsically had devastated my material.
"Of course not. Don't be stupid. It's a film, not a novel."
"But why not call it something else if it's something else. If it's not going to be Bombay, California then retitle it...Sunset Boulevard or..."
"Listen, Oliveira, we want to play off the commercialization of your book. Once it comes out in paperback it'll be packaged in such a way that whomever plays the lead will grace the cover. Like Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant's Woman or Connery in The Name of the Rose. That way the reading public will automatically correlate the figure on the cover with the figure in the book which will indelibly affect how they read and perceive the character and will condition them for the movie. Now and forever."
I really hadn't thought about that, in those terms, those commercial terms, but it was true. No matter how many times I read Fowles and Burgess and Eco, Sarah Woodruff was always Meryl Streep; Malcolm MacDowell always Alex; Baskerville always Connery. The thought was somehow disconsoling. It was even more McLuhan than McLuhan. It was certainly more Eco than Eco.
"So, what you're saying is it's really a matter of profit."
"Exactly. This is the movie industry, Oliveira, we're in the business of entertainment."
"And art?"
"Fuck art."
"But what about the spirit of the work. Its adaptative integrity."
"Oliveira, I hate to break this to you, but Orson Welles is dead."
"Right."
Not only was Orson Welles dead, but so were my chances of writing the script to my own novel. He already had a writer in mind.
"Who?"
"Fleischman Nagel."
"Who?"
"Fleischman Nagel."
"Who's he?"
"He's hot. Top of the rock, king of the hill. He's an A writer."
I recalled the alphabeticalness of that from my previous discussions with a producer in Chapter 42.
"But why can't I adapt it. It's mine!"
"It's simple, Oliveira. You'll do something literary with it and in the end it'll be artistic, but it won't sell worth a shit."
"Oh."
"Let me put it in terms you'll understand, Oliveira."
"What?"
"Luis Buuel es muerto."
Luis Buuel es muerto. Luis Buuel c'est mort. In any language, he's dead. Long live Buuel.
Cut.
Print.
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