Romantic Comedy(9)
Author: Curtis Sittenfeld
“It does.”
“Also, I’m sure setting it in a dance studio is realistic, but it’ll confuse the audience. It should be set in the stadium where the musician is performing. So you collapse space and time for the sake of clarity.”
“Got it.”
“Another thing for clarity, and this would kill a few birds with one stone, is we could start with a title card that gives the date and place. Wait, what if the musician is explicitly your younger self? And wardrobe can come up with some awesome early-two-thousands clothes? So the title card says Madison Square Garden, May 2001, or whenever your first album was really exploding—when was that?”
“The album was released in May 2001.”
I’d already typed Madison Square Garden, and I glanced at him. “I’ll email the document back to you afterward, and obviously you can change any wording that you don’t like.”
“Go for it. Please.”
I added May 2001. “The other characters will address you by name, so the audience immediately knows it’s you. But the next issue is there are too many characters. Do you think anyone serves a purpose here besides you and the choreographer?”
“Isn’t it important for the record label execs to be there? To show that these are directives coming from above and the musician—well, me—can’t just shrug them off?”
“True. Maybe we should even play that up.” The current first line was from the choreographer, who said, “I want to give you some ideas to jazz up your dance moves onstage.” Above it, I inserted an executive saying Noah, we’ve summoned you here because we at your record label are getting feedback that your live shows lack excitement, and we think some cutting-edge choreography will really enhance the audience’s experience.
“It’s ridiculously obvious,” I said, “but, unless there’s a payoff for withholding the premise, you might as well give it as fast as possible.”
“What if the guy is like, ‘According to some focus groups…’ ”
“Oh, that’s even better,” I said. “How about ‘According to focus groups held with one hundred twelve-to-fifteen-year-old girls residing in four mid-Atlantic states…’ ”
He laughed, and I retyped the sentence.
We both were quiet, and after a few seconds, I said, “ ‘We’re concerned that the girls sitting up in the nosebleed section aren’t sufficiently receiving your soulful emotions.’ ”
“ ‘And this could affect your long-term sales,’ ” Noah added, and I typed both parts.
“ ‘So the world-famous choreographer’—we need to give her a silly name—‘is here to offer her expertise.’ Hmm. Lulu von Floppy Bosoms?”
Again, he laughed in that light way. “Sure.”
“Just FYI, some stuff that reads on the page as only mildly funny is automatically ten times better when the cast is acting it out. Okay, now we can cut everyone other than the record label guys, you, and Lulu. The celebrity entourage clutters up the sketch because they aren’t really what it’s about. So we give everyone else’s dialogue to the execs, but you pick who plays the parts, and their names go in the script, not the characters’ names. Who do you want to be Lulu and who do you want to be the executives?”
“Shouldn’t I ask people if they’re interested before assigning them a role? I don’t want to be presumptuous.”
I laughed. “You’re the host. Any cast member will be happy to be in your sketch.”
“What do you think? For one of the execs, Josh always cracks me up.”
“Yeah, he’d be good.” I typed Josh’s name before the first record executive’s dialogue. “And maybe Hakeem is the other? And for the choreographer—” Either Henrietta or Viv would do an excellent job and each was likely to appear in multiple other sketches. Naming a chronically underused cast member, I said, “What about Grace?”
“Sure.”
“Then from here on out, really the only change I’d make is to put Lulu’s choreography suggestions in order of ridiculousness from least to most. It’s more satisfying if they escalate, so it starts with waving your hands around a lot and ends with the panther idea.”
“There’s one thing I didn’t put in there because it didn’t come from a choreographer but from kind of like, I guess he was an image consultant. He recommended I perform shirtless and in leather pants.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. But let’s make the pants into shorts. Shorts are even better. Or what if you’re the one who suggests this, and it’s the pivot at the end? So up ’til now, it seems like you’re so resistant to these silly ideas, but you’re just resistant to their silly ideas. And you’re wearing tear-away clothes that you pull off, and you say something like ‘I’m confident that audience engagement will be enhanced by my beautifully sculpted body.’ ”
Noah shook his head good-naturedly, and his blond surfer hair shifted a little. “I’m starting to feel like I just dug my own grave. And I’m still with the same label I signed with in 1999. That’s the irony here, as I vilify them in public.”
“If it reassures you, there’s no guarantee any sketch will get picked for the live show.” When our eyes met, I said, “But I bet this one will.”
“I guess I’m a winner either way,” he said. “Or a loser?”
I scrolled through the document, making the changes we’d discussed. When we got to the third page, I said, “This chunk can go because it doesn’t establish anything new. It’s kind of filler.”
I could tell he was reading the lines onscreen, then he said, “No, you’re right.”
At the end, I inserted the stage directions for him to rip off his clothes then I glanced at him once more. “Want to read it through out loud? You can do the you part, and I’ll be the execs and the choreographer.”
We both laughed a few times as we read. When Noah said, “Because my beautifully sculpted body will enhance audience engagement,” I realized it unintentionally echoed the earlier line about cutting-edge choreography enhancing his live performances. I cut the second enhance and replaced it with increase. In general, word repetition worked only when it seemed intentional.
“We need a title,” I said. “But just as a placeholder, so don’t overthink it. Something like Choreographer.”