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    Screenwriter Scars
    Screenwriter Scars
    Screenwriter Scars
    Ebook75 pages1 hour

    Screenwriter Scars

    By Gary Lumpp

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The names have been changed but the story is all true. Garrett Stein was a screenwriter looking for his big break but hesitant to make the move to Hollywood. Victor Roman was an actor from Bucharest living in Chicago and looking for someone to rewrite his epic action story. Several years and several thousand lies later, a movie somehow got made - even though it's only been seen by a handful of people.

    While it's hard to know what's true and what's a lie when it comes to Victor, this is Garrett's account of dealing with a compulsive liar willing to say anything to get his movie made. From lying about celebrity stars to the timeless classic about the check being in the mail, the setting may not be Los Angeles but the story in "Screenwriter Scars" has all the makings of its own crazy, unbelievable feature film.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGary Lumpp
    Release dateNov 13, 2012
    ISBN9781301242467
    Screenwriter Scars
    Author

    Gary Lumpp

    Award-winning screenwriter with scripts that include the international feature "Serbian Scars" starring Michael Madsen and the independently produced and directed "When Heaven Comes Down."

    Read more from Gary Lumpp

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      Book preview

      Screenwriter Scars - Gary Lumpp

      Garrett Stein about 20,640 words

      1518 Rhett Place

      Woodstock, IL 60098

      815-861-2838

      SCREENWRITER SCARS

      My Journey Making A Film In A Foreign Land…Without Ever Leaving My Desk

      by

      Garrett Stein

      For all of the screenwriters out there who hope for the best but expect the worst.

      Copyright 2012 by Garrett Stein, All Rights Reserved.

      Preface

      What you are about to read is real. Well, as real as one can get when it comes to the worlds of filmmaking and the internet. My reason for writing this isn’t to settle any personal scores or to take cheap shots and those who have wronged me in the past. Instead it’s simply a way to document the craziness that was my involvement in the making of one particular film. A process that showed how a person doesn’t have to live in Hollywood to deal with the lies, egos, and more lies in the industry.

      Just over ten years ago I was approached about re-writing a screenplay for an actor-slash-producer-slash-writer. What I didn’t realize at the time was the man behind the vanity project was a compulsive liar on a scale I had never seen before, and I wasn’t alone in being amazed at the levels at which this person could spin a yarn even when it wasn’t beneficial. Some in the movie business might think that’s par for the course – if you’re making a movie, you’re probably being lied to by someone. But this...this was something special.

      Since I have no intention of personally attacking anyone the names have been changed, some locations altered, and there’s a good chance certain aspects of the story exaggerated. Not by me, mind you, but by the people telling me their stories. So no, my name isn’t Garrett Stein and even though the story I’m about to tell you is true, it’ll quickly become evident that one’s truth is subjective.

      Before I begin the story about the making of a film, I’d like to tell another tale from my past that might help to explain my somewhat confused perspective when relating my travails to you. Back when I was in high school my family lived out in the country. It was the Mid-west, we had five acres and some horses, and I grew up working on the dairy farm next door. That meant plenty of fields and not a lot of people around. One night several friends of mine - five I think – showed up at my door. Their leader told me that they had gone four wheeling in a field down the road, which to city folk means they had hopped in a large four wheel drive pickup truck and driven into a corn or soybean field for fun. Bob (not his real name, although I did know a few Bobs back then) said that his truck had gotten stuck in the mud in the middle of the field and they needed me to borrow my grandpa’s tractor and pull them out.

      This wasn’t all that unusual. While mudding wasn’t something I ever did I knew people who did, and while I didn’t like the idea of them tearing up a neighbor’s field I figured the least I could do was help them out of the jam so they wouldn’t have to call a tow truck. It was Fall so the sun had already set and a chill was in the air, so I grabbed a jacket and the keys to my ’78 Buick Regal and went to help. Since the boys had walked all the way from the field to my house they needed a ride back, but unfortunately my car could only hold three of them without resorting to awkward contortions. But this was the country – nobody was going to be on the roads, it’s not like I was going to go all that fast to where the truck was buried, so two of the guys volunteered to ride on the hood and point out where the four wheeling had gone wrong.

      We set out down the paved two lane road – there weren’t even yellow lines down the middle – past my grandpa’s place and towards one of the many fields that filled the landscape. I was going all of fifteen miles an hour, wearing my seatbelt (everyone was wearing their seatbelt – it had been driven into my brain from a young age to always buckle up), and taking extreme care not to hit any bumps as my friends held on to the hood of my car. Was it stupid? Sure. I won’t even offer up the excuse that we were teenagers on a Saturday night. But again it was the country, we were going less than a mile, and it’s not like there was any traffic all the way out here.

      Except when there was.

      A single white car pulled out of a subdivision to the north of the road we were on. Once my friends on the hood saw the other car they slapped the fender and I stopped, watching them hop off and run back to my house. That was how it went in the country on a Saturday night – odds are if you saw a white car it was probably an adult, and even more likely a cop. And just my luck, that’s who it was. Hoping he hadn’t seen my friends riding on the outside of the car I slowly started driving again, still heading for the field. Soon though his dashboard light flickered to life, the red light flashing in my rear view mirror eliciting groans and worry from the back seat.

      I pulled over into a gravel drive that led to one of the fields as the unmarked squad car pulled in behind me. Nobody in the car said anything. My friends knew I was the straight arrow of the group – no tickets, no arrests, and no brushes with the law in any way. I didn’t even drink, which is why they knew they could come to me when they snuck a few beers and decided to drive a truck out into

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