Assignment #5-Iceberg Writing Style

Hoover and Clyde at the Mayflower

EXT. Mayflower Hotel-NOON

OPEN TO the hot pool deck of the Washington Mayflower Hotel during the early 1970s. The pool is very crowded, with sunbathing girls and families enjoying their vacation at the nation’s capital by playing in the pool. Off to the side, Septuagenarian FBI director J. EDGAR HOOVER and his septuagenarian right-hand-man CLYDE TOLSON are sitting on a table close to the pool’s bar, both sporting heavy three-piece wool suit. CLYDE is half-interestedly reading through The Racing Form papers while HOOVER is busy sipping on his drink while staring vacantly into the distance. The sun is beating above them unrelentingly.

HOOVER
(Mumbles incoherently)
‘sahot day

CLYDE
Huh?

HOOVER
…’s hot…

CLYDE doesn’t respond, or even look up from his racing form. HOOVER’s eyes scan across the pool deck, looking amongst the crowd. He looks towards the towel boy, a young man at the bar laughing raucously and finally his eyes linger at a family of four in the pool and he squints. The mother is laughing as she watches her husband throw her son up in the air and into the water, the girl shrieks as the water splashes onto her face. The father laughs loudly, and then looks towards HOOVER for a moment, then back to his family. HOOVER makes a grunting noise, quickly reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a small note pad and scribbles something onto it.

At the other side of the pool GRAHAM BARNHILL, a young FBI agent dressed in a suit, hurriedly walks into the deck area holding in his hand a manila envelope. He glances around until he sees HOOVER and CLYDE and walks quickly towards the table where they are sitting.

GRAHAM
Excuse me…Mr. Hoover?

HOOVER and CLYDE ignores GRAHAM. GRAHAM shifts his legs uncomfortably then asks again.

GRAHAM
Excuse me…Mr. Hoover? The head offices told me to give this to you. A top priority.

HOOVER finally looks up and grabs the folder without making eye contact with GRAHAM. He signs the invoice and gives it back to the young agent, and then hands the folder to CLYDE who opens it up and pulls out the large sum of money inside and counts it. HOOVER goes back to staring at the family, who is now all collectively trying to dunk the father.
GRAHAM doesn’t leave, instead he nervously picks his ear.

GRAHAM
Thank you.
(beat)
Uh…Mr. Hoover? There is something that I would like to say.

HOOVER’s face contorts to a grimace as GRAHAM nervously rushes through the introduction that he obviously rehearsed in his mind about a thousand times.

GRAHAM
Hello I am Graham Barnhill and I would like to say that I just recently joined the FBI and I must say sir that I think it is great what you are doing for our country it is a complete honor to meet you in person sir and…uh..I must say that you are the reason why I joined in the first place and-um-I think it is very great what you are doing for your country and that it is an honor to serve you.

HOOVER looks up at GRAHAM and studies his face. Then, after a moment, HOOVER gets up from his seat and reaches out his hand.

HOOVER
Yes. Thank you for your support, young man.

A smile lights up on GRAHAM’s face and he thanks HOOVER again, then he rushes off. HOOVER disgustedly wipes his hand on his suit.

CLYDE
Pathetic.

HOOVER watches GRAHAM as he walks away, and then pulls his pen out of his pocket and writes on his pad again.

INSERT- THE NOTEPAD
“-MELVIN PURVIS
-KISSINGER
-FAMILY AT MAYFLOWER
-GRAM [sic] BARNHILL”
Melvin Purvis’s name is crossed out with red ink.

BACK TO SCENE

CLYDE, now done counting the money, puts the money from the envelope into his coat pocket, catches from the corner of his eye shirtless, 20-something POOL BOY walking out of a changing room. He is wearing tight swimming trunks and has a taught, muscular body.

CLYDE
(edgar)
Ed-

HOOVER looks up from the note pad and looks towards CLYDE. CLYDE makes eye contact and nods his head over towards the POOL BOY.

CLYDE
Remind you of something?

CLYDE smirks while HOOVER looks over at the POOL BOY, who is fishing a giant clump of hair out of the pool’s filter. HOOVER looks CLYDE into the eyes, and lets out a light, nostalgic laugh.

HOOVER
Oh my-
(Chuckles)
Yes. Oh my

Both HOOVER and CLYDE lightly chuckle at the boy, and then the laughter subsides as they lock into eye contact with each other. As HOOVER and CLYDE stares intensely into each other’s eyes, HOOVER bites his lip. CLYDE beams.

Writing for Film Assignment #3-Faulkner Speech

"I went into the business for money and the art grew out of it.  If people are disillusioned by that remark, I can't help it.  It's the truth." 

-Charlie Chaplin (1972 Academy Award acceptance speech)

"Believe me, my sole purpose is to make as much money as possible; for after good health it is the best thing to have."

-Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (On why he makes music)

"Rap critics they say he's "Money Cash Hoes."  I'm from the hood stupid, what type of facts are those?  If you grew up with holes in ya zapatos, you'd be celebrating the minute you was havin' dough"

-Jay Z

In his banquet speech for his 1949 Nobel award, writer William Faulkner warned about the "tragedy" of people who peruse art for the sake of making money and hopes of "making it big." He stated that writing is at its strongest when done for writing's sake, when all sense of pretense is stripped away.

I feel very strongly that the intentions for making art is completely irrelevant to the quality or the impact of the art. There are numerous examples of this being true; as mentioned above, Charlie Chapman, Mozart, and Jay-Z managed to master their respective mediums being motivated primarily by money. Outside of monetary motivations, Brain Wilson made music in order to avoid the wrath of his abusive father, Henry Kissinger gives some credit to his foreign policy work as being a means to get pussy, Wesley Willis made haunting outsider music because the voices in his head told him to do so. The pissy, petty rivalry between Thomas Edison and Nikola Tesla created a competitive environment which motivated each of them to pour their creative juices into making an invention that would bring public humiliation to their rival.

Perhaps the most telling example of the relevance of art formed through self-intrest is the impact that hip-hop, a cultural movement dominated with themes of greed and self-aggrandizement, had on American culture, completely transforming the worlds of music, fashion, dance, industrial design (at least with cars), film editing, and communication. (The number of new words introduced into the english language through rap music is stunning, and still growing)

I myself feel much more comfortable with myself when I admit that I just don't write because I have a drive to express myself creatively, but because I also have a drive to impress my peers, a drive to have the relevance of my ideas validated, and because, even though it is extremely unlikely, there is a possibility that I could run into my ex-best friend from the sixth grade and I can annoy him with how successful I have been in my smug, passive aggressive way. (Screw you, Joey Difranco)

Faulkner was right about one thing; that it is humanity's destiny to constantly improve itself (or whatever) constantly rectifying the problems of the past. But this happens not because some altruistic author's selflessness works, but because the market place of ideas works; in a room of 10,000 jackasses screaming on the top of their lungs about their own selfish wants, at the very least one person has a good idea in which society can work on.