Agents – Page 2 – david hogan

Prostitutes and Playwrights (Another Conversation with my LA Agent)

I called my agent to tell him I’d finished another play. He wasn’t pleased. He thought plays stole time from screenplays that he might be able to sell. It was an ongoing debate.

One time, I mentioned the value of art for art’s sake. I thought he’d have a stroke. He popped Tylenol like Tic Tacs though – and that might’ve saved him.

The Phone Call

David: I wrote a new play.

Agent: What’s this s— about?

David: It’s about the Irish novelist, Flann O’Brien.

Agent: You wrote a f—ing play about a f—ing novelist? Where’s it premiering? In a black hole?

David: If it gets up in LA, I’ll comp you tickets.

Agent: No thanks. I mean, I’d love to see your f—ing play, David… but I don’t like sitting alone.

David: That’s a good one. You use that with other clients?

Agent: They don’t write f—ing plays. I don’t understand why you do.

David: Because screenplays rarely get made even when sold… but plays do. Believe it or not, I like seeing my work produced.

Agent: And I like to sleep with beautiful women, but you don’t see me going to all that trouble.

David: The trouble of actually sleeping with them?

Agent: You’re f—ing hilarious, David, you know that?

David: I’m your client, aren’t I?

Agent: Look, I can meet a semi-attractive woman and take her on dinners and dates and all that bulls—. Or I can sell a screenplay, not one of yours apparently, and buy a beautiful hooker.

David: Are you saying that writing a play is like dating a semi-attractive woman and writing a screenplay is like buying a beautiful hooker?

Agent: Which is less trouble?

David: You’re suggesting that I prostitute myself both professionally and personally?

Agent: Of course not. I’m advising you to prostitute yourself professionally… so you can buy a prostitute personally. Sometimes I think you don’t know which end is up.

You can buy my debut novel, ‘THE LAST ISLAND’ here.

“Get outa here!” (A Festival with my LA Agent)

The agent told me he was ‘astonished by the s—yness’ of a screenplay I wrote. So I entered it in a festival. It did well. Now, he told me I’d misunderstood. He loved it.

He asked me if I was going to the party at the festival. I said I didn’t know about the party. He said he’d put me on the list.

We did dinner first. The guests included a producer and his girlfriend: an exquisite actress recently divorced from a very rich man. A Svengali thing, I was told. He’d made her famous. She was suing him.

Dinner was fun. The agent was pleased with himself. He was pitching a reality series for the actress.

We proceeded to the party in different cars. Private house. I gave my name and ID at the door and was indeed on the list. I’d been worried. You often can’t take the agent at his word.

The Festival Party

The entrance is through a garage or basement. Dimly dark (or darkly dim). DJ.

Round pillars three feet high with smoke pouring out. Atop each pillar is a dancer. They are, if not actually naked, at least supposed to look that way. The smoke obscures.

Upstairs is quieter. People drinking and talking. I grab a drink and spot the agent. He’s in a small circle, talking to the actress and her producer boyfriend, among others.

I stroll over to find the conversation circle closed. (We’ve all been there.) I ease a gentle shoulder in, trying to make my presence known.

The Actress sees me. I smile, friendly-like.

Actress: What are you doing here? Get outa here!

The Agent wheels around. He sees me but says nothing.

David: Are you talking to me?

She is.

Actress: It’s a private party!

From the wings, a Large Man starts coming my way. Laker jersey. Biceps.

David: I was on the list.

I look at the Agent for corroboration but get nothing. If I’m not mistaken (and I’m not), he’s enjoying this. Partygoers take notice. They circle round, attracted to the spectacle that is me.

I wonder if the Agent set me up.

Actress: Get outa here!

David: It’s me. David. We just went to dinner together…

I feel the Large Man’s hand on my shoulder. I’m going to be thrown out of the party. The Actress squints, steps a little closer.

Actress: Oh, David! I didn’t recognize you in your glasses. Why didn’t you say something?

The Actress hugs me. She’s taller than I thought and smells like apples. The Large Man walks away, his ‘World Peace’ jersey disappearing within the partygoers.

Actress: I’m sorry, David. I have to be so careful these days.

She kisses me on the cheek and hooks an arm around me. The conversation picks up again. The crowd disperses.

Later, the Agent catches me alone. He’s got a smirk on his face.

Agent: You’re good.

David: At what?

Agent: Getting a kiss and a hug like that. The center of the party. You planned that whole thing out, didn’t you?

David: Are you kidding me? You think-

Agent: -You shrewd f—ing bastard. I’m going to give that s— screenplay of yours a big push when I get back.

—————————————

END NOTES:

The Agent did indeed push the script when he got back.

The Actress didn’t get the reality series but eventually got a hefty settlement from her former husband.

The Agent still thinks I planned it out.

You can buy ‘THE LAST ISLAND’ here.

“You called me!” (A Conversation with my LA Agent)

My agent was short and well-connected. He was bald, badly-dressed and had a Napoleonic complex larger than Toulouse. He scared off a lot of writers.

“That’s s—,” being his favorite assessment of anyone’s work or ideas.

For some reason, I liked him. For an altogether different reason he liked me – or rather my big- budget, action adventure script. He once put his hand on my shoulder. I believe it was affectionate.

He wore a baseball cap. (They all did for a while.) He scuttled a deal on one of my screenplays by trying to glum on as producer. (They all did that for a while too.)

I used to put our conversations on speaker for anyone else present. Just so they’d believe me when I told the stories.

In that spirit, I recreate below a phone conversation. It’s as close to verbatim as I can get. That is to say, I’m not making this up. Why would I? This truth being somewhat stranger, cruder and more clichéd than fiction.

The agent’s name has been redacted to protect the innocent, which would be me. Also, the agent is extremely litigious.

The Phone Call

David: Hi Agent, it’s David. How are you?

Agent: Know how many David’s I know?

David: Hogan. Your client? The one whose screenplay you were all excited about.

Agent: The f— you callin’ me for?

David: You called me.

Agent: No, I didn’t.

David: On Friday, you did.

Agent: It’s Monday. Three f—ing days go by and you call me!

David: I didn’t get your message until Friday night. I thought if it was really important you’d call back, otherwise-

Agent: -I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.

David: Not to see how I’m doing? I’m hurt.

Agent: F— that. Hold on…

Papers shuffling in background. Mumbles. A phone ringing in the distance. Eventually…

Agent: B—– wants to read your script. He’s an a—hole, but can get a movie made. Why didn’t you call me sooner?

David: Why didn’t you remember?

Agent: Weren’t you supposed to change the location? You finish that yet?

(Note: The agent had requested that I change the location. He thought it’d be easier to raise international financing if the screenplay was set in a large European city.)

David: I’ll have it by the end of the day.

Agent: That’s why you’re my favorite client. The rest are all s—, believe me.

David: I bet you refer to me like that when I’m not on the phone.

Agent: Not to your face.

David: I’m rehurt.

Agent: F— you. When you’re done, send it directly to B—–@BigProdco.com. Write that down. Put my name and the title in the subject line so it’ll get through and ‘cc’ me.

David: Isn’t it your job to send it?

Agent: Won’t be here. Send it … and stay in touch.

—————————————

END NOTES:

B—— the a–hole passed on the screenplay, which remains unsold.

The agent still hasn’t grown hair … or taller.

You can buy ‘THE LAST ISLAND’ here.

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this: