An excerpt from Woody Allen's early production diary for Match Point.
Oh God, or, you know, whatever other presumably non-existant supernatural being enjoys toying with me... Soon-Yi wants another fur coat. As if I didn't already have enough problems: not that I care, but everyone in the US except Sean Penn hates me (which would be comforting, if it wasn't for the fact that everyone in the US hates him, too); and now Europe's ready to turn on me, also. Even the French are beginning to wonder if I've lost it - this from a nation that favourably compares Jerry Lewis to Genet. Everybody ignored us at that garden party last Sunday (Note to self: get Soon to read Proust so that we can impress more people by arguing about Swann's Way at parties. Shvitzing over whether her coat is fashionable just doesn't cut it). How am I supposed to work under these conditions?
Idea for movie: brilliant writer is driven to tragic suicide after world fails to comprehend his genius. Everyone is sorry now that he's dead, especially wife, who kept complaining about his practicing the clarinet in the bath.
No, too likely to make Soon go all Mia. Need something that recaptures my charming angst. Something filled with the old Woody. Filled like a Korean girl whose adoptive mother is out of the house.
Idea for movie: Alan Alda pursues series of callow women played by beautiful but talentless young actresses, only to realise in the end that he loves Diane Weiss (Note to self: find out if Diane is still speaking to me). Hijinks and comical misunderstandings are in plentiful supply.
Oh, gees, that's not going to work either. I suppose I could always go ahead and actually make an effort this time - stop pissing off the Hollywood system by making fun of empty-headed actors and models whose faces have been clenched so tight from botox overdoses that their frontal lobes have been squeezed out their nostrils, for one thing. Maybe, you know, explore serious ideas which are tied together via intriguing subtexts and allusions, comment on contemporary society and the human condition, but leaven the whole affair with corruscating wit and high-speed, naturalistic dialogue which engages the audience by assuming that they're intelligent enough to keep up with the flow of ideas.
Scratch that. Too much work.
Idea for movie: remake Crimes and Misdemeanours and hope no-one notices. Phone in the script; hire whatever pretty, reasonably talented faces Hollywood is infatuated with at the moment. Give it a cute, sporty title. Maybe set it in England, insult the British class system a little, earn some points back with the French.
Now that's genius. If only placating Soon-Yi was as easy (Note to self: email that sell-out Spielburg and see if he can get me Dakota Fanning's number; find out if she's read Proust).