Julie goes to Hollywood and the Frederick's of Hollywood store. She is flashing pedestrians and driver's of other cars. She gives a great blowjob and facial... Good Lord, here was a guy who didn’t know plural from possessive on a simple noun like “driver” taking my good fake name in vain! I clicked on the link to discover the home page of some amateur videographer, a Pacific Northwestern purveyor not only of pornography but also of magic tricks and comic books, all of which he's willing to exchange with his coterie of on-line loser pals. "Julie Goes To Hollywood" turned out to be a small-time "actress" with a rather impressive body of work, from Julie's Last Dance, to Pantyhose Heaven and Mission Erotica.
The discovery of my porn star alter ego coincided with the disappointing news that I didn't get a studio writing assignment I was quite certain would have been my one-way ticket to the top. Yes, I'm aware there will be others, and even more after that. People Are Saying Very Good Things About Me, after all, why wouldn't they invest eighteen minutes and a bottle of Perrier into hearing my painstakingly detailed thoughts on their latest Big Deal Project? What was different about this go-round, though, was that it was just so close but no cigar. In the end, it came down to me and only one other uncredited writer—at least from what I've been told all these weeks.
But what if the playing field wasn't all that level to begin with? Not until I hung up the phone with My Very Supportive Manager did it occur to me that things are not always as they appear in this town. Probing the status quo, searching for truth behind yet another illusion, this is the most fundamental tenet of story structure—any Film School Loser knows that. On- and off-screen both, Hollywood invests billions of dollars on the legendary trickery that has the kids queuing up from Bangor to Beijing waving the last of their pocket money just for a chance to watch us go. Very often the sleight of hand begins with the slow buzz of a sleeper hit, and ends with the box office smash of the year. My point is, maybe there never was another writer. Maybe the "other writer" was the Bad-Ass Producer's Mild-Mannered Daughter, who sat in on every one of my studio meetings—swollen nearly mute with child—innocently claiming to have found the obscure book on a sale table in front of an airport bookstore. Maybe she wanted to adapt the screenplay herself, but, since she has never so much as written her own name across an iron-on sticker in her summer camp underpants, somebody else needed to get shot down first. Maybe this is another one of my paranoid delusions, fully fleshed out in an uphill battle to keep me going another day. Let other people have their porn stars, I have a very rich fantasy life peopled with Pregnant Villains and Bright and Accomplished anti-heroes.
In light of all this, I can't help but wonder about the other Julie Goes To Hollywood, who must have had some big dreams of her own before cashing in her chips to star in Flesh For Sale and Naughty Nylons opposite Summer Knight and Taylor St. Claire. Was her girlhood idol Meryl Streep? Had she admired the early work of the Redgrave sisters and papered her bedroom with photos of Dame Judy Dench? Did she finally get her big break guest starring as a corpse on E.R. back in the day, reaching out from her gurney between takes to absently brush the hand of one Mr. George “Ohmigod” Clooney? Just how far into The Big Game did Julie get before lying right back down and taking it with a smile so as not to feel the pain of having wanted so much more?
It could also be that Julie fully believes she is a star. Perhaps she's learned to take her lumps, pardon the pun, and enjoy the spotlight for what it is. I doubt it, though. I bet she's just another dreamer convinced right down to her bones that there's something much larger and far more thrilling waiting just around the bend, again pardoning the pun. All I know for sure is that Julie The Porn Star and Julie The Big Deal Screenwriter are more alike than I'd ever want to admit. I know very well I'm the one who's going to take my ball and go home to Umatilla when I've decided I've had enough. One thing they won't tell you in film school, though, is just how long that will be.
