Avatar: The Pitch (A One Act Play)

Scene: It’s fall, 2006. Two middle-aged men are seated at a small dining table in a back room at Spago of Beverly Hills, one of Los Angeles’ finest restaurants. One of them is James Cameron, the well-known Canadian director of blockbuster movies like Titanic, The Terminator and Alien. The other man is Greg Coote, the Australian chairman and CEO of Dune Entertainment, one of Hollywood’s most powerful film production studios. As they eat, they also talk. Their conversation is focused and passionate, but also guarded because they don’t want to be overheard by nearby waiters and diners.

“Jim, thanks for inviting me to dinner. You know I love Spago. Nobody knows his way around a chanterelle better than Wolfgang. But I haven’t seen you since Titantic came out on DVD, and that was, what, a decade ago? You’ve been pretty quiet for a guy who’s supposed to be the world’s most successful director. So what’s the special occasion?”

“I’ve got something really big for you, Cooter. Really big. But I should order another bottle of wine. I want you good and drunk when I spring this on you.”

“Sounds like my wedding night.”

“You’re a funny guy. Look, I’m ready to start my next film.”

“Terminator vs. Alien? The Sinking of the Lusitania?”

“Don’t be a smartass, Cooter. I make blockbusters, not B-rates. It’s Cameron, not Corman you’re having dinner with.”

“What? Don’t knock Corman. Did you see Grand Theft Auto? Very entertaining! Cheap to make, and he made millions on that one. And I’m serious about those ideas. Don’t think we haven’t thought about approaching you with a script, Jim. People loved Alien vs. Predator. Made millions. Maybe we could do Terminator vs. Alien vs. Predator. The climactic scene could be a three-way gun fight, like the Mexican standoff in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. But with aliens and robots fighting on a spaceship with phasers instead of in the desert with pistols. It could be bigger than Star Wars. It’d probably make millions, too.”

“Don’t bring Lucas into this. He doesn’t know shit. Remember The Phantom Menace? Total shit. Jar-Jar Binks my ass. A blot on movie making. Fucking Lucas. The whole Star Wars series read like it was written by a junior high school kid with a bad case of acne and nothing to do on weekends but write. He should’ve stopped at American Graffiti.”

“Whoa, calm down, boy! You directors are competitive. So what’s your big idea?”

“It’s an environmental action film.”

“A what?”

“A science-fiction environmental action film. I’ve been working on the script since 1994, before I’d even started Titanic. It’s set in the year 2154 on a moon in the Alpha Centauri system called Pandora.”

“Pandora? Like the box?”

“Sort of, but not like you’re thinking, Cooter. The indigenous people there—the Native Pandorians, if you will—are a peace-loving people who are mystically connected to the plants and animals of their planet. To their very ecosystem itself. I call them the Na’vi.”

“What do these tree-hugging Na’vi people look like?”

“Basically human, but with the features of monkeys and cats. And they’re 9 feet tall.”

“9 feet tall? Are fucking kidding me? Do these monkey-cats play basketball?”

“No. No basketball. This is science fiction.”

“So was Space Jam. I don’t know whose idea it was to put Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny together in a movie, but that was some funny shit. Made millions, too. Anyway, can you imagine a 9-foot-tall basketball player? That’d screw the NBA over good. A 9-foot-tall basketball player could cover the court in three strides and just drop the ball into the net. Make Jordan look like a midget. If your aliens are 9 feet tall, maybe you ought to add some basketball scenes to your script. You know, for basketball fans. There’s a lot of basketball fans in America.”

“This film’s bigger than that, Cooter.”

“Bigger than a 9-foot-tall Michael Jordan? I can’t imagine anything bigger than that. Except maybe a 9-foot-tall Shaquille O’Neal. O’Neal weighs, what, 325 pounds? How much do think he’d weigh if he was 9 feet tall? Like 700 pounds? Imagine guarding a 700-pound, 9-foot-tall Shaquille O’Neal. Impossible.”

“You’re missing my point.”

“So get to it, already. I’m all ears.”

“The Na’vi live in paradise, and they respect—actually, worship—nature. They live in trees, and they’re in total harmony with their surroundings.”

“So they’re, what, Wiccans? Witches don’t play well with the public, Jim. I can’t think of a single witch movie that’s made a dime.”

“Ever hear of a little film called The Wizard of Oz?”

“OK. Sure. I forgot that one. The flying monkeys scared the shit out of me when I was kid. But, look, Oz had an evil witch in it, and she got melted. Your witches sound like they’re supposed to be good witches who worship Mother Earth. Or Pandora, whatever. The Vatican’s not going to like it, and Catholics buy a lot of tickets.”

“Fuck the Pope, Cooter. The Pope hates Hollywood. He’s got a golden stick up his butt. Thinks everything we do is decadent. If he does like something, it’s boring, a documentary about the history of chewing gum or some Jane Austin piece of crap made for stuffy English professors who think colonial Britain is delightful. But the Pope’s not exactly Roger Ebert. Catholics go to movies whether the Pope gives them a thumbs up or thumbs down. Protestants, Muslims and Jews, too. Everybody loves the movies, and they’ll love this one.”

“I still think we have to consider the Pope if we’re making a movie about witches. And I’m not hearing a plot yet. I thought this was an action film.”

“It’s not about witches, Cooter. It’s about a race of simple, peace-loving people who live in harmony with their planet. But their way of life is jeopardized by greedy imperialists. I’d say that’s extremely topical right now.”

“You know the first three rules of movie making? Plot, plot and plot. And action. Action’s the fourth rule. So is there a plot here, or do these Na’vi just sit around all day trying to keep Pandora’s box from getting opened?”

“Despite your snarcasm, you’re closer than you think. Turns out the Na’vi are sitting on the galaxy’s largest source of a precious mineral wanted by the U.S. military. And the army’s willing to destroy the Na’vi’s way of life to get it.”

“What’s this rock called?”

“Unobtanium.”

“Sounds stupid.”

“I know. I kept getting stuck on uranium and kryptonite when I was writing the script, and couldn’t think of anything better. Unobtanium’s just a place holder. I’ll have it fixed in re-writes.”

“So what’s so special about—and I’m desperately trying not to laugh out loud when I say this—unobtanium?”

“It floats.”

“Like pumice? Big deal.”

“No, I mean floats, as in levitates. It can lift entire mountains into the sky.”

“So how do they mine it? Wouldn’t it just float away?”

“I don’t know. They use technology to neutralize it. Who gives a shit? The point is, it’s a clean source of power, and it’s worth about $20 million a pound. That’s why the army is anxious to get it.”

“Hmmm. So let me ask you question: If you ground some of this unobtanium up and put it into Kobe Bryant’s shoes, would it improve his jump shot? Could we give a jar of unobtanium dust to the Lakers and obtain them a championship?”

“I’m not making a basketball movie, Cooter. Enough with the basketball.”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’, you’ve got a race of 9-foot-tall monkey-cats and they’ve got access to magic floating rocks. This could change the NBA forever. Don’t underestimate the importance of basketball in our culture.”

“The film’s about the environment. About people who are willing to destroy the environment for profit, and people who are willing to die to save it.”

“The environment. Hmm. Well, Al Gore will like it. That’s one ticket sold. A hundred million more, and we’ve got a hit on our hands.”

“I’m not an idiot, Cooter. There’s more to it.”

“Do tell.”

“A team of scientists creates avatars, Na’vi clones. Using advanced technology, they transfer their consciousness into the avatars’ bodies so they can live with the Na’vi, try to understand them.”

“Consciousness. Great. It’s a thought film. Zen and the Art of 9-Foot-Tall Monkey-Cats. Let’s put this proposal on a level real people can relate to–construction workers and secretaries, you know, people who actually go to the movies to eat popcorn and escape their shitty lives for a couple of hours. Do the Na’vi get it on?”

“Sex? Sure. With their tails.”

“Tails?”

“The Na’vi intertwine tails when they want to communicate on a deeper level. They do it when they’re making love, when they’re talking to their ancestors, and when they ride horses or dragons.”

“OK, now I know what you’ve been doing since Titanic! You’ve been smoking crack. Lots of crack. You’re a crazy fucking crack addict. This is sad.”

“It’s not like what you think, Cooter.”

“I don’t think anything except you just wrote a script about 9-foot-tall humanoid monkey-cats who have sex with their tails. When they’re not using their tails to talk to dead people or ride dragons, of course. I get it. Really, I do, because I use my own cock all the time to discuss politics with my dead Aunt Myrtle. I just plug it into the nearest electrical socket and I’m totally hooked up to the ethereal grid. But I don’t think regular people are going to understand this film, Jim.”

“Pandora’s actually quite beautiful. Sensual, even. Pandora’s filled with luminescent plants. And the Na’vi have deep-blue skin.”

“Oh, of course they do. They’re environmentalists and live in trees, so they ought to have green skin. But they’re blue. Who’s your crack dealer, anyway? Are you sure you’re getting the good stuff?”

“No crack, Cooter. I’m dead serious here. Look, forget about the sex for now. We want a PG-13 rating for the theatrical release anyway. We want parents to let their teenagers see this film three, maybe four, times. I’ll put the sex scene on the DVD. The director’s cut. Let’s talk about the battle between the army and Na’vi. You’ll love this part.”

“Fight scenes, I get. War sells tickets.”

“OK. It’s complicated, so stay with me for a minute. Concentrate. The army wants to callously bomb the spiritual heart of Pandora. But one of the army’s soldiers inhabits an avatar. And he falls in love with a Na’vi woman. He becomes one of them, starts seeing life from their point of view, and decides to help defend Pandora from the army. The Na’vi ride into battle on their dragons, and with help from the planet’s other animals and their ancestors, the Na’vi use simple arrows and spears to bring down the army’s helicopters and save Pandora.”

“Lord of the Rings.”

“What?”

“It sounds like Lord of the Rings, only with monkey-cats in place of hobbits, dragons in place of eagles and Pandora in place of the Shire. Good versus evil with a stronger environmental message.”

“Whatever. There’s no ring. No comparison at all. My film’s original. Groundbreaking. Revolutionary. It’ll change movies forever.”

“To be honest, it sounds complicated. And long. Longer, because you’re James Cameron. You’re dictatorial, argumentative—a perfectionist. A true pain in the ass. Everybody hates you by the time you’re done—the crew, the actors, the studio, marketing, everybody. That means you’re expensive. This story of yours will make it even worse. I don’t know what it will cost to get the CGI people to create 9-foot-tall blue monkey-cats who ride dragons and live in trees. And the promotion. My god, the marketing! What do you think you’ll need, $200 million?”

“I want to film it in 3D, so I was thinking $350 million.”

“Plus marketing? That’s, like, $500 million! No way! Nobody finances a half-a-billion-dollar film and makes any money. Did you see Michael Cimeno’s Heaven’s Gate or Costner’s Waterworld?”

“No.”

“My point, exactly. Nobody saw them. They were long, they cost hundreds of millions, and they flopped. Flopped. Careers ruined.”

“Oh, fuck that, Cooter! I’m not Cimino or Costner. I’m fucking James Cameron, and I make blockbusters. That’s what I do. I make epic summer films that the public likes. No, likes isn’t strong enough. Loves. They love my movies like their own children. Better than their own children, in some cases. You know how much money my films have made? Me, either. They’ve made so many fucking billions and billions of dollars, I’ve lost count myself. And you know what the biggest film of all time is? Titantic. $1.8 billion and counting. That’s my doing. That was a James Cameron film. And JC’s new film’s got a huge advantage over Titanic: merchandising. T-shirts. Toys. Books. Video games. Spin-offs. It’s going to be a fucking, fire-breathing monster hit, Cooter. It’s the fucking Godzilla of films, and either you’re along for the ride or you’re going to get crushed when it rolls through town.”

“OK, you’re fucking James Cameron. I get that, big boy. You’ve got a big head, but I’ll concede that maybe you deserve a big head. Tell you what, though, I do like the merchandising angle. There’s more profit in merchandising than in the movie. Nobody could figure out a way to merchandise Titanic. I can understand why nobody was interested in a Dicaprio action figure. That kid’s a pipsqueak. But I thought the Titanic ship toy was cool. Float it your tub, bump it into the iceberg, it cracks in half and sinks, leaving a few lifeboats behind. And we might’ve had a better chance at merchandising if Wal-Mart hadn’t shot down our topless Kate Winslet action figure. We thought it was artsy, forward-thinking, progressive. But the Walton family thought it was dirty. Fucking billionaire prudes. Once they were out, we knew the merchandising was sunk, pun intended. But with good merchandising, this thing could work. Lord of the Rings worked, and you’ve sure as shit proven you’re at least as good as Tolkien at writing film scripts.”

“Now you’re thinking like a studio executive, Cooter. No risk, no reward.”

“Tell you what, Jim. You’ve got a track record that’s hard to argue with, especially four bottles of wine into the night. I’ll convince my people at Dune to throw some financial support behind your little project—what’s it called, by the way?”

“Avatar.”

“Avatar. I like that. Quick, enigmatic. Perfect. I’m in, but with three conditions. First, you throw in 25 percent of your own money. You need to have something at risk here, too.”

“You do know I have a wife and four ex-wives plus three kids to support? Linda’s a total bitch when it comes to alimony payments, too. She hasn’t had to work a single day since the final Terminator.”

“Don’t cry on my shoulder. Your fucking James Cameron, remember? The director who has so much money he can’t count it? I think you can afford 25 percent, Scrooge McDuck.”

“Twenty percent.”

“OK, 20 percent. But my second condition is that you throw in a basketball scene. I won’t back a movie about 9-foot-tall monkey-cats that doesn’t include at least one basketball scene.”

“What is with you and basketball?”

“I love basketball. America loves basketball. The world loves basketball. If you can’t support that, pick somebody else’s pocket.”

“Fine, I’ll throw in a basketball scene. But it won’t be long. I need to protect the integrity of the script. So what’s your third condition?”

“Dessert.”

“Dessert?”

“You buy dessert. Wolfy makes a crispy, souffléed crêpe called the Chocolate Purse. It’ll make you forget all your worries.”

“I don’t worry; I’m James Cameron. But it’s sounds good. Dessert’s on me. So done, and done. We’re making a movie.”

“We’ll probably lose our damn shirts on this crazy idea of yours and be forced to leave town with our tails between our legs, but, yes, we are. Avatar, or bust!”