Happy July, my Blog-a-holics. I'll be honest with you - it's been a difficult week for me. I was informed by our HR department here at Manka Bros. that I was in violation of our ethics policy due to my night job as a stripper at Beefcakes in Panorama City. As a result, I was forced sever ties with the club or lose my position as Junior V.P. in Profits and Participations. Most unfortunate because I had grown addicted to the joy of disrobing in front of trailer park latinas and expressing myself artistically. Today, I am but a child whose toy choo choo has been unceremoniously torn from his clutches. But I perservere.
Friday night, I was asked by my superiors to check out an opening night showing of the Pixar film "Wall-E" and take notes about the demographic in attendance. It was a fascinating experiment. Despite its G rating, there were mostly adults standing in line with me. In fact, 70% appeared to be 25 or older. The people I interviewed said they would see anything Pixar released, even if the characters were talking office products. They were tired of "Love Guru" and "Zohan" dick and fart jokes and were craving a romance between two synthetic organisms. Scanning the crowd, I was surprised to see my neighbor Carina emerging from a Chipotle restaurant. I hadn't seen her since I took her to Cannes and she ran off with Gael Garcia Bernal. She ran up and gave me a big hug and apologized for the way we left things, saying that Gael turned out to be some OCD freak who would often curl up in the corner of a room and cry for hours on end. Amazing lover with an enormous penis who made her come more than any other man, but a real nutjob. I asked her if she wanted to see the movie with me and she accepted.
On the way into the theater, we hardly said a word to each other. No words were necessary. She and I had something sweetly telepathic going on. Almost otherwordly. We both stared in awe as Wall-E and Eve romantically glided through outer space together, leaving a trail of stardust. Carina turned to me and said, "Awwwwwww...." When they finally held hands, I reached out and took Carina's hand. She quickly pulled away, dumping her nachos on my head before sprinting out of the auditorium. Which I believe in her native Nicaragua is a symbol of growing affection for the opposite sex. On my way out, I saw her tonguing the popcorn guy, but I think I have her right where I want her.
"Wall-E's" $62 million haul and incredible crossover appeal should be a real lesson for Manka's animation development department (A.D.D.) Our upcoming "Mobsters", about wacky Cosa Nostra lobsters under the sea, may not have the saccharine elements audiences are craving right now. There's a war on, people! The economy's in the crapper! George Carlin is dead! We need to make animated films about two squeaky metal garbage cans who find love in a magical alleyway, or a postal scale who pines away for a newfangled grocery store produce scale. I'm just spitballing here! Think of the millions we'd make opening weekend! A.D.D.: get to work on it!
FYI - next week I will be attending the annual Profits and Participations symposium in Virginia City, Montana. So my next entry will be on July 15. Also - I'm thinking of installing a stripper pole in my townhouse and having strip parties. Manka employees: if I did that, how many of you would attend? Let's get a dialogue going here!
Friday night, I was asked by my superiors to check out an opening night showing of the Pixar film "Wall-E" and take notes about the demographic in attendance. It was a fascinating experiment. Despite its G rating, there were mostly adults standing in line with me. In fact, 70% appeared to be 25 or older. The people I interviewed said they would see anything Pixar released, even if the characters were talking office products. They were tired of "Love Guru" and "Zohan" dick and fart jokes and were craving a romance between two synthetic organisms. Scanning the crowd, I was surprised to see my neighbor Carina emerging from a Chipotle restaurant. I hadn't seen her since I took her to Cannes and she ran off with Gael Garcia Bernal. She ran up and gave me a big hug and apologized for the way we left things, saying that Gael turned out to be some OCD freak who would often curl up in the corner of a room and cry for hours on end. Amazing lover with an enormous penis who made her come more than any other man, but a real nutjob. I asked her if she wanted to see the movie with me and she accepted.
On the way into the theater, we hardly said a word to each other. No words were necessary. She and I had something sweetly telepathic going on. Almost otherwordly. We both stared in awe as Wall-E and Eve romantically glided through outer space together, leaving a trail of stardust. Carina turned to me and said, "Awwwwwww...." When they finally held hands, I reached out and took Carina's hand. She quickly pulled away, dumping her nachos on my head before sprinting out of the auditorium. Which I believe in her native Nicaragua is a symbol of growing affection for the opposite sex. On my way out, I saw her tonguing the popcorn guy, but I think I have her right where I want her.
"Wall-E's" $62 million haul and incredible crossover appeal should be a real lesson for Manka's animation development department (A.D.D.) Our upcoming "Mobsters", about wacky Cosa Nostra lobsters under the sea, may not have the saccharine elements audiences are craving right now. There's a war on, people! The economy's in the crapper! George Carlin is dead! We need to make animated films about two squeaky metal garbage cans who find love in a magical alleyway, or a postal scale who pines away for a newfangled grocery store produce scale. I'm just spitballing here! Think of the millions we'd make opening weekend! A.D.D.: get to work on it!
FYI - next week I will be attending the annual Profits and Participations symposium in Virginia City, Montana. So my next entry will be on July 15. Also - I'm thinking of installing a stripper pole in my townhouse and having strip parties. Manka employees: if I did that, how many of you would attend? Let's get a dialogue going here!
Most men don't go to Panorama City to strip. Not in the choking, trenchant heat of summer. They occasionally get dragged to the mall there by insistent wives. They sometimes stop at the Burger King on their way to the cozy, Stepford-like confines of the Santa Clarita valley. They most definitely don't go there to peddle their smooth-as-fine-sauvignon-blanc ass for suburban women who possess the wit and allure of Arnold Horshack. A man who came here to rip off his tank top night after night for nickels, dimes and Jeffersons would have to be what the locals might call "desperado." But last week, that's exactly what this man did.
Every third Wednesday, Beefcakes in tres chic P.C. holds an amateur night contest to lure nascent succulent males and their wallet-fat friends to the club. I decided it was important for my growth as a blogger to experience the seedier side of the entertainment world. Sign ups were at the ungodly hour of 10 pm. On my drive there, I hit zero traffic, so I reached the area around 8. To calm my nerves, I ducked into a Thai restaurant, where I covertly did shots of Jim Beam from a flask, gazing warily at the flashing "Beefcakes" sign across the street. At 9:45, I mustered the courage to enter the club. On stage dancing to the thumping bass of "Seasons in the Sun" was a hairless, dark-skinned man sporting a leather thong and a vacant stare, as if someone had made off with his joie de vive in the dressing room. The clientele was a disjointed melange of dork-retro mamas, lazy-eyed motel maids and toothless social workers, all horking greasy appetizers and champagne cocktails. The smell was a combination of elementary school paste and the perfume counter at Target.
I signed in with a cashier who I could swear was the "Fabulous" girl from the Orbit commercials, then was unceremoniously ushered into what they call "the beef pit", basically an airless, soul-destroying holding room. As I plunked my Simon LeBon carrying bag containing my costume onto the green 60s carpet, I could see the other contestants' eyes darting from my face down to the bag, arching their brows, curious as to its contents. The air was thick with the unease of oiled-up men sharing a confined space. It was as if we were trapped together on one of those D-day amphibious landing vehicles, headed for the unyielding rifles of the enemy on Omaha Beach. We knew why we were all there. It was FUBAR, but we would all go down together.
Every third Wednesday, Beefcakes in tres chic P.C. holds an amateur night contest to lure nascent succulent males and their wallet-fat friends to the club. I decided it was important for my growth as a blogger to experience the seedier side of the entertainment world. Sign ups were at the ungodly hour of 10 pm. On my drive there, I hit zero traffic, so I reached the area around 8. To calm my nerves, I ducked into a Thai restaurant, where I covertly did shots of Jim Beam from a flask, gazing warily at the flashing "Beefcakes" sign across the street. At 9:45, I mustered the courage to enter the club. On stage dancing to the thumping bass of "Seasons in the Sun" was a hairless, dark-skinned man sporting a leather thong and a vacant stare, as if someone had made off with his joie de vive in the dressing room. The clientele was a disjointed melange of dork-retro mamas, lazy-eyed motel maids and toothless social workers, all horking greasy appetizers and champagne cocktails. The smell was a combination of elementary school paste and the perfume counter at Target.
I signed in with a cashier who I could swear was the "Fabulous" girl from the Orbit commercials, then was unceremoniously ushered into what they call "the beef pit", basically an airless, soul-destroying holding room. As I plunked my Simon LeBon carrying bag containing my costume onto the green 60s carpet, I could see the other contestants' eyes darting from my face down to the bag, arching their brows, curious as to its contents. The air was thick with the unease of oiled-up men sharing a confined space. It was as if we were trapped together on one of those D-day amphibious landing vehicles, headed for the unyielding rifles of the enemy on Omaha Beach. We knew why we were all there. It was FUBAR, but we would all go down together.
Happy post-Father's Day, my beta-bloggers. As my biological dad ran
off in the late 60's with a Krishna girl he met at the airport handing
out quaaludes, I had no obligations on Father's Day and planned to
spend the afternoon completing my 3D map of Mordor. But it's funny what life throws at you.
All week I had been researching revenue generated from TV, discovering the great disparity between high-profile, syndication-ready series and struggling newcomers, often noting the enormous salaries paid to established stars after a show reaches hit status. Networks seemingly have to use smoke and mirrors to see any kind of profit from their prestige series. And there's no trickle down process.
Which brings me to my Father's Day and the ironic parallel I encountered in the form of an unexpected houseguest.
At 5 am Sunday morning, a frantic knock at the door jolted me from my
sleep. I opened the door to discover old family friend Ed McMahon,
three suitcases, and four dogs. You see, Ed befriended my
mother during a taping of "The Barbara McNair Show" years ago, doing
shots together under the stands. They kept in touch and Ed would often
come over for Groundhog Day, and he and mom would play "Six More Weeks
of Winter" in mom's bedroom. I hadn't seen him since he invited us to
a taping of "Muppets Tonight", so it was a shock seeing him on my
doorstep. I asked him if Countrywide had foreclosed on his home
already, and he said no, that he and his wife Pamela had had a fight
over his purchase of a vintage radio microphone he just had to have.
He had no place else to go. Jerry's in Vegas, Larry's in D.C. and the
Muppets are not real. We spent the day reminiscing about Groundhog
Days past, how the muffled sound of his trademark laugh permeated mom's
bedroom door and always brought a smile to my face. We ate corned beef
and laughed and cried and hugged, then laughed again.That night, we did some DiSironno on the rocks and I asked him how he could possibly be on the brink of financial ruin. He re-iterated much of what he'd already said on talk shows, like manager's fees, divorces and bad investments.
But after he loosened up, he divulged
his resentment toward the lopsided pay scale and residuals from "The
Tonight Show". Johnny made off with $20 million a year, while Ed got a
fraction of that, and very little ancillary participation. The thought
of this made us so angry, we went upstairs and peed off the balcony in
protest, howling at the moon, cursing Johnny's name. Since Ed's in a
neck brace, he couldn't sleep on the couch, so we shared my bed with
his Norwegian Elkhounds Sonny, Cher, Regis and Art Fern. Ed snored
like a long-haul trucker, but his mind was finally at rest, and he
slept with a smile on his face. Quintessential Ed.The whole experience has motivated me to fight for equal pay among television artists. Whether you're the talent who holds the entire program together, or the drunk who laughs off camera. I will be lobbying the MBS executives to adopt a strict policy of fairness. I will not rest until the marginally talented are adequately compensated. In the interim, I gave a hearty donation to www.LetsHelpEd.com, so Uncle Ed won't wind up homeless on Mulholland. I suggest you do the same.
Heads up on next week's blog: Since everyone's on vacation and there's not much industry analysis to be done, my co-workers have encouraged me to be a male stripper for a week, then blog about it. Fascinating experiment. Consider Kurt Barnet on assignment!
Afternoon all. Please forgive my mood today. It was a rough weekend for me. Since blogging is all about honesty, I feel compelled to disclose that since last week's entry I have been continuously attempting to contact L.A. Dolls Roller Derby captain Niraa Death (not sure of her real name). I've been told my actions verged on stalking.
Happy Tuesday, My Bloggy Brethren. First off, I'd like to apologize for last week's entry. I exhibited behavior completely unbecoming of a movie industry professional. I disgraced the good Manka name and sullied our relationship with the Turkish film world. I understand some of our existing projects in development with that country have been put on hold pending an investigation. Everyone should know I met personally with Mr. Manka and Robin Rafe, offered my apologies, and assured them that the Reticence of Butterflies contract I drew up in Grasse was not legally binding, as it was executed on substandard European toilet paper. And signed by a French crackhead. I'm back and ready to immerse myself in the biz once again!
There's no denying the impact the Sex and the City opening weekend grosses have had on the studio mindset today. All-time romantic comedy record with $55.7 million, besting Hitch's $43.1. The eye-opener: 75% of the audience was female, 80% older than 25. Preliminary figures show the remainder of the audience consisted of 18% gay men, 2% gay women, 2% transgender, 1.5% seeing eye dog, 1% straight male, and .05% confused about sexual orientation.
After perusing these numbers, I got right on the horn to the development department to see if Manka has any plans to cater to this once dormant, now vibrant demographic. Sure enough, some languishing female-driven projects have now been moved to the front burner.
Kevin in development told me Robin Rafe just this morning greenlit a script called Fun and Dames, which follows the sexual exploits of four 70-something former beauty queens living in a retirement home. In the film, a team of gay interns busts them all out so one of them can pledge her love to the man that got away, and the rest of them can hit on waiters.
Hey everybody. I gotta make this quick because I'm writing this week's blog from Mia Cybercafe at Jan van Galenstraat 190 in Amsterdam and I only have enough money for ten minutes. Plus there's a skinny, tattooed guy wearing eye makeup staring at me.
I cannot possibly tell you in this short time how I came to be in this city at this time. As you know, last week I was at the Cannes Film Festival. After my hotel room was robbed, things went downhill for me. Left with no more films to see, I found myself on a drinking binge. Wearing only my Hall and Oates t-shirt, I crawled from bar to bar. I threw barstools through windows. Puked on a Belgian publicist. I got into a fight with some gay guys and they busted me up good. Split lip and black eye.
I ended up in a fetal position on a cobblestone street Sunday night, and was helped to my feet by a glowering, swarthy man, smoking a Camel and holding a festival award. He introduced himself as Nuri Bilge Ceylan, a Turkish man who I came to understand won Best Director for something called "Three Monkeys", which I assume is about monkeys. He said he was on cloud nine, absolutely bristling with energy, and he asked me to take a "spirited ride with him, to anywhere and everywhere, a journey of self-discovery!" My mother always taught me never to turn down a ride from a Turk. It offends them deeply. So I accepted.
He drove at top speed through provincial French towns and villages, smoking like a refinery, popping amphetamines and shouting about Turkish persecution, familial disclocation and Eva Longoria. Oh, what he would do to Eva Longoria. Through the dreamlike haze of smoke, all I could see was his close-cropped spiky hair, his wild, deep-set eyes and jutting, purposeful chin. He said something about my bush being a "keeler". He said, "Your bush has keeled so many! Your bush is a lowlife keeler!" I have no idea what the hell he was talking about. I don't have a bush. Then he made me drive while he had intercourse with a hooker in the passenger seat, whom he dumped at the Netherlands border, screaming something about the truth of existence.
In Amsterdam, we smoked joint after joint, knocked over bike riders and climbed steeples, from which we hocked loogies. But his loogies were better, because they were in Turkish. The last I saw him, he was swimming the length of a canal, weeping, crying out for someone named Hatice.
And so I find myself here at the Mia Cybercafe. Skinny tattooed guy asked me how much I wanted for my t-shirt. I sold it to him for 6 Euros. Now I am shirtless. And his friends are chanting, "Manboobs, manboobs..."
Umm, let's see. I understand "Indy 4" took in $151 mil domestic and $311 global. Net looks to be considerable. I sold the foreign rights to Manka Highbrow's "The Reticence of Butterflies" for a buck and a half on a street corner in Grasse.
Greetings, you bumps on a blog! I have the privilege of writing this week's entry from the exciting Cannes Film Festival. I wasn't originally supposed to be one of the Manka reps on the Croisette this year, but after a food poisoning outbreak ravaged the acquisitions department early last week, I was selected to round out the team, a real rarity for a Junior VP in the P&P division.
What a whirlwind it has been since my arrival. We are feverishly sifting through the product here for a gem that Manka can pick up for a song and make a bundle on. Acquisitions overall are running a disappointing 22% less than last year, while product availability is, by all accounts, up by 36%. Distributors so far are spending on average $750,000 per deal, 67% of which is straight to DVD fare. My team leader Nick Wolcott has kept me hopping from screening to screening. I viewed a powerful film from Algeria called The Slaughter of the Annaba Children, an intense movie from Oman titled Murbat Puppy Death, and the much-anticipated seven hour opus from Finland, The Frozen Nuns of Tampere. I thought there was some good stuff there, but Nick said they wouldn't play with the Juno crowd.
Fortunately, I was able to bring a guest with me to the festival (at 20% off the airfare). I've had a cute little "developing" relationship with the girl who lives two townhouses down from me named Carina, this way hot latin bartender from the karaoke place I frequent. When I asked her to come with me to Cannes, she became so ecstatic I thought she was going to hyperventilate! Manka Bros. put us up at the Hotel Des Parfums, in some place called Grasse, a little further out that you would like, but bloggers can't be choosers. The smells of rotting brie and sweat in the lobby didn't put me off, but Carina became nauseous then cried for 20 minutes. We dropped our stuff in the room (small and musty, but charming) and hightailed it for Cannes.
At the Carlton, I left Carina at the bar while I quickly met with Nick and the team. By the time I got back, Carina was making out with Gael Garcia Bernal. They disappeared onto a yacht and I haven't seen her since. When I got back to the Des Parfums, I discovered the room had been burglarized (a Cannes rite of passage, apparently), including my laptop and a gold watch my dad gave me. There was a drunk chanteuse wailing outside my window all night, all I have to wear is my old Hall & Oates t-shirt, and I paid $16 for a banana, but I'm in Cannes, Goddamnit! Eat it, all you f-ing Junior veeps!!
Manka Highbrow is considering acquiring three titles from the midnight screenings, Eviscerated, The Gangreen Gang, and The Rabid Ferrets of Anal Creek. Manka Highbrow's lone Cannes offering, The Bloody Stumps of Elsa Cry, has generated only passing interest from international distribution entities.
(If anyone sees Carina, have her call me at the Des Parfums, room 408.)
Good to be back with you again this week! I appreciate all the comments on last week's blog, and I shall endeavor to improve in the weeks ahead. Of course, one comment in particular affected me very deeply, and I had to take Monday off to see my therapist and get my prescriptions refilled. But I'm back and raring to go today.
Well, the talk in the contracts and residuals departments here at Manka continues to revolve around the SAG/AMPTP negotiations and the impending actors strike. Word is the two sides are far from a deal due to SAG's unwillingness to adhere to the establised New Media framework, recommending as many as 70 changes to it, as well as a demand to double, yes double the existing DVD formula. With production costs at an all-time high, acquiescing to these demands would simply increase these costs as well as decrease profitability for the studios.
Guild strikes have a far-reaching impact on all facets of the industry. The 1988 WGA Strike cost the industry an estimated $500 million. It hit many hard, including myself. I had just dropped out of my junior year at Stanford to become a TV actor, because a frat brother told me at a kegger that I'd make a good "wacky neighbor on a sitcom." I struggled for months, until I finally landed an audition as a dorky mailman on the hit series "Small Wonder." The day before my appointment, the WGA membership voted to strike and the network cancelled the series.
Hello out there in entertainment blogland. My name is Kurt Barnet and I'm a Junior VP in the Profits and Participations division here at Manka Bros. Studios. Welcome to my innaugural treatise on today's motion picture industry. The trends, the marketing and the outlook. An inside the studio look at the impact our films have on the outside world. Special thanks to all the Senior VPs for allowing me this forum on the website.
We may as well jump right into this thing by analyzing the most recent box office results. Good news going into the summer movie season -- weekend box office was up 15% compared to last year. Low budget films showed promise for maximum profitablilty when marketed aggressively on more screens. Attendance by 17-24 year olds, as well as the over 45 crowd, has seen a 22% increase this year.
This week's number 1 film proved that female leads can open a movie. I viewed "Baby Mama" at a local cinema on Sunday. Some decent laughs and good performances, but I cried much of the time because it reminded me of my old girlfriend, who told me I'd make a terrible father, then went off and got artificially insemenated. Not a surrogate, like in this movie, but the premise was close enough. I get butterflies just writing about it. How is it old relationships can still hit you so hard, you know, after such a long time? Her name was Claire, and she was smart and funny and beautiful. I've never met a Claire who wasn't. We shared yummy chocolate crepes on our first date. I'll never forget the way she stared at my deformed earlobes, grimacing. She had a luminous grimace. We yearned to procreate together, but after I knocked a kid's candy apple into a pond one day in the park, she said she must've been wrong about me, wrong about everything. She left me that night. I guess it was for the best. Kid would've ended up with my earlobes.
New Line's "Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay" pulled in a healthy $14.3 million. Prognosticators predict a short, marginally-profitable theatrical life for the film, but ancillary looks to be considerable. Manka Bros.' drama "Spinners" dropped 42% in its third weekend, pulling in $2,525 at 658 venues. The net looks to be modest to non-existent.
See ya next week!
We may as well jump right into this thing by analyzing the most recent box office results. Good news going into the summer movie season -- weekend box office was up 15% compared to last year. Low budget films showed promise for maximum profitablilty when marketed aggressively on more screens. Attendance by 17-24 year olds, as well as the over 45 crowd, has seen a 22% increase this year.
This week's number 1 film proved that female leads can open a movie. I viewed "Baby Mama" at a local cinema on Sunday. Some decent laughs and good performances, but I cried much of the time because it reminded me of my old girlfriend, who told me I'd make a terrible father, then went off and got artificially insemenated. Not a surrogate, like in this movie, but the premise was close enough. I get butterflies just writing about it. How is it old relationships can still hit you so hard, you know, after such a long time? Her name was Claire, and she was smart and funny and beautiful. I've never met a Claire who wasn't. We shared yummy chocolate crepes on our first date. I'll never forget the way she stared at my deformed earlobes, grimacing. She had a luminous grimace. We yearned to procreate together, but after I knocked a kid's candy apple into a pond one day in the park, she said she must've been wrong about me, wrong about everything. She left me that night. I guess it was for the best. Kid would've ended up with my earlobes.
New Line's "Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay" pulled in a healthy $14.3 million. Prognosticators predict a short, marginally-profitable theatrical life for the film, but ancillary looks to be considerable. Manka Bros.' drama "Spinners" dropped 42% in its third weekend, pulling in $2,525 at 658 venues. The net looks to be modest to non-existent.
See ya next week!
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