Portugal: The Director's Cut
June 10, 2002 - Jack Shit Studios - Production Offices
The large oak paneled room was filled with a haze of cigar smoke. Heavily shaded windows ran the length of one side, while on its opposite were a vast collection of pictures, each a portrait of some important person from the past, eyes burning steadily on the occupants of the room, casting judgment, and not necessarily proud of what they saw.
Around the great rectangular table, a dark, heavy, decadent piece of cedarwood furniture and it's associated velvet plush chairs, sat men in Armani and Hugo Boss suits. They were an assortment of shapes, sizes, ages, and looks. Some meek, others mild, others full of cockiness and confidence.
At the head of the table sat a chart, a great board on a large easel, filled with numbers and dark, foreboding lines. The men in suits thumped their chests, puffed their stogies, and stared at the chart, full of dismay.
Across the top of the graph, in bold letters, was a single word: RATINGS. Beneath the word, a thick black line, broken in equal parts with vertical markers, resembled a steep ski slope.
A medium built man, round of face and rounder of body, rocked back on his heels, snapping bland suspenders with a sound that caused the room to grow quiet.
Satisfied with their attention, he began in a nasal whine. "Gentlemen, ladies, we are, to put it politely, swimming in a flushed toilet." There was some uncomfortable shifting. "The spring sweeps have arrived, and we've finished behind the 'Environment Channel'." He punctuated his point by jabbing at the diagram with a stubby cigar. "It is an understatement that we must do better. We need original ideas, or heads will roll!"
There was dead silence. A tiny voice coughed and a hand went up. "How about a Judge show?"
The round man snarled, "It's been done to death!"
Another voice, "Well, we can take a group of whining losers into the Canadian Arctic and film their struggle for survival as they backstab one another for $100,000 and a nice Eskimo carving."
"It's been done."
"How about a show that deals with police officers breaking up domestic quarrels in Kentucky?"
"It's been done."
An arm went up. "Er, here, sir. I think this is original. We have a talk show where people come from all over the country and bare their souls in the most embarrassing manner with completely made up stories. Of course the viewers will think the crap is real..."
"IT'S BEEN DONE! However, one word of what you said makes sense. C-R-A-P. It's all crap!"
A thin, rakish man stood, his threadlike hair brushed across a wide forehead in a feeble attempt to cover a burgeoning baldspot. "But, isn't our motto, 'Never Overestimate the Intelligence of the Average Viewer'?"
The round man stared sheepishly at the glowering pictures along the wall. He imagined they were wagging disappointed fingers at him. "Er, ah... it is, at that. Long gone are the days of quality television."
The rakish man pressed his point. "Perhaps the average viewer is gaining in intelligence."
This resulted in an outpouring of outrageous laughter, as men and women slapped the table and derided the speaker without mercy.
Properly humbled, the man sat down, his sobs quietly filling the dark room.
Another hand went up. "We could do a science fiction series about a huge space station filled with aliens. It would be like a galactic meeting place. We could add evil aliens, and the station could become the last, best hope for mankind."
The round man nodded, slowly. "At least you don't want to do a show about a bunch of politically correct earthlings who meet various alien races each week, with cheap nose makeup, at that. However, as good as your idea is, it's been done."
The man slammed his fist on the table. "Damn!"
There was another cough, and a woman stood. She was rather bland looking, with an oval face, hair tied back in a bun and sporting large glasses. "How about a mini-series?"
All eyes turned to her. Someone said, "A mini-series? You mean quality television like that 'Band of Brothers' show? It'll never sell with the viewers. They need pabulum. They want Brady Bunch Reunion Movies, formula driven comedy shows that require a laugh track so the trained seals know when to clap?"
Pursing her lips, she continued. "I mean exactly that! A mini-series. What's the most popular non-network channel?" She waited for a response, but no one offered. She sighed, exasperated. "The History Channel! Don't you all see it? We do a mini-series based on some country. It will be an ongoing saga following some... I don't know, maybe 400 years..."
"400 YEARS!!!" The room erupted.
After the noise died down. "Well, maybe less, depending on the ratings, of course. The beauty is, we get the best talent in the market to play the key roles. And since it will be perceived as 'quality TV', the big sponsors will come on board."
Her fervor was met with quiet disdain, and slowly the woman's enthusiasm drained. She sat down.
The round man was ready to continue when a voice spoke up. It was booming and disembodied, coming from an office somewhere several floors up. "That's the best idea I've heard in months, you morons." All heads turned to the speaker tucked in the corner of the meeting room. "What country did you have in mind, young lady?"
"Well, I was thinking of Portugal, Mr. President, sir."
"Portugal. Any particular reason?"
"Well, sir. It would give us a chance to explore the world as it develops. Not only the known world, but the New World, too. There's the opportunity for diplomacy, intrigue, love, war, exploration... we could begin in say, 1419, and..."
"Enough!"
The room went silent again.
"I'm sold. You should be too, you mindless automatons. Excepting you, of course, Miss. If this show is a hit, expect to go places. Gentlemen, I want production to commence immediately. Am I understood?"
The room cleared in record time.
They would have to build sets, hire producers, directors, film crews, actors, actresses, extras, and scout locations. Above all, they would need a script...
June 10, 2002 - Jack Shit Studios - Production Offices
The large oak paneled room was filled with a haze of cigar smoke. Heavily shaded windows ran the length of one side, while on its opposite were a vast collection of pictures, each a portrait of some important person from the past, eyes burning steadily on the occupants of the room, casting judgment, and not necessarily proud of what they saw.
Around the great rectangular table, a dark, heavy, decadent piece of cedarwood furniture and it's associated velvet plush chairs, sat men in Armani and Hugo Boss suits. They were an assortment of shapes, sizes, ages, and looks. Some meek, others mild, others full of cockiness and confidence.
At the head of the table sat a chart, a great board on a large easel, filled with numbers and dark, foreboding lines. The men in suits thumped their chests, puffed their stogies, and stared at the chart, full of dismay.
Across the top of the graph, in bold letters, was a single word: RATINGS. Beneath the word, a thick black line, broken in equal parts with vertical markers, resembled a steep ski slope.
A medium built man, round of face and rounder of body, rocked back on his heels, snapping bland suspenders with a sound that caused the room to grow quiet.
Satisfied with their attention, he began in a nasal whine. "Gentlemen, ladies, we are, to put it politely, swimming in a flushed toilet." There was some uncomfortable shifting. "The spring sweeps have arrived, and we've finished behind the 'Environment Channel'." He punctuated his point by jabbing at the diagram with a stubby cigar. "It is an understatement that we must do better. We need original ideas, or heads will roll!"
There was dead silence. A tiny voice coughed and a hand went up. "How about a Judge show?"
The round man snarled, "It's been done to death!"
Another voice, "Well, we can take a group of whining losers into the Canadian Arctic and film their struggle for survival as they backstab one another for $100,000 and a nice Eskimo carving."
"It's been done."
"How about a show that deals with police officers breaking up domestic quarrels in Kentucky?"
"It's been done."
An arm went up. "Er, here, sir. I think this is original. We have a talk show where people come from all over the country and bare their souls in the most embarrassing manner with completely made up stories. Of course the viewers will think the crap is real..."
"IT'S BEEN DONE! However, one word of what you said makes sense. C-R-A-P. It's all crap!"
A thin, rakish man stood, his threadlike hair brushed across a wide forehead in a feeble attempt to cover a burgeoning baldspot. "But, isn't our motto, 'Never Overestimate the Intelligence of the Average Viewer'?"
The round man stared sheepishly at the glowering pictures along the wall. He imagined they were wagging disappointed fingers at him. "Er, ah... it is, at that. Long gone are the days of quality television."
The rakish man pressed his point. "Perhaps the average viewer is gaining in intelligence."
This resulted in an outpouring of outrageous laughter, as men and women slapped the table and derided the speaker without mercy.
Properly humbled, the man sat down, his sobs quietly filling the dark room.
Another hand went up. "We could do a science fiction series about a huge space station filled with aliens. It would be like a galactic meeting place. We could add evil aliens, and the station could become the last, best hope for mankind."
The round man nodded, slowly. "At least you don't want to do a show about a bunch of politically correct earthlings who meet various alien races each week, with cheap nose makeup, at that. However, as good as your idea is, it's been done."
The man slammed his fist on the table. "Damn!"
There was another cough, and a woman stood. She was rather bland looking, with an oval face, hair tied back in a bun and sporting large glasses. "How about a mini-series?"
All eyes turned to her. Someone said, "A mini-series? You mean quality television like that 'Band of Brothers' show? It'll never sell with the viewers. They need pabulum. They want Brady Bunch Reunion Movies, formula driven comedy shows that require a laugh track so the trained seals know when to clap?"
Pursing her lips, she continued. "I mean exactly that! A mini-series. What's the most popular non-network channel?" She waited for a response, but no one offered. She sighed, exasperated. "The History Channel! Don't you all see it? We do a mini-series based on some country. It will be an ongoing saga following some... I don't know, maybe 400 years..."
"400 YEARS!!!" The room erupted.
After the noise died down. "Well, maybe less, depending on the ratings, of course. The beauty is, we get the best talent in the market to play the key roles. And since it will be perceived as 'quality TV', the big sponsors will come on board."
Her fervor was met with quiet disdain, and slowly the woman's enthusiasm drained. She sat down.
The round man was ready to continue when a voice spoke up. It was booming and disembodied, coming from an office somewhere several floors up. "That's the best idea I've heard in months, you morons." All heads turned to the speaker tucked in the corner of the meeting room. "What country did you have in mind, young lady?"
"Well, I was thinking of Portugal, Mr. President, sir."
"Portugal. Any particular reason?"
"Well, sir. It would give us a chance to explore the world as it develops. Not only the known world, but the New World, too. There's the opportunity for diplomacy, intrigue, love, war, exploration... we could begin in say, 1419, and..."
"Enough!"
The room went silent again.
"I'm sold. You should be too, you mindless automatons. Excepting you, of course, Miss. If this show is a hit, expect to go places. Gentlemen, I want production to commence immediately. Am I understood?"
The room cleared in record time.
They would have to build sets, hire producers, directors, film crews, actors, actresses, extras, and scout locations. Above all, they would need a script...
Last edited:
