Jacqueline Malcolm had written Oscar-winning screenplays. Past tense, as it had, admittedly, been a while. A decade or so, really. Early in the millennium, sure, but the century was no longer quite so young. It was 2013, and the world no longer belonged to the likes of Jacqueline.
She took Marty’s call. She would’ve anyway, of course, but in her desperation, and knowing Marty, which everyone in Tinseltown did, she knew exactly what he was thinking, and in the seconds it took to hear his voice, after she picked up, she had already been drafting a script in her head. She listened as he explained his vision, but she could already see hers.
She didn’t much care about Kate Meadows. Provincial. If someone had written a novel, and some actress, or Oprah, had recommended it in their book club, it would’ve been a different story, of course. That was a win for the culture. Jacqueline kept his finger on the pulse. Important, in this business. “Important to the culture” was the wave of the future, especially if Hollywood said so.
She didn’t like Marty’s take, but there was no way she was going to tell him that. She worked on two separate drafts, one that followed his ideas, and the other that followed hers.
Jacqueline’s story revolved around the sword. She had no idea why. She called it the ripped blade, exactly as the media had it, exactly as, or so she’d heard, some mystery writer had called theirs. Competitor. She didn’t worry about it. Marty could iron out the details.
Why it was her subject was very much original to Jacqueline. Somewhere she’d read about Ursula Shelton having once been in possession of the sword. In Jacqueline’s mind the thing was cursed. Kate Meadows was cursed. She had a private investigator straight out of classic film noir pursuing it.
In the end, like The Maltese Falcon, the sword is found, but it offers no real answers. Buried, in this instance, in Kate’s heart (creative license). But a great visual. The stuff dreams are made of, you might say…
But she couldn’t. That one had already been used, alas.
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