Competitive Director on Rachel Getting Married
Kym Got Stoned and Ran Over her Brother.
I don’t know if you remember the film Rachel Getting Married, where Anne Hathaway proved she was more than a pair of talking tits and eyebrows? Well I was this close (the space between your elbow and your tongue when you try and lick it) to getting that gig.
My name is R L Stine. Not that one. Every fucking time. It’s like two creative people with the same name can’t exist in this business. Do you think Steven Hawking, Ohio state competitive eating champion, has this problem? I tell you if I ever meet the other R L Stines mother I will punch her right in the kisser, and tell her today is the day she finally regrets reading the list of possible baby names my pregnant mother left on a bus in 1975.
I am a director by trade and have successfully directed many so-good-they-can’t-stop- them-from-leaping-onto-DVD classics such as Pig in Venice staring Alexia Arquette and The Land before Time 8: Still Cryin’ featuring the voice talents of Stewart French, (not to be confused with French Stewart.)
Despite my success, I always seem to miss out on the really big breasts, I mean breaks, I mean opportunities. I blame my name and the stigma it brings. People in the industry are all like “why don’t you go and right another book which makes the hair on my arms resemble that of the skin of shaven bird!” and I’m like “go fuck yourself.”
I was down to the final fifty for Rachel Getting Married. The job went to Jonathan “the douchbag” Demme. You probably know him as the douchebag who directed Silence of the Lambs. What a douchey film. I heard he spent five months in a tent with Anthony Hopkins, getting him into character, sucking him off, finding his animal spirit guide, sucking that off. I would have smacked him in the face and told him use his fucking years of acting training.
I didn’t get the RGM gig. I didn’t even get my foot in the door. I didn’t even get to send them my CV. I didn’t even write my CV. I only just worked out CV DOESN’T mean Cardio Vascular.
I streamed the whole thing illegally as soon as it came out and it’s five hours of people standing around at a wedding, and a dishwasher gets unloaded and then everyone gets upset about it, and then tits and eyebrows admits to having the LAMEST drug problem ever and then you get a gun and you shoot yourself in the head. In the head. And why do you shoot yourself in the head. Because these whiny rich Americans are meant to have problems?
Please. Those stakes were about as high as a midgets measuring stick. And the tension was about as tense as the waistband of a former weight watcher’s favourite pair of jeans after she got down to her ideal body mass index. Loose.
If I had directed RGM it would have swept the board at the 2008 Oscars. And the Tony’s. And the Emmy’s. And the Grammys. And the Nickelodeon teen choice awards .
For starters I wouldn’t have filmed it in that bullshit shaky cam way they call Naturalistic.
Industry inside tip: that’s just an excuse for running out of tripods.
He should have got some hard hats and attached two cameras to them, one pointing at the actors face and one from their POV (that’s point of view schmucks) and have them wear them all the time, so some days you might not even need to turn up. Or just, I don’t know, get about five more tripods and accept the audience knows it’s a fictional film and not a documentary, no matter how many people with parkinson’s you have on the cameras (too soon?)
And who the fuck is this Rachel anyway? Was Patch Adams called Nurse Jenny? Was Jack called Francis Ford Coppola directed this piece of shit? Fuck that. Name the film after the main character. That’s Lesson four at directing school.
Also is Tits Eyebrows meant to be Robert Smith? What is up with her unwashed hair and smudged eyeliner? Just because you’re a drug addict doesn’t mean you have to be a skank. Put on a nice shirt and buy some supermarket brand 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner. And don’t give us teenage angst pain when your 26, no one gives a fuck about that, give us real pain. I would have given her track marks up to her eyeballs and she should be missing at least three fingers. And she would have been naked all the time.
So, plot wise, as far as I could decipher, Kym was the black sheep of the family because she was so stoned she killed her brother in a car accident and wore boys clothes. She is now in rehab. Oh boo fucking boo hoo. WHO CARES? I get stoned all the time and operate fucking monsters trucks and my brother is safe and sound. I killed a cat once, but not my brother. I don’t even have a brother. But if I did my mother would have called him Franken.
(I laugh at myself, so others can’t.)
Kym is let out of rehab for the weekend to attend her sisters wedding, but she is also trying to make good and amends and sandwiches, and her sister forgives her, but her mom doesn’t and everyone learns a valuable lesson. The power to forgive. Apart from her mom, who is like “fuck that, wash your face, whose got the valium?” and I liked her the most. She seemed spunky.
But other then the mom character, there is no one else to root for and I spent most of the movie asleep. In fact I was so sleepy from the tired fucking clichéd plotline that my eyeballs crawled out of my head and into a hammock.
In my version Anne would have been at a naturalistic addiction centre, because she loves getting her tits out (shown frequently and constantly in Zack Snyder style slow mo CH CHING) and she wouldn’t have just killed her brother, she would have killed everyone. Fucking everyone. Apart from Rachel. That is her curse. She can never die. And she has a itch she can’t ever reach. And she is unable to get married. Ever. And instead of finding her dead brothers favourite piece of cutlery in the pivotal reveal scene where they empty the dishwasher, they find a magical diamond that can bring everyone back to life. They did that in Sunset Beach once #sixseasonsandamovie
Sure, the resulting film made money, but it was a liar.
If I had directed it as it was, script untouched, it would have had a disclaimer at the beginning where it admitted it was nothing but pretentious melodramatic oscar bait, and THAT’S OKAY. It’s what we all need in our lives from time to time, but let’s not pretend it’s anything other then entitlement gone wrong. Also as this clip proves she was never actually stoned, she is just a terrible driver.
Until next time.
My advice is priceless. But I do charge.
R. L Stine.