Screenwriter Robert J. Avrech was at a terrible movie premiere, when things got almost funny:
The film, a real stinker, at long last cuts to its final fade to black. Everyone is now mingling in the reception area. Guests congratulate the producer, director and stars, assuring them that the film is: ”great, just great,” and “the best work you’ve ever done,” all the expected and acceptable lies we tell each other.
Suddenly a chill sweeps through the room.
Something is happening.
It’s happening outside.
I step towards the large plate glass doors of the theater. The security men, two burly rent-a-cops, deeply alarmed, start locking the row of doors.
Snap, click.
Snap, click.
Snap, CRACK!
Mesmerized, I stare as something hard bounces off the thick glass. There is a tiny white wound.
“Step back from the doors,” the security men say.
I stay put. I want to see what’s happening.
“Please, step away from the doors,” they plead as more guests press forward trying to glimpse the fearful gathering outside.
I see it happening. A classic shot unwinding in slow motion: the mob swarms towards the DGA building, towards us: a thick wave of fury marching with a terrible velocity towards this cocoon of—there’s no way around this—Hollywood liberals.
Sheesh, talk about a target-rich environment.
It’s almost funny.
Here we are, inside, raising funds for inner city youth, and —
— and the inner city youth are outside trying to get in.
Not, mind you, to express their ever-lasting appreciation for our spectacular generosity. Nope, hard as it is to believe, but it looks as if the objects of our charity would like to lynch us.
Or maybe burn us to death.
Almost funny. But not quite.
Hey, This is Just Like the Movies, Only Not Really
Abruptly, we are plunged into darkness.
And as if on cue, a woman screams, just like in the movies.
It’s Wednesday evening, April 29, 1992. Read the whole thing.
(Hat tip to Greg Ellifritz.)