Well, this is a first. Instead of submitting the typical few lines about his favorite burger, Hell On Wheels' most wanted Anson Mount actually wrote all his culinary escapades into a f*cking Friday Fives screenplay.
Anson's Friday Fives screenplay
"My Submission for The Infatuation"
by Anson Mount
INT. BROOKLYN APARTMENT - DAY
Anson Mount (desperately clinging to his late 30's by a bare thread, long hair, beard, takes himself way too seriously at times) sits at his desk, staring at his computer screen.
ANSON'S POV: An emailed Word document titled "The Infatuation. _ Friday Fives! _ Two easy steps to an awesome feature." Tons of text underneath it.
He checks his email (nothing new). Bored and uninspired he tries humming. He slaps his hands on his desk in an attempt to mimic Mitch Mitchell (it never works). He gazes out his window:
ANSON’S POV: Several HISPANIC MEN working outside his window, Anson pauses. An idea forms. He begins to type.
CLOSE UP – COMPUTER SCREEN:
Esperanto – 145 Avenue C (corner of E 9th) - It’s my favorite Cuban hide-a-way tucked into the corner of a once rather obscure neighborhood (although it has now been commandeered by the post-artist, young executive poser crowd… memo to delete this comment later so as to avoid conflict with friends who are executives). If hasn’t been franchised yet, then it likely has live Cuban music on most nights. They sport a can’t-go-wrong menu that is both cheap and broad within its genre.
Anson sits back in his chair, reviews what he just wrote. Okay. Not so bad. He can do this. He looks at his watch. Shit. Time to go. He grabs his jacket and...
INT. DOWNTOWN BAR – EARLY EVENING
Anson, wearing jeans and a jacket, sips whiskey with his friends Branan and Rik. Both are Anson’s age and possessed by the same fuckers-are-out-to-get-us- all sense of humor. They too sport cheap attempts at formal attire.
So listen. If you guys had to pick one
restaurant in the city to recommend,
what would it be?
RIK What kind of question is that?
Just humor me.
He begins writing on a…
CLOSE UP – COCKTAIL NAPKIN
The Brindle Room – 277 East 10th Street - After an exhaustive 3 year, 5 borough search I finally found the greatest burger in NYC. The key is the meat. They have their own butcher in NJ who specially cuts the dry aged beef. And everything else I’ve tried on their menu is great. Sometimes they have poutine, which is a real treat, and their specials always please. Not too expensive, small and cozy, this is one of my favorite spots in the city.
(Looking at his watch)
Okay. Hate to do this to you guys, but
we're gonna be late for the premiere.
BRANAN Will this be better than the last one?
No guarantees, but I did my best. Let's
The three of them set their drinks down and walk towards camera as “Making Time” by The Creation kicks in. (Memo to change this song at a later time so as to avoid being derivative.)
INT. AFTER-PARTY – MEAT PACKING DISTRICT – NIGHT
New York glitterati mix with the hope-to-soon-be glitterati in a way that, if one were to suddenly transport the random pedestrian off of 6th Avenue and plop them down in the middle of the room, such an objective observer might say, “What the hell happened? Why am I in LA?”
Anson, Branan, and Rik heft more drinks.
After that movie, I feel like my soul has
had it’s first major colonic.
ANSON That's not a compliment, is it?
RIK Sorry, bro.
Look, there are movies you do for art,
BRANAN ...there are movies you regret?
Basically. You haven't given me your
restaurant review yet.
Branan holds up his iPhone.
You were playing on your phone during
the movie, weren't you?
BRANAN Only during the last hour and a half.
Anson shakes his head and looks at Branan’s iPhone.
CLOSE UP: IPHONE – A VIDEO: A smiling man (60s and looking like your favoritebuncle) standing in front of a classic diner exterior. He looks into the cameraband waves.
Hi, there. Welcome to Tom’s Restaurant,
located at 782 Washington Avenue in
Brooklyn. Come on over for a nice Saturday
brunch. The lines can be long, but don’t
worry! We’ll always come out to the line
with hot cocoa and cookies when it’s cold
and samples of our famous cinnamon
bread when it’s warm. Come on over to
a classic Brooklyn diner. We pride ourselves
on making you feel welcome. And try
our pancakes! Have a wonderful day!
ANSON That's a great idea. Love that place.
Don't look now but I think the rest of
your night is walking this way.
Anson looks where Rik is indicating and… Bam!
There she is. Not just a girl. THE GIRL (20s but we’ll say 30s so that I sound less shallow). She walks towards Anson in semi-slow motion, the speed that only exists in beer commercials and other delusions of the libidinous. She approaches… achingly slowly.
THE GIRL Hi.
How-za… Wha-za… Hey.
He gulps his fruit infused martini, grabs another from a waitress dressed like a French hooker.
THE GIRL You seem to be putting them down.
It's what I do.
THE GIRL How'd you like the film?
ANSON I asked you first.
THE GIRL You did?
ANSON Not really, but go with it.
(strangely annoying giggle)
You're funny. Well, I thought you were
fantastic! You're really good at playing
opposite pop stars!
It's what I do.
It was so dreamy how you saved her
from those evil robots that were
disguised as high-end kitchen appliances!
That was off... the chain!
Uh-huh. Speaking of. Humor me for a
second. If you could name your favorite
restaurant in New York, what would it be?
THE GIRL Oh, god. Le Cirque, right?!?
You're not from New York, are you?
THE GIRL I'm in from LA.
ANSON Of course you are.
Suddenly, the roof of the club splits open. The foundation shakes. People scream. Looking up, and somehow expecting this, Anson sees:
A giant ROBOT, shaped like next year’s luxury model cuisinart, peels the ceiling away like a birthday present. It growls with the demonic voice of a recently employed voice-over actor.
ROBOT Prepare for death, mortals!
THE GIRL Anson! You have to get us out of here!
No, hot girl, I'm sorry. Our fates are divided. You must go back to Los Angeles... or, of course, die at the mercy of a giant cake mixer. I must stay here and fulfill my commitment to writing capsule reviews of obscure eateries in New York.
The crowd has begun to scream and crowd the exits in chaos as the giant Cuisinart Robot begins grabbing glitterati and popping them in his mouth like garnished canapé.
But... That thing... !
I'm not saying this to make you go.
I'm saying it because it's true. We'll
always have the Boom Boom Room.
Anson kisses her. Blood spatters them. He turns and begins walking towards us in that semi-slow motion that only exists in Lifetime movies-of-the-week and in the minds of the creatively dim. In the deep focus behind him we can just make out The Girl getting plucked from existence as the Cuisinart Robot continues to enjoy his after-party.
Anson walks listlessly out of the Meat-Packing District, wondering if the urban architect in charge of this fiasco just copied the blueprints to little Santa Monica and called it a day.
MONTAGE: He wanders past diners, Senegalese and Jamaican mom 'n' pop places, little holes in the wall most people don’t notice amidst the hustle and bustle that allows them the lifestyle to pretend they aren’t living in this city. He wanders past his favorite sushi place and makes a mental note:
Yama Sushi – 122 East 17th Street, at Irving Place. Located in the basement of an old brownstone, don’t expect ambiance or assholes dressed in Prada presenting a single sprig of edamame sprouting from an internally lit decanter of ice. Do expect generous portions of the freshest fish daily at a price that cannot be beat. They don’t accept reservations so get there early or muscle through the wait. It’s worth it.
Anson strolls southward towards Chinatown. He’s bored. Worn out.
He spots a somewhat dowdy WOMAN (white, 40s) sitting on a bench reading a Jane Austen novel. On the other side of the bench is a MAN (40s, Asian) reading a biography of Anthony Kiedis. Maybe if Jane Austen Girl and Anthony Kiedis Man had children… that might be the magic formula. Of course it would be an Iggy Poppish literary femi-Nazi… or a Melissa Gilbertish musical man-child. All the same, perhaps that child’s fate would be to popularize affordable cuisine in a brand new, common man’s guide that tops Zagat’s in popularity.
Suddenly Anson stops walking and looks up to find himself standing in front of:
Joe’s Shanghai - 9 Pell Street. Locals and the non Mandarin speakers are welcomed with open arms. Here you will find the best soup dumplings in town. Be careful though! They’re piping hot. The rest of the menu offers regular dim-sum fare and excellent main dishes. If you’re looking for authentic Chinese and to experience the sumptuousness that is a soup dumpling, make your way here.
Maybe there is hope after all. Anson closes his eyes, taking a moment for himself. He breathes in the spicy aromas of Chinatown. And then…
He is flattened by the base of a GE Monogram cooking range (as popularized on TV’s “Top Chef”… memo to delete this later for fear of corporate litigation). Its oven door opens, and it speaks in the deep, resonate tones of a different recently employed voice-over actor.
Ha ha ha ha!!! Hee hee hee... heh... eh...
(mumbles to himself)
Thought that would be a lot more
He pulls out a gigantic cell phone shaped like a waffle iron. Puts it to the side of his range top. Someone on the other end picks up.
Yo. Whatcha doin?
Oh yeah? The Boom Boom Room? No shit.
Uuuuuuuuuh... Yeah. I mean the line at
the rope must be down the block by
Oh seriously? So I just... ?
"Carl"? I tell them "Carl" said that I'm
on his list?
Wait, what? WHAT?!
Can I bring FOOD?! Is that what you're
asking me? Um... Well, there's this Chinese
Chinese place right here. I uh... I guess
I could uh...
No, no, it's fine. I'll... yeah. Yeah.
I said YEAH! I'll get the... But I'll be on
the LIST, RIGHT?!
What? I... I'll bring food! I said I'll BRING...
Hello? Hello? He- ...
He looks at his waffle-iron phone.
GE MONOGRAM (Cont'd)
Did you... ? Did he... ? Motha-fucka.
He pockets the waffle-iron phone and leans down to the window-front of Joe’s Shanghai. He gingerly taps on the glass.
GE MONOGRAM (Cont'd)
Um... Hello? Hello? Nee haow? Nee...
Hello? Nee haow?
FADE TO BLACK