Print This Post Print This Post

Avoiding Fatal AttractionFacebooktwitterlinkedinmail

In my righteous hand I hold the script of the satanic movie Fatal Attraction and today emphasize that the horrific events were only hammered onto paper as an exercise in cinematic fantasy and not meant to become real. I’m certain the ensuing nightmares will remain until I, the remorseful director, reshape reality by compelling Michael Douglas to make more prudent decisions which original screenwriter James Dearden, who’s recording this conversation in an adjoining room, will fashion in a way that spares our sensibilities.

“Michael,” I say, “couldn’t you see that Glenn Close was edgy and likely unhinged from the start.”

“Look, I was a horny guy whose wife was out of town. Going home with her seemed low risk.”

“I certainly wouldn’t have done that.”

“Are you sure?” Douglas asks.

“I am, indeed.”

“You get many hot offers like that?”

“That’s not the point. At any rate, you certainly should’ve been alarmed about her wild sexual behavior, kissing you so frenetically in her elevator and then stopping it between floors so she could fellate you.”

“Based on what I knew and felt at that moment, I can’t see any changes there.”

I adjust my thick glasses. “You should’ve bailed out when she called you at home and said she didn’t like it when she woke up and you were gone.”

“I agree with you there,” says Douglas. “But what happens to the movie if I don’t meet her in the park and bang her again in her apartment?”

“We’re worried about protecting people, not maximizing drama. Maybe we could instead focus on your law practice.”

“That’s not very exciting.”

“It’s better than what happens,” I say. “She’s outraged to learn you’re married.”

“I told her she’s terrific, but I’ve got a family.”

“She doesn’t like that or the way ‘you run away every time’ you make love.”

“What does she expect?” Douglas asks.

“After she starts crying and clinging to you, I’d have expected you to call it off.”

“Okay, but she slashed her wrists. I had to help.”

“If you’d walked out the door she would’ve died and that would’ve been the end,” I say.

“But with more than half the movie to go.”

I place my chin in one hand and think. “Though I disagree with the sin of adultery, we must conclude you should’ve found another girlfriend.”

“I guess we could’ve done that, but where’s the tension? What’s going to keep the audience hooked?”

“You don’t need a series of obsessive and psychotic girlfriends to keep people interested.”

In professorial style, Douglas says, “When the name of the picture is Fatal Attraction, I need at least one.”

“All right, we must change the name of the film.”

“We’re too far in for that,” says Douglas.

“I’m simply trying to make things less difficult for you. There she sat in your office, waiting for you to return from house hunting in the country. It’s sad when this woman apologizes for upsetting you and invites you to a play.”

“I told her it wasn’t a good idea. That’s as well as I could’ve handled it.”

“I’ve got it. You can tell her she’s obsessive and needs help. They’ve got some wonderful psychotropic medications.”

Nodding, Douglas says, “Put that in. Maybe she won’t call me at work and force me to tell her I can’t talk to her anymore and I’m sorry if I’ve inadvertently misled her.”

“We really should have this woman committed.”

“On what grounds? I couldn’t have done that even after she called me late at night and demanded an immediate meeting to claim she was pregnant and warn me to ‘play fair’ with her.”

“We’ve got to intervene, Michael. Get a restraining order.”

“Because a woman calls to tell me I’ve got her pregnant? Plus, she’d tell my wife.”

“The latter doesn’t matter, under the circumstances,” I say.

Pointing his index finger at me, Douglas says, “As an attorney, I’m telling we can’t legally touch her so far. I couldn’t have done anything even after I came home and found her pretending to be an apartment hunter talking to my wife who tells her where we’ll be moving outside the city.”

“I cringed when she told your wife she’s pregnant. But you aggravated her the way you stormed over to her apartment.”

“No matter what, she would’ve accused me of treating her like a slut and threatened to tell my wife.”

“But you threatened to kill her if she told.”

“Maybe I should’ve killed her.”

“You’d have gone to prison.”

“That’s all that saved her,” he says.

“You should’ve called the police when she burned up your car engine.”

“I couldn’t prove she did it.”

“Why didn’t you show the police the tape she sent you?” I ask. “You could’ve proved she was dangerous, yelling, ‘you’re a cocksucking son of a bitch… I hate you… faggot.’”

“The police would’ve questioned her but there’s still no proof she torched my car.”

“Michael, a little candor on your part and the police would’ve had to lean on her.”

Screenwriter James Dearden shoves open the adjacent office door, knocking it into the wall, and seems unhinged as a male Glenn Close as he shouts, “You unmitigated morons. It’s too damn late to make major changes. You’ll only increase suffering. We’re sticking to what I wrote. She sneaks in and boils your family’s pet rabbit, forcing Michael to confess to his wife. I’m certainly not taking out my line when Michael calls Glenn and tells her he confessed to his wife who takes the phone, identifies herself, and says, ‘If you ever come near my family again, I’ll kill you.’”

“We need to stop her now,” I insist. “Otherwise, she’s going to basically kidnap your kid at school and take her to an amusement park and upset your wife so bad she rear ends someone and has to be hospitalized.”

“You’re right,” says Douglas, looking at me before he glances at James Dearden. “What the hell else can I do but break into her home, fight with her, and frankly almost get my ass kicked before I choke her. I should’ve continued. She damn near killed me with that knife. After disarming her I should’ve stabbed her. In fact, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You’re not going to destroy my classic final scene,” Dearden states. “Just like I wrote it, the police aren’t going to find her, and you, Michael, are going to finally notice water from the upstairs bathroom come through the ceiling into the living room and you’re going to sprint up there to stop Glenn from stabbing your wife and you’re going to drown her in the bathtub and think she’s dead but she’s not and she’s going to jump up and attack you and your wife’s going to shoot her.”

“This whole thing is crazy and dangerous,” I say.

“How crazy is making three hundred million bucks,” says Douglas.

“Well, maybe it’s worth it,” I say.

This entry was posted in Glenn Close, Michaael Douglas, Michael Douglas, Movies.