It's Wednesday. Another hump day, another dollar. Are you itching for a little action to take you out of your humdrum, 9-to-5 lives? Then why not belly up to the hardboiled-pulp bar, and have a tall, cool glass of noir? Shaken, not slurred. C'mon. You know you want to ...
Screened another loser last night. Have to give my Netflix queue a kick in the ass. Tried to watch this incomprensible piece of crap called STAY. Had a great cast - Ewan MacGregor, Naomi Watts and Ryan Goseling -- but I could't figure out what the HELL was going on, and shut it off after an hour. In true dumbing-down fashion, the summary that Netflix gives you is not accurate. This rarely happens --I bow to the gods of that magic red envelope -- but when it does, you're a goner. I remember reading about when the deal for this movie happened in the trades. A big, cool, 'important/intellectual' thriller that everyone was 'so excited' about. A note to the suits -- you need to tell a story that makes sense. Check out VERTIGO or NORTH BY NORTHWEST, fellas. If at first you don't entertain, try, try again ...
Onto today's breathtaking scene from WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, and this one's a doozy. Private eye Carrie Love goes to interview dead producer Harvey Flender's partner Roland Yavo where he's staying at the Hotel California ...
And finds his dead body.
Hold onto your martini shakers, kids. It's gonna be a bumpy ride ...
EXT. HOTEL CALIFORNIA - NIGHT
The double-shot heartbreak swing of Bryan Setzer’s
SINCE I DON’T HAVE YOU over --
The parking lot. Splashy, flashy cars abound.
Carrie maneuvers '68 Olds convertible into a space.
The fly in the ointment.
INT. CARRIE’S CAR - CONTINUOUS
Carrie finishes an In-N’-Out burger.
Jenny munches on fries.
Just wait here. I’ll be right back.
Okay. Be careful --
Carrie gets out. Leans into the window.
Thanks for hanging out with me. It’s weird.
It feels like I’ve known you a long time.
Is that -- good?
You tell me.
INT. HOTEL CALIFORNIA - FRONT DESK
Carrie stands at the counter. No one.
She sees a bronze bell.
BANG-BANG-BANGS it --
BRING, BRING, BRING.
FEMALE VOICE (O.C.)
Hold on, I’m coming, I’m coming!
A FAT, GROTESQUE WOMAN
emerges from the back room. Repulsive.
Layers of fat ooze out from under her belly top.
Her three chins. Greasy grey hair in bangs,
clipped up on the sides for that ‘teenage look.’
Her stained T-shirt reads Livin’ La Vida Loca.
(pulls out a badge)
Homicide, fourth Precinct.
I’m looking for a Roland Yavo.
He’s staying here. Or so I’m told.
Haven’t had the law around in a while.
What he do?
Nothing. I just want to talk to him.
She pulls out a ten spot. Slides it over.
He’s in 24. Second floor.
EXT. HOTEL CORRIDOR - MOMENTS LATER
Carrie creeps down the outdoor walkway
that runs the length of the place.
Reaches 24. Stops.
Puts her ear to the door.
Faint TV sounds trickle out.
Some old movie soundtrack.
Carrie KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKS on the door.
Roland. Roland Yavo.
It’s Carrie Love --
She listens. Silence.
She pulls a pick from her pocket.
Works it in the lock.
A soft CLICK.
The door SWINGS OPEN.
She moves in.
INT. HOTEL ROOM - CONTINUOUS
A front room of a nice suite. Cozy.
Touristy-tacky. Nautical artwork.
A plasma-screen TV flashes over a fake fireplace.
Carrie moves to the bathroom.
In the doorway, we see pair of bare feet on the floor.
In a large puddle of BLOOD.
This is not good.
She goes in. Yavo lies on the tiles.
Shot in the temple.
His Colt lies next to his right hand.
Clumsily staged suicide.
Amateur-hour. Strictly non-pro.
Carrie grabs a hand towel.
Wipes down the doorknob.
All the surfaces she touched.
Closes the door.
OUTSIDE IN THE CORRIDOR
she looks around. No one.
Wipes that knob, too. Hurries off.
EXT. HOTEL CALIFORNIA - PARKING LOT - MOMENTS LATER
Carrie slides into the Olds.
GUNS the engine. HITS the gas.
What’s wrong? You look spooked.
Single gunshot, right in the kisser.
Shot with his own gun.
Old Raymond Chandler device.
Nice. When it works.
Did you -- call the police?
Not yet. I’ve finally been dealt a good hand.
And I’d like to play it out.