Picture this: An Oscar-winning super producer, a TV network super suit, their brand new Central London indie offices, and me in the hot seat (it’s still warm from the legendary actor who’s attached to their debut project) ready to pitch.
I notice neither has my painstakingly worded pitching document in front of them, that I’d strategically sent in 2 days prior (any earlier creates the chance it’ll be prematurely read and forgotten). I diplomatically refer to its existence. Neither has seen it. So I activate Plan B… Which is to spell out the entire proposal live in the room.
As I’m about to set the scene, an apologetic assistant appears at the doorway to say their film crew in Scandinavia is on the phone with urgent problems. My take-off stalls as super producer lady exits to engage.
‘Cheryl Cole’ accents aren’t decipherable across the pond.
TV man makes small talk about his big drama credits. One of which they’re remaking in American-English as its ‘Cheryl Cole’ accents aren’t decipherable across the pond. My small talk diminutively features weather, my train journey in and their reception’s decor (a water feature and giant plasmas covering all 4 walls).
She’s back. I launch in.
30 seconds gone: SP lady seems encouragingly enthralled, while he appears to be staring down at my crotch. Constantly staring down at it. This distracts and irks me, but I keep my eye on the ball.
Another 30 seconds: Now the assistant’s back. Scandinavia again. SP exits. He says “Continue”. I do. I set up situation, character, multiple plotlines. SP returns, sits and asks “What did I miss?” I re-cap to her, while he stares down. I don’t rise to it.
Re-enter the assistant. You’ve guessed it.
I pitch casting options, demographics, marketing. SP returns. I’m asked to re-re-cap (if only they’d read my document!), while again he casts his eyes….
I reach The End.
She tells me they’ll think on it. He tells my agent it could be big. We meet one more time. But the green light never comes.