Albert Hammond’s “It Never Rains in Southern California” plays over a high shot of the city of Los Angeles. We PUSH IN on a blond girl, BARBARA “BOBBIE” KEEN on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, early twenties, blond, leggy, vivacious, but poor, two steps north of hipster or homeless. PAN AROUND to REVEAL her looking at a shop window, full of hope and California dreams as she looks at diamonds by herself.
A guy in his mid-forties pushes past, jostling her as he goes by. The sidewalk is empty; he’s just being a dick.
Way to stop and gawk in the middle of the sidewalk, Barbie!
Merry Christmas to you, too, dickhead.
Katrina Forrest looked up from the page, her green eyes perplexed. Her brow failed to show a single wrinkle, even while she struggled mightily to show just how confused she was by the pages of movie script loosely held in her small, perfectly manicured fingers. “I don’t get it. Where is this going?”
She’d just met the writer of this particular work about ten minutes earlier, hustled into the meeting by her agent and producer, Aaron Taggert. She glanced at Taggert now, and he arched his eyebrows at her, his thin lips pushed together, holding in his thoughts. He sat next to the writer, Bob Humphries. She’d thought it a little odd that the character’s name in the script was Bobbie while the writer’s name was Bob, but she decided not to draw attention to it, at least not just yet.
