Experiment Writings/ Testing Ideas

Synopsis:  7 Writers must create scripts for Star Wars 10, 11, and 12 when a mysterious stranger gives them an offer they cannot refuse.

Each writer is named after our favorite directors and represents one of the seven deadly sins

Kuberick = Pride

Hitch = Gluttony

Scorsese = Wrath

Coppola = Lust

Tarantino = Greed

 Lucas = Sloth

Spielberg = Envy

J.J. Abrams took a breath and entered the room, a richly appointed room.   In the center was a round table made of the finest exotic yet sustainable hardwoods that Disney could afford.  No expense was too great.   Five men and two women stood and applauded.

“Please,” Abrams said.  He motioned with his hand for them to take their seats but the applause swelled.  Abrams let them continue for a moment then said, 

“Really, that’s enough, it is time to pass the torch to you…seven.”  The people smiling like headlights, out of nervousness, excitement and challenge sat down.

“Now you know I have a mind like a steel trap.  I never forget anything,” Abrams said.  

“Except for names.  So instead of taking the trouble of remembering your names, I am going to name you now.”  The people collectedly laughed.  A little forced.  They had hear J.J. was a little, well, whatever he was.

“Each of you will be named after a director, in my opinion, better than me in their genius.  You from now one are Kubrick,” he said to a balding man who responded with 

“Dang right!” 

“You are Hitch,” he said to stout woman with short cropped hair.  

“Scorsese, next” he said to a man with a permanent scowl.  

“Coppola!” Abrams pointed to a man who seemed maybe a little drunk from lunch. 

 “My Tarrantino!” he said to a woman in an expensive black dress, more suited for an evening on the town than this room.  

“Lucas!” he said to a man who sat up suddenly, as if he had been dozing. 

 “And last,  but not least, I hope.  Spielberg!”  The man stared in J.J.’s eyes as he turned his ring, as if trying to suck the talent from Abrams. 

J.J. bit his lip.  Was seven writers enough to match his genius?  Before the first brainstorming was stormed, before the first treatment was treated, a blue orb appeared in the room, large and harsh.  Abrams was certain he saw a lens flare.  The orb dissipated and a man stood there, a familiar man.  It was Abrams.  Or maybe his father.  Older. 

The people around the table stood up and applauded again, assuming it was great Disney special effects.

Abrams gave a shrug. 

“I aplogise about my sudden entrance, but I am here to help you.  And believe me you need it,” the man said.

“Who-“ Abrams said, but he recognized the face. 

“That’s right, Jeffrey Jacob, I am you, thirty years from the future.”

“Why are you here?” Abrams said. “Are you here to warn us about a disaster?”

“Exactly,” said time traveling J.J., who from now on will be referred to as “Super J”.  Super J continued,  “Also, I have episodes 10, 11 and 12 with me. To save you the effort.”

Hitch laughed.  No one else was laughing.  Scorsese stood up.  “Is this a joke?  We are here to write this, not plagiarize—“

Super J cut him off.  

“You are plagiarizing yourselves.  That doesn’t count.”

Kuberick stood up now, too.  “We were hired to write this!  And I will not let you take this away from us!”

Lucas leaned back in his leather seat.  “I don’t know.  I think he just saved us a lot of trouble.  I say we at least should see what he has.”

Super J glared at everyone.  

“This is not a democracy.  I didn’t come back here, at great peril and expense to argue with you nobodies.”

“Are you still going to pay us?” Tarantino demanded.

Abrams shrugged.  

“Why not, you wrote it.  Or will write it.  Or did write it.”

Super J put his hand onto Abrams’ arm, as a fatherly gesture, but still a tad weird.    

“J.J., now we can make the movies we wanted to make.”

“But I wanted to continue making Star Wars,” Abrams complained to his elder self.  He even moved his arm out of Super J’s reach.

“No, J.J., you know what movies we want to make.  I’m too old now because I wasted decades making these absurd Star Wars products.   What about that polar bear movie, J.J., that’s where your heart lies.”

“Meh,” said Abrams.

“I need to write this!” Coppola screeched.  “I don’t know what kind of trickery this is, but I want to not miss one moment of this process.  Not one letter, not one revision.”

“You’re taking this away from us, both of you Abrams,” Spielberg said flatly.  “Just like how you took this away from Lucas.”

“Me?” said Lucas, surprised to be a part of the conversation.

“No, the REAL Lucas,” Spielberg said.

“We need to take a vote,” Scorsese said.  “Anonymously if we have to, if you all are too cowardly to stand up for our lifelong dreams.”

“Really, I’m alright with it,” said Hitch.

“Sit down and shut up.  That includes, you, my young self, J.J.” Super J roared.  “You are going to sit here and watch all three episodes, extended director’s cuts for the next ten hours and 17 minutes.”

“Ugh,” said Kubrick.  “We don’t deserve this.”

“You should be on your knees, thanking me,” Super J said.  

“I forgot of how each of you was uniquely such a pain.”

The seven men and two women watched the three movies.  Pizzas were brought in.   It was deep in the morning hours when the final credits rolled.

“Well, what do you think?” Super J said.

“That was adequate,” J.J. said.

“Adequate?!” Super J said.  “They earned more than 20 billion dollars collectively.

“I know we can do better,” Kubrick said.

“I need to watch them again,” Hitch said.  “I think maybe I missed some things.  I mean who was the guy with the pink light saber?  I need to savor every moment.”

“Well, congratulations,” Scorsese said.  “You’ve pissed me off.  But I’ll take my cut of the profits if we never talk about this again.”

“I loved them,” Coppola said.   “I think I recognize the scenes that I must have written.  They excited me.”

“We are getting paid, right?” Tarantino repeated.  Her makeup had run giving her raccoon eyes.

“I think they were great.  And I think we don’t need to do any more work.  Because we already did,” Lucas said.  He yawned gloriously.

“Those movies were amazing,” Spielberg said.  “I don’t know who wrote them but they were better than anything we could have done.”

“Well, J.J.,” Super J grinned.  “It is settled.”

“What about causality?” J.J. wondered.  “I mean, who actually wrote this and directed this and did the special effects and edited it if it was already made?”

“In time, you won’t care,” Super J said.  “Also, no major motion picture has been produced in the last ten years or so, they’ve all been handed down like this.  I mean, except for ours, J.J., I wanted us to earn them.”

“Ah, thanks,” J.J. said, but Super J had already disappeared.



Please write your option in the comments, I really want to know if you think this is a good idea, for if you do I will implement an idea LIKE this into my story.