Me, Harvey Weinstein And Police Academy 8

“Your mother might have known how to cook and feed your fat ass, but she didn’t know a damn thing about drama. Cause that’s what we’re talking about here. This is gonna be the most hard-boiled police picture ever made. Think Seven. Think The French Connection. Think Chinatown with Michael Winslow making noises. You catch my drift?”

Harvey takes another step back. He says, “You’re…”

“A genius? Hardly. Perhaps a visionary. We can go with that, instead. And we can picture this, why don’t we? Open on a funeral. Tackleberry’s been killed in the line of duty. His gun fetish has not saved him. A ruthless cop-killer roams the streets as Bubba Smith sings Amazing Grace. Guttenberg, party-boy that he is, has gone and got himself a taste for the smack. Undercover work ain’t as glamorous as he imagined in his whip-smart days. Winslow’s still making noises, but now we know why. His is a childhood I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And all the big names are back in uniform to help crack the case. Bobcat. Kim Catrall. Sharon Stone. David Spade.”

There’s no doubt, I’m winning him over. His eyes light up. “Spade was in Police Academy?”

“He was and he is,” I assure him. “And we’ll be putting his ass back on that skateboard and making ourselves a picture to remember. Gruesome, heart-wrenching, and true to life. It’s the honesty that people will react too. Don’t even get me started on the Blue Oyster Bar scene. It’ll leave you breathless. And as for the finale, it will make the end of the Sixth Sense seem like an episode of Matlock. Police Academy 8 is an epic brain-fuck with emotional resonance and a guarantee for repeat business. Tell me, Harv, can’t you see the two of us on stage, pumping the Matt and Ben off that Oscar?”

It’s radiating from his portly frame, the uncontrollable joy, the visions of a glorious triumph. But he’s a pro and he has to ask the question. “How much?”

I nod and wink. “Two Hundred.”

“Thousand?” he asks.

“For a day of catering, maybe!” I chortle. “We’re talking the million dollars baby. Thirty, at least, for Steve. And don’t even try to suggest Depp or DiCaprio. Sissies, the both of them. Did they take Pacino out of The Godfather? Of course not. No Guttenberg. No picture. Dig?”

He thinks it over for a moment and I just play it chill, rap my knuckles on the desk like my business could just as easily go elsewhere. New Line. Dreamworks. They’d be happy to have it. This is when he steps forward. And this is when he reaches his plump manicured hands towards me. He puts one in my hair, musses it up a bit. The other hand grabs mine.

“Dig,” he says.

That, my friends, is how it’s done.