Joss Whedon

(...)

Joss Whedon is very upset with me for casting Summer Glau and has somehow invoked a powerful curse and relocated the Buffy Hellmouth underneath my home.

I saw how the Hellmouth operated for many years, I know its signs and symbols. And while there may not be any vampires yet to slay, I swear to God I saw Alyson Flanigan tongue-kissing a werebear in my laundry room when I was washing my strike shirt.

What kills me is I saw Joss two weeks ago at the Showrunner March. We talked about Summer. I didn’t sense anything weird. Looking back I do remember seeing Shawn Ryan and the dude from the 4400 both give packages to Joss that at the time I assumed were Mrs. Beasley’s muffin baskets but now I clearly believe were animal sacrifices.

(At another point during the march I saw Joss and Ron Moore huddled together but when I tried to eavesdrop on what they were saying I got this hot burning sensation in my ears and I may have blacked out and peed for a second.)

So because I think there is no other choice and also because I’m on strike with a lot of time on my hands I decide to make a donation to the Church of Joss.

I buy the Firefly boxed set (24 cents to Joss); I watched Serenity on cable (maybe .5 cents to Joss), I already own and have watched the entire Buffy series on DVD (75 cents to Joss). I have spent DAYS OF MY LIFE devoted to the works of Joss Whedon and I’m pretty sure I haven’t even sent A WHOLE DOLLAR OF RESIDUALS in his direction.

Which is obviously not enough of a sacrifice to break the curse.

So I’ll offer up one of the most humiliating moments for me as a professional writer:

Some years ago I am invited to a dinner party for screenwriters. There’s about fifty of us there—including most of the A list people I had always wanted to call my peers. At the time the only credit I had was a shared story on Chain Reaction but I knew a couple of the people throwing the dinner and so I was invited. Terrified, but invited. At some point I am introduced to a writer/director whose work I had admired for years. He was a little older, kind of a legend. Here’s how the conversation went:

ME: God, I can’t tell you how great it is to meet you. I love your work. Especially (BIG MOVIE).

LEGEND: No. the pleasure is mine. I’m such a huge fan of your writing.

ME: Really?

LEGEND: Of course. It’s fantastic. My kids absolutely love Buffy. Just love it.

ME: Uhmmm....

LEGEND: They’re gonna be so impressed I met you. They’re always going on about you...

ME: Uh, Mr. Legend? As much as I want to be Joss Whedon right now...I’m not. I’m Josh Friedman.

LEGEND: Josh Friedman?

ME: Josh Friedman.

LEGEND: Hm. Oh. Well, I’m sure you’re a good writer, too.

And then he walked away.

So please, Joss. Do my family a favor. Take Back the Hellmouth. I know it’s fucking huge and you might not have room for it at your place. Maybe you could donate it.

Maybe we could include it in the New Economic Partnership.

Just a thought.

Joss Whedon answers :

Hi it’s me Joss me. A few things.

First of all, I did not do any of those terrible things to Josh’s house or family. I DID give him that rash — and it’s time he admitted how! Josh, I won’t live a lie any more! All right. Li’l bit more.

Second, we’re a week away from Mutant Enemy Picket day! Since the AMPTP have generously offered us a thimble of sputum in exchange for everything written ever, I think it’s fair to say it won’t be a picnic.

And in two weeks, I’ll be in Boston, speechifying (look for some long, fancy words, yo) and rallying shoulder to shoulder with, among other people, my dad, who somehow lived through both the ’88 strike and my adolescence. Word. (Long fancy.)

And after that? Well, we might take this to the streets of some other cities. Get the word out, remind everyone that corporate greed (it’s nothing but) is hurting everyone in this country. Not just because they’re robbing people of entertainment (and, on occasion, art) and strangling an entire (non-writing) community, but because they’re sending a message to every union in the country: you’re next. The actors know that in their case, it’s literally true, but it’s also true for the concept of a unionized workforce. We get a lot of flack for being well-fed, glamorous, rich and powerful. We’ve worked hard to dispel that stereotype but in fact, a select few of us are wealthy and influential. And we have the support of some of the most famous and beloved (and wealthy and influential) people in the country: TV and movie stars! So the fact that the studios feel perfectly comfortable SPITTING IN OUR FACES in front of the whole world cannot bode well for any other union that works under them — or under anyone who sees how easy it is to deny the basic rights of workers even so public as we. This is bad for writers, bad for actors, teamsters, teachers, nurses, dockworkers... the shape of this country is changing. The middle class is being squeezed out. We’re trundling back to the middle ages, people, and all we can do is lie there and take it.

But of course, that’s not what’s going to happen. The studios mean to starve us out. They can’t. We know what’s at stake. We take care of our own, and those around us who aren’t our own. We dig in. And eventually, if after months of deadlock we still can’t make an equitable deal, you will start to see real change. Change in the way we entertain you, change in the essential structure of America’s most popular export. (Unless it’s corn. Is it corn?) The fact is, the studios have been robbing us for twenty years. (Actually, it’s been much longer, but the statute of limitations says I should let ’em off easy.) This grotesque insult of a negotiation is the end of an era. It will be remembered as the stupidest move the conglomotainment empires ever made. WE ASKED FOR PRACTICALLY NOTHING. And they...

Something snaps. Something changes. Chaos, meet opportunity. Let them try to starve us out. We won’t just survive. We will THRIVE. We’re known as a creative community, and those numb f#$%ing frost-giants are about to find out we’re a lot more of both than they knew.

If they come back to the table this very Tuesday next with the deal we need (and they won’t), the change will still have come. The snap. The thing that broke, that can’t be fixed. The eye, still wincing from the light, but finally wide open.

Good going, guys! Way to think it through.

A long while ago, I remember logging on with the intention of making jokes and spreading joy. Apparently, the thing that’s broken is me. Apologies. I even forgot to complain about my cold.

Thanks for being here. See you soon.

 j.

joss | December 01, 07:10 CET