211. I did it all by myself

I did it all by myself. That’s what he intended to blurt out when he got to the podium to collect that coveted little gold man. He was a cocky young filmmaker back then, nominated for his first movie and sure he was going to win, cause he goddamn deserved it.

He didn’t win. He didn’t even get nominated for another 25 years. There’d be more nods in the following decade, but none of them were victorious, even though the filmmaker was now an elder statesman of the business, respected by all, even by the crew members he had once seen as mere footmen in his artistic pursuits.

In his half a century in Hollywood he had gradually learned that his own ambitions and passions might were what got the studios to greenlight his movies, but that it was the hard daily work of the gaffers, the PA’s, the cameramen, the set decorators that elevated his 35mm follies to heights he could scarcely have dreamed of. Many of his former crew members were close friends now, and he often told them just how much he appreciated their contribution to his own stature. And he meant it wholeheartedly.

Yet when the powers that be ordained him with an honorary award, he still had that yellow piece of paper in his tuxedo pocket, proclaiming to have done it all by himself. And when the big movie star handed him the gorgeous, shiny statuette, that’s exactly how he read it.

He had fought the urge, but cockiness was a hard habit to shake if you were successful in this profession.

 

Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

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29. My name is Billy Wilder

My name is Billy Wilder. Because that’s what it says on the ID-card in my pocket. Sure, I’m 30 years younger than the guy on the picture and I don’t sport glasses either, nor was I born in Vienna. Hell, my German is spotty at best. But I am indeed the famed director of countless Hollywood classics like Some Like It Hot and Double Indemnity.

That deluded statement has of late gotten me into business class seats on many a flight. At first, I did it for a joke. A let’s see how far I can push this thing. Turns out: pretty far. It helped that the spotty guy on the budget liner’s front desk turned out to be a movie freak, despite not knowing Billy Wilder has been dead for over a decade now. He upgraded me in a heartbeat and I signed him my autograph. It looked nothing like the real one.

After a couple of similar experiences I was contemplating permanently condemning the ID-card I bought at an auction to my small but glorious movie memorabilia collection. It took a perky, cute stewardess to change my mind. The way she referred to me as Mr. Wilder while fluffing my pillow (not a euphemism) made my heart skip a beat, so I asked her out under my ‘nom the plume’ and one thing led to another. We embarked on a globetrotting whirlwind romance as she was turned on by my ‘movie director’ occupation.

When the time came for me to fess up – an inevitability alas – I was fully expecting a bourbon on the rocks in my face, spiked with industrial language. The bourbon stayed in the glass. Instead I got a cheeky reply.

“My name’s not Fran Kubelik either. If you’d been Billy Wilder, you’d have known that.”

 

Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

Available at the Createspace Store, at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk or any other Amazon store in your territory.  E-book is also available.