It’s 1941. The California sun rains down on one of the largest film studios of the era.
The studio head strides across an acre of finely clipped lawn towards the administration building, cigar clamped in his mouth. He’s clutching a sheet of paper typed with the weekend receipts. He’s fuming.
No, it wasn’t a good weekend. It wasn’t close to a good weekend. Dismal is more like it.
Why had the audiences stayed away in droves? What had he ever done to them?
He stops. Something is wrong.
He turns and peers up at the open windows of a large two-story building on his left. He shakes his head, whips the cigar out his mouth and hollers out to the top floor at the top of voice.
‘Get back to work you lazy bastards!’
Sounds of dozens of Underwood typewriters whirring and clattering to life. Yes, it’s the writers’ building.
‘I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to write, Goddammit!!’
Sounds as typewriter bell double dings.