Short Cuts (1993)

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"I don't think I recognize myself in this movie," he said. "These characters mumble so much. I always gave clear speech to my characters."

She had just finished filing her nails. She reached for a small red bottle with a black tapered cap.

"Do you think these people sound like my characters? Do you think...are you listening?" he asked. The acrid punch of her polish invading his nose.

She lifted a brow, feigning interest. The ice was melting in her soda, the condensation dripping down the glass sides.

"Don't make too much of it," she sighed. "It's just a movie."

"A movie based on my stories," he said.

"Made after your death," she said, waving her hand in the air. "Besides, movies are a director's medium. You had your turn. You wrote your stories. Those will last longer than film."

"Bullshit," he said. "That's wrong. Think about music. You can listen to your favorite song an infinite amount of times. You can only watch your favorite video a few times. It's like that. People will see the film and tire of the stories before they know them. Before they've read them." He wished for the first, but not last, time today that he could have a drink.

"You're making too much of it. He's considered a genius," she said. "You were the master of one medium, and he is the master of another. Think of it like an ode; an interpretation. Someday, while all literature critics compare sparse writers to you, film critics will compare all busy filmmakers to him," she said.

He paced, his right she sticking on the tile floor each step. "That's just it, right there," he said. "He took my stories, but ignored my form. I write simple, concrete words that offer unobstructed views of my characters and their actions. He made a highly stylized film that obscures the characters behind environments. It's got nothing to do with me, with the exception of some basic plot points."

She started painting the nails on her other hand. He said "it's the difference between inflection and uninflection." he stopped suddenly "Did you feel that?"

She looked up at his startled face. "What?" she asked.

"That shaking? Is it an earthquake?" he said.

"I don't feel anything." she said.

"Of course you don't." he said. "It's just me turning over in my grave."

"Give it a rest." she said, rolling her eyes. "The film has one thing on you."

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's a damn good movie," she said "And you never made one." He collapsed on the couch next to her.

"That's true. I never did," he said.

She put her arm around him, careful not touch her wet nails to him or the couch. "But you did something better. You wrote some of the best short stories ever written. He made a great film inspired by them. That's something." she said.

"That's something." he said. "But don't you think it would have matched my style better if it had been Mamet?"

"Who cares," she said, and then she kissed him. "Who cares," she mumbled through their connected lips. "Who cares."

He forgot about wanting a drink for a while.