What’s a Teleplay?
Listen: I don’t know what’s going on either. We’re all in the dark here. It hit us like a guided missile when Jarred Land, president of RED Cameras, posted a close-up photo of one of our slates on his Instagram. “Final day of shooting Fincher and Tarantino’s new film today at RSH. It’s been an honor to have such an incredible team living and breathing at our studio for the better part of the last year. Been a masterclass in absolutely everything. Gonna be a good one.” [https://www.worldofreel.com/blog/2026/1/15/the-adventures-of-cliff-booth-wraps-six-month-production] Is it? Because I’m reading some words I don’t like. Specifically “teleplay.” What’s going on here? My Sensei doesn’t write “teleplays,” even now—he’s been preparing something for the stage proper, to debut in the West End sometime in the future. He’s got a lot of things coming sometime in the future. Many don’t believe him. But I do.
Still, I find it uncouth that such a talented Master Filmmaker such as My Sensei would stoop to writing a “teleplay” before he finishes his feature filmography. Will he let a decade go by without following up Once Upon a Time in Hollywood? It’s possible. “Probable,” he says. “I’m not rushing to jump into production. I don’t have a script. I only gave the Cliff script to Fincher because Brad kept getting on my case. Listen, $20 million makes the word ‘teleplay’ sound even more beautiful than it already did to me. I don’t share the same suspicion or hostility that you seem to harbor towards television work, Benny. I think you should work on your prejudice and, perhaps, your brokenness.” Sorry, my “brokenness”? Who does he think I am, the Mayor of Minneapolis? (Topical.)
My Sensei explained to me that the word “teleplay” was used on the slate because The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth (that’s the title, yes “Continuing” is in there, trust me, I know My Sensei) was shot under a television contract, rather than a film contract. It’s all very technical and legal and confusing—scary even, since the unions are involved. I’m not a timid bird, but the Teamsters and IATSE and truckers make me feel like the food they think I am. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had buddies in all of the craft unions with whom I’ve split packs of oles and sixers of PBR, but for the most part they regard me as “chicken,” in other words lower than human, trash, garbage, something to be flayed and cooked and eaten so that it may be turned to shit and expelled and flushed into oblivion.
There’s something to Slavoj Zizek’s idea of a given country’s toilets expressing their national identity and neuroses. In Germany, excrement lands on a shelf for inspection and reflection. In France, one never even glimpses the stool. In America, a synthesis is formed, where the waste is visible, but safely separated under the waterline. We’re a pragmatic people, just as the French are fastidious and superstitious and the Germans are just plain weird. I thought My Sensei was listening to me but he’d put his AirPods in at some point during my toilet speech. “I realize I’m just reiterating Zizek’s ‘knee-deep in ideologue’ rant, but—” and then I saw it. My Sensei wasn’t moving. His AirPods were beeping (do AirPods beep?) and he was mannequin still. I tried to touch him, and immediately realized this wasn’t My Sensei at all. This was an alien at rest. My Sensei has been replaced by a napping alien.
What kind of teleplay am I living in?
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