[from an essay in 'The Guardian', Sept. 18th 2014] My mother died in May and is buried in a crypt next to the legendary screenwriter Nunnally Johnson (_The Grapes of Wrath_), just around the corner from Marilyn Monroe. In my early 30s, Oliver Stone introduced me to Billy Wilder. I'll never forget my frisson on learning that the original script of Sunset Blvd. (1950) began in a morgue, with the corpses all sharing how they met their ends. (It was shot but discarded because it didn't sit well with preview audiences.) That scene was a thematic foretelling of my own corpus to come: phantoms telling stories around a campfire. William Holden begins his "share" as a ghost heard in voiceover while we see his floating corpse. Swimming pools have always been a thread that runs through my work. As a very young boy visiting California for the first time, I looked out the plane's window with shock and wonder at the Elysian mosaic of blue backyard portals. In Maps to the Stars (2014), a five-year-old drowns in one. Like his great-grandfather Holden, he becomes a ghost, but sadly has had no life to share. I mention all this because its weave is the leitmotif informing David Cronenberg's film of my script "Maps to the Stars". Contrary to critics' easy characterisation, it doesn't have a satirical bone in its elegiac, messy, hysterical body. I've given you the lay of the land as I see it, saw it, and lived it. "Maps" is the saga of a doomed actress, haunted by the spectre of her legendary mother; of a child star ruined by early celebrity, fallen prey to addiction and the hallucination of phantoms; of the mutilation, both real and metaphorical, sometimes caused by fame and its attendants - riches, shame and nightmare. I see our movie as a ghost play, not a satire.
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