Interview with Alec Baldwin at 150,000 meters

               My childhood cost the French people a great deal of money.  They had to house me, feed me, clothe me, and all of this in the far reaches of Indochina.  While my father represented the people and their foreign interests, I played tennis, drank orange squash, and listened to Freddie Mercury.  I rode motorcycles.
               And then I grew up.  I left Indochina, returned to France.  I was smart, and I completed degrees in engineering.  After that, I became the youngest astronaut ever selected by the European Space Agency.  There were people who accused my father of greasing palms.  Maybe he did.
The Agency put us up into space, and we floated and spun and ambled and peed in bags and watched little globules of our toothpaste float around the cabin.  And then the walls shivered and shook, and the sun went dark as the enormous hull of an alien craft seized our ship and brought us in.  We wailed in fright.
               The latches popped and the cabin pressure plummeted.  The hatch opened.  Our suits were smeared with tiny flecks of toothpaste.  The creature emerged.  It was Alec Baldwin.
He wore a smart suit that complemented his skin tone quite well.  In his hand was a can of club soda.                 He spoke, and his eyes were on me.
               “Listen, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he said.  “Ever since California broke off and dissolved into the Pacific like a hunk of Ivory soap in a bathtub, I’ve been trying to make a go of it up here, on my spaceship.  Things were going good, but then things got bad.  It’s hard to get publicity up here.”
               “So what do you want me to do?” I asked.
               “You’re gonna interview me about a script I’m working on, and you’re gonna broadcast it live to earth.”
               I was surprised.  “You’re writing a script?”
               “Heck yes,” said Alec.  “Now roll camera.”
               I fiddled with the knobs a bit, and suddenly we were joining families in living rooms all across the planet.  I searched for an opening question.

Me:  So, tell me, when did you first get interested in acting?

Alec Baldwin:  I was sucker-punched at a young age by a taste for the movies.

Me:    I think I know what you mean.  Could you elaborate?

AB:     Shoot, boy, I’m talking about getting a hoof in the royals and after that all you’re thinking about is Farrah Fawcett and Danny Glover.  Dig?

Me:    But it seems to me that you would have been surrounded by theatrical influences almost from day one.  You’re the most well known of the Baldwin clan, but isn’t it true that a lot of your family makes a living through acting?

AB:     Oh, sure.  There’s my kid brother, Bronco Baldwin, who appeared in Thønderblade, which was produced in Iceland.  Then you’ve got Daniel Boone Baldwin, better known as Dunston, in Dunston Checks In.

Me:    Wasn’t that role played by an orangutan?

AB:     Then there’s the Twins, Dixie and Gil.  They work in mixed mediums, but you’ll probably remember them best as the fine blondes from the Double Mint ad.  Am I right?

Me:    I wonder if you might want to tell us something about the script that you’re working on at the moment.  Something, perhaps, about the writing process, as I’m sure you don’t want to give away the story before the movie is released.

AB:     Oh, dang, I don’t worry about that much.  I can sum the whole thing up in about ten words: Big name Chicago business man retires to Georgia to play golf.

Me:    Well, that is ten words.

AB:     Eleven.

Me:    Businessman is one word.

AB:     So anyhow, like I said, I’m about halfway through the script.  I’m right at the part where the business-man says to himself, “Say, could I have another club soda?”

(Long silence)

Me:    I’m guessing…

AB:     Yeah, that’s not what he says.  But my throat’s dry.
(Creature in form-fitting space suit emerges from hatch with can of club soda, Baldwin sips)

AB:     So he looks in the mirror and says, “I’m a rich son-of-a-gun, but I’m miserable and I want to retire to Georgia to play golf.”

Me:    And does he do that?

AB:     I’m not sure yet.  (Pauses)  It’s just…well, this is embarrassing.  See, I’m stumped.  Jiggered.  Writer’s block, I guess.  I got no clue what happens next.

Me:    Well, Mr. Baldwin, if I may be so bold, perhaps it’s because you’re working with a premise that is a bit, er, exhausted.

AB:     What do you mean?

Me:    You know, done before.  Not very unique.  Boring.
(Another long silence, this time approximately 12 minutes)

AB:     Alright, so what do you suggest?  No golf?  Move the story to Mississippi?

Me:    That’s not really for me to say.  But you could try working backwards and see where that takes you.

AB:     You mean with all kinds of flashbacks, like those Tarantino films?

Me:    No, just build your story by starting where you want it to end up.  For example, in the last scene, let’s say that the golfer sinks an incredible one-in-a-million shot to win the cup.  How’d he get there?

AB:     Chauffeur?

Me:    How’d he get to the point that he could even participate in the tournament?

AB:     Well, I was thinking that he could be coached by this war vet who just has hooks and not hands, and so he can’t hold the club himself, and he’s trying to live his life vicariously through Mickey.

Me:    Mickey?

AB:     The business-man.  I called him Mickey.

Me:    Ok.  So how does Mickey meet the war vet?

AB:     (Chuckles)  I was planning on setting it up so that Mickey’s dog gets sick, and he takes it to the vet – I mean like an animal hospital – and then he meets the coach there – the coach has a cat – and, well, then Mickey makes a joke about meeting a vet at the vet.

Me:    I wouldn’t recommend it.

AB:     Alright.  How about Mickey has a romantic encounter with a woman who turns out to be a vet, and she knows this guy with hooks for hands who really wants to win a golf trophy?

Me:    Now, are you saying that the woman is a war veteran, or a veterinarian?

AB:     Which one do you think works better?
(I twist knobs on the console, and we lapse into silence for about 37 minutes.  Our coupled crafts orbit earth 0.64 times)

Me:    You know, Mr. Baldwin, I think you have the nugget of a story somewhere up there.  You just have to stick in your finger and dig it out.  Like I said, work backwards.

AB:     Thanks.  (Pauses)  Listen, I should let you guys get back to your spacewalk.  But I wonder if you might agree to take a look at the script when I’m done and do some editing?

Me:    Sure.

               After that, Alec and his humanoid assistant passed through the hatch, and our hull trembled as the two ships separated.  I moved to a portal and watched as we drifted apart.  For a moment, I thought I caught sight of his bearded face in one of the tiny round windows, smiling sadly.  And then I admired the man, lonely, committed, mastering his craft in the great unknown.

Jack Frey currently lives in Beijing, China, with 17 million other people.   He really enjoys a drink called Suan Mei Tang for its woody undertones, he’s certain that he dreams in colour, and his neighbour has a friendly husky-collie cross that on more than one occasion has jumped up and left paw-shaped mudprints on his pants.

SHELFLIFEMAGAZINE : issue #009