Quentin Tarantino, Willy Wonka, and John Ford walk into a bar. Sitting at the bar, by himself, is Wisit Sasanatieng, a budding filmmaker from Thailand just planting the seeds for his directorial debut. He is sketching a scene on a napkin depicting a lone cowboy blowing into a harmonica while resting against a tree. The picture is drawn with black ink, and the cowboy is clearly a Thai male, although one filtered through the persona of John Wayne. Sasanatieng thinks to himself, “I am going to direct a Pad Thai western.”
While the director is busy scribbling away, Tarantino, Wonka, and Ford are pounding back shots of tequila and getting rowdy. Ford is loudly reminiscing about the days of yore, and remarks disparagingly on the lack of romanticism in modern-day westerns. “Sure,” he says, “cowboys don’t have to be goody-goody heroes, but what’s wrong with some brighter shades of white? Why have things become so bleak and misanthropic, how did we arrive at The Proposition?”
Meanwhile, Willy Wonka is leaning back in his chair, balancing on two legs, dressed in his long purple coat and goofy top hat, shoveling Nerds and Gobstoppers into his mouth, drooling colorful spittle, and getting drunker by the shot.
Tarantino, hearing his buddy Ford becoming nostalgic, says in his nasally voice, “It’s just the times man – post modern sensibilities and all that jazz. Directors like me grew up watching films that were more violent, more cynical, and more decadent. I guess some of us have become jaded, and so we’re constantly pushing the boundaries of what’s acceptable”
“Couldn’t we find some kind of common ground?” asks Ford.
“Well sure,” Tarantino says, “and honestly, I think I have. While my films may be violent, and often times mean, I think they are also full of life and celebration. I know that some people see my films as nothing but homage….”
“Stop right there T,” Ford interrupts. “Your films are far more than homage. Sure, you use the language of the cinema you love as your building blocks, but you direct while looking towards the future, and you have a unique voice.”
“Thanks Ford – although I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Anyhow, I don’t think we have all become totally jaded, nor do we all shy away from color and pizazz in our genre films. I know there are other filmmakers out there digging for ideas and inspiration in their own treasure chests of cinematic passion.”
Meanwhile, during this insightful exchange, Wonka has made a total mess. Buckets filled with candy surround him, and his face looks like the Easter bunny took a dump on it. His hands are dripping with sticky, colorful goo, and he has started scribbling on the walls with brightly colored finger paint. He is painting a scene of a sunset in garish colors, and in the foreground is a huge bright yellow house with aqua-blue trim, surrounded by mint-green grass and flowers colored with blinding magenta. Wonka then wipes his hands on his jacket, spreading the messy gunk around on his chest. He looks down and laughs maniacally, looking like a cartoon character has shot him with a toy gun – Sam Peckinpah would be proud of the gore effect.
Tarantino, Ford, and Wonka are now totally pissed – shit faced – drunk as can be, and they have become louder, more obnoxious, and more boisterous, there diatribe full of machismo-fronting about how they would have made certain films, or, in Wonka's case, candy. Having heard every last detail of the party’s exchange, the entire scene starts to get under Sasanatieng’s skin.
While still trying to sketch and jot down the ideas for his Thai-western, bits and pieces of the insufferable party’s rants and shenanigans begin to invade the director’s mind. Like sharp shards of glass, the drunkards’ words pierce Sasanatieng’s brain, letting lose a flood of creative blood that morphs and taints his original vision. As each moment passes, Sasanatiegn becomes more irritated, more agitated, and closer to the boiling point. He sets his pen down and grasps at his scalp like a madman. Slowly, his pen begins to roll towards the bar's edge. He watches it as it reaches the corner and plummets to the floor in slow motion. All the while, John Ford, Quentin Tarantino and Willie Wonka are arguing, talking, and laughing, louder and more manically than ever, like three lunatic children left in Pee Wee's Playhouse without supervision.
The pen finally hits the floor with a soft thud, and then...there is complete and total silence. The director's gaze shifts from his pen to the establishment's door, and standing at the threshold is a beautiful woman, brimming with grace, her skin and the fabric of her dress are glowing with romantic radiance. The three lunatics have completely shut their traps, they too are captivated by the beauty's presence. The woman walks (or does she glide?) like a swan on a calm lake towards the director sitting at the bar. His hands are trembling, his mouth agape, and when she finally reaches him, she bends down slightly and whispers into his ear, “don't forget the romance,” before placing a single soft kiss upon his cheek.
The air is filled with tranquility, phantom birds chirp from within the walls of the bar.
Sasanatieng rests his head on the bar, on top of his folded arms and drifts away into a deep sleep.
What feels like an eternity later, the director wakes up, he had fallen asleep on a blanket in the middle of a green field, his notebook's pages are flipping loudly in the warm breeze. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stretching like a cat basking in sun's warmth, he picks up his pen and begins to frantically write down everything he remembers from his lucid dream. With these seeds of intense creativity planted, a title jumps to his mind. He speaks the title out loud, a gesture that solidifies its creation, “Tears of the Black Tiger,” and continues to write and scribble away, his mind full of artistic and creative ferocity.
