Hollywood film producer Marty Cowen slapped Bela’s script onto his desk like a dead fish onto a newspaper. He breathed a tired sigh and massaged his eyeballs with his thumb and forefinger, in a futile bid to exorcise his stupidity-inspired migraine.
“Let me get this straight,” he said to the borderline-illiterate ...
Published on June 12, 2009 12:09