The Anecdote

​The following is an encounter with a notable motion picture director whose glory days fell somewhere between 1903 and 1995. That should narrow this nameless individual down to, oh, a few thousand likely candidates.
Picture it: a Beverly Hills country club, late lunch, sunshine glinting off the Range Rovers. The occasion? A meeting to discuss a screenplay I’d written—one the director had pursued more than once.
Spoiler alert: although the script was optioned several times, the movie never got made. (Shocking, I know. Try to contain your gasps.)
This particular lunch was a first on several fronts.

• First lunch at a country club.
• First lunch with a director whose films I actually counted among my favorites.
• And the first lunch where I found myself smack dab in every writer’s eternal dilemma: blind agreement or gentlemanly correction.

Let me explain.
The conversation had drifted to westerns—always dangerous territory. Most notably, one of my all-time favorites, The Magnificent Seven. I’d been lucky enough to attend a special screening years prior, complete with a Q&A by the legendary composer Elmer Bernstein himself. Truly one of the standout experiences of my movie-nerd lifetime. (And maybe a story for another week.)
Back to lunch.
Dessert arrives. I order a latte; the director orders a single scoop of chocolate ice cream—an oddly adorable choice from a man who once terrorized an entire studio system.
We’re talking westerns, composers, the usual. And then he drops it:
“Elmer Bernstein did NOT compose the music to The Magnificent Seven.”
Cue the writer’s dilemma.
Option One:
Smile warmly, nod, apologize, and pretend this towering fact you know to be absolutely true is suddenly a figment of your imagination. Because hey—maybe he’ll make your movie.
Option Two (recommended only for those over fifty, well-medicated, or just done with Hollywood nonsense):
Gently disagree.
Stick to your guns.
Watch the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.
Naturally, I chose Option Two.
Did the lunch get uncomfortable?
Oh, absolutely.
Did I stand my ground?
I did.
Did the movie ever get made?
A thunderous, unequivocal no.
But honestly, by that stage it wasn’t headed for production anyway, so I figured I might as well salvage my dignity—or at least the reputation of Elmer Bernstein.
Am I happy with my decision?
Sure. As happy as one can be after nuking their chances over a film credit.
And in the end?
It was a free lunch.
There’s always that.