“You lost me at the chicken doll,” the producer interrupts.
Ignoring him, the writer continues his pitch. “Think “Robo Cop” as “Frankenstein”
“That’s brilliant,” a second producer blurts, spilling milky coffee all over his creamy, pressed shirt sleeve.”
“If I’m hearing you right, a mad scientist places a consciousness disk into the wreckage of a retired robo-cop,” a third producer surmises.
“Well, the scientist is not exactly mad, as he has successfully..”
“”Whatever,” interrupts the producer, effectively cutting off the thought.”
“But what happens?” asks the first producer.
“The robot, becoming human, discovers the world and his reason for existence.”
“It won’t play,” the first producer decides. “You need conflict and action.”
“Here is your movie. The cops are after the scientist for stealing the broken robot. But he doesn’t have it anymore. It’s been stolen by some punks, who are programming it to pull heists. But one of the punks, a girl, mothers the robot, and protects it from both sides.”
“And what about the scientist?” asks the second producer, wiping his wet sleeve with a napkin.
“He gets chased,” answers the third producer.
“Now you have a movie!” proclaims the first producer.
And so the movie was made, with about eight minutes of the writer’s original idea surviving, and the rest of it a carbon copy of every other moronic action movie currently paralyzing what is left of human consciousness in movie theatres around the globe.