There once was a pair of film producers. They operated in a small yet lucrative niche – the teen sex courtroom fantasy sequel niche. In fact they pretty much invented that niche.
While inventing their specialty genre, these producers arrived at a very strict set of rules that delineated films of the type:
- The title is more important than the film.
- The title must spell out all the key elements of the film, i.e., “Teen Sex Lawyer 2: The Virgining.”
- The title must contain at least one colon.
- The film must contain the following: court and/or lawyer scenes; teens.
- The film must contain some of the following: fantasy elements; sci-fi setting; seniors in proactive roles; teen sex; gore.
By combining courts and teens, the producers ensured a large and diverse audience for their projects. Teens attracted teens and perverts, while the court scenes attracted seniors and the middle-aged.
They worked closely together, yet each had his own pet projects that he devoted special attention to. For one – let’s call him producer A – it was a little film called “Teenage Bilge Dwarves 2: Space Court.” It concerned a pack of sexy, sewer-dwelling dwarves who somehow got themselves into interstellar legal trouble. It’s unclear what it was, exactly (the swarthy, underdoggish dwarf heroes? the nudity? the monotonous court scenes?), but producer A’s tale caught the nation’s fancy. It was their biggest grossing film yet, and brought them rare mainstream attention. Producer A on the cover of Forbes, bathing in greenbacks. Intimating to Larry King that it was childhood fears of sewer dwarves under his bed that inspired the story. All was good in the world. Except, of course, that producer B felt the slightest peck of resentment with every photo op. And it’s only natural.
Yet being a productive type, he carefully channelled the resentment back into his work, so that with mounting success, his resolve grew – resolve to make his own pet project a reality. The project revolved around his own childhood terror, the fear of vegetarian cars on a killing spree. It was to be called “Autoflora: Plant-Eating Cars.” And it was to be made, and fairly well-made, at that. No one who saw it ever called it a bad movie.
But they rarely called it a good movie, either. It failed to enter the zeitgeist. It did not inspire generations of new filmmakers. The merchandising revenue was poor to nil. Why? Why? producer B asked himself rhetorically.
For one, plant-eating cars aren’t scary to humans. To plants, yes. Plants find plant-eating cars terrifying. But plants don’t buy movie tickets.
More importantly though, producer B in his ambition forgot all the rules. There were no sex scenes. No lawsuits or even writs being served. The teens were purely incidental. And it wasn’t a sequel.
So what happened? Not much, really. They were used to the odd flop. They were churning out enough films per month that it didn’t make a difference. Producer B got back to the basics. He devoted his life to perfecting his craft. He would wait until the timing was right. He would study the old masters. One day, he vowed, he would create the ultimate teen sex courtroom fantasy sequel.
props out to good friend Leo, co-creator of this old-school tale