Ving Rhames saves democracy

by David Benjamin 

 

“… I believe God has ordained and allowed each one of us to be brought here for this specific moment…”

— Rep. Mike Johnson, after election as Speaker of the House

 

HOLLYWOOD — “I’ve got it! I’ve got it, I’ve GOT it!”

Louie “The Lip” Lipset, assistant to one of the assistant producers, bursts into the weekly brainstorm meeting of Dynamite Shows, Inc.

“You’ve got what?” replies studio chief Dave “The Dude” Doodah, who’s known for his biting sarcasm. “Covid? Dengue fever? Chikungunya?”

“Oh no, chief! This is big. A blockbuster1 A political thriller that blows the doors off Air Force One, Olympus Has Fallen, all that Jack Ryan stuff. My working title? Get this!” The Lip spreads his hands. “White House Down II!”

“Oh God,” says a yes-man named Flengman, “not another black president.”

The Lip slams hands on the table, silencing Flengman. Seizing the attention of a dozen cynics through sheer excitement, he unreels his scenario. 

“We start,” he says, “with an embittered ex-president— I’m calling this character D.A. Prentice—a short-fingered vulgarian convinced he won an election where he got his ass kicked. He festers and plots, spreading fear of nameless but hideous revenge against his thousand enemies. Think Keyser Sozé. Think of a guy who’d kill his own family to stay in power. You with me here, everyone?

An ambivalent murmur is just enough to encourage the frantic monolog.

“Stay with me, guys—you, too, Tawny! Prentice’s party has a majority so slim that House control falls to a handful of nihilist nuts led by a dizzy blonde who drinks testosterone smoothies for lunch. I’m calling her Mavis Haberdasher Greenhousegas, known to her friends as “Mad Dog.” Her eyes are too close together and she has biceps like Schwarzenegger. Her wingman—Rick Dickly— is a hair-sprayed Humbert whose Deep South district consists mostly of lily-white retirement villages with golf courses, pickleball courts and sing-along piano bars. 

“So,” the Lip raves on, “we cut to the big meeting of the party.”

“What party?” asks Tawny, the buxom but unpaid intern. “Republicans?”

The Dude pats Tawny’s hand. “Sweetie, in movies, we imply the parties, but we never use their names. You can say ‘shit,’ but you can’t say ‘Democrat’.”

The Lip regains the floor. “Big meeting to elect the Speaker. But only half the party’s wants D.A. Prentice’s guy. Shouting, screaming. Fists fly. Furniture breaks. And the climax: a knife fight between two front-runners! Three minutes. One-second, two-second cuts. Blinding and blurry, but riveting! Blood everywhere! Think Jason Bourne in a shower stall! Think John Woo and Ethan Hunt!

“The contenders end up in the ICU. The party needs somebody else. Fearful of bloodshed, they go for a nebbish named Poindexter who wears horn-rimmed glasses and bow ties. He has a portrait of Jesus on his office wall and photo of Reinhard Heydrich in his wallet. In his acceptance speech, he says he saw Jesus’ face on his morning muffin. And Jesus told him personally what God wants.”

“What does God want?” asks Tawny, who now occupies the Dude’s lap.

“Well, he’s about to reveal God’s plan when bam! Guess what happens!”

“What?” asks Flengman.

“Kaboom! The president’s dead. I haven’t decided how we kill the old fart. That’s the scriptwriters’ job. Helicopter crash? No! Airplane. A bigass airplane! Think Harrison Ford in Air Force One. Think James Bond and Gustave Graves!

“So, the vice president’s sworn in. You’re right, Flengman, another black president—Michelle Negress. I’m thinking Halle Berry, Janelle Monáe. No, no, I GOT it! Queen Latifah! So now, little ol’ Poindexter is close but he’s still a heartbeat away from the White House. Only Michelle stands in his way. And Mad Dog and Dickly? They’ve got a plan…

“For this scene, I’m thinking AI, ya dig? Maybe some sort of high-tech, remote-control long-distance sniper gun. Mounted on a drone. Disguised as an eagle! I can see it all  in Technicolor, man! Michelle’s making a speech, outdoors someplace. I got it! I GOT it! The Statue of friggin’ Liberty! Think Saboteur, think Planet of the Apes! The drone cruises over Michelle, a mile high! Cut to Mad Dog Mavis, holding the remote, standing on the deck of a super yacht owned by one of Clarence Thomas’ rich cronies. And … pow! Close-up of Queen Latifah’s head exploding. Blood, brains, yecch! All of which means, ta-daaah!”

“PRESIDENT POINDEXTER!” shouts Flengman. 

“Wow,” says Tawny. “I got goosebumps!

“I can feel ’em,” says the Dude. “They’re huge.”

The Lip raves on. “Poindexter, first thing, he declares martial law. Starts calling the U.S. military the Army of God, ’cause Jesus told him to. Sends Congress home, except Mad Dog and Dickly. Bans all forms of contraception, imposes the death penalty for homosexuality, requires Bible study in every school, calls a snap election next month, but only one name on the ballot. You know who! 

“Next scenes. Riots in the streets. Protesters gassed, beaten, shot, killed. Dogs and fire hoses! Close-ups of women dying, children crying, horses trampling black people, whole cities up in flames. But does Poindexter notice any of this. No, he’s on his knees in the Oval Office, praying with Mad Dog and Dickly. 

“But this can’t be the end?” cried Tawny.

“Course not. This is Hollywood,” says the Lip. “In Star Wars, even the Death Star had a chink in its armor. Think Poindexter, sweetheart. What’s his soft spot?”

Tawny is stumped, but the Dude knows. ‘God,” he says.

“Goddamn right,” says Lucky. “The opposition has a mole secreted in the Secret Service. Let’s just call him Frank Horrigan. Think In the Line of Duty. Think Channing Tatum. Anyway, he’s on the inside. Frank sneaks Ving Rhames into the Rose Garden with a microphone and a bigass amplifier. Ving Rhames? You know him, Dude. He’s been in a hundred movies and nobody knows his name. Plays Luther in Mission Impossible. He even played a Secret Service agent once, in Dave. Remember? Kevin Kline? Lately—this is perfect—Ving Rhames is the voice in those Arby’s commercials. You know, ‘WE HAVE THE MEAT!’”

“Okay, we see Poindexter in the Oval Office. He’s done praying. Mad Dog and Dickly leave. Poindexter hears something. He turns, looks out the window. 

“Cut! Next scene. Poindexter at his desk, wearing a cardigan. Bow tie askew. He’s resigning from the presidency! Says he’s going to a monastery, to pray and atone for his sins. And everybody’s wondering what the hell happened here. Mad Dog Mavis bares her claws, lunges at Poindexter. Frank Horrigan knocks her silly.

“Cut to the flashback. Poindexter in the Rose Garden. He falls to his knees at the sight of a rosebush. It’s on fire! Rainbow flames soar a hundred feet into the sky. Think Heston in The Ten Commandments. Think Exodus 3. Poindexter, who knows his Bible verbatim, says to the bush, ‘Are you the angel of the Lord?’ Then, wham! The voice of Ving Rhames booms over the garden. ’Do I sound like an angel?’ he goes, and Poindexter says, ‘Well, no,’ and Ving Rhames bellows, ‘I am the Lord, you pious twit! I’m God and I want you to cut the crap!’ After this, more dialog—for the writers to fill in. But God—Ving Rhames—gets it across that Poindexter has committed the sin of pride, hubris, whatever. His penance is to get his ass out of the White House, turn it over to the President Pro Tem, whoever that is. This is the Word of God. Poindexter has no choice. He says ‘Okay then.’”

The Dude detaches from Tawny. He’s smiling. He shakes the Lip’s limp, sweaty hand and utters words that turn the production meeting into a pep rally. “This is gonna be a Dynamite Show.”