Will leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, steam from his green tea curling around his beard. With a theatrical groan, he tossed a stapled stack of A4 papers onto the table.
“They want a rewrite, Ben,” he sighed. “The script editor, a man with the soul of an old shoe, and the imagination of a month-old brassica, says the pacing is problematic.”
Ben Jonson took a sip of his espresso, suppressing a smirk. “Problematic, Will? What exactly did he say?”
“He says the witches are confusing for a modern test-audience demographic,” Will said, his voice steadily rising in pitch. “He asked if we could make them TikTok influencers. Influencers! Damnable man. Because apparently tragedy needs brand synergy now, whatever that infernal nonsense means. And the blood. He says there’s too much of it. Apparently, focus groups say the ‘out, damned spot’ scene tests poorly. They find Lady Macbeth’s mental health journey unrelatable without a redemption arc.”
“A redemption arc?” Ben snorted, espresso sloshing dangerously. “For a woman who asks spirits to unsex her and fill her with direst cruelty? The man clearly hasn’t read the character bio.”
“He told me the title was too old-fashioned,” Will continued, his eyes flashing with creative indignation. “He suggested The Macbethinator and wants Macbeth to be a deadly robot from the future, instead of a man whose ambition devours his very soul. Then he said, and I quote, ‘Does he have to kill the king? Couldn’t we have some foxy, combat-clad MILF totting an AR-15 stop him dead in his tracks?’”
Will leaned over the table. “It’s about the inevitability of fate, Ben. The erosion of the self. You can’t replace a dagger of the mind with a MILF in fatigues.”
“And what of the ending?” Ben chortled.
“Oh, don’t get me started. He wants Birnam Wood as a metaphor for green energy. Then he wants Macduff and Macbeth to settle their differences with a first-person shoot ‘em up game. He says a decapitation is a tough sell for the rating they’re chasing.”
Will slumped back, staring out the window at the bustling London street. For a moment, the fire in him wavered, replaced by that thin, familiar writer’s dread. Imposter Syndrome.
“I’ll give them the rewrite,” Will muttered, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “But the ghosts stay, louder than ever. If they want a Macbethinator movie, I’ll give them a tragedy so profound they won’t realise they’ve been gutted until the credits roll.”
Ben raised his cup in a silent toast. “To The Macbethinator, then, Will. Break a leg.”
“Or a neck,” Will grinned. “Depending on the final cut.”
And so, The Macbethinator begins. Showtime.
THE MACBETHINATOR
Act 1 Scene 1 EXT NIGHT – A DARK ALLEY IN SOUTH LA. A PORTAL OPENS IN A SHOWER OF SPARKS. THREE WEIRD SISTERS STEP THROUGH AND LOOK AROUND. THEY SEE A BAR.
WEIRD SISTERS (TOGETHER)
When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
