Berlin Stories. Or, LA Stories The Sequel

Sequels suck. 

Hangover 2, Speed 2, Blair Witch 2 and everything Matrix after the first one. Basically, if it has a 2 in it, it’s probably going to be a number two. 

However, there are some golden exceptions to this rule. Empire Strikes Back, Aliens, Godfather 2 (only Coppola could make a 2 better). I am praying that this body of work is going to find itself firmly in this company.

If you’ve known me for a while, you may know that I used to keep a well read blog called “LA Stories” when I was a screenwriter in LA. And really, the entire city and industry is one big setup for a punchline. The people who live there, the machinations of “making it,” the whole experience of living in a country so fantastically tense with divisions. The blog practically wrote itself.

But I met a guy. And we got into a relationship. And he had but one condition, “I am never to turn up in that blog of yours. Ever.” At around the same time, after screenwriting for six years and getting nothing made, I went back into my advertising career, signed some NDAs and agreed to never write about my work.

Which was not the ending that I’d planned for LA Stories. I was supposed to win the Oscar for Best Screenplay, not forget to thank my husband in my acceptance speech, buy a house in the Hollywood Hills where Ryan Murphy and I would hang out by my pool and talk about the next sensational TV show we would collab on. 

Then, after thirteen years of living in California, in the middle of a divorce and let go from my last full-time advertising job, I landed in Berlin in April 2018 with my hair on fire. And the only way that I could deal with it all, was to write a book about it. 

It’s called My Gay Divorce. It’ll be out next year, God willing. Or, let’s be honest, COVID willing.

The good news for you, dear reader, is that I’m divorced now from both the man and the full-time advertising work. So once again, I’m free to write about life, the universe and “neverything.” 

From the time I landed in Berlin, it took me two years to get divorced, write the book, set up a new life, then start to figure out how not to self-sabotage it because I’d been in crisis mode for so long. After surviving what both my lawyers and the pre-trial Judge described as, “one of the craziest cases they’d ever seen,” I had no idea how to function like a normal human being. 

I mean, how am I supposed to go grocery shopping when there isn’t a lawyer waiting to jump out from behind the produce aisle and smack me around the head? Wait, so I can just pick this orange up and put it in my basket and that’s it? I don’t have to give half of it away? And since I’m not working 70 hours a week anymore I can just casually stroll home and eat said orange at a leisurely pace whenever I feel like it? Ok… I know I should be enjoying this… but this feels very fucking weird.

To be honest, I’m still figuring this part out.

It’s been nine years since I wrote the last post in LA Stories. Obama was in office, the Arab Spring was in full bloom, Charlie Sheen was the greatest meme on the planet, Game of Thrones had its premiere on HBO, and some guy had made headlines for buying a pizza with Bitcoin. Meanwhile, I had rejoined the advertising world in the offices of TBWA/Chiat Day LA when everyone referred to themselves as, “Storytellers,” on their LinkedIn profiles that I scrolled through on my iPhone3, wondering if I should upgrade to the 4S so I could have this Siri thing Apple had just launched.

The world has changed a million times over since then. For me, for you, for all eight billion of us.

Which brings us back to sequels. Some sequels have enormously long gaps between instalments. Which calls to mind two movies that parallel my own life story. Warning, plot spoilers ahead.

Bladerunner 2049 is set thirty years after the original where a replicant called K, who now has Deckard’s job, sets about to find Deckard who’s been living as a hermit in an abandoned Las Vegas. Deckard is then kidnapped by yet another replicant, whose boss offers Deckard a replacement version of his ex, before K busts him out, and dies helping Deckard fake his own death so that he can meet the daughter that he didn’t know he had.

Hang on… that doesn’t sound like my life at all. Let’s switch genres.

Toy Story 3 begins as Andy, the kid from the first two films who is now seventeen, sets off for college. Woody, Buzz Lightyear and the other Toys who’ve not been played with for years, are accidently thrown in the trash instead of being put into storage. Through hijinks, the Toys end up at a kindergarten where they are tortured by toddlers and evil Toys on a daily basis. The rest of the movie is an escape film. The Toys not only have to escape the kindergarten, but also a life of subsuming themselves to another person or their work, and instead find a fulfilling life that is just for them. 

On that strikingly similar storyline, is where I pick up my story again. Because like I said before, now I’m free.

Here’s the funny thing about freedom though. I’d always imagined that freedom was this big grassy field filled with unicorns and bunnies, friends new and old, great music streaming 24/7 that unlike Spotify has me properly figured out, and some flirty times with a 30 Rock era Alec Baldwin or some kind of European creative type who looks like an extra out of Vikings.

However, it turned out that this freedom I’d fought so hard for, was nothing. A gaping, black hole of nothing. And anything or anyone who I found in there, well, that was on me. There was no ex and no job to blame anymore. So it’s from this construction site that I’ll be writing Berlin Stories.

The best sequels take only what worked from the first. As I said earlier, LA is a never ending set-up for a joke. The funny parts of LA Stories really made people laugh. And we all need to laugh these days or else the insane asylums are going to be as overflowing as our IC units.

But it was when I wrote openly and honestly about the shit that was going on in my life in that strange and fabulous city by the sea, that LA Stories really connected with people. Because that’s what we all want to feel, right? Connected. 

Through my phone, my apps, the news cycle, COVID, living in a new country, learning a new language, being single and watching the world teeter on the edge of a live volcano, I feel more disconnected than ever. Writing helps me figure things out. So maybe reading Berlin Stories will help you figure things out too. Or at least have a giggle and know you’re not alone.

You may ask, is Berlin really going to be as funny a place to write about as Los Angeles? Well, if you’ve ever dealt with the foreigners office, tried to get wi-fi connected, looked for an apartment, gone on a date, tried to pronounce a word that has an umlaut in it or is thirty-three letters long, survived a winter or attempted to make small talk in German with anyone in its capital, you’ll know what a humorous place this is to live. Darkly humorous. But remember, this is country that gave us the gift of Schadenfreude. And who doesn’t enjoy the misery of others just a teensy bit? It’s OK, you’re amongst friends here.

Now, to any literary know-it-all dying to troll forth that The Berlin Stories was already written by the great Christopher Isherwood, I would like to say, “Duh.” I’m well aware of the book. It’s one of the reasons I moved to this city. But Mr Isherwood’s is The Berlin Stories. Mine is just, Berlin Stories. I would never dream of assuming the superlative.

The other great truism about sequels, is timing. And as far as half of Europe goes, we’re already in the sequel that no one was hoping would come out. Like a Fast and The Furious 4 without any of the excitement, our Lockdown Light has kicked off in Berlin and many other parts of the continent last week. Surprisingly, this one isn’t as bad as we were all thinking it would be. Which isn’t to say that Rotten Tomatoes gave it a Fresh marker. No, this version has all the hallmarks of the original, and could really use some savage editing; less Netflix, less poor food choices, less impulse buying on Amazon and a fuckton less ongoing isolation. Plus, we already know the ending; the heroes emerge from their cages slightly heavier and slightly more depressed than before. Because in this edition we walk don’t walk out into the sun in July, but to the snow in November. Sequels really do suck.

That said, for every Rocky V there’s a Creed. And in the news today was a report about the very first signs of a working vaccine. So hey, this could all get very Return Of The Jedi very soon.

So that’s the trailer for Berlin Stories, where I haven’t given away the plot because I have no idea how this adventure goes. I’m planning to write at least one blog post a week, add a video component to it and whatever else seems to fit. Hopefully you feel like putting on some popcorn for the next episode.

But until next the post remember; you’ve already outlived 100% of your worst days. Think of Berlin Stories as part of your Survival Kit.