OMG: I’m holding it in my hand. A hand-typed script movie people would kill for.
I just ran across it in this rare and ancient bookshop and literati haven, in an alley off Carlsbad Village Drive, a couple of blocks toward the ocean from Interstate 5. It’s a 1941 ex-garage, where kids come to play chess and their moms and dads come to drink coffee and exchange deep thoughts. And people sing, or watch art movies in the tree-dappled, small open-air stage between the garage and Sean Christopher’s home.
Sean’s the owner here. Calls it Lhooq Books & the Exrealism Project. (He explains the layers of meaning, but really, you’ll have to ask him yourself.) He’s scattered the inside and outside with everything from bird cages to helmets to arty thermometers, to loaded bookshelves to chess sets, scattered everywhere, ready for play. He also has arcane items like Raphael’s ancient manuscript (meaning actually handwritten), a book of talismanic magic from the 1600s; a Colonial Registry from 1760; and this, a final draft for the movie Pulp Fiction, hand-typed by Quentin Tarantino himself. Probably worth everything else put together.
I may be the only dude in the land who didn’t really go for that narcissistic celebration of violence, that paean to American nihilism, as some critic called it. But it was original, sure shook up the noir neighborhood, and according to Sean Christopher, is worth a lot of plata.
“Original script, authenticated with 20# 100054 stamped on every page,” says the Post-It stuck to the title page. “Quentin Tarantino’s own hand-written notes on back page. $2,500.00 minimum.”
Sean wrote that. But he says he’s now been told that at auction it could fetch anything from $10,000 to $100,000 or beyond, seeing it is that actual typescript Tarantino bashed out on his typewriter in May 1993.
I flip through the pages. Oh, yeah...the famous adrenalin shot scene.
- LIVING ROOM
- Vincent is bent over Mia, talking softly to her, when Lance reenters the room.
- Quit fuckin’ around man and give her the shot!
- Lance bends down by the black case brought in by Jody. He opens it and begins preparing the needle for injection.
- While I’m doing this, take her shirt off and find her heart.
- Vincent rips her blouse open.
- Jody stumbles back in the room, hanging back from the action.
- Does it have to be exact?
- Yeah, it has to be exact! I’m giving her an injection in the heart, so I gotta exactly hit her in the heart.
Interesting. But not as interesting as Sean. This guy is a short-story writer and script doctor, especially for academics. But more than this, he tells me he has penetrated underground cultures in places like Russia to interview writers that authorities there don’t like. He does this dangerous work for well-heeled European literary magazines. “Kind of gonzo journalism. But I also write introductions for art books and help PhDs with their dissertations. Often, they’re so drowned in their specialty they just can’t get it out. When you’re writing about complexity, simplicity is the rule.”
This bookshop-cum–cultural haven has long been a dream of his. And for all its apparent casualness, it has fascinating collections. Not that it’s all rare or ancient. Unless Harry Potter’s that already. Kid comes in, runs to a table. Grabs a fat, gnarly, Harry Potter paperback. “Mom, please?”
Lhooqxrealism.com is Christopher’s website.