"Harry?"
"Mort?"
"I got one word for you: angels."
"Didn't they finish last in their division last season?"
"I'm talking angels, here, Messhugah, not The Angels! You know, with wings and halos and the holy thing they got going..."
"Have you gone off your medication?"
"No, I have not gone off my medication! Angels are gonna save the film industry!"
"What -- they wanna direct?"
"You gotta give me a hard time all the time?"
"Whadd I say?"
"Movies about angels! They're gonna big! Bigger than Elvis!"
"Okay, that's big. So, why are you so hot on this angel thing?"
"Hey, I can read! Sixty-eight per cent of Americans believe in angels. With wings and halos and the holy thing. Sixty-eight per cent! That's more than vote in Presidential elections!"
"Of course -- nobody believes in politicians."
"Okay, already, enough with the political commentary. Are you a producer or Morley Safer? What do you think of my idea?"
"I don't know...these angels in this movie of yours -- what exactly do they do?"
"They gotta do something?"
"Mort, Bubbe, we got a little thing in this industry, maybe you've heard of it, IT'S CALLED A PLOT!"
"Harry, please, don't chack mir un chienik! When Louis B. Mayer got Busby Berkeley to do Goldiggers Go West, you think they were worried about plot? No! They were more concerned with bringing a little joy to millions of people whose lives had been shattered by the Depresssion!"
"Maybe. But that was a long time ago. Now you got 25 year-old studio heads who've just come out of business school who are obsessed with plots."
"So, the angels save a few souls, bring lovers together, whatever. Plots -- feh! Those business school grads don't know how to make movies!"
"You're right. Bastards."
"So, you in?"
"I don't know...getting story ideas from the National Enquirer..."
"Harry, knaidlache, movies have been based on literature since forever! When Griffith directed Back Home Betty in 1915, you think the studio cared that it was based on a newspaper article about the opening of a tire factory? Don't be a putz! All they cared about was that Griffith gave them another hit!"
"C'mon, Mort, stop shpritzing."
"Shpritzing? Whaddya want from my life -- I'm not shpritzing!"
"There's definite liquid precipitation in the air, here, Mort."
"Please! We're talking on the telephone!"
"Exactly! I gotta use an umbrella in the house just to talk to you -- my granddaughters are looking at me like I'm mental or something."
"Okay, okay, I'll work on the shpritzing, already! But can you blame me for being excited with such a great concept on my hands?"
"I don't know. I mean, what next? A movie about two headed Martian babies?"
"Spielberg wants to direct that one."
"Steven Spielberg?"
"No, Moishe Spielberg. Are you sure you still got what it takes to make movies, or are you only good for eating stewed prunes and reminiscing about the good old days when you had all your own teeth?"
"Okay, okay. I just don't see it, is all. What next? A movie about a fish boy starring Meryl Streep as a distraught marine biologist? How about that kid -- you know the one I'm talking about -- in a film about Jim Morrison faking his own death so he can lead guerrilla mercenaries in Central America?"
"Now you're talking! What about Michael Jackson -- the possibilities are endless!"
"Is this really what Hollywood has come to, Mort?"
"No, Harry. We're just doing what we've always done best: giving the people what they want..."
