Why write “BOSCUTTI’S DON SIMPSON?”

Why write a novel on a borderline psychotic Hollywood producer who didn’t know where to draw the line? Who’s life of excess proved to be the death of him?

Why try and find empathy with a man who prided himself on being an asshole? Why turn an award-winning screenplay into a novel?

What can I tell you? I like the guy? I mean, sure he’s a deranged maniac with a mean streak for hard drugs and hookers. But he always laid his cards on the table. And he worked damned hard. Ferocious work ethic.

He was a young man from working-class Alaska who ended up rewriting Hollywood in his image.

I’m drawn to the perpetual outsiders who achieve outrageous success. Elvis Presley, Pablo Escobar, Bill Hicks, Jesus Christ.

And now Don Simpson.

The studio super producer who partnered with Jerry Bruckheimer and, well, killed cinema. Replaced ambiguity and nuance with unstoppable heros, blinding cuts and sound so loud it made it impossible to think. “Flashdance”. “Beverly Hills Cop”. “Top Gun”. The list goes on.

If you’ve ever gobbled popcorn it’s because of Simpson. His blustering blockbuster model has become the standard Hollywood formula. All those screenwriting classes you’ve been taking? Thank Simpson. He was the man that codified the template we all use today.

I love the idea of pushing the language to a more cinematic form to tell a story of a man who pushed cinema into a new form. The character is the medium is the message.

If it swerves out of control it means it’s working. Simpson never believed in limits. How will you ever know you’ve reached your limit until you’ve passed it.

What drew me to the story was wondering what in God’s name was going through his brain the moment he died. The moment your life flashes before your eyes.

What would he see? His triumphs? His tragedies? His fatal mistakes?

How would he redeem himself in the end?