I came out to Hollywood and wangled a meeting with Steve Martin. He met me in his office, asked me to take a seat (though he himself stood).
“I’m here to encourage you to direct another film,” I said.
“Hah. They all want me to make movies again. But I tell them: art is my passion now.”
“You’re depriving the world.”
“Art, my boy.”
We continued to discuss it with no progress. He said my words were cheap parodies of things every other fan had said to him.
“I can help you, you know. I can write 200 jokes in a single night. Look.” I handed him a sheet with jokes I had written.
“There are only five jokes on this sheet,” he said.
He paused. “Do you know the kind of return I can get on an investment in art?”
“Films make money too, Mr. Martin.” And with that, having gotten the last word, I stormed out the door.