I would take some obscure cult novel and adapt it into a slow pretentious art house movie that goes for five hours. The studio would give me six months to make it but I would go way over schedule because I would be a insane perfectionist reshooting every scene two hundred times until the cast and crew all had nervous breakdowns. I’d pick some egotistical “auteur” method actor that “inhabits” the character 24 hours a day, even when he’s not on set, and flys into a rage when the crew don’t address him by his characters name. He’d spend most the shoot hiding in his trailer because one of the crew made eye contact with him. I would also pick a leading lady with a major drinking problem that turns up on set drunk each day and gets into screaming matches with the cinematographer who’s she’s having an affair with. I also blew the budget by insisting we spend six months on location in the Cambodian jungle just to shoot one small scene that could of easily been done with a green screen in LA. The movie would go so over budget that the studio would eventually fire me and recut the movie as a light hearted straight to DVD rom-com. I would never work in Hollywood again but would continue to make low budget art house movies in Europe which nobody watched but pretended they did to appear intellectual at cocktail parties. Eventually the original directors cut of the film would be uncovered in the editors garage and would be released on Blu-Ray . It would slowly develop a cult following and would eventually be praised as an artistic triumph. By that stage though I’d be a washed up alcoholic living in some Prague halfway house completely unaware that snotty film school undergrads worshiped me as their god. Wait... what was the question again?