Filmmakers' Heaven

An uneasy day in Filmmakers' Heaven. Some residents had been anticipating this day for years, even decades. Others had dreaded it. All had known it was coming, and it arrived on the otherwise undistinguished morning of May 10, 2031, when the Chronicle-Inquirer – Filmmakers' Heaven's rough equivalent to Variety – published this announcement:

HOLLYWOOD, CA (Afterlife Press) – Movie lovers all over the living world are mourning the death of filmmaking legend Steven Spielberg, who passed away quietly in his sleep last night.

Spielberg, 84, was a household name in the physical realm for directing such classics as Jaws, E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial, the Indiana Jones series, Schindler's List, Saving Private Ryan, Minority Report, Lincoln, Minority Report III and, most recently, Lincoln II: Davis's Revenge.

Renowned as the most commercially successful film director in history, Spielberg made his appearance at Heaven's Gate early this morning, according to gatekeeper Michael Cimino.

"We processed his file pretty quickly," said Cimino, who has served as official gatekeeper since 2017. "George [Lucas] has started showing him around. They seemed pretty excited."

As with all qualified residents of Filmmakers' Heaven, Spielberg will be entitled to an eternity of making any film he wants, with no earthly barriers like budget or studio interference in the way. He will get all of his first casting choices out of Actors' Heaven. Residents also have access to any movie they wish to view, even those lost in the earthly realm [...]

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Filmmakers' Heaven was as large as the human imagination could stretch, and also as small and provincial as Hollywood. It was not just an infinite movie studio; it was a neighbourhood and a buzzing entertainment district, loaded with full recreations of all the great hangouts of movie history. The Mos Eisley Cantina. Jack Rabbit Slim's. Nick's Bar. Tony's Bar. The Korova Milkbar. The Winchester. And, of course, Rick's Café Américain. At some point, everybody came to Rick's.

Orson and Stanley were playing chess at their usual table in Rick's, shortly after they'd heard the news about the impending newcomer. "It Had to Be You" sounded from the band at the other end of the venue, which had few patrons in the morning. As usual, Stanley was winning.

What a ludicrous cliché we are, Orson thought. Two fellas in a café playing chess while chatting about current events. I think I did that in my worst film, The Stranger. Except it was checkers. But Stanley sure loved his chess. He couldn't go a day without it. And Orson was the only one around with the patience to indulge him.

"So," Orson said in his deep, rich, resonant mid-Atlantic voice, as Stanley contemplated his next move, "Stevie's finally made it." He sucked on his pipe for a moment before adding, "I don't know how to feel about that. What about you?"

Stanley slowly looked up from the chessboard. There was a pause, during which he blinked.

"It... should be... interesting," Stanley replied, scratching his beard, his speech punctuated with the usual Shatnerian pauses. "Word is... that he's... behaving like a... little boy... who's eaten... too much... sugar... and can't stop... babbling for a... second."

Orson struggled not to betray his impatience. That was the thing about Stanley. He always spoke at a... slow... deliberate... pace... with no feeling of spontaneity whatsoever. He also distracted you with his impeccable symmetry. No matter what angle you looked at Stanley from, he always appeared completely symmetrical. Nobody knew how this worked.