Long involved dream last night about Scarlett Johansson playing a character named Alice, who is being chased by a contract killer in the pay of a foreign government because Alice has information she doesn’t know she has, and the only way to make sure she doesn’t spill the beans is to shoot her. She’s being protected by me and a petite CIA brunette named Emory Snow. The contract killer tries to feed Alice/Scarlett a poisoned drink, but I knock it out of his hand and there’s a big bar-room brawl, a classic knock-down drag-out that wrecks furniture, mirrors, and whiskey bottles. And when I finally hit the killer over the head with a bar stool and he stays down, I look up to see Emory Snow putting a chloroformed cloth around Scarlett’s mouth from behind. Of course--she’s the real villain; she’ll sell Alice/Scarlett to the highest bidder and they can torture the info out of her. I chase them to the garage, and manage to grab onto the side of Emory’s Stingray as she drives off. She guns the motor to 90. The wind hits my face like a fist. There’s no sign of Alice in the car; she must be in the trunk. I climb over the roof to the back, hoping Emory doesn’t weave or anything because if she does, I’m dead. There’s a wide piece of leather flapping from the rear window down to the license plate, with snaps like a briefcase. I unhook the first snap, and the leather whips into my face, stinging my eye. I unhook the second flap, which opens the trunk door, and look inside. Alice isn’t there. I climb back to the passenger side of the car and prepare to swing in through the window. The plan is to kick Emory away from the wheel and take control of the car. “I wouldn’t do that, we’ll crash,” Emory says. The speedometer reads 120 and we’re going over a curving two-lane bridge. So I sit down next to her and let her drive us back to her hideout.
Which is the last thing I remember until I come to in a bathroom bigger than a two-bedroom apartment. Alice is lying on the tile floor beside me. Her head is wrapped in a plastic bag. “It’s very simple,” says Emory’s voice from somewhere nearby. “Alice is going to wake up in a few minutes, and when she does, I want you to make her laugh. It’s a great talent, making people laugh. All it will take is two or three breaths in that plastic bag and it’ll be all over.” She laughs. I shake my head like Indiana Jones at the guy with two swords and take the plastic bag off Alice's head. Then I look around the bathroom, open a couple of drawers, and see a gun in one of them, a small automatic. I pull it out. There’s a noise coming from the shower, so I slowly walk in and part the curtains, and there’s Emory in a soaking wet pantsuit holding a large antique Colt 45. “Get out,” I say. “What are you going to do, shoot me?” she says. I fire, and my gun squirts water. I burst out laughing. “Ah damn,” I say, “I guess it just doesn’t pay to hold anything but a 45, huh?” “Damn right,” she says, brandishing her gun, and that’s when I go for it, grabbing her hand and breaking one of her fingers as I wrench it away from her. She starts to fight me and I whack her a couple of times over the head with the gun, but she’s still conscious. Our fight leads us into the main bathroom, where Alice is still out like a light. I push myself hard against Emory’s back, forcing her against the floor, and start calling Alice's name. “Alice. Alice. Wake up. Wake up, Alice.” She groans. “I need you to do something. Alice wake up, I need you to do something. I need you to go to the garage and start the car. Can you do that, Alice? Alice. Wake up, Alice. Wake up. Wake up.” And I wake up.
*Wait--that describes most of her movie roles.