The Disaster Artist: My Life Inside THE ROOM, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made

“No Mickey Mouse stuff here,” he said.

Tommy kept going on about needing pools of blood everywhere, even in places that didn’t make sense. The effect Tommy wanted, it appeared, was: Dude, I’m dead. Look how dead I am!

Who has sex with his future wife’s clothes moments before shooting himself?

Tommy wrote Mark and Lisa’s exchange to include such heartfelt nuggets of passion as “I want your body” and “You are the sparkle of my life.”

Lisa was a terror: shrill, controlling, greedy, selfish, and vain. She had to be one of the most chauvinistically written characters I’d ever encountered in a script—until, that is, I met her mother, Claudette.

I knew Sandy was relieved to be leaving now, because looming next in line to film were Tommy’s love scenes. That, really, was Sandy’s choice: Tommy’s naked ass or Steven Spielberg’s director of photography.

Tommy finally managed to say “We’re expecting!” without expectorating a lung

That was Single White Female–meets–Tom Ripley creepy

Tommy typically kept his Christmas tree up all year long. Sometimes he didn’t remove the menagerie of Halloween pumpkins from his doorstep until the following Halloween, when he replaced all the old, black, rotten pumpkins with fresh new orange ones. Tommy’s favorite American holiday was Thanksgiving, but he didn’t just celebrate Thanksgiving Day. He celebrated Thanksgiving Month, eating a full turkey dinner every day for the next thirty days. I once asked him about this. His explanation: “We live in America. Anything is possible. I love living American life.”

“I know the name of your character now,” Tommy said, looking at me. “You will be called Mark—like this guy Mark Damon.