About fifteen years ago, I was a screenwriter. The gig lasted seven days, during which I was put up at the Chateau Marmont in the same bungalow in which John Belushi died. Horscht, the wild-eyed, fast-talking, curly-mulleted producer paying for it, had a vision he delivered to me as he stood in the doorway, silhouetted before the last sunlight I would see for a week:
Superhero movies are going to be big. Trust me. Everyone loved Stargate. Why? Time travel. Everyone loves time travel. You follow me? I nodded. And Nazis. Best bad guys ever. Everyone loves Nazis. You follow me? I nodded. Put them together and what do you get? I shrugged. Me neither, but I own the rights to make G.I. Joe: The Motion Picture, and you’re going to write it for me.
And that’s how I learned everything I need to know about the future of self-driving cars.