David Vincent Laserson
Born to Ida Rae Specthrie Laserson and Myron Raphael Laserson, a third generation Russian slash Ukrainian child, David Vincent Laserson began telling stories as alternative to telling the truth. He would regale his classmates with outlandish yarns long before he was facile with the alphabet and the concrete mechanics of wordplay. His father’s second wife, known as Judi, turned him on to the book Rufus M at ten-years-old, and from that moment on he would tinker with words as a drummer boy toys with rhythm and tempo and the stylish clash of language’s percussion as odd semi-autobiographical characters manifested in myriad shades of mood, despair, ineluctable happiness, fantasy, and the strictly impossible machinations of magic, death, and political irony. Upon entering higher education, he was most fortunate to study under William Meredith, a Norton Anthologized Poet who would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry. Meredith vowed David had “excellent antenna” and awarded him a series of Straight A’s. He also studied writing & English Literature at the University of London, but his true core of learning stemmed from becoming the “reader par excellence” for World Film Services in Rockefeller Center, reading piles upon piles of manuscripts and screenplays for The Dean of Film Finance, John Heyman, as well as for his First Look in-house producer, David Brown, who produced JAWS, THE PLAYER, SHORT CUTS, DRIVING MISS DAISY, and A FEW GOOD MEN. This gilded exposure offered him uncanny access to The William Morris Agency whose agents Steven Starr and Tina Russell happily hooked him up with director Ang Lee, who was an eyelash away from directing David’s ALL PICTURES HALF PRICE, about an old Chinese man with a magic camera. In all, as screenplays are most agreeable to his love of photography and passion for story-telling, David has completed shall we say far too many screenplays, the last of which, BLIND TIME, won Best Original Screenplay last November in the Off The Page Film Festival in Philadelphia. He has also published five novels, listed herewith, ranging from historical fiction to fantasy to Great American prose, to epistolary-confessional Salingeresque first person exposes that dare to enunciate the unvarnished truth of just how imperfect the universe and everything in it, is, while managing to capture a few rarefied moments of the not unkind predicament of the human condition, a character at a time, bit by bit, like a steady pattern of rain dimpling the ever-enlarging offing of just what those questioning antenna dare to behold.
