Los Angeles—Leave it to fate to intervene in such a way where I would not meet with the unconventional film essayist Michael Moore in a proper sit-down interview, rather, in an elevator that stopped at almost every floor—10 of 15—on the way down, at The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills recently.

'I hope we're not in the elevator that just got stuck,' Moore commented, after I said hello to him upon entering the elevator. Moore was referring to one of the other two elevators, thankfully, at the hotel, that was still stuck with a bell-hop in it. 'We're not. Thank god,' I replied. 'There's a poor soul still in the stuck elevator. It hasn't yet been fixed.'

'That would make for a movie,' says Moore jokingly. ''Stuck In An Elevator.' We could have Weird Al and Aerosmith set the movie to music. Imagine, an elevator at The Four Seasons, stuck, with a fat, middle-aged filmmaker, and what do you do?' he asks me.

'I don't think the movie would be very interesting,' I replied. 'I am in the same profession as you—a journalist, a writer—yet hardly as well known. I doubt audiences would be lining up to pay for a movie with me as the subject,' I continued. 'You, on the other hand, Mr. Moore,' I went on, carrying on with the most powerful (well, at least most famous), 'documentary' filmmaker in the world, 'You should be proud of yourself, for sure. Congratulations on winning the Palme d'Or.'

It was just a couple of weeks prior to my encounter with Moore that his newest film, Fahrenheit 9/11, which needs no introductions, won the Best Film award at the Cannes Film Festival. (Would anyone in their right mind expect anything less? France bestowing its highest cinematic honor to an American movie that trashes America's politics and sitting president?)

'Thanks,' he replied, the elevator now on its way from floor 12 to floor 11, where it stopped, and none other than Guy Pearce, the star of the just released Two Brothers, stepped on. (Pearce, at the hotel doing press for his movie.)

There we were, the three amigos, stuck in an elevator. 'Now, this would make a movie,' I joked to Moore, Pearce oblivious to what we were laughing about.

Pearce, who still lives in Australia, seemed to not know who Moore was, nor in any mood to get to know him. He carried on into his cellphone in a separate corner of the elevator as it proceeded to lower towards the lobby.

Skipping floors 10 and 9, the doors opened again on floor 8, this time, a bellhop climbing in with an empty bellcart, separating Moore and me from Pearce with his bellcart.

'You must really be pissed at Disney,' I exclaimed, referring to the stance Disney took against Miramax, their subsidiary, the company that originally bought Fahrenheit 9/11, sight unseen, and then refused to distribute after all the hoopla—the right-wing threatening to protest and boycott Disney should they release the film many are calling propaganda.

'I think we taught them a lesson or two,' replied Moore, about Disney. 'I think they got the message.' That message, of course, was that neither Moore nor the Weinsteins, the principals at Miramax, needed Disney to release their award-winning film. The brothers Weinstein bought back Fahrenheit 9/11 from their parent company, Disney, and formed their own company, and then sold distribution rights to IFC/Artisan.

The rest is history. The film's $24 million opening weekend, on less than 900 movie screens, nationwide. The house-breaking records set in many theaters. Etc., etc., ad nauseam. But I'm not yet at the end of my elevator ride, nor my conversation with Michael Moore.

As the elevator slowly progressed towards its final destination, the lobby, my five minutes with Michael Moore were about to end. However, I had one minute more with him than all television junketeers have with all of their interviewees. (It's a little-known fact that when we see on our local news, the entertainment reporter chatting it up with the celebrity of the week that they have an allotted time with each star—4 minutes. What trouble they would be in without the editing room.)

'What's next?' I asked Moore? 'I mean you won an Academy Award for your expose on the gun fiasco in America, and you're well on your way to winning your second. How will you be able to top this movie?'

'I don't know, for sure,' answers Moore. 'Maybe something on how religion has corrupted this country, next.' That's an idea. A cross between The Passion of the Christ and Fahrenheit 9/11. I can just see it. The movie that will break Titanic's record at the box office.

Just then, the elevator reaches the lobby and the doors open to reveal none other than Spiderman himself, Tobey Maguire, who had just arrived to do press for Spiderman 2.

'You're at the wrong elevator,' Moore jokes to Maguire as he gets on to go up and we get off. Poor Tobey had no idea that he came so close to being able to prove himself, to show off his superpowers, to save America's 'director of the week' who was almost 'Stuck In An Elevator.'