In 2007, long after the courtroom cameras have turned away, O.J. Simpson is living in Florida—drifting through bars, games of golf, and strip clubs as a shadow of his former self. The man who once ruled the NFL, grinned at us through the TV screen in commercials, and walked free from the Trial of the Century is now bloated, broke, and grasping at relevance.
Then comes the rumor: a stash of his personal memorabilia—photos, trophies, awards—has resurfaced in Vegas hotel room, being sold off by collectors like sacred relics of a disgraced god. To O.J., these aren't just items. They're proof. Proof that he still matters. That he was someone. That he is someone.
And so begins a plan: assemble a ragtag crew of yes-men, addicts, and old friends, confront the "thieves," and reclaim what’s his. What follows isn’t a sleek heist or righteous crusade—it’s a cringeworthy, spiraling descent. Fueled by ego and denial, O.J. orchestrates a hotel-room confrontation that is bizarre, chaotic, and ultimately criminal.
The script walks a razor’s edge between comedy and tragedy, charting the final public implosion of a man who could never stop performing—even after the spotlight had vanished. As O.J. sets out to steal back the trappings of his former life, he finds himself caught in a hall of mirrors: every gesture meant to reclaim the past only drags him closer to the truth he’s spent years evading. We watch as he rewrites the story in real time, casting himself as victim, hero, legend—anything but what he truly is: an aging celebrity trapped in the long shadow of something unforgivable.
Based on the true story that led to Simpson’s 2008 conviction, O.J. is a dark satire of fame, delusion, and the American urge to rewrite one's history. It’s a crime story—but the real score isn’t memorabilia, it’s meaning. In a last, delusional stand, a disgraced icon storms a hotel room not to steal back objects, but to reclaim the myth of himself—wresting legacy from the hands of a world that has already rendered its verdict.
