Who Is Michael Ovitz?

by Michael Ovitz

  Howard taught me how to bring clients into a package and keep them happy, how to mediate problems, how to watch over budgets. He always made time for me. (Following his example, I had a series of trainees assigned to me at CAA. I’m afraid I was much less patient.) He was a model for follow-up and presentation and how to think on your feet. And he taught me to tell clients the truth. Agents always get busted when they tell the easy lie: “You look great in dailies” or “Your script is fantastic.”

  But Howard wasn’t a client signer, so he hit his ceiling at William Morris. At dinner one night he told me he was leaving to set up a management company with his friend George Shapiro. (Later he and George became executive producers of the supreme TV package of all time, Seinfeld.) The news rocked me, and we downed two bottles of white wine. That was the second—and last—time I ever got drunk.

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  WMA excelled at certain kinds of packaging, but we had nowhere near the clout of Universal Television, which basically set NBC’s lineup. The big New York sales week fell in late May, when agents peddled their clients’ pilots for the fall season. With hordes of actors under contract and a soup-to-nuts production company, Universal churned out shows like a Ford assembly line. As the FCC barred networks from producing their own content—a rule that wasn’t fully eliminated until 1995—NBC was dependent on Lew Wasserman’s largesse.

  Our WMA contingent stayed at the Sherry-Netherland, on Fifth Avenue, where all of Los Angeles gathered for the week. After flogging our pilots hard for days, on the night before the schedule was announced we’d see Lew Wasserman stride through the lobby to head to his suite. A few minutes later, NBC’s vice president for programming would be ushered into the elevator and up to Lew’s rooms. It was pretty obvious from the schedules announced the next day what happened up there:

  NBC: “We need a detective drama for Wednesday night.”

  Lew: “We’ll get you Peter Falk in a wheel with Dennis Weaver and Rock Hudson.”

  And that would become The NBC Mystery Movie, a rotation of Columbo, McCloud, and McMillan & Wife. Or Lew might say, “We’ll give you a family show with Robert Young as a doctor who cares about his patients’ lives”—and presto, Marcus Welby, M.D. Whether it was a Thursday-night comedy or a weekend western, Lew had what they wanted, or what he told them they wanted; he set the menu and they ate the food.

  After NBC stuffed itself with Universal’s programs, the rest of us fought over the remaining slots. As strong as WMA was, we were a pale shadow of the way MCA had dominated agenting in the fifties, or the way Universal ran television now.

  You could not beat Lew Wasserman.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GOOD COP/BAD COP

  Not long after I made agent, Ron Meyer came to William Morris from the Paul Kohner Agency and was assigned to TV talent. He was twenty-five, two years older than me, and the first thing that struck me was how nice he seemed, how skilled at putting people at ease. Gravel-voiced and sleepy-eyed, Ron was a high school dropout who’d served a hitch in the military—he had a Marine Corps tattoo on his arm—and who presented himself as a self-taught, well-read street fighter. He was terrific at his job but felt a little insecure at a place where a college education had become the norm. He reminded me a lot of my dad: a friendly street guy with savoir faire. But Ron was smarter than my dad, and shrewder.

  We hit it off right away, two kids with no money who resented the guys with rich parents and fancy cars. (I drove a ’65 Mustang, while Ron had an aging Porsche two-seater that barely ran.) Something about being around Ron made me completely comfortable; I felt happy with him, at home. I admired Ron because he had what I didn’t—a relaxed charm, an ability to do things for people he hated with a warm, lazy smile.

  Judy and I began to hang out with him and his wife, Dolly Colton, and their friends. Ron was a neat freak who liked the occasional home-cooked meal; Dolly was a gregarious redhead, born to wealth, who had no interest in the domestic arts. Friction was inevitable, and soon Ron wanted a divorce. He couldn’t afford a lawyer, so I helped him choreograph an exit with Dolly and her formidable father. We agreed that he needed to be aggressive, like an agent. He’d open by asking them for alimony—after all, they had the money. Dolly and her father settled for a clean split of the couple’s assets.

  Single once more, Ron unleashed his ample charisma. One day, we saw Geneviève Bujold idling her Mercedes convertible in the office parking lot. Ron was obsessed with Geneviève, a Morris client and a very hot actress at the time. Now she was twenty feet away. Ron looked at me, then walked over to introduce himself as one of her agents. He told her how great she was and said he’d love to get to know her better. Then he asked if he could buy her an ice-cream cone someday. I saw Geneviève nod and smile—they had a date! Ron’s invite was so innocuous it worked. It wasn’t a drink or a nighttime proposition: it was an ice-cream cone. That was Ron Meyer.

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  —

  Phil Weltman cut a wide swath at William Morris. He ran the training program and cycled younger agents through the departments—in effect, he decided our destinies. Square-jawed and no-nonsense, Phil was a born drill sergeant. One morning he summoned a guy named Jimmy Goldsmith. Jimmy had shoulder-length hair, as was increasingly common in the early 1970s, and Phil lectured him on the virtues of a good haircut. When Phil called him in again at 5:00 p.m. and saw that Jimmy hadn’t made it to the barber, he fired him.

  But we revered Phil, the one senior executive who valued both loyalty and initiative. While he vocally promoted the William Morris values, Phil called out the ugly stuff, too, such as the old guard’s resistance to teamwork and promoting younger agents. We’d later make Phil’s philosophy a central tenet of CAA, but it went against the grain at William Morris, where it was every man for himself.

  Under Phil’s tutelage, Ron and I decided to sign clients as a twosome—ideally clients who worked in prime time. We met a talented TV writer named Norman Lear, whose sitcom pilot about a working-class family in Queens had just been picked up by CBS. The new guy there, Fred Silverman, was ditching rural-themed shows like Green Acres for urban, contemporary programming. All in the Family debuted in 1971 and topped the Nielsen ratings five years running. The show’s leads, Carroll O’Connor and Jean Stapleton, already had agents, but Sally Struthers and Rob Reiner were relative unknowns, and Norman introduced them to us.

  When we visited the set, I wore my navy suit and Ron wore jeans and a pullover. We promised to find Sally, who wanted a more rounded career, TV movies and theater jobs whenever All in the Family went on hiatus. She liked the idea of two agents for the price of one, and by the second meeting she was ours. Rob had written for the Smothers Brothers but was straining to get his own material off the ground. We snagged him a job directing a TV movie called Sonny Boy, the beginning of Rob’s distinguished run as a director and producer, and signed him and his wife, Penny Marshall, who later became the star of Laverne & Shirley.

  Norman Lear had a genius for making hit shows. Over the next few years he put eleven more sitcoms on the air, including Maude and The Jeffersons. Ron and I dogged his cast members, signing John Amos from Good Times and Demond Wilson from Sanford and Son. We made a great team because we had a great rap. I was formal, reserved, analytical, and concise, and Ron was sociable, sympathetic, disarming, and loose. You needed a persona as an agent, something that made you unique. I’d heard that Sam Cohn, the famously rumpled New York agent, cut holes in his sweaters to make them look moth-eaten. Sam’s persona was the absentminded genius. Ron’s was the best friend and confidant, the “I’ll fix all your problems” guy.

  I had given a lot of thought to my persona. There were three options. Number one was standard agent: the schmoozer, the glad-hander. But I didn’t want to be standard in any way. Number two was Leland Hayward, an absolute gent who had his own agency in the forties and handled such clients as Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Jim
my Stewart, and Judy Garland. Leland was legendary for his consideration. If a client wanted to leave, Leland would let her go without a word of protest or a hint of rancor. Everyone loved him. That was incredibly appealing—but I sensed that Leland’s persona wasn’t the right fit for me.

  Believe it or not, in those days I was affable and considerate, with never a bad word about anyone. But you need to pick a persona you can inhabit without strain, and I knew I’d do better as the opposite of Ron—as the all-business tough guy who’d protect you. I could see that that’s what the biggest stars and directors wanted. So my persona became the “I’ll make your dreams come true” guy, mixed with the “I’ll fix your problems” guy. Ron was the good cop and I was the bad. Ronnie and Mike. (I actually always hated the lunch-pail nickname “Mike,” and spent countless hours reminding everyone, “My friends call me Michael,” but “Mike” stuck to me like a burr.) Underneath the roles, though, Ron and I were always more alike than even our colleagues realized. Ron’s easygoing demeanor hid a personality as calculating and determined and tightly wound as mine was.

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  —

  Our bosses periodically gathered us to trumpet the latest signings and whip up the troops. I usually sat in the back with Ron and the other young agents; we weren’t supposed to speak at these rallies, just listen.

  In the fall of 1974, CMA stole Steve McQueen from us. At the next meeting, Sam Weisbord proudly announced that he’d roped in an equally big name: Ann Miller. A mutinous murmur arose. Miller had been a star in MGM musicals—twenty years earlier. Ron spoke up, suddenly, to suggest that we go after some of CMA’s biggest clients, some actual stars, to even the score. Sam Weisbord’s eye started to twitch like crazy and he lost his mind, shouting, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! She’s a star!”

  I completely agreed with Ron, but I would have discussed it with Sam in private, where his ego wouldn’t have been on the line. Ron was extremely direct, not tactical. I left the meeting deflated. Ann Miller was doing dinner theater and earning a decent income, which was all Sam cared about. But we cared about the company’s image. When people asked about new clients, we wanted to brag about a Jane Fonda or a Jacqueline Bisset, not some fifty-one-year-old song-and-dance queen. Our feelings were ageist, sexist, lookist, and any number of other -ists—but then so is Hollywood.

  The Ann Miller meeting was like the first time you realize your parents are old. I’d played by the rules at William Morris, and so far it had worked. But I began to ask, What if? What if guys like Ron and me had more of a say? And then: What if we could run a company of our own?

  * * *

  —

  The Beverly Hills and New York offices of WMA were bitter rivals. Movies were handled in Los Angeles, and theater in New York. Television was split, with sales on the East Coast and creative work and packaging in L.A.—and the two camps were insanely jealous of each other.

  Late in 1974, we had a visit from Lou Weiss, one of the inner-circle executives around Morris president Nat Lefkowitz in New York. He asked to meet with the agents in charge of TV packaging: Rowland Perkins, who covered CBS; Mike Rosenfeld, who covered ABC; and Bill Haber, who handled NBC. I was present for my daytime work signing and packaging game show producers and directors. As a group we’d killed it. Rowland, Mike, and Bill accounted for twenty-one programs for prime time, and I had packaged seven more in daytime—more pilots altogether than any other outfit in town, including major studios such as Universal.

  Lou breezed into Rowland’s office in a stunning suit and Gucci loafers. We were huddled in our not-so-dapper suits, waiting for our attaboy. “We had a strong sales season on both coasts,” Lou began. “But—we could do better.”

  Rowland Perkins, who’d counted on becoming the next West Coast head of television, bent forward as if he’d been gut-punched. (Nat Lefkowitz would slide a New Yorker into the job instead.) Happy-go-lucky Mike Rosenfeld looked like his dog had died. Bill Haber’s left foot was tapping furiously. As Lou droned on, Bill’s foot tapped faster and faster. After Lou left, everyone exploded. “That was unbelievable!” Mike said. “It’s horrible!” cried Bill, dangerously flushed.

  In 1973, when I had brought in close to $2 million in commissions on a weekly salary of $400, William Morris had given me a $7,500 bonus. In 1974, the agency’s leaders recognized my seven pilots by upping my bonus to $15,000, which they thought handsome, given that all of us “could do better.” Meanwhile, every day we walked past the office of Joe Rifkin, a Lastfogel crony who read the newspaper for hours with his feet up. There were three or four guys like that around, big wheels from way back when who were just diluting our bonus checks. The only way they’d leave was feet first. It drove Ron nuts.

  * * *

  —

  Phil Weltman’s downfall began when they made him an administrator and he gave all but a few of his clients to younger agents. Though Phil and Sam Weisbord had been best friends, dating to their bachelor roommate days, they fell out after Sam got tight with Mr. Lastfogel. When Phil irked the bosses once too often, he had no rabbis left to protect him. It happened a few weeks before Christmas of 1974. Phil called Ron and me and a few of his other confidants into his office. Sam Weisbord had asked him to leave the company, he said: “They put my name in the computer and it came up wanting.” The man who made confident agents quake, who taught me the meaning of strength—that tough, tough man broke down in front of us.

  That lit the fuse. At dinner one night, Ron said, “Why don’t we go into business for ourselves? We’ll make more money, and they’ll never be able to do to us what they did to Phil.”

  Ron was persuasive, but I felt conflicted. Sam Weisbord, my rabbi, was next in line for the presidency, and Walt Zifkin, the agency’s controller, had told me I’d run the place someday. Judy and I were the fair-haired couple at the company. I had more to gain by staying than Ron, and more to lose by leaving.

  Seeing me hesitate, Ron said, “You have no gamble in you. Sometimes you have to step up and roll the dice.” That got me thinking. I was twenty-seven. If we busted in three years, I could land a new job and start over. But I wasn’t about to gamble on a two-man boutique. If we left William Morris, I wanted to build a giant agency and beat them at their own game.

  A few days later, Mike Rosenfeld confided to Ron that he and Rowland and Bill were leaving. They wanted Ron to join them and handle the talent while they packaged network and studio deals. Ron urged them to add me as well, and they agreed. I was surprised by Ron’s willingness to throw in with Bill, who was famous for torturing his staff with work-related trivia quizzes. He drove Ron crazy every day. Nonetheless, I went to the rebels’ first meeting, after work at a bar called the Golden Bull.

  We were an unlikely group, united more by opposition to WMA than by any plan for an alternative. Rowland Perkins was the eldest, nearly forty, handsome, silverhaired—an agent out of central casting. But he was a salaryman at heart, comfortable with a guaranteed paycheck. Mike Rosenfeld was a fantastic agent, beloved by everyone, but he was obsessed with the idea that because his father had died young, he would, too—so he was out every night, burning the candle before it was snuffed out. Bill Haber was brilliant, creative, and prickly. Later on, it became important to him to drive around in a Volkswagen Bug, to be the “I’m not really an agent” agent. When CAA was running smoothly, he was always threatening to quit and go work with blind children.

  Ron led off with his idea for a Meyer-Ovitz (or Ovitz-Meyer) Agency. The others quickly talked us out of it. Together the five of us had the three major networks covered. We’d earned our stripes in talent and in packaging, the two main facets of TV agenting. I gave us a beachhead in day parts, which generated cash flow every week, much faster than the returns from prime time—a key consideration as none of us had much money to plow into the venture. (I was making $45,000 a year, but I still owed William Morris $15,000 for the down payment on my house in S
herman Oaks, in the Valley.) Two clients were sure to follow us. Ron was very close to the character actor Jack Weston, and I thought of Kelly Lange, an L.A. news anchor, as the sister I’d never had. We rated a dozen others, including Sally Struthers and Rob Reiner, as probables. With a bunch of iffies, we had a list of about seventy-five names.

  I weighed in on three points. It seemed to me that we should take advantage of the fact that we were young and aggressive—Ron, Bill, and I were all under thirty—to try out new ideas that could reshape the ways the town did business. First, I said, the equity had to be split evenly. Second, we had to try to get as big as we could. Third, we’d share our clients and serve them as a group—no turf wars, no silos. At William Morris we had many an agent who excelled at signing artists but stumbled in finding work for them. Wouldn’t it be better, I said, if clients could rotate freely within our firm? We’d be five musketeers, one for all and all for one. Everyone would handle everyone, and everyone would tell our clients the truth. It was standard procedure in the agency business, when a client called with unpleasant news or a dangerous rumor—“I hear I’m getting fired off the film”—to say “Don’t worry, I know all about it and it’s fine,” even if this was the first you’d heard of it. We would pioneer the calm, no-bullshit approach, saying instead, “Let me look into it and I’ll get right back to you.” We’d be better agents because we wouldn’t agent you.