To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  But Suzanne had not seen her last challenge or crisis as head of Creative. In the earlier years, this area had been the number one force in the company, but it was becoming more and more complicated to run.

  Moving up in my company affected people differently. When I first tried to hire Edna Anderson, she resisted the promotion. Since Rebecca had her hands full with family and administrative matters, I needed a strong executive secretary.

  I sent out word that I wanted to find a qualified person within the company.

  That’s when I heard Edna was available. A strong young black woman, she had been working downstairs in the Publicity Division. She was Junius Griffin’s secretary, very much an activist like he was. Junius was leaving to open up his own public relations firm, and Bob Jones, who’d been second-in-command, was taking over the department. Bob already had a secretary and Edna wanted to stay at Motown.

  But when I sent word for her to come up and interview, she refused.

  “What? Run that by me again,” I told Rebecca.

  “She refused because she said black people can’t make it to the top here.”

  I sent word back—“It’s because of people like you that black people have a hard time making it anywhere. If you’re not up here in fifteen minutes, you not only won’t have this job, but no other one here.”

  She moseyed up, with an attitude, proceeding to interview me.

  I wanted to kick her out so bad, but I could see she was strong. I liked her. We agreed to a three-month trial period that began in April of 1972. In what seems like the blink of an eye, twenty years passed. She became the most indispensable administrative assistant I ever had. Edna made sure she set people straight on the rumor that even she had believed, and she also was one who never stopped encouraging me to set the record straight on other rumors.

  With the increasing challenges I was handling, her responsibilities grew from day one. But when I later offered to promote her to vice president she wouldn’t accept it. She said that without a fancy title she would still have the same power—but not the headaches.

  Being an entrepreneur the way I was—having a hand in everything at my company—had always worked for me. But looking back, I can see it was around this time, the mid-seventies, that it started working against me.

  The executive chain of command was fuzzy since everybody knew only one real boss—me. And their boss had a major preoccupation—making his second movie, Mahogany.

  In many ways Mahogany was one of the most exciting projects that I’d ever done. I ultimately became the director. The chain of events that led to that end was bizarre.

  Rob Cohen, the imaginative young producer I had hired to run Motown Productions, had had the toughest time finding the right movie project for Diana. Over the next four years Rob was responsible for building up our film credits with such projects as The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and Motor Kings, Scott Joplin and The Wiz, but it was this first film with me where he really was put to the test.

  Though Diana’s nomination for an Academy Award meant that we were swamped with scripts, none worked for me. Rob brought me some music-related projects that were okay, but the concept I wanted was something where she didn’t sing—a role to solidify her ability as a dramatic actress. Also I had hoped to team her up with Billy Dee again. With the two as a romantic leading couple, I felt we could have a franchise—like Astaire and Rogers and Tracy and Hepburn.

  But nothing seemed right for Diana until one day Rob and a writer named Bob Merrill joined Shelly Berger and me for lunch at my house. After we ate, Rob trotted us upstairs to my music room with a bunch of pictures that looked like comic books under his arm, as well as some easels and other props. Using the pictures on a storyboard, the way he presented Mahogany was a no-brainer. It didn’t take much time either.

  Quickly flipping the pages he told the story of a young woman from the inner-city ghettos of Chicago who dreams of being a big fashion designer and who eventually makes it to the top. At the height of her career in Europe, she realizes that the happiness she really seeks in life has always been back home in her own neighborhood.

  The theme echoed my own feelings that happiness is within you; and the real fun and real love are usually in the valley where we start out rather than at the mountaintop where we hope to end up. Aware of Diana’s love for fashion design, I knew she’d be thrilled to act out one of her dreams.

  There was an ideal part of a love interest for Billy Dee, and in the role of the crazed photographer we cast Anthony Perkins—an actor I had admired since Psycho.

  The screenplay, written by Bob Merrill, based on a story called “Such a Good Sport” by Toni Amber, was then rewritten by John Byrum.

  Unlike Lady, where I put up all the money, in this deal with Paramount, I had only to put up half to get the control I needed to do the film my way—I thought.

  Rob brought in Tony Richardson, the well-known British director who had directed the successful movie Tom Jones. I liked him personally, especially when he told me how much fun it would be working with me on the movie. I took that to mean we would function somewhat as a team.

  Then shooting began. Two weeks into production, in December of 1974, we were on location in one of the roughest neighborhoods on Chicago’s Southside, at the corner of 41st and Ellis.

  Just a few blocks away from the set there was a housing project called the “Bucket of Blood.” And for good reason. We heard that every weekend several people there were killed. The location was a great choice visually, but we were in a potentially explosive situation. And Mother was there. She had come to Chicago to spend a few days with me. Tony Greene, a longtime friend of the family who was also her personal assistant and companion, had brought her to the set. Even though Tony looked like an ex-linebacker and was very protective of Mother, I was still worried about her being in the area at that time.

  Tony Richardson, an Englishman in a long furry coat, was barking orders at the black residents. If they were in the shot, he’d order them off their own porches. The locals were baffled and so were we. What really surprised us was that they did what he said. But we all wondered for how long?

  From the time I had been coming to the set, I’d noticed that Tony seemed to be avoiding me. But since he had said how much he looked forward to working with me, I just assumed he was too busy concentrating on making a great movie.

  However, when I told Rob I wanted to talk to Tony and warn him about the dangers we might be facing, I found out otherwise. That was when Rob first told me, “He doesn’t want to talk to you. In fact, he doesn’t want anything to do with you.” Then he confided, “Or me either.”

  Rob reminded me how the movie business worked: Tony was the director and had the most power. Rob, the producer, had just a little. And me, the executive producer, the guy who put up the money, had none.

  I was shocked. Not only my money was on the line but everything else, so I had to be careful not to do anything to jeopardize this project. I knew there could only be one boss on the set and wasn’t about to challenge his authority. “All I want to do,” I said to Rob, “is help any way I can. I will stay out of his way if that’s how he feels. Whatever he wants.”

  “I’m sure I can work it out soon,” Rob told me, “but for now it’s best for the picture.” When Diana and Billy started coming to me in private about problems they were having, I told them Tony was the boss and all I could do was encourage them to work with him.

  Then I saw the dailies. They were coming out lifeless. That was more of a problem. The film was missing the point and I could see my money going down the drain.

  Rob agreed and was getting nervous. Still, he told me I should stay away from Tony and just keep working on the script. “After all,” he said, “you’re great with words and timing and you know just what to write for Diana and Billy to make that magic.”

  “If I’m so great,” I said, “why do I have to stay in the closet?” Anything I came up with, Rob had to present to Tony as someone
else’s idea. This bugged the hell out of me.

  Each night after seeing the dailies I became more and more upset. I couldn’t contain my frustration anymore. It all came out of me one night about two in the morning up in a suite at the Astor Towers, where we were staying. I was stalking around, Rob following me from room to room.

  “He’s ruining my movie. I can’t go on like this. He’s missing the drama—the feeling—the point. This is just another movie for him but this is my life.”

  Rob understood but warned, “If you’re thinking about firing the director, don’t. Do you know the ramifications of doing that once a picture starts shooting?”

  “Not really.”

  He told me we’d lose the crew and have to shut down production. Paramount would then consider it a problem picture and lose confidence. The cost of starting all over again with a new crew would be astronomical. The picture would never get made.

  Rob promised he would talk to Tony and again try to make things better.

  The following day Rob got his own set of bad news. His father had died.

  Before leaving to be with his family he gave me a last warning: “Just be cool with Tony for a few days and I’ll be back. And remember, above all don’t be stupid and fire him.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” I said, “stupid I am not. I won’t even go near him.”

  The next day Diana frantically called me from the set: “Black, we got a real problem down here. I need you to come right away. I don’t want to get into a fight with Tony.” Her words spilling out, she told me that Tony had been rehearsing this big guy for the rapist scene who couldn’t act at all and was throwing her off. But there was another actor, a little guy, rehearsing for the part—who was terrific. The problem was that Tony didn’t think the little guy looked enough like a rapist.

  When I got there Tony was not that unhappy to see me. He thought maybe I could help him explain to Diana why the big guy was better suited for the role. My solution was for both actors to read the scene. Afterward, Tony was quick to agree that the little guy was ten times better than the big one, and he would go with him.

  The scene was being shot that same night out on the street—full lighting, full crew and everything. Breezing in about an hour after they had started, I saw Diana motioning for me to come over. As I drew close, she leaned up to my ear and whispered, “He’s back! The big guy is back. Tony got rid of the little guy. We’ve already taken four takes. He’s horrible.”

  No. Tony had given me his word. Now this? I didn’t understand. Confused and angry, I rushed over to Tony. “I thought we agreed on the smaller guy.”

  “We did,” he said, “but I changed my mind.”

  “Okay, we got a problem. We got a big problem. I want the little guy back.” Though Tony had sent him home, I turned to one of my assistants, Andrew Davis, a former St. Louis policeman, and said, “Find the little guy! I don’t care where he is.”

  Luckily Andrew got to him before he left the area and had him back on the set in no time, prompting Tony to say, “Oh, so he’s back I see. But I am not going to use him at-tall.”

  At this point I was beside myself. “I’m telling you, Tony, I want this guy in the scene. You’ve already agreed to it.”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Okay, Tony, I’m begging you,” I said softly, making sure Diana didn’t hear me, “to please put the man back in as you promised.”

  He shook his head no.

  “Okay, then I’m telling you precisely, put the man back in.”

  “And I’m telling you precisely. No!”

  “You’re fired!”

  That was probably the first time I really got his attention.

  He turned to his technical staff of other Englishmen and said, “I’ve just been fired. Berry Gordy fired me.” He turned back to me. “Okay, it’s all yours,” he said and walked away.

  I just stood there. In shock. What do I do now?

  Shelly rushed up to me, “Don’t worry, I’m with you. We can do it.”

  “We can do what? Have you ever directed a movie?”

  “No.”

  “Well, neither have I. So what the hell you talking ’bout?” I really did appreciate his gesture of support, but here we were in the middle of the street, these big gigantic lamps lighting up the night, rows of shadowy figures everywhere and Tony’s crew staring at me.

  I can never be completely sure, but I think Tony wanted to be fired. It’s possible that the whole argument over the casting of the rapist was his way of getting out of a project he felt was wrong for him. In any case, as soon as I agreed to pay off his contract in full he cooperated completely with me, persuading his crew to remain on the picture. I was happy with that.

  I will never forget my first take as a director that very same night—the rapist scene with the little guy. The first assistant cameraman called, “This is a take! Quiet on the set!” The sound man hollered “Speed,” the cameraman “Rolling,” and a production assistant with a clapboard clapped loudly in front of the camera lens. This was exciting, yet scary. All of a sudden I realized the whole film was in my hands. I felt strange.

  I called “Action!” From stillness to movement, everything swung into gear: Extras started walking. I cued Diana to start walking. She hurried along, turning back to notice this wiry little guy following behind her. The whole street had come to life just because I said “Action.” What a thrill!

  Even more so when I heard the lines of dialogue I had rewritten. No longer was I in the closet.

  When it was over I started applauding and others joined in. Euphoric, I was hugging and complimenting the actors when Shelly came over to me. “That was great,” he said, whispering in my ear, “but I think it might be nice if you said ‘cut.’”

  I looked around—shocked to see the cameraman still shooting, his eye glued to the camera’s eyepiece. The sound and lighting people too were in motion, covering everything, paying no attention to what was going on on the set.

  Oh. “Cut!” I shouted. Everything stopped. Quiet. The camera the sound, recorders, the lights and everything just cut off. What power! I had felt it before, but never like this. Never this precise.

  When it was time to do the next scene, the first assistant asked sarcastically, “Okay, Mr. Director, what do you have in mind for the next setup?”

  Setup?

  The dolly shot we had just done had been set up by Tony—who loved doing all kinds of moving shots I knew nothing about.

  “Let me see,” I said, going back to the only basics I knew. “I want three setups. A wide shot, a medium shot and a close-up.”

  “Okay, wonderful,” he said, glancing at the others with a smirk.

  I went over to Diana and Billy Dee. “They’re not going to do anything to help us so it’s all up to you. I’m just going to turn the cameras on. And you have to make the scene come to life without fancy dolly shots.”

  I saw new inspiration and excitement in Billy Dee and Diana. They did not let me down.

  I left that night feeling secure. But the next morning I woke up with a shuddering realization—I had to call Barry Diller in New York.

  Diller and I had been buddies for ages. He was the new chairman of the board at Paramount Pictures and Mahogany was one of the first movies under his regime. He was very confident because we had Tony Richardson, a director he respected.

  This was a hard call to make.

  When I got him on the phone I told him something had happened on the set that I wanted to bring to his attention.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I fired the director.”

  Silence. “You fired Tony Richardson?”

  “Yeah, but I had cause.”

  More silence. “Well, who’s going to direct the picture?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh. Great! Then we have no problem. I know whatever you do will be right.”

  When I hung up the phone it was easy to see why Diller was such a winner with creative peop
le. I laughed to myself thinking that he was probably panicking all over the place. But with a few words, he had pushed my button all the way in and had locked it there for the rest of production. I knew I had to deliver.

  The power of somebody believing in you or convincing you they believe in you works wonders. Just as I had done that with others, Diller did it with me.

  When Rob Cohen came back he was shocked but somewhat relieved that with me as director the tension was gone and he could now assume his full role as producer.

  By the time we finished shooting in Chicago and were on our way to Rome, the cast, the crew, especially cinematographer David Watkin, and I were all in love with each other—and the movie.

  When we got to Rome the production continued to go well but tension was growing between Diana and me. In the past, she and I had had our little fights but now they were beginning to be more cutting than before.

  Diana was under more and more strain. My decision to let her actually design the gowns in the movie—something that I knew would mean a lot to her—had come back to haunt me.

  Diana was attacking the project with a vengeance, staying up all hours working on the clothes. Always exhausted and irritable, her acting suffered. Clues that the problem was out of hand had come long before the shooting of a sweatshop scene where her character is about to have a nervous breakdown. In that scene, Diana didn’t have to act.

  She was becoming bone thin, but the more I talked to her about anything, the more irritated she got.

  However it wasn’t just her. It was me, too. I was pushing hard like I had done throughout her career. But now it seemed to bother her a lot more. I could feel a growing resentment.

  By late January, we were falling further behind schedule when I got the news that my mother had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and was not expected to live. Not again. It was similar to what had happened to Loucye ten years before. I had to be there. I left Shelly in the director’s chair and hurried back to Los Angeles.

  I knew Mother would want “the Chairman of the Board,” as she always proudly introduced me, to be by her side with Pop and all of her children.