Anyway, still winter, I shuttle to Washington to meet the Post editors and, most particularly, Woodward and Bernstein.
It was not a good meeting and I suspect it was my fault. Bernstein was late, but when he arrived the three of us began to talk and I remember talking about the incompetence of so much of what went on, and I said, "It's almost like a comic opera."
The look on Bernstein's face when "comic opera" came out was not one of joy. The story had taken him from being a young, not all that successful reporter and had already given him a certain amount of fame and was soon to make him rich. And here was this Hollywood asshole talking about it being something less than serious. (Not my intention, obviously, but it was not the best phrase for me to use on a first meeting.) At any rate, although I met with Bernstein a couple of times in the months that followed, his contribution to the film was, for a while, nil.
And that doesn't make him wrong. When a movie company takes a property of yours, it's not yours anymore. I think it was Hemingway who advised "Take the money and run." Not without wisdom.
Woodward, on the other hand, was available to me constantly. I cannot overemphasize his importance to the screenplay. When he was in New York he would call and we'd often meet. When I was in Washington, he gave me everything I needed in the way of knowledge and support.
And I needed plenty. Because it was an incredibly complicated story and trying to find the handle was a bitch. He'd been working on it for close to two years and I was new. Forget, for now, trying to make a screenplay; I was struggling just trying to get the events straight.
If Gordon Willis, the cinematographer, was the hero of the film, Bob Woodward was the hero of the screenplay. I hacked away at the morass of material and finally reached one conclusion: Throw away the last half of the book.
Bernstein and Woodward had made one crucial mistake dealing with the knowledge of one of Nixon's top aides. It was a goof that, for a while, cost them momentum. I decided to end the story on their mistake, because the public already knew they had eventually been vindicated, and one mistake didn't stop them. The notion behind it was to go out with them down and let the audience supply their eventual triumph.
If I ended there, and I began around the break-in, I didn't have a whole structure but at least I had the start of one. I fiddled with the rest of the narrative, tucking things in as best I could, and then Woodward came to my office. I asked him to list the crucial events--not the most dramatic but the essentials--that enabled the story eventually to be told.
I think there were thirteen of them and he named them in order. I looked at what I'd written and saw that I'd included every one. So even if the screenplay stunk, at least the structure would be sound.
Then I went to work writing.
In August of '74 I delivered the screenplay to Redford in Utah, where he has a home and a ski resort. My family came along, we rented a house in the area. The month was to be spent working.
He read the first draft, liked it well enough, and copies were sent out. Obviously to Warner Bros., which was the studio that was to make the film--if they liked what they read. (If they didn't, they could have gotten rid of me and brought in another writer of their choice, but that would have been very damaging in terms of time. I'd been working for six months at least by August, and it wasn't the kind of material another screenwriter could have whipped off easily.)
And copies were sent to the editors of the Washington Post, who were portrayed in the movie. And, of course, to Woodward and Bernstein. I'm not sure as to whether we were legally bound to give them copies or whether it was done for goodwill and courtesy, but it was done.
Now Redford and I began to wait. We met each day usually near his house, and we talked about changes and who would be best for director, etc. But mainly he talked and I listened.
It was a very strange time. We had known each other now for half a dozen years, had worked on three pictures together--Butch, Hot Rock, Waldo Pepper.
Shortly after Butch opened he was on the cover of Life, which identified him as "Actor Robert Redford." I remember him saying to me that each time he looked at the cover he had to look twice because he was convinced it said "Asshole Robert Redford."
Well, he wasn't an asshole anymore. Now he was a phenomenon.
He'd also become secretive. Not only did I know him, our wives knew each other, so did our kids. And he had asked me to come to Utah for the month to work with him--
--and he wouldn't give me his phone number.
In order for me to contact him, I would have to call his secretary, and she would then call him and he would then call me.
None of this mattered, of course, once we heard from Warners that they liked the screenplay and we were a "go." The movie was to become a reality. President's Men had been the most difficult and complicated movie work I'd done till then and I felt a greater sense of accomplishment at that moment than ever before.
If only I could have ridden off into the sunset then and there.
One of the things I have tried to avoid in this book is to rewrite history. Some of what you're reading comes from talking to people, but the greater amount comes from memory. And I've blocked a lot of what happened between August of '74 when the news came from Warners and the following June when photography actually began.
The rest of this chapter is material I've been unable to block, no matter how hard I've tried.
It's still August, Redford begins the search for a director.
But we still haven't heard from the Washington Post.
And we still haven't heard from Woodward and Bernstein.
The first director we sent the script to--who must remain nameless for legal reasons--said yes.
Incredible.
Then things started getting funny. Phone calls weren't returned, meetings were delayed. Many weeks later I was finally told--who knows if it was true?--that the director was involved in litigation against Warner Bros. and had only said yes in order to do any little thing he could to take out his vengeance on the studio. He never had any intention of directing the film, he just wanted to cost Warner's time.
By the time this news surfaced, we still hadn't heard from Woodward and Bernstein.
But we had heard from the editors of the Washington Post--
--and they hated all the jokes I'd put in their budget meetings.
A word now about just what a budget meeting is. The Post had two of them a day. And the main purpose was to budget space for articles--especially front-page articles. If you are a reporter or an editor, you want your stuff to appear on "page one above the fold."
When I was spending time at the Post, they were decent enough to allow me to attend their budget meetings. (They were all decent, by the way. Courteous and helpful as much as their very busy schedules allowed.)
Okay, I go to my first two budget meetings and they were, of course, fascinating. But afterward, the top editors came up and told me that they weren't as funny as they usually are. Because one of the editors--Harry Rosenfeld, the part played by Jack Warden in the movie--was out that day. They assured me that when Rosenfeld was back, and he would be tomorrow, I'd get a different picture.
The next day Rosenfeld was back and was, as advertised, hysterical. In these meetings, the various editors--metropolitan, national, foreign--all argue with each other about the importance of their stories and the prominence their stories should receive.
And every time one of these guys would tout a story, Rosenfeld would zap him. Funny, funny jokes. And sitting in a corner of the room, I copied down Rosenfeld's lines in my notebook.
And in the screenplay, when I wrote the budget meeting scenes, I used Rosenfeld's lines.
Which infuriated them, because now they felt they looked like a bunch of clowns.
So that was the Washington Post's reaction.
Still nothing from Woodward and Bernstein.
It's now fall, I'm back in New York, in my office, and the phone rings. It's Redford. He says that Bob and Carl
are with him and why don't I come on over.
I go on over to his apartment, elevator up, ring the bell, go inside. My mood was pretty good as I remember. And I had absolutely no warning bells going off in my head that I was about to begin experiencing the worst moments of my movie-writing life.
Redford's in the living room. Woodward's in the living room. Bernstein's in the living room.
And there is a script on the living-room table.
I say hello to Redford, shake hands with Woodward, shake hands with Bernstein.
And now there is this silence.
And that script is still on the living-room table.
Then Redford said really the most extraordinary thing: "Listen--Carl and Nora have written their version of the screenplay." (Nora being Nora Ephron, a writer, then Bernstein's girl friend, whom he was later to marry and divorce.)
I just stood there.
Probably I blinked.
But I sure couldn't think of anything to say.
As a screenwriter, I test very high on paranoia. I'm always convinced of any number of things: that my work is incompetent, that I'm about to get fired, that I've already been fired but don't know yet that half a dozen closet writers are typing away in their offices, that I should be fired because I've failed, on and on.
But all those nightmares--and on occasion they've all happened--are within the studio system. The producer goes to the executive and says, "Goldman can't cut it, let's get Bob Towne." And then the executive calls Towne's agent and a deal is struck and money changes hands and the first I hear about it is when my phone doesn't ring when it's supposed to.
But for two outsiders, a hotshot reporter and his girl friend, to take it upon themselves to change what I've done without telling anybody and then to turn it in to the producer--a "go" project, remember--
--not in this world possible.
But there was their script on the living-room table.
I stood silently, staring at the thing, and I wanted Redford to scream at Bernstein, "You asshole, get out of here, don't you know what you've done?"
Redford said, "I've gone over it a little and I think you ought to read it."
I wanted my producer to defend me--I'm eight months on the project now, and I've done a decent job--Warners said yes. I wanted to hear "You're a dumb arrogant fuck, Carl, and I'd like you to shove that script where the sun don't shine."
Redford said, "I think there might be some stuff in it we can use."
I'm up to here with Watergate, I'm going crazy with when did Haldeman talk to Mitchell and how can we fit Judge Sirica into the story and how can Erlichman be the perfect neighbor everyone described him as being and still do the things he did; I had fretted and drunk too much and stayed up nights because I couldn't make it work until finally I did make it work and I wanted acknowledgment that a terrible breach had been committed.
Redford said, "We all want the best screenplay possible, so why don't you look it over, we're all on the same side, we all want to make as good a movie as we can."
I said I couldn't look at a word of it until I had been told I could by lawyers. And I left as soon as I could.
I can make a case for my producer's behavior. After all, this was now a famous book, Woodward and Bernstein were the media darlings of the moment, and we needed all the help we could get from the Washington Post. A pitched battle with Bernstein wouldn't have been an aid to moving the project forward. I could go on longer and make a better case. Redford was in a bind, no question.
But I still think it was a gutless betrayal, and you know what else? I think I'm right.
Lawyers were called in, and eventually it was decided I could read the Bernstein/Ephron version. One scene from it is in the movie, a really nifty move by Bernstein where he outfakes a secretary to get in to see someone.
And it didn't happen--they made it up. It was a phony Hollywood moment. I have no aversion to such things, God knows I've written enough of them--but I never would have dreamed of using it in a movie about the fall of the President of the United States.
One other thing to note about their screenplay: I don't know about real life, but in what they wrote, Bernstein was sure catnip to the ladies.
One important positive moment came out of that, a moment so meaningful to me I've separated it here. When I next met Woodward to talk about the movie, he said the following, word for word: "I don't know what the six worst things I've ever done in my life are, but letting that happen, letting them write that, is one of them."
I was and am grateful.
The Bernstein/Ephron episode did not stay secret long. God knows I didn't talk about it, but Washington, like Hollywood, thrives on the gossip of its main industry.
It was eventually common knowledge that I had written a dud. Later, after Hoffman had been signed, Time wrote an article about the progress of the movie and mentioned the lack of quality in what I'd done, even though, as they pointed out, it had snared Dustin Hoffman. I wished then for the first and only moment of my life that I subscribed to Time so I could cancel.
I was at CBS once in the news department and Walter Cronkite was walking along a corridor. The guy I was with knew Cronkite and introduced us, which pleased me because during this Watergate time, when everyone was lying, he was among the few Americans you could trust. Following is the entire conversation:
MY FRIEND
Walter, this is Bill Goldman who's writing All the President's Men.
ME
How do you do, sir.
CRONKITE
I hear you've got script trouble.
(and he continued on his way)
Spring of '75 was the most stomach-churning time I've ever had writing anything. I had been on the movie now for over a year, not as daisy-fresh as I might have been. And by now I was dealing not just with the producer, a director had been signed: Alan Pakula.
Alan is a gentleman. We had mutual acquaintances in the business and they said nothing but good things about him as a human being. Neither can I. He is well educated (Yale) and serious about his work. He had been a top producer for years before he became a director--To Kill a Mockingbird, which he produced, was nominated for the Best Picture award for 1962. His biggest success as a director had been Klute, which got Jane Fonda her first Oscar. He's wonderful with actors.
But I, alas, was no thespian.
I've only met Warren Beatty once, and that was at a large gathering where everyone was shaking hands with everyone else and there wasn't much time for conversation. Beatty had just finished working with Pakula on The Parallax View. As Beatty and I shook hands I managed to get out that I was soon to meet and work with Pakula.
Novelists are always using the phrase "enigmatic smile." It's a staple. In all my life, I have only seen one such enigmatic smile. It came on Beatty's face and he said this: "Just make sure you've got it before you go on the floor."
I didn't know what he meant then, and although I wanted to pursue it, it wasn't possible in the crowd.
Had I known then, as they say, what I know now.
Pakula and I began with a series of meetings. Now, when a writer meets with the director of a movie that is gearing up, there is really only one subject: improving the script. Cut it, change it, fix it, add, the whole point is to make it better.
As I've said, I like to think of myself as being very supportive at this time. I don't want to be on the floor, so if you're going to get the best I can give, this is when.
We would meet and discuss a scene, any scene, it doesn't matter, and I would ask if it was okay, and if it wasn't, how did he want it changed, what direction? For example, I might ask, did he want this shorter or longer?
He would answer, "Do it both ways, I want to see it all."
Both ways?
Both ways.
I might ask, did he want me to rewrite a sequence and make it more or less hard-edged.
He would answer, "Do it both ways, I want to see it all."
Both ways?
Both w
ays, absolutely.
But why?
And now would come the answer that I always associate with Alan: "Don't deprive me of any riches."
God knows how often I heard that. "Don't deprive me of any riches."
What I didn't know then, of course, was simply this: Alan is notorious for being unable to make up his mind. So here I was, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen months on the Watergate story, and when things should be closing down in terms of script, irising in, if you will, it was going all over the goddam map.
I didn't know what the hell he wanted. So I was writing blind.
Alan is also genuinely creative. One day he spitballed a wonderful little scene for Bernstein and his ex-wife. He just ad-libbed it and I wrote it down and typed it up and felt very good about the whole thing; at least I'd pleased my director.
Mistake.
In doing so, I had also displeased my producer.
Redford was very much aware that his two greatest successes had been in "buddy" movies: Butch and The Sting. And here he was, locked in with another male co-star.
He had always wanted a love interest in the movie. I think he always knew a romance didn't belong in the picture and this picture always had a length problem. It wanted to center on the two reporters and there was more than too much for them to do.
But now Hoffman had a scene with a girl and Redford became obsessed. I can't remember at the time whether Woodward was married or not, but he was involved with a lovely girl named Francie.
And now "Francie scenes" entered my life. Redford didn't want one, he wanted three, to show the growth and eventual deterioration of a relationship under the pressure of the story. It wasn't an incorrect idea, it was just incorrect for this movie.
At least I thought it was.
But he was my producer and he would appear again and again with new and different notions for three Francie scenes. I don't know how many I eventually wrote--a dozen, probably closer to two.
And it was miserable, because I didn't believe a goddam word I was writing. And I suspect my belief showed in the quality of my work.
So every day for months I would go to my office to write one of two things: either scenes for the director, who wouldn't tell me what to write, or scenes for the producer, which I didn't have a lot of faith in.
Adventures in the Screen Trade Page 24