The Smoking Gun

by Doug Richardson

  “My problem is that it doesn’t feel at all dangerous,” I said. “Vietnam was a scary place and I don’t feel the script respects that. The movie needs a bit more edge to feel authentic.”

  “Oh…” said my agent, his voice slightly deflated. “My impression is that the studio thinks the movie should be funnier.”

  “Funnier?” I repeated, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

  “Yeah. A lot funnier.”

  “Vietnam isn’t funny.”

  “It was funny in Good Morning, Vietnam.”

  “No. Vietnam was never funny in that movie. Robin Williams was funny because he played a character whose job it was to be funny.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I see your point. Let me have another conversation with the studio.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we resumed the conversation.

  “Okay,” said my agent. “The studio wants the movie to be funny. Thinks the script needs to be funnier. And they’re offering it to you because they’ve heard you made Bad Boys funnier.”

  “Maybe I did. But I had Will Smith and Martin Lawrence.”

  “So?”

  “So they’re funny. It’s one thing writing for people who are funny. It’s another——”

  “C’mon. Danny Glover and Ray Liotta can be funny.”

  “Who says?”

  “Danny Glover was funny in Lethal Weapon.”

  “In Lethal Weapon he was straight man to Mel Gibson.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  “Okay. So in this Dumbo thing, let’s say Danny Glover plays straight man to Ray Liotta,” I argued. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big Ray Liotta fan. Great actor. But I can pretty much bet you your commission that he’s not funny.”

  “Right,” said my agent. “Lemme get back to you.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re on the phone again. I hadn’t talked to my agent this often since he’d tried to convince me to drive up to Santa Barbara and co-write Under Siege 2 with Hapkido-instructor-turned-megalomaniacal-movie-star-Steven Seagal. Sure, I’d sniffed the sack of cash I’d been teased with. But I’d already

  heard enough quality intel about the actor. Inside the movie ropes, Seagal had already become wellknown for carrying a 9th degree black belt in Tai Kwan Psycho.

  “Talked to the studio,” said my agent. “Just so you know, they don’t have any illusions about Glover or Liotta being funny.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling my instincts had been nearly vindicated.

  “They think the elephant will be funny.”

  The thud my agent heard was me picking the phone up off the floor.

  I speed-searched my entire motion picture and television memory bank. I couldn’t think of a single cinematic moment I’d ever laughed at—or with—an elephant.

  “Gotta ask. Just between me and you,” I began. “Do you think elephants are funny?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” he answered.

  “Well, I can say for sure that I wouldn’t have the first clue how to make an elephant funny.”

  “It’s a lot of money,” pressed my agent. “Go to Thailand. Do your best. Cash the check.”

  “Thailand?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? That’s where the production is. They’re already in prep so you’d have to stay with the movie.”

  “I just got back from a summer in Miami,” I said. “Nothing I own is dry yet.”

  “I know.”

  That’s when I ran out of words. My practical brain was in a death match with my heart.

  “Hundred g’s a week, Doug,” said my agent. “Twice what you got on Bad Boys.”

  “But this movie will never be any good.”

  “So what if it’s a dog? You won’t get the blame. Movie flames out it’ll be pegged on the studio and the director.”

  “Poor Simon Wincer,” I said out loud.

  “I thought you didn’t know him,” said my agent.

  “I don’t. But I’ve got half a mind to call him and suggest he runs for the nearest pub, drinks himself into a stupor, then quits.”

  “He’s not gonna quit.”

  “The movie’s gonna bomb. Maybe somebody should inform him.”

  “It’s not gonna be me.”

  “So gimme his number.” I was only half joking.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thought you wanted me to talk to him.”

  “Not anymore. I can tell you’re not feeling it. Lemme call the studio and tell ’em you’re a pass.”

  “A crap-load of money I’m turning down,” I said, a hint of regret bleeding into my voice.

  “Not too late,” he said. “I can still agree to the offer.

  “Ugh,” I said. “Thailand.”

  To date, I’m still not entirely certain why I declined. I’d like to think that it was on the simple principal of whether I could deliver something worthy of all the scratch I was being offered. That my concern was more for the quality of my self worth rather than on the quantity of my net worth.

  Or maybe it was because I just didn’t want to spend three months in subtropical Thailand.

  In the end, Operation Dumbo Drop made just under twenty-five million bucks, a loser by nearly all standards. As for Simon Wincer, he nabbed his next directing gig before Dumbo even limped into theaters. It was a lucky move for him, I reckon, considering he followed Operation Dumbo Drop with The Phantom, an even bigger turd

  and nearly the final nail in the Aussie’s theatrical directing career.

  Lord knows we talk of living a regret-free life. And there’s a huge part of me that’s relieved I didn’t accept the cash, as my instincts were right about the picture ending up in history’s stink bin. Still, I’m realist enough to know I have a pair of kids in private school, a mortgage, and retirement to manage. And I may have been caught looking a gift-elephant in the mouth.

  Spiking the Football

  I’d just finished my first novel. I had over one hundred thousand words, typed, proofed, and printed on some five hundred pages of loose leaf paper. It would either prove to be a career changer. Or a doorstop.

  The book was called Dark Horse. I had it messengered over to my movie agent for a weekend read, which he did… four weekends later. He appeared to enjoy it. Claimed he loved it. And then confessed that he didn’t have a clue what to do with it.

  So you ask which agency was this? caa. Aka the Creative Artists Agency. At the time it was a juggernaut of a rep-factory and demonstrably the most powerful agency in Hollywood. Captained by Hollywood Super Agent, Michael Ovitz, caa was best known for combining their clients into irresistible bundles that movie and television executives couldn’t say no to. The practice was called “packaging” and generated massive, not to mention, well-deserved commissions.

  Now, my caa agent was not a book agent. None of his screenwriter clients had ever written a novel. So he wisely gave my tome to a colleague whose expertise was in marketing books that were already published to Hollywood. He had the connections to the all-important New York fiction agents. Weekends turned into months. Then, every so often, I’d get a call from caa, describing various rejection notes. It was the usual shine. Kind words about the writing, but in their humble literary opinions, not worthy to present to publishers.

  It was damned deflating. Especially considering that, to finish the book, I’d turned down a number of lucrative job offers.

  Then I attended a Dodgers game with my attorney and a couple of producer friends, one of whom I had worked closely with on my last movie. On the drive home from the hallowed Chavez Ravine, my lawyer not so innocently asked me if I’d had any success with my novel. I lamented about the circumstances and my apparent failure. He then confided some whispers he’d heard when my novel was first discussed at an internal caa meeting. The gist of the summit was as follows: In the unlikely event that I were to sell my first novel to a publisher, the odds were strong that I’d clear an advance of no more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Meanwhile I’d been turning
down hundreds of thousands in assignment fees to work on my novel. To caa, it didn’t make business sense for them to encourage my literary aspirations. They got ten percent of my writing fee. Do the math. In essence, a cabal of my own reps had secretly chosen to sabotage my five-hundred-page doorstop in order to get me back to writing fade in again and again.

  But like I said. The intel was only whispers. The only proof I had were those rejections I’d been read over the phone. Eventually I would have to ask for copies of the letters. In the meantime, I needed a second opinion as to my prospects as a novelist. Unlike caa, my former reps at the William Morris office had an actual publishing department representing actual authors and actual publishers. Inhabiting the New York City office was none other than super book agent Robert Gottlieb. So on a Friday I called a motion picture agent at the Beverly Hills bunker and offered him my film business in exchange for passing my manuscript on to Robert Gottlieb. It was a done deal.

  Robert Gottlieb read my book… over one weekend.

  “I’d love to represent your book,” said Gottlieb via telephone on Monday afternoon. “But I don’t want you to leave caa.”

  “I already promised Mike Simpson I’d move back to William Morris,” I said. “Why in the world do you want me to stay at caa?”

  “Because I want you to know that I want to represent you—as an author—regardless,” he said.

  “So you think my book will sell to publishers?”

  “I know it will.”

  Fast forward six weeks. The War Department and I were vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard. She was pregnant with our first child and we were enjoying our last holiday as a free-wheeling married duo. It was September. The island was breathtaking. And while we were taking in the sites of Edgartown and walking hand-in-hand on the same beach Jackie O pondered her past with JFK, my novel was up for auction. Then one afternoon, while reading from my perch overlooking Menemsha Pond, I received the call, informing me that my novel, Dark Horse, had sold to Avon/Morrow for just north of three hundred thousand dollars, plus a guarantee for a second book.

  I fist-pumped for the crowd of me, myself, and I, then informed my wife. Redemption is sweet.

  Weeks later, my new William Morris agents sold the movie rights to my novel along with my screenwriting services to Twentieth Century Fox. Imagine Entertainment was assigned as producer and hot-as-a-pistol John Travolta attached to star. The deal was rich and a bit of industry news. Screenwriter-turned-novelist sells his first novel for beaucoup bucks then is hired to adapt it for the screen. An uplifting tale.

  Variety’s Michael Fleming phoned me for an interview. I gladly complied, proving to be a giddy subject,

  exuberant as hell, and probably a bit too unvarnished for showbiz politics.

  “So,” said Fleming. “Travolta as star. Brian Grazer and Ron Howard as producers. How’s that feel?”

  “Great,” I answered, then added something I thought was funny. “Who knew I’d have to leave caa to get packaged.”

  Fleming laughed. So did I. Then he printed it for all of the industry to read. Some laughed. Others didn’t. You see, scoring wasn’t enough. Some immature force inside me had to haul off and spike the football which might have been okay if it hadn’t bulls-eyed into a steaming pile of elephant shit that seemed to splatter over everything.

  You see, only weeks earlier, the King Kong of caa, Michael Ovitz, had unexpectedly left the agency biz. Days later, there were articles in both the New York and L.A. Times about Ovitz’s sudden departure. In order to gin-up the story into something more news-shattering, journalists on both coasts chose to list the clients who’d jumped ship following the Mike Ovitz exit. The first client listed was television show-runner David E. Kelly, creator of shows such as Ally McBeal, Boston Legal, Chicago Hope, and The Practice. Kelly was—and still is —a huge talent. Losing his business was significant and newsworthy.

  The other client they reported leaving was was… er… me.

  That was it. Two clients. One a tv cash cow. The other, a B-List screenwriter-wannabe-novelist whose importance didn’t warrant a first or second weekend read of his precious first novel.

  Okay. So I was a little bitter. By the time I’d stumbled into the end zone, I couldn’t seem to help myself. So I up

  and spiked the damned football. I admit that part of me wanted Mike Fleming to print it.

  While my William Morris agents were dancing on their desks, celebrating my public “packaging” quip, according to my sources, the old reps at caa fumed that a pissant such as me had dared to decry them in public.

  “C’mon,” I defended to a screenwriter pal. “It’s just a joke. And it was funny. I had to leave caa to get packaged? If that’s not irony…”

  “Funny to everybody but the agency you fired,” said my pal. “You don’t need to dance a silly jig for all to see.”

  He was right.

  Eventually, once I’d gained some perspective, I picked up the phone to offer an apology to my former agent, a helluva good fellah who I considered a friend. While it could be argued that a true friend would never have participated in the shenanigans to sabotage my book, I can’t prove that those meetings ever occurred nor can I place him in them. It could also be pleaded that based on the disappointment he envisioned for his client—the perhaps delusional first-time novelist—he may have been doing me a favor.

  Now, for those of you who think I’m being too kind—that the agent deserved both my wrath and a public smackdown—let me say this: Hollywood is a very small town. And there is rarely anything gained but bruised egos and unnecessary scar tissue when one chooses to publicly piss on somebody else’s pants leg. Paths will inevitably cross again. And burned bridges are hard to rebuild.

  My former agent never returned my call. I did, though, thank him in the pages of both the hardcover and paperback. I thought it was the least I could do. I’m told that, for some time, he had it neatly placed on the

  shelf behind his desk and, every so often, would refer to the page where I thanked him.

  Dead on Arrival

  One July 4th weekend I was invited to join a small collection of William Morris lit agents who were planning to get independent down Texas way. Advertised was a big family lake house near Waxaramalamahachie where I was promised a front-row seat to an authentic Lone Star blowout. I fully expected a sweaty four-day mix of longneck beers and long-legged girls. I wasn’t disappointed.

  But on my first night under a starry Texas sky the conversation turned curious. And I’ve never forgotten it.

  I don’t recall how the discussion began. Though I’m certain it had something to do with me being both the token client and the only writer on the adventure. Just six agents who’d left their designer suits in l.a. and Mr. Yours Truly. And it went something like this:

  “Hey Mike, what’s your best way to know it’s a shitty script before you even read it?” queried Rick.

  “Oh, easy,” said Mike. “Cover page.”

  “Cover page?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Rick. “Anything other than the basic font. Then I know the script sucks.”

  “What a bunch of hooey,” I said.

  “Seriously,” chimed Carey. “And it’s gotta be in Courier or some kinda standard typeface. Any special kinda printing is a sure sign of screenplay suckage.”

  “Can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I said. “You guys are that lazy?”

  “Not about lazy,” said Carol. “Do you know how many scripts I’ve read? Thousands upon thousands. And most of them stink. Some more than others.”

  “So you look for shortcuts?” I asked.

  “You do what you gotta do to cut through the chaff,” said Mike.

  “Okay,” I said. “So let’s say it’s me. A so-called ‘valued’ client hands you—”

  “Who said you’re a valued client?” joked Mike.

  They all laughed at my expense. A deserved poke leveled at the defender of all writers.

  “Only reason we brou
ght you,” said Rick, “is so we could expense the trip.”

  “That’s the only smart thing you’ve said since we left l.a.,” I jousted.

  Score one for the writers.

  “But seriously,” I pressed on. “Let’s say I handed you a script with some fancy font on the cover page.”

  “And we don’t know you?” asked Carol.

  “Right.”

  “Shit outta luck,” said Carey.

  “Okay,” I said. “Forget me. It’s a script by (Academy Award Winner) Alvin Sargent.”

  “Moot point. Great writers don’t make those kind of mistakes,” said Rick. “It would never happen.”

  “Also. Artwork on the cover page or jacket,” said Carey. “Kiss of death.

  “I got one,” said Carol. “Weight.”

  “Weight?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Good scripts are light. Easy to read. You can hold ’em like a cocktail tray and tell if they’re too heavy.”

  “Or you can just turn to the back page,” said Mike.

  This is where they all chimed in with nods and beer bottles in a toast to their own collective, script-reading genius.

  “How many pages?” I asked.

  “My limit?” finished Carol. “One-twenty-five.”

  “Oh, you are way too easy,” said Rick. “Mine’s one-fifteen.”

  “One-fifteen max,” chimed Mike.

  “I’ll go up to one-twenty,” said Carey. “Otherwise it’s in the circular file.”

  “You’re all are cruel,” I said, feeling the need to defend all the unrepped and unproduced writers toiling between day jobs and doomed relationships. “What if it takes more than a hundred twenty pages to tell the story?”

  “Make it shorter,” said Mike, big grin, but not altogether joking. “New writers can’t afford to appear boring or unprofessional. Especially when I have fifteen scripts to read over a weekend.”

  “But you don’t read all of ’em,” said Carol.

  “I try to,” said Mike.

  “If I get past the cover page,” said Carey, “but get bored by page fifteen, I skip to the end, skim backwards. Done in thirty minutes. Next.”