The Smoking Gun

by Doug Richardson

  Easier said than done because I didn’t always feel that way.

  Let me rewind a few years. I was about two weeks away from the premiere of my movie Money Train. My expectations weren’t exactly high for the picture. I’d already suffered through a credit arbitration, I’d read a variety of the rewrites of my original screenplay, including the final shooting draft. The resulting picture would come bearing no great surprises.

  I’d turned down a number of invites to screen the movie. My last film for the very same studio, the surprise hit Bad Boys, had earned some serious box office coin. So when it came to this writer, Columbia was being extra courteous. Still, call it avoidance or instinct, I’d found plenty of excuses to miss the earliest unspoolings of Money Train. With but a few weeks left before it landed on America’s movie screens, it was time for me to cowboy up and see the damned movie.

  I phoned Zachary Feuer to see if he wanted to join me. He’s the producer who was responsible for the film’s inception. We were sitting in my office at Disney when he’d first told me about the actual armored train that secretly trolled the railways of the New York subway system. I was instantly intrigued and in a matter of moments, had concocted a tale of two best friends caught

  up in a modern day homage to The Great Train Robbery. Zach had been beside me from the start and involved in both the sale and development of the original screenplay. But because Zach was a paid development employee for tv producer Fred Pierce, he was relegated to an insulting Associate Producer position in the credit roll. Zach deserved better. But I digress.

  The screening we chose was a morning event at a Westwood theater. The audience was primarily comprised of reps from the various exhibition chains around the country. The lights dimmed. The Columbia Pictures logo filled the screen. The rest is a blur. When the credits rolled, I felt like vomiting.

  Zach and I retired to the sushi joint next door where we both tried to drown our disappointment in warm sake. How the hell could we have let our expectations elevate? Especially after having been so acutely familiar with the final script? Clearly we’d both been victims of our own optimism. A pair of hopeful fools. Maybe it’s because the director, Joe Ruben, had shown an accomplished hand in his previous films. Or because the whispers around Hollywood were that Columbia had another hit on their hands with the genius re-teaming of Woody Harrelson and Wesley Snipes in their first foray since White Men Can’t Jump.

  What I’d watched was ham-fisted, over-the-top, and dull in the center. Frankly put, I felt embarrassed my name was on it.

  While we wallowed in our post-screening misery, we could overhear the exhibitor reps at a nearby table lament about how they’d rather dedicate more of their precious screens to the upcoming James Bond picture.

  Note: Money Train is not a bad movie. It has its fans and for that I’m appreciative. It continues to play

  on cable and I gladly cash the residual checks I receive every quarter. My reaction to the film then and now is purely visceral. I could best describe it as watching my lobotomized child stumbling around a house which I designed, but never furnished—only to witness it continually bruise itself as it bumped into tables and tripped over every exposed electrical cord.

  Back to the story. And here comes the sticky part.

  My wife, aka, the War Department, was seven months preggers with our first child. We were days away from the baby shower. We had family flying in for the happy day which, coincidentally, was scheduled the day before the Money Train premiere. The studio had promised a lavish event and party. As a writer in good stead with the studio, I’d been offered beaucoup invites. And what better way to entertain (and impress) your out-of-town guests but with a big Hollywood premiere? A red carpet flanked by paparazzi. Stars aplenty. All the glitz and glamour movie money could buy.

  And all I wanted was out. I didn’t want to attend. Nor did I want to approve it or promote it. Sure. I might just be the writer. But I had my pride.

  “I don’t want to go,” I told my wife. “I can’t support it.”

  “But my family is flying in,” she reminded.

  “Flying in for the shower,” I argued. “Not the premiere.”

  “I invited them. They’re looking forward to it. You can’t cancel.”

  “I can and I will. They cut the soul from my movie and it makes me sick. I don’t have to support it.”

  “Just think about what you’re doing,” she advised. “It’s not just my family. There’s the studio. Your agents. What kind of message are you sending?”

  “We have to cancel now,” I insisted.

  Oh, the War Department. So wise in her actions and her words. This time, she chose to throw up her hands in mock-resignation.

  I’d never been in such an emotional pickle. I’d been pleased enough with Die Hard 2. Ecstatic over how Bad Boys had turned out. This was my first encounter with utter disappointment in the final product.

  I needed advice.

  My wife suggested I use one of my life lines. In this case, producer, friend, and television legend, Leonard Goldberg. The old sage had produced both film and tv and run more than one movie studio. More importantly, he’d often imparted his special brand of wisdom at a few career points when I’d needed a guiding hand.

  I described my quandary to Leonard.

  “Let me ask you something,” said Leonard. “If you’d seen and even liked the picture, would you feel any different about your circumstance?”

  “Of course I would,” I said.

  “So you’re only proud of your work in success?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is your name on the movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they spell it correctly?”

  “Of course they did.”

  “Then you gotta own it,” said the sage. “Not just that, you need to support the movie in both success and failure.”

  “Even if I hate it?”

  “Especially if you hate it. The movie might yet be a hit and, if it is, you’ll reap all kinds of benefits from it. Correct?”

  “Correct,” I repeated.

  “If you’re prepared to accept a success you must be equally prepared to accept a failure.”

  Oh, the hard hammer of truth. It hurts like hell when it first makes contact with your skull, but clears the fog like no other remedy.

  “So I’m going to the premiere,” I said aloud, confirming to myself.

  “You’re going and supporting your film because it has your name on it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re right,” I said, wondering why such simple and perfect logic had escaped me. I’d clearly been blinded by my egotistical emotions. And there ended the lesson.

  I’m very grateful to Leonard Goldberg. And like most great teachings, his is one I continue to learn, relearn, and try to live by on a daily basis. Own your actions. Own your work. Own your words.

  Membership has its Privileges

  ’Tis the season in Tinselville. No. Not that season. I’m talking about Awards Season. Oscars. Globes. Spirits. You might think those in Hollywood are obsessed with such self-congratulatory prizes. Believe me, they’re not unless it translates to either the personal or corporate bottom line. But I’m off point. Awards Season is not about the actual trophies themselves or the actual box office. It’s about something even more prized. Coveted even.

  Yes. I’m talking about screeners.

  A screener, you ask? What the hell’s a screener? For those of you who already know, feel free to skip the next paragraph.

  Screeners are dvds of movies “for consideration” of awards. They arrive in the mail, packaged in simple cardboard sleeves with warnings that any duplication or distribution of the dvd will result in severe penalties such as fines, jail, or more importantly, expulsion from the Free dvd Club.

  Yes. I said it. Screeners are free.

  And screeners are not just movies considered by critics or Hollywood insiders as award-worthy. They include big movies starring big movie stars or helmed b
y big movie writers and directors whom the studios are terrified of disrespecting by leaving off the award-worthy list. In other words, most major motion pictures eventually appear in mailboxes as free screeners.

  So, you ask, how do I become a member of the Free dvd Club? Easy. Just join the Academy. You know those guys. They wholesale in those coveted golden statuettes given away every spring at a red-carpeted-made-for-television celebraganza.

  But there’s a catch. Becoming a member of the Free dvd Club… er… the Academy… is easier said than done. At least, for this word jockey.

  I know what you’re thinking. A quick review of my credits would leave the average intellect to infer that my motion picture portfolio wasn’t exactly laudable anywhere but at your neighborhood Blockbuster. Maybe. But on the day I was rejected, the Free dvd Club invited the writer of Police Academy 4 and Hot Shots: Part Deux to join their royal ranks.

  I know. The insult of it.

  Here’s how it all went down. At the time of my application, the writers’ nomination committee consisted of seven members. Acceptance required a majority vote. The vote on my membership was set to take place at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences on the Tuesday morning following the opening of, Money Train, a picture I not-so-lovingly refer to as White Men Can’t Ride the Subway. But that’s sordid tale for another blog.

  I’d been nominated for Free dvd membership by committee members and fellow writers, Gary Ross (Seabiscuit, Pleasantville) and Tom Schulman (Dead Poet’s Society). Both were good friends. They said I was a lock.

  Money Train opened on a Friday. On Saturday, the hoped for news of box-office glory was supplanted by hourly cnn coverage of a random act of violence that was eerily similar to a scene in the first reel of Money Train. The very fine Chris Cooper played a character called Torch. Torch’s method of holding up token kiosks in New York’s subway system was to pour gasoline through the coin slot and threaten the clerk with sudden incineration. I invented this character after weeks of research hanging with New York Transit Authority police officers. They’d informed me that some years earlier, subway

  token clerks all over Brooklyn and the Bronx had been plagued by such a series of holdups. As a defense (and at great expense), the Transit Authority had installed halon fire extinguishers in most booths. At the flick of a Bic lighter, the safety system would instantly flood the kiosk with flame-snuffing retardent. Very efficient.

  And there it was on cnn. Only hours after those initial Money Train matinees, a token clerk was attacked and burned within a millimeter of his life. Through weeks of investigation, it was uncovered that the clerk was a smoker. And like other nicotine-addicted token sellers throughout the system, he’d learned how to disable the fire suppression device.

  Once apprehended, the attackers insisted to police and insurance investigators that they hadn’t even seen Money Train. Coincidence? Nobody really knew. But that didn’t stop the press from piling up story upon story, pointing guilty fingers of blame at not just the filmmakers, but Hollywood in general, and pervasive violence in movies for the vicious assault.

  My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Attorneys for Columbia Pictures strongly encouraged everyone involved with the picture to not utter a damn word until the situation had been fully vetted by law enforcement.

  Two days later my nomination was to be rubber stamped by the Academy’s committee. To be perfectly frank, I’d totally forgotten I was even in consideration. And when my office phone rang, I was still screening calls. Gary Ross’s voice came over the machine:

  “The bastards,” Gary began. “They rejected you.”

  I picked up the telephone. “Who rejected me?”

  “The Academy committee. It was four to three against you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s the violence, man. All that Money Train shit in the news.”

  It turns out that the long retired romantic comedy writer who chaired the nominating committee had begun the quarterly meeting with a political rant about Hollywood’s tarnished image and the deserved drubbing it had received over the weekend at the hands of the national media. According to both Gary and Tom, the committee chair had mentioned both Money Train and me by name. This when the chairman hadn’t a glimmer in Hades that I, the aforementioned Viceroy of Violence, was mere moments away from official nomination.

  “It was a huge fight,” continued Gary. “The asshole insisted on making a statement by voting you down.”

  “Wow,” was pretty much all I could think to say.

  “Just so you know. Out of protest. I vowed to resign from the committee if you weren’t approved.”

  “Don’t do that,” I urged him.

  Moments later, Tom called from his car and, in softer Tennessean tones, confirmed most of what Gary had said. He was apologetic. Tom felt as if he’d let me down.

  “It’s just free dvds,” I said.

  “It’s the Academy, Doug.”

  “Nobody joins because of that. It’s all about getting free movies in the mail.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom. “It still sucks what they did.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Really appreciate your efforts. But in the big scheme of things, it’s really not that important.”

  “That committee chair’s really old. He isn’t gonna be around much longer. You can try again.”

  Though I told Tom I would try again, I’ve yet to reapply. The rules for nomination have changed. And though

  I’m pretty friendly with former Academy President Robert Rehme, I haven’t broached the subject.

  Maybe it’s because, as a wga member, I get a lot of the free dvds anyway.

  Ah. The perks.

  No Brothers. No Mexicans. No Problem.

  I’d only just arrived in Miami. After checking into my junior suite at the historic Biltmore Hotel, I made the quick walk over to the Bad Boys production office. Ground zero for the movie was an entire floor of abandoned office space adjacent to the hotel. I was told the previous tenants were a teleconferencing operation gone belly-up. Because our movie hadn’t yet officially been green-lit, I could only hope the former occupants hadn’t left behind any lingering negative mojo.

  Once I’d been shown my little office—a shadowy corner space with a desk, a chair, and like me, not much apparent personality—I summoned a production assistant to conduct my first order of business. Cigars. I peeled off a crisp Benjamin and asked the young PA to locate the El Credito cigar factory and buy me however many La Gloria Extras that hundred bucks could buy. The young man had barely cleared my office threshold when the telephone rang.

  “I’m here five minutes and I’ve already got a call,” I said to the film’s exec-producer and all-around-go-to-guy, Lucas Foster.

  “The writer’s office,” said Lucas as he glibly answered my phone.

  “Cool,” I said. “You gonna be my secretary?”

  “We can’t afford one,” said Lucas, waiting for the caller to get patched through from the production desk.

  While I looked for the most efficient way to set up my writing space, Lucas held out the telephone.

  “Martin Lawrence wants to talk to you. Probably more of the same kinda stuff I talked to you about on the plane.”

  On the flight from Los Angeles to Miami, Lucas had updated me on the sticky situation with one of our stars. It seemed Martin Lawrence liked to roll pretty large. He’d already expressed to the producers that his primary ambition was to sport a fatter posse than Eddie Murphy. Martin had been grinding the production office to accommodate his significant crew.

  I grabbed the telephone and Lucas stepped out.

  “Martin?” I answered.

  “Hey, man,” said Martin. “Gotta talk to you about somethin’.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Need you to know that I ain’t shootin’ no brothers or no Mexicans.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “My character,” said Martin. “Marcus Burnett. Can’t have h
im killin’ no brothers and no Mexicans.”

  Okay. I’d heard him right the first time. The second recitation only confirmed that the rollercoaster I’d signed on to had just hit its first loop-de-loop.

  “Why?” I innocently asked.

  “My show,” said comedian, who at the time was starring in tv sitcom titled, aptly enough, Martin. “My viewer demo has a lotta black people and Mexican people. So you can understand.”

  “Understand why your character can’t shoot African-Americans or Hispanics?” I confirmed.

  “Blacks and Mexicans.”

  “Gotcha,” I answered, completely uncertain how I’d accomplish the task.

  The script had hardly been written. My task was to turn the modern-day-farce into a laugh-out-loud action comedy. Martin Lawrence and Will Smith were playing Miami narco-cops Marcus Burnett and Mike Lowry. To

  protect a witness, the characters would have to switch identities and lives, not to mention face a significant amount of bullets. I began thinking about the scenes-yet-to-be-written in which I’d have to describe the various bad guys detective Marcus Burnett would most likely gun down. “Non-Black Henchman #2” and/or “Non-Hispanic Goon #8?”

  “Look,” I half-joked to Martin. “I’m figuring most of the bad guys Burnett shoots will be cast by the stunt director. What if we just tell him to leave all the black and Hispanic bad guys for Will to kill?”

  “I don’t care how you do it,” said Martin. “But this guy I’m playin’ can’t shoot no brothers or Mexicans. That’s just the way it is.”

  I’d just arrived. I hadn’t even unpacked a suitcase yet. So what else could I say at the moment other than, “yes”?

  “Another thing,” said Martin. “Gotta change the name.”

  “Of the movie?” I asked, figuring he had similar issues with the title as the movie studio. Bad Boys had been the title of a critically acclaimed film starring Sean Penn released some ten years earlier.