by Robert Evans
What can you say? A lady is a lady is a lady is a lady.
Denise Beaumont, a girl I had been seeing in Los Angeles, flew to New York with her four-year-old daughter to hold my hand. With inventive maneuvering, I made room for them to stay for two weeks at the crisis center. Her ex-husband paid her a visit, spending two days with his kid. He pulled Denise aside.
“Give Evans any excuse, get the hell out of here quick. The guy’s eight-to-five to live another week. I’m not asking, I’m telling you. Get the hell out.”
I didn’t die. He did.
The picture was winding down . . . still no script. No money left in the Doumanis’ pockets, no house for Evans to go home to, no more money from Orion either. As Coppola sucked the blood out of everyone, I realized I coined the wrong nickname: Dracula was more fitting than Prince Machiavelli. It must have been, he made the film eight years later. For Dracula he didn’t need a script, he could have phoned it in.
Near jingle-bell time of 1983. Francis telegrammed me his Christmas cheer. I read it. Did it bother me?
Apparently Coppola didn’t take too kindly to my response. Word spread quicker than any of the flick’s dance steps that he went berserk, bashing his hand through his desk.
Another excerpt from the “Entertainment Tonight” report on the film:
The rocky horror show continued for eighty-seven days, then the filming was finally finished. Post-production began smoothly enough here in the Cotton Club offices until yet another monster reared its ugly head. Robert Evans, banished from the set by director Francis Ford Coppola, went before a court of law to gain control of the movie. A federal judge ruled that Evans should be treated as a general partner, even though he had no money in the movie. And the Coppola camp, with Barry Osborne in charge, won control of the film’s editing process.
David vs. Goliath 1983. Alone I stood strong, taking on Orion, the Doumanis, and Francis Coppola.
The Doumanis brought suits against me, charging that, since the film’s escalating $50 million budget was a result of my mismanagement, I shouldn’t be allowed to continue as the film’s producer. What they really desperately wanted was to remove me from my position as general partner. They didn’t want me controlling the books. The triumvirate was so certain of winning with $48 million vs. zero on their side, they forgot one thing: doing your homework. I did. A historic victory. With no money invested, I gave the triumvirate a second asshole. The kid stayed in the picture. With my triumph came barter time, the general partnership was my ticket to the Doumanis paying the two bucks, releasing Woodland back to its rightful owner.
The circuslike trial with its surprise knockout-punch victory, caused mucho media interest. More important, it illustrates, through the verbatim quotes, the difference between man and man.
Walking down the stairs of the federal courthouse, Channel 11’s Larry Atteberry asked me, “Do you think the picture will be a success despite all these problems?”
“Francis’s work on it is brilliant. And I hope we’ll be working together. We’ve fought together many times, only it wasn’t in court. I just hope we have the same luck as we had in The Godfather.”
Catching Coppola, Atteberry had a question for him. “What you were saying, that Evans would second-guess you if he were back in command.”
“That’s his middle name . . . that’s what he does all these years.”
Coppola had taken the stand earlier to defend the Doumanis and assert that “Evans caused chaos.” He had never experienced anything like this before, he stated.
How do you cause chaos when you’re barred from the set? Unquestionably the chaos was deeply lodged in Francis’s cerebellum. Yet I wouldn’t dignify his malicious diatribe. Publicly, I continued defending him and the brilliant work he had done on The Cotton Club.
Through good times, friendship comes easy. But when you have to weather grit, threats, and disasters, coming out friends is what true friendship is all about. Today both Ed and Fred Doumani and Victor Sayyah remain my close friends.
On October 1, 1984, Orion had its first preview of The Cotton Club in San Jose. Though I wasn’t invited, I was there, stared at as if I were a leper. Two hours later when the curtains closed and my blood pressure was way up, I grabbed the Doumanis. “Come back to the hotel with me, please.”
Their heads between their legs. Full depression time.
“Fellas, it can be saved. There’s a great picture there, but it’s not on the screen—it’s on Coppola’s cutting room floor. The guy went double budget and gave us half a picture. He took eleven musical numbers out—the most important one, ‘Stormy Weather,’ cost over a million to shoot. The fucker didn’t put it in. He’s made a collage out of an era.”
The Doumanis now knew they’d been Elmer Gantryed by the Prince. I felt bad about it; whatever our fights, our arguments, I was the one who brought them in. Forget the fact that I had no points, no involvement. I wanted to help.
Like two prepubescent kids they looked up. “What should we do?”
From the darkness of night till the midday sun, I wrote a letter to Coppola, pouring my heart out to the maestro. Problems are easy to criticize, but solutions don’t come easy. Thirty-one pages of solutions, and fourteen hours later, I signed off.
Starting with the opening credits, I enthusiastically expressed how our original vision—The Godfather with music—could evolve into reality.
If the “Making of The Cotton Club” were a book rather than a chapter, I’d insist by contract that this entire critique be part of the text. For good reason hyperbole comes easy; the critique’s text, however, pinpoints the importance of what is commonly thought of as a nondescript profession—producer. What follows here is the cover letter and the first paragraph of the thirty-one-page critique, which exemplifies the spirit in which the entire document was written:
October 1, 1984
Dear Francis:
Many years ago Moss Hart told me that relationships in our business are built on such strange personal emotions that they become three-sided: your side, my side, and the truth. . . .
With this in mind and putting all personal feelings aside, what you are about to read bears greater consequence to our lives and careers than any decisions we have ever fought over or agreed to in the past. . . .
By now, you must know I have no personal financial involvement in The Cotton Club. If the picture does ten dollars or three hundred million it bears no effect on my bank account. It does on yours, however. My involvement now is totally one of pride, professionalism, moral obligation to the investors, and from a selfish point of view to our audiences who are anxiously awaiting your vision of the Cotton Club era. When Francis Coppola takes on a subject matter which combines the richness of the roaring Twenties, the Depression that followed, and interweaves as the foreground the struggle, birth, and sense of discovery to the world of the black entertainer and the greatness of his music, one expects an event. Anything less leaves you open to a backlash both from the audiences and the critics. Your pictorial investigation of it has been shot in the best Coppola fashion. And what are we left with? Montage followed by montage followed by montage followed by montage. What a cheat—to you as a storyteller . . . to you as a director . . . and to the audiences who expect more than MTV when they pay their five dollars. . . .
You have shot, and brilliantly so, an “era film.” What we are left with, however, is a slick flick that is only somewhat entertaining. If Phil Karlson made The Cotton Club and it cost twenty million dollars, you could get away with it, but Francis Coppola’s name is on it instead, immediately making the audiences and critics anticipate something magical. . . . Phil Karlson would not have had the brilliance of film that you have shot, but unfortunately much of that film is presently on the floor and not on the screen.
The picture has been shown twice. The consensus of the cards more than evidences what I’m saying. This is not Orion patronizing you, whose sole interest is to get the picture for Christmas. This is me telling yo
u cold, hard facts that will affect your future even more than mine. There have been six pictures previewed that are being released for Christmas. Our picture has had the lowest audience ratings of the six. If it went out for bidding today, we would get theaters—not the ones we want, and certainly not the terms we want. This I know for a fact. I have spoken to two of the biggest exhibitors in the country. They already know the disappointing reaction to the film. And their hard-ons have become very soft. And these are friends, Francis—close friends. For Orion it is fine. With their deal they will get their money out if you delivered them a postage stamp. Believe me, Francis, their entire concern is to get their money out. For the Doumanis it means bankruptcy. They will never see one dime from the film. The renegotiation of the Orion deal gives Orion all first monies and leaves the Doumanis holding the bag. The only hope they have is that The Cotton Club is a smash—a big one. In its present form it is not, Francis. It is lackluster, not blockbuster. Let us not be ostriches. The audiences have told us. The exhibitors have told us. Bad word spreads quicker than good. . . .
Am I negative on The Cotton Club? I most emphatically wish to express to you I am not. I would be less than candid, however, not to say that I am worried. Very worried. And terribly frustrated by not being used to my fullest abilities at this pivotal moment to help make The Cotton Club the smash it can be. It is your film, Francis, not mine. [But] not having communication at this very pivotal moment is very counterproductive. My god, Francis, if Gromyko and Reagan can meet and have an exchange of dialogue, why can’t we? You owe it to yourself—if no one else—to put personal feelings aside. Use me. Use my objectivity, which you cannot have at this moment, being so closely attached to the film. Francis, you are shortchanging yourself, and badly. I state to you unequivocally that there is a great film here. I know it. I see it. A film that can be remembered. Unfortunately and understandably, you are running scared, not sure of what you have. You are taking shortcuts and by doing so you are irreparably damaging your canvas. Allowing The Cotton Club to fall into the category of just another movie. Don’t run scared, Francis. Go all the way. Give them a show. Give them the Coppola texture that is now on the floor. There is brilliance there. The longer and more textured the piece, the shorter it will play. Again, what better example is there than Godfather I? If I didn’t think it were there I would certainly not be this passionate in my plea to you.
With my feelings expressed the best I can, I will now be specific as to what I think will make the difference between a slick flick, which we now have and which could be open to terrible criticism, vs. what I know is there—a critically acclaimed blockbuster, which has the opportunity of being long remembered. . . .
Evans
Critique
Credits: I think the credits that were on the film before which were handwritten on black had simplicity and style. The credits as they are now open the picture with the wrong note—they are a title company’s jerk-off and more importantly they are most difficult to read. The simplicity of the other credits is far more you, and for that matter me, than the Deco credits presently on the film. Don’t let some half-assed artist sway you into being overly fashionable. Style and simplicity always overshadow and outlast fashion.
Reading and rereading the pages, suddenly smiles crossed the Doumanis’ faces, a first in months.
“What’s in the letter, has it all been shot?”
“And more.”
Like kids in a candy store, “We could have a winner!”
Holding the thirty-one pages in his hand, Ed spoke out. “Leaving now, driving up to Napa, delivering this by hand. Francis better listen, I’m gonna stand watchin’ him read it.”
With forty million of green on the line, Ed would have driven to Hong Kong. Napa was no short drive. At high speed six hours. For the first time the brothers saw light from darkness.
Twenty-eight hours later, the three of us sat together commiserating. After twelve hours of driving to and from and five hours patiently waiting for his highness to grant him an audience, he read the thirty-one pages. Ed related Francis’s reaction to us.
“He would rather see the picture do three hundred thousand and not three hundred million than have Evans get credit for being the saving grace.”
That December 8, The Cotton Club had its gala premiere in New York. The Prince purposely ignored my every written word, and the finished cut didn’t include one of my suggestions. It had hardly changed from that first underwhelming preview in San Jose. Cotton Club the film, unlike Harlem’s club, was not the talk of the town—any town. Somber would best describe its audience reaction. Somber as well best described its box-office results. Royalty always gets covered. Prince Machiavelli royally fucked all. He collected millions.
Film critic Ken Turran put it most succinctly when asked by Ted Koppel on “Nightline” what he thought about The Cotton Club.
I think that there’s no coherent story there just for openers. It really feels to me as if the film was thrown together, as if Coppola didn’t want to put in the work that goes in before, didn’t want to have a coherent script, didn’t want to take the trouble to do that. He wanted the exhilaration of when you get on the set, which can be very exhilarating to be a general in front of all those people. But I think you can’t just wing the movie. Movies have to be thought out ahead of time. They have to have, as The Godfather did, a book with a very solid plotline. You just can’t make it up as you go along.
What did I learn from this failure, this disaster, this five-year nightmare? A fat fuckin’ nothing! To say you “fucked up but learned from it” is bullshit, a cop-out. You can learn from a mistake. A mistake done twice is not a mistake, it’s called failure.
At an early age, a man of great wisdom gave me the key to making it.
“You learn from success, kid—not failure. If you’ve only touched it once, a term paper, a temp job, hitting a homer, dissect it. Was it timing, focus, homework? Get to the core. Find out the whys, the hows. That’s the key. Use it . . . go with it, don’t be afraid. When you get your shot, then you’ll be ready. Success ain’t easy, kid, but the more you taste it, the easier it gets. No different with failure.” The wise man smiled. “The more you taste it, the more you get it.” Putting his finger to his lips, “Shhh . . . Don’t spread it. It’s tough enough out there. Keep it to yourself.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nicholson and I were lying on my bed one Friday night, watching the closed-circuit Hagler-Leonard fight. That day, Frank Yablans, then president of MGM, offered me $2 million to produce Roman Polanski’s The Pirate. Was $2 million an inflated price? Times five it was. But it was also conditional. I was the key he needed to get Nicholson to commit to the picture. Did I need the $2 million? After Cotton Club, twenty bucks would help.
Come the eighth round, Nicholson was finally bending toward going to sea with Polanski. Not that he wanted to, but he knew how much the two mil meant to his “notorious” pal. By the twelfth round, we both came to the same conclusion. Fuck it. Who wants to spend a year in Tunisia? Instead, let’s make the sequel to Chinatown: The Two Jakes. The fight now over, we called Towne at home, asked him to meet us at three the next afternoon in my projection room.
For six years, Towne had structured in his mind the second part of a trilogy in the growth of Los Angeles, so he was euphoric when Jack and I said, “Let’s put it on go.” While the core of Chinatown was water (the dearth of it) and the discovery that old money was holding back its usage, The Two Jakes was boomtown. It would be set postwar, 1947, when real estate and oil were competing like two fighters in the ring for the control of the city’s future. It was really Christian vs. Jew—oil being the Christian, real estate being the Jew.
Like Chinatown, The Two Jakes was half drama, half reality. The story of the two Jakes takes us into the late forties, with Jake Gittes looking for Evelyn Mulwray’s lost, incest-conceived daughter. Jake’s search would involve him in a double murder and pit him against the older man she was now mar
ried to—the heavy of the piece. His name, too, was Jake. The character was a combination of Lou Towne, Mark Taper, and every other entrepreneurial Jew responsible for changing the face of the City of Angeles to that of a thriving metropolis.
Nicholson and Towne pulled the rug out from under me that day in the projection room. The only way they’d go forward on the project was if I played the other Jake.
“Lookin’ to put in the last nail, huh? I’m fighting for my life . . . and you guys want me to go back into makeup. That’ll go over real big, now they’ll know I’m nuts. Both of ya: Go fuck yourself!”
A wicked smile, “Trust the Irishman, Keed.” Eyebrow on crocked, “You’ll cop the fuckin’ Oscar. You don’t need no words. Our noses, you and me—profile, eyein’ each other, it’ll knock ’em on their ass. You’ll be a fuckin’ movie star again!”
Picking up the phone, Irish dialed Barry Diller.
“It’s Jake, here with the Beener and the Keed. The three of us wanna give you The Two Jakes on a platinum platter. We’ll work for scale, make the flick for ten mil, keep the budget down. You can’t afford payin’ us, we’re worth too much, we’ll be partners, huh? No lawyer-agent bullshit. Just us and you—a one-page memo. You know why I wanna do it? Nose to nose on the screen, the Irishman and the Keed don’t need no dialogue.” Barry couldn’t be taking the call seriously. “One thing the Irishman ain’t, Barry, is dumb. Evans and Nicholson’s noses touchin’—it’s ‘fuck you’ money time. That’s why you’ve got my smile for nothing.”