What Just Happened?

by Art Linson

  ‘But it was about …’

  ‘If you’ll allow me another sports metaphor, it might be time for you to CLEAN OUT YOUR LOCKER.’ He actually started to laugh, almost uncontrollably.

  That’s it. I got up, gathered my papers. Fuck him. Hell, most in this town would have to wear paper bags with punched-out eyeholes to be seen sitting at a table with this guy. To be honest, if this weren’t such an out-of-the-way café, I wouldn’t be caught dead sitting here either. Jerry was one of the recently expunged. It’s a common theme: with loss of power comes loss of libido. Stand next to it and you’ll catch it.

  ‘C’mon, sit … I have more to offer you than you think,’ he said, wiping tears from his cheekbone.

  ‘I don’t think so. Call me touchy.’

  ‘Really, we should talk about this. I mean, “Oh, I make good pictures,” that’s a good one. You need help.’

  ‘Jerry, let’s call it a day.’

  ‘Please, I haven’t talked to a real live producer in days. People aren’t quite as happy to see me as they used to be.’

  ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  You had to hand it to him, he wasn’t running from his meteoric crash.

  ‘Do you recall that movie where the little kid said he could see dead people, but they didn’t always know they were dead?’ Jerry was on a roll.

  ‘Does that have some kinda personal implication, Jerry?’

  ‘Let’s just say that, sometimes after you’ve left the business, you can see through walls.’

  My mood was darkening. ‘Let’s not start talkin’ about corpses, Jerry, because I can already smell the rot.’

  He gave me his biggest grin.

  ‘I’ve become uninsultable.’

  One of the few benefits of extinction, while all else crumbles, is the complete loss of vanity. The truth can no longer bite you in the ass.

  Jerry had a point. Perhaps I had to take a hard look at those Fox years. I had produced a lot of movies, and—who was I kidding?—the overall results had been painful and often bloodstained. Maybe a thorough examination of the few small victories and the many vast defeats would not only reveal the process of making movies, but also explain the corkscrew smile I kept manufacturing at cocktail parties whenever someone said to me, ‘Well, I, for one, don’t care what anyone says, I really liked Pushing Tin.’

  If I continued this messy exchange, I knew Jerry was going to get me to chew over those moments best left forgotten. He was going to revel in all of the gory details at my expense, and yet, call me a masochist, I was going to let him. In fact, I was getting inexorably drawn to the notion.

  Times have certainly changed. Being a producer was never a bargain, but obsolescence was never expected. Had the producer turned into an emu?

  The food finally arrived.

  ‘Before we take this too far down the road, would you mind telling me what bog stuffing means?’

  ‘Snorkeling, baby, bog snorkeling.’ He then flicked his tongue in two quick, semicircular moves. No doubt about it, he was a beaut.

  ‘Oh, dear lord’ was all that I could whisper.

  ‘What’s the difference, what it means? You might not realize this now, kid, but this could be your lucky day.’

  ‘I sorta felt that way the moment I saw you, Jerry.’

  ‘Use me right and I can help you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Suffice it to say, the end of the road for me could be a glimmer of hope for you … although, knowing you, I’m not so certain of that.’

  ‘Last I checked, I was doin’ just fine.’

  ‘Look at your eyes; they’ve lost their confidence.’

  ‘What exactly are we trying to get at here, Jerry?’

  ‘I’m trying to get you to look at the last few years, really look, and maybe, just maybe, it will give you the grace to continue.’

  He was turning into Mr. Rogers, and I was becoming Sally Field.

  ‘You care. You really care,’ I said without a shred of enthusiasm.

  ‘I do care,’ he said, his eyes almost moistening with concern.

  ‘I get it … I get it. This isn’t about me. You just want to hear the grim details. You’re lonely and my failures comfort you. What to give a studio head has-been for Christmas? I know! Fill his stocking with the bitter memories of a producer tailspinning out of control. That’ll keep him till Easter.’

  ‘Actually, I can’t deny a certain delicious pleasure from all of this. By the way, did you hear about the movie producer who got robbed and beaten on his front lawn by the Crips after he was followed home from Mr. Chow’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a good one.’ He cackled with glee.

  ‘Jerry, your heart is bigger than a bread box.’

  Everyone, of course, knew about this incident, but only the most twisted were taking delight. I guess it just didn’t get weird enough for Jerry. A few years back, he was devouring producers, writers, agents, like chum. Now, his only sustenance was to sit on the sideline and watch them burn. Most people preferred sports.

  ‘I want to hear it all … slowly, please.’ He was begging now.

  ‘What’s in it for me, again?’

  ‘Let me count the ways: Hollywood salvation, a good throat-clearing, the will to go forward. Take your pick. I’m certain you will find it purging. It seems like a good bargain to me.’

  He said this without his usual self-satisfied smirk. He was suddenly glowing with generosity and concern. Was he really interested? Not ole Jer. He used to be president of the Hollywood Venality Club. Could it be that the old warhorse wanted to shine a little light on those left behind?

  ‘Jerry, let me get this straight. I get to delight you with all of the shit I’ve taken over the last few years, and your commiseration is going to make me feel good.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are one sick fuck.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think colonoscopy. Believe you me, it’s preventative. And besides, who else but me wants to hear it?’

  He was vibrating now. The hook was in the water. He was having a terrific day.

  ‘Just know, Jerry, if I were busy, I’d be gone.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, but you’re not and I’m not. I want to hear it all. What was that first picture you did at Fox? Great Expectations! Let’s go torture another classic. Oh, boy … who can we cornhole after we’re finished with Dickens? Or was it that “bear” thing that Mamet wrote? Was that the first picture? Oh, yeah, Alec Baldwin. I bet he’s a lot of fun. Loves producers, I hear. Hoo ha.’

  The vein on the left side of his neck was pumping. He was known in the back rooms of Hollywood as the ultimate swine and there was no stopping him now.

  ‘And how about that seventies rock movie? What was it called? Go Go Bliss or something like that.’

  ‘It was called Sunset Strip.’

  ‘What the hell was that? As I recall, Fox opened it in only one theater. How about that. One theater! A baby-killing! What a massacre that must have been. Your idea, was it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Fuck me … and they still let you continue after that? Please, save that barbarous tale for last. What visionaries those Fox execs must have been. Real high-watt bulbs, there. You must love those guys. Oh … wait … I almost forgot … Fight Club. Fight Club. Woowee … Good God, man, you really like to make people feel warm and fuzzy, don’t ya?’

  He was certainly prepared. You had to give him that.

  This was going to take more than a breakfast.

  TWO

  Two Guys and a Bear

  ‘Hi, this is Bill Mechanic.’ The call came directly – no secretary. He was the new film production head at Fox. Dialing the phone all by himself, I thought, was rather casual and rare. In Hollywood, when you were on my side of the mattress, a little bit of generosity went a long way, especially if you wanted to kiss on the first date.

  ‘Hi, Bill, howsit going?’
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br />   ‘I’m well. Listen, I’m in Palm Springs now, but when I return, I think we should get together.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, almost as if we had met or talked before.

  The truth is we only knew each other from press releases in the trades. I knew that he just got the new big plum job at Fox, having been wooed over from Disney by Peter Chernin, and he knew that I was at the tail end of a contract at Warner Bros., where I had just put out the artistically interesting but dismally unsuccessful This Boy’s Life. I remember that when it was first test-screened in a Pasadena multiplex, Terry Semel, the then graceful but remote head of Warners, walked up to me at the concession stand, dressed in the newest Armani casual, looked me square in the eye, and slowly nodded.

  ‘It’s a good movie and that’s all that’s important,’ he said in a calm and reassuring voice.

  ‘Well, thanks so much, Terry, it is a good movie, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s hard to make a good movie.’

  ‘Very.’

  At previews, everyone spoke euphemistically. I was fucked.

  I knew too well that at that very moment Terry’s entire distribution staff was in the back alley throwing up on their shoes. You could almost hear them through the crack in the men’s room door: ‘Oh, mother of Christ, De Niro is in this dining room kicking the living piss out of sweet little Leonardo DiCaprio … how the fuck are we going to sell this shit!’ ‘I know! How ’bout selling it as Father Knows Best for the criminally insane?!’ ‘Dead beavers and pedophilia, what are they gonna let those disturbed assholes do next?!!’ You get the picture. Good in Hollywood is a euphemism for ‘grease up, bite the belt, and try not squeal too much when this baby comes out.’ Well, I tried not to squeal, but I can’t say it bolstered my confidence any. Let’s just say the call from Mechanic came at a very good time.

  ‘Lookin’ forward to it, Bill.’ I couldn’t have been friendlier.

  It was several weeks before I heard from Bill again, but during that time I had started to work with Michael Mann on what would eventually become Heat. It was the early stages. Michael was reworking a script that he had written several years earlier and had actually produced and directed for ABC television under a different title, L.A. Takedown. No writer likes to throw anything away. So with a fresh rewrite, we had hoped to attract De Niro and Pacino and expand the story into a much larger movie. Since Michael had already told the same story once before, his only option was to try to make this one bigger, and hopefully better.

  I was entering my final year at Warners, and the likelihood of them renewing my contract after This Boy’s Life was extremely remote. Since it would be at least eighteen months before Heat could be released, assuming that it would even get made—something you can never count on in Hollywood—my contract would have long since expired. On the lot, I was viewed as a man slowly dying of a disease that might be contagious. If you were listening, there were always clues.

  ‘So, what’s goin’ on for you next year?’ Bruce Berman, then head of film production under Semel and a man not well known for sticking his neck out, would subtly ask.

  ‘Gee whiz, Bruce, I’m thinking of taking up fishing, how ’bout you?’

  ‘You know what I mean. What’s the five-year plan?’

  Since I had only ten months left, I knew where this conversation was going. Bruce was a crafty insider. He could take the temperature of the town. I think he was trying to help.

  ‘Ya know, you producers have the toughest jobs in town,’ he continued.

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘Boy, I can’t tell you what utter respect I have for it.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Requires real fortitude to be a self-starter.’

  ‘Bruce, you’re making me cry.’

  ‘Always flying sans parachute. No safety net.’

  ‘I thought a contract was a safety net.’

  ‘Those deals are getting passé, too costly. Might as well read it in the trades – they’re dryin’ up.’

  ‘Is this a trend or a phase?’ I queried.

  ‘Let’s just say it’s a good time to be an executive.’

  I asked Bruce about the other producing deals on the lot. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘What about Jerry Weintraub? He’s still here.’

  ‘Oh, he’s very close with the Bush family.’

  ‘George Bush!’

  ‘Get a grip, pal.’

  ‘And Joel Silver?’ I asked, but I knew he was a long-time permanent fixture.

  ‘Oh, c’mon, my man, he’s off buying furniture with Jane [Semel].’

  I was going to need a job.

  My first meeting with Bill was at the Fox commissary. Since I hadn’t been to Fox since Dick Zanuck was running the place years ago, I was looking forward to driving through ‘the front gate’ and getting that little buzz one gets when first entering a movie lot. After a cumbersome ten-minute hassle waiting for the guard to find the ‘drive-on pass’ (the days of ‘How nice to see you Mr. L., please drive right through’ were long gone), I was allowed to park in a new parking structure about one quarter mile from the commissary. Call it a buildup of years and layers of cynicism, but there was no buzz. As I was rushing through the parking structure and down the walkway to the commissary, not wanting to be late for the initial meet, something felt off. The place, for me, had lost its allure. The vibe was gone. The new corporate headquarters being built across from the NYPD Blue set was jutting skyward with foreboding glass and steel sides and a witless entry sculpture – some giant black ball spinning in water. It had an architectural intention that said the past is dead, California is dead, the foreign takeover is almost complete.

  I guess the obvious target in all this is Rupert Murdoch, who, after all, had bought the place and if he wished had the right to turn Fox into a used-car lot. Blaming Murdoch alone, however, would be too easy. The lot’s new look was a sign of the corporate times. But this was about more than looks. Efficiency because of rising costs had replaced inspiration. There were too many lawyers, too many marketing stiffs, and not enough creative types for this kind of dream machinery to work. For the people who make the stuff, it was a dangerous sign. A bad mix. It might have been my mood, but for me a delicate dance step had clearly been violated at Fox. It didn’t bode well for greatness or success.

  The commissary was even worse. The overlit dining room had a flat, used smell. Bad colors, shitty wallpaper. It had become institutional. The waiters with pale neoned complexions were mechanically stalking the room. As I was being led to a table in the rear, I recognized Murdoch, sitting with two ‘suits,’ making private phone calls while occasionally glaring across the room. He was imperious. So what? Imperiousness was benchmark behavior for studio owners. It was assumed, a familiar pattern where the guy at the top and his minions were oceans apart. With the invisible ax always inches from their heads, they withheld their disdain with obsequious smiles. But this wasn’t anything new. What was new, with the rise of corporate vertical integration, was that the guy at the top – in this case Murdoch – didn’t care about movies any more than he cared about baseball. Owning Fox’s motion picture business was merely a required charm on the mega-media-conglomerate bracelet. A necessary evil. An essential irritant that economically didn’t pencil out. I wondered if the food was going to match the atmosphere.

  If you’re asking, with all of my split-second dire observations, why I didn’t call for my car and head for the front gate, the answer was simple: money.

  Mechanic was already seated, three tables away from Rupert. As I approached him, I ran into the venerable Fox producer Larry Gordon. I knew, he knew, and everyone in the street knew that he was soon to be on the way out. But, what was interesting about Larry was his ability to maintain a bemused defiance in the face of some of the most horrific setbacks that a producer can confront. He’d had some past successes, but his recent losses were piling up like New York garbage. I respected his indomitability, but his lunch gave him away. All he was eating was a dry
baked potato with salsa.

  ‘Hey, Larry, I guess you didn’t care for the special, huh?’ I asked.

  ‘No fats,’ he replied. ‘I’m going light these days.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Bad heart. Can’t tolerate fats.’ He shrugged with a wave and a breezy smile. Underneath the charm, his digestive system and his arteries had paid a wearisome price.

  I knew that when he saw me with Mechanic, he would quickly assume I was being lured over to Fox. But did he know that I was to get his offices after he was tossed? And so it goes.

  ‘Really nice to see you, Larry,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, really nice.’

  As I neared Bill’s table, he stood and we shook hands. My first take on Bill was that I liked him. He was rounder than your typical executive, which gave him a more available, less threatening demeanor. His shirt was too dark to be corporately correct, his tie was all wrong, his shoes were strange, very strange, actually. I found out later that he was an animal rights activist and a strict vegetarian, so naturally, his shoes were made of Naugahyde with rubber soles and his car upholstery was made of cloth. He might have to skin an agent now and again, but I suppose the cows were safe.

  We both ordered veggie burgers. As we began the compulsory small talk, I noticed that the computer word kept popping up. Bill liked to talk numbers: grosses, preview scores, ratios of scripts to movies made, ratios of movies made to hits made, etc. He also liked to talk about movies in the past that excited him. He seemed to care about movies, and he even seemed to like the people who made the movies—an oxymoron for an executive in this day. It was too early to make any assumptions, but I was hoping that his gut rather than his bean-counting was going to play the major role in his decision-making. I wasn’t concerned. After all, if the computer hadn’t spilled out some past hits under my name, Mechanic and I wouldn’t be having this lunch.

  As I glanced over Bill’s shoulder, I accidentally made eye contact with Murdoch. I felt the chill. He didn’t know who I was, but his look reflected grave disappointment, as if he foretold the next few years. It was either disappointment or gas from the dreadful commissary food. In any case, I was certain that Rupert and Bill did not come from the same block. Maybe I was getting suckered, but Bill seemed like a bona fide movie fan. Murdoch was not projecting the same colors. A fishy blend, if you asked me. Had Rupert actually interviewed Mechanic before he got the job? Were their corporate goals shared? I had to wonder: When this drama finally played out (as do all executive dramas in Hollywood), would Bill be left with any of his vital organs? Get a pathologist. Murdoch ate meat.