by Art Linson
‘I’m lookin’ to sign a couple of producers to help supply us with movies over the next few years. Would you be interested?’ Bill was simple and direct.
‘Yes,’ I said, even more directly.
I explained that I could start after my Warners contract ended. Since Heat was still in the early planning stages for Warners and none of us knew what a sizable hit it was going to be, it was apparent to me that Warners would be only too happy to let me sign elsewhere. If they let me out of my contract early, they could save some money.
And now for the hard question.
‘What kind of movies are you thinking of producing?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you have something up your sleeve.’
‘Shit, Bill, I haven’t given it much thought. I’m working with Michael Mann on this thing for Warners, and after that … I think, uh, I’m going to develop something with, uh, David Mamet … and then maybe a kind of a Dickens sorta thing.’
‘Really, what?’
‘It’s all still in the planning stages.’ I didn’t have a clue.
‘Sounds good. Let me have our lawyers get this started and see if we can make a deal.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We’re lookin’ forward to it.’
‘Me too.’
‘By the way …’
‘Huh?’
‘… you could use a hit.’
‘I know.’ I couldn’t help but glance over at Murdoch, who for a millisecond glared back with a ‘Who the fuck are you?’ look. I should have made a run for it.
‘Well, let’s just hope it’s for us.’ Bill smiled.
‘Here’s hoping,’ I said lightly, mustering up my finest acting. Dodging direct eye contact with Bill or Murdoch, I turned to look for Larry Gordon. He was gone.
‘Oooh, man, he gave you the “You could use a hit,” shot, did he? I like him.’
‘Thought you’d enjoy that, Jerry.’
‘That’ll freeze the testicles.’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Where was that slippery Chernin [the News Corp executive just below Murdoch and just above Mechanic] in all this?’
‘He would hover and come in and out when it was convenient.’
‘Makes you thinka bacon grease, dunnit?’
‘I haven’t given that part much thought yet, Jerry. Why don’t we try to stick to a syntax we both understand?’
‘Looks to me like Mechanic was sandwiched and you were the cheap brown bag carrying the lunch.’
‘I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, don’t you?’
‘You’re right, you’re right. Go slow, I want details.’
There we were at a new restaurant. Jerry wanted to meet at the Ivy at the Shore for lunch, an upscale hangout in Santa Monica but thankfully not as visible as the Grill in Beverly Hills. I suppose it’s of little value to describe what Jerry was wearing, but there was something about tristriped, blue Adidas running pants, Gucci slippers, and a very old Ferrari sweatshirt on a desperate middle-aged man that must be looked at, particularly when it occurred to me that the same stuff was neatly folded in my own drawers. Were we turning ‘casual’ Friday into ‘sweaty casual’ Friday? Since our breakfast in Malibu, his tan had faded, but the promise of tasting a little Hollywood action had apparently given him a boost.
No need to ask why I’d decided to continue this dialogue. I’m aware that I must have been deeply disturbed to let Jerry beat the shit out of me again as we painfully traveled down memory lane. I had some serious issues to work out. I kept justifying to myself that when the future looks hazy and dark, who better to talk to then someone who had a big past and no future? Who else would have a better feel for desperation than Jerry? My consolation: No matter how bitter he became, I always knew he was drowning faster than me. I had no idea then that he had a firm grip on my pant leg.
‘Two chopped-vegetable salads,’ the waiter politely interrupted. ‘Who gets the one with shrimp, no chicken, no oil in the dressing, asparagus instead of egg, no avocado, balsamic vinegar on the side?’
‘Me.’ I raised my hand, noticing that ordering a salad was getting as complicated as selecting a coffee at Starbucks.
‘Oh, gosh, welcome back, sir.’ The waiter blanched, then genuflected, when he realized that was the Jerry. ‘It’s been years, sir, hasn’t it?’ The waiter’s expression of doubt mixed with awe said it all. He assumed that Jerry was ‘dead,’ but just in case Jerry could spin some kind of showbiz voodoo reincarnation and actually make a comeback, a little anal massage couldn’t hurt. Everyone in town was in on this game.
‘Well, thank you, Jeff. Did you ever finish that screenplay?’ Jerry’s question was generic. It didn’t require an answer. Who wasn’t finishing a script in this place? It was as meaningless as asking about one’s health or the weather.
‘As a matter of fact, sir, we’re this far [thumb and forefinger almost touching] from a start date.’
‘Well, isn’t that just great,’ Jerry said, trying to camouflage his annoyance that any good news brought.
‘And do you know what else?’ Jeff was grinning now.
‘What?’
‘I’m going to direct.’
‘Direct?’ Jerry had had enough.
‘Direct.’
‘Oh, how special.’
‘Nice to see you out again, sir, enjoy your lunch,’ Jeff added over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen.
Jerry sat there for a moment, not ready to reach for his food. He was conflicted. Jeff’s enthusiasms rankled his spirit. You could see the bubble over his head – ‘Even the fuckin’ waiter’s got some Hollywood love.’
Nonetheless, being acknowledged again, even by a food server, was like giving blood to a vampire. His mood was tempered.
‘Hey, you know that “bear” movie you did?’
‘Yes. My first venture at Fox.’
‘Word has it that Alec Baldwin carved some new assholes for you and that director of yours.’
‘Not exactly true … and anyways, that story has to start at the beginning.’
‘Why not cut to the grim bits and leave out the boring stuff?’
‘Jerry, it’s my dime, it’s my therapy. You’re gonna have to listen to the whole story if I’m gonna let you get off on the bad parts.’
‘You’re right, and anyways, where am I going? … After all [his thumb and forefinger almost touching], I’m this far from a start date,’ he bellowed, bursting into a laugh.
‘This far!’ I replied.
In a brief moment of bonding, I held up my thumb and forefinger and we tapped hands in a drinkless toast.
‘Okay, back to business, how did that car wreck of a “bear” movie happen?’ Jerry asked.
‘It wasn’t a car wreck.’
‘Not what I heard.’
In the basement of the Fox administration building, just below Bill Mechanic’s and Peter Chernin’s offices, were two screening rooms: the Z room and the S room. They were built in the old Darryl Zanuck days, circa 1940. According to legend, and who cares if it’s true or not, Zanuck, ensconced in room Z, would spend countless nights with his masseuse and assorted girls reviewing dailies, examining rough cuts, and doing whatever else that was handy. No one but Zanuck was allowed to use it. His florid excesses were legendary. The S room, apparently lettered after Joseph Schenck, was for the general use of other executives. Although Zanuck was responsible for the supervision of thirty-five pictures a year, he mixed business with pleasure and still maintained a healthy list of enemies. Today, the chance of interrupting an executive in midblow job at three in the morning, while dailies are being screened, is over. That kind of action is reserved for pols or dot.com guys. Hollywood has gone corporate and square. You don’t have to worry about knocking anymore.
‘Are you sure all I have to say is “it’s two guys and a bear, they get lost in the forest and have to learn to survive together even though one guy was trying to kill the other guy and take his young, beautiful wife”?’ David Mamet ask
ed.
He was not particularly concerned. He just wanted some reassurance that I had already worked things out and that this was going to be a mere formality. He had that look of ‘I’ll do my job, did you do yours?’
‘Yep, it’s in the bag,’ I said.
We were making the long walk down the wide administration building hallway, the wallpaper still revealing some leftover touches of Zanuck green (a color that Zanuck insisted on because it matched his mother’s nail polish), to deliver a pitch to Tom Jacobson, the newly appointed head of film production under Bill Mechanic. Wait a minute! Who’s Tom Jacobson? Wasn’t Mechanic the newly appointed head of film production under Chernin? And wasn’t Chernin, who dutifully reported to Murdoch, head of worldwide motion pictures? Well, yes, it’s all true. It’s a complicated system. Even the most experienced insider has a gruesome time trying to find out where the buck stops. If you’re looking for solid answers, it’s rare to find them in movie meetings.
The best way an outsider can understand these subtle distinctions is by asking who has the power to say yes, maybe, or no. Tom Jacobson could say no, but if he wanted to say yes to anything, he would have to appeal to Bill Mechanic for an approval. And even if he wanted to say no, Mechanic could overrule him, assuming you knew how to get to Mechanic. If this request was very expensive, such as the green-lighting of a fifty-million-dollar movie, Mechanic would have to appeal to Chernin for approval. If Mechanic wanted to say no, it would end there, unless you could appeal to Chernin to overrule Mechanic. If a request was very, very expensive, such as more money for a Titanic production that was running mercilessly out of control, Chernin would have to ask Murdoch for approval. As complicated as all this seems, it is a layered committee method designed to pass on the risks and defuse the blame. As you might suspect, the executive at the bottom of this pole is naked. Daryl Hannah’s manager wields more power. This guy might be able to jaw his way into a good table at a restaurant with his Fox film production presidential business card, but when he went to work the next day, he was a duck waiting to hear the gunshot.
Tom Jacobson had that job.
I had called David six weeks before. After several months of negotiations, my exclusive deal with Fox to produce movies for them over the next three years had been completed. It was nice to have the deal, but I needed to get something going – to put some scripts in development and kick-start the promises. The first rule of producing is to find a writer with an idea, or to get an idea and find a writer. Making friends with agents can be handy, but it’s way down the food chain. Since David and I did The Untouchables together, we had developed a good professional working relationship: You get me a lot of money, I get you a good script. I was hoping that if I leaned on David, he could pull some rabbit out of the hat. His price to write a screenplay had skyrocketed. I knew this rabbit would be costly.
I placed the call.
‘Hi, Dave.’
‘What’s the shot?’
‘I got a new deal, I’m lookin’ for you to write a new script.’
‘Fine.’
‘There’ll be lots of money.’
‘Good. Let’s do it.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you don’t tell me what it’s about, I can’t get you the money.’
‘Fine. What do you want it to be about?’
‘I don’t know; that’s why I’m calling you.’
‘I understand.’
‘Dave, how about an adventure movie?’
‘Fine.’
‘Something castable. Two guys, maybe.’
‘Fine.’
‘C’mon, Dave, I need more to go on.’
‘Okay … how ’bout two guys and a bear.’
‘It’s a start.’
‘That’s all I got.’
‘I need more.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘Thank you.’
Within a short time he did get back to me with a rather well-worked-out wilderness story that promised big intrigue, a fierce struggle for survival, betrayal, and of course, a bear. I was quite confident that Fox would be engaged, but it was early in the process. Even if they agreed to the screenplay, there was no assurance that it would be made into a movie. We were still smarting over our last venture together at Warner Bros. He had written Ordinary Daylight, a powerful script based on a true story written by Andrew Potok about his struggle with retinitis pigmentosa. Much money was spent, many meetings with directors and executives were taken, but the movie was never made. We were preempted by Al Pacino’s Scent of a Woman. In the end, Warners balked.
‘How can we make a movie about a guy who’s going blind but doesn’t get better?’
‘We thought you knew that. It’s in the book!’
‘Pacino’s blind in his movie but he can drive a Ferrari and dance for God’s sake.’
‘Didn’t anyone read the book?’ I appealed.
‘Of course, we assumed you were going to fix those bits.’
‘But it’s a true story!’
‘Who gives a shit if it’s a true story?’
And so on. Suffice it to say it was another wonderful Mamet script, at least that’s my take, that never got made. The consolation prize is that he got paid a shitload of money. But for the producer, when a movie doesn’t get made, there is nothing to show for the time and the ultimate defeat. Moreover, the failed results usually reveal the importance of getting everyone on the same railroad track before the script is ever read. When the buyer doesn’t get what he thinks he bought, it is because miscommunications exist before one word is written. These discrepancies start to occur as soon as the first question is asked: So what’s the idea? at the pitch meeting.
I assured Mamet that this meeting was merely academic. I had already explained to Mechanic the general drift of the idea, but he had insisted for purposes of protocol that we run it past Jacobson. Could we do it on the phone? I asked. No. Proper protocol, he insisted, meant going to Jacobson’s office. Since Mamet lived in Boston, this required a trip to Los Angeles, which always left him in a mixed mood. A trip to Los Angeles may seem like a small price to pay to pick up one-million-plus dollars, but pitching is pitching. At its best, even when it’s operating on all cylinders, it’s annoying. At its worst, it’s a humiliation for everyone in the room.
Halfway down the hallway, getting ever closer to Jacobson’s office, we slowed down to look at the Three Faces of Eve poster.
‘Can you believe this studio made that movie? Gosh, what has happened to this place?’ I asked.
‘Time mixed with cowardice,’ Mamet said.
‘You’re right, you’re always right.’
‘This is not going to be one of those meetings where we walk in and no one knows why we are there?’
‘Please. I’m a professional.’
We stopped to glance at the Alien poster.
‘So, I say the usual, right?’
‘The usual,’ I said.
‘It’s a cross between Raiders of the Lost Ark and Wuthering Heights.’
‘That’s right.’
As we entered the office of Tom Jacobson, the first thing that screamed out was that there were two secretarial desks. This guy must be very busy. Mechanic, his boss, had only one secretary.
‘Mr. Jacobson is off the phone now, he’s ready to see you.’
‘Thank you.’
For those of you who have never been in a pitch meeting, it’s nothing much different from door-to-door sales except the financial stakes are higher. You must convince the guy with the checkbook that he needs whatever soap you are selling. I’m not sure anyone actually needs to buy an idea for a movie. If you buy an idea, you have to pay to have the script written. Writers are expensive. In most instances the scripts are badly done and only a small percentage ever get filmed. Because of the high turnover factor, the executive who winds up buying the script probably won’t even have his job by the time the wretched thing gets made a
nd is ready for release. Either someone else will be the beneficiary of its success, or the poor sucker who was fired will inevitably be blamed for supporting it. Under these rules, I’m always amazed at the optimism that’s displayed so early on for something that might not pay off for years. Nonetheless, this is the very start of the process, and decisions made at this level have enormous impact.
We entered Tom’s office accompanied by his assistant. It turned out to be twice the size of Mechanic’s office. Hmmm. I didn’t step it off, but I was tempted. If my office were twice the size of that of the guy who hired me, I would immediately ask for some partitions or at the very least donate a good part of it to some dispossessed underling. ‘Oh, please, Bill, this office is too big. All’s I need is a desk, a phone, and two chairs – why don’t you take my grand office?’ Being offered all of this grandness smelled like a setup to me. Call me cynical, but it sure felt as if this guy, whom we were about to meet, was renting. I didn’t know then that his lease was only month to month.
‘Boston’s a wonderful city,’ Tom said as he leaned back in his chair, his feet pushing back from the coffee table.
‘Sure is.’
‘Cultural.’
‘Very.’
‘Gosh, I love it, the season, you know.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Winter,’ Tom said, trying to make out Mamet’s reaction.
Awkward silence.
‘You like sports?’ Tom politely continued, trying to keep this ship afloat.
‘Not that interested.’
The room was dying.
Tom turned his attention toward me. ‘So, we know what David’s been up to, what about you?’
‘Well, I’m at Fox working for you.’
Awkward silence.