by Art Linson
Tom was encouraging me to get this fucker rolling. Even Mamet was looking at me peculiarly as if to say, ‘What exactly do you do for a living?’
I took the hint.
‘Well, Tom, Dave here has this good idea for a movie.’
Tom, who was a mellow, diminutive sort, gave me a glance of ‘thanks for the help.’ Everyone’s patience was shaky. Introductory small talk at pitch meetings, especially when the parties are complete strangers, always disintegrates into a gooey, treacly mess. Tom put his fingertips together and placed them near his lips.
‘So, c’n you tell me a little bit of what’s it about?’
‘Indeed, I can.’ David starts in speaking at a rapid pace. ‘There’s this extremely wealthy and refined bookish man living in New York who is married and very much in love with a beautiful, young fashion model, who has an assignment to go on a photo shoot in the wilds of Alaska. The photographer, a dashing young up-and-comer, who will be doing the shoot knows the girl. She invites her husband to go—a get-outta-the-house sort of thing. We soon learn that there is some competition between the two men for the girl. In fact, the photographer has an agenda to maybe do away with our bookish gentleman, marry the model, and inherit the wealth. And our girl may be in on it. Before he gets a chance, however, the two men, while sightseeing for locations in a small plane, violently crash in the middle of no—’
‘Could I stop you there for a second.’ Tom jumps in with an uneasy look on his face. David was just revving up.
‘Am I going too fast?’
‘No … it’s not that …’
‘Is the setup clear?’
‘I’m following you all right …’
‘Perhaps I should start over.’
‘No, not necessary.’
‘Well, what’s the problem?’
‘I just wonder if the smart fellow has to have so much money?’
‘Huh?’
‘You know, I’m worried.’
‘You’re worried?’
‘I’m concerned, that’s all.’
Mamet shoots me a ‘Where do we go from here?’ glare.
‘But they’re trying to get his money,’ I chime in, hoping David will stay in his seat.
‘I know.’
‘If he has no money, then there’s no sense in trying to get it, that’s the plot,’ I said, almost begging.
‘Okay then, let me ask you, David, do you really think an audience can root for a guy who has money?’
David waits for several seconds as if he were just asked to explain the concept of time in the universe.
‘Yes.’
For some reason this detour threw David and everyone else in the room into the wrong spin. The rhythm of the pitch had been inexorably altered. David’s spirit had darkened. Where were we? Should he start over? What were the rules? Finally, Tom took charge.
‘All right then … let’s continue.’
‘Um, well, then they run into a bear,’ David said quietly, ‘… and then they kill the bear.’ It was all that he could muster.
After a long, clumsy pause, we all stood up. Tom thanked us and said he would get back to us as soon as possible. In Jacobson’s defense, one of the job descriptions of a film executive, I suppose, is to be mindful of what the audience wants. Unfortunately, no one except Jerry Bruckheimer seems to know what that is.
In the hallway I couldn’t help but notice the poster of The Poseidon Adventure as we made our brisk walk through the building. The ad line at the top read, ‘Hell, Upside Down,’ while a giant crashing tidal wave was about to drown a cast of thousands.
‘What just happened?’ David asked.
‘I think it went well.’
‘What’s it like when it goes bad?’
‘They tell you no in the room.’
Remnants of six freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, an Ivy at the Shore specialty, were scattered next to the bill. Jerry looked at me with a semisatisfied smirk. He knew I was going to pay. The accepted protocol in this town was that the one still functioning was the one who paid. There’s a pecking order to all this. Agents always pay. Executives usually pay. Talent never pays. And producers rarely get asked out. For those who have left the business, voluntarily or not, the courtesy was for the survivor to pick up the tab. And a show of gratitude was never required since the assumption was that those who were still working had an expense account. It wasn’t really their money anyway. And besides, Jerry wasn’t large on gratitude.
‘Frankly, this story is very dull,’ Jerry proclaimed.
‘Why?’
‘No drama.’
‘How so?’
‘This deal had to make.’
‘I wasn’t so sure.’
‘If Mamet were drooling all over his shoes and said, “I want to write about the art of grilling squid,” you woulda ended up with a deal.’
‘Jerry, I think you’ve been out of the loop for too long.’
‘Please, you were in your honeymoon phase, it was a nobrainer. Or as Dawn Steel used to say, “Hello!”’
‘I don’t take anything for granted.’
‘Once Mechanic spent all this money on you, what’s he gonna do on the first thing you’re excited about? Say, “Fuck you!” I think not. Wait’ll you deliver a coupla stink bombs his way. Wait’ll one of those beauties of yours gets made and opens on a Friday and you get the death call on Monday. You’ll see, Mamet’s gonna have to sound like Richard Burton in a tutu reciting Macbeth before you’re gonna get the cash.’
‘Don’t hold back.’
Of course, Jerry was being astute. There is a grace period where the buyer wants to believe he’s made the right purchase. Mechanic had just made this deal with me. He’s got to show some support or his superior is going to question why the hell the deal was made in the first place.
‘Y’know, I really miss sitting in on those pitch meetings,’ Jerry said wistfully. ‘If you’ll permit me a movie metaphor, “Aahh … it’s like the fresh smell of napalm in the morning” … I was good at it. I would listen patiently, with my eyes slightly moist, waiting for the person to finish his or her ambitious tale. Then, I would lean back with a complicit nod to show artistic respect. And then, after the room went still for about ten seconds, I would draw an appreciative smile, letting them see my soft side, and say, “It’s just not my cup of wonton. Sorry.” Ooohweee … like a cool breeze in summer.’
‘Jerry, that’s why you’re loved.’
THREE
Over the Edge
It was the middle of December and I was feeling smug. It was one of those good Hollywood mornings where I actually woke up with the confidence that I’m usually faking. This was due to a combination of things. A morning article in the trades had surfaced, revealing that Paramount’s most profitable movie of the year was Clueless, a light comedy written and directed by Amy Heckerling, whose first movie, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, had been produced by me ages ago. It wasn’t simply the parental pride that gave me the satisfying glow. The mention that Clueless had been developed by Fox and subsequently put into turnaround by Fox was the intriguing sidebar. This meant that after the executives Jacobson, Mechanic, and Chernin et al had read the script, they’d passed on it. For a myriad of reasons they collectively believed that it was too silly, wouldn’t work, and it was time to recoup some development costs. So they had quickly sold it off to Scott Rudin and Paramount, only to get snakebitten by its success months later. While Paramount was celebrating their most profitable movie of that year, Fox was languishing in last place in total yearly grosses among all of the major studios.
One can only imagine Murdoch receiving the good news, baseball bat resting quietly in his hand, putting on his best Capone/De Niro/Mamet rhythms: ‘What!? What, am I alone in this world or are we a team … blah blah blah,’ before restraining himself from turning someone’s head into grapefruit.
These kinds of mistakes, particularly when they are in the press, always give the executives at any studio a jolt of insecurity, reconfir
ming their deeply hidden fears that maybe they don’t have a fucking clue. Before they can regain their confidence (and it doesn’t take them long), the next bunch of salesmen through the door get the benefit of the doubt. When a studio is weak, opportunities are created. When agents and producers start marching up and down the hallways saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’m a doctor, stand aside, I know what I’m doing,’ for a brief period they will be endorsed.
Good timing was veering in my direction. I had two scripts ready to be made: Great Expectations, a meat-cleaving experience that I will get into later, and Bookworm, the newly completed Mamet script. I was searching for a director and a cast for each movie, and more important, I was trying to convince the powers that be at Fox to spend money. A lot of money. ‘C’mon, gentlemen, “two guys and a bear,” lust, violence, courage under fire, can’t miss with this one, let’s make it!’
The second boost for me was that Heat was about to be premiered at the Steven J. Ross theater on the Warners lot. The buzz for the movie was soaring. De Niro and Pacino facing each other off in a movie for the first time (you can’t count Godfather II because they were never together in the same scene) was having an enormous impact. After a year and a half and more than a few battles, Michael Mann had finally made the movie that he’d always wanted to make out of this material. Unwittingly, I couldn’t help but feel that my stock was rising. My step was lighter. I was acting like them. I would attend meetings at Fox and the look on my face said it all: ‘You’re all a bunch of dumb fucks, listen ta me and I’ll lead you outta this horrible mess you all got yourselves into.’
A producer bursting with confidence can be a truly ugly sight.
The only hitch (and at this point a minor hitch) was that Tom Jacobson, the guy who had heard the pitch from Mamet months before, had ‘stepped down’ from his position at Fox to return to a more ‘hands-on moviemaking role.’ At least that’s what the announcement in Variety declared. This is Hollywood-speak that means he got ceremoniously dumped by his superiors and was forced to forge onward as a movie producer. No one wants that. I guess someone had to fall for past disappointments, and it sure wasn’t going to be Chernin or Mechanic, at least, not yet. Frankly, I was disappointed. After that wacky pitch meeting, Jacobson and I had found a reasonable way to work with each other. Since you never knew whom they were going to bring out of the dugout, the abrupt change in command meant I would have to start the inconvenient executive-bonding dance all over again. You remember what Stephen Stills said: ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.’
Tom Jacobson was replaced by a gangly lawyer, Tom Rothman, who had previously been running the Fox Searchlight division for about six months. Before becoming an executive he had had a short and rather empty stint as a movie producer. He couldn’t make a go of it. Our first encounter was chilly. He talked, I listened. He conducted the entire meeting with his back to me while he was organizing some papers behind his computer. I suppose he was either showing me that he could do more than one thing at a time or else he was saying, ‘Since I couldn’t make a go of it as a producer, fuck you for trying.’
Let’s just say for now that Rothman, after receiving his new promotion, was short on humility. He did not share this disease alone. After all, when you get ‘chosen,’ you contract the same virus that everyone else gets in Hollywood when presented with some power. You think you know. Before the marketplace gets the chance to punish you, really punish you, you actually believe you’re onto something. You know what works. You were born with it. Within a short time, however, you’re hopelessly bedridden, just praying that one of the giant directors will come along and revive Planet of the Apes 4 or Star Wars 6 or Terminator 3 and save your sorry ass. If that doesn’t work, you’re on the phone with Robin Williams’s agent begging him to get Robin to put the multiflowered dress back on and play an older woman one more time. Once one of those tent poles gets released, Rothman and his ilk will be front and center, crowing about their newfound legacy, the legacy they had nothing to do with, hoping not to be found out. Murdoch has shown a knack for seeing through that charade.
Early proclamations of making pictures with integrity, support for new directors, or the need to be progressive soon fades like cheap designer jeans. It is more than just an exhaustion of fresh ideas; it is the sticky fear of taking a risk. In less than a year, the executive’s appetite to be a pioneer is replaced by the desperation to hold on to an overpriced job – hold on, no matter what. Fortunately, since Mechanic and Chernin were still running the show, Rothman’s early pontifications proved to be an annoying but minor inconvenience.
For me, I had to get a cast and secure a director, or Bookworm wasn’t going to get made.
‘Do you know why you are rapidly losing the hair on your ankles?’
Dustin Hoffman asked me, noticing I was not wearing socks.
‘No. Not really,’ I said, glancing at my feet.
‘You’re getting older.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a genetic thing.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Loss of testosterone, really.’
‘I see.’
‘It doesn’t happen to everyone.’
‘Can something be done?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I don’t think so.’
I looked over at Lee Tamahori, wondering if he knew how to shift the focus of the conversation. We were entering into the second hour of our meeting with Dustin, and we still hadn’t gotten to the script. Lee returned the look as if to say, ‘Is this how you guys do it up here?’ Preliminary small talk was taking on a new meaning.
Lee, a Kiwi, had recently directed his first movie, Once Were Warriors, a spirited tale of a Maori family dealing with contemporary life in urban New Zealand. This spirited, raw, hard-edged movie with an emotionally aching core had become the highest-grossing film in New Zealand’s history. After seeing the movie, I sent Bookworm to Lee and was buoyed by his interest. The studio, because of the sizzle that Once Were Warriors had created, was cautiously encouraging us to get a couple of ‘stars’; only then, they implied, would they fund the movie. No guarantees, but so far so good.
We met with Mechanic and Jacobson to make cast lists. Jacobson could not, at the time, have known that the guillotine was inches from his neck, the lever having already been pulled. We were there to ask: Who were the key actors who could play an aging, wealthy bookworm? Who were the key actors who could play a younger fashion photographer intent on stealing the bookworm’s money and wife? These lists did not necessarily include the ‘best’ actor for the job. For example, Robert Duvall may be a brilliant casting choice for the bookworm, but when the computer tallies up his recent box office wreckage, he may not be considered as good a business choice as Bill Cosby. Trying to create a pecking order that would satisfy us as well as the studio turned into a random guessing game. Which actor, if he could play the role, would sell the most tickets? Who knows? Who can ever know? Certainly not us. We were rats chasing our tails.
First, we received the obligatory and expected turndown from Harrison Ford. At that time, any script written that required a male lead over forty-five went directly to Harrison because his acquiescence ensured a start date. It wouldn’t matter if the character was an international spy or a transvestite. If the character was an older male, it went to Ford; unless, of course, Tom Cruise was interested. Cruise would’ve been allowed to play the bear in our script or any other role of his choosing. He was running hot. Since Ford passed, our next stop was Dustin Hoffman because his agent said he had read the script and was interested. A bird in the hand. Dustin Hoffman wasn’t tearing up the box office as he once did, but he was still a star. Fox encouraged the flirtation.
This is always a tenuous time in the packaging of a movie. This is how it works: Even if the studio gets excited, even giddy, by the new script (as they claimed to be with Bookworm), the studio never calls the producer and says,
‘We love this, we love you, here’s the money, let’s fire this baby up.’ They always have several scripts in the pipeline that they fancy from different directors and/or producers. As optimistic and encouraging as they appear, they are simply not going to make all of them. The executives’ collective enthusiasm for the material can bounce around like a baby’s temperature. If Harrison Ford passes, their enthusiasm dips. If they think he passed but probably didn’t personally read the damn thing, the dip begins to rise. If several actors or directors pass, their enthusiasm goes on life support. If you get a nibble as we’d gotten from Dustin, spirits lift. If and when he passes, confidence wanes, and eventually, as the rejections add up, finger-pointing inevitably follows: ‘Who the fuck on my staff liked this piece of shit script anyhow?’ ‘Can you believe even Richard Gere couldn’t make heads or tails of it?’
When this starts to happen, your best hope is that you have another script to work on because their intention to package this one will soon be transferred to fresher material. Knowing you’re going to get some noes, you have to strategize not to get too many before the flame burns out. Just as on the TV game show Let’s Make a Deal, newcomers to this game are continually led to door #1, #2, or #3 certain that the money is just on the other side, only to be tossed out at high speed in the middle of rush-hour traffic, screaming, ‘But … but … but you said …’ And your executive friend won’t be flying out the door with you saying, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks, I love this turkey and we’re going to make it no matter where we have to go.’ In fact, the word we is no longer used in conversation once you’re off the lot.
From the agent’s point of view, the terrain is just as tenuous. Some subtle issues are involved. If a client at the top of his power is deluged by offers, the agent won’t give him or her the script without a firm offer from the studio. Except for rare instances the studio gulps and gives firm offers to very few. Today that may include Jim Carrey, Tom Cruise, and Julia Roberts. The list gets redefined yearly depending on recent successes or failures.