by Art Linson
My expectations were diminishing.
Wasn’t marketing telling Mechanic that we were doomed from the start? Well, in a sense, that’s right. The tacit communication from marketing goes something like this: ‘You guys that “green-light” these movies and you guys that “make” these movies should have asked me first. I know what they want and what they don’t want. But, since y’all didn’t ask me, we here in marketing will do our level best to serve this turkey that you all cooked.’ Since marketing is the last stop on the film’s journey, the natural inclination is to not piss these marketing guys off.
So, once Harper gave his dire prognosis, I was eager to be polite and ooze gratitude. I thought I needed his support more than ever.
‘Tell me what we should do, Bob.’
‘Well, for starters, let’s change that title …’
He was about to say Bookworm, but the word had become too distasteful.
‘Sure, Bob, if that’ll help.’
‘That’ll be a big help.’
‘Hey, whatever works, you know me.’
I should have lost my producer’s license with that remark.
For the next few weeks, while a trailer was being cut and different one sheets were being prepared, numerous lists of titles were made. Here were some of the choices:
Ambushed
To the Ambush
The Ambush
Wild
Wilder
The Wild
Into the Wild
Wilderness Now
Deadhunt
Deadfall
Precipice
On the Precipice
Over the Precipice
The Edge
Edge
On the Edge
The Bear Killer
The Bear Roared
The Bear and the Brain
Roared
Bloody Betrayal
At one time or another we had everything on this list but If You Come to See This Shitstorm, We’ll PAY YOU.
I read the list to Mamet over the phone. When I finished, he was only able to utter, ‘Oh, God.’
For those of you who saw this film on TV or happened to drift into your local cineplex, you know that we settled on The Edge. It’s as if a committee of monkeys, of which I was a charter member, were trying to land a 747 in bad weather. Like most collective decisions made in the name of creativity, we ended up choosing a banal solution that would by definition be the least provocative and the least objectionable just to gain a consensus. Years later, I remain so dithered by the process that I can only refer to the film as ‘the bear movie.’
Opening weekend, The Edge grossed $7.8 million in 2,150 screens, putting the movie in third position. No one from the studio called Tamahori or me with the news. The number one movie, The Peacemaker, grossed $12.3 million. Four weeks later, it became apparent that the domestic gross of our picture would settle around $30 million. Hardly a smash hit, and yet not a total wipeout. Compared to other recent Fox debacles such as Firestorm, Newton Boys, or Chain Reaction, we looked virginal.
When I saw Mechanic from my office window on the Tuesday following the opening, I was more than aware that we hadn’t spoken since Friday. He was alone making the long trek from the administration building to the commissary, dwarfed by the kitschy murals painted on the sides of the large soundstages. As he passed under the sixty-foot-high rendering of Darth Vader dueling Luke Skywalker, I put all irony aside. I decided to intercept him and commiserate.
‘Hey, Bill. How’s it going?’
‘It’s lunchtime.’
‘Sure is.’
He didn’t look quite so sanguine up close.
‘I know. I know. It’s not a homer, but I’m thinking “ground rule double.”’
‘We’re projecting the movie to lose ten million dollars,’ he said stoically.
‘Really.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You know this even before it’s released internationally?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Even before the DVD comes out?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What if—’
‘Hear me, we’re going to lose money.’
‘I see.’
I assumed with that sort of forecast, Mechanic must be smarting from his own Murdoch/Chernin-inflicted rope burns.
We eyed each other, both of us awkwardly unfulfilled. Throughout the entire production, Bill had remained a supportive and generous influence. His disappointment was genuine. In the end, however, he was a victim and a slave to the numbers.
He kept walking.
I wanted to keep it cheery by adding, ‘Say, Bill, maybe we can call it an “infield single”?’
But I decided to let it go.
SEVEN
Great Expectations Dashed
‘Didja know Mike makes the best margaritas in the city?’
‘Jerry, everyone knows this.’
‘Mike is a Czech bartender.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And Dan Tana is a Greek with a name change.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And Dan Tana’s serves Italian food with margaritas.’
‘There is a point here?’
‘I believe there is.’
‘What?’
‘America is such a land of opportunity.’
‘Jerry, your Zoloft is starting to kick in, and I think that’s good.’
Mike had been pouring drinks at Tana’s for almost thirty years. His hair dye was getting a little iffy, but all in all, he was holding up quite well considering that he’d seen everything pass by his bar, whether he’d wanted to or not. For Mike, serving a deposed studio head and an agitated producer was like watching grass grow.
Tana’s seemed a perfect next stop for our sojourn. It had a bit of history to it. A makeshift red-and-white-checkered ‘Italian’ restaurant, Tana’s catered nondiscriminatorily to anyone in the business. Always crowded, always tough to get a table, it remained a mainstay for those who were happening, for those who were no longer happening, and for those who would never happen. In the seventies, Nils Lofgren, currently Bruce Springsteen’s guitar player, would enter the restaurant unannounced, laced on acid, and serenade the diners with an accordion while they were snorting coke at the tables. In the eighties, an erstwhile movie producer broke the jaw and nose of a literary agent over somebody else’s wife. It was such a scene, it took months to get the agent’s blood cleaned up from the carpeted floor. A producer and an agent spilling real blood could only happen at Tana’s. In the nineties, all of those who were battle-scarred from the last two decades would gather at Tana’s to recall the weirdness.
On the way to the restaurant, Jerry tried to convince me to go to the Palm instead.
‘There’s more pussy at the Palm,’ he said.
‘Jerry, this stuff we’re doing is about something more than pussy.’
‘I think we’re capable of doing more than one thing at a time, don’t you?’
‘I’m paying.’
‘That was our deal.’
‘I choose.’
‘Fine.’
Tana’s seemed like the correct spot to continue our dialogue. I was feeling positive. Having Jerry’s ear had somehow been therapeutic. And although he would never admit it, I could see he was beginning to feel as if he were back in the business. Over Jerry’s shoulder, the legendary Lew Wasserman, in his late eighties, was seated with a group of people at the first corner booth. This was the guy who created Universal and MCA, the guy who once really ran the town, and he was just a few feet away. Jerry kept looking over. For a brief second they were facing each other before Wasserman stared back at his plate. I could tell that Jerry thought he had made a connection. Excited by the prospect that Wasserman had acknowledged him, he nervously vibrated on his bar stool. Jerry was from the generation that would still venerate a Wasserman. A nod from Lew was a kiss of Hollywood immortality. Unfortunately, Lew was getting on. He didn’t have a clue. It was just
an accidental gaze on his part, a momentary flick around the room while he was working hard to digest his food. I didn’t want to blow it for Jerry, but Hollywood waits for no one, not even Wasserman.
Jerry handed me a package. A brown bag bound loosely with a rubber band.
‘Don’t say I never got you anything.’
‘Pour moi? Why, Jerry?’
‘Open it.’
Out slid an old edition of Charles Dickens’s classic Great Expectations.
‘You shouldn’t of.’
‘I found it on Melrose.’
He started to laugh in that annoying Richard Dreyfuss way, eh, eh, eh.
‘Jerry, I think I’ve read it.’
‘Well, after I saw your movie of same name, I wasn’t so sure.’
Now, he started to howl.
‘Hey.’
‘I was going to get you War and Peace,’ he said while wiping the tears from his eyes, ‘but in the spirit of preserving world order, I thought maybe I should keep you away from the Russians.’
He started banging the bar with his fists. Mike took it as a signal to bring him another margarita.
‘Jerry, I admit that there was a lot of blood spilled on that movie, but some of it came out respectably.’
‘Oh, let’s not get touchy.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘No.’
‘Indulge me. I had to listen to that drivel of you and Alec Baldwin arguing about integrity.’
‘Is that a word you’re unfamiliar with?’
‘Hoo ha. Hoo ha,’ Jerry again did an ugly imitation of Pacino’s blind guy. ‘Integrity! My balls!’ He grabbed his crotch with both hands.
‘You know how to bring out the best in people.’
‘I say, follow the money.’
‘Jerry, I don’t want you to throw up, but some of us have an ethical line we won’t cross.’
‘Follow the money.’
‘Well, perhaps that’s true too.’
‘Male nurses at Cedars have integrity, but they don’t get five million a picture, and God knows what Fox was paying you.’
I reddened.
‘Were there any ideas you came up with that Fox didn’t want to do?’
‘Jerry, do you want me to continue or not?’
‘Continue.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Because if I caught you on a bad day, I’m happy to fuckin’ leave.’
‘I must say these stories are brightening my spirit.’
‘Call me “surprised.”’
The Wasserman party was slowly exiting. Dan Tana was genuflecting by the front door. I tried to suppress the thought that this might be Lew’s last meal at Tana’s. Jerry carefully eyed the group, hoping to exchange one more contact with the legend, but to no avail. If Lew did remember Jerry, he had certainly forgotten him by the time his dessert was finished. As the procession finally disappeared through the narrow archway, Jerry leaned over to Mike and asked politely if we could sit at Wasserman’s table after it was cleared.
Mike obliged.
‘When was the last time you looked at David Lean’s Great Expectations?’ John asked me. John was my son, who had been working with me at Warners and at Fox, reading scripts and supervising the development of some film projects.
‘Twenty years,’ I said.
‘I just looked at it on television and it’s great, you know, it’s really great.’
‘Of course, it’s David Lean.’
‘We should look at the book again.’
‘Why?’
‘It could be a terrific modern love story.’
‘John, I’ve been down the Dickens road already, and it was punitive.’
‘I know about Scrooged, but this would be different …’
‘I can’t.’ I was resisting not only because of Scrooged but also because I was still selling the bear stuff to Fox and I didn’t want to complicate things.
‘You should look through the book. It wouldn’t be a broad comedy, but it might make a great modern-day love story … poor young guy in love with the rich, pretty girl since childhood … always trying but never good enough to get her. Good stuff.’
‘Shit.’
I knew it was a good idea, but I was already anticipating the huge boulders nestling in the center of the road.
From a producing point of view, John was right. Adapting and modernizing Great Expectations would be irresistible for a studio. First, it had a famous title. Studios love famous titles. I knew that when the marketing and development executives realized the movie already had a built-in awareness, they would get all warm and fuzzy, as if Murdoch had allowed them to have a glass of wine at lunch. Kind of like making a sequel. And they feasted on sequels. Second, Dickens had been dead for a long time. Couldn’t we rob his grave and just take it? Well, of course, we could; it was in the public domain! It was free! We get a celebrated title and the underlying rights for nothing. Who could say no? All we would need is a good script and we were off.
I mentioned the idea to Bill Mechanic.
‘Why not?’
‘That’s what I figured.’
‘Run it by Jacobson.’
‘I just went through this with Mamet. If I’m not mistaken, some of Mamet’s undigested lunch is still on Tom’s carpet.’
‘C’mon, he’s a good executive.’
‘I can’t help myself.’
‘Who’s going to write it?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
I spoke with John and we decided to talk to Mitch Glazer about the job. Actually, I asked Steve Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Awakenings) first, but he declined. He muttered something about it being interesting but adapting Dickens seemed too daunting. Everyone asked Zaillian first. Mitch was the living half of the Michael O’Donoghue/Mitch Glazer team that had written the screenplay for Scrooged. He was also a close friend of mine. Before we get into the instructional saga of how friendships are profoundly affected by the wrenching pressures of filmmaking, let’s just say that Mitch’s first marriage took place at my house, he’s known John since childhood, and we all worked blissfully together on Scrooged.
In November 1994, Michael O’Donoghue pissed everybody off by dying suddenly of a brain aneurysm. His head burst. The darkly brilliant wit, whose gutsy humor had defined and launched SNL, was an original. Famous for creating sketches such as Gilda Radner singing, ‘So, let’s kill Gary Gilmore for Christmas,’ he and Mitch became a formidable writing team and created some authentically brutal cinema comedy. The tone of their screenplay for Dickens’s Christmas Carol was irreverent and very funny. Starring Bill Murray as the mean-spirited network executive Frank (Scrooge) Cross, here’s a small sample of their approach:
INT. AREA OUTSIDE FRANK’S OFFICE – DAY
Frank (Murray) and Grace (his secretary) reach Grace’s desk, neat and impersonal save for a child’s finger painting taped to her cubicle wall.
FRANK: And, Grace, would you ah … oh, What’s the name of the kid I was just talking to? With glasses, bright, lots of guts?
GRACE: Eliot Loudermilk.
FRANK: Would you call security, have them clean out his desk, change his locks, and toss him out of the building.
GRACE: He’s fired? But it’s Christmas.
FRANK: Thank you. Call accounting and have his bonus stopped.
GRACE: (on phone) Loudermilk? Code Nine.
FRANK: What’s this?
GRACE: It’s a painting one of my kids did. See, there’s Santa and …
FRANK: How many fingers does Mrs. Claus have on her left hand?
GRACE: (studying it) Four.
FRANK: On her right?
GRACE: Seven.
He yanks it off the wall and tosses it to her.
FRANK: Grace, it’s crap. Lose it.
He heads for his office. Grace takes out the Christmas list.
FRANK: Okay, let’s get this over with. Read me the list.
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GRACE: Goldberg.
FRANK: Send him a VHS home video recorder.
GRACE: Parker.
FRANK: VHS.
GRACE: Kaluta.
FRANK: The bath towel.
GRACE: Brock.
FRANK: Towel.
GRACE: Whiteacre.
FRANK: What was the last rating on Police Zoo?
GRACE: Five point two Nielsen, seven share, and a TVQ of three.
FRANK/GRACE: (together) Towel.
GRACE: Your brother.
FRANK: Towel.
Mitch agreed to take on Great Expectations, but with some trepidation. We all knew that the tone of this screenplay would have to be completely different from Scrooged. There would be no irascible asshole to set off, no hard laughs to deflect the audience. This Dickensian tale was a one-sided kismet love story; it had to be taken seriously. Even if O’Donoghue could have contributed, we still couldn’t escape with a bent comedy. The approach would have to be grounded in the reality and sentiment of the book or it would become a laughable sketch. And just as worrying, if the movie was to be done seriously, it would inevitably be compared to the David Lean classic. And who wants to stand the gaff for that. Knowing all that, Mitch cinched his belt, took the money, and decided to give it a go.
‘It’s Tom Jacobson.’
‘What’s his deal?’ Mitch asked.
‘Just below Mechanic on the food chain.’
‘Does he have the power to say no?’
‘Hard to tell.’
‘He knows the idea, right?’
‘Yeah, says he’s a fan of yours.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘We’re going to meet him in the commissary.’
‘It’s better than the office, don’t ya think?’
‘Makes it smoother, less like a “pitch” meet.’
‘Great.’
‘Anyway, Mechanic seems in for the idea.’
‘I think I’m ready.’
Mitch and I were making that long walk down the cement lane to the commissary. It was 12:45 pm As the throngs fled from their offices, I was again saddled with the image that the central headquarters for Aetna insurance had just broken for lunch. Despite the vain attempts at displaying Hollywood memorabilia, the ghosts of Hollywood past were long gone from Fox. Call me sentimental, but I was always hoping to get a glimpse of Darryl Zanuck sneaking some starlet through a private door.