by Art Linson
Mitch, like most writers, hated to pitch. Writing is about rewriting, and when you’re ‘pitching,’ there’s little chance to retrace your steps and make it ‘sound’ better if things are beginning to skid off course. With this in mind, we had spent the last several days discussing the specifics. Even though we were about to have a casual lunch, we both knew it was essential to be ready.
These meetings were always greatly unpredictable. You could never bet on the outcome. Years ago at Universal, I wanted to make a rock-and-roll bio pic of the famed disc jockey Alan Freed. I had just produced the hit movie Car Wash, and I assumed that the next thing I pitched to them would be met with gratitude. After all, once you’ve sold ‘a day in the life of a car wash put to music,’ and it dumbfoundedly worked, you figured that Hollywood was a cakewalk. I thought if I burped, they’d buy it. I went to see Ned Tanen, then head of motion pictures for Universal, and the guy who had bought Car Wash.
As the elevator door opened on the penultimate floor of the black tower, you turned to face a floating staircase that led to the very top floor. Presumably, this was reserved for the founder, Jules Styne. Mortals were not permitted up there. One sensed that after Styne had departed his body, the space would be held exclusively for guardian angels. On either side of the staircase were offices that housed Lew Wasserman, Sid Sheinberg, and Ned Tanen. The colorless solemnity of the place worked on your confidence. When you were finished with your business, they were going to remain there and you weren’t.
Years later it took Michael Ovitz and I. M. Pei to top this sort of hubris. They concocted the hideous marble and glass mausoleum for CAA, in the heart of Beverly Hills, which is even more foreboding and less generous than the black tower. The building was designed to punish. So sweaty in its need to express power, it inadvertently overwhelms the visitor. The lobby witlessly screams, ‘We’re big, we’re significant, we’re indestructible … you’re not.’ Smothered and diminished by a silly oversize Lichtenstein and vast hard-edged walls reaching toward the skylight, you awkwardly crane your neck upward hoping someone will rescue you from the marble pit and mercifully lead you to a smaller office. Usually you are compelled to wait while you are stared at from glass hallways by a multitude of carefully dressed agents and business-affairs people perched several floors above. They conveniently ‘look down’ to see who’s there. You are soon convinced that some important shit must be happening in this building (CIA or Pentagon stuff) because all this grave pomp and circumstance couldn’t possibly be about show business. Not surprisingly, it seems to have had an equally stultifying effect on the agents who worked there every day. It’s just a building, of course, but the DNA of it has unwittingly shackled decent guys with a big debt and the arrogant legacy of their predecessor. Some of them in the last few years have banged into the walls so fiercely that they were never heard from again. I guess if Ovitz’s aim was to create a lot of space, he forgot the oxygen.
Okay. I don’t know what just got hold of me, but I feel better now.
The solemnity of the fourteenth floor of Universal’s black tower was not eased when Tanen saw me exit the elevator. He motioned for me to come into his office. I had to remind myself that I was coming off a hit. People were still humming the theme from Car Wash in the halls. I didn’t have to wait. I was entitled.
‘Okay, let me have it,’ he said.
‘The beginning of rock and roll.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Alan Freed.’
‘Yeah?’
‘How the music affected the kids.’
My mind was going blank. I realized I hadn’t really worked out the story. I guess I hadn’t thought I needed to. Tanen leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. He was vaguely amused by my sputtering, but I would have had to have produced Jaws for him to nibble on this performance.
‘And the story?’
‘Well, we take a close look at Freed and payola and it culminates in a big rock-and-roll show at the end.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I gotta work more on the details.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
A week later I got word that Tanen had passed. So much for being too clever. I spent the next month with John Kaye, the screenwriter, detailing the story. This time I went to Paramount. As it worked in Hollywood, the goodwill that I had received from Car Wash’s success generated some traction at Paramount, even though the hit was for another studio. Success was contagious. With a more specific plan worked out, they purchased the pitch, hired Kaye, and the movie American Hot Wax resulted. A footnote to this meeting is that Michael Eisner and Don Simpson were the young executives at Paramount who loved the pitch. When I finished my spiel, they winked at each other. I guess the lesson here is to be prepared. Is that lesson ever learned?
The hostess in the Fox commissary led Mitch and me to a table conspicuously in the center of a packed room. We were seated across from Jacobson, who had been waiting. He was clear-eyed and well rested, nothing splotchy about Tom. Mel Brooks was seated three tables away.
‘I love Dickens,’ Jacobson said.
‘Everybody loves Dickens,’ I blurted out.
‘My favorite book in college,’ he added.
‘My favorite book in high school,’ I countered.
I tried to get a grip, but after that Mamet pitch, Tom brought out the best in me. I knew I wasn’t making it easy for anyone. I put my hand on Tom’s shoulder, attempting to assuage my sarcasm. He moved inches to his left, not welcoming the physical contact. Who could blame him? Couldn’t we just play by the rules? Tom was supposed to be having lunch with a screenwriter and a producer to size up the efficacy of modernizing Dickens. Mitch and I were supposed to do our parts and try to sell him. Simple enough, which was why Jacobson was probably wondering why I was making this so damn complicated.
‘So, Mitch, go ’head. What’s the modern version?’ Tom asked.
Not to belabor the story, but Mitch went on to explain that this version of Great Expectations would begin on Florida’s Gulf Coast and end up in New York City. Instead of young Pip trying to get accepted as a nineteenth-century gentleman in London society, our Pip was going to escape the poverty of a fishing village and try to get accepted as a celebrated artist. His trying to survive the Dickensian coincidences that continually tugged at his life would be modernized. The underlying tale of Pip trying to get the girl who was beyond his reach, to shed his modest past while getting help from a secret benefactor, would remain intact.
In the Dickens story, Pip, once accepted for his new success, gets visited by his poor uncle who raised him. Embarrassed by his past, he regrettably humiliates his uncle. In the drama, it is the Dickensian moment when the main character hits bottom. The character has to become an asshole before he can be redeemed.
‘I really like the new setting,’ Tom said.
‘We like it too,’ Mitch said.
‘Fisherman to artist,’ Tom said.
‘Good stuff,’ I said.
‘The benefactor turns out to be an escaped convict, I like it,’ Tom continued.
‘Don’t forget Estella, the beautiful girl damaged by her rich past,’ I said.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Is there something else you need to know?’ Mitch asked.
‘Mitch, are you concerned that when Pip embarrasses his uncle, he becomes an unlikable character?’
‘Huh?’ Mitch was getting edgy.
‘Well, would the audience still root for him?’
Déjà vu. Mitch looked at me with moist eyes, wondering how seriously he was supposed to take this remark. I’d been there before, so I was no help.
‘What do you mean “root”?’ I asked.
‘Well, you know, we want the audience to pull for him, not against him.’
In Tom’s defense, he is not alone. His apprehension about pandering to audiences is shared by almost every executive in Hollywood. It’s in the nature of their jobs to decide what the ‘great unwashed’ want and what they don�
�t want, and there is no handbook to guide them. This invariably leads to the false conclusion that if an audience is momentarily upset with a character or with the direction of a story, they will not ultimately embrace the movie. Even though the executives know of so many exceptions, from Taxi Driver to The Shining, where audiences lined up for movies that were not designed to be ‘nice,’ for some reason, perhaps simply a lack of true vision, they weaken when the story makes a nonconforming turn.
Every filmmaker in Hollywood will evenutally have to deal with this situation. It’s the producer’s job, in assisting the writer and the director, to prevent those who are spending the money from negatively affecting crucial creative decisions. Sometimes sidestepping the issue is the good plan. Sometimes stonewalling the issue is a better plan.
‘Pip is one of the most beloved characters in English literature,’ Mitch said.
‘Everybody loves Pip,’ I added.
‘I love Pip, I just want you guys to be aware that this could be a problem.’
At that moment, Mel Brooks, who was making the rounds while giving each table twenty seconds of spritz, came to our table and said, ‘So, what kinda movie are you boys cooking up?’
We all said in unison, ‘Great Expectations.’
‘Sounds good, boys, sounds good.’ He muttered something about The Elephant Man, a movie that he had produced for Fox years ago, and then drifted away. The lunch was over.
EIGHT
A Glass Jaw
‘She has no chin.’
‘Come again?’
‘She has no chin.’
Tom Rothman was talking from behind his desk. I was sitting next to Alfonso Cuarón on Rothman’s couch. Cuarón, a newcomer to this sort of Hollywood madness, looked over at me incredulously.
‘But … I theenk Gwyneth ess beauuutiful,’ Alfonso said.
‘I’m not going to cast her,’ Rothman said, trying his damnedest to look empathetic.
We had just received word from Gwyneth Paltrow’s agent that she wanted to do the movie. Cuarón and I were excited to have her, but at this point in her career, she wasn’t a household name. I had first become aware of Gwyneth from her small roles in Flesh and Bone and Se7en. She had yet to grace the covers of every magazine in the world, and I believe it was even before anyone knew she was sleeping with Brad Pitt. Nonetheless, the heat was on. Most savvy insiders knew that she was a ‘comer’ and a promising addition to any cast. She was already in demand, already hard to get. And most of all, for the part of Estella, the unattainable, beautiful ice princess who has been taught not to love, Gwyneth with her ease and sophistication was perfect casting.
‘She has no chin,’ Rothman persisted.
‘But, I really like her cheeen.’
Alfonso was a young director born and reared in Mexico City, who had made his American directorial debut with the critically acclaimed A Little Princess for Warner Bros. Although the movie did not perform particularly well at the box office, Cuarón’s work had a bold, magical quality that had size and heart. This director had some significant talent, and he was being courted by most of the studios.
Several months after pitching the idea and concluding the negotiations, Glazer finished a few drafts of Great Expectations. We agreed that it was ready to turn in to Fox, where it was strongly supported by Bill Mechanic, Rothman’s superior. Fortunately, the script had made a sufficient enough impact at Fox for them to let me go fishing and see what elements it would attract. I had sent the script to several directors preapproved by Mechanic and Rothman. This does not mean they were obligated to make the movie with these directors, but it did mean that they would at least start the dialogue. As the script began to circulate through the Hollywood pipeline, many directors shied away from the material, apparently reluctant to take on a movie based on a classic. After about a month, I received a call from Alfonso’s agent, Steve Rabineau. He said Cuarón had just called him from Europe, that he had some real interest, and that he wanted to call me with some questions. At this point, Alfonso and I had never met.
‘Great Expectations is my very favorite film,’ he said on the phone.
‘I’m so glad.’
‘I love that film.’
‘Me too.’
‘But …’
‘Maybe we should wait till you return from Portugal.’
‘No, ess okay to do it now.’
‘Okay.’
‘But, you see that is also the problem.’
‘A problem with the old film?’
‘Yes, I love it too much.’
‘It’s David Lean, isn’t it?’
‘That ees correct.’
‘How can we overcome this?’
‘Well, I have seen many of your movies …’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘And I notice you get to spend lots and lots of money.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you going to get me lots of money to make this movie?’
‘Gosh, I’m gonna try.’
‘Do you promise to try very hard?’
‘I promise.’
‘Good, I like that.’
Actually, this was a good question to ask. As disarming as Alfonso was, he was also smart. He knew that to compete with the past, this version would require some extravagant moves to set it apart. Unlike, let’s say, Clueless, which was a well-executed spoof version of Jane Austen’s Emma, our script was attempting to take the underlying Dickens text seriously and therefore would and should be judged by audiences and critics as a serious film. Alfonso liked the script, but he said, as almost all directors do when they first commit to something, that it needed more work. He was looking forward to working with Mitch and me when he returned to Hollywood, and he was eager to give it a go. Instead of sensing any red flags, I was charmed by him. In fact, I thought many of his concerns were well founded. I liked that he was thinking big. And who doesn’t want to ‘deepen’ the characters? Mechanic and Rothman, because of the promise of A Little Princess, were happy to have landed him. A deal was concluded for Alfonso to helm the picture, but the contract was subject to budget, subject to cast, and subject to script changes. In fact, if one were to riffle through the fine print, it was probably subject to the weather. This meant Fox was still flirting. This deal was as solid as a fat man’s first attempt on a skateboard.
‘She’s not a star; it’s not going to work,’ Rothman persisted.
Cuarón, dismayed, but trying hard to hold on, leaned forward and motioned to me for help. ‘Come on, you’re the producer. Do something!’ I’d been there before. I wasn’t too worried. With English as a second language, and without knowing Rothman personally, Alfonso must have been struggling to get a bead on this sort of wacky behavior. Since replacing Jacobson, Rothman had seemed to dive into his new role as someone who insisted on telling you (and at great length) what he thought. With his newfound power, he had thoughts on just about everything.
I didn’t want to break Rothman’s piñata, but as he would eventually learn, his particular job description was to be ‘keeper of the sequels.’ This meant he was hired to make sure that filmmakers who had provided Fox with past hits would be persuaded to keep the flame going by making hit sequels. Fox had a vast pot to choose from. There was Planet of the Apes, Independence Day, Speed, Star Wars, Alien, French Connection, etc. If Tom wanted his back slapped by upper management, he should have been spending his time getting someone to remake those titles. It’s a big bullet to bite, but he was not hired to cast movies, write movies, direct movies, or even produce movies. He was a businessman.
This sort of behavior was not new. It was like a viral infection. When executives are given their first blush of power, it’s like an itch that has to be scratched. The need to throw their weight around and act ‘creative’ is simply irresistible. Like most infections, either it clears up with time or else it kills you. These types of stories have been repeating themselves since the studio system began. Years ago, as the folklore goes, when Herb Ross wanted
Kevin Bacon to star in Footloose, Dawn Steel, the newly appointed production head at Paramount, shrieked, ‘Don’t want to fuck him. Can’t cast him. I just don’t want to fuck him!’ Word has it, she learned this from Don Simpson, who, if he objected to a casting choice male or female, would always say, ‘I wouldn’t fuck him with your dick.’ Rothman, not in this legendary company, was unready to talk about intercourse.
‘Tom, we really, really like her,’ I said with a strong enough tone that indicated we could talk about this, but that Cuarón and I might not be prepared to make the movie without her. Anyway, her already beautiful chin was going to look a lot better to Rothman once she acquired fame.
‘I theeenk she ess fantastic.’
‘Well, let me think about it.’
‘Good,’ I added. ‘She has several job offers and we have to move quickly.’
Once a movie script starts to get a foothold at a studio, the momentum must be maintained. A producer must always remember that nobody ‘needs’ to make a movie. If the studio heads give it too much thought, they could easily change their minds. If you think about it, these executives are about to provide a group of people, whom they barely like, with thirty million dollars to make a movie. This could turn out to be a truly funky mistake. At this stage, as much as I wanted to dive over Tom’s desk, grab him, place my knee firmly on his chest, and scream, ‘YOU’RE AN INSANE CHUCKLEHEAD! THIS GIRL IS GOING TO BE ON THE COVER OF VOGUE AND WIN AN OSCAR. GO TAKE A FUCKING SHOWER,’ I knew violent acts would not be rewarded. There was a delicate balance here, and it had to be prolonged until a green light was firmly in place. For me, resolutely pushing forward was the only mantra.