by Art Linson
Through his Franchise Film company, Elie had boldly found a niche. He had figured out a way to finance movies that the major studios were shying away from, yet still make money. What he had come upon was nothing new. Years ago, mavericks like Dino De Laurentiis and Arnon Milchan had discovered a worldwide market that was vast and rich and that with the right kind of schmoozing could be exploited. Some movie stars and a handful of star directors, whether they knew it or not, had an international cachet that meant something. Packaging and selling the talent to the foreign buyers was the combination to the safe. If Samaha could get these key elements to cut their fee for a project dear to their heart as well as convince the producer to cut the cost of filming by scurrying off to a foreign country, Samaha could make a score. With the right package in place, his game was to presell the movie to foreign territories for more than the cost of the movie, leaving no risk, only reward.
Here’s an example: Travolta had a pet project, Battlefield Earth, that no studio in Hollywood would touch, even though Travolta was enjoying a personal revival at the box office. Perhaps because of its intimate link to L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology, or because science fiction is enormously expensive, or because the project could not attract a bona fide first-class director, Travolta could not get the movie jump-started. Ergo, Samaha smells the opening, calls Travolta up, and declares that the one movie he’s dying to make is Battlefield Earth starring John Travolta. Travolta at the time was making upward of fifteen million dollars a picture. But this was his labor of love. Samaha knew that if the movie could be made for a certain number, he could sell off most of his financial exposure to international markets before one set was built, one costume sewn. If the movie died, the only ones holding the bag would be the foreign investors, while Elie could dine out on the Travolta connection. Travolta wanted to see this movie made so badly that, apparently, he not only reduced his fee substantially and agreed to limit the cost of production, but also ultimately put up some of his own money to see the damn thing through.
For Elie, this was a perfect fit. Although the movie met a truly grim fate at the box office and an even sadder fate with critics, Travolta made the movie he wanted to make and Elie walked away with money in his pocket. I suppose his foreign partners, once they were able to get up off their knees and wipe the vomit from their shoes, could only hope to get their money back by betting with Samaha on the next one.
From a filmmaker’s point of view this is not such a bad situation. Elie doesn’t give you script notes, doesn’t hand out his opinions on the final cut, and doesn’t tamper much with the casting choices of the additional roles. Shit, he might not even have read the script. He leaves the ‘making’ of the movie to those who can. After years of wading through the silly litany of comments from studio executives whose only film credentials are a leased BMW and a studio job, there’s something irresistible about a guy who simply plays it as a businessman. He’s gonna fuck you if he can, but it will be just about the money. How long he can pull this off is hard to say.
‘I want to make this movie,’ Elie said.
‘We do too,’ Mamet answered.
‘I love it.’
‘We do too.’
‘No, I really love it.’
‘That’s great,’ I added.
‘I love Hackman.’
‘We do too.’
‘And I just had dinner at Danny’s house. I love him too.’
‘We agree on that.’
‘You know, uh, forgive me,’ Elie said, punctuating his face with fatigue, ‘but I’m a little tired.’
Mamet turned to me with that ‘Here comes the bad news’ glance.
‘I think you look good,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Last night I was at the Sunset Room, my club, until four in the morning.’
‘Elie, you’re moonlighting.’
‘I was drinking with Sly.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Sly was at my table, Don Johnson was three tables down. A real good night.’
The conversation stalled for about ten long seconds.
‘David, you want to come to my club tonight?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said politely.
Another awkward pause.
‘You know, David, did I tell you that I made more than sixty films over the last three and a half years?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Really … ?’
‘I swear.’
‘That’s a lot of volume,’ I said.
‘I made a lot of money.’
‘I bet.’
‘Over sixty movies.’
We were desperately trying to locate some common ground.
‘So which ones are your favorites?’ David asked.
Elie looked at us carefully. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t quite come up with one title that stood out from the pack. It was like watching a magician in a slump fumbling to pull out the right card. I was trying to help, but I didn’t know any of the pictures he had sponsored either. He finally mentioned some movie in the planning stage that he was working on with Billy Zane and director Ted Demme. He said he was proud of that one, but they had yet to start filming. He added that if we wanted to meet Billy Zane, he was also going to be at the club tonight.
‘Thanks for the lunch, Elie,’ I said, dropping my napkin on the table.
‘It was very generous.’ David smiled.
‘Okay, okay. Let’s make it fifty days,’ Elie said.
‘We’ll give it a college try,’ I said.
As with all other meetings in Hollywood, the decisions were made before the meeting began. Samaha had already sussed out what the foreign market would bear for a Gene Hackman/Danny DeVito combination with David Mamet at the helm. So long as we committed to the right number, this deal was closed. Predictably, Samaha would make a profit before the movie ever wrapped.
As a final footnote, we ended up shooting Heist in fifty-five days.
I arrived at Tana’s early. The bar was filling up and the booths were already occupied. For the first time in weeks, I was actually looking forward to meeting with Jerry. I know that the first thing he’s going to say when he scans this room is ‘Fucking hell, the place is packed and there’s nobody here.’ I ordered a drink and waited.
Warner Bros., the domestic distributor for Heist, had just begun screening the movie for the long-lead press (magazine editors and magazine critics), and the early returns were encouraging. For a film noir filled with violence and irony, it was a nice surprise to watch people warming to it. To top it off, Alberto Barbera, the head of the Venice Film Festival, had called two days before to say that he loved the movie and wanted to invite us to the festival. It was to be the first of many invitations. And, of course, there was something unforgettable about having a front-row seat to watch Gene Hackman (Joe Moore) standing over a critically wounded Danny DeVito (Bergman) at the climactic shoot-out. Bergman, shocked that his life force is ebbing away, asks Moore, ‘D’ya want to hear my last words?’ Without hesitation Moore blows him away and says, ‘I just did.’ Mamet served up the meat cold on this one.
Not that everything had gone smoothly during the making of this film. With all of the sacrifices that have to be made when you reach outside the studio system for money, one of the most ludicrous is the impact all of this has on ‘producer’ credits. In the final credit roll, the audience is mercilessly bombarded with nine producers: three producers, of which I am one with Samaha and one of his partners; three executive producers, all of whom are either Samaha friends and/or employees. Two coproducers. One line producer. And, no, I’m not going to add ‘and a partridge in a pear tree.’
Suffice it to say that not only did these people rarely make any producing contributions, but in most cases, neither Mamet or I have ever met them. There’s a producers’ guild, rising from the ashes, currently trying to sort out this horrible indi
gnity on future films. But it’s a troubling thought to assume there’s going to be a big outpouring of sympathy for the poor mistreated movie producer. Maybe a league should be created to protect agents who have had their feelings hurt, or maybe some umbrella organization for film executives who sense their time is running out. Ain’t it sort of like asking people to cheer for the fox in the henhouse?
I always forget how good the margaritas are at Tana’s. I must have gotten distracted because I suddenly realized that Jerry was now forty-five minutes late. I wasn’t surprised. He was a no-show. That rat bastard had the antennae of a Siamese cat. He could smell my good news coming from across Coldwater Canyon, and he wanted no part of it. He knew it was time to find a new den and some fresh blood, time to take his black voodoo down the road and piss on some rookie. I should’ve just walked away, but I decided to give him another few minutes. If he didn’t show up, I would call him, leave a blistering message on his answering machine, then get on with it.
I moved to the rear door where I could get better reception from my cell phone.
Trying to compose a message to Jerry, behind three margaritas, wasn’t all that easy. All kinds of weird detritus ran through my head. First, I wanted to sour his mood by thanking him for the amateur therapy sessions. I had to let him know that being one of ‘les grandes facilitators’—as he sarcastically referred to movie producers—didn’t necessarily mean that your arm is laced up to your elbow in Crisco. I wanted to remind him—and this would surely test his stomach—that there’s even a parcel of dignity in getting this shit done. Yeah. And by the way, before we get too mawkish, let’s not forget the ultimate mantra: It’s a helluva way to keep your pool heated.
Arrivederci, baby. Thanks for the memories.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Art Linson was born in Chicago and grew up in Los Angeles. He has been producing movies for over twenty years, and his credits include The Untouchables, Heat, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Scrooged, Fight Club, and Heist. In 1995, he published his first book, A Pound of Flesh: Perilous Tales of How to Produce Movies in Hollywood.
Still 1: From left to right: Bruce Willis, Robert De Niro, John Turturro, and Stanley Tucci.
Still 3: Robert De Niro and Michael Wincott.
Still 4: Robert De Niro and Robin Wright Penn.
Still 5: Bruce Willis and Robert De Niro.
Still 6: Robert De Niro and Art Linson.
What Just Happened?
Screenplay
Fade in:
INT. BEN’S APT/BATHROOM
MONDAY
SUPER: 6:30 PM
A VERY TIGHT SHOT REVEALS two hands positioning a clear plastic tray on a firm counter. The right hand reaches for a small tube and squeezes a white line of goo into the tray followed by another tube which spurts a long orangy goo next to it. A small brush begins to rapidly mix the two substances until the whole mess turns a deep purplish brown.
TIGHT ANGLE ON MAN’S CHEEK. The right hand is carefully spreading the goo on a five-day growth of graying whiskers. Almost instantly, the gray starts to disappear, turning a purplish brown.
The phone rings. He lets it go. The answering machine intercepts the call.
ANSWERING MACHINE-BEN’S VOICE: Hello?
A pause forces the caller to talk to the machine thinking Ben is actually on the phone.
ANSWERING MACHINE-BEN’S VOICE: Please leave me a message … BEEP.
MAN’S VOICE: That fucking message. It’s Scott. Did you read my pages? Of course not. You’re probably off to your test screening.
As the camera slowly pulls back, we see Ben counting to himself as he studies himself in the mirror. Despite the fact that years of anxiety have taken it’s toll on Ben’s face as well as his hairline, Ben seems rather pleased with the dye job in progress.
BEN: (quietly to himself) Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six …
It’s time to rinse the stuff out.
MAN’S VOICE: (cont’d) Don’t worry a test screening is just a ‘number.’ No one really cares about a ‘number.’ Just a matter of life or a slow rotting death. Nothing more hah … (click).
ANGLE ON BARE FEET standing next to a shower drain. Water is cascading down his legs as the brown residue washes away.
Cut to:
INT. CINEPLEX THEATER—NIGHT
SUPER: 10:00 PM
ON A LARGE MOVIE SCREEN WE SEE a grainy shot of a man, who looks like Sean Penn, climbing up a high hill. When he reaches the top a shot rings out hitting him in the chest. He topples down in a grim heap. Three men approach, guns in hand. Almost lifeless, he refuses to give in. A smallish dog loyally stands next to him.
SEAN: I’m not going to beg.
The three men, casually standing near a car just across the road, impassively eye Sean’s struggle.
ANGLE ON A SHOT OF BEN seated in the back of the theater. His eyes strain to remain expressionless as he intently watches the packed preview audience watch the screen.
ANGLE ON the screen.
SEAN: You think it’s me I care about? It’s you I’m concerned with. It’s your salvation … ‘Father forgive them, they know not what they do.’
TIGHT SHOT OF ANOTHER MAN three seats down the row from Ben, a slick looking Middle Eastern type, Johnny, with a young girl poured into tight black leather clothes on one side and a young ‘hip’ looking guy in jeans on the other. Johnny is smiling at the screen as if he were watching a comedy. English is clearly his second language.
ON THE SCREEN THE GUNMAN points his gun at Sean. The dog barks like mad. He turns his gun on the dog.
ANGLE ON the screen—
SEAN: No.
ANGLE ON BEN.
BEN: No.
ANGLE ON the screen—THE GUNMAN FIRES, hitting the dog in the head. The dog drops.
ANGLE ON BEN—He glances imperceptibly to his right, to his left, trying to assess the damage to those seated in his row. He’s seen this scene before.
ANGLE ON THE SCREEN. The large man with the gun shoots Sean three more times. Sean dies. The men casually walk away as the road turns red with blood. Then the image on the screen fades, and the interior lights of the movie theater are abruptly raised. The unfinished film has yet to add the credits.
ANGLE ON THE CROWDED AUDIENCE. Except for a few people who offer some scattered applause or serve up a few groans, the rest of the preview audience remains silent, reflective and in pain. Actually, they seem to be in a collective state of STUPEFIED HORROR.
ANGLE ON BEN. His face is now frozen. His eyes don’t blink.
ANGLE ON a few business people in the back row, STUDIO PEOPLE. They start to get up slowly and make their way out into the lobby. Whatever their reactions are, they’re not going to reveal them yet.
Seated next to Ben is Dawn, late twenties, looking every bit the brainy and ambitious development girl. She leans forward and pats Ben on the shoulder, offering comfort. Johnny sits back composed, seemingly unaware that things might not be going so well.
ANGLE ON THE POLLSTER, unctuous, hurried, determined to do his job no matter what. He comes down the aisle with a box of cards—
POLLSTER: How about that, ladies and gentlemen? Huh!! We’re going to ask you to remain in your seats while we pass out these cards. We greatly appreciate your taking the time to give us your thoughts—you’re all very much a part of the filmmaking process and we value whatever it is you have to say.
Many start to leave, ignoring the Pollster—
Ben watches them leave, waits a beat, then gets up and starts in the opposite direction—
POLLSTER: Keep in mind that this is a test screening—there are still technical issues that’ll be improved in postproduction. Since this is a work in progress, your comments are of great significance.
INT. THEATER LOBBY—NIGHT
Various groupings—studio people, agents, managers—having conversations, making dinner plans, etc. Thin lipped smiles pasted on each face as they await the ‘preview numbers.’ People gesture
to Ben and pantomime that they’ll be calling him later. Ben nods.
Ben’s young assistant, Carl, a ‘filmie,’ comes over—
CARL: Hey, so when they’re done in there you want me to put the cards and the numbers in your car?
BEN: You can, but you know how I feel, I don’t really pay much attention to the numbers.
CARL: You don’t think they’re relevant?
BEN: Who knows, Carl, we’re here to lead.
CARL: Right. Sure.
Ben tunes out and keeps moving through the lobby.
CARL: Hey, I noticed right before Sean Penn gets killed some of those shots were taken straight out of the Third Man. So cool. You know the way the dog winds between his legs. It’s the same thing with Harry Lyme and the cat. It’s an homage but he’s also building upon what Carol Reed has already done—
BEN: Tell me this later.
CARL: Okay.
Ben tries to duck in the bathroom. Coming out of the bathroom is Johnny with his hip friend. Ben is given a big bear hug. His face is shoved in Johnny’s chest.
JOHNNY: (thick Israeli accent) Thank you for allowing me to be part of this. Fantastic! Big foreign upside.
He finally lets go of Ben, who returns an awkward smile. He speaks in Hebrew with another man, then turns to Ben.