The Making of Prince of Persia: Journals 1985-1993

by Jordan Mechner

  All I need is a story worth writing.

  February 1, 1992

  Saw La double vie de Veronique with Tomi. She said: “It just proves that if you’re a good-looking French girl, you can get away with just about anything.”

  Yesterday was my last day at Broderbund. I said goodbye to everyone. It’s actually not such a bad thing, taking off for months at a time: They spend so much time saying “If only Jordan were here!” they’re starting to idealize me in my absence.

  The artists all want to please me… it’s like I’m their dad. I don’t know how that happened, but it’s great. I guess that makes Brian the mom?

  Rob Martyn showed me Living Books. It’s awesome. If Disney had any sense they’d do a deal with Broderbund. A Living Book of The Little Mermaid would sell fifty trillion copies. Disney doesn’t see it – they’re years behind the times and don’t know it. Rob called Disney “the China of educational software” – the sleeping giant.

  Dinner with Rob and Tomi at Jennie Low’s. It occurred to me that the three of us, sitting at that table, were ideally qualified to go off and start a multimedia software company. With Living Books, the Sensei product line, and Prince of Persia to our names, we should have no problem raising a couple million bucks startup money.

  Tomi, for one, would love to do it. Rob I think would be reluctant to take the risk. Me, I have other plans… although what they are, I have no idea.

  February 4, 1992

  Visiting George in L.A. has got me thinking seriously about moving there and spending the next couple of years writing and trying to get a picture made.

  I suspect that for me, another six months abroad will go a long way. I mean, I’m enjoying learning how to be a bum, but it’s not really my nature. I’m happiest when I’m in the midst of things – struggling, forging alliances and overcoming problems and, dammit, making something. That’s why I’ve been coming up with all these crazy ideas lately, like shooting a documentary in Cuba or Madrid.

  Seeing George made me realize I want to be making mainstream, American, theatrical features. I’ve been dreaming about it for years, but pursuing it only in fits and starts, and from afar, while I spend the rest of my time circling around it… preparing myself, for Christ’s sake, as if I weren’t yet worthy to try to breach the ramparts, or something.

  I don’t regret any of the things I’ve done in the meantime – Prince, Prince 2, New York, Salamanca – but now I’m asking myself: What, exactly, am I waiting for? I know what I want to do with my life. Why not just do it?

  Ken set up a meeting for me at Leonard Nimoy’s company. The guy I met with, Bill Blum, liked Bird of Paradise, but is leaving to start his own production company. He said he wants to keep me in mind for the future. All basically meaningless, but considering it was my first movie-biz meeting since 1988 and In the Dark, I’m not complaining.

  February 6, 1992

  [In NY] I’ve got that dizzy disoriented feeling of having jumped too many time zones in too short a time. It’s like seeing the last five years of my life in fast-forward: San Francisco, L.A., Chappaqua, uptown, downtown. Connections to all these places still intact, I drift freely among them. But there’s no place I really belong.

  Talked to Robert for an hour last night. Half-playfully, we agreed to start a software company when he graduates in 1993. I told him I was thinking of moving to L.A. It sounded good… but today, walking in the Village, the urge seized me to move back here instead. New York is part of me; it will always be the city. When I’m here I feel real, I feel alive, I feel horny. How can I live anywhere else?

  February 12, 1992

  No wonder I have this nagging sense of meaninglessness: I’m not writing. I’ve been noodling around with this ghost story, but it’s not enough. I was built to work every day, not just now and then.

  Stopped by NYU to visit Thierry. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it didn’t happen. He didn’t light up and say “What the fuck are you doing, what happened to you after Cannes? You wrote a feature, you got an agent, good for you, I always knew you had it in you!” Instead, we just chatted cordially for a few minutes and I left wondering what I’d been hoping from the encounter.

  Maureen said kindly: “You have that look like you’ve come back to visit your old high school, hoping to recapture the feelings you had there.” She was right, of course. How pathetic. You can’t go back.

  Mark Netter invited me to come visit him in the Alps. He’s in Albertville doing sound for CBS. He’s considering moving to L.A. Maybe we should get a place together. It’d be good to have a roommate, especially a film-happy one.

  February 14, 1992

  Brian sent me a nice thick packet of foreign reviews of Prince – always a pleasure – and a new disk of Prince 2 graphics from Leila. Drove to Mt. Kisco with Mom and Emily to look at them, in a computer graphics shop that charges $20 for 15 minutes (a far cry from the 60 cents they charge in Salamanca). By an ironic twist of fate, it’s located where the Electric Playhouse used to stand.

  I should write my memoirs… starting at age 15 when I got my first Apple II, up through the publication of Prince, the game that marked the end of the Apple II era. It’s a good story, and it’s a piece of history that’s really mine: I was there. Don’t know who’d want to read it, though. Besides, I hate people who write their memoirs when they’re young. It’s so egotistical.

  Whenever I get elegaic about my past like this, it’s usually a sign that some big change is about to happen.

  Here I am, as free as it’s possible for anyone to be – free to travel, work, fall in love – and I’m holding back, like I’m waiting for my life to start. This is my life. It’s not a preparation for anything – it’s the thing itself. I have got to remember that.

  February 16, 1992

  Sandra Levinson said Aléa liked Bird of Paradise, said it was well written, but didn’t think it was a feature – maybe a TV movie. She offered to put it into Paul Mazursky’s hands, although we both agreed that was a long shot.

  I told her about my idea to shoot a documentary in Cuba. I wrote up a proposal so she can get started trying to get me a visa.

  February 17, 1992

  Kevin’s right. I really should make a short film or two before I go after my first big-time feature job. I’d learn an incredible lot by directing a short, and I could still go to L.A. afterwards.

  Mark Netter called from Albertville, France, to invite me to go skiing the 26th and 27th. I’m tempted.

  February 19, 1992

  [Writing in Spanish] I’m above the clouds. Called Tomi from Washington airport. I still don’t know what I’m going to do, but I don’t care any more. There’s no point worrying about my career, or about money. What I want is adventure. Whatever comes next, I’m ready for it. From now on I won’t worry about anything.

  Paris

  February 21, 1992

  [Writing in Spanish] It’s a big city, Madrid.

  When I arrived a thick snow was falling. I checked into a pension close to the Puerta del Sol, took a shower to forget the planes and buses and the lost night, got dressed as if I’d just woken up, and spent the day at the Prado. At the end of the day I called the only person I knew in Madrid: Ricardo from NYU.

  We met for drinks. I hadn’t really known Ricardo in New York, but after an hour, he invited me to stay at his house, and to join him and his crew in the south on a documentary they’re shooting for Spanish TV. So, pretty much everything I’d hoped for.

  Yet somehow, after a night of drinking and carousing with Ricardo and his friends, the whole plan of moving to Madrid no longer seemed like so much fun. It’s not Madrid’s fault. I think I’m just burnt out on traveling. Arriving in yet another new city where I don’t know anybody and have no reason to be here, this time, didn’t feel like the right kind of adventure. It just made m
e feel tired. Or then again, maybe I just stayed at that nightclub too long.

  I called Mark Netter in Albertville and said: “Let’s go skiing!” Bought a train ticket to Paris.

  February 24, 1992

  [Paris] Shared an overnight sleeper with two Spaniards and an Argentine. When I returned from the cafeteria car, the beds were made and the old man was telling stories about his experiences in the Civil War and in Matthausen concentration camp. A moving train at night is an incredible place to hear stories. Like a campfire. I hardly slept.

  Spent the day with Patrick. Now I’m waiting for Lobna’s 5 pm phone call.

  When the train pulled into Paris Austerlitz station this morning, I was so happy to arrive, to be here. The atmosphere of the city engulfed me; I suddenly knew that this was where I belonged. Don’t know why, can’t explain it, but Paris holds more drama for me than Salamanca or Madrid ever did. I want to stay a while. I want to live here a little.

  The immediate problem will be finding an apartment. Patrick is already on the case.

  5:05 pm Yeah! She just called. Here goes nothing…

  February 26, 1992

  Survived a very sportif first day of skiing here at Valmorel with Mark Netter and his mother’s hairdresser Jean-Claude, who grew up skiing here before they put in the lifts in the ’70s. Jean-Claude and his friend Bud from Albany have been skiing every day for weeks. He said: “We have been here so long, we are starting to miss our wives.”

  They took us down the hard intermediate slopes. Jean-Claude is at least 50 but he can ski circles around any of us. I’m in pain. Nothing like skiing to make you realize how out of shape you are.

  March 1, 1992

  [Paris] Another glorious day. Yesterday was like spring, the first nice day of the year, and everybody was out and about. Patrick and I sat on the wall overlooking the Seine around the corner from his apartment, drinking coffee and going through apartment listings.

  Patrick’s life is so idyllically Parisian I can hardly stand it. Every five minutes something happens that’s like a scene from a French movie, all perfectly framed and lit and everything. He stops a girl in the street and she gives him a light; or he slams on the brakes and jumps out to check out a big rusty sheet of metal that someone left propped up on the sidewalk that he thinks might make a perfect tabletop. And there’s the Seine in the background, or an old man with a cane, or a troop of schoolgirls or something, just to remove any doubt of where you are. I love this city.

  Called Tomi from a phone booth. It was good to hear her voice. “Ah yes, Paris,” she sighed. “Of course, it’s a heartless and materialistic society, but it takes you a while to realize that because it’s so beautiful.” She was deeply envious that I’m moving here.

  I told her Patrick’s suggestion that I buy an apartment instead of renting one. She just laughed.

  Florence made Moroccan soup for dinner and we watched West Side Story on TV dubbed into French.

  March 3, 1992

  My first night in 1 rue du Four, Paris VI. What a glorious feeling, after six months of living out of a suitcase, to be someplace I can call home. Patrick has been at my side every step of the way. It was his phone, his car, his French that saw me through. He’s been taking care of me in the best way. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  I’m in Paris. I’m here. I live here. Wow.

  March 9, 1992

  The plumber came and fixed the toilet. The first time I’d used it, the contents that I flushed came back up through the shower drain – not a pretty sight. It turned out he’d actually warned me not to use the toilet, because it was missing a part that he’d forgotten to bring with him, but not understanding French I’d somehow failed to pick up on this minor detail. How embarrassing. Anyway, now it works, supposedly.

  Also, today the phone started working. It was quite a thrill.

  A DHL package arrived from Broderbund. DHL and AT&T are my only link to the world I’ve left behind.

  I need a girlfriend.

  I need to learn French.

  I need to start writing something.

  Other than that, things are just fine. Phone works. Toilet works. No complaints.

  I’ve been playing this Gainsbourg record over and over, the one Florence gave me. Black trombone.

  I can’t wait for my Outbound power supply to arrive from the US so I can start using my computer. (That’s my excuse.)

  March 13, 1992

  Friday the 13th! Dangerous!! Great potential for good and for evil. Have to walk carefully.

  Packet of mail arrived from NY containing among other things a letter from Ben Normark. I wrote him one back. Oh, and a $79,000 check from Broderbund.

  March 16, 1992

  Went to Activision to see the Super Nintendo version of Prince. Wow! It was like a brand new game. For the first time I felt firsthand what it’s really like to play Prince of Persia, when you’re not the author and don’t already know by rote what’s lurking around every corner.

  Lunch with Dominique. His boss and another guy pressed me really hard – they’re eager to acquire the U.S. and European rights to Super NES Prince and they hoped I could help swing their case with Broderbund. They said they’d guarantee 150,000 units. Not Bad!

  Jamil called to say: “Where were you Saturday night? It was great… I got home six pm Sunday.”

  Went for a drink with Patrick.

  “When you go back to the U.S.,” he said, “you’re gonna be happy. It may take a while. It may take six months. You’ll be speaking the good French, you’ll know all the names of the streets and where is the Louvre exactly, and you’re gonna be really happy to leave.”

  March 23, 1992

  Dinner at Denis and Dominique Friedman’s. Great meal. Had a good time. Erin, Laurent Weill, and Florence were there too. Denis me cayó mejor aquí en Francia que en California.

  March 26, 1992

  Visited Dany Boolauck at Tilt. He invited me to his place for dinner, his mom cooked a spicy Indian curry, and we sat up till midnight talking. Dany’s life is like a Somerset Maugham story. He invited me to be on his TV show in April along with Richard Garriott.

  March 27, 1992

  Got a letter from Ken Sherman. He said subtlety doesn’t sell these days and I’d have a better chance if I wrote a high-concept sexy cartoon like Basic Instinct (which I haven’t seen). Hell, if that’s true, why don’t I just stick to video games? Anyway, it was a nice letter.

  I’m back to working on the girl-in-the-apartment screenplay. Can’t get too excited about it. I’m in a foul mood. Spleen. When the sky comes down on you like a saucer.

  It’s been raining all day.

  March 29, 1992

  Saw Bugsy. I feel better now. All I really need is to be working on something, and my existential problems will clear up – I know that. I should know it…

  Maybe I should rent an IBM system, so I can work on Prince 2 level design from here. Lord knows I’ve got enough time on my hands.

  March 30, 1992

  It costs $800/month to rent an IBM system here. My apartment rent is only $650.

  I spoke to Leila and Brian at length. They want me out there. The pressure is on to make the January release, and it looks like some heavy graphics cuts are going to be needed. So I stayed up until three last night making them. I’m actually quite happy with the results. I kick and scream, but the fact is, I like economy of means. A game that looks like they threw everything but the kitchen sink at it is somehow inelegant.

  It was good to work on Prince 2 for a bit. Made me feel useful.

  I promised Brian I’ll spend three weeks in California in June, before I go to Cuba to shoot the movie.

  March 31, 1992

  Sometimes I wish I could cut loose from all this
stuff – the computer games, the wanting to be a filmmaker, the endless self-promotion. I’m so bored with my arsenal.

  I wish I could be like Patrick just for a little while… so that people would come to me just because I’m cool and it makes them feel more alive just to be with me, and not because of anything I’ve done, or might accomplish in the future.

  I wish I had nothing to lose.

  April 5, 1992

  Sandra Levinson called! The ICAIC guy she wants to hook me up with is here in Paris.

  Alea is dying of lung cancer. Sandra is trying to raise the money to get him to NY for radiation therapy at Sloane-Kettering. They need $35-40,000.

  April 8, 1992

  Not one but three DHL packages arrived today – a batch of mail from Mom, a packet of fun stuff from Brian, and five copies of Mac Prince in the new odd-shaped candy box, which – I have to say – looks great, absolutely great. I’m impressed.

  It’s sort of cheering to get all this stuff in the mail that’s slickly packaged and brightly colored and aesthetically appealing and full of your name and hyperbole about how great you are. Makes a guy feel more confident about facing the world.

  At the same time, though, it feels sort of lonely, because I don’t really have anyone to share it with.

  I called Patrick. He’s been having problems with his mother and brother. I asked if there was anything I could do.

  He said: “Do you have a ticket to the planet Mars?”

  April 16, 1992

  Met with Pepé Horta from ICAIC. He was sympathetic and helpful. If the government doesn’t fall between now and July, I think I’m in business.

  Patrick has been falling in love with his downstairs neighbor.

  My stuff arrived from Salamanca. Got my books, my music, my clothes. I’m whole again.

  Taped the Tilt interview today with Jean-Michel Blottiere. Richard Garriott is on his way back to London and Austin, Texas. He was envious as hell that I’m staying in Paris.

  April 20, 1992

  The first really nice day. About time! It’s been a long winter.