What Just Happened?

What Just Happened?

Bitter Hollywood Tales from the Front Line

Art Linson

Copyright © 2002, 2008 by Art Linson

Foreword copyright © 2008 by Art Linson and Peter Biskind

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, N.Y. 10003.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9867-9

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

For Fiona for countless reasons

Contents

Foreword

1. Negative Pickup

2. Two Guys and a Bear

3. Over the Edge

4. One plus One Equals Three

5. After Shave

6. Bookwormed

7. Great Expectations Dashed

8. A Glass Jaw

9. I’m Driving a Pinto

10. Pushing Tin Downhill

11. The Fox and the Hound

12. Fight Clubbed

13. Sunset Stripped Naked

14. I’m As Independent As a Dry Cleaner from Lebanon

Photos

Screenplay

Foreword

Peter Biskind: What Just Happened? is an account of your tenure as a producer at Twentieth Century Fox in the second half of the 1990s, during which you made movies like Pushing Tin and Fight Club. Why did you write it?

Art Linson: I actually wrote the book because I was always being asked the question, ‘What does a producer do?’ Those on the outside know what a writer or director does or, in some cases, they even know what a grip does. My sense is that most know they can’t direct, can’t act or can’t write, but THEY CAN produce!! To most, it feels like something they could do if they only knew what the hell it was. After about thirty years of endless attempts to explain myself and realizing there was no winning here, I decided to write something where I took you into the room with me, let everybody see what goes on when you’re pitching an idea, what goes on when an actor acts up, what happens when the script isn’t working, or when everything works but it bombs at the box office, or what happens when you’ve disappointed so many PEOPLE that you are asked to move your office off the lot. You get to follow me around for a year, and see what happens. So a reader could go ‘Oh, so that is what the producer did then,’ and if you have enough of those examples you could go, ‘Okay, I kind of get the picture here, this is what you do.’ The sum of all of it is some sort of portrait of a producer.

PB: The book is a pretty cynical, insider’s look at how Hollywood operates, and you don’t mince words. You were really tough on certain people, and you named names. Did any of your friends say, ‘You’re crazy to do this? You’ll never work in this town again?’

AL: Well, when I sent a manuscript to Graydon Carter at Vanity Fair, he called and said, ‘I want to excerpt this in our Hollywood issue, and by the way, when it comes out, you may have to change occupations.’ I laughed. I guess I was a bit naive. If you’re saying to me, ‘If you provide a window into this world, no one’s going to trust you any more’—to tell you the truth, and I know you’re not going to believe it, I actually was extremely naive about it. Maybe there is a kind of a real masochistic self-destructive side to me that needed to come out but I must tell you at the time I was surprised at how thin-skinned everybody was. I don’t think I was that vicious toward people. What I learned was that Hollywood businessmen more often than not have less of a sense of humor about themselves and are more vain than young starlets. It’s open season on Sean Penn or any other celebrity—critics can abuse them, the paparazzi get into their homes, photograph them, and expose every embarrassing situation they find themselves in, but if someone on the inside actually refers to an agent by name in print and says, ‘He’s still wearing that same skinny tie that used to be in fashion in 1985,’ you would get a phone call or you would get snubbed.’ It’s like ‘Oh my God, who let that fucker in the room?’ I didn’t accuse anybody of committing felonies. There is an arrogance and a comedy in this town as to the way business is conducted. We have all acted badly at times. It’s not merely naming names, it’s just giving people a chance to see how it feels to be on the inside of this merry-go-round. Besides, I was harder on myself than I was on anyone else.

PB: But they don’t give a shit about you. Trash yourself, fine, but don’t mention my tie.

AL: That might have been a mistake.

PB: How was it received at Fox? Tom Rothman couldn’t have been happy.

AL: Let’s just say Tom Rothman, who continues to be a very successful studio head, and I don’t celebrate Passover together. Put it this way. I’ve never produced another movie at Fox.

PB: There are only six studios …

AL: Believe me, I did the math. Perhaps in retrospect I would have been a wiser man had I not done that. But I did it. And now I have to stand the gaff.

PB: And yet you’re still in the business. This year you produced Into the Wild for Sean Penn.

AL: Well, yes, what was already tough just got a bit tougher. I’ve been taken aback not necessarily by people who were mentioned in the book, but by people who I didn’t write about who wanted to make sure I didn’t write about them in the future. I’ve made deals with people where they said ‘Look, I’ll make it, but on the condition we’ll put it in writing that you won’t put me in a book.’ Written into my contract! I didn’t know you were allowed to give up your civil liberties for a deal. My book was not supposed to take people in the business apart. I might have done it accidentally or unintentionally, but it’s not what I want my work to be. It was more like—I find it funny to see how silly we all are and how desperate we all are and how treacherous we are willing to be to keep our acre of the little plot that we have in Hollywood, wherever it is. I’m amazed at what we are all capable of doing to hold on. I actually thought it was entertaining enough for everyone to get a good chuckle about it. I don’t think anyone would say anything I described didn’t actually happen. It’s like, of course it happened, so if people are upset they’re upset by the truth, not that I misrepresented them. No one ever said to me, ‘I never did that,’ because had they I would have retracted it immediately if it weren’t true. I never saw it as an indictment of anybody.

PB: Well, studio executives have to make money just like everyone else.

AL: Yes, but producers are in a little different situation than executives. Most executives and most agents, they get a check every week. They have contracts for two or three or four years, so they’re not scurrying around trying to make that part work. But writers and directors and producers, most of the time they are in the situation where if what they are selling doesn’t get green-lit, very, very few of them will get paid. That automatically means there is a little more hysteria on the one side than on the other. Because you’re struggling to get the money, and you know that things fall apart, money falls out. You got this actor, so you know it’s going to get made and you’re finally going to get paid for two years of work, and then the actor says ‘I found this other thing, I’m going to do that,’ and you say ‘Oh shit!’ If you’re in a meeting, and what you’ve worked on is being dismissed rather casually and with no attempt to help you, you could get bitter quick because, ‘Hey, fuck face, you’re getting paid, I’m not.’ This isn’t a casual thing here, this is real important to us, we’re laying ourselves out naked, we’re stripped down, we’re exposed. I understand for you it’s like, ‘I hope I’m not going to be late for my one o’clock,’ but for us it’s real fucking important!

PB: So how do you deal with the fact that you are so much more dependent on them than they are on you?

AL: If you think you’re a special snowflake that matters, and you have this original spark that matters, that’s not how the other side is perceiving it. For them, it’s a means to an end: get some product, get it out there, make some money, and hold on to their jobs. But we can’t put out twenty movies this year and if one of them works, say, ‘Look what I did,’ and not have to account for the other nineteen. We only have that one, so I don’t think it’s something casual, it’s life or death. New Line put out a lot of movies during the year. I don’t know if Bob Shaye remembers any one but Lord of the Rings. It’s like, ‘Oh you mean, the other twenty-five movies that you said yes to that went right into the toilet, you’re not going to have take responsibility for those? I don’t blame Bob—that’s the game. How smart for the press to buy into it. But, eventually it catches up with all of us.

Unfortunately, if you are a producer or a screenwriter, if you are responsible for one of those nineteen that didn’t work, you may go three years before you get another shot at it. And that’s if you are thick-skinned and uninsultable. The struggle to get something written, made, is so hard—I think that’s why Scott Rudin calls me every time I put out one of these things, and says, ‘It’s fantastic. I can’t wait to see the movie.’ He probably meant, ‘I’m so glad you’re doing this instead of me.’ Smart fella.

Sometimes the opposite happens, everything is easy, and the movie bombs. Pushing Tin is an example. I came up with this idea off a New York Times article about how stressed air traffic controllers are, and I get Fox, through Laura Ziskin’s company, Fox 2000, to buy the thing, which she loved. No matter what we did through this whole process, everybody said yes—me, them. There was no going wrong. We got Angelina Jolie, we got John Cusack, Cate Blanchett, Billy Bob Thornton, Mike Newell’s directing, terrific script. At every turn, when I said, ‘I need this,’ I got it. Everyone was sweet to me, I was sweet to everyone else. Mike was easy to work with, Laura was great, a fantastic executive, did everything she was supposed to do, she fought for the movie, she helped us on the material, and she was truly a nurturing person, trying to help you to get the script better. Then we screened it. One of the things you can tell at a test screening is how many people want to come—for nothing. I’ve had hit movies where the movies are bad, but you turn away 250 people at the preview. Everybody wants to see it. The first sign of trouble with Pushing Tin was when everybody at the preview liked it but only half a house came, and [then] for the first time I was worried. Mike Newell turned to me and said, ‘You know, this was a great movie, but we may have just made a movie about something that no one wants to see.’ I thought ‘I think he’s right.’ The indication was not the NRG numbers, but the fact that we couldn’t get anybody to come—for nothing.

PB: So how did this book become a movie?

AL: If I was just reading this book, I would go ‘There’s no movie here.’ Where are the elements you’d look for in a movie? Who are the characters? What’s the story? There is none of that, so I never thought it was a movie. It was Bob De Niro who read the book and said ‘You know, there is a movie in this book.’ I said, ‘What? It’s just a bunch of anecdotes about Hollywood.’ He said, ‘No, it’s a movie, you should do this.’ I dropped the thought for months and months and months, figuring Bob didn’t get the inner workings of the drama of the story, like it’s smart to underestimate Bob. Then we talked about it again later, and again he said, ‘You could do this.’ ‘Do what?’ ‘There is a character in here that you could flesh out, that I can do. Give him a life.’ He let me know that even if the book doesn’t necessarily have a story, it can still have the spark of a take on a character. And he added, ‘Look, if you do this, let’s be partners. If you do this, I’ll do it.’ And I went, ‘Wow, okay, now that’s an incentive.’

So in the process of trying to transform this into a script, I realized that I had to give the character a time frame, a personal life, and so on. It couldn’t just be a series of Hollywood snapshots, because nobody would care about it. I compressed these events and added some new ones where you are watching this guy in the course of three or four weeks in his life trying to hold on. The reason it came out even more desperate than I imagined it to be in the book is because once you impose this time frame, you go, ‘Holy mackerel, what a mess. Who would want to be that guy?’ It looks so good on the outside, he’s hanging out with Bruce Willis and Sean Penn, but he comes off like Willy Loman. There’s an air of panic, there’s a sense of feeling like everybody in Hollywood is like a snail on a glass pane just trying to hold on for dear life. You could be Brad Pitt on the high end of the glass or you could be a junior executive over here, the desperation is about slipping down. Maybe desperation is a word I’ve used too much. It’s insecurity too. Everybody feels insecure out here. When a lot of money is at stake, and everyone’s career is going up or down every time, treachery, lying, duplicitous behavior as well as panic and insecurity will set in somewhere. It just does, every day here. How can it not?

PB: The script is very funny. Had you ever written one before?

AL: I actually have. Frankly, through my career, as a producer, one of the things I am good at is helping writers frame screenplays so that they worked. Then I wrote a couple of books. I never had the courage to go out there and be a screenwriter, in the sense that if you really want to find a hard way to make a living, pick that one.

So when De Niro said this, what clicked in for me was that I realized I had to change it from the book and make it more personal. I had to use my own life as a template, and if I did that, then I could pull people in as opposed to just presenting snapshots of the process.

When I was able to frame the story, start it right off the preview that is a disaster—because it violates all the no-no’s that you can’t do with movies if you are trying to get decent distribution—I was hoping it would get people to feel for a guy in that situation.

PB: It’s very funny, because the guy’s driving his Mercedes, looking like he’s on top of the world, picking up his kids to take them to school from two or three homes in Beverly Hills big enough to house everyone in Tijuana, and then you realize he must be hemorrhaging alimony and child-support to his ex-wives.

AL: I must tell you, I know people like this. Divorce lawyers take your big house, they cut it in half with a chain saw and you don’t get either half.

PB: How many drafts did the script go through?

AL: Bob’s the ultimate of what you would want an executive to be, only you can’t expect it of them, because he is an artist. But what he does is that he nurtures, so it’s not that he goes and says, ‘Do this, do that,’ but he reads it and instead of stripping you of your confidence, he sort of mumbles, ‘You know, it’s okay.’ If every time he went ‘Boy, that’s really terrible,’ he’s not going to get the best out of me, because I am going to lose my confidence and so is everybody else. So if something didn’t work, he sort of circles around it, and then goes, ‘I don’t know about that, but this is good, this is good.’ In effect, he’s saying, ‘There is something good, but it’s not there yet,’ but he won’t say ‘it’s not there yet.’ It’s almost like I have to say it for him. And then he says, ‘Just keep going.’ His mantra is, ‘Keep going, get through it, finish it,’ but he did find scenes that made him laugh, and he started to see the character that he wanted in the first place that is only thinly in the book—a man hanging on, which is what the movie ended up being about.

Everybody who has worked with Bob either as a director, a writer, or an actor knows that he makes them better. And no one knows how he does it, you just kind of go, ‘Huh?’ He’s a little bit like Chauncey Gardiner, you have to listen for the right note. If you aren’t listening it makes no sense a lot of times but if you are listening it actually does. Part of it is a humility of not wanting to criticize. I’ve known him for a long, long time now, and he’s not somebody who you see criticizing other people’s scripts or other people’s movies. He makes stuff, so he doesn’t think about it that way.

So every couple of months, I’d send Bob some pages and ask, ‘What do you think?’ He never told me exactly what he thought. It was ‘I’m sort of—I’m looking at the thing.’ I probably went through three or four drafts, and when I was finally done, he read it and he went, ‘It’s great, we should give this to Barry.’ I went, ‘Terrific.’ Barry read it and said, ‘Yes,’ and we were on our way.

PB: Why Barry Levinson?

AL: Bob worked with Barry on Wag the Dog. I’d never worked with Barry but I’d known him for a long time, and I just thought that this movie had a comedic sensibility and a reality sensibility that fit his thing, and moreover Barry doesn’t do shtick comedy, it’s more real. I know he knows the business like I know the business, so I knew he would understand it as true. The guy, the producer, the me-character is not a comedian. He’s just a guy who perseveres.

PB: You had a table reading? Were you worried?

AL: I’m always scared by table readings with Bob. After what I’ve been through with him I thought, ‘Oh my god we’re going to have one reading and he won’t want to do this after all this fucking work,’ so to say that wasn’t always on my mind—of course it was always on my mind. I kept saying to him, ‘Look, under normal circumstances, I don’t mind having a reading, but with you every time I have a reading, it’s your excuse to get out of the movie.’ As great as Anthony Hopkins was in The Edge, initially I wanted Bob to do it. But Bob wanted to read, and when he says, ‘Let’s do a reading,’ it means something’s wrong. So this time he said, ‘No, no, no, don’t be defensive, let’s hear what it sounds like.’ We had some wonderful actors there like Steve Buscemi who didn’t end up in the movie, but I learned a lot from it, including that it was funny, you could feel that.

PB: What was De Niro’s reaction?

AL: It’s always the same, ‘It’s good, it’s good.’

PB: How did you know it was a go for him?

AL: He never said it wasn’t.

PB: The movie is packed with stars and great actors, not only De Niro, Penn, and Willis, but Catherine Keener, Robin Wright, Stanley Tucci, Michael Wincott, and John Turturro. How much did it cost?

AL: The budget was just under twenty million. The actors frankly didn’t work for long periods of time. I think we shot Sean in a day and a half, we shot Robin in three days, we shot Bruce in one day. It was done in the spirit of an independent film. It comes off being a bit more glamorous than that, but that wasn’t my intention.

PB: Was De Niro the magnet who attracted the other actors?

AL: No, I think it was a combination of De Niro, Barry Levinson, and the script. With Barry, at least we weren’t going to embarrass ourselves, the script made me laugh, and then De Niro’s in every single scene, how bad can it be? If the movie works, it’s because of what Bob brought to it as much as the writing. For him to play a guy hanging on for dear life, and just being the mayonnaise in the sandwich, is just a hard role to play for a guy who doesn’t play that kind of stuff. In 95 percent of his movies, he plays guys who say, ‘I don’t take shit from you, I’ll kill you first.’ He feels comfortable doing that. He rarely plays a guy where things are being done to him. He strikes back. That’s why in this movie when he attacks Stanley Tucci, for a second you’re thinking, ‘Oh, he’ll have to do ten years in prison,’ because that is what he does so well, you don’t ever think we’re being tricked. Bob is really good at this, because it’s not him and yet it is him. As a person, he’s extremely powerful, successful, he does not take shit from anybody, and yet he became completely absorbed in playing someone totally unlike himself. Bob, just from being around me and doing this thing, he instinctively, he saw this man hanging on for dear life.

PB: Your character is dying to get back with his ex-wife, played by Robin Wright, but there’s that scene in the restaurant where a young wannabe actress comes on to him, gives him her phone number, they sleep together, and then she disappears from the movie. What was that about?

AL: I put that in as a moment of showing that this guy is not clean. To me the irony—a bad word for Hollywood, a death word—the irony of it was, well he is bitching about the fact that some writer may be sleeping with his ex-wife, but he has no problem fucking this girl, like it’s completely a separate issue. There is this kind of odd double standard, don’t you think? Guys have it and they’ve always had it: I’m getting laid and all that stuff, but you’re fucking my ex-wife!

PB: You started producing in the early seventies with Car Wash and your career spans nearly four decades. Is the picture you paint of the producer’s life, the producer’s job, the same as it would be now for a kid in his midtwenties, say, who comes out to Hollywood and wants to produce?

AL: The business has changed. When I started, studios never lost money, so you could make movies like Car Wash or Melvin and Howard or This Boy’s Life. Those would have to be independently financed today. After Car Wash came out, Lew Wasserman buttonholed me on the Universal lot. You almost fall to your knees, ‘Mr. Wasserman, sir.’ He said, ‘I just want you to know we made all our money back in two nights. Thank you.’ Today, there are no Lew Wassermans. The studios are part of multitiered, multinational vertically integrated corporations, so the guy over here who is making the decisions, it only works for his career if he attaches himself to a Johnny Depp megahit like Pirates of the Caribbean. I’ve never met Dick Parsons. He’s not interested in making $5 million on This Boy’s Life. It’s a waste of his time. These big distribution companies just want to make sequels, and they sort of opted out of the other business. That’s what’s changed. But that’s created an opportunity for these smart business guys who have made their money elsewhere and have suddenly seen an opening in Hollywood that they haven’t seen in the last ten years. They’re going, ‘No, no, there are some real good movies we can make, and we can make money on these movies, and the studios don’t want to do this anymore and they no longer understand that business.’ Sean Penn’s movie on Harvey Milk with Gus Van Sant directing is being independently funded by Michael London’s company. So for somebody like me, who has to get things made, that’s great.

PB: But is the ‘getting things made’ part the same as it used to be?

AL: It’s one thing if you’re one of those trust fund babies with $30 million in the bank, and you don’t have the pressure to make money, but to do it the way I did it is the same. You’re still saying, ‘I find that book or that newspaper article or that script interesting, let’s option it. In other words you’ve found something that you think is going to work, then the producing takes over and this is where the real craft begins, if there is a craft, which is, ‘Okay, how do I take this idea and nurture it in a way to get it financed?’

Obviously it starts with the writing, but even with a good script you have to ask, ‘How do I get a good script made?’So you tell the writer, ‘Don’t write this script for the ten million people you hope are going to want to see it—write this script for the guy who is going to make it, so that he’ll go, ‘I can take a risk on that because I can justify the loss, or, ‘I believe that we have a shot.’ That is the hidden secret that most people don’t know. As a producer, I have never designed anything for the public. Everything I do first has to interest me, but once I get past that test, the next thing is who is going to do it and am I redesigning this thing so that they find it irresistible? If it’s for Barry Levinson or a director like that, is this the kind of thing when they read it they go, ‘I have to do this.’ If it’s for Bob De Niro, you’d have in your mind this is a part for a guy in his fifties. There are seven actors who fall into that category who can get your movie made, so you write it for them. Because even if a young executive says, ‘This is just terrific, I love it, we want to option it,’ and then they give it to those seven actors, if they turn it down, you’re out of business. So in Bob De Niro’s case, you have to write it so he says, ‘Fuck, I want to be that guy.’ Because then your executive is saying, ‘Wow, this got Bob De Niro,’ or Al Pacino or Michael Douglas. If you start to think about it clearly, you’re not writing this thing for millions of people, you are creating it for such a small group it’s scary. So in this particular example, I knew it would get Bob—I knew it had the humor, I knew it was taking him to a place as an actor that he doesn’t usually get to go to because he’s always got to be a tough guy like in Heat where he’s got to kill somebody, and this is completely opposite. Bob can even play a Woody Allen kind of character if he wants to, making him sympathetic. And I know Bob as a person can’t resist that.

PB: As you put it, your character is just a snail that is trying hard not to slide down the glass.

AL: He doesn’t ever acknowledge how bad things are to himself, to his ex-wife, to his friends, to anybody. So even at the end, after Cannes, at a Paris airport, with a private jet leaving him standing on the runway, he has his ex-wife on the phone and she says, ‘So when are you coming home?’ and he says ‘How often am I going to be in Paris?’ He can’t even say, ‘I’ve just been fucking ditched by the studio,’ you know.

PB: He’s still trying at the very end.

AL: Of course. It’s me trying, I’m still trying. With one studio less to work with!

ONE

Negative Pickup

‘Bog snorkeling, baby.’

‘Huh?’

‘I was grabbing the knee pads for decades.’

‘Very colorful, Jerry, but not what I remember.’

‘Every day in my office screaming, “Cesspool! Cesspool!” I thought you knew.’

‘Knew what? You were on top.’

‘It was a ruse.’

‘Hey, a legend who quit before his time … takes big balls if you ask me.’

On the word legend, he blew me a kiss. His engine was starting to rev up now.

‘Nonsense, I was eating the pound cake every day. That’s right, every day, and thank you, I’m well out of it.’

‘I … I never knew.’

But, of course, I did.

Jerry was sitting in a small booth in the rear of a Malibu coffee shop, one of those garden restaurants with bad lighting, across from the coast highway. It was breakfast time and the place was nearly empty. I had entered alone looking for a seat near the window where I could read the trades, but when our eyes met, the reunion became inevitable. Finding another table was not an option.

‘So, how long has it been, Jerry? Two years, four years?’

‘You think I count? For me, Hollywood and everyone in it died and I’ve never been happier, never.’

‘Good.’

‘Have a seat. Join me.’

I wasn’t ready yet.

‘Lookame … I’m so fuckin happy … c’mon, siddown.’

‘Well … Jer, to me you’ll always be the guy that told Ovitz that you were going to put him in the penalty box, and that’s when he was Ovitz.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Jerry grinned.

On that note, I could have graciously ended this exchange. No reason to start up this horror again, but I guess I couldn’t resist. A look back at the past, revisiting one of the wasted. Who could resist?

Actually, at first I hadn’t recognized Jerry. It had been only five years, but he seemed smaller, less square-jawed. Sudden loss of power, engines failing, and a public dumping could affect anyone’s appearance. After all, wouldn’t Katzenberg seem a whole lot smaller without a job? Standing awkwardly trying to figure my next move, I tried to hide Variety and The Hollywood Reporter inside my New York Observer. It was too late. I got the ‘Oh, you still read that silly shit, do ya?’ look as he patted the seat at the end of the banquette.

When I finally sat, he stood.

He pointed to his waist with his left hand and his chest with his right.

‘Well?’

‘What?’

‘Look at me.’

‘I am.’

‘Pilates. I could lift this table and throw it through the kitchen and then touch my toes with my legs crossed.’

‘Jerry, please sit down, I’m getting scared.’

‘I’m so fit I could kick my son’s ass.’

The last time I’d seen him, he was one of the few running Hollywood. You know that catch phrase studio head? Well, he was one of those. He had told me then that soon, very soon, he was going to get out. ‘Get outta Hollywood and get a life.’ He’d said that the losses were no longer salved by the victories. And Jerry had had some losses. Movies were bombing in bunches. They were his calls. Some of those movies I’d produced. He was starting to drink at lunch. He said that just reading the trades pushed him to the rim of rectal bleeding. There was no good news. If a story about him was negative, he shuddered. If an item aggrandized an acquaintance, his stomach tightened. Greed and envy grinding him up before noon. Near the end, his own staff struggled to make eye contact with him at the Monday morning meetings.

When the bell tolls for studio heads, instead of jail time they get stock options. They get ceremoniously dumped and are soon forgotten. Being the effects of such a twisted system can beat the shit out of the very best—especially when the flow ain’t quite going their way. Jerry was just another one of those guys on the chain.

He was big.

Was.

‘Are you sayin’ that you don’t look back?’

‘That’s right,’ he said.

I must say his bitterness was brilliantly concealed.

‘Jerry, I don’t mean in some sentimental way, but you know … out of curiosity.’

‘Curiosity’s not my thing.’

‘C’mon, there’s gotta be some tap dance on some grave tha—’

‘I know where you’re going. You think I want to get even with …’

‘Last I recall, Jerry, retribution used to be your vitamins.’

‘That chapter ended.’

‘You were the one that said when I run somebody over, I want the cocksucker facing me so I can enjoy watching him experience the full impact.’

‘Yoga. I’ve buried my anger.’

‘Where?’

‘I only see blue skies now.’

After ten minutes with Jerry, I couldn’t avoid reflecting on my own Hollywood mortality. Let’s face it, time was running out. In fact, the sand in the hourglass was hemorrhaging. For me, producing hit movies had become an increasingly far-fetched affair. And in this town, where ‘new’ is best, I could feel that black hole of Hollywood purgatory waiting for me.

As I continued my catch-up with Jerry, my mind drifted. Strangely, I started to wonder if David Begelman had shot himself to avoid the nuisance of being alive while he was doing his time ‘out of the biz.’ Truly a show business conundrum. Begelman, who had neatly survived the embarrassment of embezzling money when he’d run Columbia Pictures, had had a much tougher time when his horsepower dried up. Apparently, after being deposed, the horror of not getting a CAA agent on the phone turned out to be life-threatening.

I looked back at Jerry.

‘You could use a hit, by the way,’ he said.

‘Huh?’

Was that a vindictive remark? I couldn’t tell. His mouth, filled with oatmeal, hid his expression. Was he telling me that I would soon join the pack of the dispossessed? I think so.

‘What do you mean, I need a hit?’

‘Trust me, you need a hit.’

His smile was slight but dangerous. He was surely vibing me with ‘Get ready, you’re next, it’s almost over.’ I admit I was vulnerable. It’s not that I hadn’t had my share of successes, but I’d just completed a five-year run at Twentieth Century Fox, and to say that I’d left that incompetent brothel bloodied, scorched, defeated, and monumentally pissed off would be a grand understatement.

‘Last I checked, everyone needs a hit,’ I said.

‘Especially you.’

‘For someone so blissfully out of the game, how’d you know?’

‘Your face gives it away.’

‘I think not.’

I looked down at the menu.

‘Actually it’s a whole aura sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Once you know what to look for, it’s as loud as acid-green paint.’

Perhaps I did feel a little rocky. I just didn’t know that it showed at nine in the morning. I had to wonder, if success smells so sweet, what must the other thing smell like? I guess even a slim dose of desperation travels across the table.

‘What would you like to order?’ the waitress interrupted.

I started. ‘Egg whites scrambled, tomatoes on the side, no potatoes, no bread, a side of well-done bacon, and black coffee.’

‘Acid-green paint, clear as day.’

‘What?’

‘The protein thing. Holding on to the withering testosterone, are you?’

‘Lookit … It’s been five years and you’re already pimping my diet. Jerry, don’t let’s turn this thing into some darker thing. It’s too soon.’

Actually Jerry was raising some serious stuff. This wasn’t going to be a lesson in how to get by in Hollywood. This was about how to get out. We’re talking about the endgame here. Checkmate. What happens when the career begins to slide. It’s a myth that when people in this town lose their viability, they long for some motion-picture relief home. This is Hollywood! There is no relief. No one leaves without a fight, and no one ever thinks he’s too old. Even women executives in this town get erections. And by the way, let’s not be fooled by those of us pretending to leave. No one is going anywhere. Everyone is fiercely gripping their balls, as I bet Jerry was now. For those of us who are really in bad shape, steeped in false sentimentality, we tend to burst into a river of tears when someone says, ‘Whatever happened to Sydney Pollack?’

‘I was just trying to point out that you don’t seem to be the kinda hit maker that makes the good old boys pleased to see you,’ Jerry quickly added.

‘Thanks.’

‘Well, you’re not exactly Jerry Bruckheimer, if you know what I mean.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘No point.’

‘Let’s get serious. I produce, or I try to produce, good movies. Some work, some don’t.’

‘Whooey. Let’s not talk about good. Let’s talk about failure. This is a business. You ride in here trying to make money, and you get carried out if you don’t. Who are you fooling?’

‘Hey, I’ve produced some hits.’

‘Oh, I believe it’s been quite a while.’

‘What kind of sinister shit is this? I came in here for breakfast, run into a bitter has-been …’

I hesitated. At least his frontal assault on my lack of success was more honest than the usual approach. Most times, within hours of the release of a movie that mercilessly tanks, your dearest Hollywood friends can’t pass up the chance to ask, ‘So how did your movie do?’ Oh, they know how it did. They know the number. In fact, they know the number exactly. And they know its implications, but they can’t resist watching you squirm at the news. At least Jerry’s approach wasn’t camouflaged with pity.

I was starting to wonder when my food would come.

‘You’re just pissed off because occasionally my phone rings and yours doesn’t,’ I said.

‘Don’t get so defensive. I was just trying to state the obvious. After all, it was you, I believe, who wrote, “In this town, three strikes and you’re out.”’

‘Well, I was referring to …’

‘You did say that, right?’

‘But it was about …’

‘If you’ll allow me another sports metaphor, it might be time for you to CLEAN OUT YOUR LOCKER.’ He actually started to laugh, almost uncontrollably.

That’s it. I got up, gathered my papers. Fuck him. Hell, most in this town would have to wear paper bags with punched-out eyeholes to be seen sitting at a table with this guy. To be honest, if this weren’t such an out-of-the-way café, I wouldn’t be caught dead sitting here either. Jerry was one of the recently expunged. It’s a common theme: with loss of power comes loss of libido. Stand next to it and you’ll catch it.

‘C’mon, sit … I have more to offer you than you think,’ he said, wiping tears from his cheekbone.

‘I don’t think so. Call me touchy.’

‘Really, we should talk about this. I mean, “Oh, I make good pictures,” that’s a good one. You need help.’

‘Jerry, let’s call it a day.’

‘Please, I haven’t talked to a real live producer in days. People aren’t quite as happy to see me as they used to be.’

‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

You had to hand it to him, he wasn’t running from his meteoric crash.

‘Do you recall that movie where the little kid said he could see dead people, but they didn’t always know they were dead?’ Jerry was on a roll.

‘Does that have some kinda personal implication, Jerry?’

‘Let’s just say that, sometimes after you’ve left the business, you can see through walls.’

My mood was darkening. ‘Let’s not start talkin’ about corpses, Jerry, because I can already smell the rot.’

He gave me his biggest grin.

‘I’ve become uninsultable.’

One of the few benefits of extinction, while all else crumbles, is the complete loss of vanity. The truth can no longer bite you in the ass.

Jerry had a point. Perhaps I had to take a hard look at those Fox years. I had produced a lot of movies, and—who was I kidding?—the overall results had been painful and often bloodstained. Maybe a thorough examination of the few small victories and the many vast defeats would not only reveal the process of making movies, but also explain the corkscrew smile I kept manufacturing at cocktail parties whenever someone said to me, ‘Well, I, for one, don’t care what anyone says, I really liked Pushing Tin.’

If I continued this messy exchange, I knew Jerry was going to get me to chew over those moments best left forgotten. He was going to revel in all of the gory details at my expense, and yet, call me a masochist, I was going to let him. In fact, I was getting inexorably drawn to the notion.

Times have certainly changed. Being a producer was never a bargain, but obsolescence was never expected. Had the producer turned into an emu?

The food finally arrived.

‘Before we take this too far down the road, would you mind telling me what bog stuffing means?’

‘Snorkeling, baby, bog snorkeling.’ He then flicked his tongue in two quick, semicircular moves. No doubt about it, he was a beaut.

‘Oh, dear lord’ was all that I could whisper.

‘What’s the difference, what it means? You might not realize this now, kid, but this could be your lucky day.’

‘I sorta felt that way the moment I saw you, Jerry.’

‘Use me right and I can help you.’

‘How so?’

‘Suffice it to say, the end of the road for me could be a glimmer of hope for you … although, knowing you, I’m not so certain of that.’

‘Last I checked, I was doin’ just fine.’

‘Look at your eyes; they’ve lost their confidence.’

‘What exactly are we trying to get at here, Jerry?’

‘I’m trying to get you to look at the last few years, really look, and maybe, just maybe, it will give you the grace to continue.’

He was turning into Mr. Rogers, and I was becoming Sally Field.

‘You care. You really care,’ I said without a shred of enthusiasm.

‘I do care,’ he said, his eyes almost moistening with concern.

‘I get it … I get it. This isn’t about me. You just want to hear the grim details. You’re lonely and my failures comfort you. What to give a studio head has-been for Christmas? I know! Fill his stocking with the bitter memories of a producer tailspinning out of control. That’ll keep him till Easter.’

‘Actually, I can’t deny a certain delicious pleasure from all of this. By the way, did you hear about the movie producer who got robbed and beaten on his front lawn by the Crips after he was followed home from Mr. Chow’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a good one.’ He cackled with glee.

‘Jerry, your heart is bigger than a bread box.’

Everyone, of course, knew about this incident, but only the most twisted were taking delight. I guess it just didn’t get weird enough for Jerry. A few years back, he was devouring producers, writers, agents, like chum. Now, his only sustenance was to sit on the sideline and watch them burn. Most people preferred sports.

‘I want to hear it all … slowly, please.’ He was begging now.

‘What’s in it for me, again?’

‘Let me count the ways: Hollywood salvation, a good throat-clearing, the will to go forward. Take your pick. I’m certain you will find it purging. It seems like a good bargain to me.’

He said this without his usual self-satisfied smirk. He was suddenly glowing with generosity and concern. Was he really interested? Not ole Jer. He used to be president of the Hollywood Venality Club. Could it be that the old warhorse wanted to shine a little light on those left behind?

‘Jerry, let me get this straight. I get to delight you with all of the shit I’ve taken over the last few years, and your commiseration is going to make me feel good.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are one sick fuck.’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Think colonoscopy. Believe you me, it’s preventative. And besides, who else but me wants to hear it?’

He was vibrating now. The hook was in the water. He was having a terrific day.

‘Just know, Jerry, if I were busy, I’d be gone.’

‘I’m sure you would, but you’re not and I’m not. I want to hear it all. What was that first picture you did at Fox? Great Expectations! Let’s go torture another classic. Oh, boy … who can we cornhole after we’re finished with Dickens? Or was it that “bear” thing that Mamet wrote? Was that the first picture? Oh, yeah, Alec Baldwin. I bet he’s a lot of fun. Loves producers, I hear. Hoo ha.’

The vein on the left side of his neck was pumping. He was known in the back rooms of Hollywood as the ultimate swine and there was no stopping him now.

‘And how about that seventies rock movie? What was it called? Go Go Bliss or something like that.’

‘It was called Sunset Strip.’

‘What the hell was that? As I recall, Fox opened it in only one theater. How about that. One theater! A baby-killing! What a massacre that must have been. Your idea, was it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Fuck me … and they still let you continue after that? Please, save that barbarous tale for last. What visionaries those Fox execs must have been. Real high-watt bulbs, there. You must love those guys. Oh … wait … I almost forgot … Fight Club. Fight Club. Woowee … Good God, man, you really like to make people feel warm and fuzzy, don’t ya?’

He was certainly prepared. You had to give him that.

This was going to take more than a breakfast.

TWO

Two Guys and a Bear

‘Hi, this is Bill Mechanic.’ The call came directly – no secretary. He was the new film production head at Fox. Dialing the phone all by himself, I thought, was rather casual and rare. In Hollywood, when you were on my side of the mattress, a little bit of generosity went a long way, especially if you wanted to kiss on the first date.

‘Hi, Bill, howsit going?’

‘I’m well. Listen, I’m in Palm Springs now, but when I return, I think we should get together.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, almost as if we had met or talked before.

The truth is we only knew each other from press releases in the trades. I knew that he just got the new big plum job at Fox, having been wooed over from Disney by Peter Chernin, and he knew that I was at the tail end of a contract at Warner Bros., where I had just put out the artistically interesting but dismally unsuccessful This Boy’s Life. I remember that when it was first test-screened in a Pasadena multiplex, Terry Semel, the then graceful but remote head of Warners, walked up to me at the concession stand, dressed in the newest Armani casual, looked me square in the eye, and slowly nodded.

‘It’s a good movie and that’s all that’s important,’ he said in a calm and reassuring voice.

‘Well, thanks so much, Terry, it is a good movie, isn’t it?’

‘It’s hard to make a good movie.’

‘Very.’

At previews, everyone spoke euphemistically. I was fucked.

I knew too well that at that very moment Terry’s entire distribution staff was in the back alley throwing up on their shoes. You could almost hear them through the crack in the men’s room door: ‘Oh, mother of Christ, De Niro is in this dining room kicking the living piss out of sweet little Leonardo DiCaprio … how the fuck are we going to sell this shit!’ ‘I know! How ’bout selling it as Father Knows Best for the criminally insane?!’ ‘Dead beavers and pedophilia, what are they gonna let those disturbed assholes do next?!!’ You get the picture. Good in Hollywood is a euphemism for ‘grease up, bite the belt, and try not squeal too much when this baby comes out.’ Well, I tried not to squeal, but I can’t say it bolstered my confidence any. Let’s just say the call from Mechanic came at a very good time.

‘Lookin’ forward to it, Bill.’ I couldn’t have been friendlier.

It was several weeks before I heard from Bill again, but during that time I had started to work with Michael Mann on what would eventually become Heat. It was the early stages. Michael was reworking a script that he had written several years earlier and had actually produced and directed for ABC television under a different title, L.A. Takedown. No writer likes to throw anything away. So with a fresh rewrite, we had hoped to attract De Niro and Pacino and expand the story into a much larger movie. Since Michael had already told the same story once before, his only option was to try to make this one bigger, and hopefully better.

I was entering my final year at Warners, and the likelihood of them renewing my contract after This Boy’s Life was extremely remote. Since it would be at least eighteen months before Heat could be released, assuming that it would even get made—something you can never count on in Hollywood—my contract would have long since expired. On the lot, I was viewed as a man slowly dying of a disease that might be contagious. If you were listening, there were always clues.

‘So, what’s goin’ on for you next year?’ Bruce Berman, then head of film production under Semel and a man not well known for sticking his neck out, would subtly ask.

‘Gee whiz, Bruce, I’m thinking of taking up fishing, how ’bout you?’

‘You know what I mean. What’s the five-year plan?’

Since I had only ten months left, I knew where this conversation was going. Bruce was a crafty insider. He could take the temperature of the town. I think he was trying to help.

‘Ya know, you producers have the toughest jobs in town,’ he continued.

‘I’ll say.’

‘Boy, I can’t tell you what utter respect I have for it.’

‘Really.’

‘Requires real fortitude to be a self-starter.’

‘Bruce, you’re making me cry.’

‘Always flying sans parachute. No safety net.’

‘I thought a contract was a safety net.’

‘Those deals are getting passé, too costly. Might as well read it in the trades – they’re dryin’ up.’

‘Is this a trend or a phase?’ I queried.

‘Let’s just say it’s a good time to be an executive.’

I asked Bruce about the other producing deals on the lot. I couldn’t help myself.

‘What about Jerry Weintraub? He’s still here.’

‘Oh, he’s very close with the Bush family.’

‘George Bush!’

‘Get a grip, pal.’

‘And Joel Silver?’ I asked, but I knew he was a long-time permanent fixture.

‘Oh, c’mon, my man, he’s off buying furniture with Jane [Semel].’

I was going to need a job.

My first meeting with Bill was at the Fox commissary. Since I hadn’t been to Fox since Dick Zanuck was running the place years ago, I was looking forward to driving through ‘the front gate’ and getting that little buzz one gets when first entering a movie lot. After a cumbersome ten-minute hassle waiting for the guard to find the ‘drive-on pass’ (the days of ‘How nice to see you Mr. L., please drive right through’ were long gone), I was allowed to park in a new parking structure about one quarter mile from the commissary. Call it a buildup of years and layers of cynicism, but there was no buzz. As I was rushing through the parking structure and down the walkway to the commissary, not wanting to be late for the initial meet, something felt off. The place, for me, had lost its allure. The vibe was gone. The new corporate headquarters being built across from the NYPD Blue set was jutting skyward with foreboding glass and steel sides and a witless entry sculpture – some giant black ball spinning in water. It had an architectural intention that said the past is dead, California is dead, the foreign takeover is almost complete.

I guess the obvious target in all this is Rupert Murdoch, who, after all, had bought the place and if he wished had the right to turn Fox into a used-car lot. Blaming Murdoch alone, however, would be too easy. The lot’s new look was a sign of the corporate times. But this was about more than looks. Efficiency because of rising costs had replaced inspiration. There were too many lawyers, too many marketing stiffs, and not enough creative types for this kind of dream machinery to work. For the people who make the stuff, it was a dangerous sign. A bad mix. It might have been my mood, but for me a delicate dance step had clearly been violated at Fox. It didn’t bode well for greatness or success.

The commissary was even worse. The overlit dining room had a flat, used smell. Bad colors, shitty wallpaper. It had become institutional. The waiters with pale neoned complexions were mechanically stalking the room. As I was being led to a table in the rear, I recognized Murdoch, sitting with two ‘suits,’ making private phone calls while occasionally glaring across the room. He was imperious. So what? Imperiousness was benchmark behavior for studio owners. It was assumed, a familiar pattern where the guy at the top and his minions were oceans apart. With the invisible ax always inches from their heads, they withheld their disdain with obsequious smiles. But this wasn’t anything new. What was new, with the rise of corporate vertical integration, was that the guy at the top – in this case Murdoch – didn’t care about movies any more than he cared about baseball. Owning Fox’s motion picture business was merely a required charm on the mega-media-conglomerate bracelet. A necessary evil. An essential irritant that economically didn’t pencil out. I wondered if the food was going to match the atmosphere.

If you’re asking, with all of my split-second dire observations, why I didn’t call for my car and head for the front gate, the answer was simple: money.

Mechanic was already seated, three tables away from Rupert. As I approached him, I ran into the venerable Fox producer Larry Gordon. I knew, he knew, and everyone in the street knew that he was soon to be on the way out. But, what was interesting about Larry was his ability to maintain a bemused defiance in the face of some of the most horrific setbacks that a producer can confront. He’d had some past successes, but his recent losses were piling up like New York garbage. I respected his indomitability, but his lunch gave him away. All he was eating was a dry baked potato with salsa.

‘Hey, Larry, I guess you didn’t care for the special, huh?’ I asked.

‘No fats,’ he replied. ‘I’m going light these days.’

‘Why so?’

‘Bad heart. Can’t tolerate fats.’ He shrugged with a wave and a breezy smile. Underneath the charm, his digestive system and his arteries had paid a wearisome price.

I knew that when he saw me with Mechanic, he would quickly assume I was being lured over to Fox. But did he know that I was to get his offices after he was tossed? And so it goes.

‘Really nice to see you, Larry,’ I said.

‘Yeah, really nice.’

As I neared Bill’s table, he stood and we shook hands. My first take on Bill was that I liked him. He was rounder than your typical executive, which gave him a more available, less threatening demeanor. His shirt was too dark to be corporately correct, his tie was all wrong, his shoes were strange, very strange, actually. I found out later that he was an animal rights activist and a strict vegetarian, so naturally, his shoes were made of Naugahyde with rubber soles and his car upholstery was made of cloth. He might have to skin an agent now and again, but I suppose the cows were safe.

We both ordered veggie burgers. As we began the compulsory small talk, I noticed that the computer word kept popping up. Bill liked to talk numbers: grosses, preview scores, ratios of scripts to movies made, ratios of movies made to hits made, etc. He also liked to talk about movies in the past that excited him. He seemed to care about movies, and he even seemed to like the people who made the movies—an oxymoron for an executive in this day. It was too early to make any assumptions, but I was hoping that his gut rather than his bean-counting was going to play the major role in his decision-making. I wasn’t concerned. After all, if the computer hadn’t spilled out some past hits under my name, Mechanic and I wouldn’t be having this lunch.

As I glanced over Bill’s shoulder, I accidentally made eye contact with Murdoch. I felt the chill. He didn’t know who I was, but his look reflected grave disappointment, as if he foretold the next few years. It was either disappointment or gas from the dreadful commissary food. In any case, I was certain that Rupert and Bill did not come from the same block. Maybe I was getting suckered, but Bill seemed like a bona fide movie fan. Murdoch was not projecting the same colors. A fishy blend, if you asked me. Had Rupert actually interviewed Mechanic before he got the job? Were their corporate goals shared? I had to wonder: When this drama finally played out (as do all executive dramas in Hollywood), would Bill be left with any of his vital organs? Get a pathologist. Murdoch ate meat.

‘I’m lookin’ to sign a couple of producers to help supply us with movies over the next few years. Would you be interested?’ Bill was simple and direct.

‘Yes,’ I said, even more directly.

I explained that I could start after my Warners contract ended. Since Heat was still in the early planning stages for Warners and none of us knew what a sizable hit it was going to be, it was apparent to me that Warners would be only too happy to let me sign elsewhere. If they let me out of my contract early, they could save some money.

And now for the hard question.

‘What kind of movies are you thinking of producing?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you have something up your sleeve.’

‘Shit, Bill, I haven’t given it much thought. I’m working with Michael Mann on this thing for Warners, and after that … I think, uh, I’m going to develop something with, uh, David Mamet … and then maybe a kind of a Dickens sorta thing.’

‘Really, what?’

‘It’s all still in the planning stages.’ I didn’t have a clue.

‘Sounds good. Let me have our lawyers get this started and see if we can make a deal.’

‘Thanks.’

‘We’re lookin’ forward to it.’

‘Me too.’

‘By the way …’

‘Huh?’

‘… you could use a hit.’

‘I know.’ I couldn’t help but glance over at Murdoch, who for a millisecond glared back with a ‘Who the fuck are you?’ look. I should have made a run for it.

‘Well, let’s just hope it’s for us.’ Bill smiled.

‘Here’s hoping,’ I said lightly, mustering up my finest acting. Dodging direct eye contact with Bill or Murdoch, I turned to look for Larry Gordon. He was gone.

‘Oooh, man, he gave you the “You could use a hit,” shot, did he? I like him.’

‘Thought you’d enjoy that, Jerry.’

‘That’ll freeze the testicles.’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Where was that slippery Chernin [the News Corp executive just below Murdoch and just above Mechanic] in all this?’

‘He would hover and come in and out when it was convenient.’

‘Makes you thinka bacon grease, dunnit?’

‘I haven’t given that part much thought yet, Jerry. Why don’t we try to stick to a syntax we both understand?’

‘Looks to me like Mechanic was sandwiched and you were the cheap brown bag carrying the lunch.’

‘I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, don’t you?’

‘You’re right, you’re right. Go slow, I want details.’

There we were at a new restaurant. Jerry wanted to meet at the Ivy at the Shore for lunch, an upscale hangout in Santa Monica but thankfully not as visible as the Grill in Beverly Hills. I suppose it’s of little value to describe what Jerry was wearing, but there was something about tristriped, blue Adidas running pants, Gucci slippers, and a very old Ferrari sweatshirt on a desperate middle-aged man that must be looked at, particularly when it occurred to me that the same stuff was neatly folded in my own drawers. Were we turning ‘casual’ Friday into ‘sweaty casual’ Friday? Since our breakfast in Malibu, his tan had faded, but the promise of tasting a little Hollywood action had apparently given him a boost.

No need to ask why I’d decided to continue this dialogue. I’m aware that I must have been deeply disturbed to let Jerry beat the shit out of me again as we painfully traveled down memory lane. I had some serious issues to work out. I kept justifying to myself that when the future looks hazy and dark, who better to talk to then someone who had a big past and no future? Who else would have a better feel for desperation than Jerry? My consolation: No matter how bitter he became, I always knew he was drowning faster than me. I had no idea then that he had a firm grip on my pant leg.

‘Two chopped-vegetable salads,’ the waiter politely interrupted. ‘Who gets the one with shrimp, no chicken, no oil in the dressing, asparagus instead of egg, no avocado, balsamic vinegar on the side?’

‘Me.’ I raised my hand, noticing that ordering a salad was getting as complicated as selecting a coffee at Starbucks.

‘Oh, gosh, welcome back, sir.’ The waiter blanched, then genuflected, when he realized that was the Jerry. ‘It’s been years, sir, hasn’t it?’ The waiter’s expression of doubt mixed with awe said it all. He assumed that Jerry was ‘dead,’ but just in case Jerry could spin some kind of showbiz voodoo reincarnation and actually make a comeback, a little anal massage couldn’t hurt. Everyone in town was in on this game.

‘Well, thank you, Jeff. Did you ever finish that screenplay?’ Jerry’s question was generic. It didn’t require an answer. Who wasn’t finishing a script in this place? It was as meaningless as asking about one’s health or the weather.

‘As a matter of fact, sir, we’re this far [thumb and forefinger almost touching] from a start date.’

‘Well, isn’t that just great,’ Jerry said, trying to camouflage his annoyance that any good news brought.

‘And do you know what else?’ Jeff was grinning now.

‘What?’

‘I’m going to direct.’

‘Direct?’ Jerry had had enough.

‘Direct.’

‘Oh, how special.’

‘Nice to see you out again, sir, enjoy your lunch,’ Jeff added over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

Jerry sat there for a moment, not ready to reach for his food. He was conflicted. Jeff’s enthusiasms rankled his spirit. You could see the bubble over his head – ‘Even the fuckin’ waiter’s got some Hollywood love.’

Nonetheless, being acknowledged again, even by a food server, was like giving blood to a vampire. His mood was tempered.

‘Hey, you know that “bear” movie you did?’

‘Yes. My first venture at Fox.’

‘Word has it that Alec Baldwin carved some new assholes for you and that director of yours.’

‘Not exactly true … and anyways, that story has to start at the beginning.’

‘Why not cut to the grim bits and leave out the boring stuff?’

‘Jerry, it’s my dime, it’s my therapy. You’re gonna have to listen to the whole story if I’m gonna let you get off on the bad parts.’

‘You’re right, and anyways, where am I going? … After all [his thumb and forefinger almost touching], I’m this far from a start date,’ he bellowed, bursting into a laugh.

‘This far!’ I replied.

In a brief moment of bonding, I held up my thumb and forefinger and we tapped hands in a drinkless toast.

‘Okay, back to business, how did that car wreck of a “bear” movie happen?’ Jerry asked.

‘It wasn’t a car wreck.’

‘Not what I heard.’

In the basement of the Fox administration building, just below Bill Mechanic’s and Peter Chernin’s offices, were two screening rooms: the Z room and the S room. They were built in the old Darryl Zanuck days, circa 1940. According to legend, and who cares if it’s true or not, Zanuck, ensconced in room Z, would spend countless nights with his masseuse and assorted girls reviewing dailies, examining rough cuts, and doing whatever else that was handy. No one but Zanuck was allowed to use it. His florid excesses were legendary. The S room, apparently lettered after Joseph Schenck, was for the general use of other executives. Although Zanuck was responsible for the supervision of thirty-five pictures a year, he mixed business with pleasure and still maintained a healthy list of enemies. Today, the chance of interrupting an executive in midblow job at three in the morning, while dailies are being screened, is over. That kind of action is reserved for pols or dot.com guys. Hollywood has gone corporate and square. You don’t have to worry about knocking anymore.

‘Are you sure all I have to say is “it’s two guys and a bear, they get lost in the forest and have to learn to survive together even though one guy was trying to kill the other guy and take his young, beautiful wife”?’ David Mamet asked.

He was not particularly concerned. He just wanted some reassurance that I had already worked things out and that this was going to be a mere formality. He had that look of ‘I’ll do my job, did you do yours?’

‘Yep, it’s in the bag,’ I said.

We were making the long walk down the wide administration building hallway, the wallpaper still revealing some leftover touches of Zanuck green (a color that Zanuck insisted on because it matched his mother’s nail polish), to deliver a pitch to Tom Jacobson, the newly appointed head of film production under Bill Mechanic. Wait a minute! Who’s Tom Jacobson? Wasn’t Mechanic the newly appointed head of film production under Chernin? And wasn’t Chernin, who dutifully reported to Murdoch, head of worldwide motion pictures? Well, yes, it’s all true. It’s a complicated system. Even the most experienced insider has a gruesome time trying to find out where the buck stops. If you’re looking for solid answers, it’s rare to find them in movie meetings.

The best way an outsider can understand these subtle distinctions is by asking who has the power to say yes, maybe, or no. Tom Jacobson could say no, but if he wanted to say yes to anything, he would have to appeal to Bill Mechanic for an approval. And even if he wanted to say no, Mechanic could overrule him, assuming you knew how to get to Mechanic. If this request was very expensive, such as the green-lighting of a fifty-million-dollar movie, Mechanic would have to appeal to Chernin for approval. If Mechanic wanted to say no, it would end there, unless you could appeal to Chernin to overrule Mechanic. If a request was very, very expensive, such as more money for a Titanic production that was running mercilessly out of control, Chernin would have to ask Murdoch for approval. As complicated as all this seems, it is a layered committee method designed to pass on the risks and defuse the blame. As you might suspect, the executive at the bottom of this pole is naked. Daryl Hannah’s manager wields more power. This guy might be able to jaw his way into a good table at a restaurant with his Fox film production presidential business card, but when he went to work the next day, he was a duck waiting to hear the gunshot.

Tom Jacobson had that job.

I had called David six weeks before. After several months of negotiations, my exclusive deal with Fox to produce movies for them over the next three years had been completed. It was nice to have the deal, but I needed to get something going – to put some scripts in development and kick-start the promises. The first rule of producing is to find a writer with an idea, or to get an idea and find a writer. Making friends with agents can be handy, but it’s way down the food chain. Since David and I did The Untouchables together, we had developed a good professional working relationship: You get me a lot of money, I get you a good script. I was hoping that if I leaned on David, he could pull some rabbit out of the hat. His price to write a screenplay had skyrocketed. I knew this rabbit would be costly.

I placed the call.

‘Hi, Dave.’

‘What’s the shot?’

‘I got a new deal, I’m lookin’ for you to write a new script.’

‘Fine.’

‘There’ll be lots of money.’

‘Good. Let’s do it.’

‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t tell me what it’s about, I can’t get you the money.’

‘Fine. What do you want it to be about?’

‘I don’t know; that’s why I’m calling you.’

‘I understand.’

‘Dave, how about an adventure movie?’

‘Fine.’

‘Something castable. Two guys, maybe.’

‘Fine.’

‘C’mon, Dave, I need more to go on.’

‘Okay … how ’bout two guys and a bear.’

‘It’s a start.’

‘That’s all I got.’

‘I need more.’

‘I’ll get back to you.’

‘Thank you.’

Within a short time he did get back to me with a rather well-worked-out wilderness story that promised big intrigue, a fierce struggle for survival, betrayal, and of course, a bear. I was quite confident that Fox would be engaged, but it was early in the process. Even if they agreed to the screenplay, there was no assurance that it would be made into a movie. We were still smarting over our last venture together at Warner Bros. He had written Ordinary Daylight, a powerful script based on a true story written by Andrew Potok about his struggle with retinitis pigmentosa. Much money was spent, many meetings with directors and executives were taken, but the movie was never made. We were preempted by Al Pacino’s Scent of a Woman. In the end, Warners balked.

‘How can we make a movie about a guy who’s going blind but doesn’t get better?’

‘We thought you knew that. It’s in the book!’

‘Pacino’s blind in his movie but he can drive a Ferrari and dance for God’s sake.’

‘Didn’t anyone read the book?’ I appealed.

‘Of course, we assumed you were going to fix those bits.’

‘But it’s a true story!’

‘Who gives a shit if it’s a true story?’

And so on. Suffice it to say it was another wonderful Mamet script, at least that’s my take, that never got made. The consolation prize is that he got paid a shitload of money. But for the producer, when a movie doesn’t get made, there is nothing to show for the time and the ultimate defeat. Moreover, the failed results usually reveal the importance of getting everyone on the same railroad track before the script is ever read. When the buyer doesn’t get what he thinks he bought, it is because miscommunications exist before one word is written. These discrepancies start to occur as soon as the first question is asked: So what’s the idea? at the pitch meeting.

I assured Mamet that this meeting was merely academic. I had already explained to Mechanic the general drift of the idea, but he had insisted for purposes of protocol that we run it past Jacobson. Could we do it on the phone? I asked. No. Proper protocol, he insisted, meant going to Jacobson’s office. Since Mamet lived in Boston, this required a trip to Los Angeles, which always left him in a mixed mood. A trip to Los Angeles may seem like a small price to pay to pick up one-million-plus dollars, but pitching is pitching. At its best, even when it’s operating on all cylinders, it’s annoying. At its worst, it’s a humiliation for everyone in the room.

Halfway down the hallway, getting ever closer to Jacobson’s office, we slowed down to look at the Three Faces of Eve poster.

‘Can you believe this studio made that movie? Gosh, what has happened to this place?’ I asked.

‘Time mixed with cowardice,’ Mamet said.

‘You’re right, you’re always right.’

‘This is not going to be one of those meetings where we walk in and no one knows why we are there?’

‘Please. I’m a professional.’

We stopped to glance at the Alien poster.

‘So, I say the usual, right?’

‘The usual,’ I said.

‘It’s a cross between Raiders of the Lost Ark and Wuthering Heights.’

‘That’s right.’

As we entered the office of Tom Jacobson, the first thing that screamed out was that there were two secretarial desks. This guy must be very busy. Mechanic, his boss, had only one secretary.

‘Mr. Jacobson is off the phone now, he’s ready to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

For those of you who have never been in a pitch meeting, it’s nothing much different from door-to-door sales except the financial stakes are higher. You must convince the guy with the checkbook that he needs whatever soap you are selling. I’m not sure anyone actually needs to buy an idea for a movie. If you buy an idea, you have to pay to have the script written. Writers are expensive. In most instances the scripts are badly done and only a small percentage ever get filmed. Because of the high turnover factor, the executive who winds up buying the script probably won’t even have his job by the time the wretched thing gets made and is ready for release. Either someone else will be the beneficiary of its success, or the poor sucker who was fired will inevitably be blamed for supporting it. Under these rules, I’m always amazed at the optimism that’s displayed so early on for something that might not pay off for years. Nonetheless, this is the very start of the process, and decisions made at this level have enormous impact.

We entered Tom’s office accompanied by his assistant. It turned out to be twice the size of Mechanic’s office. Hmmm. I didn’t step it off, but I was tempted. If my office were twice the size of that of the guy who hired me, I would immediately ask for some partitions or at the very least donate a good part of it to some dispossessed underling. ‘Oh, please, Bill, this office is too big. All’s I need is a desk, a phone, and two chairs – why don’t you take my grand office?’ Being offered all of this grandness smelled like a setup to me. Call me cynical, but it sure felt as if this guy, whom we were about to meet, was renting. I didn’t know then that his lease was only month to month.

‘Boston’s a wonderful city,’ Tom said as he leaned back in his chair, his feet pushing back from the coffee table.

‘Sure is.’

‘Cultural.’

‘Very.’

‘Gosh, I love it, the season, you know.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Winter,’ Tom said, trying to make out Mamet’s reaction.

Awkward silence.

‘You like sports?’ Tom politely continued, trying to keep this ship afloat.

‘Not that interested.’

The room was dying.

Tom turned his attention toward me. ‘So, we know what David’s been up to, what about you?’

‘Well, I’m at Fox working for you.’

Awkward silence.

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, reconfirming 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.

It can turn into an Abbott and Costello sketch:

‘Could you please give my script to Harrison Ford?’

‘Do you have a firm offer from Fox?’

‘Well, not exactly, but they said they’d make the movie.’

‘Harrison does not read without a firm pay or play offer.’

‘But he might love it, really love it, and think his destiny lies in making this movie.’

‘Pay to play.’

‘But if he doesn’t read it, he’ll never know what he might miss.’

‘Fifteen million against fifteen percent of the gross.’

‘Okay, I’ll talk to Bill.’

‘By the way, Alan Alda is looking for something good, I can give it to him to read.’

‘Gee, thanks, let me talk to Mechanic.’

Dustin Hoffman, with all of his past greatness, was now, as they say, reading. This euphemism means that he is willing to look at scripts without a firm offer, and if he is interested, he is willing to meet with the producer and the director. This is particularly good news for the studio, especially if the actor loves the script and the studio has yet to commit. The leverage builds logarithmically in their favor. If the executives at Fox agree to make the movie, they may be able to reduce the actor’s price because they already know that he loves the script. Actors are like everyone else: When they want something they might not get, they often want it more. If Mechanic et al decide not to make the movie, even if the actor is begging, they lose nothing and can make some apology for the inconvenience. The agent then gets the horror call: ‘What kind of dickhead agent would send me a script that the studio won’t make even if I liked it.’ ‘But … but, Dusty … but …’ That’s why agents are very, very careful how they distribute the material to their top clients. Since the studio heads don’t know exactly what the total cost of the film is going to be, they are equally reluctant to expose themselves. It’s the catch-22 of packaging, with the producer hopelessly in the middle, staring wide-eyed into space, having as much control over the situation as a busboy at Spago’s.

Back in Dustin’s office, another two hours had passed. We were in the middle of a lox-and-bagel lunch, and we had still not discussed the Mamet script. It’s not that Dustin was avoiding it, he just seemed to have a lot of tangential interests. We talked about sports, current events, diet, religion. He even gave Lee and me some literature on a new rabbi who had captured his imagination. Occasionally, he would glance at my ankles.

Being the restless type, I was hoping to make a frontal assault. I kept looking at him, thinking, ‘Fuck me. We’re gonna die here. Are you gonna make this sucker or not?’ But producers are not known for raw courage. All that I could muster was an occasional ‘That is so interesting.’ ‘Really.’ ‘Gosh, I feel the same way, don’t you, Lee?’ Self-loathing was starting to creep in, and I decided to leave the meeting, hoping that in my absence they would begin to address the script. As I politely rose and told them I had had no idea this was going to be such a time-consuming first discussion, blah blah blah, I suggested that perhaps they could carry on without me. I glanced at Lee, with a stunned, wide-eyed signal: ‘Try and wrap him up, please.’ Lee looked at me as if to say, ‘I’m from New Zealand, don’t leave me here alone.’ Clearly, we both had the sinking feeling that this exercise was sliding into the toilet.

When I was in the elevator, it occurred to me that Dustin had made one reference to the script about an hour earlier. He had said Bookworm reminded him of Straw Dogs. Since that Peckinpah movie was one of my favorites and since Dustin was so fine in it, I took this to be a good thing. Wrong. He’d done this part already! Of course! Bookish guy with a pretty, seductive wife having to rise to the occasion when the going got brutal. Dustin’s a rich man. Why would he ever do the same part again? Perhaps Lee didn’t know it yet, but it was time to look for someone else. Let’s go back to the list. We could spend the next six months having nice chats with Dustin, but when the time came to put the chips on the table, I was sure he wasn’t going to be there, and I was more sure I would have even less hair on my ankles.

FOUR

One plus One Equals Three

Alec Baldwin might be in. His agent said that Alec had read the script and wanted to talk about the role of the duplicitous fashion photographer, Bob Green. Lee and I greeted the news with measured enthusiasm. I knew that even if Alec was ideal casting, this news was never going to make the walls of the Fox administration building shake with delight. His past success was spotty, and there were rumors that he was difficult. At best, Alec would be considered a solid ‘element’ to the overall package, but not enough of a reason, I thought, for Fox to pull the trigger. It was the best nibble so far. We had to pursue it.

We agreed to meet with Alec for lunch at some trendy bistro off of La Cienega. Lee and I got there early to strategize, because these first encounters are always tricky. You don’t know if the actor is flirting with the role or if he is actually hooked. But that first lunch does give you some indication as to how the dynamics are going to work if the movie actually gets put together. Is it going to be an easy ride, or are you going to be sliding down a gravel driveway together naked? When Alec arrived at the table, he was dressed in a suit and tie, looking as if he were running for a Long Island congressional seat. I got things started. Unable to camouflage my desperation to get a big-name actor to commit, I began with the predictable propitiating smiles and nods. ‘Gosh you were brilliant in blah blah blah’ and ‘How about that speech in Glengarry, oh, man, it was an aria … wasn’t it, Lee?’ I couldn’t control myself. To his credit, Alec responded to the horseshit flattery by saying he was a fan of David Mamet’s writing and would be eager to take on this role. No caveats. Simple as that. He said he would have to complete the movie Ghosts of Mississippi, take a couple of months off to diet and to get into tip-top shape, and then he would be ready to go, assuming the studio was willing to write the check.

Unfortunately, this all happened in the first five minutes. We hadn’t even ordered yet and I was ready to call for the check. It’s an old maxim in Hollywood: Take yes for an answer and quickly leave the room. The rest of the lunch attenuated into awkward sound bites like ‘God, this is really going to be great.’ ‘We’re so damn excited.’ ‘Did I already tell you how much I love your work? … Of course I did.’

The only wrinkle for me – and at the time I did not give it much importance – was that Alec kept avoiding eye contact with Tamahori, who was, after all, the director. Even though we were reduced to banal hiccups, it seemed at times as if Alec was pretending that Lee was at another table. I thought later that perhaps Alec had a genetic disdain for anyone who could exert power over his performance, so he did not want to cozy up to Lee too soon. Nonetheless, something in the air was casting a small shadow, but I ignored it. My job was to get the fucking movie made. If there were going to be difficulties, we would deal with them down the road. For now, we had a good actor anxious to do the part. After several weeks of rejections, Lee and I felt we might be edging ever closer to a start date.

The next day, I was seated in Bill Mechanic’s office next to a large bowl of soft sugar candies, waiting for him to get off the phone. I would start each meeting swearing to Bill that I would not touch the candy. It was the kind of stuff you’d be embarrassed to hand out on Halloween. But the anxiety of rarely getting what I wanted out of these meetings inevitably forced me into the candy bowl within minutes of our discussions.

‘Good news. Alec Baldwin wants to play the photographer,’ I opened confidently.

‘I heard,’ Bill said, not matching my enthusiasm.

‘He’s a wonderful actor.’

‘He’s expensive.’

‘He has lots of energy.’

‘I hear he hates producers.’

‘Who doesn’t these days?’

‘He doesn’t sell tickets.’

‘What about Hunt for Red October?’

‘That was a lifetime ago.’

‘But it was huge.’

‘What kinda guy walks away from the sequel after such a big hit and lets Harrison Ford take his place?’

I reached in the bowl for a green one.

‘Bill, what about Malice?’

‘Have you seen the numbers on Malice?’

‘Not the foreign numbers.’

‘Well, even Malice was a long time ago.’

‘Lee and I think he’s perfect for the part.’

‘I hear he’s trouble.’

‘Beating up a photographer doesn’t make you trouble. Anyway, it was in self-defense.’

‘He can’t carry a movie.’

‘Bill, who can carry a movie?’

‘Tom Cruise.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying if you can find a star for the other part, then maybe we can match him up with Alec.’

‘I’m always one star short.’

‘You are one star short.’

In the delicate mechanism of Hollywood meetings, this was a positive exchange. Bill was basically saying that he really liked the material, that in fact he was seriously inclined to make the movie, but that he needed as much ammo as possible. His job was to protect the downside, to second-guess the options, and he did it in an amiable way. I knew he wanted more than a good movie, he wanted and needed a hit. Who can blame him. I needed a hit as well.

‘Bill, why don’t we make a deal with Alec now and make it subject to finding the other guy?’

‘We can explore it, but I would also have to make the offer subject to a budget.’

‘Well, then Fox wouldn’t be bound at all.’

‘That’s right.’ Bill smiled.

‘Gee.’

‘Hey, the other part’s the real star of the movie anyway.’

‘We think Alec’s kind of a star.’

‘Good, let’s find another bigger star.’

‘Sure, let’s find a bigger star,’ I said, reaching into the candy bowl for the last time.

I took a huge handful for the road.

After the mandate from Mechanic, I decided to talk to Robert De Niro. The part of Charles Morse, the aging, shy, erudite, bookish rich man, was not a role you would immediately feel was smart casting for De Niro – unless of course, he thought he could do it. If he said he was intent on playing the part of a seven-year-old ballerina in a Disney musical, I would have to take it seriously. Ever since The Untouchables, Bob and I have remained close friends. It’s not just that his shining performance saved my ass, got us on the cover of Newsweek, and made me and everyone else connected to the movie look like we knew what we were doing, but we really found a way to connect. It was an unusual dynamic. I would say things like ‘Gosh, Bob, you sure make a lot of money acting in those movies,’ and he would answer, ‘Lemme get back to you.’ I would say, ‘What do you think of that director or that writer or that actor,’ and he would say, ‘Lemme get back to you.’ I would say, ‘I think you should consider this script. It would be great for you, you should really do it,’ and he would say, ‘What is it you do, again?’ You get the gist of it. But just because you’ve had a long-term relationship with Bob doesn’t necessarily mean that you can get him to act in your movie. It does mean, however, that you might be able to get him to read something without a firm offer from the studio. When the script was first completed, I wanted to send it to him, but he was so booked up with other pictures that the timing was bad. It would have been too easy for him to say no. By the time Lee and I had slogged through the predictable turndowns, the timing had improved. I forged ahead. I gave Bob Bookworm and awaited his response.

My phone rang.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’

‘What’d ya think?’

‘I like it.’

‘How much?’

‘I like it.’

‘How about Alec Baldwin for the photographer?’

‘I like him.’

‘Great. Let’s do it.’

‘I like it, it’s got some good things in it.’

‘Great, let’s go.’

‘I think we need a reading.’

‘But you just read it.’

‘I think we should have a reading.’

‘Let me read it to you over the phone.’

‘We should have a reading.’

This categorically means the deal is far from closed. When he’d agreed to do The Untouchables, he did not ask for a reading. This response of his was a bit better than being on life support, but way too soon to open the Veuve Clicquot.

‘Fine, let’s have a reading.’

‘You set it up. It would be nice if Alec was there.’

‘I hate readings.’

‘Set up a reading.’

‘Fine.’

For those of you unfamiliar with a reading, this is different from the notion that an actor is reading without an offer. This sort of reading is when several actors sit around a table and read the script out loud. Someone is usually chosen to read the narrative and the descriptive sections.

For example:

EXT. SAPLINGS—DAY

The bear crashes through and follows Morse at a frightening speed. Just as the bear is about to bring him down, Morse reaches the other side of the clearing and scrambles through a small gap between a tangle of heavy logs. The bear is unable to follow through the gap and cannot get at Morse, who backs up terrified.

The bear ROARS.

Sometimes the narrator will actually attempt a roar, but most likely he will just say ‘roar.’ No matter how it sounds, ten directors would render this scene ten different ways. The remaining dialogue in the script is read by other actors with varying degrees of commitment. If you are an actor or a director who is grappling with committing to the material, the reading is supposed to provide some special insight, some connection, that sitting at home, quietly perusing the script, would not give. It’s a high-stakes game with sizable decisions riding on its outcome. When readings go badly, you not only lose those actors you were trying to attract, you might lose those actors who were already committed. In this case, if De Niro decides Bookworm would not be for him, would that send Baldwin running away as well, shrieking, ‘Thank the Lord! It’s only a scratch. I’m out of here.’? A project can quickly skid off the road without much chance of recovery. For me, readings are always an iffy affair. Let’s face it, we watch movies, we don’t listen to them.

The creamy-colored conference room at the Peninsula Hotel had a ‘crafts service’ table set up in the corner with the usual: coffee, rolls, lox and bagels, soft drinks, bottled water, fruit, etc. A copy of the script was positioned in front of each chair. David Mamet, who lived in Boston, would not be attending. Knowing David, if Boston were a suburb of Beverly Hills and I offered to ‘send the limo,’ he would still call in sick. His reaction would be ‘Just tell ’em to say the fuckin’ words.’ This probably was not the best sentiment to have in the room.

Lee and I, as hosts, were the first to arrive, soon followed by a couple of actors who had been asked to read the smaller parts. The tacit understanding at these events is that it is not an audition, that readers should not expect to get a part, and that they aren’t expected to ‘perform.’ Inevitably, however, these actors are the most spirited in the room. With the presence of De Niro and a real live director listening, why shouldn’t they audition? It’s in their DNA.

Minutes before Alec showed up, Bryan Lourd, one of De Niro’s agents from CAA, arrived dressed in the new neopallbearer fashion (narrow black suit, black tie, black shoes). It was Saturday afternoon and I couldn’t help but feel that as smooth as Bryan was, a cheerier look would have been more comforting. When Alec finally entered, his demeanor was slightly more edgy than it had been at the restaurant. This time, he wasn’t making eye contact with Lee or with me. I tried to dismiss it, assuming that the anticipation of reading with De Niro would make any actor anxious. Frankly, all of his furtive angst and sweaty energy made him perfect for the part of Green. He introduced himself around the room, took a seat at the table, and waited.

Another fifteen minutes passed and Bob was late. Lee and I looked at each other as if we were waiting for Elvis. I wondered how much Bryan Lourd’s enthusiasm would influence De Niro’s decision. Bryan was sitting away from the table, intentionally out of the line of fire, looking like a calming influence at a funeral. My optimism was waning. Bob finally showed up, followed by a couple of assistants, and Alec’s mood noticeably improved. But despite all of the expected titillation that came with the ‘Elvis’ arrival, when Bob passed through the door, quiet and unassuming, his demeanor was as nondescript as a family accountant’s. I knew that he was aware of his impact, but there was no evidence that he wanted any part of it. Wearing fatherly glasses and clothes that would go unnoticed in the local mall—if we weren’t sure it was him, De Niro would have been asked to leave the room.

The greetings went rapidly around the table. It was evident that Bob actually wanted to ‘hear’ the script. No other agenda. We began the reading with the narrator announcing, ‘Fade-in.’

Mamet’s dialogue is very different from standard Hollywood fare. Not every actor can find a way into it to make it sound real and unforced. For example, forty pages into this script, a plane crash leaves Green (Baldwin) and Morse (De Niro) lost in the wilds of Alaska trying to keep from being eaten by a determined bear. Morse and Green banter about Morse’s wife, the fashion model to be photographed by Green. She was left at base camp.

GREEN: Hey, is it my diseased imagination, or did you say the words, ‘How are you trying to kill me?’

(pause) Morse nods.

GREEN: (cont’d) And what did that mean …? Why would I want to kill you, Charles? Why would I want to do that?

MORSE: For my wife.

GREEN: For Mickey? (pause) Well, that’s a bizarre way to meet girls … I want to kill you to get next to your wife?

MORSE: … I’ve seen you with her.

GREEN: No offense, Charles, I can get my own girl. F’you perhaps noticed that in the time we’ve known each other? N’pee ess, you’re kind of a powerful guy. Why would someone want to antagonize you? (pause) I’m talking to you. Why?

MORSE: To get the money.

GREEN: Ooooh. The money … Now it’s the broad, now it’s the boodle … nothing is safe. (pause) That’s what I’m saying … Rich man. All anybody wants, take something from you. And they want it bad enough to kill you. (pause) You know what … the rich are different.

Alec wasn’t reading this stuff, he was performing it with gusto. ‘Now it’s the broad, now it’s the boodle?’ He took to Mamet’s language and cadences like a dog to hamburger meat. For those of you who have seen his cameo in Glengarry Glen Ross, he fills Mamet’s characters with extraordinary life. I glanced over at Lee, thinking, ‘Hey, this is gonna work, Alec’s gonna knock the shit out of this part. Let’s get out there and make this baby.’

Bob, on the other hand, was delivering his reading of Morse in an expressionless monotone. Very simple. One word following another, making no attempt to do anything. For the first ten minutes, I wondered if this was some charade, a bad breakfast, or perhaps some way of letting me down gently: ‘Oh, well, I tried.’ That sort of thing. As the reading went on, Bob continued with the same flat delivery. Everyone else in the room became more animated just to make up for it. Now when the bear roared, the narrator really roared. Whatever Bob was intending to put up on the screen, I knew it couldn’t be this. Weeks later, when we were alone, I brought up the subject.

‘What were you doing in the reading?’

‘As readings go, I thought it was a good one.’

‘Easy for you, you weren’t doing anything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘One word after the other, no emotion.’

‘It was very helpful.’

‘You were Mr. Robotman in there, how can you tell if it’s working?’

‘I can tell.’

‘Why not rev up the engine a little bit?’

‘That wouldn’t be right.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if I haven’t yet made a decision as to what I want to do, I don’t want to do anything. For me, it’s better to do nothing than to make false or careless choices.’

‘All right then, s’all I wanted to know.’

As usual, Bob was ahead of the curve. As the reading wound down to the climactic moment of killing the bear, the narrator continued:

The bear turns on Morse. Green staggers to his feet and winces in pain as he sees Morse and the bear in mortal combat.

MORSE: (De Niro) Kill me! You killed my friend …

It doesn’t matter anymore … Kill me!!

The bear attacks. Morse holds his ground. The bear surges toward him. At the last moment, Morse drops the butt of the spear down against the boulder and angles the spear up into the bear as it charges.

I glanced over at Bob, noticing what I believed to be a slight flicker of interest. Maybe he was warming to this thing. I now realize I was grasping at straws. His twitch could have been anything. It was so slight it could have been gas.

The bear closes over Morse and lunges. The spear tears through the bear’s back as the bear ROARS and drops on top of Morse. As Green watches, the bear dies.

For a moment nothing moved.

Except for Bob. I definitely noticed a wince and a forward body motion. He was thinking about it. The reading soon ended, and everyone went his separate way. It was not the time or the place to ask the unaskable: ‘Are you going to agree to do this fucking script or what?’ Bryan Lourd walked out nodding with an inscrutable expression. He whispered to me, ‘I’ll call you later.’ Alec seemed happy. He knew that he was going to cream this part if we ever did get the movie off the ground. And Lee and I were cautiously pleased. If we had discovered nothing else, we had at least confirmed that this was going to be a compelling story. We just had to cast Morse and get the money.

I met Bob later for a drink. I knew as soon as I saw him walk in that he was not going to do the part. You learn to read the signals. It’s not what he does, it’s what he doesn’t do. And I also knew that he probably wouldn’t share his exact feelings as to why.

‘Don’t say anything, I can tell it’s over.’

‘What?’

‘You’re not gonna commit.’

‘I like it.’

‘There’s a problem.’

‘The bear worries me.’

‘The bear?!’

‘The bear.’

‘Y’sure it’s not Alec or Lee?’

‘For now, it’s the bear.’

‘What part of the bear?’

‘You know, fighting with a fake bear. Might not work.’

‘We’re gonna use a real bear some of the time.’

‘A real bear is interesting.’

‘Well, then we’re gonna use a real bear a lot.’

A beat.

‘The bear … the bear still concerns me.’

There was no sense in belaboring this. Bob was not going to do the movie.

Well, actually, a week later, I decided to take one more shot. I was able to get a rough cut of Mulholland Falls, the picture that Lee Tamahori had just finished for Dick and Lilli Zanuck, and I set up a private screening in Santa Monica for Bob’s and my eyes only. I told Bob that I understood trying to say, ‘Are you looking at me … are YOU looking at ME?’ to a mechanical bear (or even a real bear) might be a tall order, but perhaps after seeing Lee’s movie he might have a change of heart. Bob responded, ‘Maybe we can have the bear fuck the photographer, that might be interesting.’

When the lights slowly came up, he reached for his cell phone and started dialing. I did not perceive this as good news. When we got outside, I pressed him for his thoughts.

‘Whataya think?’

‘The hats.’

‘The hats!’

‘All the actors kept their hats on throughout the movie.’

‘I noticed that.’

‘It’s not right.’

‘Can’t we put the hats aside?’

‘I don’t know.’

He made another call from his cell phone. This was clearly going nowhere.

‘What were you wearing at the reading?’ Jerry asked. We were waiting for our cars outside the Ivy.

‘What difference does it make?’

‘Well, I had to sit through a description of the CAA couture look.’

‘It’s just not relevant.’

‘I think it is.’

‘Trust me, it’s not.’

‘Lemme guess. Black leather sport coat, tattered T-shirt, faded Levi’s, and Prada loafers without socks.’

‘This is stupid.’

‘Dressing like a fat Don Johnson is stupid.’

‘Frankly, Jerry, what I was wearing is not the point.’

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘No.’

‘I think so.’

‘No … I would never wear Prada loafers.’

A black-on-black BMW came up from the underground garage; three people simultaneously reached for the driver’s door before they realized it wasn’t their car.

‘It’s not that this story of yours about readings is dull,’ Jerry continued. ‘But if you weren’t paying for lunch, I would have been facedown in my crab cakes.’

‘It’s background.’

‘But where’s the suspense? We know Sir Anthony Hopkins ended up with the job.’

‘I thought you wanted me to go slow.’

‘Hell, next time let me smell some blood.’

‘I aim to please.’

Rick Nicita, Anthony Hopkins’s agent, called to say his client wanted the part of Charles Morse. This was a particularly good call because there were no strings attached, no qualifications. Hopkins signed off on the script, loved the idea of doing it with Alec Baldwin, had seen Tamahori’s first movie, thought it was excellent, and was ready to approve him. Check! All that was left, once I finessed the predictably annoying nay-sayings of Tom Rothman, was Bill Mechanic’s and Peter Chernin’s endorsements.

It had become evident over the last few months that Chernin was increasingly taking himself out of the line of fire. Where he used to engage directly in the major green-light decisions, now Mechanic was the only one in the room. Chernin was exhibiting expert Teflon instincts. He had no choice. Titanic was in the middle of production and the costs were staggering out of control. While I was trying to get this small movie launched, Fox was completely absorbed and distracted by James Cameron. With astonishing costs and an unquenchable appetite, Cameron was making it crystal clear that he was not going to quit until the batteries ran out. Chernin knew he had to cushion the fall. He bravely decided to let Bill jump in front of the bus and try to slow it down.

James Cameron, after making Aliens and True Lies for Fox, was a company star long before either Mechanic or Chernin were ever considered for their jobs. This made dealing with him an extraordinary task. Who would want to be the guinea pig to tell this guy to stop spending money? Rumor has it that when Bill was sent to Rosarito Beach, Mexico, to try to put a tourniquet on the wound, Cameron demanded that Bill not only leave the set but also leave the country and that he would not continue filming until Mechanic was gone. If you’re the head of a studio, this is like getting a prostate exam courtside at a Laker game during halftime. ‘We’re doing spectacle,’ Cameron said. ‘And spectacle costs money.’ Bill handled all of this madness with a solid equanimity. He wanted this job and he was willing to put up with an awful lot of abuse to hold on to it.

How corporately savvy for Chernin to be in a position to say to Rupert that Mechanic was the guy to be on top of this mess. What a luxury. When the costs rocketed past $100 million, he could say, ‘Rupert, I told that son of a bitch that the movie was going to get too expensive, and he better get that director to toe the line.’ When the movie crossed the $150-million mark, he could say, ‘Don’t worry, Rupert, three strikes and Mechanic’s out of here.’ And when the explosion hit $200 million, he could say, ‘You know, Rupert, it’s so damn hard to find good help these days.’ With all of the chaos that was swirling at Fox, the myriad decisions that had to be made on other movies seemed less monumental.

It was a good time to get something done.

Putting Tony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin together for the first time was perfect casting artistically. Both were extraordinary actors. Both were perfectly suited for their respective roles. Hopkins playing a bookish, gentle rich man lost in the wilderness having to survive with Baldwin, playing a younger, slicker, duplicitous photographer who was planning to kill him and take his wife and his money, was an exciting combination. The only hitch (and I knew that it would soon surface) is the perception that Anthony Hopkins doesn’t really ‘sell tickets,’ another Hollywood euphemism for ‘He ain’t no Tom Hanks.’ Who is?

I came up with an ingenious way to sell this stew. Since neither actor can ‘carry’ a movie by himself, according to studio executives who were pulling up their past grosses over the last few years, why not view this combination of actors as logarithmically larger than the whole? The idea being that Hopkins plus Baldwin is much bigger than either of them alone. And that, maybe, just maybe, the two together would equal one big, fat movie star. Think about it. Would you trade one Keanu Reeves for Edward Norton with Richard Gere? Maybe. It was clear from the start that if we’d attracted a Tom Cruise, we could have cast the rest of the movie with actors who ‘don’t sell tickets.’ But that didn’t happen.

‘Bill, I’ve got a theory.’

‘Oh, here it comes.’

‘One plus one equals three.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘One plus one equals three.’

‘You need something to clear your head.’

‘Stay with me.’

‘I’m not leaving.’

‘Don’t ya think one Hopkins and one Baldwin together for the first time on the screen equals one Harrison Ford?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘Bill, together these guys are gonna sell tickets. I feel the sizzle.’

‘They might … but I’m certain Harrison Ford will.’

‘Go with me … the sum of these guys is greater than the parts.’

‘I learned to add differently from you.’

‘Trust me on this.’

‘I don’t need to ’cause we’re going to make the movie anyway.’

‘I don’t care if … come again.’

‘If we can make their deals and you can make the movie for under thirty million dollars, we’ll green-light it.’

‘I’ll take yes for an answer.’

Obviously, my little theory wasn’t the catalyst that had pushed Bill into a start date. Over the last several weeks he had been pushing Lee and me to deliver the best possible package without putting Fox at risk. He knew after our exhaustive search that Hopkins and Baldwin was as far as we were going to get. And it wasn’t too shabby. Making it at the thirty-million number would be right at the risk line for this kind of picture. Between video, DVD, foreign, and cable, it would only have to perform modestly in the United States for Fox to get their investment back. Even though it might have lacked the sexiness of a Brad Pitt movie or the grandness of a Titanic, it was still a good piece of business. Fox’s huge distribution system had to be fed, and not all pictures are going to feel like slam dunks. With this cast, Bill could commiserate with Chernin, and neither would be called out for embarrassing themselves.

As I left Bill’s office, we shook hands.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘One plus one equals two.’

‘If you say so, it’s so.’

FIVE

After Shave

Canmore, a picturesque small town nestled in the Rockies about sixty miles west of the Calgary airport, was chosen as the production headquarters for Bookworm. With towering mountains and expansive forests, it was an ideal location to film an outdoor adventure picture. We decided to build a lodge on a nearby lake, and the rest of the locations would primarily be found in the surrounding wilds. The actual shooting of the movie, compressed to fifty-five days, went along rather uneventfully. There were, of course, the occasional complications from using an eighteen-hundred pound real bear. But, all in all, our man-eating ‘Bart the Bear’ was a total pro. He could give us several different looks, growl on command, and even do comedy if it was required. Lee kept referring to him as John Wayne. The animatronic bear, which we spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to construct, turned out to be less effective. Next to a real bear who can ‘act,’ a robot bear becomes extremely artificial. As filming progressed, the fake bear spent more and more time in the prop truck. He was our insurance policy, our pinch hitter.

Shortly after the movie was released, Bart often received as much or more attention than the rest of the cast. Norm MacDonald, on Saturday Night Live, said, while pointing to a large picture of Tony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin bravely trying to ward off the bear, ‘Bart the Bear delivered an outstanding performance and was paid in raw meat, bear whores, and cocaine.’

A brief scare did occur during filming. Hopkins, who was taking painkillers for a severe pinched nerve in his neck, went down with hypothermia after spending several hours in freezing water enacting the plane crash. Apparently, the painkillers were so deadening that he couldn’t feel the harsh, icy conditions. While in the hospital for the hypothermia, the pain from his neck without painkillers became so acute that an immediate operation was necessary. This caused a shutdown of production for several days. As you might imagine, with all of the genuine concerns for our star, the real relief for the studio execs came when they were assured that the entire incident was covered by insurance. The calls to Tony were ‘Get well soon, big guy,’ and the calls to us were ‘What’s our deductible, what’s our deductible?!’ The English-knighted Hopkins, who had yet to become an American citizen, showed his valor by maintaining a ‘stiff upper lip’ and soldiering on with a quiet smile.

One wrinkle, however, had a far-reaching and dampening effect on the morale of the whole shoot. The problem began ten days before principal photography – nothing so severe as careening off the side of a cliff at high speed, but still, for Lee and me, what was initially anticipated to be an idyllic summer-camp romp for grownups turned into a psychobabble set filled with hidden tensions.

Lee decided it would be a good idea to take one more look at the script. He called for a reading the following morning in the large conference facility that had been built for the 1988 Winter Olympics. A final script run-through would provide that last overview for the director to examine the material as a whole. There is an old showbiz maxim once shooting starts: From then on, making a movie is like eating an elephant with a teaspoon – one nibble at a time. One last look at the script can be a good idea. Since everyone in the room already had his or her respective job, these readings were usually relaxed and fun.

Tamahori, Elle Macpherson, who had landed the cameo of Hopkins’s trophy wife, Harold Perrineau, the photographer’s assistant, L.Q. Jones, the lodge owner, Don McAlpine, the cinematographer, the script girl, and I were seated around the conference table when Alec and Tony entered the room. For those working behind the scenes, seeing two stars together for the first time can be heady stuff. After the first week of photography the exhilaration quickly turns to work and becomes old hat, but in those first few days, we are reduced to hopeless fans. And in an odd way, you can sense that the performers feel the same sense of awe for each other.

I had just arrived from New York and I hadn’t seen Alec since that odd reading at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills several months before. Surprisingly, Alec was wearing a full beard. Not just your average beard; this beard had run amok. It looked as if he had entered a Grizzly Adams look-alike contest. I assumed he probably wanted to see what he was going to look like when he was stranded out in the wilds for several weeks. Like any diligent actor, particularly someone as intense as Alec, he was simply exploring the character. It had an interesting impact. Twenty pounds heavier than he had been at our lunch, and with the flowing gray beard, he had completely stripped himself of his leading-man looks. The effect made him look older than Hopkins. No longer the predatory good-looking lothario who was the character at the onset of the film, Alec looked like the beaten man who was to be bested by a bookworm out in the wilds. I thought, what a clever and effective way to explore the character by experiencing the end first.

As they started going through the script, Alec and Tony took the material to new heights. Even though Morse/Hopkins knows that Green/Baldwin has tried to kill him and steal his wife and money, toward the end of the sceenplay Morse still attempts to save the gravely wounded Green. The conference room was completely still:

MORSE: Don’t die on me, Bob.

GREEN: … I … I don’t feel, uh, uh, a hundred percent.

MORSE: Why don’t you save your strength?

GREEN: What’s the point of it, you see? I’m dying.

MORSE: Hold on, Bob. Hold on. I’ll make a fire …

GREEN: … Now I’m your pet project … Is that it Charles? I’m your hobby farm.

MORSE: That’s right, Bob.

GREEN: No. I know what it is … you never had a buddy. That’s the thing, isn’t it … ?

MORSE: … If you say so.

GREEN: Hey, why would you want to save a piece of shit like me?

MORSE: … Say it’s a challenge.

When all is lost and it’s clear that Green is not going to make it:

MORSE: Don’t die … Bob.

GREEN: (looking back with a smile) Charles, don’t tell me what to do.

Everyone applauded. Listening to these actors read Mamet’s stuff was like watching butter melt. We briefly talked about some minor script changes to take up with Mamet, and the reading was adjourned.

As Lee and I walked to our cars, we reviewed the situation:

‘They’re gonna be great, huh?’ I said.

‘Truly.’

‘What’s with the beard thing?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Did you tell him to shave?’

‘No.’

‘Lee, tell’m he can wear a beard at the end of the movie.’

‘I’m going to bring it up, but I haven’t done it yet.’

‘If he doesn’t shave, Fox will go nuts.’

‘We have a week. I’m sure he plans on shaving.’

‘I thought so when he walked in, y’know, sort of exploring the character blah blah, but after seeing him read, I sensed this is going to be his look.’

‘We got time.’

‘Lee, let me explain the Fox situation. They didn’t really want to hire this guy in the first place. Rothman kept wailing that he’s overpriced and Bill agreed. The guy cost five million dollars, for God’s sake.’

‘Hey, that’s your department.’

‘For that kind of money, they thought they’d at least bought a younger leading man to balance out Hopkins. If Mechanic thought Alec was going to enter this fight overweight, bearded, and old, his price would have been two free dinners at Spago and ten percent of the net.’

‘I’ll tell Alec tomorrow he’s got to shave.’

‘I got a bad feeling.’

‘He’s probably just getting into character.’

‘Here’s hopin’, ’cause Fox’s demographics for this movie will be limited to retirement villages in Boca Raton.’

‘I gotta go check on the mechanical bear.’

‘I can see the ad line now: “See Gabby Hayes run.”’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll shave.’

‘I hope so.’

It was a beautiful day in the Rockies. I decided to drive out to the lake to see how the construction of the lodge was progressing. I veered off Main Street, entered the highway next to the Bow Valley Trail, and drove directly into the mountains. As I turned on Canmore’s oldies rock station, I fully expected Creedence’s ‘Bad Moon Rising’ to come blasting through the speakers, confirming my paranoia. Since Alec’s relations with Lee and me were limited to occasional random, furtive glances, having to ask Alec, ‘That beard’s quite a look, what are we going to do about that?’ was, at the very least, unpleasant. I knew actors. My imagination for misery started to take on a life of its own. ‘If the son of a bitch doesn’t shave, it’s going to get ugly, it’s going to be a shit storm’ became the predominant head theme. I had to get a grip. Alec would surely realize that Green was supposed to go from slick New York fashion photographer to mountain man. Why was I obsessing about this? After all, we had more than a week before we burned some film, and there was no hard evidence that Alec was going to hold on to the Long Island Santa Claus look. At least not once he thought it through. This was much ado about nothing.

As I got closer to the lodge, the clean air and the exhilaration of the scenery overtook any darker thoughts. In fact, for a brief moment, I was consumed by the producer’s ultimate movie perk. To be in such a truly beautiful spot, watch a movie get made, and get paid for it was a sinful pleasure to be privately enjoyed. Don’t get me wrong, being able to occasionally tell an agent or an executive, ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to pass, go fuck yourself,’ was also a guilty pleasure that ranks high on the Hollywood ladder. But, the serenity of being in the middle of the majestic Rockies, on someone else’s dime, was the brass ring.

‘Motherfucker. MOTHERFUCKER!’

‘But, Alec, if you—’

‘MOTHERFUCKING movie PRODUCER. I knew this was coming, the bullshit Hollywood mentality telling ME … MOTHERFUCKER!’

Alec calmly placed his leather jacket on an empty chair near the rear wall of the wardrobe trailer. The two girls who were fitting him were directly in the line of fire. They remained frozen. It had been three days and Lee was unable to pop the question, so I finally jumped in with my best version of ‘When’s the beard gonna go?’ I looked over at Lee, who was seated next to me at the fitting table trying to absorb the magnitude of the explosion. It wasn’t quite the response for which we had hoped.

‘But … you get to grow the beard back once—’

‘No-talent, MOTHERFUCKING … How predictable to see that good old Hollywood INTEGRITY at work.’ He walked over to the wardrobe stand, feinted a kick, and then decided to let one go. The fitting girls fled from the trailer.

‘Integrity! Producer, my ass!’

My first thought, of course, was to say, ‘You asshole! I’m one of the guys who does the floors and windows so a schmuck like you can get your picture taken outside Mr. Chow’s. SO BLOW ME!’ But for lack of courage or just my genetic propensity to protect the bottom line, I tried to restrain myself.

‘Alec, if you want to talk about integrity … let’s talk about integrity. If YOU want to talk about INTEGRITY!’ But, there I went. Up, up, and away. I couldn’t help myself. I made the ultimate mistake. I began to take this personally. I led with my chin. ‘I’m willing to stack my last five pictures against your last five pictures. Let’s go.’

He slowly walked toward us. He looked at me, avoided Lee, and smashed his first directly in the middle of the makeshift table. It started to buckle. ‘Motherfucker,’ he whispered. Then with impeccable timing he turned and left the trailer.

Lee and I peered at each other, our faces knotted into twisted grins. Dignity was an affectation.

‘I don’t think he expects to shave,’ I said.

‘You can say that,’ Lee added.

I felt for Lee. Both of us knew that directing this guy, under these conditions, wasn’t going to be easy. I also felt for Alec. He had something in mind when he grew that beard. Even if we felt it was wrong, he was committed to it. Having to make a change like that becomes personal.

I called Mechanic to make him aware of the situation. He was unequivocal. If Alec didn’t cut the beard, we would shut down until he was replaced. Mechanic recommended Bill Pullman, who had just had a large part in Independence Day. Bill suggested that Pullman would probably love to work with Mamet material and with Hopkins and, more important, would probably do it for no money. I could tell that Mechanic was getting revved up about the thought of saving millions of dollars. Unfortunately, this choice wasn’t going to work for Lee or for me. With all of the impending horror, Alec was still a talented actor and we wanted him. Hell, his performance in the wardrobe trailer alone proved that he was perfect for the part.

Bill recommended that I draw the line in the sand with Alec’s agent, John Burnham from the William Morris office. We were running out of time. It was Thursday. Monday morning we were supposed to start shooting.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No, John, I’m not kidding.’

I could hear it in his voice, a slight death rattle. John, who was an experienced agent, knew what it meant to be the messenger of this kind of news. He had no choice. Alec was a mercurial client, but Alec paid lots of commissions. For several seconds John remained silent. I sensed the mental machinery churning. He was mulling, ‘Oh, I see … now I have to call my crazed client, a man who has the same affection for agents as Hitler had for Jews, and tell him to lop off his beard or he will be fired by the studio and sued for millions of dollars … piece a cake.’ It was Burnham who had convinced Alec to do the movie in the first place.

‘This can’t be happening.’

‘It’s definitely happening.’

‘Hey, let him wear his beard.’

‘Oh, I’m afraid we’re way past that.’

‘Yesterday everything was fine, how did we get WAY PAST THAT in one day?’

‘Mechanic thought Alec was overpriced anyway; he wouldn’t mind if Alec went south. Save some money.’

‘Have you told him about the shutting-down thing?’

‘No, John, he left before we had a chance.’

‘What about lawsuit? Did you mention the word lawsuit?’

‘I didn’t feel it was the right time.’

‘You mean I have to tell him?’

‘Yes.’

I could hear John’s breathing getting heavier. He knew he had to put on the blindfold and get a cigarette. I didn’t envy him.

‘Hey, that’s why you get the big bucks,’ I said, trying to lighten up the call.

‘I’ll get back to you.’

Click.

‘We got till Monday.’

Traditionally, the first day of shooting, getting that first shot in the can, was an exciting and tension-filled time. It was the signature that said, ‘This baby is launched.’ There would be no going back. After all of the nasty wrestling that it takes to get a movie set up, the first shot heralded that the movie was, for sure, going to get made. The studio usually sent you a basket of fruit or a leather folder. Past acrimony was replaced with sentiments of ‘break a leg’ or ‘knock ’em dead.’ Unfortunately, when Monday morning arrived, we were still uncertain if Alec was going to show up sans beard ready for work. Many calls were traded, but not even his lawyer knew where this was going. Were we to break out the champagne or shut the sucker down? By this time, the entire cast and crew were invested in the suspense.

As we were huddled by the frozen lake preparing to film the first setup, Alec finally arrived in a large SUV and quickly walked into his trailer. Lee and I only caught a glimpse, but he was clean-shaven. The crew was about to cheer but they knew better. Our feelings were mixed. We were pleased that we were going to get on with it but pained that with Alec so pissed off the next ten weeks could be difficult. I remember when he finished with hair and makeup and arrived on the set. I tried to stand off in the distance slightly hidden by one of the large fir trees. I didn’t want my presence to come off as gloating. As the first shot between Hopkins, Alec, and Harold Perrineau was in final rehearsal by the camera, I couldn’t help but notice that when Lee was talking, Alec would look only at Hopkins. Direct eye contact between Tamahori and Baldwin was nonexistent for the remainder of the shoot. As for my appearances on the set, I remained one hundred feet from Alec at all times, as if I had been served with a restraining order.

Once this impasse got reduced to what Hollywood classically calls ‘a dick-waving incident,’ the downward spiral of tensions became irreversible. I suppose there was no sense grousing about it; I should have found a way to avoid it. In the end, Alec’s performance was applauded as truly excellent. John Burnham paid the price by losing his client. The oddest admission of all, however, is that, looking back, I am not convinced that Alec’s performance or the ultimate box office fate of the movie would have been affected by the beard one way or the other.

Months later, I asked an actor friend of mine why Alec would have been so insistent on not shaving his beard. What sort of funky Stanislavsky decision would make him so committed? My friend said, without hesitation, ‘Alec probably thought he was a little too heavy and he didn’t like the way his chin looked.’

SIX

Bookwormed

‘The Bookworm is a terrible title. Bookworm is a terrific title,’ Mamet was beseeching me on the phone, but apparently he wasn’t getting my drift.

‘Let me explain myself. Fox’s marketing division doesn’t like The Bookworm, Bookworm, Green Bookworm, Any Sorta Bookworm.’

‘Bookworm is a good title.’

‘They want to change it.’

‘Isn’t this a little late in the game?’

‘It’s very late in the game, we open in three months.’

‘They’re ridiculous.’

‘They never let you down.’

‘What’s the next step?’

‘They’re making up lists.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We think of another name or they think of another name.’

‘I like Bookworm.’

‘I know. Unfortunately, it’s not going to pass the shopping-center test.’

‘I see.’

‘Dave, I know it’s hard to believe that, after all of this work, one’s fate can be sealed by a group of pet-store owners in a suburb.’

‘Ain’t it so.’

Once a movie is completed, it gets turned over, so to speak, to the ‘marketing’ wizards whose job it is to sell the movie. These people try to figure out the best plan to convince tens of millions of people to leave their houses, park their cars, wait in line, pay their money, and sit through a movie on the opening weekend. If people collectively decide not to come out on that first Friday night, the movie sinks like a rock and ends up in video bins. Marketing seems like a heady, volatile job with much reponsibility. With all of the precarious success and failure of movies, you would think that the people who have these jobs would get hired and fired like fast-food cooks, but nothing could be further from the truth. If a movie fails miserably, they may execute the director, the writer, or the producer at sunrise (leaving them at the least on life support, hoping to get another chance), but as it turns out, the only one safer than a studio head is the head of marketing. It’s never his fault.

How so? Without getting too tedious, marketing approaches most releases with what I refer to as the ‘diminished expectations method.’ After seeing the picture for the first time, the head of marketing (who in this case is Robert Harper) usually scratches his head, proclaims that this movie’s going to be a tough one to sell, but that they’ll do their level best to pull the rabbit out of the hat. This, of course, puts the filmmakers and the film executives on their heels because after all the work that has been done, if you can’t sell the thing, the whole process becomes a hopeless exercise. It’s as if the surgeon comes out in the middle of the operation, shaking his head saying, ‘I’m gonna have to dig deep on this one, pull out all the stops, and then sew him back up. I don’t know, but this might be a good time for prayer.’ If the patient lives, the doctor is a hero. If the worst occurs, it was God’s will, a patient who had no good reason to live. The doctor, always blameless, simply goes on to the next patient.

Bob Harper has been at Fox for over fifteen years. He took a brief time-out to try his hand at movie producing, but like his cohort Tom Rothman smartly scurried back to the safe asylum of corporate security. At first glance you’re struck by his calmness. Always casually dressed in the latest Banana Republic uniform, he conducts his meetings while occasionally taking practice putts on his carpet. Even though he was a minnow in the News Corp food chain, back in his secluded set of offices he was, to quote Tom Wolfe, ‘master of his universe.’ Except for the occasional blockbuster or a mega result from an preordained sequel, most of the movies that Harper devises campaigns for fail. This fact is ameliorated by the larger fact that most movies fail. Harper was accustomed to dying on Friday night only to be reborn on Monday morning ready to service the next Fox movie waiting to come out.

I noticed that Harper looked ten years younger than his age. Come to think of it, the marketeers at other studios also had that youthful glow of imperturbability. Harper was clearly onto something. His fountain of youth was knowing how to duck. If a movie worked, it was a goddamn great campaign. If a movie failed, well, you get the drill, the movie had an incurable cancer. He had properly warned all concerned that he had tried his best. If required, he was able to act as if he were truly saddened by the film’s demise. He didn’t get all misty-eyed, but he wanted the filmmakers to believe that this loss was his loss too. It was always a helluva performance.

After Harper saw an early rough cut of Bookworm, he told me that it was a very good movie (there’s that good word cropping up again), but, of course, he had some grave concerns. I’m quite sure he gave the same response to Chernin, Mechanic, Rothman, et al First, he said we were going to have to do something about that title, since his gut told him that it was going to turn people off. I asked whether the title should be tested, but Harper said testing titles was a waste of time. He didn’t trust the results. ‘You can test movies or trailers or even one sheets [movie posters] at random shopping malls,’ he said, ‘but not titles.’ When he uttered the word Bookworm, his face would pucker as if he were trying to rid himself of the remnants of a fart. He said, in this case, ‘I have to trust my insides.’ Mechanic and Rothman shared his vision.

And, by the way, Harper wanted everyone to know that this was going to be a difficult movie to sell. The demographics were shit. Hadn’t we realized that the favorable audience for Tony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin skewed over thirty? And surely, everyone knew that movies with lots of action skewed under thirty. No getting around it, action was our soup du jour. Just when we begin to care for the photographer’s assistant, our bear viciously rips him to pieces and eats him. According to my calculations, if Harper’s analyses were right, there would be no age group interested in seeing this movie. Oops, does this sound familiar? This was exactly what Mechanic had said before we ever started to make this picture.

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.

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.

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.

‘I can’t make this movie without a star,’ Rothman said. Little white flecks of foam were forming on the corners of his mouth.

Another odd tic that occurs when an executive is given the sweatshirt of authority is the use of the word I instead of you or even we when referring to the making of movies. To be fair, this astonishing exhibition of self-confusion was not limited to Rothman. In fact, it’s rare to find an executive these days who will not say things like ‘Two years ago when I made [fill in the famous title of your choice] blah blah blah.’ Directors and writers, who actually do the prodigious work for these guys, have to patiently listen to this drivel with their eyes glazed over waiting to pick up the money. Executives simply confuse making a committee business decision with making a movie. I think it makes them feel artsy.

‘Maybe we can find a star to play a cameo?’ I asked.

‘Like who?’

‘What about Robert De Niro to play the convict.’

Alfonso grinned. I thought he was about to jump up and say, ‘Olé.’

‘I like Bobby,’ Rothman declared.

Bobby. Bobby! A minute before getting this job, Rothman would have been saying, ‘Mr. De Niro, can I please freshen your drink?’ Now, even though they had never met, he was already calling him ‘Bobby.’

He couldn’t help himself. This kind of congenital weirdness gets distributed with the parking space on the Fox lot. As time went on for Rothman, and the attendant pressures of the job expanded, things would start to even out. Insecurities and disappointments would erode the confidence of the most successful of these executives. After some of my movies came out, particularly the ones that were not successful, Rothman’s behavior took a strange bent. He began to remind me of a guy standing uncomfortably at his desk with the barrel of a .357 Magnum pressed tightly to his temple, threatening everyone in the room, ‘If you come any closer, I am going to pull the trigger.’

You remember six months earlier, when I was talking to Robert De Niro at the Peninsula Hotel about doing The Edge and he had some major concerns about acting with a mechanical bear? Well, undaunted and in the best tradition of Sammy Glick, I rolled up my other sleeve and revealed a different kind of timepiece that might catch his eye.

‘You remember Great Expectations?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m just asking, do you remember Great Expectations?’

‘I think so.’

‘The Dickens thing.’

‘Of course, I know.’

‘Do you remember the convict who ends up being the benefactor?’

‘Vaguely, I think so.’

‘Well …’

‘Well what?’

‘Oh. We’re developing it into a modern-day movie.’

‘Good.’

‘The convict’s gonna be a great part.’

‘It doesn’t have a bear in it, does it?’

‘No bear.’

‘I might get interested.’

‘How interested?’

‘How many days?’

‘I don’t know, the script isn’t done yet.’

‘How many days do you think?’

‘Well, it’s a substantial cameo, goes throughout the movie.’

‘How many days?’

Bob was trying to find out if the studio would be willing to compress the convict’s schedule. This means shooting all of the scenes with the convict consecutively, then interspersing those scenes throughout the film during the editing. The advantage to Bob would be that he could get all of his work done in a short time and still make the same amount of money. Maybe, he would have time to fit in another movie while this one was still shooting. This can put great strain on the production. By shooting out of sequence, the ability to change things that might not work is always compromised. Sets and locations often have to be duplicated. It often adds considerable costs to the overall budget. Nonetheless, if you want or need an actor badly enough, you learn to dance on a pinhead. Based on my preliminary meetings with Fox, I knew that we were going to need De Niro or somebody else just as significant.

‘Who knows, if we compress the convict’s schedule, maybe seven to nine days.’

‘Seven days. I could get very interested.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

From Bob this was almost a commitment. I was tempted to do something foolish like say ‘We’re not going to need a read-through on this one, are we?’ But, I sensed that for whatever made him tick, Great Expectations was something that would fit into his master plan. I knew I was one big step closer to getting a movie made.

I’d like to say that Ethan Hawke was my first choice for Pip, that I saw all his movies and loved them, that I fought the studio like a producer with great integrity, and that finally, against all odds, I got them to commit to the underdog. Not the case. John and I would spend endless hours going over wish lists, but the pickings were slim. We were hoping for Brad Pitt or even Keanu Reeves, but they turned us down flat. Many of the young actors out there who were excellent and who had sufficient standing to help us get the movie financed were not responding. When I got the call from Bryan Lourd at CAA that Ethan was willing, I was relieved. I knew that Ethan was enough of an actor on the rise to stimulate Fox, especially with the spice that De Niro’s flirtation provided. John and I had some concerns, but after so many turndowns, it was no longer time to focus on artistic chemistry. I had shifted into full producer mode: Let’s get this movie made no matter what. Ethan was a good actor. Trying to marshal all of my optimism, I thought maybe he could carry the movie.

I kept De Niro current with the progress of the script, and meanwhile, he did his homework. Bob always did his homework. He saw the David Lean movie. He read through the Dickens book. When the script was ready, he read it and reconfirmed his enthusiasm. One last hurdle. I waited anxiously for Bob to come out of the screening of A Little Princess, knowing he had to approve of Alfonso.

‘What do you think?’

‘Uh … seven days is good.’

NINE

I’m Driving a Pinto

Sarasota, Florida, is particularly hot in July. When you have less money to spend on a movie than your director wants to spend, it feels even hotter. I made several proclamations before we started filming. I told Alfonso that I would get him lots of money to make this movie. I told Bill Mechanic that we could do this movie in sixty-two days and we would stay on budget. I told Alfonso, who wanted more work on the script as the start date neared, that Mitch would be available and willing to accommodate him and that we could get this work done while we were shooting. Disagreements or artistic differences would be no problem; I would be there to referee. When Ethan Hawke said that he also had script concerns, I smiled and told him we welcomed his input. When the cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki (A Little Princess, Birdcage, Sleepy Hollow), nicknamed Chivo, registered much concern about the size of his lighting package and the pace of the schedule, I told him not to worry. We would find a way to make it all work. Also born and raised in Mexico, Chivo, who looked like an undernourished Kenny G, was, like his childhood amigo, a ‘perfectionist.’ No matter how good things were going, he always had that hapless expression ‘You’re killing me, can’t you see, you’re killing me.’ You know where this is going. Somebody was going to get pissed off. Maybe everybody.

Perfectionist is a nasty word. I remember when Michael Mann was in the middle of shooting Heat. He had just completed the bank robbery sequence in downtown Los Angeles, which had taken longer to film than any other bank robbery in the history of cinema. We were desperately over schedule. Arnon Milchan, one of the investors with Warner Bros., came to the set with his entourage to try to convince Michael to pick up the pace. While we were waiting in Mann’s trailer for him to break for lunch, Arnon asked me if there was anything in the schedule that Michael could shorten to get back on time. ‘Gosh, I don’t know, Arnon; you know Michael, he’s a perfectionist.’ The mere use of the word made the entire group physically ill. Even I felt a little shaky. While to some it might have conjured up unyielding artistic integrity, to the bank it screamed, ‘I don’t understand the word compromise. Secure your knee pads.’ Michael entered the trailer. Arnon repeated his plea while Michael quietly listened. He even occasionally nodded with concern for Arnon’s predicament. Finally Michael stood up, looked at his watch, and said, ‘I’m afraid lunch is only thirty minutes. If I don’t get back now, we’re going to fall another day behind.’

The temperature in southwest Florida was in the nineties and the air was thick with humidity. Alfonso and I were standing in front of the large Venetian Gothic mansion, Ca d’Zan, on Sarasota Bay, which was going to serve as our primary location. This imposing structure had lavish gardens and a slightly nutty touch, probably because it was built by one of the circus Ringling brothers. Over the last ten years it has remained a minor tourist attraction for the dispossessed. For our purposes, the location was to serve as the crumbling estate of Ms. Dinsmoor, the eccentric rich aunt of Estella (Gwyneth). The descriptive line in the script read, ‘Paradiso Perduto [the name of the crumbling estate] is the land that time forgot.’ Alfonso took this line seriously. He spent tens of thousands of dollars transforming the well-kept structure and the meticulous gardens into twenty years of dilapidated rot. Following the script, remnants of a wedding that had never taken place were now decaying in a vast garden covered with dead palm fronds and overgrown brush. All that was missing were live rats, but they were on order.

‘Come here, I want to show you the wedding cake,’ Alfonso said excitedly as we walked through the maze of the garden. He was content. He had finally snagged De Niro for the convict, cast Anne Bancroft for the eccentric aunt, and added two wonderful actors, Hank Azaria and Chris Cooper, to join Hawke and Paltrow. Glazer was turning out different variations on the script. And we were spending money at a furious pace, trying to keep up with his imagination. It was getting tight.

As we sidestepped a grand piano encrusted in mud, leaning awkwardly against a busted bandstand, I said, ‘I think you’ve just about done it, don’t you?’

‘Ees going to be great, I think, huh?’

‘I think it’s great now.’

‘Don’t worry, we’re almost there.’

Two women and a man all dressed identically in khaki Bermuda shorts strolled on the grounds taking photographs. One of the crew motioned for them to stop, and as they started to walk away, the man turned to us, held his nose, and said disappointedly, ‘Boy, they’ve really let this place go downhill, haven’t they?’

We both nodded and smiled.

‘See, it’s making them sick. I think we’re there,’ I said.

It was a couple of weeks before we were to start photography, and considering that costs were already bursting, the mood from Fox was remarkably quiet. I soon learned why we seemed to be flying under the radar. A month and a half before we started photography, Titanic began filming. The scale and the costs of that movie were so immense that until we got into real trouble, no one at Fox paid any attention to us. We were the little Negro stepchild who occasionally needed another pair of shoes, while the other kid was off building a nuclear bomb. When the name James Cameron was uttered above a whisper, Mechanic, Rothman, et al. would jerk their heads upward and downward as if they were jolted by a fire drill. When we completed the first eight days of shooting, we were already a week behind schedule, and no one from Fox had even called us.

Let me take an ugly left turn for a moment, if for no other reason but to keep both of us enthused. Mechanic and Rothman didn’t tell Cuarón or me that a pivotal scene in Titanic – one that centered the entire romance in the film – was identical to one in our movie. Whether it was a grand coincidence or an accidental stealing or something even darker, I don’t know. Both main characters were burgeoning young artists hired by the rich girl to be drawn nude, resulting in love, romance, and sex. We never saw the Titanic script, but if you look at both movies, it would be clear that Fox had to hold our little movie from release until the monster drank first. If we had anything fresh to offer, it was preempted. We were steamrolled.

By the time we were in release, critics, and no doubt half the paying audience, were commenting that this must be the year of the young artist who paints his girlfriend naked. But since we didn’t have enough money, or the inclination, to sink an ocean liner, this love story was our best shot, our only shot. By the time Great Expectations was seen, Titanic had already grossed five hundred million dollars. I admit that the big boat going down was their denouement. Nonetheless, when Gwyneth removes her shoes, unhooks her bra, slides off her panties, and asks a twittering Ethan, ‘Do you want me standing or sitting?’ what else could the audience feel but ‘been there, done that.’ We were as fresh as an I Love Lucy rerun.

‘What sort of twisted logic would get you to compare Titanic to whatever you’re doing?’ Jerry asked.

‘There was a run on young artists as a theme. No one told us.’

‘Get over it.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’

‘Oh, boy.’

‘What?’

‘A movie producer that pretends, oh, that’s good.’

‘Facts are facts, Jerry.’

‘I believe you’re taking this whole thing too personal.’

‘That’s very accurate.’

‘Weren’t you the one that said a producer is merely the mayonnaise?’

‘Well, thank you for remembering.’

‘Mayonnaise!?’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘What exactly—’

‘It means we’re supposed to—’

‘I know what’t means.’

‘Supposed to make things go more smoothly.’

‘I think your exact words were, “Producers are the mayonnaise between the talent and the money on the way to making a shit sandwich.”’

‘Not exactly how I put it, Jerry.’

‘Do you know what happens when you leave mayonnaise out in the sun?’

‘Gosh, let me guess … it goes off,’ I uttered, continuing to be Laurel to his Hardy.

‘If I were you, I’d be spending more time in the shade.’

That made him laugh. I took a big gulp of the Chianti.

‘My God, don’t they serve hard liquor here?’ he asked.

‘Only wine.’

We were seated in the center of Giorgio’s, a small Italian restaurant located at the mouth of the Santa Monica Canyon across from the Pacific Coast Highway. Sandwiched between a gay bar and a bikini shop, Giorgio’s is a tiny hot spot that caters to the famous and tries its best to cater to the less than famous. The waiter, reminiscent of Joe Pesci down on his luck, had just brought the obligatory free starter of shaved octopus with steamed potato. While he started to run through the specials, Jerry, now in rare form, was mocking the waiter with macho Italian hand gestures. Actually, I’m not sure what he was doing. He grabbed his balls with his left hand, stiffened his right forearm, and made a fist. I guess Jerry was getting a bit too heady from sitting at such a prime table. Even Giorgio waved to him from the kitchen, figuring that he must be somebody. Jerry was so splendidly out of the loop that his eccentricities seemed comical. I indulged him.

‘Don’tcha think,’ Jerry said, ‘the water level for producers is getting irrepressibly low?’

‘You may be right.’

‘Mind if I’m direct?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘If you didn’t have Bob De Niro’s home phone number, you might not have much of a producing career.’

‘Oh, that’s gone too far.’

‘Hey, according to you, you’d send a script about an all-girls school to De Niro. What’s with that?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You think you’d get that masterpiece of yours made if you only had Joe Mantegna’s number?’

‘Bob was good casting.’

‘Who cares?’

‘It was an artistic choice.’

‘Oh, let’s not go artistic again.’

‘What would you call it, Jerry?’

‘Desperation.’

‘I think not.’

‘What happened to the producer’s motto “I saw, I conquered, I came.”’

‘We’ve grown up.’

‘Hoo haa. Hoo haa.’

There he goes again with that bad Pacino imitation, and again he started banging the table trying to control himself. Elena, Giorgio’s daughter, who ran the room, looked over, concerned. She backed off when I held up my hand indicating that all was cool. This was going to be a long night. I was suddenly feeling a pang of regret that I didn’t do drugs anymore. I had to pace myself. Anyway, Jerry’s credibility was in the margins. That caustic bastard. He was burnt. Hell, there was a lot more to this producing thing than just getting ‘Bobby’ on the phone. Wasn’t there?

The grind had begun.

I was on a plane returning from Canmore, Canada, to Miami, Florida. It was my third trip in the last four weeks. I had just gone through the horrendous beard incident with Alec Baldwin, and my nerves were brittle. I had waved good-bye, leaving Baldwin clean-shaven, fat, and pissed off, and Lee Tamahori unsettled—although they both had Elle Macpherson around for company. That’s right, if you’ve been paying attention, both The Edge (that bear movie) and Great Expectations were shooting at the same time. This required a lot of traveling and a lot of accommodating.

The thunderstorms in Miami forced air traffic control to keep us spinning and bouncing for an extra hour before landing. I soon found out that it mirrored what was happening on the ground. Over the last few weeks, with the pressure building, Alfonso was getting racked. When filming was going well and dailies looked fine, he was excited and motivated. When things got rocky, he got rocky. When you’re in the middle of the stampede, and you’re a new director, all kinds of monsters can surface. Usually, the director gets sick during filming and has to work with the flu for several weeks. In that sort of weakened state, directors are manageable. It was too soon to know how Alfonso was going to fare, but his health was fine. As the plane jerked on the tarmac, I had the ugly recognition that the real ‘tough’ stuff hadn’t even begun.

The initial problems on the set were minor and typical. Chivo and Alfonso were having a hard time getting the day’s work done and were blaming it on weather, sun, shadows, and of course, not enough money or time. That first week of shooting is a shakedown cruise. It is always a bit unpredictable how the crew, the director, and the cast are going to mesh. Sometimes it takes a week or two for the machinery to run smoothly. When I arrived on the set, Cuarón and Chivo were huddled off to one side speaking Spanish. They would speak Spanish to each other when frustrations peaked, and they would speak English when things were going swell. When I saw John, he told me that they hadn’t spoken English with each other for three days.

‘We have to find a way to go faster,’ I said.

‘But the light ees killing us.’

‘We’re behind—’

‘I know, I know.’

‘But we haven’t even burnt film on our stars yet.’

‘That’s a good thing, no?’

‘No, it isn’t a good thing.’

Our schedule required that we start with Gwyneth’s and Ethan’s characters when they first met as ten-year-old children. For those of you who saw the film, it included those scenes where the boy was first smitten, when they had their first kiss by the fountain, etc. Usually, when your principal actors are working, things will go even slower, and that we were already falling behind was a bit concerning. Even though Fox was leaving us alone for now, we would certainly have to pay the price at the end of the schedule. Important things that we would need down the road would be compromised. I didn’t want to waste all of our extra time on the first week of shooting. It was difficult to explain this to Alfonso because he was knee-deep in the heat of battle.

‘It rains, then it suns; it rains, then it suns.’

‘It’s Florida,’ I said.

‘The script needs more work.’

‘Mitch is here to work on it.’

‘Maybe we need more money.’

‘We just started.’

‘You said when we first talked that we would have lots of money.’

‘We do have a lot …’

‘Maybe we need more.’

‘Maybe we can’t get more.’

‘Well, I thought we would be driving a Rolls-Royce.’

‘What are we driving?’

‘A Pinto.’

This wasn’t as scary as it sounded. The dailies looked magnificent. The performances as well as the photography were a cut above. Cuarón was quickly exhibiting the skills of a good director. I was sure that his worries would recede as the production continued.

The Dickensian name of Pip was discarded early by Mitch, who renamed him Pompi in the earliest of his drafts. Cuarón, who struggled with the name Pompi, got Mitch to change it to Jimmy. Ethan, who had been prepping in Florida for several weeks, and who was deliberating over the ‘right’ wig to make him look sixteen for the early scenes, was also concerned with the ‘right’ name for his character. When Ethan started rehearsals, he didn’t like either name. He told us he was going to work on it. Two days before photography began, Ethan decided the character’s name had to be changed to Finn. No one particularly liked this choice (I truly hated it) but, call it jet lag, pathetic capitulation to your lead actor, or being distracted by other problems, we decided to go with Finn. I heard later that it was the name of a dog that Ethan had had when he was growing up in Texas.

Weeks later, things got worse. I called Mitch in the middle of one of his rewrites to tell him that I had just seen Ethan’s wig.

‘What did you think?’

‘It ain’t making him look younger.’

‘That’s not good.’

‘It’s got that queasy look to it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It makes him look like a recovering cancer victim.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘I was subtle, I grimaced.’

‘Did he notice?’

‘No.’

‘I think you should tell him.’

‘I know.’

I was clearly losing it. After the Baldwin beard confrontation I was starting to leak oil. My compass needle was spinning. I was contracting the disease that made me feel that maybe these guys knew better than me.

The police should have put me on producer’s suspension.

A larger issue, and one that can profoundly haunt a production, is if a director starts shooting and then loses confidence in the script. This does not necessarily mean that the script is flawed. For months prior to the start date, Alfonso, Mitch, and I (and even Ethan) had worked on the script, making significant changes throughout. The hope is always that those early script concerns are worked out well ahead of time so that when the scenes are shot, they can be executed with confidence. Of course, rewrites are quite common during photography, but when they start to engulf the production, indecision and turmoil can result.

For those of you who have not seen the title page of a script after it has been filmed, ours looked like this:

Notice the lower right corner. That is a list of revisions that took place, most of which occurred while we were shooting. There were many more rewrites, but these were the ones that made it into the script. If you examine the page closely, you see that the reworked pages of each revision were printed on a different color. I especially liked the salmon-colored pages. By the time De Niro was shooting his death scene, there were so many changes that the spine of the script looked psychedelic. From a producing standpoint, the impact of this can be immense. Naturally, with this much reexamination going on, a lot of disagreements emerge between the director and the writer. The producer, who also has a minor vote in all of this, helps to negotiate these issues. All of this occurs while the movie company is straining to get the day’s work done and the actors are pleading for new pages so they can prepare.

Producers tend to approach this problem in different ways. I prefer to keep going with the writer that I started with, using that popular sports theory that it is best to stay with the player who got you there. In this case, Glazer’s script got us to the starting gate. Other producers and directors prefer to use multiple writers, hoping to bring in different points of view. It is not uncommon for a movie to have exhausted ten writers and more to complete the job.

Often, the director doesn’t even want the original writer around. His mere presence on the set becomes a distraction. When this happens, the neglected writer is either sequestered in a small section of a trailer trying to knock off pages, or he’s left huddling by the crafts service truck eating doughnuts and making friends with grips and assorted workers from electrical.

On the other hand, some screenwriters simply refuse to visit a set. They can smell the impending ostracism. When we were doing The Untouchables, De Palma and I needed additional work from Mamet. I hoped to lure him by inviting him to Chicago. My thinking, of course, was that once David saw Sean Connery, Kevin Costner, and De Niro, the enthusiasm of the crew, and the beautiful production designs, he would get juiced up and jump in with some new pages. No chance. If I remember correctly, his response was something simple. Something like ‘No.’ When I suggested that he might have some fun dropping by, no writing required, it was as if the phone went dead. The silence continued until I said, ‘Okay, I think I know how you feel about this.’ I personally believe if you are trying to make a movie of substance, singularity of voice leads to the best results. When things are working correctly, the writer can give a movie as much cohesiveness as the director, and they both benefit from their collaboration.

It seems like several hundred years since Cameron Crowe wrote and Amy Heckerling directed Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Perhaps because of a dimming memory that’s receding like a flushed toilet, or maybe because of the lingering ill effects from too many bad substances, I recall the making of that movie as a sunny and fresh experience. It was Cameron’s first screenplay and it was Amy’s first shot at directing a feature movie. They were wide-eyed, and so was I. In fact, it was so early on in my career that I still wanted to be a producer whom others could lean on.

Once Cameron finished the first draft, it was patently evident that his take on teen life in high school was authentic. He had spent a year infiltrating his high school and was able to mainline the source of his characters. Mind you, the studio was slightly horrified by the explicitness of the material, but the costs were so low that we were able to fly under the line of fire. Even though Amy, who was also a budding writer, wanted changes and adjustments to the script, Cameron had to be the guy who was going to see it through. He became a fixture on the set. As a result, many classic moments were created after filming began.

For those who want examples, three weeks into the shooting of Fast Times, when even the most nearsighted of executives were noticing that Sean Penn was stealing the movie, I did what any producer who was still breathing would do: I asked for more Spicoli scenes. Cameron, who was trailing the action and at our disposal at all times, came up with a few sequences, all of which ended up in the final cut. My favorite was a flashback with sportscaster Stu Nahan interviewing Jeff Spicoli after Spicoli had dreamed that he won the Hawaiian surfing championship. In the scene, Spicoli, buzzed on THC, clad in surfing shorts and Hawaiian leis and sandwiched between two perfect Southern California girls, is holding an oversize surf trophy. It was originally written for Spicoli to be a guest on the Merv Griffin Show, but Merv refused the part because of the drug references. When Nahan was the ‘best’ that we could get, Cameron readjusted the scene to accommodate the moment.

STU NAHAN: You know a lot of people expected Mark ‘Cutback’ Davis or Bob ‘Jungle’ Gerard would take the honors this year.

JEFF SPICOLI: Those guys are FAGS!!!

STU NAHAN: That’s fantastic … Let me ask you a question … When you get out there, do you ever fear for your life?

JEFF SPICOLI: Well, Stu, I’ll tell you, surfing is not a sport, it’s a way of life … no hobby … it’s a way of looking at that wave and saying, ‘HEY, BUD, LET’S PARTY!’

Staying with the screenwriter who got you there has its rewards.

When things got hairy on Great Expectations, rightly or wrongly, I was committed that Mitch should stay the course. I advised Alfonso that if he wanted changes, he should work with Mitch until he was satisfied. This process started early during preproduction and continued through filming. Somewhere in the centrifugal force of the collaboration, signs of differences were starting to surface. It wasn’t that the screenplay wasn’t working or that Alfonso’s choices were wrong, it was that there seemed to be, at the core, a tonal difference among all of us in the way the movie was to be expressed. To put it simply, we were rarely on the same page.

The first hint that the differences were more than subtle occurred at the beginning of the schedule when we were shooting the scene of Finn, as a ten-year-old, when he falls hard for the ice princess Estella. The scene was originally filled with ten-year-olds’ banter. Some good, some awkward. Alfonso replaced the scene with swirling tracking shots. In his attempt to make their first encounter more magical, he left out the dialogue completely, which he felt, I assumed, pulled against the intensity of the moment.

The situation became clear. Mitch’s take was more comical and conversational; Alfonso’s version was more visual and romantically seductive. A collision was inevitable. As we delved further into the film, Alfonso increasingly went for the visual moments. He either avoided the dialogue or kept insisting that Mitch rewrite much of it. What was interesting as the producer (the mayo) in this situation was that I had no particular point of view on who had the better approach. Mitch, being a close personal friend of mine, was encouraged by me, implored by me, to stay in the trenches. Which he did. I felt we had to try to accommodate Alfonso. The director, after all, is the final eye between the performance and what ends up on film. Hell, he must be accommodated. We were deep in the middle of shooting a movie. The alternative would be to get another writer, a move I was loath to make. To stay the course was to put two cats in a small paper bag.

With the pressure of the schedule and the ever-present fear that we might be making a heaping pile of garbage, the director gets openly temperamental. And so does everyone else. When things were going swell, Alfonso was charming and gracious. When things got ugly, he lurched out and blamed the script, the cast, and of course, the producer. It got so fucking weird that Alfonso, as time went on, would demand more and more pages and Mitch would keep writing. Mitch would bring pages to the set, and Alfonso, reading them in his director’s chair, would let the pages fall slowly to the ground, one at a time, to show his displeasure. Mitch looked at me with that baleful expression ‘I got married at your house, asshole … do something!’ I looked back nonplussed, thinking, ‘Who do I have to fuck to get off this set?’ This did not augur well for ongoing working relationships. Mitch was disappointed with me for not completely supporting his effort, which is another way of saying ‘This director is destroying my script.’ Alfonso was disappointed with me for not helping him get the script exactly as he wanted it or enough money to make the masterpiece he was carrying around in his head. The studio was disappointed with me because we were over schedule and over budget, and I was disappointed that I ever got in the middle of this in the first place.

De Niro, as you might have assumed, enjoyed the experience immensely. He did end up, however, working more than seven days. I believe it was closer to twelve days, but this was hardly burdensome. He showed up at the beginning of the schedule in Florida, surprising us all with a shaved head, and went on to portray the escaped convict with his customary precision. Months later, at the very end of the schedule, he returned to the set for his death scenes. Unwittingly, he missed the agonizing middle.

By the time we were shooting nights in downtown Manhattan, everybody’s nerves, except for his, were on red alert. De Niro’s painstaking preparation for this sequence of scenes was taking several hours—something we had not taken into account when we planned the schedule. The crew was already in their final death dance. This phenomenon happens to all crews as a movie winds down. Their concentration already deadened and their eyes sunken from the ennui, they had begun their incessant chatter with each other about their next job, stopping only when Cuarón or I would brush past them on our way to the set. If the company were shooting in a swamp, we might have moved faster.

Bob was almost finished with his makeup when I entered his trailer. His long, gray-haired wig was in place, but only half of his full beard was stuck on. With the exposed padding around his waist, which was added to give him age, the overall look was almost clownlike. I had been pacing for the last half hour hoping my presence would speed things up. Ilona, De Niro’s makeup artist extraordinaire, was slowly fussing with his beard. Out of frustration, I wanted to grab the glue and stick the fucker on myself. She looked at me warm and calm as if to say, ‘Isn’t making movies fun?’ As I tried to tell Bob of all the pressure I’d been subjected to, how horrible the life of a producer was, he looked at me quizzically. I wasn’t sure he was actually listening. I felt like Al Jolson on bended knee about to sing ‘Mammy.’

‘No more time, babe,’ I said, looking at his reflection in the makeup mirror. ‘We got no more time.’

‘That’s why you’re great,’ he said.

‘Bob, you don’t get it.’

‘Do you want Ilona to make you something to eat?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘We scheduled this scene of yours in two days … and the way we’re goin’ …’

‘That’s why you’re great.’

‘I need this one, Bob.’

‘That’s why you’re great. I tell everyone.’

He smiled. He knew. It was going to be over when it was going to be over. We ended up losing another three days. The studio was freaked. Rothman even showed up on the set. He was wearing a baseball hat backward, but to no avail. The crew kept whispering, ‘There’s the suit, there’s the suit.’ By this time Rothman knew it was too late to salvage the schedule; he was just hoping to get an introduction to Gwyneth Paltrow.

De Niro, of course, impervious to it all, died with grace and style as a bum on a New York subway car and was paid like a king.

Throughout, the dailies looked excellent, but the internal chaos had had a broader effect, one not easily detected during filming. When the editing of the picture was completed, some holes remained in the story. I still don’t know if it was because of undetected glitches in Glazer’s script or because of Cuarón’s ceaseless reworking of the script, but the connective tissue that linked the story was sorely lost. It became apparent that we would have to supply narration to smooth the transitions and to provide a Dickensian shading to the final cut. Again, I encouraged Mitch and Alfonso to take a crack at it and see if they could work together. Once the pressures of filming had ceased, Alfonso had considerably mellowed, but the damage was done. Putting Mitch and him in the same room was just too sweaty. Even though they attempted to lick it, Mitch, understandably, didn’t have the heart for it and the effort was compromised.

I called David Mamet.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Nothin’.’

‘Good. I got an idea.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I need your help.’

‘Like a charity thing.’

‘Not quite.’

‘This help, do I get paid for it, or does “help” mean I don’t get paid?’

‘The latter.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, maybe I can get you a little money.’

‘Okay, what is it?’

‘D’you remember me telling you I’m producing Great X?’

‘Yes, that’s why you couldn’t be in Canada the whole time looking after our bear movie.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well?’

‘I need you to write some narration.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘The thing is crying for help.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Consider it a favor.’

‘Send it to me.’

‘I already did, you’ll have a tape of it tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’

‘Dave … I need this one.’

‘If I do this … if I do this … hear me, I don’t want anyone to know.’

‘You have my word.’

All right. Here’s a bit of the narration that opened the picture. The last line seems to have a prophetic resonance.

There either is or is not a Way Things Are. The color of the day, the way it felt to be a child, the feeling of salt water on your sunburned legs.

Sometimes the water is yellow and sometimes it is red.

But what color it may be in memory depends upon that day. I’m not going to tell the story the way it happened. I’m going to tell it the way I remember it.

With Alfonso’s lavish direction, Mitch’s inventive screenplay, and spiked with Mamet’s narration, we somehow wriggled our way to a decent picture. After this production wrapped, Mitch, Alfonso, and I didn’t speak to each other for a couple of years. Some of the wounds are still wet.

TEN

Pushing Tin Downhill

The expression pushing tin is not an inside joke coined by a traveling tuna can salesman. In the dimly lit operations room of the New York Terminal Radar Approach Control, air traffic controllers say they are ‘pushing tin’ when referring to the daily grind of carefully guiding airplanes through the sky so they don’t crash into each other. The allowable margin of error for this job is zero.

When I first read the article in the Sunday New York Times Magazine, written by Darcy Frey, documenting the horrors and the pressures of this occupation, my producer’s heart started beating. The arena was a large room filled with radar scopes occupied by savagely bug-eyed air traffic controllers twitching and cursing as they tried to keep themselves from ‘going down the pipes’ – words used for the high anxiety of dealing with the possible near-miss or the midair collision that was always one bad mistake away. As the multitude of dots on their respective radar screens randomly run amok, reaching their peak on holiday weekends, the controller, to retain his sanity, has to convince himself that these little dots are not metal death ships filled with real people, they are just dots.

The maddening pressures inherent in the job are so extreme that all of these guys are emotionally kicked in the ass one way or another. They either drink, adopt weird physical tics, cheat on their wife, acquire peculiar superstitions, or just go categorically nuts. One guy, according to the article, while guiding ten jets in a great curving arc toward Newark, New Jersey, suddenly lost his communication system as he turned his pilots onto final approach. He rose from his chair shrieking and started tearing off his clothes. By the time someone stepped in to land the planes, he was quivering on the floor naked before being taken away. He was discharged on a medical leave until he could regain his wits. He tried a few times to visit his buddies at the TRACON station, but he never had the cojenes to return to the scopes again. When he did come in, his buddies looked the other way, superstitiously hoping that his bad juju wouldn’t rub off on them.

What an arena! M.A.S.H. on wheels. The fallout of all this stress would be where the drama, the dark humor, and the morality tale would come together. There it was: The perfect setting for a movie. I figured it was so good, the geniuses at Fox would never get it.

I called Bill Mechanic and explained.

‘Bill, we gotta buy this.’

‘I agree.’

‘But, Bill—’

‘I agree.’

‘Bill, it might be expensive.’

‘I like it. Run it by Ziskin.’

I called Laura Ziskin, who was running Fox 2000.

‘Laura, I just spoke to Bill.’

‘I read the article.’

‘Laura, we gotta get this.’

‘I agree.’

Huh? This was eating ice cream for breakfast. Too easy. Within a week we were the proud owners of the article for the princely sum of $200,000, which included the right to use real moments from some of the controllers’ lives. Things were so smooth, I started to hum the title song from Car Wash. I couldn’t get the rhythm riff out of my head for three days. This must be what it’s like to be Spielberg when he gets an itch for an idea. Everyone nods ‘yes’ like a spring-loaded doll’s head. Didn’t anybody stand up and ask, ‘Who wants to see a bunch of nuts freaking out in front of radar screens and then go home and fuck their neighbor’s wife?’?

Quite frankly, no.

The next step in the producer’s handbook after securing the rights to a stellar idea is to hire a screenwriter. The story seemed to be shaping up as a drama/comedy exposing the foibles of people whose jobs put them under massive anxiety. Actually, at the time, we didn’t know whether it would be a comedy or a drama or maybe both, but the delineation of that didn’t concern us. It was going to be a movie about people crashing, not necessarily planes crashing. I began the agonizingly endless procedure of reading screenplays from lists and lists of writers who might be right for this kind of an idea, someone who understood how to write comedy while drawing from real situations and real people. If you are looking for excellence, the list narrows quickly. Very high in this group were Les Charles and Glen Charles, the brother team that was the creative force behind the classic television series Cheers. I was being diligent. In fact, the more I thought about the Charleses, the more I thought they would be ideal. I was about to call Ziskin to make my case when the phone rang.

‘Hi, it’s Laauurra,’ she purred, always seeming to be surprised by the sound of her name.

‘Hello, Laura.’

‘I got an idea for you.’

‘Good.’

‘Do you know who the Charles brothers are?’

‘Well, yeah, I wa—’

‘Their agent just called the studio and said they want to write the air traffic thing.’

‘Laura, they called us?’

‘Yeah, he said they want to write it bad.’

‘Laura, I was about to ca—’

‘I think we should hire them.’

‘Uh … me too.’

I must have been in dreamland.

‘Laura, aren’t they very expensive?’

‘So what?’

Could this producing thing get any easier?

I learned later that while we at Fox were trying to buy the article, the Charles brothers had read it, liked it, and tried to buy the piece privately. We got there first. They liked it so much, however, they decided to offer their writing services anyway. A deal was quickly struck.

Working with the Charles brothers was interesting. They came from TV. There’s a weird line drawn in Hollywood between those who work for television and those who work for movies. Granted, the line has been blurred on numerous occasions, but the way I see it, in most cases TV producers/writers end up with the money (real big money) and film people are mainly left with attitude. The earnings from the syndication rights from a hit television series are so vast that the recipients never have to work again. Glen and Les Charles never had to work again. This was new for me, working with screenwriters who are laced with money and have no attitude. They were even politically connected. During the prep period when our production staff was struggling to get access to some California TRACON facility, one of the brothers unassumingly said, ‘Why don’t I call Barbara Boxer [then a California U.S. senator]. I’m sure she or her office would be glad to help.’ My God, a screenwriter with pull was almost an oxymoron.

Not only were they eager to write the script, they actually wanted to please us. They were always open to ideas, willing to collaborate, and available at all times to meet and rethink the direction we were going. Dealing with the Charles brothers was like melting butter. During filming, when I offered to fly them to the set in Toronto to discuss some additional script work, they politely declined our reimbursement gesture, saying they would come at their own expense. We soon discovered they had their own private plane and didn’t want us to know they didn’t like to fly commercial. It gets better. When the script was finally completed several months later, it was excellent.

It was just a first draft, but I decided to turn it in.

‘Bill, what’ya think?’

‘It’s good.’

‘Bill, is it too soon to discuss the next step?’

‘Go get a director.’

‘Bill, that’s the step I meant.’

‘I know.’

Hmmmm.

‘Hi, it’s Laauurra.’

‘What’ya think?’

‘I really like it.’

‘I’m so glad.’

‘Go get me a list of directors.’

‘Why not?’

It was Groundhog Day for producers. I woke up and everyone said ‘yes.’ I woke up the next day and everyone said ‘yes’ again. Hell, let’s find a director.

Before I had a chance to really examine all of the possibilities, I got another call from Ziskin.

‘Hi, it’s Laauurra.’

‘Hello, Laura.’

‘What do you think of Mike?’

‘Nichols?’

‘No, Newell.’

‘Oh.’

Mike Newell’s star had been rising quickly. He had directed the low-budget comedy hit Four Weddings and a Funeral and the recently released Donnie Brasco with Al Pacino and Johnny Depp. Without my knowing him, he seemed to have the right sensibilities for this piece. Maybe I should think it over. Whom was I fooling? I thought he would be terrific. I just wished that I had thought of it.

‘Well …’ I said.

‘He’s a friend of mine and I just talked to him about it,’ she cooed.

‘You did?’

‘Guess what?’

‘What?’

‘He responded.’

‘Is there anything I need to do?’

‘Not really, I’ll send it to him.’

‘Okay, then.’

You get where this is going. Of course, Newell wanted to direct the movie. I became immobilized. I sat at my desk waiting for the phone to ring so I could yell, ‘Blackjack!’

With Newell’s commitment we were able to assemble an outstanding cast of special actors. John Cusack would play the high-flying air traffic controller Nick Falzone, the best of the best. That is, until the crazed daredevil Russell Bell, played by Billy Bob Thornton, comes to town and derails him. As they engage in games of one-upmanship, their respective wives, Cate Blanchett and Angelina Jolie, get embroiled in the complicated mess.

To save money we agreed to shoot the movie in Toronto and make it look like Long Island. Production went along swimmingly. The dailies looked good. In one scene, Angelina Jolie grabs Billy Bob’s ass, then nuzzles his neck, which made me think that was some damn fine acting until I was told they had fallen in love on the set for real. We even stayed on budget and pretty much kept to the schedule. We all got along, and even the artistic disagreements were manageable. But by now, you already knew that.

There was only a minor hint that everything might not be kismet. After the movie was screened in Los Angeles, I was walking down the hallway by the marketing division, near Bob Harper’s office, where I thought I overheard a female voice saying, ‘Does anyone really want to see John Cusack naked?’ I stopped to listen for the answer. I leaned into the doorway. Too late. Two secretaries looked up. The moment had passed, and I chose to ignore it. Anyway it was compensated for by Peter Travers’s Rolling Stone review, which said, ‘Like the best movies, Pushing Tin takes us into a new world. And this world, which finds fresh hell in the phrase “fear of flying,” is a lulu. It’s rowdy, raunchy, and action-packed, even if it is bound to turn audiences into infrequent fliers.’

A couple of weeks after The Matrix overwhelmed the box office, our movie opened in eighteen hundred theaters, April 23, 1999.

Total cost: $38,000,000.

Total domestic gross: $8,400,000.

Do the math.

ELEVEN

The Fox and the Hound

‘Get it, Jerry … do the math.’

‘I get it.’

‘You see what I’m sayin’?’

‘Sure, sure.’

‘Stay with me, Jerry.’

‘I am. I liked the last bit.’

Greased on wine and waiting for dessert, Jerry had conspicuously lost interest in my journey. By this time, Giorgio’s was packed. Getting from one table to the next required moving and bumping into people’s seats just to get to the door. Each table was filled with some Hollywood type. Agents, producers, writers, directors, and those that service these people were all jammed together. Oddly, even though all the patrons knew that the layout of the room forced intimacy, each person was doing his best to ignore the others. Jerry was completely moonstruck. His mood had turned wistful and sour simultaneously. He was no longer paying much attention to what I had to say.

‘Look who’s here.’

‘Jerry, look who isn’t here.’

‘No, turn your head to the right over that fat girl in leather pants.’

‘I don’t turn.’

‘It’s Ovitz.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, it’s interesting’s all.’

‘What’s interesting about it, Jerry?’

‘He’s gritty, I’ll give him that.’

‘A real battering ram,’ I said.

‘What a shame, huh?’

‘What part?’

‘Falling off the power chart’n’ all.’

‘Shit happens quick.’

‘It’s cyclical, don’t you think?’

‘Like a karma thing, Jerry?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I see … what comes around …’

‘Yeah, it’s a circle, pal. Ovitz shoved some testicles down some people’s throats and then, of course, Eisner shoved them down his throat.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, he did get a ninety-million-dollar check as a booby prize.’

‘Jerry, I’m glad to see you keep current.’

‘You gotta like it, it’s got symmetry.’

At that moment, Ovitz and his group got up to leave. They had to make the uncomfortable slide past our table. He got so close, I had to move my chair forward. As he tapped my shoulder to get through, I was forced to turn. He glared down on us, semisurprised, with a steeled grin. The effort made him appear as if his dinner had suddenly rotted from the inside. My first reaction was to say, ‘It’s not my fault,’ but I went the other way.

‘Hey, Mike. You, of course, know Jerry.’

Ovitz glanced at Jerry, then looked for another escape route, but he was trapped.

‘Before you did,’ he said through his teeth.

‘Hiya, Mike.’

‘Hello, Jerry.’

I pushed my chair off to the left, giving Mike a bit more space to get through. He darted off.

‘Great to see you,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he said.

That was it, short and uncomfortable. I looked over at Jerry. I could only imagine what sort of horror had occurred between those two when Jerry was still in action. Both were well known for inflicting pain, a great deal of pain, when they enjoyed the upper hand. We sat there in silence until Ovitz finally made it through the door.

‘Let me tell you a story.’

‘Go ahead, Jerry, I’m a sucker for showbiz stories.’

‘No. It’s a World War Two story, s’got nothing to do with Tinsel Town.’

‘Go for it.’

‘It was during the final stages of the war. Himmler was the head of the Gestapo. You remember Himmler, right?’

I nodded.

‘Sometime in the early part of 1944, he was hosting an awards dinner for his men. They had just finished a sumptuous meal, had drunk cases of the finest French Bordeaux rouge, when Himmler proudly got up to make a toast, celebrating their effort in the final solution. Standing in front of a giant swastika, he removed his side pistol and clanged it against his glass, calling for quiet. “Gentlemen,” he went on to say, “in the future, our future, history will record that one of our greatest accomplishments …” Himmler took a pause for emphasis. “We did the thing we had to do while never losing our innate sense of decency.”’

Jerry then fell silent. I dug deep trying to respond. I even opened my mouth a couple of times, but nothing surfaced.

I called for the check.

TWELVE

Fight Clubbed

The exterior door to Screening Room C opened abruptly and out spilled seven of nine Fox film executives. Two of them remained inside. It was late in the afternoon on the Fox lot, and the deep shadows from the surrounding buildings camouflaged their expressions as they tried to adjust their eyes to the daylight. The director, David Fincher, and I had just screened a high-quality video rough cut of Fight Club. At one time or another over the past eighteen months, this group had all read some incarnation of the script, and a few of them had even watched some of the dailies. This was the day that they experienced the full impact of what they had paid for. The anticipation had been high. After all, the movie starred Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter and was directed by one of the truly gifted young filmmakers. The last time Fincher and Pitt had joined forces, the movie Se7en had surprised everyone in Hollywood with its riveting originality and, more important, its over three-hundred-million-dollar worldwide grosses.

Numbers like that can make an executive’s year. Hell, in most cases, that kind of success can define his or her tenure. The executives might not have admitted it, but they had as much personally riding on the outcome of Fight Club as did the filmmakers. They walked in, almost giddy, all smiles and chatty, backslapping and hugging Fincher before taking their seats. The mere possibility that Fincher and Pitt might provide the same kind of lightning a second time made them all rubbery with expectation.

I had met David five years earlier when he was editing Alien 3. I’m not sure how the meeting came about, but I received a call that he was interested in talking to me about some ideas. I’d heard that he’d had a difficult time dealing with the studio on his first movie, so I assumed he was interested in taking advantage of a producing partner on future stuff. He was already being touted as a wunderkind. He had a big rep as a sophisticated music-video director, had done some remarkable commercials, had dated Madonna, and although he was still in his twenties, Fox (under the Joe Roth regime) had given him one of their family jewels, an Alien sequel, to be his first feature directing assignment.

He was unassuming. His office was bare: two chairs and an empty desk. He told me that he used to work as a projectionist in Oregon and had seen hundreds of movies, even some forgettable movies that I was involved in, hundreds of times.

‘I’m working on something that interests me.’

‘I’d love to hear it.’

‘Let me tell you the opening.’

‘Great.’

‘Manhattan’s Lower East Side is crisscrossed with magnetic lines for elevated trains. These magnetic tracks cut massive chunks through the old buildings to make room for the high-speed cornering of the train cars.’

‘Nice.’

‘Three guys enter a Lower East Side Manhattan hovel carrying pizza and begin to watch television. Inside the kitchen, we see a figure dressed in a full-length coat and glacier glasses hanging upside down outside the window. One of the guys enters to get a beer. Suddenly the guy with the glasses is standing next to him by the refrigerator. He shoots him with a dart gun in the throat, walks into the TV room, announces that he is body hunter number 209, says, “All of your rights are rescinded,” and coldly shoots the rest of them in the throat.’

‘Okay.’

‘He then proceeds to take out large plastic sheets, spread them on the floor, and line up the bodies in a symmetrical row. He thoughtfully closes their eyes, inserts a large rubber plug in his mouth, and begins to smear his face with thick Vaseline. The rubber plug serves as an air hole. He then takes out a laser knife and splits each body from the esophagus to the pubic bones, rips them apart, and methodically removes the kidneys and other assorted organs.’

‘I see.’

‘He carefully places each organ in separate plastic bags, and leaves.’

‘So, who’s going to get this guy?’

‘No one.’

‘He gets away with it?’

‘No. No. He’s our hero.’

‘The guy with the plastic bags filled with organs?’

‘Yeah. What do you think?’

This was vintage Fincher taking delight in the wild mixture of irreverence and audaciousness. His first movie had yet to be released and he was already excited about ideas that were almost indefensible in the corporate culture that would pay for it. At the time, we were still climbing out of the Reagan years, with a climate in Hollywood that made making this kind of movie almost unthinkable. In addition, I was at the point in my life where coasting downhill had enormous appeal. This guy was trouble. I knew I was around somebody whose ambition was to maul and excite. I wasn’t sure I had the stomach anymore for the fight. I liked him, but I could barely muster the energy to say, ‘Very nice to meet you, I’ve gotta go.’

The screening of Fight Club was about to start. I moved to a seat near the door. Then, after the lights went down, I spent most of my time standing in the back of the room. I found that whenever I was at an early screening, I got too caught up in watching those who were watching, and I completely lost my concentration for the film. I couldn’t help it. So as not to distract the person next to me, I preferred to observe the audience from the rear. In this case, the studio’s reaction turned out to be a hard read.

A costly title sequence filled the screen. With the music blasting, a computer-generated tracking shot pierces the darkness and flies through the motor neurons, navigating the folds of a human brain, revealing electron-microscopic synapses squirting clouds of cerebral fluid, for some ninety seconds, until it emerges from the prefrontal lobe above the eyes to reveal a badly beaten Edward Norton. And then the shot pulls farther back to reveal a loaded .38 jammed into his face.

This was a quick appetizer from the mind and imagination of the hot chef in town. Fincher had devised this intro with Digital Domain before he’d ever started to shoot Fight Club, but permission to execute it was only granted later by the studio as a sugar bonus for his being good – a euphemism for his keeping on schedule. I glanced around the screening room. They were hooked.

When the unnamed narrator, whom we call Jack (Edward Norton), was smothered by the huge breasts of a large fat man (Meat Loaf) while participating in a support group for those suffering from testicular cancer, the executives were so still you could watch the movie reflected off their eyeglasses. I remember that Ziskin, who had left us pretty much alone during the start of filming, was concerned about the giant nipples on the giant breasts and wanted them removed from the fat suit, or at least not have them appear so erect. Fincher denied the request; the nipples remained vast and hard.

Moments later, when Marla enters the hall (Helena Bonham Carter’s introduction), chain-smoking, and interrupts the all-male testicular support group with the line ‘This is cancer, right?’ the executives froze. Did we go too far? A woman in sunglasses joining a testicular cancer meeting! Every time I’ve watched this scene, I’ve laughed. But there were no chuckles from this group. For the remainder of the first hour, they sat absolutely motionless, as if they were marines on full parade. No hand movements, no facial spasms, nothing. They were either rapt or stunned or both.

In the second hour, I began to notice that some of the women, and a couple of the men, would occasionally jerk their heads backward, a sudden ticlike movement, as if they were trying to avoid a collision. When Tyler (Brad Pitt), in front of his men, begged his assailant (Lou) to hit him again even harder, even though his face was already pulverized, a young assistant to Ziskin put her hands over her eyes and dropped her head. I was getting apprehensive, but I could tell they were jolted.

Perhaps one of the most provocative scenes in the movie is where Tyler initiates Jack into the mayhem with a savage acid/lye burn to the hand in the form of a kiss. While Jack is overwhelmed by the searing pain and quivers around the room in tears, Tyler, the darkly drawn devil in all of us, grabs him by the arm. Jack tries to pull his hand free. Tyler won’t let go. Jack tries to think of a series of images to distract himself from the overwhelming pain. Tyler doggedly insists Jack confront the moment while he explains its purpose:

TYLER: This is the greatest moment of your life and you’re off somewhere, missing it.

JACK: No, I’m not …

TYLER: Shut up. Our fathers were models for God. And, if our fathers bailed, what does that tell us about God?

JACK: I don’t know …

Tyler SLAPS Jack’s face again.

TYLER: Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility that God doesn’t like you, he never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen …

JACK: It isn’t … ?

TYLER: We don’t need Him …

JACK: We don’t … ?

TYLER: Fuck damnation. Fuck redemption. We are God’s unwanted children, and so be it …

Jack looks at Tyler – they lock eyes. Jack does his best to stifle his spasms of pain. He bolts toward the sink, but Tyler holds on.

TYLER: You can run water over your hand or use vinegar to neutralize the burn, but first you have to give up. First you have to know, not fear, that someday, you are going to die. Until you know that and embrace that, you are useless.

JACK: You … you don’t know what this feels like, Tyler.

Tyler shows Jack a LYE-BURNED KISS SCAR on his own hand.

TYLER: It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.

Tyler grabs a bottle of VINEGAR – pours it over Jack’s wound.

Jack slumps to the floor.

There are tears in Tyler’s eyes.

TYLER: Congratulations. You’re a step closer to hitting bottom.

There was no need to check out the audience anymore. Instead, I glanced over at Fincher. He was curiously relaxed. He looked like a man who was getting his money’s worth. He wasn’t at all concerned if the impact of what he had done was gratifying to them or not. He knew he was doing something to these onlookers, something darkly powerful, and that pleased him.

One of the true surprises for me during the making of Fight Club was Brad Pitt. He never showed any evidence of an actor who was out there trying to protect his ‘Brad Pitt–ness.’ Usually when this happens to a young actor, the first instinct is hang on and play it safe. He doesn’t want to fuck things up. And for sure, his manager, agent, and lawyer don’t want to fuck things up. An awful lot of money is at stake. The result is that actors tend to repeat the same performances and the same kind of roles that created the most success. Without a shred of false vanity or the use of old tricks to win over an audience, Pitt proved to be a formidable actor of enormous talent. Can anyone imagine, thirty years ago, Robert Redford or Warren Beatty shaving his head or working without caps on his teeth or exposing himself so raw and ruthless as Brad had done and just let the chips fall? With all the hype that’s associated with movie stardom, I was not expecting Brad to be almost reckless about challenging the boundaries of what others were expecting him to do. His work in Fight Club was stellar.

Five minutes were left before the movie ended. On the screen, Jack had just blown a hole through Tyler’s head. I headed for the door. Soon Marla would join Jack on the top floor of an unoccupied office building to witness the total annihilation of a simulated Century City from a series of bombs that were planted by Project Mayhem. A massive explosion would rattle the glass walls as buildings collapsed into each other and imploded in a cloud of dust. Jack, utterly beaten and bloodied, would wearily turn to Marla and end with the ironic line ‘I’m sorry … you met me at a very strange time in my life.’

I positioned myself around the corner of the theater, trying to get a candid bead on the results. Remember, even if a picture ‘falls off the screen,’ key executives must go over and congratulate the director. Also, Fight Club had yet to be tested on a preview audience, so no matter what these executives actually thought of the movie on their own, the preview audience would eventually redefine those feelings. Even if they were apprehensive, it was too soon for them to overreact. Should the audience response turn out to be grand, they wouldn’t want to be remembered as naysayers.

Robert Harper, the marketing executive, was the first to exit.

‘Hey, how ’bout that, huh?’ I asked.

He looked pissed off, annoyed that I was already waiting for him. He nodded silently in my direction without facing me. He put on his sunglasses and walked stiffly back to the administration building. That he didn’t stay to commiserate with Bill Mechanic or the other executives could mean several things. He was just a marketing guy. It was too soon to draw any conclusions.

Tom Sherak, in his fifties, was then a high-ranking executive at Fox, theoretically in charge of distribution. This meant he was responsible for strategizing when and how many theaters a movie was to be released in, as well as for negotiating the specific terms with the theater owners. He reported to Mechanic, who reported to Chernin, but Sherak had been at Fox for twenty-five years, long before they were ever there. He knew where all of the skeletons were hidden, and he was smart enough to avoid involving himself in the content of a picture. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway because the executives above him, who thought of themselves as creative types, weren’t too concerned with his artistic opinions. In truth, they didn’t really give a shit. Tom was the guy that booked the movies into theaters. If they were bad, he could always blame the other Fox managers, who prided themselves on being a whole lot hipper than Sherak.

Through the years, I felt that Tom, a truly decent guy, would reflect the barometric pressure of the theater owners but not necessarily the audience. So when I saw him step out from the screening room, I was curious. It might have been my twisted imagination, but he seemed slightly disoriented. He shuffled around the parking lot like a man behind a couple of stiff margaritas struggling to remember where he had parked his car. I guessed the movie had gotten to him.

‘Hey, Tom.’

‘Whoa, whoa.’ He held his hand up as a shield.

‘Tom, I know it’s probably not your thing but …’

‘What is it?’

I began walking with him toward the administration building. ‘Tom, it’s a terrific movie is what it is.’

He looked at me queerly, trying to gauge my sincerity. He started to walk faster. ‘Well, there’s a lot going on, I’ll give you that.’

‘It’s about the disillusionment of an entire young male generation.’

‘Huh?’

‘You know, feelings of emasculation, materialism run amok, rage.’

‘Huh?’ He shook his head. It seemed to me that he just wanted to go home and hug his family.

‘Tom, you gotta admit it’s funny.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘No. Don’t say that.’

‘I’ll grant you, I was surprised that nobody laughed, but this movie is funny.’

‘I didn’t see funny.’

‘Trust me, it’s funny.’

‘I want you to do me a favor.’

‘Sure, Tom.’

‘Next week, I have a psychiatrist—’

‘But, I …’

‘I want you to pick a day, any day, and I would like you to go with me and explain this to him, in my presence, why you think this thing is funny.’

‘Tom, do you really think that’s necessary?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I got a full week.’

‘It would do you some good.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘I think I know funny,’ he said.

Watching him walk away, I realized then that when the exhibitors saw the movie, they were going to freak. Incidentally, in Sherak’s defense, when he did see Fight Club the second and third time, with a younger audience that understood and responded to the humor, he admitted that although he hadn’t warmed to it the first time, the more he saw it, the funnier and better it became.

Mechanic and Ziskin finally emerged from the theater. They were white. They had thinly creased smiles etched on their faces, but it was evident to me that they weren’t sure what had just happened and were even less sure what was going to happen. They had a lot of personal career dreams wrapped up in this high-profile movie. If they had guessed right, they would be lionized. If they had guessed wrong, who knows, they might just have to pack up their underwear and ignominiously face their futures as independent film producers. That sort of fate can drain the blood from the hardiest of executives.

Throughout the film’s production, Mechanic – especially Mechanic – had taken on the pressure with a wavering composure. He had stood up for Fight Club as boldy as he could, but after this screening, he knew that if this baby didn’t fly, there might be a huge career price to pay. Gearing up for this eventuality was obviously causing some wear and tear. His eyes were slightly dilated, his shoulders a bit more slumped. He looked like one of those good high-stakes poker players in Las Vegas who, having just had all of his fingers broken, and having lost his entire stake, wanly addresses the crowd, ‘A mere flesh wound, ladies and gents, a mere flesh wound.’

Mechanic and Ziskin made their way over to Fincher to praise him. Ziskin clasped her palms together in prayer mode, touched her fingers to her mouth, spread her legs slightly for better balance, and almost knelt before him, saying, ‘Gosh, David, you’ve really done it this time.’ Then she continued with something along the lines of ‘I’ve got some issues, of course, it’s all in the details, you know … there’s lots to talk about … but … what a, what a, what a …’

Mechanic gestured stiffly to me with his hand, then nodded at Fincher, as if to reassure himself that everything was going to be all right. I figured he was already privately rehearsing how to explain this time bomb to Murdoch and Chernin. This left him even more preoccupied. When he finally spoke to Fincher, he mustered something brave like ‘Powerful, very powerful …’ Fincher smiled back and graciously thanked him. Then Mechanic addressed me with one of those fateful lines: ‘I don’t care what anyone says, I’m proud of it, really, really proud of it.’ Uh-oh.

What was clear was that nobody would be able to come up with a simple, concise response to this early cut that would calm their nerves and make the journey more palatable. I recall when Brian De Palma and I presented The Untouchables to the Paramount executives for the first time, they were concerned about the violence. The executives focused on the shoot-out at the train-station stairs, where ‘the bookkeeper’ gets shot in the head against a marble wall. As he slid down the wall, De Palma revealed remnants of his brain, hair, and blood sticking to the marble. The executives had convinced themselves that this was the singular moment in the movie destined to turn off women. They knew we were not going to touch the soon to be famous Capone/baseball-bat sequence. So, instead of giving us a laundry list of suggestions, it became easier for them to focus on this one incident and try to get us to tone it down.

At the customary meeting the next day, they made their case. De Palma considerately said, ‘Okay, let me take a look at it.’ When we walked out, I asked him what his intentions were, since both of us liked that shot. He turned to me and said, ‘Two words: final cut.’

So many incidences in Fight Club were alarming, no group of executives could narrow them down. It’s not as if, let’s say, they could suggest cutting the scene with Chloe (the terribly disturbing Meryl Streep look-alike skeletal cancer victim who fancied Jack) and everything would be okay. I had felt the screening room collectively wince when Chloe talked about how she’s learned to face death but all she really wants to do ‘is get laid for the last time.’ Or, if not that scene, perhaps they might suggest losing the sex scene between Marla and Tyler, where Brad, leering naked in the doorway, wearing a yellow rubber glove, with Marla reeling from ecstasy in the background, asks Norton if he would like to ‘finish her off.’ Or, what about the scene where Tyler and Jack steal real human fat from a liposuction clinic to make designer soap and end up spilling it all over themselves while attempting to escape over a chain-link fence? Or, remember when Tyler, working as a movie projectionist, spliced a single frame of a man’s penis into children’s films? Or …

Mechanic and Ziskin had been through many tough screenings before, but this mélange was going to put them thoroughly to the test. Before any meaningful comments could be made, they badly needed to regroup. It was like spitting in a hurricane. I loved the movie. It was so audacious that it couldn’t be brought under control. Soon Murdoch and Chernin would be flopping around like acid-crazed carp wondering how such a thing could even have happened.

Fincher was leaning against the outside wall of the screening room, waiting patiently for the executives to leave. The film’s guerrilla assault was so potent that many viewers were initially going to get sidetracked from appreciating some of the groundbreaking techniques that were on display. But Fincher knew that. From a directing standpoint there were so many daring moments. The ‘jiggled camera’ scene where Tyler, glaring in the lens, was saying, ‘You are not your job … you are not your khakis,’ while the frame around him was coming apart as if self-destructing in the movie projector, was one of several innovative sequences that had never before been seen. Perhaps my favorite magic trick was Fincher’s rendering of the psychological cat-and-mouse game that culminates with Jack realizing that the only way he can get rid of Tyler is to shoot himself in the mouth. Jack jams the barrel into his own mouth, pulls the trigger, and fires a bullet. The monster explosion lights up his jaw cavity, blows open his cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie’s. The bullet rips through the side of his face, but he miraculously survives. It’s so real you’d think Norton might have killed himself while trying to do the scene, and it’s so seamless that if you go frame by frame on a DVD player, it still gets your attention.

In short, Fincher had made the movie he wanted to make. Its essence was frozen in concrete. If you could have pulled him aside and asked him what sort of relief he could offer any of these Fox guys, in the form of modifying the cut, he would have shrugged and said, as he had often said, ‘There’s nothing to do, we didn’t make this movie for them.’

I wanted to suggest to Mechanic and Ziskin that they go get drunk or whistle in a graveyard. I thought better of it. It was time for the producer to be seen and not heard. There was nowhere else for them to go. Finally, they turned to Fincher and said something like, ‘Terrific … uh, work … uh, uh … we’ll talk tomorrow.’

We knew by now that when Fight Club hit the streets, at least the reaction wouldn’t be lukewarm. The critics ran the gamut from ‘bold, brilliant, and inventive’ to ‘loathsomely indefensible.’ It became the kind of thing that if you loved it, truly loved it, you would be deeply suspicious of those who didn’t connect with it. What I hadn’t anticipated was the dramatic response from those who were uncomfortable with it. They almost wanted to punish those responsible for this ‘heinous’ act. I remember a couple of months after the picture was released, I ran into Robbie Friedman, a high-ranking executive at Paramount Pictures, and a friend of mine. All he could do was shake his head.

‘How could you?’ he asked.

‘Huh?’

I was about to start with ‘Don’t blame us producers, we’re just the monkeys that do the dishes,’ or better yet, the more confrontational approach, ‘You stupid bastard, it’s a brilliant movie, and anyways, you must admit it’s darkly funny,’ but by that time I’d already been down that road too many times.

The movie opened to lackluster domestic box office results, largely due, I believe, to an ill-conceived one-dimensional Bob Harper marketing campaign. Wait. Is there a producer still breathing who doesn’t blast the poor marketing stiff for his failed movies? It’s Producing 101 to blame somebody else. Frankly, with all of the time I’ve spent in this town, I’d like to think I’m above all that, but I’m not.

That icy demeanor I spotted after Harper left the screening room that day turned out to be more than just cramps from his commissary lunch. Deep down, he didn’t really like the movie, and many would say, ‘Who can blame him?’ Nonetheless, it’s an awkward job to try to sell something that you either don’t understand or don’t really like. In his case he was too reluctant to admit he didn’t understand the movie’s intentions, fearing that he would expose himself as no longer au courant. Instead of abdicating the responsibility of the campaign to Fincher and other vendors who had a feel for their audience, he smugly kept control of it. The result was an initial campaign that only sold the titillation of young guys beating the shit out of each other without letting the audience know of the much smarter and wittier ironic purpose to the whole journey. It was a knuckleheaded move.

The first couple of weeks after we returned from the Venice Film Festival were edgy. Mechanic’s early prediction was that the movie’s losses would be substantial. The ‘I told you so people’ were temporarily buoyed until the foreign box office improved the number significantly, and then the DVD came out, with a new campaign, to become one of the largest-selling DVDs in Fox’s history. In the end, Mechanic revised his estimate and said that the film would eventually return a small but definite ten-million-dollar profit. Of course, when Bill told me this at the Polo Lounge, eighteen months later, he was no longer working at Fox and neither was Laura Ziskin.

And neither was I.

After the screening, as Fincher and I watched Mechanic and Ziskin weave their way back to their respective offices, huddled in conversation, I swear I could hear Procol Harum’s ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ come drifting over the soundstages.

THIRTEEN

Sunset Stripped Naked

Here’s a bitter tale. This is where vanity and greed override any sane producing principles to such a degree that it’s a wonder I talked myself through it. When you consider all the excellent ideas there are for a producer to draw from, when you think of all the great books and writers that he can buy or steal from to invent a movie, imagine what kind of hefty weirdness it took for me to try to carve a movie out of my own life experience, stuff that took place more than twenty-five years ago. And worse, sugarcoat it, just so I can get the fucker made. I realize that this outburst is vague and ill defined, but it’s a place to start. I produced a movie called Sunset Strip. It was my last movie for Fox. I know the title doesn’t ring a bell because the movie was released in one theater in Los Angeles, for only one weekend, before being trash-heaped into the discounted-video bins. There are worse things that can happen to a movie producer, but they usually involve a life-threatening illness to irreplaceable organs. As always, I went into this adventure with high hopes. But good wishes are never enough. In fact, I’d say they’re not to be trusted. Working through this, perhaps we can both come to understand that golden rule of producing: ‘Hand someone his lunch before he hands it to you.’

‘Jerry, look at you, you’re still happening.’

‘Whad’ya mean?’

‘Your car is already waiting for you.’

‘As it should be.’

We were standing on the sidewalk outside Giorgio’s, directly across the Pacific Coast Highway. You could hear the waves crashing on State Beach behind the volleyball courts. Jerry was getting weary. What had initially been a vicarious thrill, listening to my tales of woe mixed with gossip and failure, was starting to reverse itself. He had become more reticent. His vulgar references to dark body parts three months ago were slowly being replaced by sighs and far-off stares. I couldn’t tell whether he was thinking about his withering digestion or whether he was scheming his reentry into the Hollywood fray.

The power to green-light movies leaves a tattooed imprint on the soul. That unquenchable urge to walk around town saying ‘When I made that film’ never goes away. Who could blame a deposed movie despot for claiming a bit of authorship? It was merely a petty theft. A misdemeanor. Think of it. You’re a studio executive who just put a big hit movie into play (let’s say The Nutty Professor) and you are surrounded by greedy well-wishers from the industry wondering how you made it. Is it not an irresistible urge to say, ‘Thanks, fellas, but you should have seen the three-hour rough cut. Well, the damn thing fell off the screen. Woowee, it was hard sledding, but once I got in there, I really turned that bitch around.’ Rarely is this conversation within earshot of the director or the screenwriter, and it is never heard by the film’s editor because they never get invited within two blocks of a studio executive. Unfortunately, taking credit for other people’s work is not limited to studio executives; producers share the disease as well.

Jerry would never admit it, but the more we talked about one asshole topping another asshole in Hollywood, the more his cravings to get back were awakened. Since he had once been considered one of the major assholes in Hollywood, a source of much personal pride, our little chats only reminded him that the word major had inexorably been deleted from his letterhead. I wasn’t sure, but I felt he still wanted to kick some ass.

‘Jerry, how ’bout that, the guy didn’t even ask you for a ticket.’

‘I didn’t get a ticket.’

‘But you never come here.’

‘I know.’

‘How did he remember?’

‘I slipped him twenty bucks when I drove in.’

‘But if you took a ticket, it would only cost you five dollars.’

‘I know, that’s the beauty of it: no ticket.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘No ticket.’ He held up his palms like a Vegas croupier.

‘You do see that it cost you an extra fift—’

‘To avoid the indignity of holding a ticket.’

‘Of course, what was I thinking?’

I was still drawing sustenance from these gatherings. More directly, I needed them.

‘So, what’ll it be for next week?’ I asked.

‘What’dya mean, like Chinese or sushi?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Jerry, you’re kidding.’

‘No.’

I needed Jerry; I had to boost his spirits.

‘But I only got a little bit to go.’

‘Can I be straight with you?’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t have enough power in the business to keep up my enthusiasms.’

‘What about my movie that didn’t get released?’

‘Small potatoes, babe.’

‘I need one more shot.’

‘Lemme think about it.’

For twenty bucks the car attendant partially bowed when Jerry approached his car. Without acknowledging either of us, Jerry got in and drove off.

In the spring of 1969, in front of the Whisky A Go Go, on the Sunset Strip, John Phillips, leader of the Mamas and the Papas, wearing a psychedelic robe and a Russian fur hat, slid out of a vintage Rolls-Royce creamed on acid. As he slipped past me with a generous smile, certain that the world was his playground, I tried to remind him that we had a meeting at Universal at ten o’clock in the morning. I was there because I was working for him. What’s interesting from a movie-producing perspective was that in those days rock-and-roll royalty were the stars of the neighborhood. They had that heat the movie and television minions were chasing. On any night the cast of characters circling the Whisky was a microcosm of bizarre Hollywood hopefuls, from agents and publicists dressed in tie-dyed shirts and beads, to young Midwestern girls just off the bus looking for Jim Morrison. If you threw a party and John Lennon or Bob Dylan or Mick Jagger was going to show up, everyone clamored for an invitation. Actors wished they could play the guitar. For a brief time, movie stars were in second position.

At that time, I was employed by Phillips and his partner Lou Adler with the intention of helping them get a foothold in the movie industry. The vast success of the Mamas and the Papas was fading, and they were looking for new conquests. They had already been toying with ‘movie ideas’ and they needed someone to get them in the door. I think I was chosen for the task because I was cheap. Their most recent idea was a twist on Mary Shelley’s life with Byron, which John Phillips wanted to write with Michael Sarne (Myra Breckinridge) for Sarne to direct. My job was to get a studio to listen. I was so fresh at the movie game that even though I was aware of the key Hollywood players, it was still a struggle to get any of them on the phone. I had to fake it.

At MCA/Universal there was a young, square-jawed executive, Ned Tanen, who was put in charge of the movie division. Prior to his promotion, I knew that he had had substantial success in the music business. I figured he would be the obvious choice to have an affinity for these guys. That’s all I knew. I did not know how to get an introduction to him, and I could hardly admit to my employers that I needed their help to set up a meeting. I tried for several days to reach Tanen on the phone, but to no avail. Finally, I resorted to that terrible Hollywood device of telling his secretary it was someone else calling.

‘Would you tell Mr. Tanen that Lou Adler is calling?’ I asked.

‘Please hold.’

‘Sure thing.’

Adler was a highly visible and successful record producer. He reverberated style from the sixties and seventies. Bearded and known for wearing odd caps and shoes, he was the kind of guy whom I thought Tanen would be eager to be in business with.

‘Can I have Mr. Adler’s number? Mr. Tanen will have to call back.’

Well, that was the last hope. Five minutes later the phone rang.

‘Hello, Adler residence,’ I said in a slightly altered voice. We were working out of Adler’s house across the street from the Bel Air Hotel.

‘Mr. Tanen returning.’

‘Lou’ll be right there,’ I said in an even higher voice.

Click.

‘Hello.’

‘Lou?’

‘Ned?’

‘Lou?’

‘Not really. I’m really sorry. I’m not Lou. I work for Lou and I’m trying to get you to meet with him and John Phillips to discuss a movie idea.’

Complete silence.

I don’t recommend children trying this at home. After a brief awkward pause, I couldn’t tell whether Tanen had put me on hold without responding or had done the right thing and hung up on me. Just as I was about to drop the phone, his secretary returned and said that he would be willing to schedule a meeting the following Wednesday at ten in the morning. I thanked her. I had broken through. John and Lou had their movie meeting with the head of Universal Pictures, and they had assumed that I’d done it with aplomb.

By the time I had picked up Lou and driven up to 783 Bel Air Road to John Phillips’s house, it was 9:30 am This still gave us an ample half hour to drive over the hill to Universal Pictures and get there on time. The home looked deserted as we drove up the long driveway; the only thing that seemed to be moving were a couple of plumed peacocks. They were roaming across the front lawn between four Rolls-Royces haphazardly parked near the entrance. It was a large Tudor-style home perched on a Bel Air hill overlooking the ocean. What had once been occupied by Jeanette MacDonald was now home to rockers wanting to smother themselves in grandeur.

The front door and the two side windows were wide open, but the house seemed to be unoccupied. Adler and I got out of the car and entered the foyer. In an alcove off to the left, on a gray slate floor, was an empty baby casket converted into a coffee table. As we entered the main room with thirty-foot vaulted ceilings, we passed a large glass-enclosed cabinet filled with an assortment of stuffed birds and small dead animals. Lou looked around, but it was evident nobody was there. Lou told me to wait in the car while he tried to find John.

Forty-five minutes later, Lou returned. He came out of a pool house (which I later discovered was John’s new recording studio) some fifty yards from the main house. He was alone. He got in the car and didn’t say a word.

‘How we doin’?’ I asked.

‘Good.’

I wanted to say, ‘How good is good?’ but Lou wasn’t up for that kind of comedy. If everything went perfectly from here, we were going to be over an hour late. A bit new at this sort of protocol, I was certain that Tanen would never take my call again. The only question left was whether he would even take the meeting once we got to the studio.

Twenty minutes later (and it might have been even longer), John emerged from the main house dressed in a long, colorful Indian robe and wearing his Russian fur hat. Next to him was Michelle Phillips, wearing a similar Indian robe and sandals. She looked pissed off. Michelle was a surprise addition to this meeting, but by this time there was no reason to rock the boat. John motioned that we should go in one of his cars, an old four-door Rolls that was finished in gray primer. John and Lou got in the front seat, and Michelle and I sat in the back. We were just about to drive off when Michelle got out. She told John to wait. She said that she had forgotten something and would be right back. I looked at my watch. It was too late to call.

‘What could she have forgotten?’ I asked.

‘Darvon,’ John said.

‘Darvon?’

‘She has a toothache.’

‘Oh …’

‘We’ve been burning the candle as they say.’

‘Does she know where we’re going?’

‘Yeah, she wanted to go to the meeting too,’ John added.

‘Of course she did.’

Ten minutes later, Michelle surfaced. Dropping a Darvon temporarily softened her spirits. She fell asleep in the car before we got to Sunset and stayed asleep until we got to Universal. When we arrived, we were almost two hours late. I wondered whether the guard was even going to let us pass through the gates. Lou, who had not said a word since we left, anticipated my exasperation, turned, looked at the unconscious Michelle, and said, ‘Tanen won’t mind.’

And Lou was right. As we got off the elevator on the top floor of Universal’s black tower, we were not only greeted by Tanen as if we were fifteen minutes early, but he was almost apologetic for the inconvenience. He quickly eyed Michelle, who appeared starkly beautiful while ragged from pain. She walked past him without speaking. He looked at me as if to say I should have been more clever. I should have scheduled this meeting later in the day. Didn’t I know that acid, blow, and liquor wasn’t conducive to making anyone a ‘morning person’? Tanen then thanked John for making the big sacrifice of driving over the hill before lunchtime. John smiled back, forgiving Tanen for putting all of us through such an ordeal. As the entourage proceeded down the hall, every employee on the floor was prepped for their arrival. They all stood up to get a glimpse of the famous rock stars. You could almost hear them humming ‘California Dreamin’ when the procession passed their desks.

Tanen’s office was backdropped by white walls, had thick, white carpeting with staid European antique furniture. Michelle entered Tanen’s office first and immediately threw herself facedown on the couch. John and Lou took their seats without ever referring to Michelle. They continued to wear their hats. Ned took his seat at his desk, the entire San Fernando Valley visible through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. He leaned back and smiled at the colorful spectacle in front of him. This parade was an executive perk. I looked over at Michelle. Her robe had inched up her legs as she’d tried to get comfortable. She was seductive in her misery.

‘Toothache,’ I announced to the room, but no one was listening.

What resulted from all of this was not particularly significant. As we fumbled through some brief explanations about a couple of movie ideas, occasionally interrupted by a muffled moan from Michelle as she tried to get more comfortable on the couch, I realized it didn’t matter much what was being said. Tanen was intrigued by the players. He was smitten by Michelle. If it wasn’t going to cost too much, he was definitely going to explore it. In the end, we walked away with some inexpensive development deal that never resulted in the making of an actual movie. Nonetheless, this story illustrates two things: one, rock stardom packed tons of power in the back rooms at the end of the sixties, and two, more instructively, when you took a meeting in Hollywood, the decision to buy or pass was usually made before the meeting ever took place.

I’d like to say that at this moment I had an epiphany, that I looked around the room and said, ‘What a wacky time, I gotta make a movie about this,’ but that’s not what happened. A few months after this meeting, however, I did run into an old high school mate whom I had not seen in ten years. He couldn’t sing, write a song, or play bass, but he had paid the price. From clean-cut, innocuous Jewish kid, he had dramatically mutated into a dashiki-wearing, world-renowned rock publicist strung out on black women and party favors. And, yes, he was wearing a coke spoon around his neck. Over the next few years, I couldn’t help but notice that everyone, including me, was irrevocably altered by the times. Irrevocably altered by the music. I was starting to connect the dots. Someday this would be fertile territory for a movie. I put it on hold because I was still trying to figure out how to mix the business of Hollywood with pleasure and still pay the rent. It took twenty-five years for me to pull the trigger. We were in the middle of shooting Fight Club when I decided to try to get a script written about some of the people who were hanging out in front of the Whisky A Go Go way back then—not a movie about the rock stars but a movie about the people who were on the fringe trying to get in.

‘If you want to develop this, it’s okay with me,’ Laura Ziskin said rather matter-of-factly.

‘Thanks.’

Laura wasn’t quite so perky these days. The trill in her voice had evened out. She was entering her third rocky year as a studio executive, heading up the Fox 2000 division, a pet project of Bill Mechanic’s. Before taking this job, Ziskin had had a successful run as a movie producer, but she soon realized that the participation she enjoyed as a ‘hands-on’ producer would have to be shelved for now. For the most part, directors, writers, and producers simply didn’t want her help. Ziskin was left with a mess of bureaucratic details while Mechanic, her boss, was under massive fire from Chernin and Murdoch. Add to that a series of Fox 2000 bombs that was beginning to rain down in buckets (Inventing the Abbotts, Ravenous, Brokedown Palace), and Laura was savvy enough to know she might soon be back on the street with the rest of us.

Might as well go with the flow.

‘Bill said if we keep the costs down, we should do this,’ she said flatly.

‘Laura, we can do this, all in, for ten million dollars.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not, indeed.’

I didn’t know at the time that Cameron Crowe was planning to write and direct a similar movie covering the same period that was going to cost fifty million dollars. No one would be able to write about this period in Hollywood with more power than Cameron. He was there. Both movies were intended to be ensemble pictures. I didn’t know it then, but ours was never going to get the same paint job.

There’s a producer, a successful producer, who says that he never hires a writer or a director until he watches him walk. If he walks lucky, he hires him. After years of picking wrong, when everything seemed so right, it’s only natural that one would resort to a little mojo to get a hit. I’d like to blame the horrible demise of Sunset Strip on the first-time director or the well-intentioned writer, but I chose them and I worked with them. I forgot to watch them walk.

Since I can only assume that none of you ever saw this movie, there is no reason to explain it in great detail other than to encourage those of you who are obsessive about movies to try to find this thing in a video bin so you can dissect the making of a bomb. To your surprise, you will see several young, gifted actors (Rory Cochrane, Jared Leto, Anna Friel, Adam Goldberg, and Simon Baker) doing some excellent work. You will hear and see some guitar playing that is impressive. You will see some witty and authentic moments from the seventies that rival anything that has been done of that period. Nonetheless, it fell through the cracks. It didn’t walk lucky. Apparently, it didn’t have that thing.

We screened it for the taciturn Bob Harper to see what sort of read we would get from marketing.

‘What do you think, Bob?’

‘I just don’t know who it’s for.’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘I don’t see the target.’

‘Well, why not sell it to those that like it?’

‘That’s the problem.’

‘How so?’

‘I’m afraid those that will like it skew older, and the materials, vis-à-vis the cast, is gonna skew younger.’

‘How do we know this?’

‘The test scores.’

‘But the test scores aren’t always—’

‘And my gut.’

‘Of course, the gut thing.’

I was fucked. You simply can’t argue your way around marketing ‘speak.’ Fox held the release of Sunset Strip for several months. By the time they were ready to come out with it, I was no longer under contract at the studio. Laura Ziskin was back on the street working as a producer for Sony Pictures. Bill Mechanic was unceremoniously dumped by Chernin and Murdoch and was already hanging out in Beverly Hills considering his options. The controversy over Fight Club was rumored to be the bullet that finally got him, but the facts don’t bear it out. A true malaise had hovered over all of us during the last twelve months. Those providing Bill with movies that were nose-diving into oblivion were not part of an exclusive club. The Fox movie division couldn’t buy a hit. It didn’t matter what the genre was. Action movies like Thin Red Line or The Siege disappointed. Smarter fare such as The Newton Boys or Pushing Tin or Bulworth gagged. Big-name stuff like Jodie Foster in Anna and the King or Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach or the costly animated Titan A.E. were total wipeouts. As the carnage piled up, I would look for telltale signs when I ran into Bill. Little things, such as would there be a slight lisp or stutter in his speech? Or would he be bleeding from his ears while we were eating lunch in the commissary? I gotta say, he handled the avalanche with fatalistic poise, integrity intact.

I was reminded of an old studio head who said to me, shortly after being fired from Paramount, that if he had green-lighted the movies that he had passed on and canceled all of the movies he had agreed to make, he would have ended up in the same place. When his reign ended, he left the place with the humility of knowing that he didn’t seem to know anything.

Mechanic told me months later, after denying me the extra money I needed to secure a vibrant seventies sound track, that Fox had decided to cut their losses and put the movie out in only one theater and then they were going to pull it. No matter how you feel about your movie, no matter how small the movie, this sort of news is like getting gutted. There’s no response. It’s the terminal-cancer call from the doctor, the intimate dread of being caught on the street with nothing on. All you can do is go home and commiserate with your loved ones.

Why bother with one theater? Why not just take the film and make hundreds of guitar picks? Because it was the only credible business decision. Let me explain how this works. In their corporate output deals—with video companies, pay-per-view, syndications, and cable—the studio gets paid when a movie gets theatrically released. A theatrical release in that deal was triggered when the movie appeared in only one theater (these terms have changed somewhat since, but that was the deal that studios could make then). If they did not put it in one theater, they would not get paid at all. In the case of a small movie that the studio no longer believes in, it’s smart business to bite the bullet, get several million dollars back on these output deals, and not risk any further money by investing in a large marketing campaign. Today, the marketing costs to open a movie nationally can soar upward of twenty to thirty million dollars. You’ve gotta believe.

Ironically, Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous, a wonderful movie about the seventies, probably lost more money for DreamWorks than Sunset Strip did for Fox. With all the dazzling talent of Cameron, the movie’s costs, including marketing, did not bring in sufficient numbers to break out anywhere near even. Between the two of us, making future genre movies about the seventies will inevitably be put on hold.

One of the minor producing lessons from all this is to know that the more money a movie costs, the greater the chance that the studio will be compelled to provide it with a major marketing campaign. It’s the only way they can get their big investment back. Expensive movies, even if they don’t ‘test’ well, will always get a big national splash. By this time, the chance that Sunset Strip would ever get a legitimate release was zero. It was too cheap, too under the radar, to become a noticeable failure. The remaining executives had no personal investment in the movie. Hell, most of them weren’t even aware the movie got made. Fox had nothing to gain other than its erasure.

It disappeared like the morning mist.

FOURTEEN

I’m As Independent As a Dry Cleaner from Lebanon

‘David, you know Tia Carrere?’ Elie Samaha asked.

‘Uhhh …’

David Mamet looked at me over his glasses. Mamet didn’t have a clue who she was, but he was being cautious because this might be some sort of quiz he had to pass to get the money for his next movie. We were in an empty Italian dive on Santa Monica Boulevard and La Cienega sitting at a small table next to a reeking open men’s room. It was a business lunch. It didn’t resemble lunch at Sherry Lansing’s table at the Paramount commissary or the special booth next to Barry Diller at the Grill in Beverly Hills, but the intentions were all the same. I found out later, Samaha owned the restaurant.

‘You don’t know Tia Carrere!’

‘How ’bout you?’

‘Uh, Latin dancer, right?’ I guessed.

‘No. Actress.’

‘Of course she is.’

‘My Teacher’s Wife? Instant Karma?’

‘I think I remember.’

‘Do you know why I tell you?’

‘No.’

‘She’s also my recent ex-wife.’

‘I’m sorry,’ David commiserated.

‘Eh, it’s okay,’ Elie said. He made a fist with his left hand and straightened his forearm simulating a hard-on. He broadened his smile. ‘Cost me thirty-two million dollars, but what a, what a—’

‘Does that mean you want us to cast her?’ I asked.

David sighed.

Let me back up. After leaving Fox, I decided to take the indie route to raise money for Heist, a movie Mamet wanted to direct and I wanted to produce. It’s not that we didn’t want a major studio to fund it, but because of a variety of factors, mainly a series of regrettable turndowns, we were on the street looking for money. We had to put a ‘package’ together and peddle our wares.

I’m certain that you’re about to say, ‘Well, I sure hope he didn’t try Robert De Niro again and have another one of those God-awful readings.’ Of course I did. And for those observant students of Hollywood, you know that history always repeats itself. Do I have to add that after this reading Bob nodded, gave me his famous wrinkled grin, then talked briefly about how good the screenplay was and what a great writer Mamet was? Of course he did. Bob was always respectful. But when we walked outside and he started to tell me what a great producer I was, I knew we were dead. When he shook his head and said, ‘I’ve got a little problem with “the gold,” all that talk about “the gold, the gold, the gold.” Uh … I don’t get it.’ I was on the raw edge of saying, ‘Fuck me, the movie’s about the fucking gold! Are we all on acid?’ But even I was starting to figure this game out. In the vernacular of Hollywood, Bob meant unequivocably no, he’d rather piss in a fountain.

Fortunately, within a few weeks of that rejection, Fred Specktor, the venerable agent from CAA, called Mamet and me and said both Gene Hackman and Danny DeVito had read the script, wanted to work together, and wanted to do the movie. Great news. I’d been trying to corral Hackman for years and had finally got him. Our spirits were temporarily lifted, but some significant hurdles were ahead. The addition of these key elements was a terrific start, but this movie was going to cost substantially more than any movie Mamet had previously directed. As much acclaim as some of his movies had received, the box office results were not significant. We had to convince someone that if Mamet was given a larger budget with a more recognizable cast, he would deliver a movie that would intrigue a larger audience. Being artsy and classy to the studios was euphemistically suicide to the upside. As producer Joel Silver once proudly said, ‘I don’t make art. If I want art, I’ll buy it.’ This made him a very endearing fellow in the executive hallways.

The world of independent financing is considerably different from traditional studio financing—different in style as well as in substance. As odd as it sounds, the studio system and the agency system have become gentrified over the last thirty years—more conservative, more polite, and even more ineffective. This was not how it began. Sam Goldwyn was a glove salesman and Harry Cohn started by selling ‘hot’ furs. Neither of them finished high school. When Lewis Selznick met an old chum, a herring salesman turned movie producer, Lewis told his family, ‘Today I met an old friend. He is the dumbest man I ever knew. If he can make money in pictures, anyone can.’ Years ago, when Lew Wasserman instituted a tacit dress code of black suits and black ties for the MCA executives to spruce up the dignity a bit, hoping to make his group look like smart-thinking corporate types, he still insisted that all his agents follow the mantra ‘Don’t smell it. Sell it.’ But the times had softened the town. Everyone had been making too much money. It was time to clean up the act. Instead of imitating the outrageous behavior and spirit of the pioneers who had started the business, the players slowly but inexorably started to separate themselves from the past. Like the Jews and African-Americans trying to assimilate to their new country, those with power in Hollywood have quietly been straightening their hair and scooping their noses, trying carefully to fit in to look like those East Coast bankers and intellectuals who never took much notice of them in the first place.

Samaha, dressed in a neatly pressed dark olive suit and tight black T-shirt, recalling the Miami Vice pimp fashion of the eighties, removed his jacket. He waved at the cook scurrying around the open kitchen. We were waiting for our food to come. It was 1:30 pm but no other tables were occupied.

‘David, you have to shoot the movie in forty-five days.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Sure you can.’

‘I’ll need at least fifty-five days.’

‘You must shoot it in Canada. We save lotta money.’

‘I’ll consider that.’

‘Forty-five days.’

‘Fifty-five days.’

‘How many days you shoot State and Main?’

‘Thirty.’

‘Y’see. I love that movie.’

I tried to momentarily divert the conversation. ‘What’s with this fucking bathroom, Elie?’

‘It’s a famous spot.’

‘Maybe we should admire it from a different table.’

‘This is best table in the place.’

‘Aren’t you concerned that the heavy Lysol might leak into our salads?’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘Well, I think it’s an issue.’

‘Djya know that Jim Morrison OD’d in there years ago?’

‘No.’

‘Everyone wants this table.’

‘Elie, no one’s here.’

‘Listen, we can move over there by the wall, but this’s still the best table in the house.’

Samaha did not go to USC film school. He did not get an MBA from Boston University. He didn’t weep at Bertolucci movies. He didn’t give a fuck about the Coen brothers. He got here on a different bus. Born in Beirut, he left Lebanon as a teenager and wound up in Manhattan as a bouncer for Studio 54 before migrating to Los Angeles in 1982. Once he hit Hollywood, instead of trying to cozy up to rising directors at the monthly film festivals, he decided the dry cleaning business would be a more direct route to fame and fortune. He opened Celebrity Cleaners, mounted many autographed pictures of celebrities on the wall, and courted the studios’ dry cleaning business. He told us at lunch that he found the studios would pay any amount to get their wardrobes cleaned, especially if the service was top-notch. He decided to always stay open on Sundays and always stay open until midnight. Once he got ensconced in the movie business, if he thought an agent or an executive had done him a good turn, he would provide that person with a laminated card that entitled the cardholder to one year of free Celebrity dry cleaning. Make fun of him if you wish, but while the rest of Hollywood was hoping to sit next to Arthur Schlesinger Jr. or Henry Kissinger at some charity ball for the aged, Samaha was on the street hustling models and small-time celebs while he figured out a way to get the money to finance movies.

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 indignity 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.

JOHNNY: Ben, I’d like to introduce you to Jimmy.

They shake. Johnny whispers in Ben’s ear.

JOHNNY: He wants to invest in the next one.

BEN: That’s good. Where did he get his money?

JOHNNY: Hair.

BEN: Oh, hair.

JOHNNY: He has more than seventy shops.

BEN: Johnny, that’s very good to know. I’m going to think about that.

INT. CINEPLEX MEN’S ROOM

As Ben comes out of the stall he overhears two men discussing the movie. He ducks behind a wall. One man, Dick Bell, is an agent whose smartly dapper manner camouflages his sweaty desperation. The other guy is in marketing.

STUDIO MARKETING GUY: Whoa! That thing fell off the screen.

DICK BELL: I thought the girl was very, very, very good, didn’t you?

Ben hesitates, stays in the stall.

STUDIO MARKETING GUY: Please. Blood. Body parts. Heartbreaking sadness. How am I supposed to sell this thing?

DICK BELL: Let’s be positive. This could be the year for ‘grief.’

STUDIO MARKETING GUY: Grief for whom? They shot the fucking dog in the fucking head!

Ben decides to show himself. An awkward moment. Ben confidently walks to the basin.

STUDIO MARKETING GUY: Hey, Ben.

BEN: Good to see you, Bob.

Slightly embarrassed, Bob leaves. Dick stays.

BEN: Dick, what are you doing here?

DICK BELL: I represent the girl. She’s going to be a star.

BEN: I thought the preview policy was ‘no agents.’

DICK BELL: I snuck in. I’m gonna sneak out.

Pause.

BEN: So?

DICK BELL: So?

BEN: What’d you think?

Dick takes an awkward moment.

DICK BELL: There’s a lot of interesting stuff to … I loved the music. I loved it. It’s still in my head.

BEN: Thank you.

He exits.

INT. THEATER LOBBY

As Ben exits he sees Lou waiting for him across the lobby patiently eating her popcorn. As he walks, he’s followed by his ‘D’ girl, Dawn.

DAWN: It’s almost there. If Jeremy would just cooperate with the cut and we get lucky with the reviews, we have a chance.

BEN: We’ll deal with all of this tomorrow. I’ve got to talk to Lou. It’s time.

He walks over to Lou. Her eyes are moist with commiseration, but her crisp demeanor easily maintains the balance of power.

LOU: Ben, it’s a good movie.

BEN: Yes, it is a good movie, Lou, isn’t it?

LOU: A good movie, and in the end, that’s all that’s important.

BEN: That’s what they say.

LOU: Where’s your director?

BEN: Missed his plane at Heathrow. He’s sick about it. He gets in tomorrow morning.

LOU: It’s so hard to produce a good movie.

BEN: Very.

LOU: I respect it.

BEN: Lou, you’re making me cry …

As a youngish man in a wrinkled dark shirt wearing a baseball hat and dark glasses interrupts them, they quickly change their apprehensive expressions and start to gush.

LOU: Sean, brilliant work. Brilliant.

BEN: You’re never not great. Just great.

They all trade hugs. Sean and Lou casually kiss on the lips.

SEAN: Think we gotta shot here?

LOU: Yes, absolutely.

SEAN: That’s very generous.

LOU: See you in Cannes.

SEAN: Brian called you about the plane?

LOU: Yes. No problem.

Sean offers a broad grin, flashes a thumbs-up and vanishes into the night. Lou, back to business.

LOU: We’re going to lose money.

BEN: How do you know?

LOU: A lot of money.

BEN: You know this before it’s done?

LOU: That’s right.

BEN: Even before the DVD comes out?

LOU: Pretty much.

BEN: I have to think about this.

LOU: Do.

The preview cards are boxed up and handed off to Carl.

Cut to:

EXT. 405 FREEWAY HEADING SOUTH—NIGHT

SUPER: 11:30 PM

Ben is driving back from the screening. On the passenger seat is the box of preview cards. Ben glances at the box, steels himself, and continues driving. After a beat, he can’t resist any longer. He veers to the shoulder of the freeway, stops, turns on his overhead light, and grabs the box of cards. He randomly selects a few:

C.U. on cards—‘I just want to go home and hug my children …’ Another card: ‘It would’ve been funnier if you ate the dog.’ Another card: ‘Slow and painful …’

Ben picks up the top sheet. E.C.U. of his finger moving to the ‘definite recommend box.’ The box says 1 percent. As his finger moves to the ‘definitely won’t recommend box,’ it stops.

Ben remains expressionless as the traffic from the 405 whips by.

Fade to:

INT. BEN’S BEDROOM—MORNING

TUESDAY

AN ALARM CLOCK blasts the silence. A hand reaches in and shuts it off.

SUPER: 7 AM

INT. BEN’S KITCHEN

Ben is seated at his kitchen table in what appears to be a modest, empty, neat apartment, seemingly a makeshift residence for a guy between stops. The only accoutrement of luxury is an espresso machine. The box of preview cards are scattered next to a cup of espresso and a Red Bull.

Ben is on the phone while perusing Daily Variety. As the camera pushes in on the front cover we see a big picture of a young handsome thirty something guy below the headline: ‘JACK MCDONAGH COMMITS SUICIDE. TEN PERCENTER PUTS HIMSELF IN TURN AROUND.’

Ben casually looks at the news.

BEN: I did call Jeremy after the screening last night. What do you mean? I was not reluctant. He’s the director for God’s sake! If I did say to him ‘fuck me, why should this one be easy,’ that doesn’t mean I’m not enthusiastic …

Ben’s call-waiting signal beeps:

BEN: Hold on … Hello? Hello??? (pause) No it’s not the machine. Talk to me, Cal. (pause) What are you saying? (pause) He arrived thirty pounds overweight and he’s sporting a Grizzly Adams beard? … that’s no big deal.

Ben pauses to think. He pushes the box away.

BEN: He’s fooling with you. We don’t start shooting for five days. I’ll join you today and we’ll talk to him. Don’t worry. He’ll shave. Okay I gotta go.

Ben presses the call-waiting button. He glances at one last miserable preview card. He can’t resist.

C.U. of card. There are two primitive drawings of a pair of hands. One with a thumb pointing down and the other with the middle finger pointing straight up.

BEN: Hello. As I said, I am enthusiastic. It’s just too soon to get excited. But between you and me all signs say through the roof. Tell him not to worry.

He takes one more look at the head shot of Jack, the dead 10 percenter, on the cover of Variety.

BEN: Did you see this headline? ‘Ten percenter puts himself in turnaround?’ What a headline. Cold. I’ll talk to you later.

Ben hangs up, calmly neatens the preview cards and puts them back in the box.

Cut to:

EXT. BEN’S APARTMENT COMPLEX—SAME MORNING

ANGLE ON BEN as he exits a not unpleasant, ordinary apartment court in Brentwood. A little understated for a movie producer. His cell phone is in one hand, assorted papers in another. We see that he’s casually dressed. His only affectation is that he wears no socks. The rims of his eyes are red. He gets into a brand new Porsche Cayenne and drives west down Sunset Boulevard.

INT./EXT. BEN’S BMW—KELLY’S HOUSE

SUPER: 7:45 AM

ANGLE ON THE CAR AS IT ENTERS a classier neighborhood of expensive homes in the Pacific Palisades. He pulls into the driveway and stops. Max and Sophie, ages five and seven, run out of the house laughing, as Ben gets out of the car.

MAX/SOPHIE: Hi Daddy, hi daddy.

BEN: Morning gorgeouses … Who dresses you guys?

MAX/SOPHIE: WE DO!

MAX: Is there something wrong with it?

BEN: No, no. C’mon …

He turns to go.

MAX: Mom wants to ask you something.

BEN: Now?

SOPHIE: She said it’s okay for you to go in the house instead of using your cell phone.

MAX: No cell phones.

Ben takes a beat to stare at the front door.

BEN: Okay, get in the car and buckle yourselves up. I’ll be right back.

INT. KELLY’S HOUSE FOYER

Ben is standing in the foyer as his ex-wife, Kelly looks down on him from atop the staircase. In her midthirties, she is quite attractive. They both reveal that awkwardness of a separation, still fresh. Vestiges of love are in the air but a touch of hatred is circling. She looks him over. He looks back.

BEN: You always looked best in the morning.

KELLY: Thank you … you promised.

BEN: Kelly, I said I’ll do it.

KELLY: You always say you’ll do it but you don’t.

BEN: I know, I’m under siege … I realize I always say that but this time it’s true.

KELLY: For all of us, Ben.

BEN: I’ll do it. I will take them this weekend. I want to take the kids … I know, a grand total of ninety minutes per day of TV and video.

KELLY: Or the kids can’t stay over.

BEN: I know.

Ben walks into the living room.

KELLY: Wait, wait, wait … What are you doing?

BEN: Where is the big sofa chair?

KELLY: I’m having it recovered.

BEN: Oh. I miss it.

KELLY: You miss the chair?

BEN: I loved that chair. I sat in it all the time. I remember how much I paid for it.

KELLY: Okay, let’s play by the rules, Ben.

BEN: I thought our last therapy session went really well, didn’t you?

KELLY: Yes, but this therapy is called ‘how to learn to live apart.’ So we can move on gracefully.

BEN: I still have feelings.

KELLY: So do I.

A beat.

BEN: (pointing to where the chair used to be) The dark green velvet was such a good look for that chair. Why?

KELLY: I felt like a change.

BEN: Can I call you?

KELLY: (can’t help but smile) Yes, of course.

Cut to:

EXT. BRENTWOOD GRAMMAR SCHOOL

Ben waves good-bye to his kids. As they run into the school, he sees Scott Solomon, another father who has dropped his kid off and also the guy on his answering machine.

SCOTT: What’s the ‘number’?

BEN: It’s just a ‘number.’

SCOTT: Sure it is. Did you read my pages?

BEN: Yes. The studio just wants one more little rewrite …

SCOTT: I’m done. It has to stop.

BEN: You can do this. We’re at that stage where a couple of tiny fixes …

SCOTT: The madness has to stop.

BEN: C’mon, it’s a process. You know that.

SCOTT: A process? I’ve been working on this script for two and a half fucking years. Where’s the light at the … oh fuck. Ben, listen, you promised me, if you weren’t going to make this picture, you’d give it back to me.

You gave me your word.

BEN: I did?

SCOTT: Yes. You did.

BEN: Things change. You know that.

SCOTT: I can’t do it.

BEN: Scott don’t make me say …

SCOTT: What?

BEN: Don’t make me say … ‘you’re bought and paid for.’

SCOTT: Fine. But remember there is the next script, and believe me, I have a next one …

BEN: … what is it?

No answer.

BEN: You’re not going to tell me?

SCOTT: No, I’m not going to tell you.

BEN: I’m gonna find out anyway, why don’t you just tell me now?

SCOTT: I’m going to write about a florist.

BEN: Uh huh …

SCOTT: It’s a rich, undiscovered world. Florists are at the center of deceit and power.

BEN: It’s about flowers?

SCOTT: It’s Shampoo with thorns. Florists are dangerous. Ask your ex-wives.

A beat. They stop walking.

BEN: It’s not a movie.

SCOTT: It’s not a movie? What is it?

BEN: Rosebuds on the big screen, I don’t think so. It won’t work. Why don’t you try Leonard—it might be his thing.

SCOTT: I already did.

A beat. Scott starts to walk away, Ben follows.

BEN: You went to Leonard before you went to me?

SCOTT: He’s the coach of my kid’s soccer team.

BEN: But Scott, c’mon. Leonard?

SCOTT: What difference does it make if you’re not interested?

BEN: A big difference. Loyalty matters to me. (pause) What’d Leonard say?

SCOTT: He thought there were some interesting aspects to it.

BEN: What did he say?

SCOTT: He said, ‘It’s not a movie.’

BEN: There you have it.

Ben gives him a look as if to say ‘two producers can’t be wrong.’

BEN: Don’t worry, Scott. I’m going to get our script made.

SCOTT: Too bad about Jack, huh.

BEN: It’s rare. Usually agents kill others not themselves.

SCOTT: Out of the blue?

BEN: Hey, it happens.

SCOTT: SUICIDE? It happens!

BEN: Stress. It builds up. I’ll see you later.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S BMW DRIVING DOWN SUNSET

Ben drives farther west until he enters a large circular driveway of ANOTHER HOUSE. This neighborhood is even more luxurious than the first. He honks. A very hot girl, Zoe, comes dashing out and gets in the car.

ZOE: Hi.

BEN: Hey, baby.

He pecks her on the cheek.

ZOE: I think Mom’s in back if you want to say hi to her.

He thinks about it.

BEN: Do I have to? Maybe, next time.

He’s about to pull out of the driveway. He looks at her.

BEN: What’s with your eyes? They look red. Were you crying?

ZOE: Uh no. Just stuff.

BEN: Well, if it’s boy stuff, you can always talk to me. I can tell you a few things. I know things your mother may not know.

ZOE: I’m sure.

BEN: No, seriously, you can ask me.

ZOE: I’m okay.

A beat.

BEN: All right. Let me go talk to your mom.

EXT. MARILYN’S HOUSE/BACKYARD

He walks up the manicured stone pathway. Even though this relationship is two clicks back, it still seems to smart a bit. After all, they share a daughter and Ben’s probably still on the hook for child support.

BEN: Hi Marilyn.

MARILYN: Hey, Ben.

BEN: What’s with Zoe?

MARILYN: Oh, girl stuff. I don’t know.

BEN: Is she dating? Parties? She doesn’t really tell me much. She keeps things pretty much to herself.

MARILYN: I think she gets that from you. I think she tells us as much about what she does as you would tell me about what you do. Secrets seem to be the family hobby. I think it’s in the DNA.

BEN: I suppose. (he looks over the property) Boy, this place has gone way up. I wish I still owned it.

MARILYN: (smiling) Yeah. But you don’t.

BEN: (smiling back) Yeah. I gotta go.

MARILYN: Lookin’ good, Ben.

BEN: You too.

Cut to:

INT./EXT. BEN’S BMW—MOMENTS LATER

Ben and Zoe drive south down Amalfi toward the school. Zoe has turned her music station on and her spirits have brightened.

ZOE: You know not every seventeen-year-old girl gets driven to high school by their dad. I like it, makes me feel like a kid. (pause) I like to feel like a kid sometimes.

BEN: You are a kid and I’m a lucky guy. I still get to drive you to school.

EXT. PARKING LOT CROSSROADS UPPER SCHOOL

ZOE: So you think you’ll pick me up and drop me off when I go to college.

BEN: You bet. If you’ll let me.

Ben’s BlackBerry lights up. Ben glances but tries to stay focused on his daughter.

Text message in large caps, ‘JEREMY IS IN THE OFFICE! HELP!’

ZOE: Let’s just say it’s negotiable.

BEN: I’m a good negotiator.

They smile at each other. Ben watches as Zoe gets out, meets up with her friends, and heads into school. As Ben drives away, he grabs his BlackBerry and pushes his speed dial.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S OFFICE

A VERY CLOSE SHOT OF A MAN’S SHAVED HEAD.

SUPER: 9 AM

His left ear holds four pierced earrings and on the side of his neck the word ‘chai’ in large Hebrew lettering is tattooed in blue-black ink. He’s wearing red lipstick. Don’t be fooled by the extreme ‘get up,’ this is a serious guy who considers himself a serious filmmaker. This is Jeremy Brunell, the English director who missed the preview from last night. Jeremy is on the couch dressed in black leather, a sleeveless, baggy T-shirt that exposes wrist-to-armpit tattoos. Dawn sits at the other end of the couch taking notes.

BEN: (his voice is coming through the speaker phone, he’s still in the car) Jeremy, Would you please stop saying, ‘If they don’t fuck up my cut, we may just have something we don’t mind putting our names on.’

JEREMY: Mate, I don’t wanna get too lofty here, but I made a film that doesn’t wallow in the cliches of retribution. It doesn’t try to satisfy by letting the audience ‘get even.’ You knew I didn’t do that stuff when I was hired.

Cut to:

INT./EXT. BEN’S CAR—SONY GATE

Weaving through traffic he arrives at the studio entrance.

BEN: That’s true. But let’s just say when those that put up the money finally see the bad guys get away and the little pet dog get murdered, they get concerned.

JEREMY (O.S.): You said, Lou said, ‘it was a “good” movie.’

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S OFFICE

BEN (O.S.): She did. Three times.

JEREMY: Is that ‘concern’ to you?

BEN (O.S.): A bit.

JEREMY: How’s ’at?

EXT. SONY LOT

Ben closes his car door and marches toward his office.

BEN: Jeremy, I don’t know what good means in south London. But north of fucking Pico, at a preview screening where Lou says ‘good’ three times, it means drop your pants, bite down hard ’cause this one’s gonna hurt.

INT. BEN’S OFFICE

JEREMY: Don’t buy it mate. Were you watching the audience watch the movie?

BEN (O.S.): Of course I was.

JEREMY: What was their overall reaction?

BEN: Like they took their kids to Disneyland and watched Mickey Mouse douse himself with gasoline and set himself on fire.

A beat—Jeremy smiles.

JEREMY: I’m okay with that. And anyway, we’re two weeks away from the red carpet.

Ben is walking through the hallway leading to his office.

BEN: The festival took the film because they want stars. They only saw a ten-minute reel. The studio could pull it from the festival with a phone call.

JEREMY: You’re overheated, mate.

Ben emerges into the office with his BlackBerry still in his ear. For a moment his voice is coming from two different places. Without a beat he shakes Jeremy’s hand, turns off his hand phone and sits behind his desk. He keeps the conversation moving as if all this was normal.

BEN: I don’t think so. We’re going to have to accommodate Lou in some way. Throw her a bone. Do something … or the road could get a bit weird.

JEREMY: Are you saying you’re not gonna protect my cut?

BEN: I’m your partner—of course, I’m gonna protect your cut.

Dawn stops taking notes from the meeting.

DAWN: That’s what Ben does.

BEN: Thank you. I just want you to understand the terrain we’re about to cross. The preview was terrifying.

JEREMY: Stand united, and we’ll prevail. Right?

BEN: All right. I’m here to support you.

JEREMY: Once I explain the raison d’etre of the thing to Lou, she’ll listen.

Ben points to his own mouth.

BEN: Before we go upstairs you might want to rethink the lips thing. Just a suggestion.

Cut to:

OMITTED

INT. EXECUTIVE BUILDING HALLWAY

Ben, Dawn, and Jeremy are making their way down a very long carpeted hallway, ostensibly on their way to a studio meeting. Jeremy’s lipstick is still in place. Posters from movies made during the studio’s long and glorious history line the walls.

JEREMY: All I’m saying is … and I don’t mean to flog it … is you should be proud, we went out on a limb with this one.

BEN: I am proud. Maybe too proud.

JEREMY: It’s not just about the money.

BEN: We got the money but now we got to get the money back.

DAWN: Believe me, Jeremy—for Ben it’s never really about the money. It’s about pride. When he’s not taking creative risks is when he gets nervous.

The three of them continue their long walk toward Lou’s office in silence. They enter the building. Dawn signs them in.

Cut to:

INT. LOU’S RECEPTION AREA—MORNING

Ben, Jeremy, and Dawn are seated on sumptuous couches behind a large glass coffee table.

Other than that, the only other evidence that we are visiting a ‘movie mogul’ office is a giant movie poster hanging behind Ben. The poster has no title, no star credits, no technical credits, just a GIANT BLOOD-STAINED REPTILIAN EYE BALL over a titanium black background with the words: DOMESTIC GROSS $410,000,000 strafed across the bottom. No other credits.

There are two secretarial desks but only one is occupied.

SECRETARY: Ben, are you sure I can’t bring you guys any water? She got snagged on this call. You know she hates to keep people waiting.

BEN: We’re fine, Judy. Thank you.

She gets up and walks to Lou’s door.

SECRETARY: Let me see how long she’ll be.

She opens the door, leans her head in. We can only hear some muffled conversation. She quickly pulls her head back out and grabs a key.

SECRETARY: This could take a bit. I’ve got to run to the lady’s room. I’ll be right back.

Jeremy leans in to Ben.

JEREMY: Couldn’t be happier to get my day in court. I think it’s better to do these things face-to-face. Don’t you?

BEN: There’s a strategy to all of these meetings, pal.

You have to decide what you want out of this before we go in there.

ACCIDENTALLY, THE DOOR TO LOU’S OFFICE SLOWLY SWINGS OPEN ABOUT SIX INCHES. Ben stops talking. They begin to make out Lou’s phone conversation as glimpses of Lou can be seen as she walks back and forth in front of the door.

LOU: I always listen … and when we talk, Joe, I want you to know I listen carefully. (pause) That’s correct. It’s not about being considerate. It’s about doing the right thing. It’s about caring for the people who work for you.

Jeremy smiles at Ben. He’s impressed. Ben notices Jeremy beginning to stare at the ‘Reptilian Eye Ball’ poster.

LOU: We have gone over this now several times and in several ways. And I want to help, I do, but … I’m afraid and I say this with great respect … I’m going to have to say, ‘no.’ (pause) ‘No.’ That’s right. I know … what? Joe, that’s not necessary. That is not necessary. I said … I said …

Jeremy stops smiling. They can see Lou pacing more rapidly. For the first time Lou changes her tone, loses patience. Jeremy looks back at the poster.

BEN: (acknowledging the poster with a bit of irony) In the end, no director, no stars, not even a title. Just a number. A big number.

Jeremy looks back at the door where Lou is still talking.

LOU: Joe, do not … DO NOT … I said do not make me have to reach down your fucking throat and RIP OUT YOUR FUCKING TESTICLES AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR USELESS RECT …

At that moment, Lou realizes that her door is ajar and slams it shut.

Jeremy looks at Ben. Ben nods. He knows the terrain.

JEREMY: (whispering) Bloody hell. Was this some sort of a setup, mate?

BEN: I’m not that clever.

Jeremy, with a sardonic glance to Ben, decides to wipe off his lipstick. At that moment, the secretary walks back in. She sees the light on the phone is still on.

SECRETARY: My goodness. She’s still talking.

Cut to:

INT. LOU’S OFFICE—MORNING

The meeting is in progress. Ben, Dawn, Jeremy, Lou, and three of Lou’s assistants are circled around a meeting area away from Lou’s desk. In the corner is a complete nursery set up for preschool kids: toys, plastic swing set, giant Lego pieces, etc.

After an awkward silence in the room, Lou stands up and points to Ben.

LOU: You’re good, you’re really good. My god, kill the dog. Of course. What a brilliant tactical move.

BEN: Well, we wanted to do the unexpected.

LOU: You know, Ben, I always sensed you were blessed with good instinctive negotiating skills, but killing the dog! Oh boy.

JEREMY: (misunderstanding Lou) Well sometimes you just gotta surprise them, huh? Muss up their hair and kick them in the balls. Make sure they’re still breathing.

Ben pats Jeremy on the knee.

BEN: (whispering) Easy big fella.

LOU: (chuckling ironically) A bargaining chip! You guys figured, leave the dead dog in the movie now, knowing it wasn’t in the script and we would cut it out later and say ‘Okay Lou, the dog stuff is gone, how about we keep the rest as it is and call it a day?’ … I’m too old for this.

BEN: Lou, I think there’s another way to look at it.

JEREMY: What are you saying?

LOU: We’ve got a problem.

JEREMY: (getting a bit wild-eyed and sweaty) Hold on. You’re not talking about touching my ending are you? That’s not what I’m hearing is it? Has anyone seen Amores Perros?

LOU: What?

Lou eyes Ben. Ben shrugs.

JEREMY: Amores Perros. Was that about cruelty? No. It’s about loss and reality. It’s the difference between doing something a bit more profound, something that people will actually remember or you can go on making the same old rubbish. We’re trying to be great here. Aren’t we? Right?

Jeremy looks around the room.

BEN: Yeah.

JEREMY: I actually toned it down. Way down. Didn’t I?

BEN: Yes. He did.

LOU: A serious problem.

JEREMY: The dog has to DIE.

BEN: (quietly to Jeremy) Trust me, kemo sabe, you gotta back up.

LOU: Maybe I’m not being clear here …

DAWN: (interrupting Lou) I’m sorry. Excuse me, but I don’t think Sean would’ve done the movie if it weren’t hard hitting and didn’t take some real risks.

JEREMY: Absolutely.

LOU: (points to Dawn and then to the door) Would you excuse us?

The room goes dead. Dawn looks to Ben for help. He nods at the door. Dawn, humiliated, leaves. Lou finally addresses Jeremy.

LOU: Look here, I’ve lost twenty five million dollars before, and I’ll lose twenty five million dollars again. We’ve managed to put together extensive notes for you. Very extensive. If you do the kind of work that needs to be done here, I’ll lose a little less. Maybe fifteen million dollars less.

JEREMY: So you want me to eviscerate my film so you can lose a little less money?

LOU: I would be very appreciative.

JEREMY: I can’t do that.

BEN: Let us chew on this, Lou.

JEREMY: No, no, no. Look, THE DOG DIES!

BEN: (to Jeremy) I don’t think so.

JEREMY: Are you having a fucking laugh now?

BEN: No, not really.

LOU: Let’s not make this even more awkward than it already is. We respect you. Fix it.

JEREMY: It’s not broken, darling. My guts are in that cut.

LOU: Do the right thing, the right thing …

JEREMY: The right thing? I’ve done the right thing. I made the bloody film!

LOU: (turning to Ben rhetorically) I’m sorry, does he have final cut?

Ben shakes his head ‘no.’

LOU: The right thing … or your big evening in Cannes will be cancelled and I’ll take the film away from you and recut it myself.

A beat, then Jeremy unexpectedly puts his head in his hands and then smashes his fist three times on Lou’s coffee table, knocking a large bowl of M&M’s across the floor. His eyes are moist with tears. Lou and the others in the room are stunned.

LOU: (cont’d) (to Ben) I … what do you suggest?

BEN: He’ll come around. He’ll be fine. It’s jet lag. I’ll take care of it … C’mon.

Ben helps him to his feet.

BEN: (whispers in Jeremy’s ear) C’mon let’s get a grip. You can do it. You can do it.

He leads Jeremy to the door.

LOU: We don’t have much time.

Lou walks back to her desk shoving bits of M&M’s aside with the toe of her shoe. Lou picks up the cover of Variety, glances at the large photo of Jack, the dead agent.

LOU: Can you believe this?

BEN: (after an awkward beat) He had ten percent of the brass ring … didn’t he?

LOU: (as if offering a big compliment) I’d fuck him.

She folds the Variety under her arm and strolls into her private bathroom.

Cut to:

INT. KELLY’S HOUSE/BEDROOM AND HALLWAY

A CLOSE ANGLE ON A WOMAN SITTING ON THE EDGE OF A BED. Her blouse is unbuttoned. She is leaning forward to slip off her shoes.

SUPER: 1:00 PM

The woman sits up revealing that it’s Kelly, Ben’s ex-wife. A noon-day sun filters through the window shutters.

BEN (O.S.): My old bed. God, I love this bed. Are these new sheets?

Kelly turns. Ben is trying to stop himself from caressing the bed.

KELLY: This is a huge mistake.

BEN: Don’t say that.

Kelly starts to button her blouse.

KELLY: I can’t do it. I just can’t. This is as much my fault as yours. This is why we are seeing Dr. Randall.

To not do this.

BEN: Let’s not tell her.

He sits up and pats the duvet.

KELLY: It’s been almost a year, and you’re already too comfortable. And I’m nervous. Why is that?

BEN: You still look fantastic.

KELLY: Well, I appreciate that.

BEN: Do you want me to go?

KELLY: Yes. No.

BEN: I won’t talk.

KELLY: No, I’d like to talk.

BEN: (a long beat) Good, let’s talk. I’ll start.

I admit I do love this bed (pause) but only with you in it. Even if just for a moment I’m so grateful to be back here.

He sits up, puts his arm around her and finishes unbuttoning her blouse.

KELLY: Really.

BEN: Truly.

KELLY: (softens) After all the lawyers, it’s just so awkward …

BEN: … and all the money.

KELLY: Yes … I don’t know, it’s been so long … if I could do this … I feel so vulnerable …

BEN: I know how you feel.

KELLY: But it’s complicated. I don’t feel just one way.

BEN: I understand. I never feel just one way.

KELLY: Really?

BEN: Truly.

They kiss.

KELLY: I can’t …

BEN: You can. We can …

A cell phone rings.

Kelly and Ben both hesitate. He doesn’t want to spoil the moment but he doesn’t want to miss the call.

Ben points to where the ring is coming from.

BEN: This could be important.

KELLY: If you could only focus …

Ben can’t take it anymore. He jumps up and shakes the sheets until the hidden phone leaps from the bed. Kelly watches the dance. He flips it on.

BEN: (to Kelly) Please, let’s both hold on to that thought. (into the phone) Hello?

ASSISTANT: I have him.

BEN: Who?

ASSISTANT: HIM.

BEN: Oh. Okay … Hey, mi amigo.

He holds up one finger beseeching Kelly to understand.

ACTOR: I heard something.

BEN: What?

ACTOR: Concern about my beard. I don’t know. Or is it buyer’s remorse?

BEN: (clears his throat) Not from me.

ACTOR: Wait a second could you … I’ll be right back (click) …

BEN: (covering the phone to Kelly) It’s business. He’s a fucking movie star. We’ve got issues we’ve got to solve.

KELLY: Like what?

BEN: Like shaving a beard. Sounds crazy but it’s becoming a big fucking deal. What am I supposed to do?

KELLY: You can be a man and tell him you’ll call him back.

BEN: You’re right. You’re right.

ACTOR: Hello?

BEN: (into the phone) There you are. Listen …

ACTOR: I’m all ears.

He turns away from Kelly.

BEN: Uh … uh. Did I tell you how truly happy I am that you are doing this movie. A lot of actors were circling this but …

ACTOR: Get to the point.

Kelly gathers the rest of her clothes. She’s had enough.

BEN: Would you mind holding on for five seconds? I’ve got to deal with something … okay.

Ben reaches for Kelly’s arm. She pulls away.

KELLY: You’re kidding, right?

Kelly walks down the hallway.

BEN: Kelly! Wait! (into the phone) I’m back … Sure. We do need to talk about this … face-to-face is always better. You know me, I’m one hundred percent at your disposal …

ACTOR: Save the producer one hundred percent speech.

BEN: Could I just have another five seconds? (the actor hangs up) Hello. Hello. Kelly! Kelly! C’mon! I had to take that call. Kelly!?

Ben walks down the hallway undressed. No response.

BEN: (back to the phone) Hello?

It’s too late. Kelly’s gone. And so is the Actor. Ben walks back into the bedroom. As he starts to dress he sees something under the bed. He leans down and recovers another man’s sock, a bright multicolored argyle sock. He holds it up. He measures it against his own foot. He shoves it in his pocket.

For the first time since we’ve seen Ben, his face cannot cover up his true disappointment.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S OFFICE RECEPTION AREA

SUPER: 2:15 PM

Ben enters. His impenetrable facade has returned. Carl is going through a stack of the dreaded preview cards that are in several high piles on his reception desk.

BEN: Did you get our star?

CARL: No, but I left voicemails at every number we have.

BEN: You can’t reach Bruce anywhere?

CARL: No.

BEN: (pointing to the cards) What are you doing?

CARL: Referencing the cards.

BEN: Carl, these aren’t Hallmark get-well cards. They’re not coffee-table decorations. They’re private business. What are you doing?

CARL: I thought …

BEN: Don’t think. Put them in the drawer and lock them up. This is nobody’s business but mine.

Ben glances at his office through the indoor window. A man with tools on his belt is stepping off measurements across the floor.

BEN: (cont’d) You let somebody in my office without discussing it with me? Carl, get a grip here. We’re falling apart. What’s going on?

CARL: No, he’s from Studio Services …

Ben moves closer.

BEN: Is this moving day? (to himself) That’s always the way. Isn’t it? Because of one bad screening. Are you kidding me?

CARL: Huh?

BEN: These people have no shame … ruthless pricks … who’s coming in here next? WHO? What production company’s moving in here?

CARL: I don’t know anything about a production company.

BEN: What do you mean no one’s moving in here? I’m not moving in here. I’m in here.

CARL: I don’t know anything about a production company … No! Him? … It’s the new carpeting. You ordered the new carpeting.

BEN: When was that?

CARL: Back in February.

BEN: Since when does it take three months to get new carpeting?

CARL: I know. I’ve been badgering them. But it was a special order. The white shag … It came all the way from Minnesota.

BEN: I wouldn’t be caught dead with white shag.

CARL: You ordered it.

BEN: (recovering) No, I stand corrected. Okay, I’ll be in the editing room.

Carl nods. Ben heads for the door.

OMITTED

INT. EDITING FACILITY

Ben walks down the hallway and enters the outer area of the editing rooms. He approaches one of the rooms, the door is closed with a ‘do not enter sign.’ A loud ‘oh cunt’ groan followed by the sound of glass smashing erupts from inside.

EDITING ROOM

Ben quickly enters to see Jeremy, glassy-eyed, wrecked, really wrecked, like a man on life support. Shards of a coffee cup are at his side.

BEN: Jeremy, you may not realize this now but I was protecting you and our movie in that office.

JEREMY: I’ve gone out, man. Way out.

BEN: I can see that but maybe it’s a good thing. Clears your head …

JEREMY: No. No. I’ve gone out. I had eleven months and twenty-two days of no drugs or alcohol and after the meeting with that cow, Lou, your fucking well-meaning, assassin-in-training, gave me a fucking Ativan …

BEN: Uh huh … one Ativan doesn’t sound so terrible …

JEREMY: … which I then followed up by scoring three Dilaudids from a barman, and knock it all back with rum and Cokes.

BEN: Okay then. You needed a release. It can happen to anyone.

JEREMY: (tears welling up) Please, in seven days I was gonna get a cake, a lovely cake, a celebration … a year sober … and your naked fucking treachery has robbed me of that moment.

BEN: That’s not true.

Jeremy picks up one of the shards of glass and pierces his finger until a few drops of blood flow. He shows it to Ben.

BEN: That’s not necessary. Can’t we save this high drama for the screen?

Jeremy smears the blood across his forehead.

JEREMY: It’s my blood on that film.

BEN: I know it is, Jeremy. That’s why I’m here. As your producer.

JEREMY: My blood. Blood and dreams going all the way back to the Jew ghetto of Vilna. From a little shtetl. How could you possibly understand something like that?

BEN: Yes I can.

Ben starting to get concerned.

BEN: Let me get you a Valium? Just for now … It’s not that I don’t … but we’re on deadline. This is for us … these changes.

JEREMY: (thinking) Could I get a couple of Vicodin instead? … Make it three.

BEN: Sure. Easy. Three it is.

Ben leans out the door.

BEN: (to the assistants) Call my office and have them send three Vicodin to the cutting room. Right now.

Ben glances over at the Avid. There is a frozen image of Sean Penn and his dead dog on the screen. Ben puts his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

BEN: Jeremy, we need you to dig deep on this one. You can do it. We can get our victory in Cannes and I can get these bastards to spend a lot of money and distribute this film properly. Do you understand? You can do it.

JEREMY: (pointing to the Avid) It’s so fuckin’ hard for me. That’s my work.

BEN: Trust me. Once you do it, you make these cuts and trims, you get rid of the damn dead dog, you’ll forget the pain. You’ll feel cleansed.

JEREMY: I will?

BEN: Yes.

Jeremy gathers himself.

JEREMY: I don’t want you to see anything until I finish.

BEN: Sure. So long as I can review it with you before we leave. Just call me when you need me. Give me a hug.

They embrace. Jeremy holds on and won’t let go.

BEN: That’s it. Okay. Okay. Let’s go to work. C’mon. It’s okay. I gotta go now. We have a deadline. Let’s go to work. We can do this when we have our big victory at Cannes. Be strong. You can do it.

Ben gestures to Verna ‘cut the dog.’

JEREMY: Leave me alone now. Let me do my work. Leave me be.

Ben exits. Jeremy takes another swig from the tequila bottle.

Cut to:

EXT. FOX STUDIO PARKING LOT

BEN: No, no, no, Cal … I’m in my car. I’m driving on the 405 as we speak. I’m five minutes away. Cal relax, relax. I’m going over the hill right now. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.

Ben hangs up. He is rushing to his car parked on the other side of the lot when he runs into Scott, the screenwriter.

SCOTT: Hey, it’s a nice day, huh? What’s going on?

BEN: I’m late for a meeting with an actor about a beard. You must’ve sold your flower script.

SCOTT: How’d you know?

BEN: You said it was a nice day and you’re on this depraved lot. What else could it be?

SCOTT: Well let’s just say we’re in negotiations.

BEN: I’m sure it’ll be Batman for fairies. Who bought it?

SCOTT: I can’t tell you that. It’ll jinx it.

BEN: Oh, you’re start with that again? Just tell me.

SCOTT: I’m not gonna tell you. I’m superstitious that way.

BEN: You might as well tell me. I’m gonna find out anyway.

SCOTT: I’ll tell you tomorrow.

BEN: I’m so happy for you. Can’t wait to read it. When are you going to finish my rewrite.

SCOTT: Soon. Very soon.

BEN: When is that?

SCOTT: Soon is soon.

EXT. FOX STUDIO PARKING LOT/BEN’S BMW

Ben trying to look pleased gets to his car and starts to leave. His attention gets diverted when Scott lifts his pant leg and rests his foot on a car bumper. He’s wearing the same style of brightly colored Argyle socks that Ben found under Kelly’s bed.

Ben, motionless, just stares at Scott until Scott gets in his car.

Ben puts the sock back in the glove compartment and slams it shut.

Cut to:

INT. VAST ABANDONED FACTORY RECONVERTED TO A SOUNDSTAGE

SUPER: 4:00 PM

Inside, several large trucks are parked next to ten large trailers. Except for where people are working the place is quite dark. Sets are being built. Equipment (i.e. lights, cameras, dollies) is being unloaded and assembled.

Ben drives into the facility through a large side door. Across the way is a makeshift wardrobe room with a large bay window. By the clothing racks, he sees a large bearded actor trying on clothes. The Actor is profusely sweating. That call Ben got was quite accurate. The Actor does look a little bloated and he’s sporting a beard that Moses would have envied.

Ben gets out of his car just as Cal, the director, walks up.

BEN: Cal! How you holding up?

CAL: Uhhh, not good. It’s just ridiculous for you to say you’d be ten minutes. I find it silly, and actually obnoxious …

BEN: I had unexpected delays. I saw Moses through the window. What’s the status of the beard?

CAL: I don’t know.

Ben leads Cal inside the prop truck for privacy.

BEN: Did you tell him he has to shave?

CAL: I’m going to bring it up but I haven’t done it yet.

BEN: We start shooting Friday afternoon. Today is Tuesday.

CAL: I’m the director, I know what day it is.

BEN: I suppose it took him a long time to grow it, he probably wants to wait till the last minute …

CAL: That’s what I thought last week, but after seeing him read today, I sensed this is going to be his look. It’s an artistic choice.

BEN: The extra weight is too? It can’t be.

CAL: It’s a feeling.

BEN: Cal, we got the studio to pay him twenty million dollars to be a LEADING MAN. For that kind of money there’s an expectation.

CAL: I assume they expect a good performance.

BEN: No. No. For that kinda money, Cal, they expect millions of menstruating women to want to have intercourse with him. You understand what I’m saying? You want a poster that says ‘See Santa run?’

CAL: Okay.

BEN: Okay.

CAL: Okay.

BEN: Okay. Okay. Let’s go tell him to shave. He’ll shave. Especially if he hears it from you.

BEN: That’s the hope.

Cut to:

INT. WARDROBE ROOM—MOMENTS LATER

Crash! A wardrobe rack is knocked over spilling most of the costumes onto the floor. Ben and Cal watch as the actor goes on a rampage. He turns to Cal and Ben. My God, it’s Bruce Willis.

ACTOR: Motherfuckers! MOTHERFUCKERS!

More clothes are strewn.

ACTOR: You guys are talking about my artistic integrity. INTEGRITY! Mother FUCKERS!!!

BEN: Did I say integrity?

The actor walks over to a wardrobe stand, shoves it out of his way. Cal slowly makes his way to the door. Ben tries to hold his ground, make sense of things.

BEN: Audiences want to know it’s you, Bruce. They expect it. We’re talking about a lot of money here. Twenty million dollars.

ACTOR: What the fuck are you talking about? They’re not gonna recognize me, Ben? Oh, I see. They’re gonna be confused? ‘WHERE DID BRUCE GO? I CAN’T SEE BRUCE? WHAT? WHAT? WHERE’S MY FAVORITE MOVIE STAR? (looks in a mirror, smiles) OH, I SEE HIM. HE’S RIGHT THERE! THE GUY WITH THE BEARD!’

BEN: You know the business, there’s a demographic that has to be served. It’s about falling in love with the hero! There’s a tradition to this stuff …

ACTOR: Oh! I get it. This is about pussy.

BEN: More or less …

ACTOR: Let me tell you a funny story. I’ve been growing this beard for six months and I’ve been knocking off trim right and left, twenty-four-seven. And no complaints.

CAL: (turning to Ben) Maybe we should listen to him …

ACTOR: Shut the fuck up, Cal. Hollywood producer, my ass. I knew this mentality was coming. Never a doubt. Never a doubt. You no talent … straight to video, talentless motherfucker …

Ben, out of the ashes, begins to rise from his chair. For the first time in his grueling day he seems to be taking this current onslaught personally.

BEN: You want to talk about INTEGRITY?

ACTOR: Yeah!

BEN: You want to talk about art. Art! Let’s go. LET’S GO.

Ben starts flailing his arms like an agitated Mideastern vendor. Cal is frozen.

BEN: Let’s talk about INTEGRITY. Hey, hey, I’m willing to stack my last three pictures against your last three pictures. Huh! Let’s talk about that!

ACTOR: You’ve gone too far. You don’t have any pictures, you’re a producer.

Ben can’t stop himself.

BEN: Why don’t we start by GIVING YOUR OVERBLOWN SALARY TO THE FUCKING RED CROSS. That would show me some integrity. Let’s be honest!

The Actor is about to grab Ben by his shirt. He gets nose to nose with Ben. Ben tries to hold his ground but can’t help but take a couple of steps back. He’s cornered against the wall.

For whatever reason, perhaps his innate fear of criminal prosecution or perhaps just not wanting to hurt someone, the Actor changes his mind.

ACTOR: (whispering) Motherfucker.

He slowly walks out of the room, creating a path of destruction as he makes his way to his trailer.

ACTOR: … Can’t have a beard in the movie … Can’t wear clothes anymore … Steve! Throw out the clothes!! Don’t need craft service anymore … (he turns the table over, people scatter) … Sit anywhere fellas. (he throws a director’s chair across the stage) Here’s your chair! … Somebody fix this door! You happy now you got my blood pressure up?!

Ben and Cal peer at each other for an extended moment, both trying to conjure up some twisted grin in an attempt to hold onto their dignity.

BEN: Well, I, for one, don’t think he expects to shave.

CAL: I felt that.

BEN: The police should have put me on producer’s suspension. I blame myself. I shouldn’t have let it get so personal. I’ll call Sid and see what the money is willing to live with.

CAL: We’ll make it right.

BEN: Yeah. We’ve got four days to sort this out. I didn’t realize he felt that strongly about it.

Suddenly a loud explosion emanates from the Actor’s trailer. It sounds as if an espresso machine might have been hurled against a full length mirror. The trailer shakes and then goes dead still.

ACTOR: Now that video’s done we’re not gonna need this anymore! (he throws some equipment out of his trailer) Blow me fellas! BLOW ME!

Cal is hyperventilating.

BEN: Take it easy. You’re okay. You’re doing a good job. We’ll get there.

INT. VAST ABANDONED FACTORY RECONVERTED TO A SOUNDSTAGE

They walk toward Ben’s car.

CAL: Did you know I heard that just before Jack decided to ‘off’ himself, he spent his entire bonus, all of it, his last dime, actually, on an Ed Reed painting.

BEN: Classy, classy guy. He loved the arts.

CAL: It was a giant brown oil painting and it had one big word across it.

BEN: Yeah, what?

CAL: That was the word. ‘WHAT.’

Ben eyes Cal. He’s trying hard to make sense of his day.

BEN: I’ll call Sid from the car.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S BMW—EARLY EVENING

SUPER: 6:30 PM

Ben is driving in slow traffic on the 405 coming over the pass into Brentwood.

BEN: Ha. Ha. Good one, Sid. Listen, I need the studio to give me some flexibility on this one.

SID (V.O.): Okay, what do you call a man with no arms or legs in a swimming pool?

BEN: I give, Sidney.

SID (V.O.): BOB! Get it. Bob!

Sid howls.

BEN: I get it. I do, Sidney. Listen, out of all the studio heads you are by far the funniest. But you have to stay with me. This is Bruce Willis we’re talking about. He might have a point. Maybe we need to bend … we could … you know … think creatively. In fact, he could have a point. Maybe we need to rethink that. The beard might be the right way to go.

SID (V.O.): Let’s keep it simple, Ben. I’m not Lou. I like to be direct.

BEN: Tell me what I have to do.

SID (V.O.): If that bastard doesn’t shave and look like a leading man … A. We shut the movie down. B. We sue him for all damages. C. We then sue you for misrepresentation.

BEN: Awww Sidney. C’mon. Let’s have lunch and discuss this like men.

SID (V.O.): Call my office.

Click.

BEN: Okay, Sidney. Sidney? Hello?

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S BEDROOM—EVENING

SUPER: 6:40 PM

Ben is getting re-dressed to go out to dinner. He’s on the speaker phone with Dick Bell, the star’s agent, who was at the preview screening earlier.

BEN: Are you saying Bruce never mentioned this to you? You’re his agent, his confidant for God’s sake. We’re on the ledge on this one. He’s got four days to clean himself up. And I’ll personally pay for the trainer.

DICK’S VOICE: You’ve got to be kidding.

BEN: No, Dick, I’m not kidding.

DICK’S VOICE: This can’t be happening now.

BEN: It’s happening.

INT. DICK’S MALIBU HOUSE—INTERCUT WITH BEN’S BEDROOM

INTERCUT THIS CONVERSATION with Dick who is standing in his master bedroom on the second floor of his Malibu beach house, watching the ocean. He’s pacing back and forth holding a wireless phone.

DICK: This late in the game, you tell me it’s HAPPENING!!? It can’t be.

We cut back to Ben’s apartment. He’s changing his pants.

BEN: ’Fraid so.

Ben hears, through his speaker, Dick explode with a weird vomiting sound. A death rattle. A dry heave.

DICK’S VOICE.: AAARRRGGGHHH! AAAAARRRGHHH!

Ben runs to the speaker phone as if trying to come to Dick’s aid.

BEN: What was that …?

Back to Dick, his face is a bit more ashen.

DICK: It’s nothing.

BEN’S VOICE: That’s nothing!

DICK: Finish your point. How much does he know?

BEN’S VOICE: It’s a bit sketchy. We all got lathered up. Things might have been taken out of context.

DICK: Tell me exactly what was said.

Back to Ben’s apartment.

BEN: You know how it goes. ‘Fuck you. No, no. FUCK YOU!’ And then it got worse. Why not call me back after you talk to him?

DICK’S VOICE.: To tell him he’s going to get fired and sued for all the money in his piggy bank? I don’t want to. You give him the bad news?

BEN: Dick, you’re an agent. Delivering bad news is part of the job description.

DICK’S VOICE: I can’t do it. The messenger gets killed. You know that. I can’t. Just shoot me.

Back to Dick’s master bedroom.

DICK: I’ve been working with him for two years. He’s one of my most important clients but he’s very mercurial. He can snap at any time.

BEN’S VOICE: You’re scared of him.

DICK: I’m not scared of him … I’m scared of all of them … could you hold a second?

DICK: AAAARRRRGGGHHH …

BEN’S VOICE: You okay?

DICK: Yes. It’s a stomach disorder. It comes and it … GUGHH … (a little dry rattle as he gazes at his gorgeous view of the ocean) … and it goes.

Back to Ben pacing near the speaker phone.

BEN: You … Maybe we should do this later. Yes. Let’s do this later.

DICK’S VOICE: No. Seriously. I’m fine.

BEN: Sure?

DICK’S VOICE: Absolutely. They cut me back on my antidepressants so I can get it up, but … the withdrawal makes my stomach clench. Sounds worse than it is. I even had to cut back Klonopin.

BEN: When do you take that?

DICK’S VOICE: Travel. Whenever I pack.

BEN: When you pack?

DICK’S VOICE: Too many choices … arruugh. G’head, I’m okay.

BEN: Dick, your client has to give us some relief … let’s figure out how we can solve this beard thing?

Back to Dick’s place. He seems to have composed himself.

DICK: We! WE! For a start, whyn’t we let him wear his fucking beard. Excuse me, but what’s the big deal?

BEN’S VOICE: We’re way past that now.

DICK: Yesterday everything was fine. How did we get WAY PAST THAT in one day?

Back to Ben.

BEN: Money.

DICK’S VOICE: Have you told him about the shutting down of the movie?

BEN: No.

DICK’S VOICE: What about the lawsuit? Did you mention the word lawsuit.

BEN: I tried but the timing was bad. I couldn’t.

DICK’S VOICE: D’you know the ramifications of what you’re asking of me?

BEN: I do.

DICK’S VOICE: AARRRRGGGHHH!

Ben leans in inches from his speaker phone.

DICK’S VOICE: AARRRGGGHHH!

BEN: Jeezus, man, get hold of yourself.

A beat. All one can hear is Dick’s heavy breathing through Ben’s speaker.

BEN: Dick?

DICK’S VOICE: (almost inaudible) I’ll get back to you.

BEN: You should talk to somebody about that stomach thing.

DICK’S VOICE: Thank you, Ben.

Ben shuts off the phone and puts on his sport coat. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the multicolored argyle sock. He carefully folds it to preserve the evidence and puts it in his pocket. He calls Kelly. She does not answer. This time he leaves a message.

BEN: Kelly. Call me.

Ben gathers his things from the kitchen counter. He can’t stop himself. He calls Kelly again. Again, no answer. He exits.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S CAR—NIGHT

On his way to dinner, Ben calls Kelly.

KELLY’S ANSWERING MACHINE: Hi. We’re not here. Please leave a message for Kelly, Sophie, or Max after the beep.

BEN: Hello? Kelly? I need to talk to you. I’m having dinner with some money people tonight but you know you’re more important to me. So please call me as soon as you get this. I’m on my cell.

He hangs up.

INT. GIORGIO’S RESTAURANT—NIGHT

SUPER: 9:00 PM

Ben is seated with Johnny the Mideastern slick moneyguy from the office. Seated next to Johnny is a tall Middle Eastern man in his fifties, Aba Peterson. He is festooned in multilogo’d athletic wear. He could be Israeli, Tunisian. An American flag is proudly stuck to his Adidas sweatshirt.

Next to the men are three young women wrapped in tight clothes. They talk among themselves.

JOHNNY: No, no, no … The money is guaranteed. When Aba says, ‘yes,’ it’s like a mother offering her child her teat. It can be trusted. He loves movies. He loves movie people. He loves you.

Aba smiles at Ben, Ben smiles back.

ABA: I love your work.

BEN: My work?

JOHNNY: Rio, Ben, he wants to make Rio.

BEN: Rio? Great, there’s no script yet, but …

ABA: Johnny told me what it is and I love it. I trust you’ll get a good script. The money is already in a box.

JOHNNY: The money’s there.

BEN: Well, okay then.

ABA: Last night, very late, Johnny took me to the Sunset Room.

BEN: Johnny, you were moonlighting.

JOHNNY: (not completely understanding) Yes. Thank you.

ABA: We were drinking with Sly.

JOHNNY: It was a real good night.

ABA: And Don Johnson was three tables away. Now he’d be very good in this movie.

BEN: Uh-huh.

ABA: Can you make this movie in fifty days?

BEN: Fifty days? Well, there’s no director yet and no scr … I don’t know.

ABA: Have you ever visited Luxembourg?

BEN: Luxembourg? No.

ABA: We can get some real, how would you say, breaks there. Could you excuse me for a moment.

Aba, recognizing someone from across the restaurant, leaves the table. Ben looks at the young women, they smile back.

BEN: Where does he get his money?

JOHNNY: Dry cleaning. He started by cleaning the wardrobes for the movie studios. He charged them ten dollar a suit. They pay. Next time he charged them fifty dollar a suit. They pay. Next time he charged them hundred dollar a suit. They pay. He says, ‘I want to be in the movie business,’ I understand these people.

BEN: So does he still have the money?

JOHNNY: Oh, yeah. We can count on him.

One of the girls lifts her glass and proposes a toast. She looks into Ben’s eyes, takes a beat.

LAURA: The past is HISTORY … today’s a GIFT … and that’s why we call it the PRESENT. Cheers.

They all look at each other without reaction and continue talking.

JOHNNY: (turning back to Ben) Hey, Ben. Do you know Tina Mercado?

BEN: Uhhh … Latin dancer?

JOHNNY: No. Actress. Instant Karma.

BEN: No.

JOHNNY: It’s Aba’s ex-wife.

BEN: Uh-huh.

Johnny makes a fist with his left hand and straightens his forearm simulating a hard-on. The girls perk up, they’ve seen Johnny do this before. He gently bounces his elbow up and down on the table and smiles.

JOHNNY: Bumbala, bomba …

Ben’s cell phone rings. He nods for Johnny to continue.

JOHNNY: He say, ‘she cost me thirty two million dollars but she can suck the paint …’

Before Johnny can finish, Ben decides to answer.

BEN: Hello? … Kelly. Kelly. (to the table) Please, excuse me. (into the phone) I’m so glad you called me back.

Ben gets up and starts for the door.

INT. GIORGIO’S ENTRANCE

He stands by the entrance.

BEN: I’m so glad you called me back.

KELLY: So, an actor more important than the mother of your children?

BEN: Yes. It was my fault, of course I don’t think he is as important as you.

KELLY: Ten times you called.

BEN: No. No. I did not call you ten times today. I called you four times … I’m just trying to find a quiet place …

KELLY: What was so damned important. Couldn’t be me.

BEN: Well, I’ll tell you what was so important. I just wanted to … to know …

A beat. He clears his throat.

BEN: Is anyone else other than you sleeping in my old bed?

KELLY: You lost that privilege over two years ago. You have no right to ask me that.

BEN: … No. No. No. I know I don’t have the right, but, but. Wait a minute! I believe thirty thousand a month entitles me to something, I gotta be frank with you.

KELLY: Fuck you.

BEN: I have never heard you say ‘fuck you’ like that to me in front of the kids.

KELLY: The kids’re sleeping.

BEN: Uh-huh. Well, okay, then. Look, can’t we discuss this now. I’ll come over. Please. I’m hurting. It’s very important. I really want to talk to you about it.

KELLY: You’re hurting?

BEN: … yes, there I’ve said it … ‘I’m hurting.’

KELLY: You really are?

BEN: Yes.

Just as the moment gets confessional, Ben sees Dick, the agent with the nervous stomach with Jerry, a man in his late sixties riddled with bad plasticfacial surgery and an eye patch enter the restaurant. Without a thought Ben interrupts his call to Kelly, and spread-eagles his arms out to Dick.

BEN: Dick? Dick? I need to talk to you …

We can hear a loud scream through the cell phone, ‘YOU BASTARD’ as Ben pulls the phone back to his ear.

BEN: I’m back.

KELLY: Get some help.

BEN: It’s a very bad habit … you are absolutely right and I’m working on it. Look, can’t we discuss this now!

KELLY: Not now. I gotta go.

BEN: I suppose it’s not the right time. Yes. I’ll speak to you soon. Thank you for returning my call. It meant alot.

Ben hangs up and re-enters Giorgio’s.

INT. GIORGIO’S RESTAURANT

He gathers himself and walks over to Dick’s table near the entrance. After hellos are exchanged, Ben leans in to Dick to get a private word. There is no seat at the table so he joins them by resting on one knee.

BEN: Did you tell him?

DICK: I alluded to it.

BEN: Alluded?

DICK: Yes. Alluded. Yes.

BEN: A picture is about to get cancelled. What does that mean? Alluded.

DICK: I … I told him I have something very important to discuss.

BEN: Did you tell him what it was about?

DICK: Not yet.

BEN: Oh Dick. We’re out of time. C’mon. No more alluding.

Dick starts to gag but courageously manages to suppress it.

DICK: I’m going to do it. I won’t allude.

Ben nods to Jerry.

BEN: Well, sorry for the intrusion. (to Jerry) What’s with the patch?

JERRY: Shingles. My lid. It occasionally flutters. It’s nothing.

BEN: Of course. We’re just glad it’s not serious.

JERRY: If I went blind you’d celebrate.

BEN: Probably.

Ben takes one more look at Dick and wonders whether he was persuasive enough.

BEN: I hope you know that you are sitting with a great ex-agent.

He reaches down to Dick’s shoulder and whispers.

BEN: Dick, just give me one more minute. You got to. (to Jerry) Excuse us.

The two retreat to a sequestered spot.

BEN: How could you call him and not mention this?

DICK: There’s a logic to these things. You met him. The man’s an animal. When I called him today, he hadn’t eaten yet. Wrong time. You got to do this when there’s an open window.

BEN: We don’t have that many windows left. When is the next window?

DICK: After A.A. would be a window.

BEN: When is that?

DICK: Two days.

BEN: That’s no good. What’s tomorrow morning?

DICK: Analysis. He’ll be nuts for at least three hours after that. You don’t want to mention ‘lawsuit’ or ‘beard’ after his psychotherapy.

BEN: Listen to me. I don’t care what it is. Find a ‘window’ tomorrow. That’s it.

DICK: AAAARRRUUGH! Sorry, that was a big one. That’s it. I’ll do it.

Cut to:

INT. GIORGIO’S RESTAURANT

Ben ducks into the small unisex bathroom off the kitchen.

INT. GIORGIO’S RESTAURANT/BATHROOM

Laura, the girl from his table, barges in and joins Ben.

LAURA: I know what you think this looks like but it’s not. Johnny did not send me to make you ‘happy.’ I wanted to meet you on my own. I know everything you’ve done, I know who you are and I’m not some silly girl in tight clothes. I went to Stanford.

BEN: It’s a good school.

They are squeezed together in the tiny bathroom.

LAURA: I just want to get to know you.

BEN: Me … you know me … it’s … What’s your name again?

LAURA: Laura.

BEN: Laura.

Laura moves closer.

LAURA: I respect you and your movies and I know if I did not take this chance now, no matter how aggressive this seems, my chance will never come up again.

So—

BEN: That’s so flattering. I mean, I guess if I were a tailor, you’d still be doing this. Am I right?

LAURA: You are such a funny person. And I just wanted you to know that there is nothing I wouldn’t do to have a chance to see you on my own with no strings attached. Unless you want to do something now?

BEN: Now! Here?

LAURA: Then just call me.

She is holding up a piece of paper with her phone number on it.

LAURA: Open.

Ben opens his mouth and she places the piece of paper between his lips.

LAURA: Close. Try not to get that wet.

She exits the bathroom.

BEN’S BMW—NIGHT

Ben is seated in his car outside of Kelly’s house.

SUPER: 11:30 PM

There’s a couple of lights on upstairs. Ben just sits there gazing at the windows, the argyle sock in his hand. A shadow walks by followed by another. Are the moving silhouettes in the window more than one person? Ben dials Kelly’s number. The machine picks up. He doesn’t leave a message. He hangs up and drives away.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S BEDROOM WEDNESDAY

An alarm loudly blares. Ben’s hand reaches for it. He looks ravaged and out of sorts. He peruses the room as if he forgot something.

SUPER: 7:00 AM

Ben is on the floor in front of a mirror doing yoga poses when Laura, the development girl from Giorgio’s, enters the room.

LAURA: I can’t stay for breakfast. I got three scripts to read. Hmmm …

Ben is startled and confused, having no memory that she was ever there. She leans over Ben, who looks trapped and lost. She lifts her blouse.

LAURA: (cont’d) (softly) You want to kiss them one more time?

BEN: Uhhh.

LAURA: You don’t remember a thing do you?

BEN: (smiles) I remember offering you a two-picture deal.

LAURA: … and that was before we dropped the ecstacy.

I dig older guys.

Ben sees his reflection. He looks ten years older than the night before.

LAURA: (cont’d) I got to go.

BEN: (relieved) If you have to.

Ben watches her walk away.

BEN: (cont’d) Wait!

Laura stands by the bedroom door.

BEN: (cont’d) I changed my mind. I think I do want to kiss them one more time.

LAURA: Well … that’s the spirit.

Laura laughs, walks into the room, and closes the door.

INT BEN’S APARTMENT—30 MINUTES LATER

Ben, now alone, is dressed in a suit and tie making an espresso. The espresso machine, sound system, and TV are his only accoutrements of luxury in his spare apartment.

Traffic on Sunset is already starting to build up. Screaming kids are playing while waiting for the school bus.

Ben glances at the Daily Variety. The headlines just won’t go away: ‘TOO YOUNG TO GIVE UP 10%.’ ‘TEARS MIXED WITH DARK RUMORS.’ ‘WHO’S GRAVE-GRABBING JACK’S CLIENTS NOW?’

Ben downs his espresso as if it were medicine. He chases it with a Red Bull. His assistant, Dawn, calls.

BEN: Hello.

DAWN: Good morning, Ben. Sid’s office sent an e-mail that he wants the Bruce-slash-beard situation handled before lunch.

BEN: Tell them, I’m on it.

DAWN: And don’t forget to be on time for the Vanity Fair photo. Eleven a.m.

BEN: I know.

DAWN: Quite an honor. Producers with power.

BEN: If they only knew. Thanks.

Cut to:

EXT. BEN’S APARTMENT—DAY

Ben leaves for the photo shoot.

OMITTED

EXT. PARAMOUNT LOT

SUPER 11:00 AM

Ben, dwarfed by the massive soundstages, walks through the lot. He checks his watch.

INT. PARAMOUNT SOUNDSTAGE 32

The place is already bustling. In the center there is a makeshift bleacher in front of a large red curtain. Attached to the curtain are large gold letters spelling out P-O-W-E-R. A small crew is finishing the lighting and placing the camera for the shot. Test flash Polaroids are crackling in the background.

Off to the side are three makeup chairs in front of brightly lit mirrors for those that want to be touched up before the shot. Across the way, ten tables are set up with flowers and candles to serve a formal lunch after the session is over.

Most of the producers have already arrived and are mingling in small groups. Everyone is trying to be extra polite, flushed with the excitement of getting their picture taken. But this is not a bunch of people that are rooting for each other, or for that matter, even like each other.

Ben is getting made up.

All three are keeping their eye on the three-tiered stands which are fronted by three large thronelike chairs. ANGLE ON several producers who have already gathered near the front and center, hoping to get a better position in the photo. Ben and his group decide to join them. They are all now awkwardly bunched in the front row. The photographer’s assistant, Mary, addresses them.

MARY: Hi. Could I have your attention?

All right everyone, I’m Mary. Over on the wall there and on the table are charts which will indicate where each of you has been designated to stand. If you could find your places quickly, it would be most appreciated. Thank you.

Ben goes to check his position on the chart versus the actual seating assignments. He is not happy. He catches Mary’s eye and decides to walk back down to talk to her.

Ben: Mary. Hi, it’s Ben.

MARY: Yeah. Ben. Hi. Nice to see you again. How’ve you been?

BEN: Good, thank you. Mary, could I have a word with you for a second?

MARY: Sure, Ben.

BEN: Great. This is a bit awkward but I was wondering if you can make some changes in the placements … it should be set in the proper order …

MARY: (to the crowd) PLEASE EVERYONE, some of you will have to stand in the back near the letter P or R. Just like the chart. Thank you.

BEN: … you know there is a posterity to these photos … it’s important that the right people are in the right place … and I thought … maybe I could make a suggestion …

MARY: I’m not really sure I follow.

BEN: Well some of these people are not really ‘producer’ producers. If you know what I mean. They just add their name to movies … Like this lady here with the blonde hair and the suit. And the guy in the leather jacket with the bald head and the beard … Do you know what movies he’s done? … I thought if I could be over there, instead of there, near the letter W … (he looks at the chart again) In fact, the woman near the W should really be near the P. Or even the O.

MARY: (to the crowd) THAT’S LOOKING BETTER. (to Ben) Ben, Graydon chooses the pecking order, not me. He’s the boss. You know I think you’re terrific.

BEN: I appreciate that. I’ve got to tell you, if it could be put in the proper order it’d be alot better. I should’ve called you yesterday at the hotel, you know, and explained that.

MARY: Ben, last night I got more gift certificates from Prada sent to my hotel room than Gwyneth fucking Paltrow. My hands are tied.

BEN: Got it. Good. That’s not really what I meant but it’s no big deal. Nice to see you again. Thanks. Where do I go?

ANGLE ON BEN who walks by the three throned producers who smile as he climbs to the third row off to the left.

MARY: Uh, Ben. Near the P. A little more to the left … The other side … A little farther.

Ben takes his place under the letter P.

MARY: Good. That works.

Cut to:

A BLAST OF LIGHT and the photograph is frozen in time. As the camera pushes into Ben’s face, he tries to make the most of the moment but, unfortunately, his face is slightly blocked by the taller producer next him.

Cut to:

EXT. STUDIO #3 LOT

SUPER: 1:00 PM

Ben drives up to the front gate. He reaches for his wallet to show his I.D. for security.

GUARD: No I.D. necessary, sir. Good to see you again. Go around to the left, we’ve got a space for you.

BEN: Thank you.

Ben, feeling a touch of pride, drives onto the lot to park.

Cut to:

EXT. STUDIO #3 LOT SOUNDSTAGES

We see Ben check his reflection in the glass before entering the commissary.

INT. STUDIO #3 COMMISSARY—LUNCH TIME

Ben enters the packed room. The room is divided by the ‘good’ section near the back of the room and the ‘not so good’ section in the front of the dining room.

Ben looks toward the back of the dining room to see if his lunch partner, Sid Voss, has already arrived.

He is suffering the indignity of standing there without being immediately ushered to the ‘good’ table. He camouflages all this, as always, with a slightly strained but confident grin.

He inches into the dining room. A hostess comes up from behind.

HOSTESS: Do you have a reservation?

BEN: Are you new?

HOSTESS: First week.

BEN: I’m joining Sidney Voss.

HOSTESS: Oh, goodness. Sorry. He’s not here yet but let me take you to his table.

BEN: S’all right, I know where it is.

HOSTESS: Well, he’s not at his usual table. Upper management came into town. He had to relocate over there.

She points to an empty table in the middle of the room.

BEN: Thank you. I see it. I can get there on my own. Thank you.

He sits alone. He can’t help but look around to the back of the room, particularly at the ‘A’ section. Someone who looks remarkably like Rupert Murdoch stares right through Ben. Ben looks away. The mojo’s not working, he’s at the wrong table. The hostess comes back to the table.

HOSTESS: I’m so sorry Mr. Voss’s office called and he simply can’t make the lunch.

BEN: Did they say why?

HOSTESS: They said he’s too grief stricken to eat. You know that poor young agent.

BEN: Yes, it’s quite a loss. We’re all feeling it.

HOSTESS: I saw his picture in the trades. He was very good-looking.

BEN: I suppose that makes it even worse.

HOSTESS: Oh, they said you should order whatever you want, on him. And, uh … they sent over a note.

She pulls a note from her pocket. It’s Scotch-Taped shut.

HOSTESS: For you.

BEN: I forgot my reading glasses. Would you read it for me, please?

She pulls apart the Scotch Tape, the note is handwritten.

HOSTESS: Uhhh. ‘Dear Ben, don’t think for a second that having lunch was going to change a fffu …

She looks at Ben not knowing if she should continue. Ben nods.

HOSTESS: … a fucking thing … and that there will be no give unless …

She hesitates.

BEN: Go ahead.

HOSTESS: ‘… there will be no give unless that … fff … fucking … beard goes or he goes and then … we fucking shut the … the whole fucking movie down and then …’

The hostess stops, looks at Ben, not wanting to read on.

HOSTESS: I can’t.

BEN: Might as well continue. Go ahead.

HOSTESS: ‘And then you … you are going to be … and he underlined this part … fucking history.’

The hostess now looks frightened. Her eyes well up.

BEN: Hmm. That’s it?

HOSTESS: I’m so so sorry.

BEN: Thank you.

The hostess hands him the note and rushes off. Ben picks up the menu.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S OFFICE BUILDING—DAY

Ben is talking on the phone as he hurries to his office.

BEN: Betty, tell Sid I tried to get Bruce three times. Can’t get him on the phone. I’ve got a crew of 190 people standing by. We start shooting on Friday … I know I’m running out of time. I know that. I don’t know what to do. Fine … fine.

CARL: Ben, I have Kelly holding on 2.

DAWN: Jeremy’s on 3. Says it’s urgent.

Ben accidentally presses Kelly on ‘2.’

BEN: Jeremy? …

KELLY: Ben? Ben?

BEN: Uhh Kelly, let me just … Hold on.

Ben presses ‘3.’

BEN: (cont’d) Jeremy, talk to me.

JEREMY: (screaming through the phone) COME NOW! HOLY JESUS. COME NOW AND DO NOT PASS GO!

(click)

BEN: I’m on my way.

Ben hangs up and starts out.

DAWN: Ben … Kelly.

He runs back, presses ‘2’ but Kelly is gone.

BEN: Kelly … Kelly? (he hangs up) Gotta go, gotta go.

He exits.

Cut to:

EXT. FOX LOT

Ben is dwarfed by a giant mural on his walk toward the editing room. Anxiety kicks in and he begins to run.

Cut to:

INT. EDITING ROOM

Ben enters the dark cutting room. Jeremy is sitting with an editor reviewing a scene from the film on the Avid screen. When Jeremy sees Ben, he jumps up enthusiastically. For fun, he is wearing an Indian feather on his head.

JEREMY: Afternoon. Do I look happy?

BEN: Enough to scare me.

JEREMY: Well, I did a bit of your deep digging last night and I realized that I had to put myself in a different location inside myself to accommodate everyone, really.

BEN: I truly appreciate that.

JEREMY: The world is a big place and I had to remind myself that we’re all just visiting really.

BEN: Hey, it’s an honest thought. One that I’m starting to share with more frequency.

Jeremy points to the feather.

JEREMY: Do you like it?

Ben laughs.

BEN: I love it.

JEREMY: I know, mate. I know. But this feather gets me there. ME TONTO … the studio, THE LONE RANGER. Why fight a battle I can’t win? Makes no sense.

BEN: Sometimes it takes more guts to concede.

JEREMY: I think so.

BEN: I guess the question is, is the damn thing fixable for Cannes? The film’s got be remixed and sent out in the next few days.

JEREMY: Have a seat there, mate. Lemme take you through it.

Verna manipulates the computer that’s connected to the Avid screen. The movie images are fast-forwarding.

JEREMY: Verna, do the honors … Verna got about ten minutes out just by shaking the box. We’ve been able to make some significant cuts. Particularly in the market place investigation and the clue search at Dulles Airport.

Jeremy stops the Avid and runs a scene where Sean’s character is running alongside a canal with a beautiful woman.

ANGLE ON THE AVID SCREEN.

They arrive at a car. They kiss.

SEAN: You know—

ATTRACTIVE WOMAN: I know.

SEAN: Go. Go!

He opens the door and she climbs in. He opens the back door and a dog jumps out of the back seat. The attractive woman speeds away. Sean and the dog take off.

INT. EDITING ROOM

ANGLE ON JEREMY AND BEN as they watch the reedited footage.

JEREMY: Bit with the dog and Sean, it’ll get a laugh … that bit’s gone. Much better, isn’t it? Here he comes … Tighter there. Bish bosh … Lost that bit. Good. Music’s good here. More orchestral. Contradicts the violence … That always worked. She’s good. Easy on the eyes … No dog came down the hill.

BEN: Excellent … Good. She’s good. Brilliant. So far so good.

JEREMY: Okay, here comes the ‘dreaded ending.’

Jeremy puts his fingers up like quotation marks.

JEREMY: Look. Dog—not shot. NOT dead.

ANGLE ON THE AVID SCREEN.

WE SEE THE SAME GRAINY SHOT OF SEAN PENN. He is lying on the side of a dusty road, trying desperately to prop himself up on a large embankment. Blood, his blood, is all over the place. When he nears the top, he topples back down in a grim heap. He appears to be critically injured. Almost lifeless, he refuses to give in. A smallish dog loyally stands next to him.

SEAN: I’m not going to beg.

Three men impassively eye Sean’s struggle.

SEAN: You think I care about me? It’s you I’m worried about. Your salvation … ‘Father forgive them, they know not what they do.’

ON THE SCREEN one of the men raises his gun. The dog, barking like mad.

ANGLE ON THE GUNMAN, who shoots Sean three times in the chest. ANGLE ON SEAN who is lying face up in a bloody heap. The dog enters the shot and starts licking the blood off of Sean’s face. Sean trying to stay in character remains motionless until finally he turns and smiles at the dog.

JEREMY: Dog—not dead—coming over to comfort his master.

INT. EDITING ROOM

Jeremy freezes the image. He looks at Ben, who slowly places his hands on his chest as if he’s about to receive a large Buddhist blessing.

BEN: Brilliant! Wow!

Jeremy pats his hand over his mouth gives out a victorious Indian war chant.

JEREMY: WHOOOP! WHOOOP! Lou’s going to come in her pants.

BEN: Panties.

JEREMY: Pants, actually.

BEN: Point taken.

Ben gestures at the Avid.

BEN: How? How did you figure …

JEREMY: It was an outtake. I had ten of them. We could never get the dog to stay still. He loved Sean.

BEN: Brilliant. I mean it certainly changes the tone of the movie. I just hope that …

JEREMY: I know. I know. The movie won’t mean anything now but at least we can be comforted in that it won’t offend.

BEN: Jeremy. I don’t get it. This isn’t you talking. What happened?

JEREMY: It’s me.

BEN: How did you get there?

JEREMY: Placidyl, laddie. Placidyl. You take that, according to them, three times a day. I could watch me mum get gang-raped in broad daylight and still admire the weather.

BEN: Apparently, the stuff works.

JEREMY: Well, there’s a catch to it. You cannot mix it with coke or alcohol, sadly.

BEN: What happens?

JEREMY: Bad juju. If you do that with Placidyl the raging snake comes shrieking out of the closet. Not good.

Ben looks at the Avid’s frozen image of Sean Penn smiling next to lovable dog.

BEN: I admire your courage. Where can I kiss you? C’mon. There’s no location I wouldn’t consider.

Jeremy holds up the Placidyl bottle.

JEREMY: Hey, this shit’s not that strong.

They both laugh. Ben grabs his cell phone and dials.

BEN: I gotta call Lou. Hello, Judy. Is Lou there? It’s Ben … tell her I’m in the cutting room and it’s important.

INT. LOU’S OFFICE/BATHROOM—INTERCUT WITH EDIT ROOM

Lou picks up the phone in her private bathroom.

LOU: Yes, Ben.

BEN: Jeremy’s done it. He’s really done it. I think we’ve licked this bastard.

LOU: I knew you would make this work. You have a way, Ben.

BEN: We ham and egged it, you and I. We’re a good team.

LOU: It’s not that I doubt you but when can I see it?

Lou gets up from the toilet and without regard to the fact that Ben can hear, flushes. The loud noise backs Ben away from his phone.

BEN: Well I guess we know who’s number one.

LOU: WHAT?

BEN: You can see it whenever you want.

He turns to Jeremy.

BEN: Okay. Okay, I’ll tell him. She’ll be by this afternoon with her creative team. Pick out your tux and leisure wear, we’ll be leaving to Cannes in a few days.

Cut to:

EXT. BUILDING LOBBY—LATER SAME DAY

Ben walks toward a building lobby, cell phone in hand.

BEN: (into his phone) Dick … you gotta face this thing. You have to tell him now. You’ve got to. My director is starting to look like a stroke victim. Get back to me.

INT. SHRINKS OFFICE—SAME DAY

SUPER: 4:00 PM

A woman, Doctor Randell, is seated behind an expensively designed desk. Kelly and Ben are facing each other and are seated in front of the doctor.

BEN: I thought we’re both supposed to be telling the TRUTH here. That we are supposed to tell what we have done wrong to the other person. To get it off our chest. Are you saying that you’ve never …

KELLY: Wait a minute …

DR. RANDALL: Kelly. Ben is right. You’ve got to unburden yourself of your transgressions. That’s how both of you will start to feel relief.

BEN: Well, if that’s the point. She’s not doing it.

KELLY: Look, I thought the goal here was not to get us back together but to help us feel better about being apart. So we can move on gracefully. We share two kids.

DR. RANDALL: Exactly right. This is an exercise to help couples separate from each other with love and affection instead of acrimony. It’s not about trying to control the other person’s behavior.

BEN: Okay.

DR. RANDALL: Let’s start again. Is there anything you can think of that you’ve done to Kelly while you were married that you wish you didn’t?

BEN: That question feels so vague. I don’t know.

DR. RANDALL: Okay, here’s an example. When you were married did you ever lie about your whereabouts with other women?

BEN: Uhh … no.

Ben sees Kelly roll her eyes.

BEN: Well … there was one time when we were married when I thought about seeing Ann.

KELLY: Really. And did you?

BEN: Uhh … yes, but nothing happened … I just. Well, I guess I wanted to but hey. (turns to Randall) I think I know what you mean. I feel a little better already.

DR. RANDALL: Is that everything on this matter?

BEN: Pretty much.

KELLY: Not true.

DR. RANDALL: The complete truth will set you free, Ben.

BEN: I, uhh, was with Ann once at a party?

DR. RANDALL: Where?

BEN: In the bathroom?

KELLY: You fucker.

Ben shrugs.

DR. RANDALL: Very good, Ben. Now Kelly, it is not for you to judge. This is just a start. We’re a little short on time so let’s give Kelly a chance, and then next week, we will dig deeper. You ready Kelly?

KELLY: Yes.

DR. RANDALL: Did you ever use your kids as ammunition against Ben?

KELLY: No.

DR. RANDALL: Did you ever have an affair while you were married?

Ben perks up.

KELLY: Absolutely not!

DR. RANDALL: Okay, then. Is that all?

KELLY: Well there was one time at Alan’s son’s bar mitzvah when I kissed Alan on the mouth in the master bathroom.

BEN: How could you do that to Sheila?

KELLY: Oh please. It never went farther than that. I must admit I did think about it though.

DR. RANDALL: That’s very good.

BEN: Why don’t we talk about what we are doing to each other now?

KELLY: What?

BEN: You know ‘what.’

KELLY: You never wanted to talk about ‘NOW’ before.

BEN: I have no problem with ‘now,’ you do.

KELLY: That’s not why we are here.

BEN: Doctor, isn’t this a classic case of ‘avoidance’?

DR. RANDALL: (looking at her watch) Sorry, but we’re going to have to table this until next time. What you guys are doing takes guts but it’s going to work. I want to congratulate both of you.

Dr. Randall applauds them. Kelly and Ben just stare at each other blankly.

DR. RANDALL: You’ll see. As we dig deeper and deeper … you guys are going to feel so good about being apart … that you’re never going to want to get back together.

Cut to:

INT. ELEVATOR

Ben and Kelly alone, not talking, watching the floors tick by. They feel worse but both are trying to make the best of this. Ben’s cell phone goes off. Kelly shrugs. Ben glances at his phone. It’s killing him not to answer.

INT. BUILDING LOBBY

Finally the elevator doors open.

KELLY: Thanks for the restraint.

She kisses him on the cheek and exits. Ben watches her walk off.

Cut to:

INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE

Ben speeds through the facility, tires shrieking, while he descends toward the exit. Over this, we hear message after message from his assistants, Dawn and Carl, about the many phone calls from Sid’s office demanding resolution on the Bruce/beard issue.

INT. NAIL SALON—NIGHT

TIGHT ANGLE of two rather hairy calloused feet being lowered into a vat of steaming orange oil. As the camera pulls up we can see we are in rather posh Vietnamese nail salon. And the feet belong to Dick Bell, the agent. It’s late in the evening but the place is packed with housewives and non-English-speaking Vietnamese girls. No other men. Dick is reclining in a large vibrating chair, he has pressed the vibration on high. He has a towel over his face. A hand reaches in and lifts the towel.

BEN: Had a feeling you’d be here.

DICK: (vibrating voice) Who told you?

BEN: Your new assistant.

DICK: (vibrating voice) Just trying to find some peace.

BEN: We are red-lining here. Did you talk to Bruce?

DICK: Yes. Let me finish this and we will discuss it at length.

BEN: I got to know.

DICK: I’m done in five, ten minutes. I’m trying to relax. You should have one. The feet are connected to the soul.

BEN: I don’t need one.

Dick grabs the wet towel and places it back over his face.

BEN: Five minutes.

Ben looks around and finds an empty vibrating lounge chair on the other side of the long narrow room from Dick. As soon as he sits, he is swarmed upon by three Vietnamese girls. He tries to protest but they take his shoes off, roll up his pant legs, and start soaking his feet in hot blue oily water to prepare for a pedicure.

Ben tries to go with it, but he loses his patience, grabs his cell phone, and calls Dick from across the crowded room. Dick, jolted out of his reverie, attaches his ear piece and answers.

BEN: Dick. Enough. Enough! Did you tell him he has to shave and what the consequences would be if he didn’t?

DICK: Yes.

BEN: What’d he say?

DICK: He told me that he hopes I contract pancreatic cancer and die a slow withering death.

BEN: He’s a beauty. What’d he say after he calmed down?

DICK: He said, ‘you gutless little turd.’

On that remark, Ben removes his feet from the oil bowl and trudges toward Dick while still talking to Dick on the phone. The girls rush after him making him put on throw-away thongs so he won’t slip.

BEN: Oh no … and then what did he say?

DICK: You’re fired!

BEN: You’re fired? Wow, terrible … did he happen to say …

Dick pushes the power button and moves his reclining seat straight up placing his face right next to Ben’s.

DICK: … and then my biggest fucking client, my biggest paying client, the one responsible for my mortgage, hung up the phone.

Ben puts a consoling arm around Dick. Dick looks like he is about to dry heave, Ben backs off, hands him a bowl next to the mirror but Dick controls it.

BEN: Ooo, Dick … I’m sorry … man, you are strong.

DICK: Is ‘strong’ a euphemism for ‘uninsultable’?

BEN: No. But I couldn’t help but admire … I mean you’re still smiling … did he add anything else, about, you know, the movie? The beard? The weight?

DICK: Can’t you once let this moment be about me?

BEN: You’re right. You’re right. It is your moment … (Ben hands him a towel) I was just wondering … he must of talked about his plans …

DICK: Not really.

BEN: He said nothing?

DICK: Nothing.

BEN: That is not good. That bastard’s gonna kill us all.

Ben, thinking out his next move, gazes out the window down Montana Avenue toward the Aero Theater. Between two Range Rovers, Ben sees what he thinks is Kelly. He gets momentarily distracted.

BEN: Uhh … if … hold on.

DICK: I’m not going to call him.

BEN: Of course not. You shouldn’t.

TIGHT ANGLE ONTO BEN. He takes one more look across the street. BEN’S POV: FUCK! IT IS KELLY, he’s almost sure. And she’s leaning against the car in the shadows and wait a minute! COULD THAT BE Scott moving in and passionately kissing her? Tongue and all?

BEN: … I’m going to be right back …

DICK: Ben, what’re you doing?

BEN: I thought I saw … It doesn’t matter.

EXT. NAIL SALON—NIGHT

Ben, in the cheap thongs, waddles to the street. IS THAT SCOTT’S HAND CREEPING UP KELLY’S SKIRT BETWEEN HER THIGHS! But by the time he gets across Montana Avenue, the kissing couple is gone.

Cut to:

OMITTED

OMITTED

EXT. BEN’S APARTMENT—DAY

Ben leaves for Jack’s funeral.

INT. HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY CHAPEL THURSDAY

a tight shot of the word ‘what?’

SUPER: 10:00 AM

As the camera slowly pulls back we see the rest of the expansive oil painting which is adjacent to an array of huge black-and-white blow-up photos of Jack (the dead guy we’ve been talking about) perched on giant easels. The photographs reveal an irresistibly kind and attractive-looking young man. A WIDE ANGLE OF hundreds of mourners who are slowly gathering inside the Hollywood Cemetery. An organ is playing a rather spirited version of ‘My Way.’ Indeed, Jack is dead. And they’ve all come out to pay their respects.

By the time Ben arrives, it’s standing room only. Ben surveys the Hollywood crowd, acknowledges friends and acquaintances with a subdued and understanding smile.

As Ben is about to sit down, he notices, from all the way across the chapel, underneath one of Jack’s photos and next to the treasured oil painting, four young, nubile, and beautiful teenage girls huddled and crying. They’re holding flowers.

At first Ben reflects an almost jealous admiration for the postmortem love that Jack is getting. But, WAIT A SECOND!

Is that, Zoe? Is that Ben’s beautiful daughter from his first marriage, one of the girls, IN DEEP SORROW OVER A DEAD AGENT?

He makes his way through the throng toward Zoe.

Meanwhile, Scott, his writer friend who’s surreptitiously sleeping with his ex-wife, enters the chapel.

BEN: Hi Zoe. What are you doing here?

Zoe turns, revealing her tearstained face.

ZOE: I … oh … God.

Zoe turns back to her friends and tries to hold back further tears. Ben puts his arm around her.

BEN: Terrible, terrible thing.

ZOE: Yeah, it is. The worst …

Zoe and one of her friends tenderly touch Jack’s chin on the photo.

BEN: To care so much …

ZOE: It’s been really hard.

BEN: I know … I didn’t know that you knew Jack.

You knew him?

ZOE: (wiping her tears) Yes.

BEN: How?

ZOE: Dad, it’s really not the time.

Ben notices Zoe is wearing a man’s necktie loosely knotted around her neck over a very tight T-shirt.

BEN: Is that tie … Jack’s?

Zoe nods.

BEN: For God’s sake, it’s ten o’clock in the morning, you should be in high school.

ZOE: Oh please.

Scott approaches Ben and Zoe.

SCOTT: Hello, Ben.

BEN: Not now.

Scott takes Ben aside.

SCOTT: I want to talk to you about something. Can we talk later?

BEN: (bolsters himself) Why not … no, let’s do it now. Let’s get it over with.

SCOTT: No, we’ll do it after the service.

BEN: Fine. I’m ready.

Scott walks off.

Ben moves Zoe farther away from the photos. He repositions himself so he can talk to her privately.

BEN: I mean … you … Jack … when did you have time to know each other.

ZOE: Does that really matter?

BEN: Honey, I know, I know but … was there any intimacy.

Zoe gets tears in her eyes and rolls her eyes at the same time.

ZOE: What difference does it make now?

BEN: It makes a big difference. He blew his brains out!

Zoe turns away. Ben pulls her back.

BEN: Sorry. That was harsh … but I mean, … I don’t know … an agent!

ZOE: He was wonderful. He was gentle. He taught me so much about me.

BEN: He took drugs.

ZOE: Dad … He touched me.

BEN: Where?

Zoe’s had enough.

ZOE: Everywhere?

She rejoins her girlfriends. The organ player is now playing Sting’s ‘Every Breath You Take.’

BEN: You’re a kid.

Ben, slightly rocked, makes his way slowly back across the chapel. Throngs of people still huddled around waiting for the proceedings to start. Ben squeezes past two agents and a movie executive.

YOUNG SUIT: Hey Ben, como esta amigo. (surveying the room) Nice crowd. Jack has never been so hot.

AGENT #1: Believe me, most of Colombia is grieving.

YOUNG SUIT: If I only had one tenth of Jack’s pussy … one tenth. Where did he find them? High school?

BEN: I don’t know, Joe.

But he’s had enough.

RABBI: Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please. Can you please take your seats. Turn your cell phones off. Our service for Jack will begin in just a moment.

The organ music stops.

Ben moves down the row, takes his seat next to Dick, while taking one last look at Zoe. For the first time, he’s starting to look as desperate as Dick.

RABBI: Few people knew, and truly understood Jack, as well as this man.

NEW ANGLE from the wings, the Actor (Ben’s star and Dick’s ex-client) walks out to the pulpit to deliver the eulogy.

BEN: (whispers to Dick) Oh my god, he looks even thicker and hairier than he did yesterday.

ACTOR: Morning … This is a tough one. So young. So final. Jack. Gregory. Levine. McDonagh. Not just an agent …

He deliberately scans the vast assemblage of Hollywood folk, his eyes linger when he spots Ben and Dick. He takes his time.

ACTOR: I see so many people out there that I would rather be eulogizing today than … Jack.

A beat. Scattered awkward laughter.

ACTOR: When a life gets cut short we all feel saddened. But, when it had the promise, the vision, the optimism, the decency, the generosity that Jack exhibited in an industry that, let’s face it, is often known for mercilessly punishing and devouring its own …

Ben leans into Dick, whispers.

BEN: Do you know that stuff you take when you have to pack. You know …

DICK: Klonopin?

Ben nods.

BEN: If I could have one …

Dick hands him two. Ben swallows them. He glances at the pulpit.

ANGLE on the bearded movie star.

ACTOR: But Jack transcended his competition. I have never seen so many agents from other agencies attend a funeral for one of their most wicked competitors. I’ll be honest, my first reaction was to assume that most of you were here to steal Jack’s important clients while they were still in a weakened condition, rather than pay your respects. But maybe that’s just my cynicism …

Angle on Ben and Dick.

BEN: He fired you, you’re better off.

DICK: I’m comfortable with it.

BEN: Tomorrow, at four, he shaves that fucking beard or the whole picture goes down.

DICK: Call me crazy, but I don’t … AARGH … excuse me, I don’t think he gives a shit.

ANGLE on the bearded actor.

ACTOR: But I see true respect and love here. Nothing like the apocryphal story when the feared studio head, Harry Cohn, died. The turnout at that funeral was massive. Billy Wilder was asked ‘why did so many people show up for such a hated man’ and Mr. Wilder said, ‘it’s that old showbiz adage, give the audience what they want and they will come.’

Audience laughs.

We can be proud to know that this famous old Hollywood and Vine tale does not apply here. Jack, Jack was special. Jack. Gregory. Levine. McDonagh. He offered hope and passion that has not been around these hills for many a year. Everyone knows this is a tough town. As Hunter Thompson once told me, ‘Bruce, my boy, the movie business is a cruel and shallow money trench, where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs,’ and then he added … ‘and there’s also the negative side.’

Audience snickers again. He almost points at Ben.

ACTOR: That’s why we feel such pain today. The bit of heaven Jack brought to Hollywood he took away with him. He was adored by both women and men. He had the heart of an artist because he genuinely cared about the artist. And so it is that today is the day for goodbyes, but before we say good-bye to our friend Jack …

We slowly push in on Ben and Dick, who stare back expressionlessly.

Cut to:

EXT. HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY CHAPEL

Wide Angle.

With the eulogy and ceremony completed, the multitude of mourners are slowly making their way to the grave site, walking through a manicured parking lot adjacent to the head stones.

Scott sees Ben and hurries to join him.

SCOTT: That was a good send-off.

BEN: I thought so.

SCOTT: Listen, I’ve got a situation I’d like to share with you.

BEN: Share? Is that a word you’re comfortable with? Like as in ‘what’s mine is yours.’

SCOTT: Well, yeah … But you should hear it first.

BEN: Or how ‘bout ‘mi casa es su casa.’ Are you comfortable with that?

SCOTT: I think if we talk about it, we might be able to come to some mutual understanding.

BEN: Mutual understanding? Are we negotiating?

SCOTT: No. We’ll save that for later …

CAMERA SLOWLY MOVES INTO A TIGHT ANGLE OF BEN’S FACE, who, out of nowhere, SNAPS.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY CHAPEL/DREAM

BEN: Later? We’ll talk about my ex-wife later?!

SCOTT: No. What?

BEN: You use MY EX-FUCKING-BED TO SLEEP WITH MY EX-FUCKING-WIFE! IN MY EX FUCKING HOUSE!

He grabs Scott by the throat.

BEN: AND YOU WANT TO NEGOTIATE?

SCOTT: NO. NO.

BEN: You think I’m weak, that I don’t care, that I won’t fight back?

Ben pounds Scott against the car window. It shatters. Scott slides to the ground.

BEN: WHEN I’M DONE WITH YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT BAG, ALL YOU’LL BE ABLE TO WRITE IS TAMPON JINGLES. DO YOU HEAR ME FUCK FACE. TAMPON JINGLES! YOU FUCKING HACK!

Ben shoves the argyle sock into Scott’s mouth and starts to suffocate him with it. Scott’s eyes start to bug out. He’s going to die. The camera zeros in on Ben’s face when suddenly, as if nothing happened …

EXT. HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY CHAPEL

Ben changes his expression to complete calmness. He almost smiles.

BEN: Go ahead, Scott, it’s your dime. I’m all ears.

As we turn to Scott, we see there is no sock in his mouth. He is relaxed. NOTHING HAPPENED. They are still in the line on their way to the grave site.

SCOTT: Are you all right? For a moment there … I thought you were …

BEN: What?

SCOTT: Nothing … I just wanted to tell you the florist movie now has a star interested in doing it, and, quite frankly, I would rather see you produce it than Leonard.

BEN: No. No. Who do you think I … wait. Heh. I don’t understand. You want to throw this opportunity my way? Why?

SCOTT: I think it would be great. My agent said it would be good business … that you could get the money and you’re the right guy to run interference on this one. And, quite frankly, I agree with him.

BEN: Out of the question.

SCOTT: Why?

BEN: Well … I have to, I believe, there’s a coupla things you and I would need to sort out first.

SCOTT: Sure. Like what?

BEN: Like you’re seeing my ex-wife.

SCOTT: Ben, you’ve been divorced for a year and a half.

BEN: It doesn’t matter.

SCOTT: Hell, you almost married somebody else six months ago. Remember.

BEN: So what? It’s not right. It doesn’t FEEL right! It’s wrong. I mean … uhh … for God’s sake Scott, you’re married!

SCOTT: What difference does it make. I’m NOT HAPPY. NOT HAPPY. Is that a feeling that’s not familiar to you?

BEN: I’m going to have to think about this.

SCOTT: Fine.

BEN: Uhh … by the way, who’s the actor in the florist movie?

SCOTT: Brad Pitt. Got the call last night.

BEN: He’s in?

SCOTT: Hundred percent.

Ben hesitates, trying to think this through.

BEN: Brad Pitt as a florist. He’d be good.

SCOTT: Sure would.

BEN: I’ve already got a couple of thoughts …

SCOTT: Yeah. This shouldn’t affect us.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY CHAPEL/GRAVEYARD

They continue walking away toward the grave site with the rest of the mourners.

SCOTT: I thought he did a brilliant job up there today. He’s a good spokesman for our industry.

BEN: What’d you think of his beard?

SCOTT: I think it hides his double chin.

BEN: It does that.

Scott decides to go to his car. They say their good-byes.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY/GRAVESIDE

Ben decides to go to the open grave. The rabbi is already starting to offer some final benedictions.

The coffin, covered in flowers, is about to be lowered. Ben decides to walk to the other side and as he passes through the crowd HE WINDS UP ACCIDENTALLY STANDING NEXT TO HIS BEARDED MOVIE STAR.

The following conversation takes place in tense whispers as the casket is being lowered.

ACTOR: I wouldn’t stand there if I were you.

BEN: I’m certain that we are making more out of this than is necessary.

ACTOR: I told you, no.

BEN: (under his breath) ‘No’ means the picture’s as dead as Jack. That’s not good for you or me.

ACTOR: Save the speech.

Mourners are now shoveling dirt on the grave.

ACTOR: Look. You’re a producer. You’re just the fucking mayonnaise in a bad sandwich.

BEN: They’re gonna crush your nuts.

ACTOR: I doubt that.

The Rabbi sings ‘Oseh Shalom’ while the mourners begin shoveling dirt into Jack’s grave.

The actor goes to pick up a shovel. He digs up some dirt and forcefully tosses it into the grave and then slams the shovel deep into the mound of earth, as if he were intending it for Ben. He looks back at Ben and smiles. Ben nonchalantly walks over and yanks the shovel from the dirt to show he doesn’t back off. He tosses his bit of earth forcefully into the grave, accidentally jabbing the next guy in line, Dick Bell, careening him head-first into the grave. It takes all of Ben’s will to keep himself from following. Flustered and embarrassed, Ben with the help of other mourners, pulls Dick back out onto the fake green turf. Ben mouths his apologies to the rabbi. In the back of the crowd, Zoe looks away, embarrassed.

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S APARTMENT KITCHEN

Espresso brewing. A can of Red Bull pulled from the fridge.

INT. BEN’S BEDROOM—MOMENTS LATER

Ben is seated at the edge of his bed. He has changed his clothes to studied casual wear. Levi’s, loafers without socks, etc. He’s wearing slightly tinted glasses. His phone rings.

BEN: Hello?

Cut to:

INT. VAST ABANDONED FACTORY/CONVERTED SOUNDSTAGE

It’s Cal on his cell phone. Behind him, there is a beehive of activity. Makeup and hair people are preparing the extras and actors for the first scene. The wardrobe truck is filled with people attempting to deal with the last-minute alterations and changes.

The catering truck is on movie time. A line of workers is gathered around the tables waiting to get ‘breakfast’ to steel themselves for a long night of shooting.

It looks like chaos but it is actually a well-orchestrated group of actors, extras, and crew gearing up for a movie.

CAL: It’s Cal. It’s a desperate time. Desperate! Could you once for the love …

Cut to:

INT. BEN’S BEDROOM

Ben on the phone doing a perfect imitation of his answering machine.

BEN: Please leave a message.

Ben continues to dress.

CAL: Are you kidding me? Our first day of shooting and we don’t even know if we’re going to shoot at all. What the FUCK is that? You should be here. I need you. SOS! I’m in a hangar in the valley … I need information! …

Ben likes the sound of being needed. But he doesn’t pick up the phone.

INT. ABANDONED FACTORY/MOVIE SOUNDSTAGE

CAL: (into his cell phone) Wait. There he is.

Dramatically, the huge metal door to the factory starts to slide open revealing a blast of hot sunlight. Through the haze a black SUV slowly enters the compound.

CAL: They’re pulling up in his SUV right now. He’s early. This could be a very good sign. The car is headed straight for his trailer. I better go.

Click. Ben gathers his things and walks out.

Cut to:

OMITTED

EXT. DANCE STUDIO

Ben pulls up.

INT. DANCE STUDIO

Zoe is in a line of six girls and two boys going through a series of exercises in a small wood-floor studio. Modern dance music is blaring from a portable CD player. Through the small window of the schoolroom door, Ben’s face appears. He watches the kids dance.

He carefully opens the door, trying not to interrupt the class. Zoe sees him. Ben looks over at her and smiles. She doesn’t react. He places a small Barney’s gift bag near the door. He mimes: ‘this is for you, I’ve got to go.’ Zoe, still going through her steps, watches Ben leave.

The music stops. Zoe opens the Barney’s bag, takes out a small box, sees a small gold chain necklace inside. She opens the card: ‘Good God, I think I’ve come to the conclusion that my daughter is older than me. Better late than never. Love, Dad.’

Zoe smiles.

Cut to:

INT. VAST ABANDONED FACTORY

Angle on Ben and Cal, the director, who are walking through the cluster of activity. The actors’ trailers are in the background.

CAL: He went right from the car to his trailer and burrowed deep.

BEN: What’d he look like?

CAL: Hard to tell, he had a hat, sunglasses, and a scarf. Kept his back to everyone. The makeup guy and his assistant are the only ones in the trailer. The door’s locked.

SUIT #1: Didn’t the teamster who drove him see him?

CAL: Said he didn’t notice.

BEN: I ran into him yesterday at Jack’s funeral.

CAL: Well?

BEN: Not good.

A FEW MOMENTS LATER Ben and Cal, like the rest of the crew, are standing on set waiting for Bruce. A young studio ‘suit’ approaches.

YOUNG SUIT: Sid has asked me to come out to support you guys but he’s adamant. If the status is quo, this baby goes down.

BEN: Let’s be patient.

YOUNG SUIT: If he’s forced to, he’ll make the movie with Jeff Daniels.

CAL: I’d have to think about that.

YOUNG SUIT: He said he’s not sure that he’d keep you either.

1ST AD: (to Cal) Cal, we’re going to be ready in ten. (he walks away) Alison, let’s make sure first team is set!

CAL: If the ‘status is quo’?

BEN: It’s a new breed.

Cal and Ben share a glance and keep walking.

Cut to:

EXT. STAR’S TRAILER

Ben, Cal and the two suits are standing off to the side. Behind them forty people from the cast and crew are casually gathered trying to look disinterested in the proceedings. The first AD knocks on the trailer door.

1ST AD: Ready on the set, sir.

The door opens but it’s not the Actor, it’s his assistant.

ASSISTANT: Two minutes. Almost there. (turns to Bruce, inside) Huh? … (to the AD) Three.

The assistant shuts the door. Cal lights up a cigarette.

YOUNG SUIT: I’m betting no.

BEN: What kind of a remark is that? People’s livelihoods are at stake.

YOUNG SUIT: Make a note. A producer with a conscience.

Noise is coming from inside the trailer. Someone has slightly drawn the blinds and part of his face can briefly be seen through the shadow as he walks by the window. It looks like the beard’s still there. Disappointed, the bystanders look away.

YOUNG SUIT: They say, you know, we’re measured by how we handle adversity.

BEN: You’re going to have to stop it. All right? Stop it.

Cal is starting to look pale and desperate. He offers Ben a cigarette. Cal’s hand is shaky.

CAL: Go ahead. Calm the nerves.

BEN: Okay. Why not? It’s only been thirty years.

Ben takes a big drag.

The trailer door suddenly swings open. The crowd goes stone still. It’s as if Elvis is about to descend. Ben, subconsciously edges closer. Ten long seconds go by. Nothing. Ben’s had enough.

BEN: COME ON ALREADY! THAT’S IT! WHAT’S IT GOING TO BE? LET’S GO!

Cal sucks hard on his cigarette.

The Actor slowly moves out and stands on the top step. BAD NEWS. He’s only in profile but his beard looks like it got even longer.

Everyone lets out a collective groan. The actor, without turning his face, takes a big drag from a small cigar. He looks pissed off.

BEN: OKAY. OKAY. HERE WE ARE, AREN’T WE? GAME OVER!

With perfect timing the actor turns to face the crowd exposing the other side of his face. THE OTHER SIDE OF HIS FACE IS SHAVED! IT’S SHAVED! He looks like a circus sideshow performer, ‘the half-bearded man.’ The half-bearded movie star gets a big grin on his face.

ACTOR: Hey, how about we get this fucker on the road?

The crowd breaks into applause.

Ben turns to Cal. Cal is gasping for air.

ACTOR: Gotcha.

BEN: You did.

The actor stares at Cal, still with contempt.

ACTOR: You all right? Not his heart is it?

BEN: His heart is fine. That’s my heart you hear exploding.

ACTOR: Couldn’t be. You don’t have one.

Ben and his star have already started to walk off, leaving Cal behind.

CAL: (still gasping, to himself) I’m fine. It was the heat.

BEN: Can I get you a breakfast burrito? It’s good luck to eat one on the first day of shooting.

ACTOR: That’s very nice of you.

BEN: Bacon or no bacon?

ACTOR: Always the works on the first day.

They head for the catering truck.

ACTOR: I had to break your balls a little. I had you going there for a minute didn’t I?

BEN: Not really.

ACTOR: (to some crew members nearby) C’mon kids, tense up. This is the boss right here.

Cut to:

SUNDAY

EXT. CANNES, FRANCE—EARLY EVENING

A series of shots to reveal the Cannes Film Festival is in full swing. Flags and banners festooned everywhere, announce the coming attractions. Tourists, paparazzi, limo drivers, taxi drivers, French police, and fans fill the famous coastline.

Cut to:

OMITTED

Cut to:

OMITTED

Cut to:

OMITTED

Cut to:

INT. FRENCH TAXI—

Ben peers through the rear window as the car makes it’s way down the Croisette.

Through the throngs of people, Ben can make out a poster of his movie FIERCELY with a shot of Sean Penn and a Beautiful Woman running dangerously across a busy highway. He leans back. It looked pretty good. Things could be looking up.

EXT. HOTEL DU CAP ENTRANCE—SAME TIME

Ben’s car slowly drives up to the famous and elegant hotel entrance. Uniformed attendants rush to help with his luggage.

EXT. HOTEL DU CAP’S PATHWAY TO THE MEDITERRANEAN

Ben stands alone at the top of the steps holding a glass of champagne taking in the majestic sea. It’s a famous sight. He takes a deep breath. Can it get any better?

OMITTED

OMITTED

EXT. PALAIS THEATRE—NIGHT

The red carpet rises up the two flights of stairs leading to the theater entrance. Photographers and fans held back by velvet ropes and gendarmes are greeting the arrivals of Fiercely. Ben arrives solo from a town car and enters the fray.

Ben sees Johnny huddled with Aba, the impresario from Israel, as part of the crowd. When Johnny and Aba spot Ben they wave and approach him through the melee.

Johnny spreads his arms wide and reaches in to hug Ben. Ben’s face gets smothered into Johnny’s armpit.

JOHNNY: It can’t get more exciting than this? You did it. I just want you to know that I don’t care about the money. Fuck money. And I don’t care about the movies. Fuck movies. I only care that you and I are becoming close friends.

Johnny then releases Ben from his grasp. Ben stares back at him temporarily at a loss for words. He has to keep moving.

BEN: Uhh … friendship is very important.

Aba chimes in with two very young teenage girls hoisted on spike heels and wearing matching wire rim police sunglasses.

JOHNNY: Ben you remember Aba?

ABA: Ben!

BEN: Uhh … yes. The dry cleaner. Yes.

ABA: What a night, huh?!

JOHNNY: Ben, I’d like you to meet Mary and Mary.

Ben eyes Aba.

ABA: (whispering to Ben) Tonight they’re with all of us.

Okay?

BEN: They’re very young.

ABA: Not really. (points to Mary #1 and then Mary #2) Sixteen and sixteen is thirty two! Hah!

JOHNNY: Aba knows numbers.

BEN: See you inside.

Aba and Johnny start to laugh. Mary and Mary start to laugh. Ben smiles, but he has to go.

Flashbulbs are popping at a machine-gun frenzy. As they head up the carpeted staircase Sean Penn leans in to Ben.

SEAN PENN: I heard we made some changes.

BEN: Just some nips and tucks.

SEAN PENN: S’long as we didn’t lose our edge.

BEN: Uh. No. The ‘edge.’ We saved the edge.

Ben turns to Jeremy.

BEN: How you doing?

Jeremy tilts his mirrored shades. Ben peers into Jeremy’s eyes. They are unfocused, blood shot, on fire, heavily bagged with deep dark circles.

BEN: My god man! You okay? Did you get any sleep on the plane?

JEREMY: I’m fine. ‘Optimistic’ is the better word.

BEN: Good.

They turn to continue the climb to the top of the stairs, where Lou and entourage smile proudly. She gives Sean a big kiss.

FESTIVAL HOST (V.O.): Mesdames et Messieurs … Sean Penn.

Cut to:

INT. PALAIS THEATRE—NIGHT

The audience is standing and giving an ovation to Sean Penn who was just introduced from his seat in the rear of the theater. Sean smiles, waves, and sits down. Both Lou and Ben pat Sean on the shoulder.

FESTIVAL HOST: (thick French accent) Tonight we are here to open the Cannes Film Festival with a film ambitious and passionate. FIERCELY. And now it is my immense pleasure to introduce a unique director … Please welcome Jeremy Brunell.

Jeremy walks briskly to the microphone.

JEREMY’S SPEECH WILL BE DELIVERED ENTIRELY IN FRENCH. WE WILL READ IT IN ENGLISH SUBTITLES.

JEREMY: Hello. France. Where liberty is cherished. Where the individual is cherished. I send my love.

The French cheer. Ben looks to Lou. This could be encouraging.

JEREMY: Making this movie has been and remains to be a ballbusting, intestine-wrenching, blood-rendering experience. Not just for me but for all involved.

The crowd laughs.

It comes from my heart. So, for those of you that are moved when you see this film, I am your servant. And for those of you that are not moved, for those UNTALENTED LEECHES IN HOLLYWOOD who try to impose their ill-gotten will, you can all KISS MY HAIRY ASS AND THEN BLOW ME! Merci. Merci.

The crowd cheers. In fact, a partial standing ovation. Lou, Ben, et al do not know exactly what was said but it seemed to work. They reluctantly participate in the ovation.

LOU: (leans toward Ben) They like him.

BEN: They do.

LOU: There’s a seat for you on the jet if you want to come back with us tonight. Wheels up at two a.m. sharp.

BEN: Thank you, Lou. Great.

LOU: We’ll get you the tail number and the details.

Jeremy finally arrives at his seat between his editor and Ben. Ben smiles at Verna. The editor is so nervous she looks like she’s about to cry. As the lights dim Ben reaches over to grab his arm.

BEN: You were brilliant. Nice job.

JEREMY: Ben. My priorities are finally straight.

The crowd hoots in anticipation of a movie about to start. The studio logo fades up. The theater is now completely dark. Ben looks over at Jeremy. He looks nuts.

ANGLE ON THE SCREEN. Music comes up over a series of images of some kind of construction yard: trucks and machines, rocks, gravel. A flock of birds soar through the air.

ANGLE ON BEN. He takes one more look back at Jeremy whose nostrils are flaring. Is that white powder under Jeremy’s nose? Unquestionably. Ben tries to concentrate on the movie.

Dissolve to:

INT. PALAIS THEATRE—NIGHT

ANGLE ON THE SCREEN. It’s wet. The Woman is walking through an alley. She stops and looks through her purse. She pulls out a passport with Sean Penn’s picture on it. She hides the passport and exits the alley. A beat later the killer enters the alley, approaches the hiding spot.

ANGLE ON THE AUDIENCE. Judging from the audience the film seems to be playing a bit slow. Some are straggling out or using the bathroom but there is also an occasional burst of laughter from the crowd. It’s a real laugh. Maybe they like it.

TIGHT ANGLE OF BEN. He’s encouraged. He looks over at Lou. Things seem okay. Looks over at Jeremy who is downing pills with a flask and snorting some coke.

Dissolve to:

INT. PALAIS THEATRE—NIGHT

ANGLE ON the screen. We’re nearing the climax.

WE SEE that grainy shot of Sean. He is lying on the side of a dusty road. He is trying desperately to prop himself up on a large embankment. Blood, his blood, is all over the place. When he nears the top, he topples back down in a grim heap. He appears to be critically injured. Almost lifeless, he refuses to give in. A dog loyally stands next to him.

SEAN: I’m not going to beg.

Three men, impassively eyeing Sean’s struggle.

TIGHT ANGLE OF BEN, who is smiling. He turns to Jeremy, who reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out sunglasses, and puts them on.

ANGLE ON THE SCREEN.

SEAN: (cont’d) You think I care about me? It’s you I’m concerned with. Your salvation … ‘Father forgive them, they know not what they do.’

We see one of the men raise his gun. The dog barks like crazy. The Gunman raises his gun.

RAKING ANGLE ON LOU. We see Ben looking at her in the background. Lou is implacable.

ANGLE ON THE SCREEN. The Gunman aims at the dog.

ANGLE ON BEN—He glances imperceptibly to his right, to his left, trying to assess the damage.

BEN: NO!

ANGLE ON THE SCREEN

SEAN: NO!

KABOOM. We don’t see the dog go but we see a lightening shock of red reflect off the audiences faces. We know what happened.

JEREMY HAS NOT ONLY PUT THE MOVIE BACK THE WAY IT WAS, HE ADDED MORE OF THE HORROR.

This time the dog is caught in a brutal, bloody Sam Peckinpah crossfire. An unmentionable amount of gunshots are heard as we watch the audience stiffly and stoically absorb the punishment.

ANGLE ON THE SCREEN. The Gunman then shoots Sean, who remains defiant. The road turns wet with blood. As the image slowly fades, the score comes up and the credits roll.

ANGLE ON THE CROWDED FRENCH AUDIENCE. There’s a delayed reaction. Part of the audience starts to cheer. ‘Encore, encore, treasurie!’ There are others, however, like the preview audience in Los Angeles, that remain silent and reflective. And even some who seem to be in a collective state of STUPEFIED SHOCK.

‘Merde.’ ‘C’est deguelas.’ ‘Le cochon.’

ANGLE ON BEN, who turns to Jeremy. Jeremy’s gone. He turns to Lou. Expressionless, Lou is frozen in her chair, staring off into the void. Ben sees Jeremy going to the lobby. He follows him into the men’s room.

Cut to:

INT. PALAIS MENS ROOM.

Ben crashes through the door. Jeremy is pressed against the urinal. They’re alone.

BEN: WHAT?

JEREMY: I’m in pain here.

BEN: WHO CARES? Keep it to yourself.

JEREMY: Look, I had to know … I had to know …

Ben opens up his arms and leans back.

BEN: Why don’t you just piss on me? Be my guest. Just turn around and piss on me. I insist. Because that’s just about what you did.

JEREMY: What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say the film was a waste of time, a pretentious self-indulgence?

BEN: That’s not the point.

JEREMY: I’m no Tonto.

BEN: No. You’re no Tonto. You’ll be carrying ammo, polishing saddles, and ironing fuckin’ underwear for the next twenty years.

JEREMY: Fuck Hollywood.

BEN: Hey, Jeremy, Hollywood’s like eating an elephant with a teaspoon. One bite at a time, baby. It don’t taste good. You can never finish it. But if you stop eating it, you will starve to death.

JEREMY: What’s this, the ‘bend over, we all do it’ speech? I don’t think so. Not me.

BEN: That’s what everybody says their first week in prison.

Ben smiles and walks out.

Cut to:

EXT. PALAIS THEATRE

Sean Penn is exiting off in the distance, above the fray, oblivious to any darker vibe on the horizon. He spots Ben across the red carpet. He raises his thumb up and then down as if asking for a score. Ben gives him a big thumbs-up. Sean continues down the red carpet.

Johnny, Aba, and his Euro friends intercept Ben. Aba spread-eagles his arms and reaches for Ben, trying to give him a big haimisha bear hug. Ben neatly sidesteps him and pulls away.

BEN: (a rueful smile) It’s too soon.

EXT. PALAISE THEATRE—NIGHT

Ben walks out onto the first tier overlooking the red-carpeted staircase. As he descends to an avalanche of photographers, Lou is making her descent at the same time. They are forced to go down the stairs together. Lou is stone-faced to Ben but both are trying to keep the vibe up for the cameras.

BEN: You know … Lou. I gotta say. And I’ve given this some real thought.

LOU: You’ve given it some thought. That’s refreshing.

BEN: It occurred to me … something … on reflection, when I saw the movie tonight with a fresh head, it actually kind of grew on me.

LOU: Is that so?

BEN: I think it’s better longer.

LOU: Did you say it’s better longer?

BEN: It had a better flow. More depth. I actually think time will be its ally.

Lou just looks at him.

LOU: Please.

BEN: And you know what …

LOU: No.

BEN: I think the ending, the ending had a lot of courage. Lotta courage.

LOU: Good to know.

Lou looks at Ben like he’s ‘dead man walking.’ Ben shrugs.

BEN: Hey. That’s what I think.

When they get to the bottom of the staircase, they go separate ways. Ben sees the dog from the movie and her handler proudly scurry across the wide sidewalk. The dog is already being photographed by the paparazzi.

Cut to:

INT./EXT. TAXI—FRENCH COASTLINE

TIGHT ON BEN riding in a taxi through the Croisette on his way to the airport. It is very early in the morning. The traffic is light. His bags are next to him.

TAXI DRIVER: Un tres belle noir monsieur.

BEN: Excuse me?

TAXI DRIVER: A beautiful night in Cannes.

Ben peers out at the Mediterranean. Passing quickly by is the huge billboard of ‘Fiercely.’ Ben stares at it as it fades in the distance.

BEN: Yes.

The taxi moves off the main drag and enters the thruway. Bold French signs indicate directions to the airport. Several smaller billboards of ‘Fiercely’ whiz by.

His cell phone rings. Ben answers it. The camera slowly and irrevocably pushes in on his face.

BEN: Hello? …

KELLY: Ben? Ben?

BEN: Kelly?

KELLY: Hi Ben. The big sofa chair just came back from the upholsterer and I was sitting in it, and it made me think of you. So, I thought I’d call to see how everything went. With the screening and all.

BEN: The chair came back?

KELLY: This morning.

BEN: What sort of fabric?

KELLY: A bright red bouclé fabric. Gorgeous.

BEN: Bright red? You know, I always thought it was great just the way it was.

KELLY: I felt like a change.

BEN: Yeah, but bright red? Honey, I don’t know, I can’t picture that.

KELLY: I like it.

BEN: You know … hey, it’s your chair. I know that now. I know that. I got it. It’s your chair.

The taxi pulls off the main road heading toward the kiosk entrance to the airport.

Ben looks at his watch: 1:00 AM

In the neon glow, he can see several expensive private jets parked on the tarmac. A French guard approaches the taxi.

FRENCH GUARD: Bon soir, monsieur. Oui monsieur, (in French) what is the tail number? And I need a passport.

S’il vous plait.

BEN: Kelly, hold on one second … What’s he saying?

TAXI DRIVER: He needs the tail number and a passport.

BEN: There’s the passport and the tail number is, 2112F. Yes. 2112F. (to Kelly) Where was I?

KELLY: You actually said ‘it’s your chair and I know that now.’ It’s so sweet of you to realize that. Thank you.

BEN: I do reali … hold on. Hold on. (to the taxi driver) What’s he saying?

TAXI DRIVER: He say ‘the plane already gone.’

BEN: No. That’s impossible, because I’m not on it.

Ben leans out the window and sees a jet taxiing by as if it can’t get away fast enough.

BEN: Deux. Un. Un. Deux. F …

The French guard continues shaking his head as a deafening ROAR of a jet plane pummels the taxi.

DRIVER: Alors, monsieur. This is your plane.

Ben looks out and sees a jet with the tail number 2112F taxiing down the runway as if it can’t get away fast enough. Ben, not knowing how to react, jumps out of the taxi and chases the plane to no avail. The plane disappears in the distance.

When the noise dies down, Ben hears Kelly’s voice faintly muffled in the cell phone.

BEN: Kelly, sorry … I, uh …

KELLY: What just happened?

BEN: Oh, there’s just a lot of traffic at the airport tonight.

KELLY: Oh. When are you coming back?

BEN: You know, I thought … I heard about this great French bistro on the water … I thought, maybe, I’ll stay an extra day or two, soak up the culture.

KELLY: Sounds good. I’m jealous.

BEN: (wryly smiling at the horror) Hey, life’s not bad. Can’t complain.

POSTSCRIPT:

To be added over credits:

One year after the controversial screening at the Cannes Film Festival, the studio reluctantly opened ‘Fiercely’ in the USA. Amazingly, the movie did indeed ‘go through the roof.’ It went on to gross 112 million dollars domestically.

Lou was honored at ShoWest as the Visionary Movie Executive of the Year.

INT. SHOWEST VISIONARY MOVIE EXECUTIVE AWARDS

INSERT OF LOU WALKING TO A PODIUM TO A STANDING OVATION. She opens her arms wide in gratitude, takes a bow. She has the sweet look of a fresh bride walking down the aisle.

She was singled out for her courage to tackle controversial subjects, her relentless pursuit of the truth and her unique ability to form long-lasting relationships in the artistic community.

Unfortunately, Jeremy hit the wall. He was arrested for a drug possession charge when he landed at Heathrow. He served four months in prison and is currently completing rehab in Australia.

INT. JEREMY’S HOUSE

INSERT OF JEREMY WEARING A WOMAN’S WIG WHILE APPLYING EYELINER TO HIS LASHES. He looks at himself closely and then makes a minor adjustment to the wig.

His agent confirmed that Jeremy has multiple million-dollar offers on the table and is about to announce his next film.

Scott is now living with Kelly … in Ben’s old house.

EXT. KELLY’S HOUSE

INSERT OF SCOTT SEATED IN THE NEWLY RE-COVERED BRIGHT RED ENGLISH GINGHAM ARM CHAIR. He lifts up his drink leaving a big water stain on the stuffed arm. HE WAVES AT KELLY WHO IS COOKING DINNER IN THE KITCHEN.

Good news for Dick Bell, the agent. He was able to get his movie star client back in the fold. The Actor re-signed with Dick’s agency for the next three years.

EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY—MASERATI CONVERTIBLE (MOVING)

INSERT OF DICK DRIVING DOWN THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY IN A MASERATI CONVERTIBLE WITH A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN AT HIS SIDE. SUDDENLY HE PULLS OFF TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.

His nervous stomach, however, never completely healed.

EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY—MASERATI CONVERTIBLE (STOPPED)

INSERT OF A TIGHTER SHOT OF MASERATI DOOR OPENING, DICK’S HEAD POKES OUT. AAAAGGGHHH.

YOUNG WOMAN: (O.S.) You, okay?

DICK: It’s nothing.

Johnny, the Middle Eastern producer, is now living in Libya planning a series of low-budget action/horror movies.

EXT. AFRICAN COFFEE HOUSE

INSERT OF JOHNNY WAITING TABLES AT AN OUTDOOR AFRICAN COFFEE HOUSE.

He is currently under criminal investigation for income-tax evasion and the misuse of a German tax fund.

Ben got a new three year multipic producing pact from Lou, which included a complete redo of his office on the lot.

INT. BEN’S OFFICE

INSERT OF BEN’S OFFICE BEING PLUSHLY REDECORATED. A LARGE POSTER OF ‘FIERCELY’ FRAMED ABOVE THE LEATHER COUCH. The title ‘Fiercely’ isn’t there any more, the credits are gone, just “$230,000,000 strafed across the bottom. Ben, leaning back in his oversize desk chair, is reading a script.

Six months later, after a heated dispute with Lou, his contract was abruptly rescinded. The cash buyout, which Ben’s lawyer expects to be hefty, is still being negotiated.

EXT. UCLA

INSERT OF BEN IN HIS CAR NEXT TO THE UCLA SIGN. HIS DAUGHTER, ZOE, LEANS OVER, PECKS HIS CHEEK, AND EXITS.

BEN PRIDEFULLY WATCHES HER WALK OFF TO COLLEGE.