After a good opening, the second most important thing a film needs is a good ending.
CHAPTER 11
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Selling Super Troopers: What It Was Like to Sell a Movie at Sundance to a Major Hollywood Studio
SUNDANCE—MACH 2
We cut Super Troopers in New York, so I couch surfed and sublet places during that time. Four months into the edit, we sent a polished rough cut of the film directly to Geoff Gilmore at Sundance and made sure Sloss told him it was coming. On Thanksgiving night, I was watching the Detroit Lions drub the New England Patriots 34–9 when I got a call from Sloss. We were in. The idea of returning to Sundance brought to the surface a lot of emotion. We had come so close to selling Puddle Cruiser but had failed. So, though we were happy to be getting a second chance, we couldn’t help but feel like beaten dogs. What if we made two films that didn’t sell theatrically? We were pretty sure it would mean the end of our careers.
Whether a company buys your film or not is based only on the personal opinions of the acquisition executives and the company’s president, who writes the checks. I asked Sloss to set up meetings with the acquisition executives from all of the potential buyers, hoping to make a personal impression. If a buyer was on the fence about Super Troopers, maybe this personal meeting would knock them off of the fence and onto our side. I met with execs at Miramax, Sony Pictures Classics, and New Line. When I asked Sloss about Fox Searchlight, he said, “Don’t worry about them. They’re too highbrow. They’ll never buy Super Troopers.”
THE OPENING SCENE
Jacob Craycroft (our editor), Kevin, and I locked the cut and were feeling optimistic. To my eye, the film felt tough, weird, and maybe even funny—though it was hard to tell, since the biggest crowd who’d seen it was six of our stoned pals in our living room. The scene I was most concerned about was the opening. We had learned the hard way on Puddle Cruiser what happens when your film doesn’t open well. So, with Super Troopers, our highest priority was to write a kick-ass opening that was good enough to dispense with the preshow audience-warm-up sketch. This film needed to stand on its own. But something about the opening was nagging at me. Maybe it was because through three years of development, all of the various producers had given us the same note: You can’t open a movie this way. The audience will be confused because they’re going to think that the movie is about the stoners, not the cops. We stuck to our guns, but now I couldn’t help but wonder if the experts had been right. Was the opening fundamentally flawed?
On a bitter-cold Thursday in January, we packed our bags for Utah and took a cab up to the DuArt Film lab on West Fifty-Fifth Street to pick up the Sundance print. The story of the indie film movement ran right through DuArt, the lab owned by Irwin Young. Irwin was often a last-second savior to cash-starved filmmakers who ran out of money just before the printmaking process. With Irwin’s credit, broke filmmakers were able to strike prints, take them to festivals, and sell their films. Irwin had extended us credit on Puddle Cruiser and we paid him back in full. Now he was doing the same with Super Troopers. After Pete Lengyel, Broken Lizard, Rich Perello, and John Sloss, Irwin Young was next in line in praying for a Sundance sale.
Kent McGrew (our color timer), Kevin Heffernan, and I settled in to watch the print that would screen at Sundance in thirty-six hours. The film started and we watched the troopers pull over the stoned college kids. We watched Geoff in the backseat eat the pot and shrooms. We watched Mac blow by in the white Miata. We watched the car chase with the college kids bouncing around the backseat. We watched Geoff lick the glass in an homage to Willy Wonka.
“The snozzberries taste like snozzberries.”
We watched Mac slam the cop car in reverse. “You boys like Mexico?!”
Finally, we watched the words “Super Troopers” come up green in a cloud of dust. I exhaled loudly.
“We blew it again, dude.”
Heffernan turned around. “What’re you talking about?” Kent stood and signaled to the projectionist, who stopped the film and turned on the light.
“We set out to make a good opening and we fuckin’ blew it—again! This thing fucking sucks.” I was pissed.
Heffernan was annoyed. “No, it doesn’t!”
I pressed on. “Well, it’s not funny. It’s weird. What the fuck was I thinking acting that way? We should stop at home before we go to the airport and get Billy the Dummy, because we’re gonna need him.”
Kent cleared his throat. “I think it’s funny.”
I shook my head. “It’s not, Kent. It’s just not. The rest of the film is fine, but the opening is not.”
Though Kevin’s confidence was probably shaken, he kept up a strong front. “You’ll see. You’ll see tomorrow night.” The projectionist hit the lights and started the film again, as I sat, sullen, in the dark, feeling doomed.
THURSDAY, 4:30 P.M.
We were in the Midnight screenings series, and we were given a set of times that I thought was perfect: Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday night, all at the famed Egyptian Theatre on Main Street. When I got to town that Thursday afternoon, I met John Sloss, both for a drink and to take his temperature. He said that acquisition executives from all of the majors would be at the eleven thirty P.M. premiere on Friday night.
“Any check writers?” I asked.
“Let’s hope so. How do you think it’ll play?”
Not wanting to be the source of my own negative buzz, I said, “Who knows?”
“Are you guys doing an opening sketch? We need to pull out all the stops.”
I shook my head. “Heffernan convinced me not to do it.”
If you looked at the two of us sitting there, you would have sensed worry. That film had to play well or we were fucked.
FRIDAY, 11 P.M., THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE THE PREMIERE: HARVEY'S SECOND CHANCE
The cast, crew, and I ducked into Cisero’s on Main Street for a much-needed pre-screening drink. As we ordered, Erik pointed. There he was, sitting alone at a corner table. Harvey Weinstein himself. Could we really be this lucky? Sure, Harvey didn’t know if the script was funny, but he’d certainly be able to tell by watching the film. We had to get Harvey into the Egyptian.
Marisa had worked for Harvey and his brother, Bob, in the film Teaching Mrs. Tingle, so we sent her over to be the tip of the spear. We watched as she charmed him, smiling and laughing. After a beat, she waved me over.
I shook Harvey’s hand and dove right in, “Harvey, come see the film you paid to develop. The buzz is good. This is your chance. It’ll be a great story.” Now, to be honest, there was no buzz, since the only people who’d seen it were the Sundance staff and our living room pals, but everything in show business is show business, so . . . Harvey played along, saying he had heard the film turned out well, and he wished he could come but he had a meeting at twelve fifteen A.M. I clamped down. “Come to the first half hour and we’ll give you a print to watch the rest tomorrow.”
He cocked his head. “Jay, if I come to your screening and walk out, you’ll be dead in the water. You won’t sell your film.”
This was not a time to be meek, so I rolled the dice. “I’ll take the risk. We’ll save some seats in the back. No one will see you leave.”
He smiled. “I’ll see if I can work it out.” Brush-off? Probably, but short of overpowering him and dragging him to the screening, there wasn’t much more to do.
FRIDAY, 11:30 P.M.
The Egyptian Theatre was packed and buzzing with three hundred slightly drunk and/or stoned people. To our eye, the crowd was good and lubed.
Sloss said that execs from all of the majors were there. “Let’s hope it’s funny,” he deadpanned.
“Hey, we just ran into Harvey Weinstein and he said he might come,” I said, more hopeful than confident.
John smirked. “Don’t hold your breath.”
On cue, Harvey walked in and sat
down in the roped-off back row. The whole theater turned and the energy in the room went up two notches.
Sundance programmer Trevor Groth gave a great intro, pumping up the film nicely. I gave a small speech and choked up—slightly.
The lights went down.
The guitar score by 38 Special came up, and quickly it became clear that Kevin was right. We didn’t need Billy the Dummy. The film was playing and it was playing big. Waves of laughter and surprise rolled through the giddy audience. My favorite moment was when Joey Kern, the kid riding shotgun, says, “Shit, I was about to pull out my nine and put a cap in that pig’s ass.” As he pretends to shoot . . . Screeeech! Through the windshield, you see the police car slam to a stop and kick into reverse, as though the cops could hear every word.
Seven minutes in, the words “Super Troopers” came up and the audience roared with applause. My eyes welled up with tears.
Thirty minutes later, I was pacing in the lobby and listening to the crowd when Harvey walked out. He grabbed my arm.
“It’s killing! I’m coming back. I’m going to my meeting and coming back!” Off he went into the cold Utah night. The screening continued, getting huge laughs and building momentum. At times, it felt like the crowd was going to rip the seats out. With twenty minutes left in the film, Harvey reentered the lobby.
“I told you I’d come back!” He slid back into his seat, no one the wiser. The credits rolled and the audience cheered, and it was now time for John Sloss to go to work.
When you’re trying to sell a movie, what you’re looking for after the screening are huddles of acquisition executives in the lobby. Inside these huddles, the executives are polling one another on what they each thought of the film. Is this something their company should bid on? As I scanned the lobby, I saw three huddles: one from Fox Searchlight, one from Sony, and one from Miramax, who were joined by Harvey. Harvey motioned me over. He told me we’d made a great film and he wanted the print so he could watch the rest tomorrow. He also wanted to buy us a drink back at Cisero’s.
Sloss walked up. “Harvey, you better get it now. I don’t know how long it’s gonna last.”
Harvey smiled and said, “Get me a print.”
When the lobby emptied, John said that there were some initial rumblings of interest, but no offers yet. He told us to go to Cisero’s and work Harvey over.
I was worried. Yes, the screening couldn’t have gone better, but we’d had great screenings of Puddle Cruiser and look where that went. What if it was happening again? What if the crowd response was actually working against us? What if film buyers thought we weren’t “indie” enough for their audience? We were insecure about our place in the independent film landscape. We raised the money ourselves, we wrote it ourselves, we starred in it, and I directed it. We couldn’t be more independent. But somehow, maybe the gatekeepers were going to exclude us anyway.
At Cisero’s, the cast and I had a couple of cocktails with Harvey and the Miramax staff. It was clear that people were watching. Harvey said he wasn’t sure if the film was for Miramax. Maybe it would be a better fit at his brother Bob’s company, Dimension. Regardless, Harvey said to check the papers in the morning. He had a feeling that this drink was going to inject some buzz into Park City.
He wasn’t kidding. The next day, The New York Post’s Page Six ran an item saying that the Super Troopers crew was seen cocktailing with Harvey Weinstein late into the night. It was like a buzz bomb went off. Even though Harvey had yet to see the whole film and had as much as told me that he didn’t think it was right for Miramax, everyone in town was saying that Miramax was the company to beat. This was chum in the water for Sloss. Instead of his having to call around to the other buyers to gin up interest, they were calling him. John, don’t sell to Miramax. We’re interested too. Just hold the film through the next screening. We’re bringing our checkbooks. But don’t mistake buzz for check writing—one is fun and the other actually matters.
For filmmakers, Sundance is often a ten-day stress nightmare, where you constantly check your phone, wondering if the mountain reception is fucking you.
In the best-case scenario, a film will sell in a bidding war at the premiere screening. That best case had already blown past us. Not good.
SATURDAY, 11:50 P.M., SCREENING 2: THE EGYPTIAN THEATRE
Because of word of mouth, the second screening at the Egyptian was packed and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. John said that Fox Searchlight and Film4 were strongly in play.
“What about the print for Harvey?” I asked.
John blanched. “If he wants the film, he’ll show up and buy it. If we give him the print and he passes, all of our momentum will disappear. We’re better off with everyone thinking that Harvey is still interested, even if he’s probably not. Let’s not chase a pass.” (Chasing a pass meant forcing Miramax to make what was probably going to be a negative decision.)
The Saturday screening was as good as Friday’s. Afterward, I saw more huddles of acquisition executives. A smiling woman walked up, introducing herself as Nancy Utley, head of marketing for Fox Searchlight. She told me they really loved the film. I thought, Okay, but are you going to buy it?! When the lobby cleared, I told Sloss I was worried that the air was leaking out of the balloon.
“I’m not worried,” he said. “Go out and have some fun. We’ll sell this thing tomorrow.”
So we did. We hit the town . . . hard. It was already two A.M., so we went to an after-party, followed by an after-after-party, and then an after-after-after-party. Finally, at around eleven Sunday morning, Kevin and I wobbled down Main Street, dreaming of our beds. Mama always said nothing good happens after noon. Then, my phone rang. It was Sloss.
“Come to my condo. We’re closing a deal with Fox Searchlight.”
We rerouted to Sloss’s condo, exhausted but light on our feet. I was reluctant to tell my old boss that I had been up all night, but he must have sensed it, since he offered us a noon beer. What was one more beer? He told us that Searchlight wanted to buy the film for roughly $3 million. Three million dollars? We made the movie for $1.26 million. Hot damn! Then he added that Searchlight was going to pull their offer if we didn’t close the deal by ten thirty P.M., the start of tonight’s screening. They were worried that Miramax would swoop in and steal it.
We sat for a couple of hours, listening to Sloss negotiate the finer points of the distribution deal with Searchlight’s lawyer, Joey DeMarco. In later years, we’d get to know and love Joey. Once, when we stopped by the office, he went into his wallet and handed each of the Lizards a hundred-dollar bill because he said we’d earned it. Joey died a couple of years later, at age forty-eight, which was a big loss.
I must have looked as tired as I was because John walked over, holding his hand over the phone.
“Get some sleep. You need to be rested for the screening tonight.”
We went back to our house, climbed into our beds, and slept the sleep of the dead. My alarm went off at eight P.M., and I immediately listened to my messages—nothing from Sloss. That can’t be good. I called over and John picked up.
“We closed. You sold your film.” I’m not sure I’ve ever exhaled longer. It was like a massive bong hit of exhaustion and relief. You could hear John smiling through the phone. “Congratulations, man! I’ll tell you all about it at the screening.”
The Sunday night screening was great but comparatively subdued. Afterward, John introduced me to the excited Searchlight team, including Josh Deighton, Claudia Lewis, Joey DeMarco, Steve Gilula, and of course Nancy Utley. The final advance was $3.25 million, and the film was guaranteed to come out on eighteen hundred screens. Not bad for our little gang from Colgate. Not bad at all. When the execs left, I nudged John.
“Don’t bother with Searchlight?”
He shrugged. “Nobody knows anything in show business. Not even me.”
Broken Lizard and a big g
roup of pals went back to the house and smoked grass for a couple of hours, wondering, Did this really just happen? We awoke to read the front page of Variety confirming the details.
The next day was special. It felt like our whole world had flipped right side up. We walked around Park City with those former holes in our chests filled to the brim with nothing to worry about.
Stuff magazine threw us a massive party at their five-floor Deer Valley house. One of their execs, whose job it was to make sure Broken Lizard had fun, had his hands full. He is now the star of one of Fox News’s most popular shows. All I’ll say is that I’ve seen behind the curtain. Let’s leave it at that.
The party was memorable, mostly because Steve, Kevin, and I met one of our heroes. We saw Patrick Swayze standing alone in the kitchen, and we pounced. We talked over one another, gushing about just how much we loved him. He was skeptical. Who could love Patrick Swayze that much? We could! We’d seen Point Break and Road House twenty to thirty times. We may have gone overboard. Did I mention that ecstasy was big at the time? Swayze’s hesitance melted when he squinted at Lemme.
“Wait. You’re the guy from that cop movie. That movie rocks!” I looked at Heffernan. Did that really just happen?
The rest of Sundance was a dream. We did interviews during the day, and at night we tore it up good. I made late-night friends with the actor Norman Reedus. During a blizzard, we were in Deer Valley and the cabs stopped running, so another friend and I secretly jumped on the back of a snowplow and shivered on the twenty-minute ride back to Park City. I’m still cold. One night, a publicist took me back to her place, stripped down to a leopard-skin G-string, and gave me head on a white fur rug in front of a fireplace. Life was good.
When we got back to LA, we sat down with Searchlight’s president, Peter Rice, who asked us, “If you could do anything to the film, what would you do?”
Mustache Shenanigans Page 16
