DOWN AND DIRTY PICTURES
“Peter Biskind captures his era as John Dunne did that of the Zanucks. . . . In Down and Dirty Pictures, Biskind takes on the movie industry of the 1990s and again gets the story.”
—Frank Rich, The New York Times
“If Down and Dirty Pictures is valuable as business history, it’s an absolute treasure as a comedy of manners. A gifted reporter, Peter Biskind convinces nearly everyone in the industry to talk. . . . Harvey Weinstein’s charming social style is abundantly on view in Biskind’s story.”
—Jonathan V. Last, The Wall Street Journal
“Absurdly entertaining. . . . [Biskind’s] tone is buoyant as he skims through the history of the last fifteen years of the independent-film movement. . . . world-class dish; [Biskind] knows how to sprinkle the deep-fried nuggets along the trail to keep you happily moving along.”
—Dwight Garner, The New York Times
“Dishy, teeming, superbly reported. . . . packed with lively inside anecdotes. . . .Down and Dirty Pictures is littered with tales of Weinstein’s atrocious misbehavior.”
—Owen Gleiberman, Entertainment Weekly
“Biskind—whose last book, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, chronicled how the sex-drugs-and-rock generation revolutionized 1970s cinema—has done some exploratory surgery on the underbelly of the indie-film scene and found it has plenty of ulcers. . . . As for Biskind . . . one thing seems certain: he’ll never eat lunch in Tribeca again.”
—Jeffrey Ressner, Time
“Sensationally entertaining.”
—Patrick Goldstein, Los Angeles Times
“A lively, sprawling, uncut saga of the indie-film movement of the 1990s.”
—Marc Gunther, Fortune
“While the first Sundance sales were brewing, festgoers had plenty to discuss thanks to Peter Biskind’s just-published Down and Dirty Pictures: Miramax, Sundance, and the Rise of Independent Film. While no one is eager to be seen with the book in public, the only people who don’t have a copy in their condos are those who finished it before they got on a plane.”
—Dana Harris and Cathy Dunkley, Daily Variety
“In other ways, Sundance 2004 is far more muted than earlier incarnations. The shadow of Peter Biskind’s tell-all Down and Dirty Pictures: Miramax, Sundance, and the Rise of Independent Film hangs over the proceedings. In his remarks before the opening night screening of the surf documentary Riding Giants, Robert Redford (whom Biskind portrays as a passive-aggressive control freak) wanly joked that he was off to a book signing with Miramax’s Harvey Weinstein.”
—Ty Burr, Boston Globe
“The book is dense yet quick-paced, witty and endlessly amusing, and must reading for any cinephile.”
—Phil Villarreal, Arizona Daily Star/Scripps Howard News Service
“[Down and Dirty Pictures] is the second of two wild, racy, informal Biskind histories (the first was Easy Riders, Raging Bulls) which, taken together, will comprise, for quite a while, the definitive history of just about everything good that happened to American movies in the last thirty-five years. . . . riveting, revelatory and even rollicking about the weird dungeons-and-dragons world of the modern movie business.”
—Jeff Simon, The Buffalo News
“As in Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, his account of Hollywood in the 1970s, Biskind shrewdly shows a vanguard becoming the establishment.”
—The New Yorker
“Because of all the outrageous behavior on display within the pages of this provocative and enthralling book, one might easily confuse the movie business with a junior high playground. . . . But the descriptions of such appalling behavior, by nearly everyone involved, make Down and Dirty Pictures the irresistible read that it is.”
—Greg Changnon, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“It’s a rollicking account of the period from 1989 to the present day when a group of entrepreneurs led by Harvey and Bob Weinstein of Miramax, and legitimised by the earnest work of Robert Redford’s Sundance Institute, took on Hollywood and won, only then to become infected by the very studio mentality they had set out to defeat. . . . a gloriously bitchy account of Robert Redford and his Sundance Institute. . . . But the meat of the narrative lies in its description of Miramax’s Harvey Weinstein, a food-addicted beast, rampaging across the film world. . . . All good dirty fun.”
—Jay Rayner, The Guardian (London and Manchester)
“In the tradition of producer Jane Hamsher’s Killer Instinct or William Goldman’s Adventures in the Screen Trade, Peter Biskind’s Down and Dirty Pictures offers an insider’s take on the movie business. Biskind’s description of the deals, the steals, the threats, and the sheer lunacy of filmmaking makes for a page-turner. It’s a gossipy, behind-the-scenes account of the infighting and freewheeling deal-making that characterized indie film in the go-go ’90s.”
—Linda Dibattista, The Orlando Sentinel (Florida)
“Compulsively readable.”
—Greg Kilday, The Hollywood Reporter
“[Biskind] has written a nuanced and thoroughly researched history of the independent-film movement that came of age in the 1990s. . . . Down and Dirty Pictures is a smart, funny, and depressing insider’s look at the workings of a messy business. Peter Biskind deftly weaves money-shot quotes into the back story and has an eye for the perfect anecdote.”
—Christopher Carbone, New York Observer
“Gritty, ferocious, compulsively readable. . . . Above all, Biskind conveys a key truth: the Weinsteins and Redford, whatever their personal imperfections, possess courage and a deep, overwhelming love of film.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Scandalously entertaining. . . . scrupulously researched, compulsively readable. . . . reminding you once again there’s no business as dirty as show business.”
—Rene Rodriguez, The Miami Herald
“544 juicy, combative pages, most of it, remarkably, ‘on the record.’ . . . behind-the-scenes deals and backroom maneuvering . . . infighting and back-stabbing . . . all are the hallmark and meat of Down and Dirty Pictures. . . . [Biskind] invites us to sit back and watch—not the films, but the players and the changes in them, changes that would affect the films themselves.”
—Joe Baltake, The Sacramento Bee
“An entertaining, gossip-packed swim through the shark-infested waters of the ’90s independent film boom. . . . a vivid ‘you are there’ story of the indie world’s deal making, backstabbing, and general dysfunction. Almost everyone here, from the big bosses to the hungry directors to rising stars, comes off as certifiable.”
—Chris Vognar, Dallas Morning News
“In Down and Dirty Pictures, [Biskind] has once again done a miraculous job of finding the people who know the dirt and getting them to spill it.”
—Bruce Newman, San Jose Mercury News
“Deliciously gossipy.”
—Stefan Sullivan, The Washington Times
“Down and Dirty Pictures might make Biskind the Salman Rushdie of Hollywood lit.”
—Robin Vaughan, Boston Herald
“A beautifully researched, scathing look—and indictment—at a decade in which independent film went from the respectable fringes to the blah mainstream. It’s an immeasurably enjoyable, hard-to-put-down book. Biskind may be the best writer on the movies that we have; he has the uncanny ability to turn film history into deliciously hot gossip.”
—Peter Neil Nason, The Tampa Tribune
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Contents
Preface
Introduction: The Story Till Now
One:
Made in USA
1989
Two:
The Anger Artists
1989
Three:
Risky Business
1990–1992
Four:
The Buying Game
1992–1993
Five:
He’s Gotta Have It
1993–1994
Six:
The House That Quentin Built
1994–1995
Seven:
Pumping Up the Volume
1995–1996
Eight:
Swimming with Sharks
1996–1997
Nine:
Ace and Gary
1997
Ten:
Crossover Dreams
1997–1998
Eleven:
The Bad Lieutenant
1998–1999
Twelve:
The King of New York
1999–2000
Thirteen:
All That Jazz Is Gone
2000–2001
Fourteen:
Gods and Monsters
2001–2002
Postscript: The Sweet Hereafter
Cast of Characters
Photographs
Notes
Index
For Betsy and Kate as always
Preface
This book is a sequel, of sorts, to Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, my history of that exuberant, fecund decade, the 1970s, that gave us the so-called New Hollywood—a wave of mostly film school–educated kids who, under the influence of drugs, European cinema, and the antiwar movement, exploited a nearly bankrupt studio system to produce the best American films of the second half of the century. The New Hollywood lasted a scant ten years or less, but it left a rich legacy, not the least of which is a loose collection of spiritual and aesthetic heirs, collectively known as the “independents.”
“Independent film” brings to mind noble concepts like “integrity,” “vision,” “self-expression,” and “sacrifice.” It evokes the image of struggling young filmmakers maxing out their credit cards to pay their actors and crews, who work long hours for little or no compensation because they believe in what they’re doing. As Quentin Tarantino puts it, “Independent filmmakers don’t make money. They’ll spend all the money they have to make the movie. Money they don’t have. Their parents’ money, steal money, go into debt for the rest of their lives. The movie can be as good as it’s gonna be, or as bad as it’s gonna be, but it’s theirs.”
Although there is more than a little truth to this conventional notion, it’s important to remember that it’s not the whole truth. Life in the indie world can be nasty, brutish, and short. It was once said, if Hollywood is like the Mafia, indies are like the Russian mob. In both cases, the bad guys will cap the good guys, but in Hollywood they do it with a certain degree of finesse—they send a basket of fruit over for your assistant afterward—while the indies just whack you—and your wife and kids for good measure. In the studio world, you’re imprisoned in a gilded cage. In the indie world, you’re in the hole, which is darker, dirtier, and a lot smaller. With less at stake, fewer spoils, little food and water, the fighting is all the more ferocious, and when times are tough, the rats (let’s be nice—the mice) feed on one another. And because there’s no place to run, there’s neither respite nor recourse. People get away with even worse behavior than they do in Hollywood.
In Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, the challenge was to hack a path through the thicket of embroidered memory, recollections encrusted by legend, tall tales that had been told so often they enjoyed the ring of truth. Here, in resurrecting the 1990s, the enemy is hydra-headed: lies, fear, and lack of historical perspective. The disconnect between appearance, as it is presented in the media, and the reality of what actually occurs behind the scenes is as great in Hollywood as it is in Washington, if not greater, because the high glamour of the movie industry—even the lowly indies—lies on entertainment reporting like a blanket, smothering whatever errant inclinations to poke about that may emerge now and then, while at the same time, the issues at stake lack the gravitas that ignites, at least occasionally, the ambitions of political journalists. Moreover, Hollywood stories have an internal life cycle that conspires against disclosure. They begin in conflict, and if a journalist is lucky enough to catch an angry player in the heat of battle, the truth may out. But no matter what atrocities have occurred on the set or in the editing room, by the time the release date rolls around, the concerned parties have been convinced that public airing of dirty laundry helps no one and achieves nothing, least of all for the picture, protection of which is front and center. The principals, who may have been ripping out one another’s aortas just weeks before, appear on television, smiling and tidied up, fielding softball questions lobbed by Allison Anchor, sounding like those robotic sports figures who mumble, modestly, “I’m just taking it one game at a time,” or, “My opponent, he’s a real competitor.” If the picture bombs, nobody cares how much blood was spilled making it; if it does well, success—Oscar nominations, big grosses—makes lovebirds of them all. In both cases, the truth becomes a casualty of the calendar, old news, swept aside by the next big release.
Miramax, and to a lesser extent Sundance, dominate this story, as they do the indie world. Many filmmakers (in mid-career) and staffers interviewed for this book were reluctant to speak the truth about either. The Sundance Film Festival in January is the most important event on the indie calendar. Filmmakers arrange their shooting schedules so that their films will be out of the lab in time to be seen by festival director Geoff Gilmore the preceding fall. There are other festivals—Telluride, Toronto et al.—but Sundance is far and away the foremost showcase for indie films, the best place to see and be seen, to rub shoulders with Hollywood honchos and network with peers. Again, Tarantino, speaking about submitting Reservoir Dogs: “I’ve never had anything in my life like that, the fever of, Are we gonna get in, are we gonna get in, are we gonna get in, like every American independent filmmaker, sweating and growing bald, thinking about it.” If you’re turned down, it’s back to the convenience store or social work school. Moreover, if you cross Sundance, you won’t be able to take advantage of the labs or the tender loving care it offers. Even though Robert Redford’s record as the jefe of the institute has been checkered at best, he has rarely known bad press, especially after he was first able to wrap himself in the Sundance banner. Except once, in 1991, when yours truly wrote a critical article that was published in Premiere magazine. Even though I was able to interview him at that time, Redford, who has a long memory and holds on to grudges like a drowning man, refused to cooperate with this book, and more or less blocked my access to at least one key person who works for him.
Then there’s Miramax, run by the Weinstein brothers, Harvey and Bob. They have a reputation for brilliance, but also for malice and brutality. Even though, properly speaking, Miramax is not an indie, it was at one time, and until very recently bestrode that world like the proverbial colossus. Questions about Harvey Weinstein tend to elicit stock responses, like, “He’s passionate about movies,” or, “He may be difficult, but he’s all about the work,” accompanied by rolling of the eyeballs. So while there are many, many attributed quotes in this book, there are unattributed ones as well. Weinstein likes to go on in the press about the unattributed quote, implying that it is the last refuge of the scoundrel, a dagger wielded under cover of night. And it’s true that in a perfect world, sources would freely speak out—without fear of retribution. But unfortunately, we don’t live in a perfect world.
Each year Miramax releases as many films as a couple of studios combined. By virtue of the volume of its output, it is by far the largest employer of above-the-line talent and below-the-line crew in New York City,
and it has a significant presence in Los Angeles as well. Staffers are afraid that if they talk they will lose their jobs and find themselves blackballed from future employment. Directors fear that if they put themselves on the Weinsteins’ bad side, they won’t be handed that next hot Nicole Kidman film, or any film at all. Writers wonder if they’ll be able to sell their latest script, actors worry that they won’t be hired for the coveted role in the upcoming Lasse Hallström picture. As director James Ivory puts it, “A lot of people are afraid to speak out. Directors, actors and actresses, and other people who eventually might end up in his hands again, might want to make another movie with him even though they’ve had a bad experience; they’re not going to talk.” The Coen brothers, perhaps the quintessential indie team working today, recently produced a picture called Bad Santa set up at Bob Weinstein’s Miramax division, Dimension, starring Billy Bob Thornton and directed by Terry Zwigoff (Crum, Ghost World). After some ugly disputes, Bob took the film away from Zwigoff and had a different director reshoot the ending. (Zwigoff subsequently returned to the picture.) The Coens, one or both, reportedly remarked, dourly, “We’ve spent our whole careers avoiding Miramax, and this is the reason.” The brothers generally approach the press like a patient under a dentist’s drill, but they have been unusually closemouthed, even for them. Would he care to confirm the remark? “No comment,” says Ethan Coen. Would he care to comment on Bad Santa? “No.” Would he care to comment after the picture is out? “No.” Would it make sense to talk to Joel? “No.” While many badmouth the Weinsteins in private, it’s the rare filmmaker who will say, like Spike Lee, “I’ll speak my mind. I’m not scared a’ that fat fuck, he can’t whiteball me out of the industry.”
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