Anders (and to a lesser degree, Rockwell) was the conscience of the group, the adult, the superego, if you will. Rodriguez, who had a great eye, was, as his future films would confirm, in all other respects a delayed adolescent. He was the child, id, and Tarantino, who displayed elements of both, was in effect the object of a cultural and aesthetic tug of war between them. Four Rooms, with an assist from Miramax, marginalized Anders and Rockwell, an ominous sign of things to come.
WHEN THE MIRAMAX GANG—Mark Tusk, Trea Hoving, and Tony Safford, supplemented by Amy Israel and the rest of the acquisitions posse—rode into Park City on January 19, 1996, with Disney gold burning a hole in their saddlebags, they were confident that they could outbluff, outbid, and outmuscle any company foolish enough to lay claim to a place around the campfire. But this was going to be the year Miramax got its comeuppance, when the companies that the Weinsteins had pistol-whipped in the two and a half years since the Disney deal shot back.
That year’s festival produced an unprecedented bounty of films. Among the pictures in the dramatic competition were Welcome to the Dollhouse, a first—really second—feature from an unknown director named Todd Solondz, which had already been picked up by Sony Classics; an unheralded Australian selection called Shine, directed by Scott Hicks; I Shot Andy Warhol, directed by Mary Harron and produced by Christine Vachon; Walking and Talking, a bright, twenty-something singles comedy written and directed by Nicole Holofcener; and a picture Miramax had already acquired, Alexander Payne’s first film, The Devil Inside aka Meet Ruth Stoops aka Precious aka Citizen Ruth, produced by Cary Woods for $3.7 million.
The previous year’s tempests over Priest and Kids seemed to have taken their toll on the Miramax co-chairman. He was more erratic and quixotic than ever. As Safford put it, “He can’t be in a competitive environment without doing something that will piss somebody off.” Payne was thrilled when The Devil Inside was accepted for Sundance. In classic Miramax fashion, his savage, Swiftian take on the abortion wars was calculated to offend everybody. Laura Dern reveals herself to be an accomplished physical comedienne in her turn as Ruth, a derelict, glue-sniffing, unwed mother of four, with a fifth on the way who, when a judge orders her to get an abortion, becomes the prize in the battle between pro-lifers and pro-choicers, each of whom tries to seduce her. The production had been pretty smooth, but recalls Payne, “A week before its premiere at Sundance, Harvey freaked out about the title.” He thought it made the picture sound like a horror movie, which it did. He demanded Payne change it, and threatened to pull the film from the festival if he didn’t get his way. Payne suggested Meet Ruth Stoops, as in Meet John Doe. But a real Ruth Stoops turned up and objected. When Payne arrived at Park City, he was greeted by posters picturing Laura Dern with Breck girl perfect hair, tumbling through the sky—in the film the character is dirty and disheveled—while the title Miramax had slapped on his film was now Precious, which had precious little to do with anything. Payne was mortified. Even more confusing, in the festival catalogue, the film was still listed as Meet Ruth Stoops. At the Q&A following the first screening, Payne listened patiently as audience members interrogated Burt Reynolds, who had a small role, about Deliverance. Then someone stood up and asked, “Who the hell is responsible for the poster and the title of this movie? Because it sucks.” Harvey was standing in the back. Recalls Cathy Konrad, who was one of the producers, “All of us hated Precious. I looked up and saw the door open and close, and I knew Harvey had left. He knew it wasn’t good—the thing about Harvey is that he knows.” At subsequent screenings, the audience booed when it flashed on the screen, and Payne irritably repeated that it was something Miramax had slapped on the film against his wishes. Harvey accused him of stirring up trouble. (Harvey eventually approved a title Payne had previously come up with, Citizen Ruth.)
On top of the title flap, there was the ending, always something Harvey liked to tinker with because the indie films, with their downer, unresolved, confusing endings, always needed fixing. “He wanted a happier ending than the one which was on there already, one that shows Ruth’s victory over the two opposing sides and has her running away with the money,” the director recalls. There was no time to reshoot it, so Miramax came up with the idea of tacking a title card on the tail of the film. Payne objected, dragged his feet, and Harvey again threatened to withdraw the film. The director continues, “So at Sundance it played with a title card that suggested, albeit in a tongue-in-cheek fashion,” that Ruth went to California and became a successful real estate broker, “that she improves her lot somehow.” Woods wanted to call Harvey’s bluff, threatened to call Redford, hold a press conference. But this was Payne’s first film, and he told Woods, “Cary, they’re gonna know it’s the studio’s thing. Let’s just forget it.” Suprisingly, a film calculated to offend everybody offended no one.
Meanwhile, the screening of Shine had been a huge success. It had played the first Sunday night, at the Egyptian. The film was financed in part by Ernst Goldschmidt’s Pandora Films, and repped by veteran producer Jonathan Taplin, the former Bob Dylan roadie whose producing career stretched all the way back to Mean Streets and The Last Waltz. Hicks had flown in from Australia. When the screening ended, Shine received a standing ovation; the film was so powerful that, recalls Taplin, “Even agents were crying—really bizarre. Once in a while, you realize you’ve hit it. Everybody was in my face. At 7:30 the next morning, my phone started ringing. Fine Line, Searchlight, but nothing from Miramax, not a word.”
On the previous Tuesday, four days before the festival was due to start, Safford had seen the film. It was the perfect Miramax picture, a reprise of My Left Foot, this time the story of a tormented piano prodigy, tetchily played by Geoffrey Rush, driven mad by his controlling father, etched with equal skill by Armin Mueller-Stahl. In both films, the functionally challenged artist improbably lives happily ever after in the arms of an even more improbable bride. Like My Left Foot, Shine was prime Oscar material, guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings of the congress of ancients the Academy was fast becoming with each passing year, but Harvey must also have seen himself in their magnificent monsters, the frog prince transformed by a woman’s magic kiss, as Eve had transformed him. Safford says Shine impressed him, but Taplin thought otherwise, reported to Gold-schmidt, “He obviously didn’t give a shit for the movie, thought it was worthless.”
Around noon on Monday, Taplin learned that Harvey, who was in L.A. for the Golden Globes, wanted to see it. He got a print over to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Harvey was staying, and around four o’clock that day, Taplin finally heard from Safford: “We’re in, where’s the bidding at?” By this time it had gone from $600,000 to $800,000 to $1 million, a million two, a million four, so Taplin told him, “It’s gonna be above a million five.” Safford replied, “Okay, we want it, and we want to make the last bid.” Taplin demanded, “Based on what?” although he knew—based on the fact that Miramax was Miramax. That Harvey had picked up the dice and joined the game should have been good news, but Hicks had already told Taplin about his first encounter with the Weinsteins’ company months before, when he was trying to raise money on the script. He’d flown from Australia to L.A. at Miramax’s request for a meeting. Hicks went straight from the airport to the Miramax office, where he had been kept waiting for an hour and a half. When he finally had the meeting, he wasn’t offered so much as a glass of water, which apparently made a big impression. He kept saying, over and over, “They didn’t even offer me a glass of water.” Hicks made his pitch and was told he would be called at his hotel. He went straight to his room, went to sleep, and woke up the next day—no calls from Miramax. Hicks returned to Australia, furious. Now, more than a year later, he was still furious, but there was a difference: he had a hot film. According to Taplin, Hicks told him, “Who the fuck do these people think they are? I don’t like Miramax, I don’t like their arrogance, I don’t like anything about them.” Besides, Goldschmidt’s Pandora had also produced Ben Ross’s The Young Poiso
ner’s Handbook, which Harvey had killed with kindness the year before. The Shine folks would rather have taken less money than go with Miramax. So Taplin avoided Safford’s calls.
For once, it was Fine Line, New Line’s indie division, that was the most aggressive. There was, of course, the history between Fine Line and Miramax, not only Harvey’s longtime rivalry with Bob Shaye, and Bob Weinstein’s encounter with Deutchman five years earlier, but Safford, who had defected from New Line to Miramax. Around 4:30 in the afternoon, Fine Line’s acquisitions team, Mark Ordesky and Jonathan Weisgel, literally moved into Taplin’s condo with their laptops and printer, saying, “We’re gonna do a contract right here.” There they sat, at the bar, typing up a contract while Taplin was fielding calls from everybody on the planet, occasionally leaving for a meeting. The price was still going up, and around six o’clock, according to Taplin, Safford called, said, “We want you to wait till Harvey gets here.”
“Tony, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”
“Here’s my final offer, $2 million.”
“Quite frankly, there’s some animus between the filmmaker and yourselves, you guys have got ten other movies, you’ve got English Patient, there are other players who need this movie more, don’t have divided loyalties, I don’t think it necessarily looks good. Just sit tight, I’ll call you if something changes.”
Safford faxed Taplin a contract, but at the other end of the line were the Fine Line guys, who matched Miramax’s offer. Taplin and Hicks put their heads together, decided, “Let’s take it. These guys are totally there, they totally want to do it, they gave us a very good back end.”14 Taplin and Hicks signed the contract, shook hands with Fine Line, and went out to dinner.
Eamonn Bowles, who was also at Sundance for Miramax, insists that Weinstein was under the impression Safford had closed the deal. Harvey buttonholed Bowles when he finally made it to Park City, asked, “Did you like Shine?” Bowles replied, “I think it’s a crowd pleaser.” Harvey said, “Good, it better be, I just paid a fortune for it. Come on with me.” They walked to a deli where they talked about how to handle the film, the campaign, when to release it, and so on. Harvey left, and Bowles thought, Okay, great, I can relax now.
It was a snowy night, the weather was miserable. Israel, Hoving, and Tusk were sent to look for Taplin, and tracked him down at the Mercato Mediterraneo, a not very trendy Italian restaurant at the bottom of Main Street, whereupon Israel called Safford on her cell, reported, “The eagle has landed.” Apparently also under the impression that he had a deal, Safford went upstairs to find Taplin and came down again, ashen. Bowles, meanwhile, had made his way to a bar, where he had a couple of drinks. All of a sudden Harvey burst in, barked, “Fine Line got Shine! They fucked us!” Says Bowles, “Harvey was foaming at the mouth.”
Back at the Mercato, Taplin was celebrating at the bar with some friends, attorney Linda Lichter; one of her colleagues, Carlos Goodman, who represented Tarantino; and Deb Newmyer, who was married to Bobby Newmyer and was working at Steven Spielberg’s Amblin production company. They were seated upstairs, having ordered two bottles of champagne. Recalls Goodman, “About a half hour after Tony left, worried about his ass because he hadn’t gotten this picture, Harvey stumbled up the stairs.” Taplin didn’t see him. He was looking the other way when Harvey appeared to materialize out of nowhere—if such a thing were possible—and blindsided him. According to Taplin, he grabbed him by the shirt and bellowed, “You fuck! You fucked me! You told Tony Safford he had it. You bid me up, you’re weren’t going to—you fucker!” (Harvey claims, “I didn’t physically touch him.”) To Newmyer he sounded like a crazy person, repeating over and over that Taplin had lied to him. “He was about to throw things,” she recalls. “He acted like a bombastic jerk.” She looked up at Harvey and said, “For once in your life, Harvey, why don’t you take the high road. You win some, you lose some. Could you just be a gentleman and leave?”
“Fuck you, bitch! You shut up!” Harvey yelled. At this point, Lichter, a slender woman no more than a fraction of Harvey’s size, a toothpick beside a mighty oak, leapt up and pushed him, shouting, “You don’t talk to my friend that way.” Now everybody was on their feet, and a chorus of cries rang out: “Don’t call her a bitch!” “Apologize to her!” Goodman went for the maître d’, while Harvey shouted, “You’re gonna need more lawyers than this because I’m gonna cut you a new asshole.” Goodman came back with a waiter who said, politely, “Excuse me, sir, you’re disturbing the clientele,” and pushed Harvey away from Taplin, who sat down, saying, “Harvey, you can rant all you want, but we’ve already signed the deal.” Undeterred, Harvey continued in a loud voice until the manager appeared with two burly waiters and escorted him out of the restaurant.
Hoving and Israel were parked outside in a Suburban. Taplin says Hoving told Harvey, “You shouldn’t have done that to Deb Newmyer. You don’t want to piss off Steven.” In the car, Harvey had Hoving write a letter apologizing not to Taplin, but to Newmyer, explaining that he just couldn’t stand people who lie to him, which he signed and sent in.
October’s Susan Glatzer happened along, saw Harvey in the vehicle banging on the steering wheel. He was screaming loud enough for her to hear through closed windows, “I am too big and too powerful not to get that movie!” Now he says, contritely, “I ruined my reputation, I killed it forever with these people, and rightly so, because I behaved extremely badly—because I’m passionate about movies.”
Taplin insists, “Tony totally screwed up. Nothing was ever put down on paper. He saw it four days before the festival, the only person to see it. He coulda had it for $600,000. If Scott Hicks had said, I want to wait for Miramax, we would have waited. Everybody knew about Harvey Scissorhands, that was part of Scott’s calculation. All I was concerned about was that there be no cuts in the film. It was what it was. In hindsight, English Patient was Harvey’s Oscar film that year for sure, that’s where he was putting his money. Shine got as far as it got because it was the only thing Fine Line had to run with.”
According to Safford, “We agreed on terms. Taplin said, ‘Write it up, and I’ll come sign it.’ We wrote it up, and he then went south. Did Taplin lie? Absolutely.”
Passing on a hot film was every acquisitions person’s nightmare. Harvey hated to be beaten. He he was in a black mood, and returned to his condo with his troops in tow. There would be an inquisition, a trial, as there was anytime Miramax lost a movie, and Safford, who was the prime suspect, was in deep trouble. The next morning, Harvey emerged from the Stein Ericksen Lodge clutching a copy of an item from the New York Times faxed to him from the East Coast that mentioned the Mercato dustup. Harvey started firing questions: “So Tony, you had the print? You saw it? You didn’t think it was for us? You told them that we’d wait to see how the response was in Sundance? Who went to the Sundance screening? Did anybody go up to Scott Hicks and say, ‘Hey, I really enjoyed your movie?’ ”
“Well, no.”
“NO! Do I have to do everything myself?” Harvey thundered, crushing the fax into a ball and hurling it into a snowbank.
“It was horrible,” recalls one staffer who was there. It didn’t matter that he was yelling at Tony, we all felt that we were getting it, and we were.”
Later that day, Harvey, with Safford in tow, corraled Hicks for lunch. He was threatening to sue, made Safford write up a chronology of events leading up to the fiasco, and placed Israel at a nearby table as a witness. Hicks was going from the lunch to the airport. When he stood up to grab his bags, Harvey stopped him. “Oh no, Scott, you don’t have to carry your own bags,” he said. “Tony will carry them.”
After all the Sturm und Drang, the awards were an anticlimax. Care of the Spitfire Grill won the Audience Award in the dramatic category, while Welcome to the Dollhouse took the Grand Jury Prize. Tusk and Israel loved Dollhouse, thought it was perfect for the Weinsteins, another outsider-overcoming-adversity, if you could call what happens to its antiheroine, Dawn Wiener (Hea
ther Matarazzo) overcoming adversity. It expressed a personal vision, it was uncompromising, just like Muriel’s Wedding without the sappy ending, and a central character who was eminently unlikable. Solondz had originally wanted to call it Faggots and Retards, which perfectly captures the flavor of the film. In other words, the real deal. Which was, of course, the problem. Harvey met with Solondz in New York. It was a good meeting as these things go; instead of just charming the filmmaker and making a lot of promises that he might not keep, Harvey had a real heart-to-heart with him, until, that is, he said he wanted to reshoot the ending, sweeten it. Solondz refused, and that was that. Tusk and Israel were bitterly disappointed. It was no longer the old Miramax.
By the time the Superbowl arrived and everyone had gone home, the 1996 festival would go down as Ten Days That Shook the Indie World. Not only had Harvey made a public fool of himself, but Castle Rock, an “independent” company owned by Warner’s and best known as the home of Rob Reiner and Seinfeld, had insanely overpaid for Care of the Spitfire Grill, a film Bowles described as a “Dr Pepper commercial,” forking over $10 million when the highest competing offer, from a tiny company called Tri-mark, was under $1 million.
Down and Dirty Pictures Page 34
