“Hey, buddy,” said Mark with his trademark greeting,“guess where I’m calling from?”
I think Mark must’ve returned twenty calls. Me? I didn’t have any calls to make other than to the War Department to tell her all was well from inside Folsom State Prison.
“Inside?” asked the War Department.
“Yeah,” I said. “Across from the showers. Lotta naked killers and such.”
“Guess I’m the one missing out,” she laughed.
Of course, Mark and I survived the excursion. And the script I eventually penned made Mark cry before he’d turned the last page. The studio, it appeared, was equally moved. Lights were green as far as I could see. But then I received this fateful call from Mark.
“Hey, buddy,” said Mark, his voice no longer buoyed by his usual ebullience, “I’ve got good news… and I’ve got bad news.”
“The studio’s really high on the script. So high that they think it has Academy Award potential.”
But because Mark had already squared me up with the old good news/bad news qualifier, I was waiting for the gut punch to land. I’d already heard the set-up. Possible awards. Oscars. What artist doesn’t like to hear that his or her work inspired that kind of discussion? I’d aimed high and so far had hit my mark. What could go wrong?
Uh… like everything?
“Anyhow,” said Mark, his voice an octave under his normal jovial tone, “they’re so serious about the script that they think it could use some help from somebody with Oscar experience.”
“Oscar experience?” I asked, already applying the brakes on my tendency to go from zero to incredulous faster than a Japanese bullet train.
“A writer who’s been there before,” said Mark.
“You mean somebody who’s already won an Oscar,” I concluded.
“As bait for the kind of stars and director they think the movie deserves,” said Mark. “They’re talking names like Steve Zaillian, Scott Frank. You know…”
“They love the script so much they want to fire me,” I said, making sure to ram the point home.
“I know. It’s bullshit.”
“Damn right it’s bullshit.”
I recall a moment of mutual silence. Then I asked, “So how do you feel about it? Do you agree with them?”
“Look,” said Mark. “I love the script. You know I do. It’s one of the best I’ve ever worked on. But I’m not the studio. They write the checks. And then there’s the whole awards thing. Each studio has its own theories of how to get through the nominations process and all that crap.”
“And Paramount’s is to dump the guy who delivered the maybe award-worthy script for somebody who’s already been to the dance.”
“You know what? Since the studio is insisting on this tact, I think they should explain it to you.
Good idea, I thought. That was before I recalled that the executive on the project had recently left Paramount to run a production company for the studio’s biggest star. The Senior VP who’d taken over my portion of his development was a young women with whom I’d had an
unfortunate pitch meeting a couple of years prior. It was a suspense thriller with CSI’s William Petersen attached. After Billy and I’d completed our song and dance, her reaction was to place a hand on her abdomen and complain that our story had left her stomach tied in knots.
“Fantastic,” I said.
“Exactly the kind of movie we want to make,” Billy chimed in.
“But I hate this feeling,” she whined. “And I hate movies that make me feel this way. Like going up and down in a fast elevator.”
“You don’t like roller coasters?” I asked.
“Hate ’em,” she replied. “All amusement park rides make me nauseous.”
As Billy and I walked back to our cars, we were mystified as to how we’d succeeded at pitching the tale but missed our target so widely.
“Maybe we shoulda given her a Dramamine before we pitched,” lamented Billy, only half joking.
So here I was, just a couple years later, stuck with the amusement-park-ride-challenged Senior VP as my Paramount project executive and dialing her number. Lucky me, I didn’t have to wait for her to ring me back. She hopped on the call in a matter of moments.
“Love the script,” she said right off the bat. “It’s powerful and so, so moving. I really didn’t expect that from you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But what did you expect?”
“You know. More action. One liners. You know. Like Die Hard.”
“Well, now you know I’m more than that.”
“Yes I do. And so does the studio. But the kind of directors and stars that we need for this movie don’t
know that you’re more than that. More importantly their agents don’t know.”
“I appreciate your candor,” I said. “But how the hell am I supposed to combat that kind of shallow thinking if the studio that loves my script wants to pitch me over for somebody like Scott Frank?”
“Not just Scott,” she said. “We’re sending it to Steve Zaillian, Paul Attanasio, and Eric Roth.”
“Look. I know you mean that to sound like a compliment. But if you’re firing me, no name added to my script is gonna make me feel better.”
“Look,” she said. “It’s not about you. It’s about pedigree. And it matters to actors when I say that we have this amazing script—by you—that this Academy Award winning writer just took a pass at.”
Arguing with her was useless. That’s because I could hear it in her voice. Just the mere prospect of working with big name “pedigreed” writers had her sounding like a drunken slut. It was clear to me that at least some of her plan was to use my screenplay to secure her position as Paramount’s Executive of Award-Worthy Movies.
This may sound crass, but there’s no better way to describe her lousy act as plain old star-fucking. Or in her case, star-writer-fucking.
I followed up with Mark. It was clear that the ship had sailed and there was no immediate way to turn it around.
“Maybe it’ll come back to you,” said Mark. “Seen it happen before. Who knows?”
Yeah. Who knows?
In the end, the Senior VP’s list of pedigreed writers were either unavailable for her immediate rewrite or turned off by her A-list lust. She ended up settling on a recently nommed script jockey who’d just broken ranks with his writing partner. Eight months later the scribbler
returned with a revision of my work that is best described as turgid and self-important.
Then snap! That quickly, the project lost its luster and began years of languishing aboard the Good Script Forget-me-Not.
Mark was right, though. The screenplay did come back to me. The lousy rewrite was eventually forgotten and the studio was suddenly open to turnaround deals that might make them forget how much money they’d already invested. Over time, actors and directors would become attached then unattached. As well as financiers.
Alas, the screenplay remains both untitled and unproduced. Though yearly, it never fails to gain someone’s interest in resurrecting it. And, as with most of my screenplay children, I remain hopeful that it may one day grow into an adult-aged film.
Since then, that certain Senior VP who was so profoundly interested in bedding down (if only metaphorically) with star talent has moved on to produce a number of hit movies. None have been award-worthy nor were they written or directed by any of those so-called “pedigreed” talent.
I do, though, have this fantasy. I imagine a day when that veep-turned-producer wants to become attached to my latest novel. She’ll call me and tell me how sublime it is. And that my prospects with her as producer would be nothing short of heavenly, not to mention the awards the picture might garner.
After her little speech, I’d tell her how much I agreed with her. But that in order to bait my book-to-film as something worthy of Oscars and Golden Globes, I might be better served going with a producer with a better pedigree.
Until that happy day…
You’re So Dead to Me
A few years ago, a studio executive invited me to pitch a tv idea to producer David Zucker, president of television for Scott Free, Ridley and Tony Scott’s thriving production company. The studio said if David liked the story, they would buy it for us to develop together. David politely listened to my pitch. I could tell right away it wasn’t for him. But instead of closing the meeting there, he decided to return the favor and pitched me an episodic show idea involving the U.S. Coast Guard. Not being a fan of episodic tv, I honestly had no clue how to approach the endeavor. It did, though, remind me of all the impressive news footage I’d seen of Coast Guard heroics during and after Hurricane Katrina.
This is when I spoke without really thinking:
“The only show I could imagine doing about the Coast Guard would be something like an old-fashioned disaster movie,” I said. “Like one of those big Irwin Allen pictures. Melodrama in the vein of The Poseidon Adventure.Only this would be a twenty-two episode tv show whipped over by a hurricane.”
“Expensive,” David whistled.
“You’re telling me?” I agreed.
Our meeting ended. I moved on and expected nothing at all to come from the conversation. The next day my tv agent called.
“They love your idea,” she said.
“Who loves what idea?” I retorted.
“Scott Free loves your disaster movie tv show. They want to meet again,” she said. “Oh. And there’s an actor they want you to meet who’s attached to their Coast Guard thing.”
“Who’s the actor?” I asked.
When I heard the actor’s name, my stomach flipped. For the sake of propriety, let’s call him Johnny Brylcreem. I’d never met the James-Dean-Marlon-Brando wannabe but was still quite familiar with the name, having heard plenty of horror stories from an attorney pal who’d once represented the trouble-making thespian. My friend finally dumped the young star and the fat commissions he was receiving because the talent didn’t outshine the hassle.
“Yeah,” I said. “Think Johnny’s on the life’s too short list.”
“Seriously?”
I explained my misgivings. Relayed some of the hair-raising tales I’d been privy too. She said she understood and would pass my regrets along to David Zucker and the studio who’d been so kind to put us together. And there it ended.
Or so I thought.
A few weeks later I was happily on vacation in the southwest of Ireland. I recall I was alone at the time, hitting a bucket of golf balls to a wind-swept practice green when my cell phone trilled. On the other end was the studio executive who’d first introduced me to David Zucker.
“We really love your disaster movie serial,” she said.
“Nobody’ll make it,” I hedged, not really wanting to bring up Johnny Brylcreem. “Wayyyyy too expensive for a tv show.”
“Not too expensive for us,” she said. “It’s an event kind of show. And it’s exactly the kind of project we hoped to make with Scott Free.”
“Well,” I continued. “There’s another problem.”
As it turns out the studio exec had spoken to my agent and respected my issues concerning Mr. Brylcreem. At the same time, she added how much their
sister network adored the star. So much so that the network president was convinced the actor could be the next Kiefer Sutherland.
“I get you,” I said. “But if a tv show is full of problems, why start off with a problem star before it’s even a script?”
Then she answered with a bit of truth I’ll never forget. “Listen, Doug. If the show turns out to be a hit, tell me the actor who doesn’t turn into a problem star?”
Check and mate. If I were still determined to create a television show, then I would need to accept the obvious obstacles and potential personality clashes that came with territory.
“Just meet the guy,” she recommended.
So I did just that.
Upon my return from my wife’s homeland, I met up with Johnny Brylcreem. He and his “producing” partner seemed agreeable enough. And along with the star’s natural charm and ridiculously gleaming smile, it appeared to me that Johnny could sell flies in the Sudan. No wonder the network boss wanted to package that grin into a one-hour drama.
Soon I was sketching out the characters, the pilot, and the arcs for first season. Then, Zucker and the Scott Free crew along with the Johnny Brylcreem and I, trucked our act to both the studio and network. Deals were made and I was green-lit to begin outlining the pilot.
Somewhere between the outline process and the first draft I began to hear rumors. Our “star” and his producer had set up a competing project at the same studio and network.
I asked David Zucker about it.
“Not to worry,” said David. “Johnny’s just trying on his producer wings.”
“Only so many hours of tv at any network,” I said. “Is it cool that he’s competing with us?”
“I’ve spoken with his people,” said David. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Now mind you. Though this wasn’t my first rodeo, it was one my earliest endeavors into creating a television show. Business practices in tv are somewhat different than in movies. And from what I’d been told by others with more knowledge and experience than I, I couldn’t have a better or more straight-shooting partner than David Zucker. One of the true nice guys in showbiz.
Still, I couldn’t help tweaking Johnny Brylcreem after one of our meetings.
“So what’s the deal?” I said to the star in the parking lot after one of our many development sit-downs. “You’re attached to more than one project?”
“Not attached as an actor,” he said. “I’m just producing the other thing. Got this producing partner so I might as well make more than one show out of it.”
“Johnny,” I reminded, “I’m building a tv series around you as the star. So you can understand my concern.”
“As an actor I’m committed to our thing,” he said. “So don’t sweat it. Write us a great script.”
And so I did. Or at least thought that was what I was doing. As the development process goes, everything was on cruise control. Everybody appeared to be in the same boat, oars in unison, full-steam ahead. Producers, studio, and network in rare and blissful lockstep.
Then a mere week before I was to deliver the finished pilot script, I get a call from David Zucker.
“Bit of a problem,” said David. The polite-to-a-fault producer had an edge in his voice. “I just got word that Brylcreem’s committed to the other pilot.”
“As star?” I asked.
“As star,” confirmed David. “It’s a whole package. His agents and managers also handle the writer-producer team.”
“Have you talked to him?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “But I have a call in to him. Maybe you should do the same.”
I hung up and dialed. Johnny Brylcreem had given me his cell number. I wonder if it was because he didn’t recognize the incoming number that he picked up my call.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“Listen,” he explained. “What you heard about me committing to this other thing is bullshit.”
“It better be because I’m just days away from delivering.”
“When will I have the script?”
“Friday,” I said. “Can you wait until Friday?”
“Sure, I can. This is our thing. We’re partners.”
Within the hour, I’d heard back from David Zucker. He’d pretty much had the very same conversation as I’d had.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t be bothered over it,” said David assuringly—and most likely hoping his air of calm would keep my exploding brain in the script. “I’ll hold all the horses. You just make sure we have the draft by Friday.”
With the Friday delivery date looming, I wrapped up the pilot draft on Thursday and prepared to distribute the script to my producing partners at Scott Free along with our star and his business
partner.
Again, the phone rang. It was David Zucker.
“Bad news,” said David. “He attached himself to the other pilot.”
“Brylcreem promised to wait until tomorrow,” I reminded David.
“Made the same promise to me,” said David. “All I can figure is that he caved to pressure from his management group to be part of a package deal.”
I’m pretty sure that’s the moment I cursed up a blue streak. David, God bless him, kept his usual calm and pragmatic poise.
“He’s not the only actor on the planet. We’ll just move ahead without him.”
“So he won’t be part of the producing group?” I asked.
“Well,” said David. “I’ve gotten word that he still expects to be a producer on the show.”
“Over my dead body.”
“No need to get bent over this. Ridley has a pretty firm opinion on non-producing partners. When the time comes, let’s let him deal with it.”
Wise words. And after the last few days, I was more than happy to let our resident eight-hundred pound British gorilla do our fighting. Although I did fantasize about being a bug on the phone when the moment came for Ridley to inform the backstabbing skin-puppet that he wouldn’t be welcome anywhere in the neighborhood of our tv show.
Friday came and I delivered the pilot to both the studio and the network. All that was left to do was wait out the weekend. Monday came and the response was so overwhelmingly positive that in a matter of hours nearly every negative echo involving our former leading man was all but erased.
What followed was three weeks of notes and studio/network conference calls and quick revisions. And here’s the part where I say with all candor, in my long and dubious career, I have never had a better, more constructive or more harmonious development process. From concept to final draft of the pilot, it was pure and cohesive.
We had but one more obstacle to overcome before we could get our go-ahead to shoot the pilot. And that was a green light from the head of all honchos, the president and c.e.o. of the broadcast network.
The Smoking Gun Page 4
