I remembered.
I told him I was firing him at lunch at a Malibu restaurant. We both sat there with tears in our eyes.
Guy said, “I hate this town.”
I said, “So do I.”
Guy said, “We had fun, didn’t we?”
I said, “We sure did.”
No longer my agent (still my friend?) he started advising me on which agent I should switch to.
“Whatever you do, don’t go to Rifkin,” Guy said.
Arnold Rifkin had revitalized the somnolent William Morris Agency and was ICM’s biggest competitor.
“I won’t,” I said.
I felt sick about firing Guy. I remembered too many moments through so many years and so many drinks. I remembered Guy saying to me, through so many crises, “Well, I’m back in the bunker again—incoming! incoming!—waiting for the next plane to Paraguay.”
I didn’t know then what I would learn with the passage of time: firing Guy McElwaine was the biggest mistake I ever made in Hollywood. I never had as much fun again. His heart wasn’t black; he loved me like a brother. I had fired my own brother the way Johnny Kovak had killed his own brother in my original draft of F.I.S.T., the first screenplay I’d written.
By firing Guy, I had become a Hollywood animal. I had bought into the whole ethos of the town—an ethos I had resisted for so long: Guy screwed up, so Fuck Guy! He had to pay the price. Fuck Guy! I would make him pay the price! He would never work in this town (substitute: for me) again.
I should have forgiven him, of course. I should have understood that he was human, too, that he was coping with the wolves at his own door and with his own divorce. He needed the ten grand he might have won in Palm Springs.
And there was the gold bracelet Gerri had bought him with my money. Did I feel that he’d betrayed me … by accepting the bracelet … while I hadn’t betrayed him … by leaving Ovitz? Was it my star-sized ego that he had wounded by accepting that bracelet and by wanting to go to that golf tournament? Was I making him pay the price by starlike behavior?
Ultimately, I hurt myself by firing him. An unlikely pair, the Golden Beef and the Refugee from Cleveland, we had jousted at all the windmills and had had uproarious fun … until I pushed him from his saddle and left him trampled on the side of the road.
Fuck me!
On the playing field of deal-making and strategy, I was alone now without my mentor and swordsman (“two Iagos,” the director Phillip Noyce had called us) … just another Hollywood animal scuttling from Morton’s to the Ivy to Spago … just another hotshot player who remembered too well the wild and exhilarating joy of jousting at windmills with the brother he’d left behind on a mean and bloody road.
When I got home from lunch with Guy, I immediately called Arnold Rifkin.
The William Morris Agency released a press release when I became a client.
Arnold Rifkin was quoted as saying, “Joe Eszterhas has redefined the status of the screenwriter in Hollywood. His movies have grossed more than a billion dollars. His name brings people to the theaters. We are thrilled to be representing him.”
I was quoted as saying, “My decision to leave ICM has nothing to do with my close and continuing friendship with Guy McElwaine.”
Those words had an echo of the statement Guy had released for me when I broke up with Gerri Eszterhas: “His great friendship with Naomi Macdonald has nothing to do with the marital problems that led to his separation.”
I liked Arnold Rifkin. He had come out of the fur business, had once sold Frye boots even … he was full of a lot of New Age malarkey his friend Tony Robbins pumped into him … he butchered the English language extraordinarily in a town filled with masterful butchers of the English language … and he bragged all the time about his low body-fat count … but I liked him.
Arnold Rifkin was human and real and he had a heart unlike the black hearts of other agents.
He went to work for me immediately. I asked him to sell Blaze of Glory, the script about Otis Redding.
What I was asking wasn’t easy. Blaze had failed at auction—which meant every production entity in town had read it and passed. Now the script was damaged goods—now it had the clap—and I was asking Arnold Rifkin to pimp it … when everyone in town knew failure was infectious.
Arnold devised a smart plan. He got the script to the director Jon Avnet, who liked it and said he’d be “interested” in directing it. He wasn’t “committing” to direct it—he was just saying he was “interested.”
Knowing that Universal liked Jon Avnet and wanted to work with him, Arnold went to Universal with Blaze of Glory. He also knew that Universal wanted to be very nice to him … to Arnold Rifkin … because one of his top clients had just starred in a movie there and Universal was hopeful that the star would do a lot of publicity for the movie.
Universal read my script … and because the executives there wanted to work with Jon Avnet and wanted the star to publicize their movie … Universal bought Blaze of Glory for $1.25 million.
Before they paid me the money, though, they wanted to have a “creative meeting” with me.
I told Arnold I wanted to have the “creative meeting” after I was paid, not before. I wanted to tell them what they could do with the imbecilic suggestions I was sure they’d have … after I already had their money in my bank.
The Universal executives, no fools, knew about my reputation and insisted the meeting be held before I was paid.
Arnold Rifkin then informed them that unless I was paid the $1.25 million immediately … before any meeting … his star client would do no publicity for his Universal movie.
I got the $1.25 million check that afternoon.
Universal said there was no reason now to have a “creative meeting.”
I worked on a rewrite with Jon Avnet, who then withdrew from the project saying he didn’t like my rewrite.
Universal put Blaze of Glory on its shelf and the movie was never made.
The star did a lot of publicity for his Universal picture.
The publicity did no good; the movie failed.
I admired how Arnold had engineered all of it, especially admired the fact that he was willing to use one of his most powerful clients as a weapon on behalf of a much lesser client, me.
It was a violation of Hollywood agenting’s cardinal rule: Care about only the biggest fish—all the other fish are part of the food chain.
On Christmas Eve, my new agent, Arnold Rifkin, called me from Africa, where he was on safari in the Serengeti.
He called to wish me a Merry Christmas and to tell me he was happy to “have you in my life.”
I said then to Arnold Rifkin the same phrase which he had so often said to me … the same phrase which Sean Penn had said to me … the same phrase which Cuba Gooding, Jr., had said to me … the same phrase which was sweeping through Hollywood:
I said, “Right back at ya!”
About a week later, Arnold Rifkin sent me a note. It said: “I love having you in my life!”
I sent him a note in response.
It said: “Right back at ya!”
Now it was in writing.
Naomi’s journal:
We have a new housekeeper. She’s from the Philippines. I told her during the interview that this was a hard job.
After one week she said, “This job is easy. At my last job they would wake me up at two in the morning and tell me to pack for Hawaii, and then after packing all night they would say they changed their mind and I had to put everything all back in the morning.”
I said, “They would wake you in the middle of the night?”
She said, “Yes, sometimes just to take a dirty glass to the kitchen from their bed.”
She said, “I even had to give the lady a sample of my urine every week, because her husband was having her tested for drugs.”
I said, “She used your urine?”
She smiled and said, “Yes. But they pay good money.”
The big black
limo was waiting in the driveway, some chilled bottles of white wine and an ice basket of Beck’s beer in the back.
We were on our way to the Paramount lot to see the rough cut of Jade. Steve, who was visiting from Oregon, was coming with us.
Steve and Naomi were ahead of me as I went running out the front door of our house. We were late. I was wearing shorts, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt.
As I hurried out the front door, I twisted an ankle and went straight down on the ground. Dazed by the fall, I was flat on my back.
Steve, ashen-faced, was above me.
“Is it your heart, Dad?” he asked.
Naomi was panicked. “I’ll call an ambulance!”
“No,” I said, “it’s my foot.”
They helped me up. My foot hurt like hell. I couldn’t put any weight on it.
I asked Steve to grab a cane from the house.
“You can’t walk,” Naomi said, “we can’t go.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said, “I’m not going to miss the rough cut of my movie!”
Steve said, “This is really dumb, Pops! How are you going to walk?”
“If I can’t walk, Mano,” I said to him, “I’m going to ask you to carry me in. If you can’t carry me in, I’m going to crawl in. Okay?”
I hobbled to the limo with my cane and got in. I stretched out and Steve took the sandal off my left foot. It was red and already swollen.
We could see a huge lump sticking out of the left side of my foot.
Naomi said, “We’ve got to go to a hospital.”
Steve said, “Pops, look at that bone.”
I said, “I’m seeing my movie.”
Naomi said, “You’re crazy.”
I said, “It’s my fucking foot, okay?”
I got one of the chilled bottles of white wine and poured myself a glass. I felt better. I poured another glass. Better yet. One more. My foot hardly hurt.
I stuck the CD which I had brought with me into the stereo. The Stones. I found the song I wanted—the song I’d played more and more lately to pump me up before meetings or divorce-related court appearances.
I poured another glass of wine and listened to the song and felt almost good.
“Sympathy for the Devil”!
We got to the small screening room. Billy Friedkin wasn’t there, but Arnold Rifkin was. I’d asked him to come and give me his “take.”
I knew that even though Billy wasn’t there, one of his spies would be—not to watch the film but my reaction to it.
I came into the screening room hobbling and carrying my cane and a Coke container filled to the brim with white wine. Arnold took one look at my naked foot, swollen with the bone sticking out of it, and ran to get a bag of ice.
I put the foot up on the seat in front of me, Arnold placed the icebag on it, and Jade started rolling.
I stared in disbelief. I watched entire plot points and scenes and red herrings that weren’t in my script. I heard dialogue that not only wasn’t mine but was terrible to boot.
Friedkin, the coward, had lied to me again: “I shot your script. I’m not stupid. I know how you are about your words. We’re going to do a lot of other movies together.”
· · ·
This movie that you created.
This movie I was watching was awful—it was without dramatic tension; it was heavy-handed and over-the-top—but, more important, it wasn’t my movie.
I got nauseous and my foot started to throb.
I told them to stop the film—I had to go to the bathroom.
Steve helped me as I hobbled into the bathroom with my cane.
I leaned over a toilet, threw up, and started to shake.
I lit up a cigarette with some difficulty, slugged what was left of the white wine in the Coke container, and threw up again.
I stood there deep breathing.
“Jesus, Pops,” Steve said, watching me. “Fuck this. Nothin’s worth this. You gotta get out of this town.”
I felt better and Steve helped me hobble out of the bathroom.
They started to roll Jade again. It was still awful.
I glanced at Arnold—he gave me the thumbs-down and shook his head.
Naomi rolled her eyes.
Steve just glared at the screen like he wanted to punch it out.
The film suddenly stopped and the lights came on.
What now? I thought.
Billy Friedkin’s secretary came down the aisle and stopped next to me. “There’s an emergency phone call for you,” she said.
Naomi and I looked at each other in panic: Oh, God, please no—something terrible must have happened at home.
Billy’s secretary said, “Your father’s calling.”
I said, “My father?”
She said, “From Cleveland.”
I said, “I know where he lives.”
Here I was at a rough cut screening of my movie. The movie stunk and wasn’t even mine. My foot was broken and had a bone sticking out of it. I had just thrown up. I was out of wine (though there was more in the car).
And the father whom I loved and loathed had reached me at exactly this moment!
I hobbled with my cane and Naomi and Steve and Arnold over to Billy Friedkin’s office to take the call.
Thankfully, Billy wasn’t there. I would have caned him to death if he had been.
“I slipped in the shower,” my father said.
I said, “You did what?”
“I slipped in the shower.”
“Why are you calling me to tell me this?” I said.
“I’m frightened.”
“Of what?”
“I bumped my head when I fell. I’m a little dizzy.”
“So am I.”
He said, “What?”
“Never mind. Call an ambulance.”
“We did already.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“I just wanted to tell you.”
I said, “How did you get this number?”
“Your housekeeper. I told her it’s an emergency. Are you angry with me for calling you?”
I said, “No, Pop, it’s okay.”
He said, “Should I call you after I get to the hospital?”
“I’m in a meeting,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get home.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
He said, “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Fein fein fein,” he said, “like all the other Americans.” I had to smile. I could tell he was smiling, too.
I said, “That’s right.”
“You hardly call me anymore.”
“I’m busy.”
“What are you so busy with?”
I said, “Writing the movies that pay for all your nursing care.”
He laughed and said, “Thank you. Stay busy.”
“I have to go, Pop.”
My father said, “See-ya, see-ya, see-ya,” and hung up.
Steve said, “Is he okay, Pops?”
I said, “He’ll never die.”
I hobbled back to the screening room with Naomi and Steve and Arnold.
When the movie was over, we talked outside.
“That’s a really bad movie,” Arnold said.
“That’s not your script,” Naomi said.
“It’s not the script I read,” Steve said.
I opened another bottle of the white wine and Arnold and I came up with a plan right there in that Paramount parking lot to get even.
· · ·
As they say in Hollywood, just ’cause you get fucked doesn’t mean you’ve gotta kiss anybody.
I called Sherry from the limo, screamed at her and told her she’d used me and her husband had used me to get a job … and had then lied to me about not changing my script.
I told Sherry I wanted my name off the movie and was going to tell the media how she’d asked me to say Billy was my idea to direct my script so it would seem like there w
as no nepotism involved.
“You can’t do that, honey, please,” she said, and I hung up on her.
Arnold called Sherry to tell her I was out of control and wanted my name off the movie.
I called Evans and screamed at him. I told him he was a whore who’d allowed his own movie to be fucked by the studio head’s husband for fear he’d lose his own deal with the studio.
I called Billy and screamed at him. I told him he was a liar and a coward and he said, “I didn’t change anything, Joe! I swear to you! What did I change? Write me a memo. I’ll change it back!”
My father called from the Cleveland Clinic to tell me he was being sent home. There was nothing wrong with him.
I said I was happy to hear it.
Sherry and Arnold spoke the next day and she asked him what it would take “to make Joe happy.”
Daily Variety announced my new deal with Paramount on the front page: “A blind script commitment … that insiders said will pay the scribe two million dollars against four million dollars.”
Sherry Lansing was quoted as saying, “I have enjoyed our relationship with Joe through the making of Jade and we look forward to continuing it.”
I was quoted as saying, “I’m flattered that Paramount has such faith in my work.”
Right back at ya!
I sent Billy Friedkin a three-page memo detailing the changes which I thought were necessary to save Jade.
My memo ended: “The reason Basic Instinct and Jagged Edge stunned audiences is because the filmmakers and the studio had the courage to do something daring that people told each other about. With Sliver, all they told each other about was probably the worst last line—‘Get a life!’—in the past decade. Let’s not make that mistake again.”
I got no response to my memo.
· · ·
Naomi’s journal:
Last weekend we spent an entire day at a Showgirls press junket at the Four Seasons. What an ordeal. After a grueling morning session we headed back to our room. I lay down on the floor, since I’m due in two weeks and this monstrosity I’m carrying was breaking my back. As I lay like a great mound on the floor Joe was sitting in the chair. We were talking about how Showgirls, which was rated NC-17, would be unavailable to teenagers.
Suddenly he said, “You know what? Most teenagers I know have fake IDs. You know what I’m going to do? When I go back in there I’m going to start telling all the teenagers to use their fake IDs to get into Showgirls.”
Hollywood Animal Page 71
