by Robert Evans
“You’re covered, pal. I’ve just optioned Mafia for twelve five.”
Mario’s pudgy face broke out in a broad smile.
“Can we break out your Monte Cristos—celebrate?”
“Celebrate? . . . Survive! If you don’t get that fuckin’ fire hose out of your mouth, I’m gonna pass out.”
Quickly palming a Monte Cristo from the humidor, he slowly smelled its aroma with the pleasure of a wine steward savoring the fragrance of a just opened bottle of 1932 Château Lafitte.
“Where do you get ’em from?”
“Vault town.”
A Puzo double take.
“Zurich.”
Forget the chair I held, the Monte was the key to his respect for me. Circumcising the tops with a wooden match, we lit up our heavenly smoke. He, the hustler—me, the shylock.
Again, for the wrong reasons, history was made. That’s how Mafia—excuse me, The Godfather (we changed the title)—was born.
I looked at it as a gift, a chit. One gambler helping another gambler out of a heavy muscle jam.
A year and a half later, the jam turned into a novel. The novel turned into an explosion, instantly becoming the decade’s number one runaway best-seller. For 10 Gs and change, I sat owning the rights to the Hope diamond of literature. There was one problem—timing. With all its international success, Paramount distribution didn’t want to make the picture. No way, fuckers—not after Funny Girl.
“Sicilian mobster films don’t play” was distribution’s bottom line. When you bat zero, don’t make another sucker bet. The Brotherhood, a perfect example . . . Kirk Douglas, an all-star cast, terrific reviews, no biz, not even a good first weekend.
Making matters worse, one director after another turned it down. Am I losing my fuckin’ mind? Here I sit controlling the biggest book in the world; everyone congratulating me on my coup, yet my company won’t make it and I can’t find a fuckin’ maestro to direct. Richard Brooks, Costa-Gavras, Elia Kazan, Arthur Penn turned it down. “Romanticizing the Mafia is immoral” was their single voice.
“Immoral? What about your agents? You deal with them every day.”
I felt like a kid picking up a stone in the street that turns out to be an emerald, but you can’t sell it because it’s the wrong color that year.
The coup de main came when Hecht, Hill, Lancaster offered me a million-dollar profit on our minuscule investment. Burt Lancaster desperately wanted to play the title role. His production company was riding high and because it was for Burt, money was no object. Worse, Paramount was determined to sell it to them.
One evening, Peter Bart and I were pacing the floor.
“Is it Stanley, you, or me, Peter? One of us must need a shower. Between us, we can’t get one director, not even a half-assed one to commit. Bluhdorn’s right! This business is for lunatics!”
Peter, being the more analytical, said, “They’re scared of it, Bob . . . that simple. It’s still a spaghetti gangster film. It’s never worked yet.”
“Get out the book that lists every picture made in the last twenty years. Mark each one that has to do with the Organization—Black Hand, The Purple Gang. Let’s study them, see why they didn’t work.”
“It’ll depress you more.”
“Peter, I can’t get more depressed. They talked me out of Funny Girl. It’s not gonna happen again.”
Distribution was right. Except for a B-picture or two—e.g., Rod Steiger in Al Capone—every film about Sicilians and organized crime had one thing in common—red ink.
“We’ve got a problem,” Peter laughed.
“I don’t believe in problems—I believe in solutions.”
At two that morning, we found it. Outside of red ink, every one of the films shared another thing in common—they were written, directed, and produced by—and usually starred—Jews, not Sicilians. For example, The Brotherhood came out the year before, directed by Marty Ritt, starring Kirk Douglas, Susan Strasberg, and Luther Adler, and died.
“That’s it, Peter. It may be bullshit, but it’s the only defense we’ve got to get the picture made.”
We stayed at the studio all night and called Stanley at 6:00 A.M., L.A. time. We all agreed to the party line: bullshit or not, there’s a reason that this genre film never worked. It must be ethnic to the core—you must smell the spaghetti. That’s what brought the magic to the novel—it was written by an Italian. The film’s going to be the same.
There was one problem. In 1969 there wasn’t a single Italian American director with any credibility to be found.
“What about Francis Coppola?”
“Are you nuts, Peter? He’s crazy!”
“Brilliant though,” snapped Bart.
“That’s your esoteric bullshit coming out. The guy’s made three pictures: You’re a Big Boy Now, artsy-fartsy . . . no business, Finian’s Rainbow, a top Broadway musical he made into a disaster, and The Rain People, which everyone rained on.”
“It’s Coppola or Lancaster,” Peter shot back.
“There must be someone else. . . . There has to be.” There wasn’t. “Let me see if I can sell it to Stanley. He’s going to blow a gasket on this one.”
I was wrong. He didn’t. Rather, he was pragmatic.
“He fits the party line, you’ll smell the spaghetti.”
Stanley blocked the Hecht, Hill, Lancaster deal, convincing the New York distribution honchos that I wasn’t crazy. He explained why The Godfather would be a first. Reluctantly, they bought it.
There was one problem. Coppola didn’t want to do it. He couldn’t get a cartoon made in town, yet he didn’t want to make The Godfather. To his credit, his convictions were strong in not wanting to immortalize the families that blackened his Italian heritage. Did he need a job? He owed more money around town than Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls.
Time was not on our side. Without an Italian director in place, the corporate hierarchy was more than anxious to embrace the Hecht, Hill, Lancaster deal. Here I am, on my knees begging this director who had made three features, all flops, to please, please put The Godfather on screen.
Three days of discussions later, Peter came into my office.
“Coppola will make the picture on one condition—that it’s not a film about organized gangsters, but a family chronicle. A metaphor for capitalism in America.”
“Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. Is he nuts?”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s Italian.”
With fewer than forty-eight hours to make a decision—Hecht, Hill, Lancaster, or shake hands with the devil—Coppola was announced as The Godfather’s maestro.
Less than an hour later, Dick Zanuck, who was then head of Twentieth Century–Fox, was on the horn. “If you go with Coppola, you’ll be testing for matador parts soon. Do it in animation—you’ve got a better chance.” He laughed.
Minutes later, John Calley, at that time head of Warner Brothers, was on the horn. “Don’t use him, Bob. Corporately, I shouldn’t say it. His company owes us $600,000. Whatever money you pay him goes directly to us. Chalk this up as a chit for Catch-22.” Calley had produced the Nichols film, which was far from a platinum success, for Paramount on my insistence.
Nevertheless, by default, Francis Coppola was handed the baton to orchestrate cinema history.
Auguste Rodin molding clay with his hands did not have the agility of Francis’s brain when it came to seduction. Whether personal or professional, his persuasive powers made Elmer Gantry look like Don Knotts. Till this day, I doubt whether his own wife really knows who he is.
The casting of Michael Corleone became a cause célèbre between the two of us. He wanted an unknown actor—Al Pacino—and I wanted anyone but. Puzo’s description of Michael in the book was diametric in every way to Pacino. Test after test was made—from the then unknown Bobby De Niro to every actor who had an O at the end of his name. Pacino tested three times, each worse than the last.
“Francis, the guy’s no gangster; he’s an actor.”
> “He’s right for it, Bob.”
“Not to me.”
We were four weeks away from shooting an epic film in size, with a far from epic budget to produce it. “Six million and no more” were the orders from the high command. With the subject matter looked upon as a disease, all the money guys were looking to protect their losses, no less their asses. This meant that no actor in the film could be paid more than 35 Gs.
The war over casting the family Corleone was more volatile than the war the Corleone family fought on the screen. Brando’s call tipped the scales. I then met with Coppola.
“You’ve got Pacino on one condition, Francis.”
“What’s that?”
“Jimmy Caan plays Sonny.”
“Carmine Carridi’s signed. He’s right for the role. Anyway, Caan’s a Jew—he’s not Italian.”
“Yeah, but he’s not six five, he’s five ten. This ain’t Mutt and Jeff. This kid Pacino’s five five, and that’s in heels.”
“I’m not using Caan.”
“I’m not using Pacino.”
Slam went the door. Ten minutes later, the door opened. “You win.”
At 9:00 A.M. the next morning I was on the horn to Pacino’s agent. “Your client’s got the role.”
“Sorry, Bob, it’s forty-eight hours too late. We just closed a deal for him at Metro with Jim Aubrey, The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight.”
“Well, get him out of it. He wants this part more than air.”
“Getting a pardon from a prison warden’s easier than getting a favor from Aubrey.”
“If Al finds out you didn’t try, he’ll dump you as his agent.”
“So what? He’s an actor. The Smiling Cobra—that’s a different story, he runs a studio!”
“You owe it to your client. At least try.”
“I owe it to my career. No way!”
I had no choice, so I called Aubrey. After all, we were friends—what did I have to lose? With the emotion of an IRS investigator, he turned me down. I picked up the phone again. This time a local call, dialing the Carlyle Hotel.
“Sidney Korshak, please.”
“Yeah?”
“Sidney, it’s Bobby.”
“Yeah?”
“I need your help.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s an actor I want for the lead in The Godfather.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t get him.”
“Yeah?”
“If I lose him, Coppola’s gonna have my ass.”
“Yeah?”
“Forty-eight hours ago he signed for the lead in a picture at Metro—The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight.”
“Yeah?”
“I called Aubrey, asked him if he could accommodate me, move his dates around.”
“Yeah?”
“He told me to fuck off.”
“Yeah?”
“Is there anything you can do about it?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“The actor, what’s his name?”
“Pacino . . . Al Pacino.”
“Who?”
“Al Pacino.”
“Hold it will ya? Let me get a pencil. Spell it.”
“Capital A, little l—that’s his first name. Capitol P, little a, c-i-n-o.”
“Who the fuck is he?”
“Don’t rub it in, will ya, Sidney. That’s who the motherfucker wants.”
“Where are ya?”
“At the New York office.”
“Stay there.”
Twenty minutes later my secretary buzzed. “Mr. Aubrey’s on the phone, Mr. Evans.”
“Jim?”
“You no-good motherfucker, cocksucker. I’ll get you for this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know fuckin’ well what I’m talking about.”
“Honestly, I don’t.”
The Cobra cut me off. “The midget’s yours; you got him.” Hanging the horn up in my ear.
Immediately I called Korshak.
“Yeah?”
“Sidney, it’s Bobby.”
“Yeah?”
“Aubrey just called.”
“Yeah?”
“Pacino—I got him. What happened?”
“I called Kerkorian.”
Kirk Kerkorian at the time was the sole owner of MGM. He never involved himself with the day-to-day running of the studio, a provision written in cement when Aubrey took the presidency. Kerkorian was totally involved in building his Las Vegas empire. The MGM Grand was near completion, but he was going through a financial crunch as construction costs were considerably over budget.
“I told him Bobby needs some actor for The Godfather, that his schmuck Aubrey wouldn’t let you have him. He tells me—get this, Bobby—‘Sidney, I’d do anything for you, you know that, but my deal with Aubrey is he’s got total control. It’s Aubrey’s call, I’ve got no say in it.’ ”
The operator interrupted. “Mr. Wasserman’s on the phone, Mr. Korshak, says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll call him back in ten.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, I asked him if he wanted to finish building his hotel.”
“Yeah?”
“He didn’t answer, but he asked who the actor was. I told him. He never heard of the schmuck either. He got a pencil, asked me to spell it—‘Capital A, punk l, capital P, punk a, c-i-n-o.’ Then he says, ‘Who the fuck is he?’ ‘How the fuck do I know. All I know, Bobby wants him.’ ”
“That was it?”
“That was it!”
His other phone rang. He didn’t even say good-bye.
That’s the inside, inside story of what eventually became—mind you, against my better judgment—possibly the greatest “sense of discovery” casting in cinema history.
I stayed in New York during the first week of shooting and then flew back to the Coast. Besides getting reacquainted with my wife and newborn kid, I had a dozen other films in various stages of production, not one without problems. One night, while I was having dinner in bed, my red phone went off. It was Al Ruddy, the producer assigned to oversee The Godfather.
“Evans, we’ve got a problem. The fuckin’ guinea shoots a great scene.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It doesn’t cut together.”
“Put Aram on the phone.”
Aram Avakian, the editor, got on the line. “Bob, shot by shot it looks great. Kubrick couldn’t get better performances, but it cuts together like a Chinese jigsaw puzzle. We spent two days in the restaurant with Pacino, Sterling Hayden, and Al Lettieri. Each take was great, but nothing matches. The fucker doesn’t know what continuity means.”
Indigestion turned to heartburn. “Get the footage to me tonight.”
“The sooner the better,” Avakian agreed. “Every day the fucker shoots, it’s burning money.”
“Get it on the plane, if you have to bring it yourself, I want it at the studio tomorrow, clear? Put Jack Ballard on the phone.”
Jack Ballard was the studio’s eyes and ears on the film, reporting to me directly. Knowing his job was on the line, his critique of Coppola’s incompetence was more severe than Avakian’s.
Zanuck’s and Calley’s warnings flashed before me. Why the fuck didn’t I listen? It’s my fault and it’s my fall. When your wife is lying in bed beside you, it’s her natural reflex to ask, “What’s the problem?” Having ten to twenty pictures always in some stage of pre- or post-production, there’s not a day you’re not in the middle of a war. As much as Ali wanted to be a cushion to my daily batterings, her good intentions worked in reverse—it made me more tense, more abrupt. A loner is a loner is a loner is a loner.
The next day twelve reels arrived. Peter Zinner, an ace editor, and I spent the whole weekend in the editing room. The result—amazing. Francis’s work—not just good . . . brilliant.
Sabotage wears ma
ny faces. This one I had never encountered. Sunday night I took the red-eye to New York. I didn’t fire Francis. Instead I fired Aram Avakian and his coterie of production assistants, sent Jack Ballard back to the studio, and told Al Ruddy, the producer, that if I hadn’t liked him as much as I did, he’d be fired too. In reality, it wasn’t Ruddy’s fault; without knowing it, he was the fall guy. Aram Avakian, an editor turned director, wanted, at all costs, to derail Francis, knowing that with Coppola out, he would have a good shot to take over. He almost succeeded. A keen eye and streetwise instincts prevented Francis from being an innocent victim of a well-conceived ruse.
Francis’s nervous system during the weeks that followed were such that Charlie Bluhdorn himself became Francis’s own godfather, going on the set every day to give Coppola the affirmation he so needed. Coming from Jaffe or myself, it would have mattered little, but from Charlie Bluhdorn, that was different. Not only was he the big boss, but when he was on, there was no one like him. The electricity of his embrace was possibly his most extraordinary asset.
* * *
Post-production began. From day one, the battles started. The conflict between Francis and me became so bitter that even Bluhdorn’s persuasive mediation abilities were all but ineffective.
Post-production may sound like a technical word, but in actuality, it’s the most important element in the anatomy of filmmaking. It’s an art form unto itself that structures the arc of your story. Film, dialogue, sound, music, and effects are its five major tentacles. During the post-production process, each of these is structured and edited separately by highly talented artists, whose contribution is rarely appreciated or spoken of. Frame by frame with precision and skill, your canvas evolves its persona. Post-production is the key to film magic or film mediocrity. From it comes your completed canvas, which is presented for all the world to see and critique.
Whether it be the cinematography, writing, directing, or (for that matter) performances, all become pawns to those who control the magic of post-production.
“Dailies” is the operative word for time spent by the producer, director, cinematographer, actors (if they wish), and various department heads to examine and cull out the best of the previous day’s filming. The director, being the captain of the ship, picks out his choices for the editor to assemble. With rare exception, the day-to-day viewing of dailies is a high—euphoric at times. Within a month after completion of principal photography, you are faced with an assemblage, and there for the first time you see the sum of all the film’s parts as one. Without exception, your dream turns into a nightmare. The euphoria of watching the dailies abruptly turns to thoughts of suicide.
