The Kid Stays in the Picture

by Robert Evans

  * * *

  Several months earlier, Michael Eisner had laughed: “You’ll get Wimbledon like I’ll take over Disney.”

  I got Wimbledon. He took over Disney. I ended up in the red. He ended up the numero uno honcho of the business.

  If I could get Goodyear to give me their blimp as the “heavy” and the NFL to allow me to shoot the Super Bowl as a backdrop to terrorism for Black Sunday, why not Wimbledon for Players? To Wimbledon’s board of governors; the tournament’s royal patron herself, Princess Anne; and all the members of the most prestigious bastion of not only tennis, but any sport there is to play, there I was evoking the magic of film to chronicle Wimbledon in perpetuity. It must have worked.

  Now all I needed was a script. There was a far bigger problem. When the picture finished shooting, I still didn’t have one. Arnold Schulman talked a good script but wrote a terrible one. Many years later, Ivan Lendl approached me in St. Maarten, congratulating me on Players; it was the most realistic sports film he had ever seen, so realistic that he’d watched it eleven times. Lendl was right: never had a sport been transformed to screen drama with more authenticity than Players, but the story surrounding it was as weak as the action was authentic.

  Players involved an older woman and a hustler kid tennis pro, she the inspiration to the kid going straight and ascending to the top. Ali was my first choice to play the mysterious beauty leading a double life, a lady of high social standing and a girl of the streets kept by an older man who controlled the strings, purse and all. Ali at that time was at an all-time low, ready to walk into the ocean one way. Not only was she the mother of my only son, but she was perfect for the role and—like it or not (and I didn’t)—her presence still made my heart skip a beat.

  The actor cast as her young amour had to be a tennis pro as well, so there weren’t many contenders. Dean Martin’s son, Dino, got the nod. Robert Redford handsome, ranked 150th in the world of tennis, with a terrific personality, he was, I thought, a sure bet for stardom. Players opened—and didn’t play.

  “ROBERT EVANS’ REVENGE ON ALI MACGRAW” headlined the New York Post’s review. That said it all. The critics didn’t review the film, rather they editorialized it. The script may have had more holes in it than a tennis racket, but the reality of a sport brought to the screen was worthy of respect, no matter how minor, but certainly not harbored resentment. It was Love Story ten years later. The critics . . . well, they just had a field day. They didn’t want us to get away with it again.

  “Fuck him! He shaves his beard off or I shut down the picture today. Got it?”

  “Calm down, Evans, will you?”

  “Michael, I’ve had it. Last night we had dinner at the Palm in Houston. Three people came over and asked for my autograph, not his. And he’s supposed to be the biggest star in the world?”

  Within twenty-four hours, Michael Eisner, Barry Diller, and Don Simpson joined me in Houston. It was June 29, 1979, my birthday.

  “Fellas, you gotta back me. Travolta’s hiding behind his beard because he’s got a little scratch above his lip. A fuckin’ cat bit it. His cleft, his smile, made him a star. Now I get him with a beard. He looks like an Italian butcher.”

  “What does Jim think?” asked Eisner, referring to director James Bridges.

  “He likes it. So does Travolta’s whole coterie. He’s got more of an entourage than the President. I’m not taking any orders from any starlet who’s just become a star. Travolta’s working for me, I’m not working for him. That’s why you overpay me.”

  “How many scenes have you shot with Travolta?” asked Eisner.

  “Too many—about six. We’re coming up to where Travolta applies for a job at a factory. It’s the perfect place for the boss to say ‘we don’t hire guys with beards.’ ”

  The projector was turned on. We looked at John Travolta in a beard. The next day the biggest star in the world shaved his beard off.

  Then, till the end of the picture, the biggest star in the world refused to talk to me. Did I care? Did you? The producer is always the enemy. The stronger the producer the bigger the enemy.

  Developed from an Esquire article by Aaron Latham about the Texas blue-collar scene around Gilley’s, the world’s biggest roadhouse, Urban Cowboy was now a $12 million blast on film, starring John Travolta, the Tom Cruise of the 1970s. Located near Houston in the town of Pasadena, Gilley’s was where 7,000 people a night could do everything from playing pinball to riding a mechanical bull, to drinking themselves into a quickie in the nearest trailer. It was 100 percent prime redneck; the girls at Gilley’s were tougher than any linebacker for the Chicago Bears. One of them, Milly, held the record for taking on 168 guys riding the bull in one week. By the time the picture was over, she’d lost the title to another lovely.

  When Irving Azoff, the record producer who controlled the rights, showed me Latham’s article, I was immediately turned on. Here was a slice of Americana that had never been put on film before. From fashion to dance and slang, it had the potential to be a trendsetter. With no star, no script, and ten minutes with Eisner, a $12 million budget was put on “go” for Urban Cowboy to start dancing on film.

  Jim Bridges was set to direct. Travolta had already signed to do American Gigolo, but was desperate to go western. Good-bye, Gigolo. Hello, Cowboy. At the time, anything John wanted, John got.

  For the tough-cookie female lead—a real star-making part—we were looking for a new face. We interviewed thousands of girls and tested hundreds. It came down to two unknowns: Michelle Pfeiffer and Debra Winger. We shot the deciding test at Gilley’s. Michelle and Debra were both born for bucking the mechanical bull, but Winger won out. Why? Because I wanted Pfeiffer.

  The summer of 1979 registered as the hottest and wettest in Houston history. To pick up clear dialogue, we had to turn off the air-conditioning in Gilley’s. Everyone passed out but the bull. Tempers were hotter than the weather. And I took most of the heat.

  Grit was the issue. Travolta, Bridges, and company wanted Grease in chaps. I wanted Saturday Night Fever, raunchy ranch style.

  Did I still need energy-fuel from cocaine? Can’t deny it. But compared to the users I met in Houston, I was a cub scout. On a half dozen nights I hobnobbed with the so-called cream of Texas society. I never saw anything like it. In Hollywood one did cocaine in the john. Down there they put it out like popcorn, in platinum bowls.

  When Urban Cowboy finished shooting, Travolta threw the wrap party—lunch at his ranch. My invitation must have been sent to the “mechanical bull.”

  “I want it, Barry.”

  “Evans, if you want it, it’s yours,” said Diller.

  It was the opening night of Annie in New York. The spirit it evoked was infectious, euphoric, for everyone from eight to eighty.

  “Barry, we’re gonna give Charlie the musical he’s always wanted.”

  “You’ve already got a yes. I’ll be on it first thing tomorrow.”

  Diller gave me the yes, but Ray Stark outbid him. Annie was sold for double-digit millions—the highest price paid for a Broadway musical. Redheads don’t come cheap. Losing out on Annie pissed me off.

  Never being a cartoon reader or watcher, I mistakenly pressed the wrong channel. Staring me in the face was this one-eyed cornpipe sailor. Stealing my philosophy:

  I yam what I yam,

  That’s all what I yam.

  That’s it! Popeye, you’re growing taller—straight up to the 70 mm screen. Spread the gospel, sailor, “The celebration of the individual.”

  Getting Jules Feiffer, the sophisticated cartoonist, playwright and screenwriter, to write the script, along with Hal Ashby to direct and Dustin Hoffman to star, exploded every possible emotion I’d ever held back.

  Losing a doubles match with Guillermo Vilas, the world’s number one player, as my partner, was by no means a high, when I was interrupted by an emergency call. It was Jules Feiffer. Hardly audible, I’d never heard anybody sound more distraught.

  “I’ve had th
e worst day of my life. . . .”

  “Jules, what the hell’s the matter?”

  Between groaning, he told me that Dustin had thrown him out.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He kept me waiting two whole days. By the time the little fuck gave me an audience, I was drunk. . . .”

  “Sober up. I’ll straighten it out.”

  Ashby and I flew to New York.

  “Give Feiffer a second chance,” I asked Dustin. “His ideas for Popeye are brilliant.”

  Dustin wouldn’t listen. It was Jules or him.

  Putting my cards on the table, “I’m going with Feiffer.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t want me to do the picture?”

  “Nope, I’m telling you that I’m the producer, I want Feiffer as the writer, he’s spent a year on it.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  The next day, Liv Ullmann had invited me to a private screening—very private, just her and me—of her new Bergman picture. We were walking down Madison when we bumped into Courtney Sale, who would later marry Warner Brothers mogul Steve Ross. She was on her way to Dustin’s town house on Seventy-fourth Street with bagels and lox for breakfast.

  “Join us, Bob, will you?”

  “Not a good idea,” I told her. “Dustin and I had a beef. Let it cool.”

  Liv pushed me, laughing, “You sound like two little boys fighting. Let’s go, Bob.”

  “Don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Even if I want to meet him?”—taking my hand and kissing it—“That’s no way to treat a lady.”

  Good chance to say no, huh? I should have.

  It ended up being one of the most disturbing encounters of my life. For an hour, Dustin and Liv talked about doing things for “the love of art.” It bugged me. I knew all too well that when it came to making the deal, Dustin was more concerned with green than art.

  Whatever I said set it off. The veins in Dustin’s neck turned purple, his whole body started shaking like an epileptic’s. The obscenities he shouted at me were nuclear. No Bergman film had a scene to match this—it was a miracle that Liv and I made it out of there in one piece.

  Now outside, Liv was terribly concerned. “Maybe he’s having a stroke, should I go back up?”

  He and I didn’t speak for a long time. When we did, as in all love affairs, the heat was over. Good-bye, Dustin; hello, Robin.

  “What do you think, Michael?”

  Eisner jumped in. “He’s great on ‘Mork and Mindy.’ Do you think he can carry a film?”

  “Who can? All I know, he is Popeye, not a Jewish Popeye.”

  Within weeks, Robin Williams was Popeye the Sailor Man come to life.

  Set too was my composer, the offbeat Harry Nilsson. Hal Ashby had gone on to another film and I had no director. Feiffer’s comedic script emphasized social corruption. Director after director turned it down, claiming it was too complicated.

  I suggested Bob Altman. Paramount had distributed Nashville, his masterpiece, but people in the corporate suite went white when I mentioned his name.

  “He’s uncontrollable,” they said. “We can’t deal with his irreverence.”

  “Fellas,” I said, “that’s what the story is about—irreverence.”

  Reluctantly, Diller and Eisner okayed Altman.

  Altman, Feiffer, Williams, Nilsson, me—somehow I’d ended up with a surfeit of irreverence. Paramount was so worried, they hedged their bets by selling off half the picture to the Walt Disney Company. The two studios would split the cost of production. Paramount would distribute Popeye in America, Disney in the rest of the world.

  It was the first time that ultraprotective, ultraconservative Disney had ever allowed its name to be shared—and the first time they’d ever let a name like Eisner appear in one of their press releases. Little did they imagine that only a few years later the name “Eisner” was it, at the Big D, no less followed by a Katzenberg.

  I hadn’t just hired Robert Altman, I had hired his whole troupe. Altman’s company, Lion’s Gate, was like a commune. From the grip to the costume designer to the editor, they all had one loyalty—to guru Altman. Again I was the outsider.

  Everything about Popeye was topsy-turvy. Summer was the ideal time to shoot, but it was already the fall of 1979. If we put it off nine months we’d lose Robin Williams to “Mork and Mindy.” Christmas 1980 was the ideal release date for a film with big family appeal. To make that, we would have to start shooting in January. But Popeye’s Sweethaven is a rickety New England seacoast village. New England in January? We would have to build Sweethaven from scratch, and it couldn’t be done in the tropics.

  On paper, the Mediterranean island of Malta met all the criteria: sunny weather from January to May, rocky terrain, and a huge water tank where we could shoot miniatures, which had been built by the government to attract filmmakers.

  I flew to Malta with Altman and the talented production designer, Wolf Kroeger. Greeting us was the head of the local film commission, all his surrogates, and Miss Malta, who must have come in last in the Miss Universe contest. On a scale of one to ten, she was at best a two. Nine months later, leaving Malta, she grew in beauty to a full eleven. Another month in Malta, she would have been Mrs. Evans. That best describes Malta.

  Between October and the New Year, we cast the rest of the film. For Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl, Altman wanted loony, the studio wanted loopy. Loony was Shelley Duvall, the airhead heroine of Altman’s Thieves Like Us and Three Women. Loopy was Gilda Radner, the hot young comedienne of “Saturday Night Live.” I sided with Altman, but to appease Diller and Eisner I flew to New York to see Radner in her one-woman Broadway show. She was terrific, but her Olive Oyl would have been strictly kosher.

  Shelley Duvall’s next film was Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining with Jack Nicholson. I saw it. I lied, telling Diller and Eisner that Duvall would be the big screen’s next Lucille Ball. It was the best white lie I ever told. Till the Sun Never Rises, I’ll look upon Shelley’s Olive Oyl as classic.

  By January the rest of the cast was set and Wolf Kroeger had built most of Sweethaven, a three-quarter-size fishing village that remains the most magical set I’ve ever seen. Knowing there were no customs in Malta, I headed for the rock, packing everything I needed into two steamer trunks—including substances I shouldn’t have needed. Everyone’s luggage arrived but mine. I wouldn’t have worried if my name hadn’t been on the tags.

  Upon arrival, Altman and I had an audience with Malta’s prime minister, Dominic Mintoff. Six months earlier, on “60 Minutes,” this Marxist potentate had told Mike Wallace what a terrible country the United States was and what a terrific fellow his friend Libya’s Colonel Qaddafi was. At his residence we weren’t ushered into the reception room, we were taken down to the sea.

  There we stood, watching the prime minister, who must have been at least sixty at the time. He was at least twenty feet out in the freezing Mediterranean sea tossing a medicine ball back and forth to a young aide standing on dry land.

  It was a feat an Olympic athlete would have a tough time duplicating. Did he know we were watching? You’re damn right! It’s what little guys do to prove their power.

  All I could think of was the last American film shot in Malta, Midnight Express, about an American sent to a Turkish prison for having drugs in his suitcase. If he’d been tortured for marijuana, I would get the chair.

  Once the prime minister put on his robe, I got the courage to ask for a favor.

  “My luggage apparently got lost between Rome and Malta.”

  “I’ll try.”

  His tone said it all: it was the last thing he cared to do.

  “Prime Minister,” I lied, “in my luggage I have a personal letter from Dr. Kissinger to you.”

  “Henry Kissinger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A letter from him to me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why are you carrying it?”

 
; “He happens to be a very close friend of mine.”

  Immediately, he rattled off an S.O.S. for my luggage.

  The next day, Altman and I were back at the residence, lunching with Mintoff, when two military guards came in and whispered something in their boss’s ear.

  “We have found your luggage, Mr. Evans,” said the prime minister. “It was in Ecuador. It is arriving at three o’clock. Shall I have it delivered here?”

  “I would appreciate it if you could have it delivered to the hotel.”

  He nodded. “Please send Mr. Kissinger’s letter to me immediately.”

  “Of course.”

  The luggage was there when I got back from lunch. Two guards stood by, waiting for the letter.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “after I unpack I will deliver the letter to the prime minister in person.”

  The moment I saw the car disappear, I headed to the airport and took the first plane out; luckily, it was going to Paris. I hung at the airport to catch the first jet to New York, where I called Altman.

  “If Mintoff asks for me, tell him I’ve been called back on a family emergency.”

  “What happened?”

  “No letter, that’s what.”

  He laughed. But it was no laughing matter.

  “Henry, I need you.”

  “I thought you were in Malta.”

  “I’m at the Carlyle.”

  “The last time you said that I ended up at The Godfather.”

  “I need you real bad.”

  We met in the lobby of his apartment building, the River House.

  “I can’t do it, Bob. I can’t have my name on a letter to Mintoff. He’s one of Qaddafi’s closest allies.”

  “Henry, you’ve got to.”

  “Can I write it in German?”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Bob, how could you be so naïve?”

  “I’m sorry, Henry. I feel like an idiot, but without this letter they could close the picture down.”

  Rationalizing that omission is not lying, I told Henry half of my dilemma, the good half. Knowing, if he had any inkling of the “bad” half, not only would he not have written the letter, but he never would have spoken to me again.