by Robert Evans
Legit producers are few, a dying breed. There are many “cocktail party” producers. (By a recent census, they outnumber the police.) Dilettante, agent, photographer, lawyer, hustler, deal maker, playboy, financier, starlet’s husband—all fraudulently carry the moniker “producer.” None of these guys have the vaguest notion of budget, casting, pre-production, production, post-production, final edit, final theater selection, advertising, marketing, and collecting the “dough-re-mi.” Those are just a few of the many facets a legit producer is responsible for.
Speaking to the ladies: If you’re ever approached with the line “You ought to be in pictures, I’m a producer,” tell the guy to fuck off. He’s a fraud, and the pictures he wants to put you in don’t play in theaters. “You ought to be in pictures” just ain’t the M.O. of a legit producer. Quote me if you want.
An actor gives twelve weeks to a flick; a director, at most a year; a producer, rarely less than three to five. If the flick’s a hit, the dance card of both director and actor is filled for years. Not so for the producer. “What can you do for me today?” is his life. Damnit! Rodney Dangerfield’s right again: I don’t get no respect.
Each film has its own life, though all share a connective tissue. Success has many fathers, while failure is quickly orphaned.
The guilds, both directors and writers, both have a single purpose: to protect their membership and to offer it a podium. They are counterproductive at times and care little who pays the tab. On the other hand, the Producers Guild has no purpose. Reminiscent of the eight Arab nations—never united.
The arrogance of possessive credit, a Directors Guild dictate, is repugnant in its posture. Politically, bleeding liberals all, yet shamefully autocratic when it comes to sharing a collaborative effort.
“Sam Schwartz,” a fledgling director, gets his big break in the big time—the big screen. Ray Stark, a prolific, professional producer, takes the gamble. Throughout production, his vast experience umbrellas the new kid on the block’s inexperience. Yet, by Guild dictate, it’s “A Sam Schwartz Film.” . . . Ray Stark who?
Success or failure, each film carries its own drama, villains, heroes, contributors. More often than not, the intrigue behind the camera is far more textured than what’s on the screen.
The Godfather is a telling example. Principal photography had been completed. There was one problem, we didn’t have an ending: it was never written, shot, or structured. Mayhem plenty—many of the principal characters were knifed, shot, or strangled, but that ain’t an ending. Peter Zinner, one of the film’s two editors, took the task upon himself. He choreographed mayhem with religion, intercut murder with the baptism of Michael Corleone’s newborn child. He saved the day—he saved our ass!
Now, decades later, it’s still up there with the most memorable climaxes in cinema. Not godfathered by its director or producer, but by a faceless wonder. Coppola went on to become the decade’s maestro, Evans its boy genius . . . but Peter Zinner—who? Oh! He silently disappeared, looking for a new gig—saving another producer’s or director’s ass.
Is it the director’s picture? Damn right! But it’s also the actors’, writer’s, editor’s, cinematographer’s, composer’s, and producer’s. Filmmaking is a collaborative effort.
Is it not worthy of investigation by the legitimate critic to uncover the contributions before writing their critique in granite? It’s called doing your homework.
The Directors and Writers Guilds annually throw a bash honoring their own, singling out one as the best. But not the Producers Guild. What’s wrong with us? We’ve got tuxedos, we wanna show off and be named “best,” win The Willy Loman Award.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“It’s not Godfather, Evans,” angrily thrusting his finger at me. “I’ve had it! You do it or I do it. Evans stays, Coppola goes.”
Intrigue, anger, blackmail, deceit, pussy galore, macho grandstanding, back stabbing, and threats to life and career plagued the five-year making (and near unmaking) of The Cotton Club. The treacheries involved were so bizarre that The Godfather and Scarface combined pale by comparison. I can only tell some of the story—not wanting my life insurance canceled.
On December 12, 1980, the making of The Cotton Club was announced. From New York (The New York Times: “ ‘POPEYE’ PRODUCER EVANS’ NEXT TRY IS MAKING ‘THE COTTON CLUB’ ”) to Hong Kong (the Free Standard: “BLOCKBUSTER MOVIEMAKER ROBERT EVANS TO DO A FILM ABOUT A HUNK OF HISTORY—‘THE COTTON CLUB.’ ”), it made entertainment headlines around the world.
Jim Haskin’s pictorial history of the Cotton Club was the embryo. Its carrier was George Wieser, the guy who brought me The Detective and The Godfather. The club’s canvas was Harlem at its nasty best—the 1920s and 1930s. Its distinction, breaking barriers for great black talent to be seen and heard. Its hypocrisy, that, although located in the middle of Harlem, it carried the edict, “No colored allowed—whites only.” Its celebrity . . . in order to gain entrance, you had to be one. “Goin’ uptown” was in. Awe them “coffee and creamers,” hear them voices—Duke Ellington, “Cab” Calloway, Lena Horne—watch them dancin’ toes of Bill “Bojangles” Robinson.
The long-legged showgirls known as coffee and creamers made thirty-five bucks a week, but were all decked out. Mink coats, luxurious apartments, limousines—they had it and more.
Located between midtown Manhattan and the Bronx, Harlem was open territory. Open to anything and everything, from the numbers racket to bootlegging. You name it, it was open. Every crooked nose from Lucky Luciano to Dutch Schultz wanted in.
A fuckin’ natural! Violence, sex, music, I’m holdin’ The Godfather with music. Look out, eighties—here I come!
We completed the poster before the first word was written. Against a background of mayhem and dancing, it read: “The Cotton Club: its violence startled the nation, its music startled the world.”
As I presented the poster to more than a hundred international buyers at the 1982 Cannes Film Festival, I showboated, “If you don’t like the poster, don’t buy the film.”
“Who’s in the film?” asked a man in the back.
“Who was in The Godfather?”
Two hours later and $8 million richer, the Cotton Club poster—with no story, no script, no cast—raised more in foreign pre-sales than any finished flick at the festival. I said to myself, “Raise another twelve mil and I’ll be completely independent, own it, be the Selznick of the eighties.” I was going to be an owner for the first time, as well as a director. The first frame of the film was already embedded in my thoughts: “To you, Pop, wherever you are . . . Bobby.” If not for Pop, I’d never have tasted Harlem in the 1930s.
If it was going to be The Godfather with music, who better to write it than my pal Puzo? No cheap buy Mario: now a million-dollar ticket.
Like a scene out of a cheap flick, Melissa Prophet, an actress who appeared in my film Players, was on the horn. Her then mentor was Adnan Khashoggi, labeled the richest man in the world. Las Vegas was his temporary habitat. Investing in films, his temporary whim.
Purred Melissa, “AK and Robert Evans, what better combination?”
Familiar with Arab mentality, I purred back. “Not interested, leaving for New York, closing a deal with Ricklis.”
Menachem Ricklis was also a millionaire many times over. A Jew no less, but so what, I didn’t even know him.
Within the hour an anxious Melissa was back on the horn. “AK would like you to stop in Vegas before meeting Ricklis.”
It worked.
“Call you back.”
“Call me back?” Melissa said. “Are you crazy! He’s the biggest spender in the world, and you’re calling me back?”
“Okay, okay. Have his plane pick me up, wait for me in Vegas, fly me to New York.”
“You are crazy.”
“No, I’m Evans.”
“No, you’re a fuckin’ prima donna.”
Four hours later, I arrived in Vegas on Khashoggi’s private jet. Another of his fl
eet, a custom-built Boeing 727, was waiting to fly me east. There I met the infamous Khashoggi, toga and all. He was not a bedouin, but rather the charmer of charmers. “A double seduction,” Melissa coined it later.
“Like to gamble?” He smiled.
“Like to breathe?” Smiling back.
A hundred feet down the corridor from his suite, a door opened into a private casino. There were blackjack, roulette, baccarat, and crap tables, with croupiers behind each; it was all dreamlike. With entourage and Melissa surrounding him, AK cutely dimpled, “Your choice.”
Korshak’s heavy stick, twenty years earlier prompted:
“Let’s pick up the dice.”
Suddenly a stack of fifty $1,000 chips was before me. Gamblin’ hundreds was more my style, but it was his turf, his game. Not showing weakness, I casually cylindered the fifty into five stacks of ten. The chips? No gift—a trap. He knew it. He knew I knew it too. He wanted me owing.
Twenty minutes later and forty-eight chips blown, another fifty chips were stacked before me. Khashoggi picked up the dice, put a hundred thousand on the line, and threw a nine. Then, pressing the odds, he backed the line with another hundred, covering every number from four to ten—10 Gs on each. Shaking the ivories, he let ’em roll; up turned a four and a three. It’s called crapping out! Within the blink of an eye, a quarter of a million was wiped from the green felt.
Stepping on an ant couldn’t have bothered him less.
No wonder they give him his own casino!
Not me, now deep into my second stack, I was plenty bothered. Picking up the old ivories, I prayed to God—my God, not Allah. He heard me. For more than twenty minutes, “them ivories” went my way to the tune of a hundred and fifty big ones.
“Let’s have dinner.”
“You’re quitting?”
“No, I’m hungry.”
Khashoggi, pinching me on the cheek as if I were a Miss Universe, said, “Pay Puzo the million. You’re a winner. There aren’t many. We’ll make good partners.”
My million-dollar crap shoot!
For months, Puzo and I collaborated on Cotton Club’s written canvas. It was 1982, my fuckin’ luck! Interest rates broke an all-time high—22 ½ percent. Financing anything was near impossible. Funding a virgin director’s flick, lunacy. AK’s brother, Essam, certainly thought that. He strongly objected to his brother’s caprice. With Arabic purpose, systematically he cut my deal south. When the contracts were finally drawn, $12 million was set to be turned over to Cotton Club’s production till. Adding the eight I had already raised from foreign sales, I was home free. My ass was covered and for the first time I’d be able to do my venture my way. No cast approvals, no script changes, no interference—total control.
The closing was set. At breakfast at Essam’s home in Beverly Hills, the brothers Khashoggi sat, surrounded by their financial advisers and lawyers. Sitting there as well was my consigliere, Ken Ziffrin, who had represented me for more than a decade. No one negotiates with slicker innuendo than Khashoggi. While lamb and eggs were being served, Essam threw another condition into the hopper. He wanted my house to be put in as collateral against overages.
Was I hot? No, on fire. I turned to his dimpled brother. “It’s over, AK. I’m outta here.”
He looked up smiling. “What’s the matter, Bobby?”
“It started out you and me. Now it’s Essam, you, and me. I don’t like your brother. And I don’t like being Arabed down.”
“Bobby, we’re just negotiating.”
“Yeah, sure! Before it’s over, I’ll be owing you. My house, my kid, you’ll have it all. You guys are too smart for this country bumpkin.”
“Sit down, Bobby. We can work it out,” smiled Khashoggi.
“Uh-uh, AK, let’s stay friends, huh? Share laughs, ladies, hangouts—you name it, we’ll share it. But this way I keep my kid.” A nod to ashen-faced Ziffrin. “We’re outta here, Ken.”
Walking us to the front door, AK pinched my cheek.
“I’m always here, Bobby. The door is never closed”—kissing me on the cheek—“you’ll come back. They all do.”
“Thanks, Santa.”
Once the door closed behind us, Ziffrin’s face shook with anger.
“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind? Interest rates at 22½ percent and you’re turning down twelve mil?”
“Hold it, pal. If you don’t treat me with the same respect I treat myself, take your shingle and shove it!”
“Don’t get it, do you? You’re certifiable. I’m firing you!”
He was right—I was certifiable. Walking out on 12 big ones when you’re directing your first flick!
Luckily, Melissa Prophet’s resilience brought three other backers to my doorstep. Ed and Fred Doumani and Victor Sayyah from Vegas promptly paid back Khashoggi the money he advanced to Puzo. Khashoggi demanded 25 percent interest on his two-month investment. An Arab is an Arab is an Arab is an Arab.
Months later, in December 1983, when The Cotton Club was in the midst of principal photography, I was interviewed by the Los Angeles Times:
Evans said, “All the money for Cotton Club is coming from Ed and Fred Doumani (and partner Sayyah). Every dollar. They stood up for this film when other guys wouldn’t. They did it without a contract, just on the shake of a hand. My own family wouldn’t do that.”
Now that The Cotton Club was fully OPM (Other People’s Money) financed, industry heat was hot to distribute the suddenly celebrated flick. It mattered little that I was a virgin director, insisting on final cut (final everything!), plus big gross percentages. The magnet of OPM had more allure than an all-star cast. Paramount was first to knock.
Bluhdorn, Diller, Eisner, and Mancuso all wanted in, so they threw a big bonus into the pot—Richard Gere. Hot off An Officer and a Gentleman, he was the male flavor of the year. Gere’s deal was signed before Paramount’s deal closed. At last! The eighties were starting to look good. Richard Pryor was set to co-star, but the dollars didn’t work. Hello, Gregory Hines.
My luggage was packed and I was airport bound to close the Cotton Club deal with Paramount’s Frank Mancuso in New York when the phone rang. It was Stan Kamen, head of William Morris, a close, personal pal for decades. Never an agent, always a friend.
“Just got off the horn with Bill Bernstein at Orion. They want Cotton Club more than air.”
“I’m off to New York to close with Paramount.”
Stan whispered, “This call is between you and me, promise? Paramount, I can’t afford to lose. Orion, I don’t give a shit about. But fuck ’em, Bob. Fuck ’em all—you’re fully financed! To Paramount it gives you a slight edge. Orion—that’s different. You’re Christ revisited—you name it, you’ll get it.”
With no cash in the bank, I’d be sophomoric not to at least listen. For others I’d made hundreds of millions. For myself, nothing. Anyway, I owed it to the guys putting up the bread; it’s their money on the line. The deal that gets their money back first is the deal to make. Canceling my flight, I met with Bill Bernstein, Orion’s chief business honcho.
Unlike Paramount, Orion’s mainstay was distribution. Helping to finance their flow of product, their M.O. was pre-selling foreign theatrical rights and domestic ancillaries. HBO alone was then coming up with 30 percent of the budget on each Orion film, guaranteeing the cable network a steady flow of feature flicks.
Paramount’s M.O. was diametric. The studio was a full-blown production/distribution empire, with big pockets and mucho cash to spend. Their business was producing and financing films, not pre-selling territories, not pre-selling anything. Paramount didn’t pay on delivery, rather from day one. Their distribution organization was proud, powerful, arrogant, and rightfully so—they collected close to fifty cents on the retail dollar (Orion was lucky to collect thirty). Orion passively waited for product to be finished before viewing it. Conversely, Paramount assiduously critiqued each day’s dailies. Paramount didn’t need your money. Orion desperately did. A big-budget blockbuster, f
ully OPM financed, would be a coup of coups for Orion.
In that spirit, Bernstein ingeniously structured a deal that covered Orion distribution’s ass, and covered mine with “fuck you” money for the rest of my life. Equally important, I had total creative freedom.
Within two hours a deal was structured, an offer I couldn’t refuse. Looking through Orion’s deal memo, Stan Kamen shook his head in awe.
“It’s the richest deal I’ve ever seen. Congratulations!”
Paramount, my home studio, which was still renting a car for me, had the right to counter. Their chief business honcho, Richard Zimbert, didn’t believe Orion’s offer; he must have thought I was stoned.
“If you’re trying to hustle a richer deal, it won’t work.” Testing my veracity, “Send the deal over. If your numbers check out, the car we rent for you is yours to keep. If they don’t, you pick up the rental. Deal?”
“Deal!”
My rented Jag became mine to keep. The most expensive bet I ever won.
Gere and I hit it off great. He moved into my guest cottage, stayed for five months. When Los Angeles hosted buyers from Hong Kong to Barcelona during American Film Week, each night in my projection room, Gere and I did a horse-and-pony show. A buyer is a buyer is a buyer is a buyer. Together, we let the Diamond Jim buyers know what they were getting: Gable and Tracy, a buddy flick, great music, plenty of shoot-’em-up, great dancing, plenty of man and woman stuff. You name it. They were gettin’ it. Our act down so pat, we could’ve taken it on the road . . . yeah, but still no script.
With $20 million in the till, I tried the impossible—getting concessions in order to shoot in New York. The New York unions were suffering 40 percent unemployment. The impossible worked. The front page of Variety on Wednesday, February 23, 1983, announced the news:
