Which Lie Did I Tell?

by William Goldman

  I was O for two.

  The Ski Bum began as an article in Esquire by Jean Vallely. Briefly, it concerned a ski instructor in Aspen who led a very glamorous life. Wealthy and famous clients, the kind of romantic existence most of us only moon about.

  That’s by day.

  By night he was aging, broke, scraping along in a trailer with a wife and little kid.

  I thought it would make a terrific movie.

  The producer had bought the underlying rights. I signed on, went to Aspen, noodled around, did my research, went to work on the screenplay. Got it to the producer and the studio, Universal.

  The producer loved it.

  Alas, Universal’s studio head hated it. When the producer left for another studio, he asked to buy it back, take it with him. Universal said, no conceivable way. We hate this piece of shit and we are going to keep it forever, thank you very much.

  I always thought that was strange. If you hate something so much and you’re offered a fair price to unload it, why keep it around? I did know, of course, the most usual reason—fear of humiliation. What if a studio gives up a piece of material that turns into Home Alone (happened) or E.T. (happened)?

  But this was all company stuff, taking place far far above my head.

  Dissolve, as they say (they really do), Out There.

  It’s a couple of years later and another executive has come to power at Universal. The guy who hated it so much is still above him, but this secondary power likes the screenplay and wants to see the movie made. We met and his first words to me were these: “You don’t have the least idea what happened, do you?”

  I didn’t then.

  I do now.

  The producer had been, at the time, relatively new in the picture business. But he was a gigantic figure in the music business: Name a superstar singer, he handled him.

  Well, Universal owned an amphitheater and needed talent to fill it. So the very great Lew Wasserman made a deal personally with the producer to handle the amphitheater and also have a movie-producing deal. Anything he wanted to make was an automatic “go.”

  With one teensy proviso: it had to cost less than an agreed-upon amount. Anything that cost more, Ned Tanen, the head of Universal Pictures, would have to agree to.

  The Ski Bum, which needed stars and snow and all kinds of other expensive stuff, obviously needed Tanen’s okay.

  This presented kind of a problem for the picture because, decades ago, Tanen and my guy had been together in the mailroom at William Morris, where so many great careers were launched.

  And they had hated each other with a growing passion since then.

  Not only that, Tanen was pissed that the producer had gotten a movie deal at his company by going over his head to Wasserman.

  So there it was.

  Tanen, of course, rejected it. And, of course, rejected any attempt to buy the screenplay back.

  The new executive and I tried an end run. Tanen never budged.

  O for three.

  The Right Stuff came next. A ghastly and depressing saga (recounted in magnificent detail in Adventures in the Screen Trade, so I won’t repeat it here). I left the project angry and frustrated. These were bad times in America—the hostages had just been taken in Iran—so I had wanted to write a movie that might have a patriotic feel. The director wanted something else.

  O for four.

  On Wings of Eagles was not called that when I got involved. The famous Ken Follett book and the miniseries were still in the future.

  But Ross Perot, who controlled the material, was interested in making a movie about the wonderful time when he masterminded breaking his employees out of an Iranian prison. I still had my patriotic need. I signed on.

  The problem with this material was always very simple: it was an expensive action film but the star, the main guy, Perot’s hero, “Bull” Simons, was not a young man. And Perot would never have betrayed the basic reality by allowing a younger man to do it.

  There was only Eastwood. Had to be Eastwood. No one else but Eastwood. Dead in the water without Eastwood.

  He took another military adventure movie, Firefox.

  I was the one dead in the water now.

  Until late in 1986, when the telephone rang …

  Memoirs of an Invisible Man

  [1986]

  * * *

  On the other end of the phone, a quiet voice said, “Bill? My name is Michael Ovitz. I’m in town, and if you have a minute I’d like to come talk to you.”

  One of the problems with trying to bring old material to some kind of life is this: nobody cares about the past. Because of the explosion of media, everything has become now. But it’s important when you read about Hollywood to know who people were when.

  There are three people involved in this little story, and none of them now are remotely what they were a dozen years past. Alphabetically, Chevy Chase, Michael Ovitz (along with his agency, CAA), and Ivan Reitman.

  The Michael Ovitz that came so promptly to see me a few hours after that phone call is nothing like the man today. Today he is rich, very famous, and, I suspect, more than a little haunted. Or maybe he always was.

  In this mid-’80s time, he was underground famous. There were few newspaper quotes, fewer articles anywhere, almost no interviews. He was, and had been for several years, one of the founders of Creative Artists Agency, an organization that was as hated then as now, but back then was so low-key as to be almost mysterious. More than that, this—the industry was terrified of them.

  Ovitz was the reason for the fear.

  I remember two things about his call as being strange: (1) that he made it himself, and (2) that he was willing to come to me. In Hollywood, you travel to the power.

  He was certainly not frightening in person. Trim, soft-spoken, conservatively dressed, a gentleman, he arrived impeccably on time and we went into the library. He spoke. Briefly. He said there was no point in not dealing with the facts, and the facts were essentially that my career was in the toilet and that was a shame. He said the feeling Out There was that I was no longer interested in dealing with the major studios. He said he thought CAA might be able to help me. He explained they work in groups, so that I would always have someone looking after me. (Not true, by the way; or maybe it is for stars.) He said the decision was mine. He hoped I would think about it.

  And then he was gone.

  There was really no doubt in my mind that I would go to CAA. This was only complicated by the fact that I resist change—I have had more agents leave me over the decades than the reverse.

  Feeling guilty and failed (my longtime law firm), I still managed to switch to CAA within a month, and a month after that I was offered Memoirs of an Invisible Man, a novel by H. F. Saint, to adapt. It was a special-effects comedy-thriller, the kind of thing I had never done, might never have done if my hot streak had continued. But that winch was dead.

  Besides, I thought I could make the novel work. More than that, there was talent connected with the project. Chevy Chase was set to star, Ivan Reitman to direct.

  Chevy Chase is in his mid-fifties now, and his career as a major movie star is over. But when we met, he had the National Lampoon series going for him, he had the Fletch series going for him, he was the num-ber 5 box-office star in the whole wide world. These were the four above him:

  4. Michael J. Fox

  3. Clint Eastwood

  2. Eddie Murphy

  1. Sylvester Stallone

  (See what I mean about when?)

  Chase, a lovely fellow, was also this: tall.

  Now is as good a time as any to admit my fetish: I am hopelessly smitten with finding out the truth about how tall performers are. Especially male performers. Most especially male action performers.

  I think part of it must be my fascination with the phoniness of Hollywood. I saw Gwyneth Paltrow being interviewed—she was a few weeks away from winning her first Oscar for Shakespeare in Love—and she said essentially that her chief thought of the comin
g ceremony was to be sure to remember to wear comfortable shoes, that she had given no thought to winning and of course didn’t care. Well, there aren’t enough lightning bolts in heaven to cover all the falsehoods in that little discourse, but the interviewer just hung on every humble word out of little Gwyn’s head.

  Most movie stars are short. (I’m six-one, and the only major stars who are taller that I have met are Eastwood and Connery.)

  Stars’ stumpiness is the beginning of my obsession. But when you throw action stars into the blend, guys who slay legions, well, it’s just too yummy for me to resist.

  Okay. True story. I am at the Hotel du Cap with friends during a recent Cannes Festival. And one of the friends, who knows my fetish, out of the blue says to me: “I guess we know where you’re going, Bill.” I didn’t understand, glanced around, and lo, my prayers were answered—

  —Sylvester Stallone had entered the swimming pool.

  Panting like a schoolgirl, I left my friends, wandered casually to the pool, went in, stood maybe six feet away from Stallone—never once looking at him, understand. That would be insufferable and rude. I knew where he was and I also knew this: we were leaving together.

  If he stayed an hour? Not a problem. Two? Tricky for me—this was late morning and we had a lunch reservation at the great hotel restaurant, the Eden Roc. But I was determined to get the truth.

  I had a hot lead that Sly was sixty-seven inches. My source was a woman who had been a publicist on a movie he had been in and one early morning she was out jogging and they ran into each other and went back to the hotel, stride for stride, and she is five foot seven.

  Now I would at last know.

  You see, stars have lifts in their boots—why else, pray tell, do you think they wear them all the time? They have lifts in their shoes, their loafers, their slippers. I know one who has lifts in his socks.

  But no one has figured out a way to put lifts in his feet. (Yet.)

  Do not doubt my excitement.

  Since this is not a book about my neuroses—well, maybe it is—but anyway, I will cut to the chase. After maybe ten minutes, he got out, grabbed a towel. I got out, grabbed a towel. He stood. I stood.

  Sixty-seven inches, dripping wet. (There. Now you know everything.)

  I am going to try and save face by connecting that anecdote to a book about screenwriting. Here it is: stars are not not not what you think. They are not remotely what the world believes them to be, either. Most of them are smaller than you think, and all of them are more frightened than you think—and don’t you ever forget that if you are lucky enough to work with them.

  The director of Memoirs of an Invisible Man was Ivan Reitman. Reitman was never famous, which was very much his own choice. But he sure could have been. Here is what one film encyclopedia says: “Although he received less personal publicity than his box office powerhouse contemporaries, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, Reitman had a comparable impact on filmmaking trends of the late ’70s and ’80s. When the demographic of moviegoers shifted to favor teens, these visionary showmen went beyond merely understanding their target audience, they molded them with their own distinctive tastes and obsessions. What Lucas and Spielberg did for fantasy/adventure, Reitman did for comedy.”

  In the late ’70s, Reitman developed and produced Animal House, a shocking success that, as much as any movie of the last twenty years, changed comedy. He then directed and produced Stripes and Meatballs and, for an encore, in 1984, did the same for Ghostbusters, the most successful comedy in film history up to that point. (Since surpassed by Home Alone.)

  So now you know the cast of characters. But I was not involved with the Chevy Chase and Ivan Reitman you picture as you read this now. Think of these two names—Jim Carrey and James Cameron—for those are the equivalents today.

  And between them, trying to come back from the dead and make everybody smile, little Billy Goldman, that well-known pleaser from Highland Park, Illinois …

  In my experience, you work with the director. Stars come later, and though they can be helpful, usually they are concerned not with the story but rather their part in it, and how can they be made even more adorable. Often, my main chore on a first draft is to nail a director.

  Here, Reitman was involved from the initial go-round, so I met him. Reitman had talked with Chase; together they had decided what the movie should be.

  (Pssst … remember that last sentence.)

  I liked Ivan Reitman from the very beginning. A couple of interesting things about him: for a comedy figure, he was never remotely funny. For a superstar director, there was a total absence of bullshit. (Later, when he brought me in to doctor Twins, there was no secrecy. He had the other writers there when I was there. In the same room.)

  When we started, we were both well aware that Memoirs of an Invisible Man was not The Battleship Potemkin. But Reitman was on the project for one very good reason: he felt absolutely confident that he was on the track of another Ghostbusters: a special-effects-filled comedy-action flick. (The plot of the novel—all you ever need to know—is that it’s about a guy who accidentally gets caught in a lab explosion and is rendered invisible. And has ensuing adventures.)

  We talked for a couple of days, then I went off and did the first draft, sent it to Reitman and Chase.

  It was an okay first draft, meaning that lots of work needed to be done but at least a version of the story was there. Reitman felt it was a good start, called me out from New York to talk about draft two. Before that happened, I spent a few minutes with Chevy Chase.

  I liked him, too. He wasn’t just tall, he was nice and bright and funny.

  He, too, was supportive enough about the first draft, knowing it was just that, the beginning of something. He clearly saw the potential in the project. And as I was leaving he casually mentioned that he hoped this time through we would be a little more forthcoming on what most interested him in the material, and which he had talked to Ivan about—namely, an investigation of the loneliness of invisibility.

  Nice phrase, that. Interesting rhythm, unpretentious, but all kinds of swell echoes. Want to know how those words sounded to my ears? Like this:

  AAARRRGHHHH

  Why? Because my director wanted to do a funny farce with special effects and my star wanted to do a serious sad drama.

  I went running to my new agents, CAA. “Listen to me,” I told them, “there’s going to be a train wreck and I’m in the middle.”

  Here’s what they said: “Bill, you’ve been away a while, things are a little bit different now. Ivan is represented by us. Chevy is represented by us. It is what we at CAA specialize in. It is called ‘a package.’ And there will be no train wreck. Just write the script. It will all sort itself out.”

  I met with Ivan. “Chevy is kind of interested in investigating the loneliness of invisibility,” I told him.

  His reply? Total unruffled calm. “Let me handle Chevy.”

  Off we go into the wild blue yonder. Ivan had some ideas for how to make the second draft better than the first. Terrific for me to work with. “Let’s try this, let’s see if that works, it’s going to be a very funny movie.”

  Back to Manhattan, and I tried this, saw if that worked, wrote for weeks and more, because I knew certain absolute truths: Ivan was one of the three hottest directors on Planet Earth, he wanted this to be his next picture, Chevy was a huge star and a bright fellow, so fret not, this would indeed all sort itself out. Good. Because the most important thing, for me anyway, was this: after my years in the desert, this picture had to happen.

  The second draft is sent off. Ivan likes it better, feels we have made strides, still need to make more.

  I hear from Chevy, too—he had thought by this draft the loneliness of invisibility would be a little more clearly set out.

  Back to CAA I go. “Listen to me,” I inform them again. “There’s going to be a train wreck and I’m in the middle.” (In point of fact, there was a little reality here in addition to my paranoia: Iv
an had met with Bruce Bodner, Chevy’s manager, partner, and protector, and pretty soon it was not a love nest.)

  Here is what CAA told me. “Bill, do you know how many packages we have made? Do you realize we have changed the industry with our packaging skill? Just go write the third draft and we promise you this: it will all sort itself out.”

  Round thr—ooops, draft three. Talk with Ivan, hopefully make things better, chat with Chevy about the loneliness of invisibility, back to New York and write and write, and in truth, whenever there was a chance to toss a little loneliness into the flick, I did so.

  And do you want to know why? Because Chevy had a valid point. How could you deal with this material without discussing the awful reality of what it would be like if no one could see you? If you were, I guess, the ultimate freak on Earth?

  But this had to be considered too—Olivier was not playing the lead. Young Brando was not playing the lead. Or Cagney. My truth was this: I had no problem investigating the loneliness of invisibility, I just didn’t want to investigate it with Chevy Chase. Bright as Chase was, he had not gotten famous playing drunks or scientists or death-row convicts, he had become so playing a goof who had trouble with stairs.

  Draft three made its way to both powers. Ivan wanted to go into production. Chevy stood his ground.

  I made my standard run at CAA. “Have I ever mentioned a fucking train wreck to you guys?” I inquired. “Well, run for cover.”

  They smiled and chortled and reassured but I could see in their eyes I was not the loony of a few months before.

  Ivan went to the Brothers Warner. Your pick, he told them, knowing they had to pick him. Me or Chevy?

  They picked Chevy.

  I think I quit first but I really don’t remember; it was probably a dead heat. Half a dozen years later, Chevy came out in the flick. My name is mentioned among the writers. I have no idea if it should have been, since I never saw the movie. I have blocked out so much of that period, but a couple of things I do remember.