A year later at the Golden Globes, I went to the men's room, and I found myself peeing next to Bob Urich. I said, “Hello, Bob.”
And he said, “Is it too late to tell you, you were right? I should have just said, ‘What do you want me to do?’ and then just done it.” He was very nice. I liked him very much. But he was so nervous at the time. He had his first really big hit with Vega$. He carried that show. Now, he thinks, what happens if that was just Vega$ and the audience doesn't like me as anything else? I've got no place else to go. He wound up doing four or five different series. They always recycled Bob Urich. He wasn't a great actor, he wasn't a bad actor. But again, when you do things for the wrong reasons…
Dr. Mankiewicz Is In
Frank Wells, who's no longer with us, was the president of Warners at the time of Superman. He apparently said, “We wouldn't have this picture—I mean, Dick Donner did an unbelievable job—but we wouldn't have this picture without Mankiewicz; let's sign him.” That's why Warners signed me. They lied a little bit, saying, “Guess what, Mank, we want you to make your own movies.” In fact, they wanted me to fix everything on the lot. I had a nameplate on my desk that read Dr. Mankiewicz. The big script fixers at the time were, if you wanted a drama, especially grown men sinking to their knees and roaring, Robert Towne. If you wanted silly, sophisticated comedy, Elaine May must have fixed a dozen movies. If you wanted action/adventure with humor, you'd go right to Dr. Mankiewicz. It gets exhausting because there's a lack of satisfaction. Most of the time, you don't get credit, and that's a condition of your employment. That's why they pay you more. So inside the industry they know, but nobody else does. The other thing is, if you rewrite it and it's not a good picture, the original screenwriters would say it was just great until Mankiewicz got on it. So it's very difficult to win. Actors get so besotted by you when you show up on location, because if you change their shoes from green to red, they say, “Isn't he great? I got red shoes now. I used to have green shoes.” Almost like any change is better. Other than that, the producers give you a beautiful hotel suite, you fly first class, and the actors are always calling you saying, “You know the scene where the girl gets in bed with me? That could be a little bit better now.”
Steven Spielberg, who had the bungalow next to me, was doing a picture called Gremlins, directed by Joe Dante. It was Dante's first movie of any consequence. Steven gave me the script, and I gave him some ideas. He said, “Can you give them to me, because Joe Dante is very sensitive and I'll tell him the ideas like they were my ideas, and then he'll take them from me.”
I said, “Okay, that's fine.”
Then, Dick Donner and Spielberg were shooting a picture called The Goonies and they needed four scenes, so off I went to work on The Goonies. Warners, who kept saying to me, “Oh, God, we can't wait for you to start making your own pictures,” were happy as clams I was fixing all this stuff.
I wrote a script called Rainbow about a conman in the 1920s, and that was going to be a picture that I was hoping to direct. Bob Shapiro, who was head of production at Warners, said, “I've got good news and bad news.”
I said, “Give me the good news.”
He said, “Clint Eastwood loves Rainbow.”
“What's the bad news?”
“Clint Eastwood loves Rainbow.”
I had lots of meetings with Clint, and he was going to do that as his next picture. Unfortunately for Warners, Clint's Bronco Billy was not a big hit. It was a soft part for Clint. Then he did a wonderful little picture about the Depression, Honkytonk Man, with his son, but it didn't do very well either. Warners convinced him, it's time for Dirty Harry to come back. So my script kept getting postponed, but he would never give it up. When somebody wanted to direct it and take it away from him, he said, “No. If anybody ever directs this, it will be Mankiewicz or me.” He wouldn't let anybody have it, and he wouldn't make it. Actually, I think Clint would have been a little miscast, because it should have been Jack Nicholson or Warren Beatty, somebody with a lot of teeth and a shit-eating grin.
In 1983 Blake Edwards was going to do a picture with Clint Eastwood and Burt Reynolds that he had written, City Heat. He was having real disagreements with Clint. Blake was used to getting his own way, but Clint was King of Warners. Terry Semel—again, when the mountain went down to Mohammed—came to my office and said, “Here's the script. Blake's directing it, but he and Clint are not getting along. Clint likes you and he likes you as a writer. If you could just do some writing for us.”
I said, “Yeah, but Terry, it's a Blake Edwards script; he's directing it too.”
He said, “Wait for Clint to call you.”
So Clint called me and said, “You know the kind of stuff I do well, and I'm really thrilled that you're going to be doing this.”
I asked, “Well, Clint, does Blake know about this?”
He said, “He's thrilled.”
I said, “Do you mind if I call Blake, because I know him.”
Clint said, “Well, what would you want to do that for?” Pause. “Do whatever you want.”
I got really scared. So I called Blake because I thought, I'm not going to go on this picture with Blake Edwards, for God's sake, Breakfast at Tiffany's, every goddamn hit in the world—10. Blake said, “Oh, my God. Are they asking you to rewrite it? I thought it was a piece of shit they were going to ask. Boy, they're pulling out all the stops.”
I asked, “What is the situation?”
He said, “Well, Mr. Eastwood and I don't agree. Mr. Eastwood suggested they get another writer to ‘help me.’” Now, Blake was a great screenwriter. He said, “And I suggested maybe we get another actor.” That was impossible at Warners if Clint wanted to do it. Blake said, “If you guys want to get another writer, that's fine with me. If I think whatever he or she is doing is better than mine, I'll shoot it.” And I thought, oh, my God.
I got Terry and said, “Terry, there is a huge, immovable force named Clint Eastwood in the west, and in the east, there is a giant, unforgiving mountain named Blake Edwards. In between is something called a ‘Mank Burger.’ I'm not going to do this; this would be a disaster for me. Disaster.” So he said okay.
I called Clint. “Clint, I'm so sorry I can't do it.”
He said, “All right, send all the stuff back right now.” He hung up.
Annie, my assistant, said, “Oh, my God, we're going to be killed.”
A week later, Blake Edwards was off the picture. Warners paid him off. It turned out Blake was being very crafty too. He didn't mind getting paid off because he had a picture already set up at Columbia. Terry came back and said, “Here's the deal. How about if you rewrite this and you direct it?”
I said, “Terry, let me think about it.” I sat down with Annie, who was the only person I could really talk to, and said, “Listen, people may think I'm fucking nuts, but I think this would be a disaster for me.” Clint had directed four or five films, and Burt Reynolds had also directed a few pictures, including one about dying, The End. I said, “Those guys will have me for fucking lunch. I'll just stand on the set while they shoot. I've got two huge stars who are both directors and I've never directed a feature.” I'd done Hart to Hart. I said, “And I'm supposed to come on the set with them. I think I'd slit my throat. They'll say, ‘Thanks, Mank, for your opinion. Now, here's what we're going to do.’” So I wrote a couple of scenes for free. I redid the opening for them.
Burt Reynolds, as it turns out, was the last to know everything. He apparently waltzed into Terry's office and said, “This is great. Is Mankiewicz still writing?” This is way after I'd already turned down Clint. They clued Burt in last because Clint was Warners and Burt wasn't.
But that could have been my first picture. In a conversation to which I was not a party but I'm sure took place, Clint said, “Listen, Burt and I can take care of ourselves. We'll get a rewrite out of Mankiewicz and the picture will be a lot better because he'll be writing for himself as director. And don't worry about Mankiewicz on the set; we'l
l take care of everything.” I know that conversation took place somewhere. I wrote a few scenes as my penance for not doing it. By the way, I saw Clint half a dozen times after that, and he was just wonderful to me. He's a total pro.
Ladyhawke: Million-Dollar Rewrite
Dick Donner had tried to start a picture called Ladyhawke twice; once in England and once in Czechoslovakia. He was always prepping and somebody was rewriting, but it never got exactly right. It was going to be a Fox/Warners picture. Alan Ladd, who was running Fox, said to Donner, “Look, Dick, I love you to pieces”—they were very good friends, and Dick had done The Omen for Laddie—“but you get one more writer. I don't care if he costs one dollar or one million dollars. You get one more writer, and if the script isn't right, we're not going to do it.” The producer who owned the piece was Lauren Schuler, who was a real hotshot. She had another project called Mr. Mom. Aaron Spelling wound up being listed as the producer. So I was on the picture now, furiously rewriting. I also got a separate credit again as creative consultant.
Ladyhawke is about a couple that's doomed; he is a knight by day with a hawk on his wrist, and at night, the hawk turns into this beautiful woman and he turns into a wolf. And they are destined never to meet until there is neither night nor day. At the end of the picture, there's an eclipse and they do meet. The casting was really difficult. Kurt Russell was originally going to play Navarre, the knight, and Kurt was a pretty big deal at the time. We were trying to find a girl for Isabeau, and Michelle Pfeiffer had just done Scarface with Al Pacino in which she didn't have much to do. Michelle had been Miss Orange County, and she didn't have any acting background. Dick tested a lot of people, and Michelle said she would do her own test. Because the hawk is on Navarre's wrist for most of the picture, she sent a test of herself, and it was a canary inside a cage. Every time the canary opened its mouth, Michelle said, “Oh, I'd just love to be in this picture.” When we watched the video, Dick started pounding the table and laughing so hard, he said, “She's got it.”
We had Kurt Russell and Michelle Pfeiffer. We needed a little pickpocket who was the spine of the piece, Phillipe. Dick said, “The guy I want is Sean Penn. I'm leaving for Italy tomorrow. Sean Penn's shooting up in northern California, and if he's interested, go up and meet with him. If he's fine with you, he's fine with me and let's just do it.”
Sean Penn was at the beginning of his career; he'd done a couple of movies. I called his agent and said, “Listen, Dick Donner's sending the script of Ladyhawke with Kurt Russell and Michelle Pfeiffer, and this is actually a bigger part than they've got. It's the lead.”
And he said, “Oh, this is going to be difficult. Sean is shooting in northern California and he doesn't have a phone because his character wouldn't have a phone and he's in character.”
I asked, “Well, how do you communicate with him?”
The agent said, “Well, he goes to a payphone every Friday night and calls me.”
I said, “When he calls you on Friday night from the payphone, would his character be interested in doing a medieval fantasy?”
He said, “I don't know, because he's playing a traitor.”
I said, “I'm terribly sorry. I was under the impression he was an actor.” That night, I called Donner. “You don't want this.”
Next stop: Dustin Hoffman for the pickpocket. Dick had called a lot of people who'd worked with Dustin Hoffman, including Sydney Pollack, who did Tootsie. Pollack said, “Never again. I'll never work with him again.” John Schlesinger did Marathon Man with him and said, “Never again.” So Dustin met with Dick and said, “I loved the script. If I have little things to do, will Mankiewicz do them or could I get Elaine May?”
And Dick said, “No, Mankiewicz will do them.”
Dustin said, “And the other thing is, I don't want to shoot in Italy because they're kidnapping people there.”
Dick said, “Well, I'm sure nobody's going to kidnap you, Dustin. We'll give you a bodyguard.”
Dustin said, “And I'd like to play it with a French accent.”
And Dick said, “No, you can't, Dustin, because it's an international cast, and if you have a French accent, everybody's got to have a French accent otherwise you're a transplant.”
Dustin said, “I know I sound picky, but you know my relationship with directors, it's like a marriage. We fight and so on, but in the end, we love each other.”
Dick said, “That's not true, Dustin. I've talked to four directors and they hate you.”
So that was the end of Dustin. Dick said, “If I go with this son of a bitch up in the Alps in Italy and he's scared of being kidnapped and he wants to do a French accent and Elaine May shows up in the lounge, forget that.” We settled on Matthew Broderick, who was just brilliant in the film. Matthew's father, James Broderick, a wonderful actor, had just died. Matthew was in Ireland, and he leaped at the chance to do it. Dick got Vittorio Storaro to photograph it, probably the best cinematographer—he's right up there, there's two or three, he's one of them—ever in the history of film. This thing looked like it was really going to go. Dick had started this picture twice and had it aborted twice.
The rewrite was going very well, but my script was 140 pages, which was too long. Alan Ladd Jr. said, “Tell Mankiewicz he's got to take at least ten pages out of this—fifteen. I don't know how he does it, but that's his job.” So I had the script retyped, cutting out the double spacing. It came in at 128 pages, so I'd dropped 12 pages. And Laddie said, “Oh, this is much better. This is really great. It's moving now.” Some asshole at Fox sent out a memo saying, “This is exactly the same script. Mankiewicz just cut 12 pages.” If I ever found that guy, I would have killed him. He was from the story department.
We're in rehearsals now. There's something wrong with Kurt Russell. We're going to be shooting in three weeks, and there's something really irritating him. One day he said, “I don't want to have that helmet. I don't like a helmet. I don't look good in a helmet.”
Dick said, “You've got to have a helmet.”
And Kurt said, “Kirk Douglas wouldn't have a helmet.”
Dick said, “Kirk Douglas had a helmet in Paths of Glory; it looked great.”
The real thing that was eating Kurt was he had just fallen in love with Goldie Hawn. She was in L.A., and he was about to spend eight months in Italy. He thought he would lose her forever. She couldn't fly over because she had pictures to do. Kurt told me one night, “Besides, I don't know if I'd go back in time anyway.”
I said, “If you want my honest opinion, Kurt, you don't go back in time earlier than 1969.”
He said, “Charlton Heston looks like that, other people look like that, but I'm a very modern face.”
I called Dick. “We're in real trouble here because I don't think Kurt wants to do the movie. He wants to marry Goldie.”
Dick said, “Oh, my God, this picture can't stop again. It can't stop again.”
We ran into Cinecittà the next morning and said to Kurt, “Don't tell anybody for two days what's going on.” Dick was looking through pictures of all the actors he thought of for the role, and one of them was Rutger Hauer, the great Dutch actor. He played the lead in a movie that won the Los Angeles Film Critics Association Award for Best Foreign Film called Soldier of Orange. He had been in the Ridley Scott futuristic movie Blade Runner. This is how things happen in movies at some point, like Claudette Colbert breaking her leg and Bette Davis playing All About Eve. We looked on the back of Rutger Hauer's glossy, and it had his apartment building in Amsterdam and his phone number. Now, what are the odds that Rutger Hauer's at home in Amsterdam? We dialed the number.
“Hello?” he said. He's at home.
Dick said, “Rutger, it's Dick Donner. How are you?”
“Oh, how are you?”
Dick said, “How'd you like to play Navarre? You always wanted to play—”
“I'd love to.”
Dick asked, “Are you free?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you ride
horseback?”
Rutger said, “I was on the Dutch Equestrian Team.”
Dick said, “Holy Jesus.”
Rutger said, “I fight with a broadsword.”
Dick said, “Oh, my God. Get your ass down here. We'll make a deal. I'll call your agent.”
Rutger said, “I have a motor home. I live in a motor home.”
Dick said, “Get it rolling. Come to Rome.” Dick called Mike Ovitz (chairman of CAA) and said, “You've got to get on Fox and Warners and tell them that Rutger Hauer is a great idea. I can't have this picture canceled.” Suddenly, Rutger Hauer's this great idea.
Kurt Russell flies off, and now we wait for Rutger. Three days later, he hasn't shown up. We can't find him. It shouldn't have taken him four days to drive from Amsterdam to Rome. There were no cell phones then. Rutger took his big motor home, and the quickest way was through Switzerland, but at that time, Switzerland didn't let motor homes into the country, they were too big for the roads. So he had to go all the way around Switzerland. We receive word that Rutger Hauer's in Florence and he's on his way. He's going to be here tomorrow morning. So Dick did the most wonderful thing. There was a terrific restaurant near Cinecittà. (Cinecittà being the Pinewood Studios of Italy, it's the studio. My father shot The Barefoot Contessa at Cinecittà in 1953. I worked there during vacations on Cleopatra.) Dick said, “We're going to take Rutger to lunch.”
We had two trained hawks for the movie. So Rutger arrived. Dick, Lauren, Rutger, and I had lunch. Dick handed Rutger the stiff leather piece you wear around your wrist when handling a hawk. Dick said, “This is the piece you'll be wearing, Rutger. Put it on. Now, lift your hand.” Rutger lifted his hand, and the trainee let the hawk go from across the street, and he went screaming into this restaurant and landed right on Rutger's wrist. It was unbelievable. We all jumped. Rutger was cool as ice. It was a wonderful introduction.
And son of a bitch, Rutger was a great rider. There are battle scenes in Ladyhawke where Rutger's rearing on the horse, and it's fabulous that he could ride. He was also European, and it turned out to be much better casting. The Friesian was a circus horse. They're the second biggest horse there is after Clydesdale. In the picture, the hawk is wounded with an arrow. Rutger says to little Matthew, the pickpocket, who has attached himself to Rutger, “Get on the horse. Take the hawk to Imperious,” a monk. “He will know what to do.” So he puts Matthew on the horse. Matthew, of course, said, “I can't ride.” Rutger slaps the horse on the rear, and the horse takes off with Matthew and just disappears into a valley. We've got Jeeps chasing Matthew on this horse. Found him like half a mile away. That was Matthew's excellent adventure.
My Life as a Mankiewicz Page 35
