by Art Davie
We sent out the invites, made calls and the following week Rorion and I welcomed 68 potential investors to the backroom of the Gracie Academy for our big W.O.W. Promotions presentation. Rorion’s wife Suzanne, and his office manager, Helen, greeted the attendees and got them signed in. They then gave everyone their own copy of the 65-page business plan that I had written. Even though we didn’t have a signed contract, when I told Campbell about this planned meeting, he offered to fly out from New York and attend. I didn’t think twice about taking him up on his offer. Campbell’s presence would demonstrate that this wasn’t just some pipe dream, it was real, and it was going to be broadcast live across the U.S. by Semaphore Entertainment Group on Pay-Per-View TV.
Rorion got up to speak. First he thanked everybody for coming, presented the basic idea of War of the Worlds, introduced Campbell (who very briefly explained SEG’s role and their “$400,000 commitment” to the first event), Kathy, and then me. I talked for an hour, and pitched like I had never pitched before. I caught both Rorion and Campbell looking at me as if to say, “You’re on fire!”
Our goal was to raise $250,000. Rorion and I had agreed that he would own 50 percent of W.O.W. Promotions, I would get 40 percent, and the remaining 10 percent would be divided up by our investors. We decided that a full share would cost $12,500, and an investor could come in for any portion of that sum.
I wasn’t thrilled about our ownership distribution, as the 45-45-10 split that I’d proposed to Rorion seemed fair to me. But he balked, and I just wasn’t in the mood to fight with him. We were too close now, and I was ramping up for the battle with Meyrowitz that was sure to come.
Not everyone who showed up that June night was serious. There were a lot of tire-kickers and kibitzers. But by the end of the evening, 24 individuals and three couples—24 were Rorion’s people (mostly Gracie students) and three were mine—pulled out their checkbooks. The smallest amount purchased was a 1/10 share for $1,250. We’d raised $112,500, under half of our target amount. But at least we had operating capital, and 30 new allies who had joined the cause.
With our fresh money and Kathy on board, I felt that it was finally time to get W.O.W. Promotions into a real office. There was no room for Kathy at my personal office down the hall from my apartment, and it made us look like a joke that the W.O.W. Promotions address was also the address of the Gracie Academy. It would have been an even bigger joke to host meetings there with our new investors, potential sponsors, and any of the SEG guys who might fly in to see us. I didn’t like the prospects of us being taken seriously as businessmen, when people were rolling around on mats, sweating and grunting just a few feet away.
On Monday, July 5, I located a small space at 1616 Gramercy Ave. in Torrance. It was far from spectacular, but it was a lot more impressive than having our headquarters in an apartment building or a martial arts school. Our new office was only a few blocks from my home, and about 100 yards from the back entrance of the Gracie Academy. We were right next to an AFL-CIO union hall, By Brazil, a churrascheria (Brazilian barbecue) that the Gracie family loved, and Lucio’s Mexican restaurant.
Lucio’s was a down and dirty establishment with some of the namesake’s hunting trophies on the wall. Lucio himself doubled as our landlord. With Kathy’s help, the W.O.W. Promotions headquarters was stocked with a computer, printer, fax machine, three telephones and a few pieces of used furniture. There was a good-sized waiting area with space for a receptionist, and two offices. Kathy settled into the smaller office, and the bigger one became mine. I found a huge blue conference table at a second-hand furniture warehouse, which I felt could serve as the focal point of the office, as well as my desk when there were no conferences scheduled.
Rorion had no interest in claiming either office for himself. If he had, I would have stuck Kathy in the waiting area. No doubt she would have settled there with a smile on her face. But I knew that Rorion would never relocate from his own office at the Academy. Rorion may have been the majority owner of W.O.W. Promotions, but the Gracie family business remained his primary focus.
As hands off as Rorion was about almost all things concerning War of the Worlds, he was all over it when I asked him if he could recommend a good candidate to be my secretary. He immediately told me about Sherry Santos.
I’d seen Sherry many times around the Gracie Academy, and even though I didn’t really know her, I had no problem in offering her the job based solely on Rorion’s endorsement. She was the wife of Fabio Santos, a black belt from Brazil, who worked as an instructor at the academy. Fabio was a great guy, and very personable, but he looked like a movie villain due to a long knife scar that covered most of one side of his face. Sherry was tall, blonde, and freckled who came across as an earth mother type. And she was very sweet and polite, which I knew would go a long way with the people who I hoped would be coming in to meet with Kathy and me.
When I offered her the job, Sherry asked me if there was a dress code, since she was a “T-shirt and jeans kind of girl.” She knew that Kathy always wore business clothes, and that I was a dress-up guy: pin-striped and solid suits in shades of gray and blue, wingtip shoes, rep and foulard ties, all of that. This was the uniform that I wore from my earliest days in advertising, and I’d never looked back. But I figured that it was a new era for me now, so I told her that I was cool with what she called her “laid back clothes.” I told Sherry that I would, however, continue to wear my suits, if it was all the same to her.
Then Sherry asked me if she could bring her best friend to work with her every day—a big, shaggy golden retriever named Grizz. When I said yes, Sherry’s smile lit up the office. She was in, and W.O.W. Promotions had welcomed its second employee.
Rorion and I were excited to tell Milius about the money that we’d generated, our new office space, and our two W.O.W. Promotions employees. We knew that a proper sit down was needed with our creative director, as it was now the second week in July, and time was running short. Rorion saw him weekly for their private lessons at the Gracie Academy, but they never really discussed War of the Worlds. When I did see Milius on occasion at the Academy, it never felt right for me to bring up business to him. I knew that he was really Rorion’s guy, and I didn’t want to be a pain in his ass. Milius had allowed us to use his name, which had no doubt helped with both SEG and our new investors.
I asked Rorion to set up a meeting, and Milius invited us to his office at Sony Pictures Studios in Culver City. In addition to filling in Milius on SEG and our capital raise, we wanted to discuss the fighting area for the event with him. After all, as the director of Conan the Barbarian, Milius had Arnold Schwarzenegger doing battle in a pit—imagery that I absolutely loved. His time was always tight, so I knew that we had to get every idea that he had. Milius’ office was located in the legendary Thalberg Building on the Sony lot, and I was struck by how small it was. But it looked like all of the producers and writers housed there had similar sized lairs.
Right away I spotted a stand-up humidor for his cigars. Milius was smoking, and so was Frank McRae (a Milius buddy who had played briefly for the Chicago Bears and had acted in the Milius directed film, Red Dawn) who was there in his office that afternoon. I accepted a Montecristo from Milius, who knew better than to offer one to his Gracie Jiu-Jitsu instructor. Just the thought of them made Rorion turn green. Every once in a while, as the meeting progressed, Milius would go to the door and blow smoke down the hallway.
W.O.W. Promotions business card. I was thrilled we were moving forward and no longer relying on my little office on Sartori Ave. or the Gracie Academy to present ourselves to the world.
“I like to piss off the Disney pukes,” he explained, which made me laugh.
Rorion had to keep getting up to go outside for a breath of fresh air.
Milius said that he liked the idea of a stadium styled pit, straight out of Conan. Then he talked about the idea of Roman or Greek classical columns to set the stage. He loved that look on our mock-up poster, the one that Mike St
anley had created, and thought it would work. Rorion and I both nodded. Any idea was a good idea at that point. The October 30 date was closing in fast, and we still had a lot to figure out.
Milius thought that perhaps the gladiatorial approach would be the ticket. He told us that we should have cheerleaders, but that we’d call them “vestal virgins.” He also thought that we should get a mascot, something like the USC Trojan. As Milius was cranking in to high gear, the phone rang. Julie Ann, Milius’ secretary, answered it, then came in and announced, “Moses is on the phone.” Charlton Heston wanted to speak about some National Rifle Association business.
When Milius concluded his call with Heston, he started to talk to us about Helene “Leni” Riefenstahl, the German film director and photographer widely known for directing the 1935 Nazi Party propaganda film Triumph of the Will and Olympia (about the 1936 Olympics) which had often been cited as a major influence in modern sports cinematography. Milius mentioned that in Triumph of the Will they had secured 140 anti-aircraft lights for the rally in Nuremberg and aimed them at the night clouds to form a cathedral of light—the shining columns went all the way up to the heavens. Perhaps, he announced, we could do something like that. Milius was on a roll, throwing in white horses and a marching band for good measure.
“Art, this is going to create a new Excalibur. The ring you design is a version of Excalibur, where an unknown man puts his hand on that sword and pulls it free to achieve immortality. This is a mythic situation you’re creating. You’ve got to think big! You’re not putting on the tiddlywinks championship here. This is the World Hand-to-Hand Fighting Championship.”
Milius then told us that Alexander the Great was a patron of the fighting arts, and that after a huge feast, the Pankration fighters would be brought out to entertain. And that Darius, the King of Persia, had a team of bodyguards called the Immortals, who were so invincible that when they went to the Olympic Games to compete in Pankration, they all returned with the laurels. This, Milius exclaimed was what War of the Worlds should be about.
Listening to Milius, I kept thinking back to my conversation earlier in the week with Michael Pillot, SEG’s live broadcast producer. Pillot had methodically explained to me about camera placement, lighting and the positioning of the fighting area in relationship to the in-house crowd. Not once did he mention vestal virgins.
Milius was in free association mode now, spit balling ideas left and right, as well as talking about films past and present. When the conversation turned to why Frank McRae should have been cast as Lennie in the 1992 film remake of Of Mice and Men instead of John Malkovich, I thought that it might finally be time for us to go.
Rorion looked half-dead from all of the cigar smoke, and as much as he liked Milius, I could tell that he wasn’t all that certain about his ideas. But there was something that I loved about that pit from Conan the Barbarian; I just wasn’t sure how it would work. As much as I liked Milius before that meeting, I liked him even more after it. In the land of Hollywood cool, he was the coolest.
As the summer of 1993 progressed, I fell into a regular routine of working on the event, I’d speak to Campbell two to three times a week on the phone, take and make calls with various other SEG people, and see Rorion every Tuesday and Friday. Tuesdays were casual conversations, either proceeding or following my private lessons with Royler. Fridays were the day when Rorion would make the very short walk to W.O.W. Promotions from the Gracie Academy.
Once he arrived at my office, we would then go to By Brazil for a consistently amazing meal cooked by a woman who had known Hélio back in Brazil. I’d always have two agendas to discuss: our marketing and direct mail campaigns for the ever-growing series of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu instructional videotapes, and of far more importance to me, the current state of affairs on War of the Worlds.
We’d start out on track with the Brajitsu, Inc. videotape business, but once we got to War of the Worlds, Rorion just wasn’t that interested in the nuts and bolts of the operation: the arena, the date, the 14 fighters that we still needed to recruit, the fighting area, the advertising, the marketing, the sponsorship sales that Kathy was working on, none of it. As for the still unsigned contract offer from SEG, Rorion was happy to let Don Moss and me get it all sorted. What he really wanted to talk about was Gracie Jiu-Jitsu and the Gracie Diet.
Rorion would recite his often told stories of how his father had fought pro wrestling legend Wladek Zbyszko to a draw in 1934; had challenged “The Brown Bomber,” boxing’s world heavyweight champion Joe Louis to a vale tudo match in 1947 to no avail; and in 1955, had gone three hours and 42 minutes in an epic contest against his former student Waldemar Santana. And Rorion would go on and on about how you should never combine starches, and how bananas mix well with all other sweet fruits, but not with acidic fruits.
I just couldn’t get him to lock in and fully focus on War of the Worlds. Whether it was his constant 12-hour days at the Academy, Brajitsu, Inc., his ever expanding travelling seminar business, the responsibilities that came with being a husband, father, brother, and oldest son of Hélio; or some combination thereof, I didn’t know. But what I did know was that Rorion just didn’t seem to have the level of interest in War of the Worlds held by Kathy, Sherry and me.
At one of our weekly Friday lunches at By Brazil in late July, I broached one of my growing concerns about War of the Worlds with Rorion. I’d always envisioned the tournament as being comprised of 16 fighters. Single elimination with the opening round, quarterfinals, semi-finals, and final—15 fights total all in one night. The 16-fighter concept had been spelled out in both our two-page executive summary and 65-page business plan. But two factors began to make me think that an eight-man tournament was actually the way to go.
First, both Campbell and Pillot had drilled into my head that we had a two hour, 50 minute broadcast window. We absolutely couldn’t go even one second over. Something about SEG having to buy additional satellite time, and the local cable systems cutting off the live PPV broadcast signal if we went beyond that allotted period of time. I just didn’t see how we could get all of those fights to fit into a sub-three hour show.
Second, I’d long since settled on our total prize money for the 16 fighters at $110,000—with $50,000 to the winner. But if we dropped the size of the tournament field to eight fighters, then we could greatly reduce our fight purse. $50,000 to the tournament winner seemed like a sum that I couldn’t move away from without hurting our credibility, but by eliminating the number of fighters, I’d be cutting down the number of fighters who would have to be paid. This was a real concern in light of our $112,500 capital raise, and with SEG not budging on our request to have them pay all or part of the prize money.
“We only have Rickson and Pat Smith so far,” I said to Rorion. “I can find us 14 more fighters, but that’s not my concern.”
I was then ready to lay out my argument for reducing the tournament field from 16 fighters to eight, when Rorion cut me off.
“Rickson is not going to be fighting in War of the Worlds, Arturo. I’ve selected Royce to represent my family.”
Rorion stated this so matter of factly, that at first I didn’t fully comprehend what he was saying.
“What? Royce? But, Royce? Did Rickson get injured? Is he okay? Royce?”
I’d known that over the past few months, there was some kind of tension between Rorion and Rickson. I’d seen the family champion around the Gracie Academy a lot less than usual, but since we opened the W.O.W. Promotions headquarters on Gramercy Avenue, I was pretty much only there now for my weekly class with Royler. I had heard whispers that Rickson was starting to pilfer students from the academy, giving private instruction in his garage and keeping all of that money for himself. Rorion was paying all of the family salaries and bills out of the money that was being generated by the Gracie Academy and the Brajitsu, Inc. tapes, so this would have obviously been a real betrayal.
Rorion and I had become close, as business partners and as friends, but rarely
would he discuss anything personal with me. I knew that there were always Gracie family dramas and traumas, which would develop and resolve in a constant cycle. But Rorion would never confide in me about the private life of the Gracies, and I never was interested in looking behind that curtain.
It just wasn’t any of my business. But this tournament was my business—our business: Rorion, SEG, Milius, the 27 investors, and me. I pressed him on why Rickson would not be fighting in War of the Worlds. He was going to be our anchor fighter, our superstar, and I felt that I was owed an explanation.
Rorion and I had an unspoken agreement that he would select the Gracie representative for the tournament, but I just assumed that it would be Rickson. He was far and away the best athlete and fighter in the family, and he had legitimate vale tudo experience in Brazil, including those two wins over the mighty Rei Zulu.
Rorion said that he had indeed discovered that Rickson had been pirating students, and not turning in the money to the family pot. So he confronted Rickson, and was assured by his younger brother that it would not happen again. And then Rorion kept hearing that it was happening again. But the final straw between them was a massage that Rickson’s wife, Kim, had gotten. As the oldest son, Rorion was tasked with pooling all of the Gracie money, paying the bills, and then doling out the wages. But the bills had to relate to the academy, and the family’s key living expenses: insurance, rent, food and things like that—not personal extras.
Rickson tried to get Rorion to reimburse him for Kim’s massage. Rorion refused because he felt this cost had nothing to do with the Gracie Academy or the family’s real expenses. Rickson told Kim what Rorion had said. Kim told Rickson to stand up to his big brother. And well, now Royce was going to be fighting in War of the Worlds. I figured that there were probably other issues at play, but this was all that Rorion would reveal.
I guess I wasn’t as shocked that Rickson was out, as much as I was that Royce was in. Since my earliest days at the Academy, I picked up on the sibling rivalry between Rorion and Rickson, and how there was this unspoken struggle to be Hélio’s favorite, and the family’s heir apparent. But in spite of all of this underlying tension, I always figured that Rorion would choose Rickson to represent Gracie Jiu-Jitsu in War of the Worlds. Never once did I think that Royce would have even been preliminarily considered.
