Peter Bart

by the Mob (And Sex) Infamous Players: A Tale of Movies

  Wasserman was later to seek Korshak’s help in structuring a health and pension fund for members of the Screen Actors Guild—one containing a sweetheart deal for Wasserman’s company. Wasserman knew that actors ultimately would demand residuals from their TV shows and surely would win their case. Under the Korshak-Wasserman strategy, Universal-MCA would agree to help endow a pension fund provided the guild would drop its demand for any pre-1960 residuals. Subsequently, when the actors went on strike over the issue (a sixweek stoppage) Wasserman’s company was conveniently exempt from the labor action.

  The SAG president, the actor Ronald Reagan, was accused by some of his colleagues of being complicit with Wasserman—many SAG members for years labeled it “the great giveaway.” The acting fraternity knew it was Korshak, not Wasserman, who had the true bond with Reagan.

  By the early 1960s, Korshak was presiding over his shadow empire from his corner table at the Bistro restaurant in Beverly Hills, holding court for friends and allies at this citadel of celebrity power. He was influential in paving the way for the Dodgers to move to Los Angeles and averted an opening day disaster by resolving a strike at the parking concession. And, of course, he was regularly visiting with Bob Evans both in his office and at Evans’s home, which was to become the ultimate Hollywood playpen.

  It was in that period that Korshak’s son also magically materialized as a Paramount appendage.

  A film titled Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York appeared on the studio production charts one day. Since it was my job to tee up our new studio projects, I was supposed to know about every new film and thus asked Evans about Sheila’s origins.

  “It’s something that came in the other day,” he responded vaguely. “Low budget.”

  “And Harry Korshak? Does he have experience as a producer? Is his dad involved?”

  Evans didn’t want to engage on this subject. “Harry’s a good kid,” was the extent of his response.

  Ultimately Harry called for an appointment. A slender, self-effacing young man in his late twenties, he was as scrupulously polite as his father, but made no effort to emulate his aura of power. He said he wanted to learn about producing—about scripts and budgets—but was by no means committed to it as a career. Indeed, I had the feeling that his father had urged him to try his hand at the movie business and that he himself remained unconvinced.

  The issue that was never raised in our early talks was the one that most obsessed other producers—whether Sheila would get a green light to move forward into production. Though other projects got stalled along the way because of cost or cast, there was never a question about Sheila Levine—it was definitely going to happen. Sidney, however, was never going to mention it to me or refer to it even obliquely. Sheila was a fait accompli. Shortly, another Harry project, ironically titled Hit, also appeared on Paramount’s schedule and marched forward with equal dispatch.

  Finally I sat down with Evans to relate my discomfort with the Korshak connection. “You and I are essentially responsible for movies made and released by Paramount, and I’m troubled by the idea of contracting out some of these projects to the Korshak family,” I explained.

  Evans seemed unfazed: Harry Korshak’s productions were subject to the same rules and constraints as other projects, he said calmly. I pressed onward: “As far as I can tell, Harry and his father can produce whatever they want on whatever budgets they want.”

  Again, Evans patiently disagreed. He was personally supervising Harry’s films, he said, which was news to me. It was rare that Evans assumed hands-on responsibilities of this sort.

  “Harry seems like a perfectly responsible young guy,” I said. “But folks in our community are beginning to notice the Korshak connection at the studio. I know you’re friendly with Sidney, but we’re talking about a guy who once represented Al Capone.”

  Evans gave me a blank look and took a call. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” he said, terminating our discussion. Not long thereafter, I learned that Harry had decided to set aside his interest in filmmaking and that he was moving to London to focus on a new passion—painting.

  Sidney Korshak’s own Hollywood activities would not be curtailed, however. In October 1973, Bluhdorn, Lew Wasserman, and Kirk Kerkorian held a secret meeting in Evans’s projection room to hatch a new venture that was at once collusive and creative. Presiding over the meeting was Sidney Korshak.

  The purpose of the meeting was to instantly create an important new player in the international film industry. The new entity, Cinema International Corp., a joint venture of MCA and Gulf & Western, would buy MGM’s major circuit of theaters overseas as well as acquiring rights to its library of films and TV shows.

  It had taken a lot of patient perseverance on Korshak’s part to bring the three titans together, but the negotiations on the $100 million deal were still not proceeding smoothly. Kerkorian distrusted both Wasserman and Bluhdorn; he was a loner who was accustomed to crafting his own deals. But he also was experiencing a financial pinch at MGM, which meant that the CIC deal was important to him.

  On two crucial occasions during the projection room discussions, Kerkorian simply got to his feet and marched out of the room. It was Korshak who followed him and persuaded him to keep talking. Late in the evening the deal was closed.

  Korshak’s fee for his evening’s work was $250,000. When a bill for Bluhdorn’s share of the fee arrived on his desk, the Gulf & Western chairman called Wasserman to question him in indignation. “There’s no detail on the bill—no hourly fees, no explanation, nothing,” Bluhdorn protested.

  Wasserman’s reply was succinct: “Pay it, Charles.” Bluhdorn promptly authorized a check.

  To Wasserman, keeping Korshak happy was important for two key reasons. Not only did Korshak play a key role in deals like CIC but his savvy also helped keep Charlie Bluhdorn out of trouble with federal regulators—that is, if Bluhdorn could be persuaded to listen to him. The Universal boss was worried that if Bluhdorn drew intense scrutiny from the Feds, then that scrutiny would spread to other studios.

  Not only did Bluhdorn’s Dominican dealings make Wasserman uncomfortable, but so did his practice of “liquidating” troubled assets from the Gulf & Western books. Wasserman and Korshak both were keenly aware of Bluhdorns’s tactic in assuming a $12 million stake in an obscure shell company called Commonwealth United, and then donating to that company the rights to its Julie Andrews clunker Darling Lili. In return for this largesse, Commonwealth United delivered stock and warrants with a face value of $30 million. When Bluhdorn sold off his Commonwealth United holdings, the value of which quickly disintegrated, the SEC was left with the untenable task of figuring out the tax implications. Meanwhile, Paramount’s books were clean of the Darling Lili stigma. The loss had disappeared, just as losses on Paint Your Wagon would also disappear.

  A year later Bluhdorn once again acquired debentures in Commonwealth United in an even more bizarre deal involving the aforementioned Italian financier Michele Sindona. The debentures were then delivered to Sindona in partial payment for some 15 million shares in Société Générale Immobilière, a construction and real estate company in which Sindona was a major shareholder. Immobilière then turned around and purchased a 50 percent interest in Paramount’s back lot in Hollywood and some of its surrounding acreage. The transaction effectively doubled the value of the lot—Paramount had carried it on its books for half the amount Sindona had advanced. (Commonwealth United debentures also figured in a later Bluhdorn real estate purchase in Florida.)

  The Immobilière deal sent a shock wave through Hollywood. Deputations of Italians were soon wandering the lot arguing about the disposition of the property. Sindona, it seemed, had not been aware of the severe zoning restrictions that would sharply inhibit development and rule out high-rise structures. Further, many of the soundstages were not in use—a problem Sindona resolved by leasing stages to a producer of porn movies.

  The SEC, meanwhile, found itself saddled with so many Bluh
dorn investigations that its limited staff was having a difficult time deciding priorities. The Sindona connection conveniently came off its books when Italian authorities arrested the financier on charges that he had embezzled $225 million from an Italian bank. The case drew wide attention in Italy because Sindona was also linked to yet another important financial institution—the Vatican bank.

  The embezzlement charges brought an abrupt end to the Bluhdorn-Sindona friendship. Not long thereafter, the Italian dealmaker was found dead in his jail cell in Sicily.

  Except for a small inner circle, Bluhdorn’s key executives knew nothing of the Sindona negotiations. Sidney Korshak, who keenly understood the dealings, and their dangers, shrewdly kept Bob Evans distanced from them. Korshak knew the price of dealing with those “on the dark side,” and felt that someone in Bluhdorn’s exposed position should be more discriminating in choosing business partners.

  Knowing Bluhdorn’s proclivities, Korshak had also avoided involvement in The Godfather, and its intrigues. He’d been approached by major producer-stars like Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas who had hoped that Korshak could pressure Bluhdorn into selling the rights, but he knew this was never going to happen. Korshak knew also that Evans was getting battered in the casting controversies over The Godfather—Bluhdorn had told him Brando was a terrible idea and Al Pacino was too young to play Michael.

  Given all this, Korshak was shocked by a message from Evans urgently soliciting help on the Pacino issue. The studio had finally caved to Coppola—Pacino would get the role. The problem was that the arguments over casting had consumed so much time that Pacino had now accepted a role in another film, The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight, which was about to start production at MGM. Evans pleaded with his consigliere to carry a persuasive message to Kirk Kerkorian, who owned MGM—release Pacino from his commitment so he could star in The Godfather.

  When I ran into Korshak as he was leaving Evans’s office, the big man seemed genuinely surprised. As he described his new mission, he flashed a pained smile—a memorable sighting in view of the fact that I had never seen Korshak smile. “No one in town even knows who this kid is,” he said, referring to Pacino. “Suddenly two studios are fighting over a nobody.”

  “The director feels he’s right for the role,” I put in.

  “And that makes this nobody kid the hottest actor in town?”

  “He’s a talented young actor, and I’m sure Kirk Kerkorian has never heard of him either.”

  The pained smile disappeared. It was Korshak, not me, who would have to twist Kerkorian’s arm. It was not a mission I would want to undertake. Korshak shrugged and headed for the door.

  Korshak knew he had leverage with Kerkorian. The tough Armenian was trying to complete construction of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. He was stretched thin and could not abide any delays from his unions, and he knew Korshak could do some mischief.

  Pacino instantly became available. His role in Gang was assumed by another relatively unknown young actor—Bobby De Niro. And Al Pacino’s destined future as a star was now in place.

  Insiders in town were fascinated at the Korshak power play, but one Korshak friend, Frank Sinatra, was not amused. Sinatra resented The Godfather because he felt that the character of Johnny Fontane represented a nasty caricature of him. Ever since Rosemary’s Baby, Sinatra had hated Bob Evans and me as well. That film, in his mind, had fractured his marriage to Mia Farrow. Now Paramount was inflicting still further wounds.

  One evening at Chasen’s restaurant, Sinatra’s antagonism surfaced abruptly. I was dining with a producer, and Sinatra was three or four tables away with some friends. Suddenly Mario Puzo loomed over my table. The bulky writer had had a few drinks and was enjoying his first moments of celebrity. Puzo told me that he was going over to Sinatra’s table to introduce himself.

  My response was instantaneous. “Don’t do it,” I told Puzo.

  “But I owe Frank a greeting,” Puzo replied. “I know he had feelings about the Johnny Fontane character.”

  “Sinatra is not the sort of person you say ‘hello’ to,” I warned. “He’s a miserable prick.”

  But Puzo was feeling no pain. He went off to introduce himself to the star and, even before he’d reached the table, I could see that my warning had been valid. “You miserable son of a bitch, get out of my fucking sight,” Sinatra was yelling, as soon as he saw Puzo.

  “I just wanted to—” was all Puzo got to say.

  “I’ll tear your fucking head off,” Sinatra was shouting, and Puzo already was beating a retreat.

  The next day Puzo was on the phone to me. “Did you see the gossip columns this morning? They reported the whole incident. It’s embarrassing.”

  “You’re the star now, Mario. That’s what matters in this town,” I said.

  “You’re a journalist. I hope you’re keeping notes on all this,” Puzo said.

  I had to smile. “Not exactly. I once had a visit from Korshak,” I said. “It was in the middle of some complicated stuff. He offered me some advice.”

  “Like ...?”

  “Korshak said, ‘I hope you’re not keeping notes. I learned long ago that keeping notes can be dangerous to your health.’”

  “You took his advice?” Puzo asked.

  “Damned right I did.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Breaking the Mold

  Early in 1970 I placed a small device atop my desk at my Paramount office. The device consisted of a narrow steel pole about two feet high. Atop the pole sat a little wooden woodpecker which, when I poked its tail, would slowly work his way down, making pinging sounds as he descended. The downward trek took just under three minutes.

  I decided to make use of my faux woodpecker during pitch meetings. I found myself getting impatient during these sessions, since the stories often took too long in the telling and the storytellers were usually less than riveting. Hence when someone insisted he had a story to tell, I started my woodpecker on its journey and advised my visitor that he had three minutes to complete his narrative. The pings were so distracting that the stories often were abandoned well before the finish time, with the visitor saying, “I’ll send it to you and you can read it yourself,” which is what I wanted to hear.

  It took only a couple of weeks for me to realize that my woodpecker was becoming infamous. “Some of my clients complain you’re rude to them,” an elegant, silver-haired agent named Evarts Ziegler told me. “You can’t assign time limits. Besides, the fucking bird is distracting.” Ziegler, who represented an important list of writers, had taken a fatherly interest in me.

  “I don’t like to listen to pitches,” I protested. “I prefer reading them.”

  Ziegler wasn’t buying that. “You’re striking people as an angry guy,” he said, peering at me analytically. “You’re new at this and doing well so far. Why are you angry?”

  Feeling defensive, I told Ziegler that I wasn’t angry. In fact I really liked my job. But before going home that night, I placed my woodpecker in the closet and determined to retire it from play.

  Driving home, I realized that Ziegler was right. I was indeed feeling a simmering anger, but it wasn’t directed at story pitchers or their agents. I was angry at myself, or at least at the person I felt I was becoming.

  I had gone to Paramount with Bob Evans carrying idealistic hopes of changing the game. I was not going to follow studio rules or become seduced by the Hollywood club.

  Yet most of the submissions of projects that came before me were still emanating from the club. And often, when I happened upon material I liked, I found myself taking that material to clubbies rather than to the sort of creative young people I was hoping to lure into my web.

  All this was brought home to me when I found myself dealing with one of the ultimate insiders, Hal Wallis, a gruff, curmudgeonly producer who was ensconced in a long-term producing deal at Paramount. Wallis had built a storied career as chief of production at Warner Bros., where his producing credits included Casablanca,
but now he was relegated to turning out Elvis Presley vehicles. Since he had a deal with Paramount, however, I felt obligated to pay him diplomatic visits and even to run material past him now and then.

  When I stepped into Wallis’s office, I found it jam-packed with memorabilia of all description, including an Oscar—I assumed it was the statuette for Casablanca, which Wallis had famously wrestled from the hands of Jack Warner at the Academy Awards show in 1942. Photos of Wallis with stars like John Wayne, James Stewart, Henry Fonda, Bogart, Bacall, and, of course, Elvis, filled every inch of wall space.

  Wallis did not get up from his chair to greet me. This would be a “what-do-you-want-kid?” sort of meeting, I concluded.

  Abandoning pleasantries, I told Wallis tersely that I had read the galleys of a new novel that I believed could provide the basis of a John Wayne movie. “It’s a western,” I explained. “But there’s a great role for an older character. Its called True Grit, and I’m bringing it up because I know you have known Wayne for many—”

  “Duke doesn’t want to play older characters,” Wallis cut in, using Wayne’s nickname to emphasize his intimacy.

  I plunked the galleys on his desk anyway. “I think he’d go for this,” I said.

  “I’ll have it covered,” Wallis replied, turning away.

  I was out of there, regretting immediately that I had given Wallis the book. John Wayne now and then lunched at the Paramount commissary and I had exchanged friendly words with him on several occasions. I could have given him the book directly, but one of my responsibilities was to find deals to bury some of Wallis’s overhead.