The two filmmakers who marched into combat with the greatest swagger were Francis Coppola and Roman Polanski. Both were brought to the studio under the rules of the old regime but with promises of change. They were hired guns who nonetheless exuded confidence in their ability to expand the boundaries of cinema. But from the moment of their arrival, their ultimate goal was vividly apparent: they may have been our employees on paper, but in their minds, they were masters of their own fate.
And therein lay the paradox: Coppola and Polanski embodied both the most admirable and most self-destructive traits of their generation of filmmakers. Both were zealously creative and maniacally dedicated to their craft. Both had mastered the tools of filmmaking and understood their canvas. Yet both would ultimately fall victim to the most destructive traits of sixties filmmaking. Their egos would spin out of control. Their appetites would far exceed their talents. Their hatred of authority would become pathological. They came to think of themselves not merely as rebels but as outlaws. They viewed the studios, not as wellsprings of support, but as targets to be plundered.
The achievements of Coppola and Polanski in their time were extraordinary and their artistic courage admirable. Yet instead of a consistent growth of stature and achievement, there was rather a pattern of repeated flameouts—giant steps backward for every leap forward. Their personal lives, too, reflected a succession of near-operatic crises; they chose paths easily as risky as those of the protagonists in their films.
For better or worse their behavior served as a model for many of their contemporaries. The aim was to dance ever closer to the edge, defying both gravity and mortality. Only through that tortured process of defiance could their true artistic goals be satisfied.
When I first met Francis Coppola he was still a film student at UCLA. He was a homely, perpetually rumpled young man who seemed totally unconcerned about how he presented himself. A voracious reader, he was also a budding techno freak. He couldn’t pass any device, even a vending machine, without imagining a redesign.
Frustrated that he lacked the money to shoot and edit his own movies as a film student, he created a minicareer of editing movies shot by friends—especially soft-core films that were then called “nudies.” Sexually repressed, Coppola drew little enjoyment from this task—indeed, he found them embarrassing—but the efforts helped him hone his skills at filmic storytelling.
I didn’t particularly care for Coppola on a personal level. He was a self-involved nerd, imprisoned by his own restless imagination. While a superb communicator on paper, his interest in personal communication was minimal. I don’t think he cared for people, outside his own immediate family and the techno nerds with whom he worked. Strangers were of interest only if they could teach him something or pay him something or otherwise be of service.
After his UCLA years, Coppola and I kept in touch intermittently. I followed his incipient writing career with interest and faithfully read his scripts. I especially admired his screenplay of Patton, and when I went to Paramount, he was on my list of talents I wanted to bring into the studio.
Given his limited social skills, I was surprised that he was able to pull together backing for You’re a Big Boy Now and even more amazed that Warner Bros. had backed him to direct Finian’s Rainbow. Clearly Coppola was learning how to work the town.
While Big Boy conveyed a certain naive charm, Finian’s was an abject failure. The demands of the musical were far beyond Coppola’s skill set. Further, the decision to use a patrician but slightly decrepit Fred Astaire in a leading role was doomed.
When we met to discuss projects, Coppola announced that, following the Finian’s experience, he was determined to focus on low-budget pictures in which he could more freely experiment with new ideas.
I entered into my notebook two tentative conclusions about Coppola: First, that I didn’t trust him. But second, that if he were to be matched to the right material, he could emerge as a brilliant filmmaker. Months later, I felt I had found that material.
Though I’d never met Roman Polanski, I was equally hopeful of recruiting him to the Paramount stable. I had started hearing about the young Polish director on my initial trip to London on behalf of Paramount. Producers and agents already were praising his talents and his command of the camera. Though only thirty-four years old in 1967, Polanski had made a few experimental shorts in Poland, and had earned kudos for his first feature, Knife in the Water. A thriller about a married couple who pick up a young stranger, the film had won an Academy Award nomination for Best Foreign Language Film in 1963. He lost to Federico Fellini (for 8½) but the kudo earned Polanski his first trip to Hollywood. His follow-up film, Repulsion , further amped up his reputation.
Polanski’s instincts on subject matter were dark, which was hardly surprising to those who knew his background. As a child, he’d survived the Jewish ghetto in Krakow and saw his mother herded away to Auschwitz. In his teens he had to endure a new set of conquerors—the Russians.
Though short and skinny, Polanski had the instincts of a survivor. He trained himself to become an accomplished skier, fencer, and actor. Despite his lively intellect, friends took note of his ominous mood swings: Polanski could be upbeat one moment only to sink into a deep depression the next. He could veer from generosity to cruelty, and his relationships with women were especially troubled.
When I made inquiries about Polanski in London, one Polish producer warned me, “Roman is a great guy but he’s also a sociopath.”
Many in the film community, though eager to work with him, nonetheless circled him warily as though suspicious that an association would somehow burn them.
When I first came upon the manuscript of Rosemary’s Baby, in 1967, I sensed it would be the right lure to bring Polanski to Hollywood. The thriller by Ira Levin exuded an aura of malevolence. Set in the Dakota apartments in Manhattan, the story focused on a young woman living with a loving husband and friendly neighbors. In fact, she has been impregnated with satanic seed and her neighbors turn out to be devil worshippers.
The novel, as improbable as it was spellbinding, had been optioned by a well-known producer of B-pictures named William Castle. Castle had achieved a certain infamy as a promoter. He had once offered to sell insurance policies to filmgoers who paid to see his films, ostensibly because their plots were so frightening that they could induce heart attacks.
Under Castle’s stewardship, Rosemary’s Baby was destined to become another potboiler, and I was delegated the task of persuading him to step aside as the director while retaining his title of producer. The director Evans and I had in mind was Roman Polanski.
Bulky and silver-haired with the booming voice of a promoter, Castle received my news politely but protested that he had never heard of Roman Polanski. Did he speak English? Would he shoot the movie for $300,000—the customary William Castle B-picture budget?
The studio had a bigger budget in mind, I replied. In fact, it was our intention to go for broke—a big movie backed by a big ad campaign. “Your productions always made money, but this will be your giant hit,” I assured him.
Puffing on a cigar, Castle seemed worried. “Let me meet this Polanski guy,” he offered.
The “Polanski guy,” meanwhile, was puzzling over the novel, which we had dispatched to him. “It’s a Hollywood movie,” he told me over the phone. “It’s too commercial.”
“Both of these are true,” I said. Several conversations followed, but it was becoming apparent that I could not get Polanski off the dime. I decided to play the Evans card.
Bob Evans possessed unique powers of persuasion, as I’d quickly discovered at the studio. When dealing with actors or filmmakers, he could sense areas of vulnerability. He knew when to push and when to wait.
Evans learned that Polanski had enjoyed his one trip to Hollywood, despite his denials, and he decided on his strategy. “I want you to come to the studio and meet with us,” Evans told him. “Talking about a movie on the phone is unproductive.”
Polanski still hesitated. Dealing with a Hollywood studio, he confessed, was intimidating to him.
Evans played him expertly. Rather than pressing him on Rosemary’s Baby, he also talked about Downhill Racer—a movie about one of his favorite hobbies, skiing. Polanski had a passion for skiing which also offered the exciting possibility of working with Robert Redford (the young filmmaker Michael Ritchie had already been hired to direct the movie at that point but Polanski didn’t know that).
Then Evans zeroed in for the clincher. “Come to Hollywood for God’s sake,” he boomed into the phone. “What’s the worst that can happen to you? You’ll have the best pussy of your life.”
Roman Polanski arrived the following week, and meetings on Rosemary’s Baby were assembled. Polanski was quickly pursuing a busy and zestful social life, which Evans was happy to orchestrate. Indeed, the two were building a kinship. “I love Bob,” Polanski told me. “He knows how to live well and he likes to make his friends happy.”
With Rosemary’s Baby now in serious discussion, the only skeptic was William Castle. “Roman is smart,” Castle told me. “But we’re entrusting a lot to a European director who is very arty but still is doing Rosemary’s Baby for the money.”
“The money and the sex,” I corrected him. “He really likes this town.”
“Couldn’t we find a Hollywood director who’ll do the job for money and sex?”
I had to smile. I knew William Castle didn’t expect a serious answer to a frivolous question.
If Roman Polanski was initially skeptical about Rosemary’s Baby, his disdain was easily matched by that of Francis Coppola when the latter was presented with The Godfather. The novel was trashy, he said. It lacked a contemporary attitude. It was peopled by stereotypes. “Why make another Mafia movie?” Coppola protested. “They don’t work anymore. The audience has moved past all that.”
If anything, Coppola seemed almost offended that the studio had submitted the material to him. His attitude did not surprise me; there was something reinforcing about its intensity.
Evans and I had asked ourselves the same questions about The Godfather, or Mafia, as it was originally titled. The novel had been sent to Evans and me by his story scout, George Wieser, whom Evans had employed during his brief career as an independent producer. Wieser’s recommendations were consistently pulpy, yet relevant from a pure business standpoint—provocative topics, celebrity authors, and accessible story lines.
We had first seen The Godfather as a sixty-page outline. The early chapters were well written, but at midpoint the novel degenerated into a rough story sketch. William Targ, a top editor at Putnam who was editing the book, phoned me with a special appeal. “Mario Puzo is a really talented writer, but he’s stone broke,” Targ said. “He needs some option money to feed his family and finish the book.” Puzo was a serious novelist, Targ explained, but his past novels hadn’t sold well. This book represented his stab at writing a commercial novel. “I think it could be great,” Targ said. “Please read it.”
I respected Targ and appreciated that he’d made a special appeal. I read it promptly and then gave it to Evans. We reacted identically: Puzo’s novel had some gripping characters and themes, but the notion of doing a Mafia movie was unappealing. A year earlier the studio had released The Brotherhood, a Mafia movie starring Kirk Douglas, and it had tanked. Our disposition was to pass.
But as we rode to work together a few days later, Puzo’s novel came up again. Evans and I were both hung up on the central character—the formidable figure of the Godfather. “It’s not just a Mafia novel,” Evans told me. “It’s too easy just to say ‘no.’”
“It’s a novel about the building of a dynasty,” I said. “But what the hell do we do with it?” We dropped the subject for a few days, but it kept weighing on us both. “I want to give it to Francis Coppola,” I volunteered at a production meeting. “Remember Patton. He’s a brilliant writer and he loves telling stories about his Italian family. I think he’ll fight it but I also think he may bring something to it.”
Evans was leery. He had met Coppola a couple of times but had no strong impression of him. Evans, I knew, had already shown the novel to a couple of filmmakers who had quickly dismissed it. One had even reacted angrily, charging that Puzo’s book was an attempt to glamorize the mob.
Given the stalemate, I decided to send the novel to Coppola with an admonition to read it quickly. I knew it would be an uphill fight.
Meanwhile there were glimmers of interest from other directors. Sam Peckinpah liked the book, but when he came to my office he was deliberative and cagey. Peckinpah was a charismatic, hard-drinking filmmaker who had made some remarkable but violent films—The Wild Bunch, most recently. “Give me the project and I will deliver a helluva picture,” was the extent of his presentation.
I respected Peckinpah, but I had the impression he had not really thought it through. He was vamping and he looked like he hadn’t slept for a few nights.
The young director Sidney J. Furie also wanted to talk about The Godfather. On the basis of the successful Ipcress File thriller, Furie had been given a studio deal at Paramount. It entailed a development fund, office, and secretary. When Evans and I went to see him to discuss The Godfather, however, Furie launched into a fifteen-minute rant about the modest size of his office. “The studio makes a deal with me and gives me this dump and I even have to go down the hall to pee,” he complained.
Evans and I quickly departed, agreeing we did not intend to entrust The Godfather to someone whose highest priority was to have a private bathroom. Our decision was reinforced when, a day later, Furie’s agent called to say he would agree to direct The Godfather provided he’d be paid $250,000. Learning this, Evans scoffed: “He’s not worth a penny over $175,000. Besides, we don’t want him.”
Further conversations with Coppola meanwhile were reinforcing my interest. The Corleone chronicle was taking shape in Coppola’s mind as a perverse metaphor for the growth of the capitalist dream. The Godfather was as much about a business empire as it was about a contentious family, and Coppola was fascinated by empire builders. The father-son elements of the novel also were intensely meaningful to him. Carmine Coppola, Francis’s father, was a musician and composer of limited success, and the two had a close bond.
But other factors were also gnawing at him and melting his resistance. Coppola’s early films had not been financially rewarding, yet he was a young man whose dreams chronically exceeded his resources. He had started a little company in San Francisco called Zoetrope to develop film projects with compadres like George Lucas and Walter Murch, and they needed money. Lucas in particular, though a quiet young man, persisted in reminding Coppola of his financial obligations. I, too, made it a point to bring up the high cost of private schools. “Your kids are going to be expensive,” I told him. “So will your new company.”
I don’t remember Coppola ever uttering a declarative sentence along the lines of “I really have a passion to write and direct The Godfather.” At some point he simply signed contracts and cashed checks.
“This guy isn’t bringing conviction to this project,” Evans remarked to me when he saw the deal memo. “I hope he at least helps Puzo deliver a decent script.”
“I think he will. I have a hunch, even though I don’t believe in hunches.”
“He’s Italian. Just remind him the story has to smell like great pasta. Can you trust him to do that? I mean, he’s a friend of yours.”
“He’s not a friend of mine, Bob,” I interrupted. “In his mind I’m the enemy, seducing him into making lowlife commercial movies. No matter what comes out of this venture, he’ll never be a friend.”
“OK, but Mario Puzo is already writing the screenplay and he’s never written a screenplay. There’s some orchestrating to do.”
“Our asses are on the line, I know that,” I mumbled.
Coppola and Mario Puzo instantly took a liking to each other. Coppola cooked his favorite pasta dish for the hefty writer
and they exchanged recipes for their favorite sauces.
Puzo knew Coppola intended to add layers to his story and build up the character of the Godfather. In their initial conversations, both agreed that Marlon Brando would be ideal for the role. Puzo told me he was dubious about some of Coppola’s ideas, but acknowledged, “The kid understands structure and I don’t.”
“A little bit of studio money is making everyone happy,” I said to Evans. “Puzo’s feeding his family again. Coppola’s paying his bills. Everyone’s working.”
“The Brotherhood failed because Jews like Kirk Douglas and Martin Ritt thought they were making high drama about the Mafia,” he replied. “Now we have a couple of wops who are just out to make a few bucks. Does that improve our chances?”
I knew Evans’s skepticism was valid. But then the Puzo-Coppola draft started rolling in. Our lives were about to change.
From the moment Roman Polanski received his green light on Rosemary’s Baby, tensions at the studio began to build. Paramount’s resident bureaucrats did not appreciate Polanski’s manner. “The little Polack thinks he owns the place,” one department head complained to me. Accustomed to making small movies with minimal crews, the procedures of a major studio frustrated the young filmmaker. Sets weren’t autocratically designed—meetings had to be held, budgets constructed, protocols followed.
But the first major battle, to my surprise, involved Evans. Though Evans and Polanski shared similar tastes in women (Polanski preferred them a little younger), their views on casting were sharply dissimilar. To Polanski, Tuesday Weld had the experience and gravitas to play Rosemary. Evans, to my surprise, was hung up on Mia Farrow.
“Tuesday is too healthy, Mia is ethereal. We need ethereal,” Evans explained to me.
Peter Bart Page 20
