tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63522163765038640662024-02-08T12:39:21.167-08:00A Chow Puppy in Hollywood - a retired screenwriter looks WAY backbkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-68314554331951125212017-08-31T21:47:00.000-07:002019-03-01T21:19:57.363-08:00#30. "The Hatfields & the McCoys" and always rewrites<br />
#30. "The Hatfields and the McCoys. And endless re-writes.<br />
<br />
Now a few words about the History Channel's TV miniseries <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatfields_%26_McCoys_(miniseries)">"The Hatfields and the McCoys,"</a> the award-winning ratings bonanza from a few years ago. It turned out to be my last job. And outside of a annoying little page 1 rewrite late in the game, oddly one of my most fulfilling.<br />
<br />
Back in the mists-of-time Eighties, I was hired by producer <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Greif">Leslie Greif</a> and CBS to write a four hour mini-series about the legendary family feud.<br />
<br />
We were to start from scratch; the true story of two families' civil war that grew and grew until it swallowed whole generations. Agonizingly, this was in the days before Google and Wikipedia, so I headed to Book Soup on Sunset and left with four tomes on the subject. Then on to the next bookstore. And the next. My credit card was actually warm when I got home.<br />
<br />
I probably should've gone to the public library but they have always filled me with dread. I mean all those cards...and numbers? Eeuuu.<br />
<br />
Starting a big historical project is hard. WHERE to start is one reason why. Fortunately I had one of my favorite producers on hand. I have worked with older producers, more experienced, sideboards groaning with awards and buddy celebrity photos. But I have never worked with a more focused, tenacious, funnier guy, and one that I treasure.<br />
<br />
Los Angeles Leslie is his family's Crowned Prince; why he would be so obsessed with this violent hillbilly saga from a hundred-and-fifty years ago is anybody's guess. Very soon, partnered with the legendary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_S._Ruddy">Al Ruddy</a> on the project, Leslie became my guy. He believed in the primacy of writing, and in the first ten years, before he replaced me with "Deadwood's" <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Mann_(writer)">Ted Mann</a>, I was his guy.<br />
<br />
I had been living back in North Carolina then and Leslie and I were both fans of "L.A. Law." Since he was often out at night, I taped the shows for him and FedExed it the next day. He didn't know how a VCR worked or, more likely, just liked the idea of me taping it for him. He especially loved all the local southern commercials.<br />
<br />
Once my parents passed, my marriage and my cat followed suit. I had suddenly run out of reasons to stay Southern. When I moved back to Hollywood, I found sweet little house on Alfred Street to rent that would accommodate a couple of Chows like me and Roxy. With the expert help of a move-in specialist (LA is covered up in specialists): a woman who had once, back in her day, been a British horror movie queen at Hammer Studios with Christopher Lee, we set up one of the bedrooms as my office first, then the TV. I loved my new little house.<br />
<br />
Once I was ensconced, I called Leslie and we immediately buddied up on seeing Stupid Guy Movies like "Batman" and "Tin Cup" or anything with Bruce Willis. <br />
<br />
I was still finding unopened Bekins boxes in the garage, when I made my first Hatfields-McCoys research trip to Eastern Kentucky and Western West Virginia, the two feuding families' homes. I talked to people, I went to small town libraries, I looked at Bibles, often a coded fount of odd family information. I remember someone had written "Peeuw!" beside some wayward McCoy cousin's name. Grist for the mill.<br />
<br />
I stopped at historical societies and burrowed into old land purchase and sales records. I sorted through process services, arrest records in old courthouses, up rickety wooden stairs where, in Pikeville, an ancient marmalade cat followed me from room to room. I talked to local politicians, veteran newspaper folks, and even a large animal veterinarian. And then I went home to write.<br />
<br />
But first -- being me, no surprise -- I whipped through a copy of Syd Field's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Screenplay_(book)">"Screenplay."</a> He'd finally written it! All those plot points and paradigms apply to most all dramatic narratives. In fact each scene should have those wheels. I made a massive 3X5 card display taped to my dining room wall and invited Leslie over for a little walk-around read.<br />
<br />
He was mesmerized and most of his suggestions were like, "Flip those two scenes, Pup." Or "Take that card out, we don't need it." And time after time, he was right. This is a crucial ability given to only a few producers.<br />
<br />
Four months later, when I finished the first rough draft at 250 pages, I thought I had something. So did others. We polished it, cut it, revised it, worked it over like a blurry speed bag. Got it where we wanted it and then officially Sent It Out.<br />
<br />
As they say: crickets.<br />
<br />
We couldn't get anyone we and/or the network wanted. No one would pull the trigger. People liked it, some even liked it a lot. Just not the Right Ones and not quite enough.<br />
<br />
After I went through all my rewrites and polishes for the network and a director, there was nothing left for me to do.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to go, I didn't. These characters and their real history had become archetypically real to me. But eventually, I drifted away to another project; I knew Leslie would never let The Hatfields and the McCoys die. And sure enough, he didn't.<br />
<br />
Released to my new life/career course, I passed from pitch to pitch, from draft to draft, from show to show -- some got made, some didn't. Some were good, some not so much. One even brought me back to Leslie; a low budget war movie taking place in modern Korea. I got paid, it got made but as the kid said in the McCoy family Bible, "peeuw." The best thing about it was it co-starred <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._Lee_Ermey">R. Lee Ermey,</a> a former Marine Corps drill instructor which he then brilliantly portrayed in "Full Metal Jacket." If you want to know what Parris Island was like for ten generations of Marines, see this movie. It is the experience itself.<br />
<br />
Finally, months turned into years.<br />
<br />
And one December, my year count added up to sixty plus. Momma mia, how does this happen? In my mind, I'm like forty-something. But suddenly, I have trouble putting on my socks! And my agent was honest enough to tell me that he was encountering resistance getting me jobs because I was...too old.<br />
<br />
When that shock wore off, I looked around and realized I actually was pretty old for a Hollywood pup.<br />
<br />
So I called in the rest of the dogs and pissed on the fire: I retired and began my Hollywood uncoupling. First to the Valley. Then to Santa Barbara where my sweetheart Paula became my wife. Finally, all the way up to an island in the Pacific Northwest. But I never stopped thinking about the Hatfields, an epic that, during its long night, had entered my bloodstream.<br />
<br />
And speaking of blood, a brief note about open-heart surgery. They call it CABG ("cabbage") which stands for Coronary Artery Bypass Graft and bubba it is one of the medicine-man's better tricks. Eleven years ago, at Providence Hospital, I had it. A quadruple! And in four hours of surgery with four days of recoup and four weeks of rehab, my actual heart GOT REWRITTEN! Thank ya, Jesus! And thank you Dr. Pat Ryan, my surgical lighthouse.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in those years, Leslie encountered his three lighthouses -- Kevin Costner, Ted Mann, and the History Channel. I don't know which came first, but one morning -- years later -- up here on island sleepy land, I got a wild-ass Hollywood call from Leslie. "We're a GO! We got<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kevin_Costner">Kevin Costner</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kevin_Reynolds_(director)">Kevin Reynolds</a> to direct, we're shooting in Romania, six hours, and I promise you'll get credit! It's happening, Dog!"<br />
<br />
I was thrilled and dead flat sure I had been rewritten, maybe even re-rewritten. Whoever did that was likely rewritten. As I may have mentioned, the movie and TV biz is fueled by fear and doubt. Until the big Kahuna (usually a star or a director) gets there and says "STOP! This is the script we shoot." I believe in our case that was Mr. Costner who I never met but who has my everlasting gratitude.<br />
<br />
When they were done eight months later, I read their scripts and looked at the DVD they sent me. They covered much of the same ground mine did, the same events, the same characters, even many of the same moments. I liked what they'd done; even though theirs was more violent, Ted Mann is a very good writer. But hell, I still liked my version better. Just the way of things I reckon. And it was somewhat ameliorated by getting a big ol' single card first position story credit in the main titles. On all three nights!<br />
<br />
A few months later, it hit the air and all hell broke loose. The reviews were kindly and the record setting ratings went through the roof. Those three nights were some heady days for all of us.<br />
<br />
When I look at my "Hatfields and the McCoys" Emmy nomination certificate, I think of Costner and Leslie. When I look at my bronze Writers Guild Best Teleplay Award, I think of Leslie and Costner. And when I get those green envelope residual checks, I think of the whole gang of 'em, right down to craft services and the Port-a-Potty honey-wagon guys (in one end, out the other) slaving away in the wilds of Romania, shooting a mammoth historical six hour mini-series that I birthed and pretty much almost kinda wrote!<br />
<br />
My night at the Emmys was...something. There is one winner per category and four losers. That night us screenwriters found ourselves in the latter group. Hey, somebody has to do it! But for a second or two, it was great. When they called out our names, instantly and without thinking, we grasped hands and squeezed tight. Instant fellowship, hard work, ascending prayers. Ahhh, if we could only bottle that moment.<br />
<br />
Then the other dork's name was called out and we were crestfallen. In that huge room, for us, the air was gone.<br />
<br />
Of course it's great to be nominated but when you get that close to that big Kahuna Emmy trophy, the one everybody knows everywhere, the hit to the heart is serious. And since I'm totally retired and unlikely to ever be there again, I will share my unused acceptance speech with you. Here it is in its entirety.<br />
<br />
"I would like to thank Kevin Costner, our star and rabbi for saying yes. And producer Leslie Greif, who would not let this die. And finally, Margaret Swann, my high-school typing teacher."<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
When someone rewrites you, it's catastrophic and you take to the bed. When you rewrite someone, it's an interesting and lucrative way to pass the time while you take to Musso & Frank's restaurant, waiting for The Big Score.<br />
<br />
I found these rewrite assignments can be fun and keep your rep and your writing chops sharp. The best writers in the business as well as the worst do them. Somewhere on that sliding scale, I did enough in my time. Here's what I found. Even the most wonderful journey has unforeseen stops at ugly out-of-everything places. Deal with it, keep going.<br />
<br />
After you've carefully read the script the studio or network or producer sent you, you have to decide if it's a job you want. What can you bring to the party? Who is involved? I recall years ago I was being poached to work on "Hillman," a good but odd script by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Petersen_(playwright)">Don Petersen</a>. It would be produced and star Paul Newman. Did I want the job? Oh, mamma, does a cat have an ass?!<br />
<br />
Once I had made up my mind, there was a Big Meeting scheduled wherein all parties sniff each other carefully for type, possibility, and skill. I always found it best to tell them clearly and succinctly what you liked about their script and, if pressed, what you didn't. And tell them that inside of a month with their input, you are the one to get this off life-support to a green light.<br />
<br />
Then, you will patiently take all their notes. Some will be good, some bad, some will seem like a Chinese crossword puzzle. Take 'em anyway, don't argue (I was very bad at this), and whatever problems arise, figure it out later in the privacy of your own home.<br />
<br />
I found it was a good idea to make the first script shorter. Most early drafts are over done, over long, with way to much sugar. Jump in making cuts, tightening wherever possible. Your fealty is to the narrative arc, to the story itself. Not the Poetry.<br />
<br />
The most important question one can ever ask: "What is this movie about?" Rent, food, getting a car that runs, paying off your AmEx bill may all be true but none of them are a good enough answer.<br />
<br />
How do your characters face this question? How are we drawn deeper and deeper into its web? You have to know these things or you will die and this fifty million dollar project will die, too.<br />
<br />
The ABOUT question is, I believe, the most massive inquiry a project can face. That's why you can never let it go. Why are we huddled masses gathered together in this theatre on this night looking at this movie? Director <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sidney_Lumet">Sidney Lumet</a> once said, it's not just the plot, it's the beating heart and soul of the film. As <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Affleck">Ben Affleck</a> pointed out, the plot is the meat you throw to the various guard dogs. The "about" is why you must climb over that wall in the first place.<br />
<br />
In the effort to tighten things up, cut words, lines, even scenes if you can. If the story flows without it, sayonara sucker. Was Steven King's thousand page version of "The Stand" really better than his earlier, shorter one? And if possible, rewrite as much of the first twenty pages as you can. Because that's when they are really paying attention. And show some class by leaving the first writer's name on it; the Writer's Guild will work all that out later. But at this point, don't be a credit hog.<br />
<br />
And understand this -- as you are contemplating rewriting someone's script, somewhere, someone has that same furrowed brow contemplating rewriting yours. Nearly EVERYONE gets re-written. In my years in Hollywood, the only times I wasn't rewritten were on "Dadah is Death" made in Australia during a writers strike. And on "Lakota Woman" for which I thank director Frank Pierson and producers Lois Bonfiglio and Jane Fonda who held the line for me. God love 'em. There was nothing for the Guild to work out.<br />
<br />
If you are lucky, they will hire a spiffy writer to come in and mop up. On "The Rose" I got rewritten by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bo_Goldman">Bo Goldman</a>, two time Academy Award winner. He did some really good stuff (along with an uncredited <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bruce_Vilanch">Bruce Vilanch</a>) and now, thirty plus years later, I can no longer tell who did what. But the Guild can.<br />
<br />
I rewrote the legendary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terrence_Malick">Terence Malick</a> on "The Dehon Brothers." He was so pleased with my efforts that he changed his name on the movie to David Whitney. And then fifteen years later, he rewrote me on some movie I can't remember the name of. Maybe "Great Balls of Fire." <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Sharp">Alan Sharp</a> and I rewrote each other many times. Keep in mind, I have never met any of these people. But the Guild had.<br />
<br />
The line between so-called success and failure is thin, twisty, and fades in and out. Especially in show business. If you get real close to it, you can hardly tell the difference between a home run and a strike out. Because longing is an actual currency in Hollywood.<br />
<br />
If they're rich, they don't have quite enough. If they're on a roll, they have nightmares about the next two being failures. When folks would ask the great 40s director <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Preston_Sturges">Preston Sturges</a> what he was doing, he would tell them he was "between flops."<br />
<br />
Hollywood rookies' complaints sound indistinguishable from the high rollers: the biz is in the hands of idiots, there is no justice in This Town, he couldn't direct a two car funeral and he gets a goddamn Oscar, we got so screwed by being put in the wrong Emmy category (hey, waid a minit, dat waz us!). Why is it only tentpole D.C. and Marvel movies get green-lit?! We are poor little lambs who have lost our way, blah blah blah.<br />
<br />
And, truth to tell, I was often a soloist in this choir.<br />
<br />
Yet, I was ever grateful to have a job. That became a calling. That miraculously morphed into a career. I thought I would be forever lost. But somehow... somehow I was found.<br />
<br />
Right up to the present moment wherein I recently got word that a rock and roll movie I worked on (see posting #15) back in the Pleistocene Era finally came together with some producers that 20th Century Fox trusted enough to begin work on a Broadway-bound musical. And magically, wonderfully, we are all still inspired by two wildly talented women at its original heart: star<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bette_Midler">Bette Midler</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amanda_McBroom">Amanda McBroom</a> who wrote the timeless title song "The Rose." Of course, "many a slip..." but still.<br />
<br />
A young, very smart woman I knew once described life as just things coming in and things going out. To me, that about nails it. And with that, I bid you farewell. Because -- for a while -- this is your Chow Puppy thing...going out.<br />
<br />
But as always, he is probably watching TV and thinking happily about Show Biz: the very cat litter box of our hopes and dreams.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-26452371026510058622017-04-23T18:03:00.000-07:002019-02-28T19:32:57.300-08:00#29. The Bad Dog phone call...<br />
#29. The Bad Dog phone call.<br />
<br />
According to his biographers, John J. Nicholson grew up in New Jersey thinking the woman who raised him was his mother. Turned out to be his grandmother. And his "Older Sister?" His mother. His father in that odd mix? Who knew?<br />
<br />
In his early twenties, Jack Nicholson wanted to make it big in Hollywood. But in the era of Tab Hunter and Rock Hudson, his singular looks and sideways talent weren't an immediate fit.<br />
<br />
So he bounced around in early TV westerns and the Roger Corman stables, learning to write, direct, and act for the camera. Many of those cheapies are memorable because of Nicholson. And when he finally did <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Easy_Rider">"Easy Rider,"</a> with that million dollar smile, overnight George Hanson became a made man. Fonda, Hopper, and Nicholson: Jesus Calhoun, what's not to love?!<br />
<br />
When I met him, he had already racked up <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Easy_Pieces">"Five Easy Pieces,"</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carnal_Knowledge">"Carnal Knowledge,"</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Detail">"The Last Detail"</a> ('I <b><u>am</u></b> the Shore Patrol, motherfucker!'), <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinatown_(1974_film)">"Chinatown"</a> and had just finished shooting <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_Flew_Over_the_Cuckoo%27s_Nest_(film)">"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."</a> With these hits, he became the biggest movie star in the world. No one else was even in second place.<br />
<br />
He was living with Angelica Houston (who he called "Toots") up in the Hollywood Hills at the end of a short driveway off Mulholland that was known as Bad Boy Lane, the drive servicing just two houses, his and Marlon Brando's.<br />
<br />
Jack had a dog, some kind of Lab, one of many over the years, apparently all named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guinn_%22Big_Boy%22_Williams">Guinn "Big Boy" Williams</a>. He also had a semi-permanent houseguest named Helena who was nowhere near as friendly as the dog. His best buddies back then seemed to be <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warren_Beatty">Warren Beatty</a> (who he called "Maddog") and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bruce_Dern">Bruce Dern</a> (known as "Dernsie"), legendary Ur screenwriter <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Towne">Robert Towne</a>, and maybe his agent Sandy Bresler upon whom he relied for much.<br />
<br />
Another of Jack's friends was Scott, a nervous New York hipster who was in all the meetings. Scott Farcus was charming, smart, and had the dead eyes of a cobra.<br />
<br />
Jack had bought the film rights to a Don Berry historical mountain man novel called <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/501831.Moontrap">"Moontrap."</a> Turned out Farcus would produce this project.<br />
<br />
I don't know how I got the job -- these guys weren't exactly my homies -- but with some John Ptak agenting magic dust, I did. In the Nicholson biographies, I was one of the faceless writers who "trooped in" on the project. Jack had enough bread, used carefully, to finance the script versions. I am not at all sure where on his road of troopers I was, but mamma, the deal closed, the check cleared and suddenly I was working with Randal P. McMurphy!<br />
<br />
Up at Casa Jack, we smoked a lot of dope, made a lot of plans, and rode the high-flying talk to movie heaven. At first.<br />
<br />
But after one extended afternoon of surefire weed and wonder, that evening I perused my screenplay notes and absolutely could not make sense out of a single item. It looked like scrambled ideas over-easy with a side of onion rings. From then on, I stuck to Winstons, coffee, and soft drinks. Former one-meeting-mentor Sam Peckinpah would've been disgusted with ol' Bob. The problem, as we continued working, was this new way allowed me to see -- in real time -- our collection of "Moontrap" ideas was still an inchoate mess. The spirit was willing but the brains seemed to be AWOL.<br />
<br />
These days were well before I encountered <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syd_Field">Syd Field's "Screenplay</a>" so I was mostly thrashing around on caffeine, excitement, guess-work, and outrageous dialogue. And whatever movie I had just seen. It was enough to keep me employed but not to do very good work. I could've used ol' Syd's unwritten book trying to unpack that mountain man's saddlebags and bedroll.<br />
<br />
Finally I came up with a treatmenty-outline from the novel that didn't make too many eyes roll. "Go get 'em, Wild Pup," said Jack. He was addicted to nicknames too. Okay, John J, I said, gathering up my notes and heading for the door. On my way out, Helena gave me a deep scowl as she turned away.<br />
<br />
What I didn't know was <i>that</i> would be my best day on the project.<br />
<br />
At home on my trusty Selectric ll, everything seemed to misfire. At that early point, I hadn't yet learned the 3X5 outline card trick, hadn't learned about cutting all the pages out of the "Moontrap" paperback, copying them on large format paper leaving plenty of room for notes and ideas, and crucially, hadn't learned the three act paradigm that Syd Field made so famous a few years later.<br />
<br />
Everything I wrote looked bad. I'm pretty sure every writer has these moments, at least that's what I kept telling myself. I'd look at the scene from the book. Then, at my scripted version. My cat Tector could have done a better job.<br />
<br />
With that, my cat stopped as he sauntered through the room. "That's right, I could! But I'm not going to. Because you're a bad dog."<br />
<br />
It bottomed out for me one afternoon when I saw a Writers Guild screening of the Robert Redford memorable <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeremiah_Johnson_(film)">"Jeremiah Johnson." </a> Um, maybe a little <u>too</u> memorable, I had seen it when it first came out, but this time I was shocked at how similar our two stories were. And how alike our dialogue was. I thought I'd been recycling my own from my first unmade script for Warner Bros., "Clay Allison." Which is embarrassing enough, but it turned out it was way more John Milius and hardly any Chow Puppy.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I had already turned in the rough first draft because I was still young and dumb and apparently hadn't learned the immutable lesson: do NOT EVER turn in "rough" material because <u>everything</u> in Show Biz is an audition. No one really wants or knows how to read anything but your very best offering. And then, only maybe.<br />
<br />
That's when I got The Phone Call. In all my days, including the ones since, I have never heard anything remotely like it.<br />
<br />
Producer Scott Farcus was screaming. There was no prelude, no small talk, he was already at the E above high C. Apparently, he'd seen "Jeremiah Johnson" recently, too. Oh oh. He put together excoriating insults like King Lear's storm scene rewritten by the "Bad Santa" guys. For minutes he howled on until he finally stopped and said, "well, aren't you going to say anything, you fraudulent hack asshole?!" <br />
<br />
"I think you have the wrong number," I said and hung up.<br />
<br />
I immediately called my agent in a blind panic. I was in trouble. I had brought it on myself. I was utterly lost and terrified. What could I do about this? "J.P., what can we do about this?!"<br />
<br />
"Take your phone off the hook and wait an hour," he said. "Then, call me back. I'll reach out to Farcus. Is it really that bad?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
About the longest hour of my young life.<br />
<br />
I called my agent back. Against all odds, he had somehow made it better. When smart people in Hollywood 'reach out,' amazing things can occur. Upsides are illuminated, some form of reason is seen, the famous Favor Bank is alluded to. I can't remember the gory details, but I took my leave of "Moontrap," keeping the start money but relinquishing everything else.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, Puppy," J.P. said. "Live and learn. We'll get you another job. And Farcus promised not to call you back."<br />
<br />
About fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. "You no talent dildo," said Scott Farcus and hung up. I never saw or spoke to him again. <br />
<br />
I sent a dozen red roses up to Nicholson's dog Guinn 'Big Boy' Williams and called it a day. Jack went on to cinematic immortality and I went on to the stories in this blog. Don't get me wrong; I'm dead flat happy about who got what. Especially when I pulled that draft of "Moontrap" out of my files last week and had a look.<br />
<br />
Oh, me. Bad dog. BAD DOG!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-80023317754941492912017-03-09T16:39:00.000-08:002019-02-28T16:49:23.328-08:00#28. Legal World, legal hell. <br />
#28. Legal world, legal hell.<br />
<br />
A little less than half way through my time in Hollywood, it came to pass that I got Tar-babied in a thirty million dollar lawsuit against Universal Pictures. Ill prepared and quaking, I was forced to enter...dom dom dom...<b>Legal World.</b><br />
<br />
I had written a script called "Frat Rats" with producer <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_V._Hart">Jim Hart</a> (one of my favorite guys), a wild ass comedy about college fraternities. Into this 117 page flaming rubric, we had shoehorned every ridiculous moment, every outrageous event we had ever heard of or experienced in our checkered four year different college careers (although mine took nearly five). This testament was never going to win us a Polk Award although maybe a poke award wasn't out of the question...because while many readers found it ludicrous and semi disgusting, they also found it funny.<br />
<br />
I had some early but minor heat from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rose_(film)">"The Rose"</a> (Fox had just cast Bette Midler in the upcoming film) so "Frat Rats" was making the rounds. Jim and I took meetings at various studios -- one being Universal -- trying to set the project up for development.<br />
<br />
Maybe a year later, Universal released their fraternity blockbuster <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/animal%20house">"Animal House"</a> they had made for under 3 million which went on to gross 141 million, one of the most profitable studio films to that point. Jim and I instantly knew that our "Frat Rats" was dead and if we continued to tart it around, folks would think we were pathetically trying a coattail run for a straight-to-video slot. So we packed up our Selectrics and stole back into the night.<br />
<br />
Jim (a fountain of ideas) and I (a slow drip of idea) had come up with a new story anyway. It was to be a script about a lovable Dallas swindler named Eddie Bud Newhaus and the Texas-Oklahoma football game rowdies which, as we put it together, often made us laugh so hard we literally fell to the floor. Turns out, I would follow Jim's laughter any place.<br />
<br />
Lame, I know, but fun.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along in here, Jim heard that his former executive producer had contacted his firm of attorneys because he felt like Universal's "Animal House" had somehow ripped off "Frat Rats." I never paid much attention to all this; many people in Hollywood are either suing each other or are planning law suits or are, at the very least, talking about them. Law suits and tennis are two of Hollywood's favorite sports.<br />
<br />
Then, one day it hit -- huge headline and front page story in Daily Variety. "Universal Sued For Thirty Million." Below in slightly smaller headlines, "Animal House gnawed by Upstart Frat Rats." Or something like that.<br />
<br />
And our names were shot through the Variety article, followed religiously by everyone in town. Suddenly people who'd read "Frat Rats" began to tell us about the 'similarities' between our script and Universal's, now this megahit.<br />
<br />
I didn't know what they were talking about. "Animal House" had become a pop cultural touchstone but all I could think about was how we were going to keep Eddie Bud 'alive' until the end of our new script. Finally we decided on a hotel bathtub full of room service ice cubes. And this was all before "Weekend at Bernie's."<br />
<br />
Eddie Bud may have bought the farm but "Frat Rats" lived on. Because apparently in America, anybody can pretty much sue anybody for anything. And once it starts moving, slowly but inexorably, it has its own engine, fuel, drivers, passengers, and destination. Whether it'll ever get there is up for grabs...but it's on its way.<br />
<br />
Oh shit, oh dear.<br />
<br />
The last thing you want said about you in that town is that you are litigious. On so many levels, far deeper than truth, it's the kiss of death. Your phone goes into cryonic slumber. And I didn't want anything to do with this lawsuit.<br />
<br />
But it was too late. Because once these things start, until it's heard by a judge, stopping or even turning them is like driving a huge 69,000 ton displacing supertanker doing 20 mph. You spin the wheel like mad (yelling panicked things you learned in submarine movies like "Right full rudder! and Reverse ahead stern!") and about a half hour later, the bow slowly begins to inch around.<br />
<br />
Then came the phone call ushering in one of the worst days of my life. I was being <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deposition_(law)">deposed</a>!<br />
<br />
We met the next day in some huge law firm's conference room. I was early, heart slamming so loud I started apologizing to people who looked at me like I was mental. As it got closer to 9, the room began to fill up. I recognized my attorney but who were all these other stern-faced suits? Keep in mind this was light years ago and I was dressed in my semi-cowboy drag; I had shined my Tony Lama boots, combed out my ponytail, and put on a decades old tie.<br />
<br />
As someone once said, "There is a Mark in every room. If you look around and can't find him...it's probably you." That morning, Chow Puppy's first name turned out to be Mark. And all those drill-down cadavers were Universal's lawyers, massed and out for blood. I looked at my lawyer and swallowed hard. He stifled a little yawn. The only advice he had given me was to tell the truth.<br />
<br />
I will describe, as best I can, the flashing moments that I recall. It was so scary, humiliating, so racking that, at times during the long, long day, I actually thought I was having an out-of-body experience. Or they had lapsed into some arcane language I'd never heard.<br />
<br />
My lawyer and I sat on one side of the long table. No cameras but several recording devices and a stenographer taking it all down. And we started rolling.<br />
<br />
Is your name Chow Puppy?<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Are you from North Carolina?<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Were you in the Dog Marine Corps?<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Did you go to the UCLA film school?<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Are you now a screenwriter?<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Were you a writer with Jim Hart on a screenplay called "Frat Rats?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Well, I thought this isn't so bad. They're asking questions that I can at least answer. And it was beginning to have a kind of comforting rhythm. I looked over at my attorney whose face was in a beam of morning sun. His eyes were closed and I thought maybe he was mind-reviewing our defense. Until I saw his mouth drop open a little. My guy was asleep.<br />
<br />
Mr. Puppy for reasons best known to yourself, I see you decided to show up today in costume.<br />
<br />
"What?" And then came the question that is verbatim.<br />
<br />
Are you primarily known in this town as a hack writer?<br />
<br />
"WHAT?!"<br />
<br />
That was when I realized it was not only Universal lawyers but those representing "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Lampoon_(magazine)">National Lampoon"</a> which apparently gave birth to "Animal House" concept. And suddenly it seemed like a slow motion feeding frenzy. My attorney finally seemed awake.<br />
<br />
This was <b>Legal World </b>and their phalanx of lawyers began to list every problem, real and imagined, that producers, studios and networks had ever had with me. All dialogue, no structure. Late on deadlines. Contentious, whiney, and funnier-looking than Bobby Blue Bland's hair!<br />
<br />
Where had they come up with this shit? As they reeled off the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, I hoped my shocked silence might be taken as stoically butch but I knew my twitching red face probably nixed that. <br />
<br />
My attorney finally called for a bathroom break and, just as quickly as it had disappeared, suddenly all the air came back into the room. Their lawyers turned to each other to schmooze about the back nine at Riviera and drink coffee and they seemed almost human. As I blindly made my way to the hall and what I hoped was a bathroom, my lawyer caught up to me. "It's going pretty well, don't you think" he asked as he put his arm around my shoulder.<br />
<br />
"Compared to what: the Manson trial!?" His face tightened as he turned and walked away.<br />
<br />
The rest of the day seemed to last six weeks. Each of their attorneys sharpened their little interrogatories on my face and occasionally my man would object which didn't seem to matter. They kept rolling. Depositions are about the sued grilling the suer until it all becomes a sewer or their office building is struck by a meteor.<br />
<br />
Mr. Puppy, did it take you two tries to qualify with the M-1 rifle in the Dog Marines?<br />
<br />
"Yes. I had bad eyes --"<br />
<br />
Just answer the questions please. And a year later did you wash out of the Naval Aviation Cadet Program?<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
And in 1964 did you crash and burn on the TV quiz show 'Jeopardy?'<br />
<br />
"Um, yes."<br />
<br />
You seem to have a well-worn record of failure.<br />
<br />
"I do?"<br />
<br />
Were you looking to break this cycle with a raid on the overwhelming success of 'Animal House?'<br />
<br />
"Raid? I didn't bring this lawsuit!"<br />
<br />
Just answer the question please.<br />
<br />
The character shredding went on like this until they were through with me about six. They hadn't even broken a sweat; I had to have help getting to my feet.<br />
<br />
When I left and went down to the echoey parking garage (the fuckers didn't even validate), I got into my old Ford Woody and started to cry. I was grateful for the silence but my mind was scrambled by the legal onslaught I had just been though. A kind of public hating.<br />
<br />
When I got home I put on a homeboy <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Marshall_Tucker_Band">Marshall Tucker </a>record, heated a Lean Cuisine, showered and got directly into bed. It was nine and I was completely stove in as "Can't You See" played again and again. Gonna take a fast train.... I think I fell asleep about midnight.<br />
<br />
And for the next three weeks my phone didn't ring once. From five or six calls a day to zero. But the best thing about Hollywood Memory is that it's just about as bad as mine. And on week four, my agent called with a check, two studio meetings and an offer. Like Gloria Gaynor, I had survived.<br />
<br />
Five months later a judge threw the whole lawsuit out. It was over just as quickly as it'd begun. There. Not there. That supertanker had taken a summary judgement torpedo amidships and sank without a trace. "Animal House" went on to successful gross-out legend and Jim and I went on to a frozen Consicle Eddie Bud and the rest of our lives. I have never felt so much relief at being shed of a project before or since.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking about naming my next dog "Starry Decisis." And that is the very last thing I have to say about <b>Legal World. </b>Ever again.<br />
<br />
Or until I actually need a lawyer...which ever comes first.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-15588078429636442082017-02-07T13:19:00.000-08:002019-02-28T16:40:12.214-08:00#27. Our national mania for lists, and mine<br />
#27. Our national mania for Top Ten Lists, and mine.<br />
<br />
I've had some requests about a Favorite Movie and TV list. With the availability of Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, On Demand, and your local library, you will have to go fishing. But it's worth it and that's why these lists are tons o'fun to read, make, and revise. So here is mine, not in any order except the first two, on this day and date.<br />
<br />
Make yours. Tell your friends. Let's discuss. Can there ever be too much talk about movies and TV?<br />
<br />
MOVIES<br />
<br />
Driven by the outrageous talents of Orson Welles and Herman J. Mankiewicz, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citizen_Kane">"CITIZEN KANE"</a>, 1941, is still The One. The mysterious skillionare Great Man dies and a reporter is tasked with finding out what his last spoken word meant: "Rosebud." Poor Charlie. He loved things and even some people but the only way he knew how to express it was to buy them and then slowly crush them. Although there's a lot of yelling from its mostly theatre actors, its big gulp narrative structure and inventive staging rings true for every generation. Even now, it could be the Donald Trump story with Melania as Susan Alexander Kane. And, standing right next to it, is<br />
<br />
"<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Magnificent_Ambersons_(film)">THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS"</a> that Welles made a year or so later. Ambersons was a rich story from Booth Tarkington's book about the multigenerational love and loss we all suffer as a down payment for living our lives. After Welles finshed principal photography, and full of Kane boy-genius success, Nelson Rockerfeller personally proposed a Brazilian 'important' diplomatic documentary adventure (only you can do this, Orson) Welles left the editing of Ambersons to others who promised they'd do it precisely as his detailed notes directed. Suuuure they would. Just as soon as they cut an hour out of it and butchered the ending. Yet, it's still the Two. Because even though he was three thousand miles away on a South American fishing boat, you can't kill Superman.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blade_Runner">"BLADE RUNNER."</a> 1982, Ridley Scott directing Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer, and the exquisite Sean Young from a script by Hampton Fancher and David Peoples. The compleat noir dystopian Sci-fi film, the production design and music score are breathtaking. The story is a mission search for malfunctioning lethal replicant robots who are equally determined <b>not</b> to be "retired." It ends up being about who is a replicant and who isn't. So rich on so many levels, it's Death by Chocolate Upside Down Cake.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawrence_of_Arabia_(film)">"LAWRENCE OF ARABIA."</a> 1962, everyone's greatest work (including uncredited Black Listed screenwriter Michael Wilson); except for maybe the guy who did the putty nose on Anthony Quinn. I am a river to my people...goddamn it, stop looking at my nose! Noel Coward once said if O'Toole had been any more beautiful, they would've had to call it "Florence of Arabia." As you watch it, you will see the matrix of many of the problems in the mid-east. This movie is on nearly everyone's Top Ten...as are the next two.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2001:_A_Space_Odyssey_(film)">"2001, A SPACE ODYSSEY"</a> by Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke in 1968. Open the pod doors, Hal. No matter how many times you've seen it, it always sucks you in and it's still two steps ahead of you. Not many can say that. And thanks to Douglas Trumbull, mamma mia, that Stargate sequence. With his early films "The Killing," "Paths of Glory," "Spartacus," and "Dr. Strangelove" not many have ever gotten to the middle of their career with such walk-off home runs. And these were all <b>before</b> "2001."<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Searchers_(film)">"THE SEARCHERS." </a> 1956. John Wayne and John Ford at their best from Frank Nugent's script of the Alan Le May western novel. Often listed by the top rank of Seventies directors as the movie that influenced them the most. This is the movie you finally understand why John Wayne was more than just John Wayne. And why John Ford is the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chesty_Puller">Chesty Puller</a> of the film world. Filled with great cinematic moments, some of them so sublime your heart will catch in your throat. Especially that last, lonely bookended shot...<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Open_Range_(2003_film)">"OPEN RANGE" </a> 2003, with Kevin Costner, Robert Duvall, and Annette Benning. I also like Costner's "Dances With Wolves" but this one relies on sweep and characterization more than story tricks. And notice that director/producer Costner gives Duvall top billing. This is a great movie with a heart-felt ending.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Exorcist_(film)">"THE EXORCIST." </a> 1973. My wife, the venerable Mrs. Puppy, will not see this movie and I don't blame her. But I still love it. When I got out of that theatre years ago, I had to go home and change my shorts. A real movie-movie by W.P. Blatty and William Friedkin and with wonderful performances from Ellen Burstyn, Jason Miller, Linda Blair, and Max von Sydow. When you are in such trouble you have to call in The Knight from "The Seventh Seal, you know what trouble is. And projectile pea soup will soon be involved.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_Call_Nurses">"NIGHT CALL NURSES." </a> 1972. Only kidding. Yet it's a list of movies; Roger Corman deserves to be on it someplace.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thief_(film)">"THIEF"</a> 1981, by Michael Mann with James Caan, Tuesday Weld, and Willy Nelson. This is a drop dead modern gangster film about a legendary professional safe-cracker with some truly indelible moments. It will remind you of what a great actor Caan could be. Relentless and dark as ten feet down.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Point_Blank_(1967_film)">"POINT BLANK"</a> 1967, by John Boorman from a script by Alexander Jacobs and the Newhouse brothers starring Lee Marvin at his all time best. Count the times Marvin kills somebody in this one. You are likely to be wrong. And you will bless the day you found it, cheap, on Amazon. The younger salesman in the used car sequence is Lawrence Hauben who later co-wrote and won the Academy Award for "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," to my knowledge, his first and last produced screenplay. Ahhh, show biz. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inside_Man">"INSIDE MAN,"</a> 2006, a strong heist thriller with Denzel, Clive Owen, Christopher Plummer, and Jody Foster. It was directed by Spike Lee who, of course, got his possessive credit. But after I saw the movie, I read Russell Gurwitz's script which had EVERYTHING in it, all laid out for him. And I mean everything. Possess this, Spike. Even Woody Allen doesn't take a 'Film By' credit.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gunfighter">"THE GUNFIGHTER"</a> 1950 (by Wm. Bowers and Nunnally Johnson) and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twelve_O%27Clock_High">"TWELVE O'CLOCK HIGH" </a> 1949 (by Sy Bartlett and Bierne Lay, Jr.) both movies with Gregory Peck, both directed by Henry King. The first, a classic American Western with a different take: Fame kills. The second, a WW II bombers-over-Germany film with one of the greatest openings ever. The rest of the movie is about General Frank Savage himself becoming a casualty. How's that for a name?<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singin%27_in_the_Rain">"SINGIN' IN THE RAIN."</a> 1952. As you may recall from earlier, I once told Gene Kelly I thought it was the musical "Citizen Kane." He turned that billion watt smile on me as he agreed and strode down the hall. Moses supposes his toeses are roses...<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bad_Santa">"BAD SANTA,"</a> 2003. My all-time favorite Christmas movie with Billy Bob Thornton and some pudgy little Canadian kid they couldn't have made the movie without. Completely outrageous on every level. Rated R but should be rated Z. No admission unless accompanied by a priest.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moon_(film)">"MOON,"</a> a 2009 low budget, high intelligence clone sci-fi movie with Sam Rockwell, Sam Rockwell, and Sam Rockwell. It was directed and co-written by Duncan Jones, David Bowie's son. If this one doesn't make your heart pound, call the Neptunes: you're already dead.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truly,_Madly,_Deeply">"TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY"</a> 1990. By Anthony Minghella is the British "Ghost," but the better one that packs live ammo. Do not attempt this movie without a full box of Kleenex. The tragically underseen Juliet Stevenson has lost, to an early death, the love of her life Jamie played by Alan Rickman. Her world shattered, the scenes with her shrink are truly painful to see. She has, very tentatively started a relationship with Bill Patterson but it's not jelling. One day, she goes home from work to drink and cry...and finds dead Jamie waiting for her! Oh-oh. From here on out sunlight and humor begins to float her grief away as Jamie keeps turning up the furnace and inviting his dead friends over to watch videos. This is all beginning to irritate her. She just wants to be alone with him. He says tomorrow for sure but tonight they have a triple bill of "Five Easy Pieces," "Fitzcaraldo," and "The Wild Bunch!" Oh, really? With that voice, he probably has a goddamn list of movies... <br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wild_Bunch">"THE WILD BUNCH,"</a> a 1969 turn-of-the-century Western by Sam Peckinpah and Walon Green that is so well acted, designed, and cut, that pretty soon you can smell the road apples and gunpowder because you are actually there. The slow-mo blood ballet at the end is the stuff of legend. But more importantly, it is the movie that gave us Bo Hopkin's immortal line, "How'd you like to kiss my sister's black cat's ass?"<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Zhivago_(film)">"DR. ZHIVAGO" </a> 1965. Is the Russian revolution, WW I, with Julie Christie and Omar Sharif. Man, can that guy suffer. A true David Lean - Robert Bolt epic. I mostly remember the snow, the myriad heartbreaking stories winding together and the huge red star and whistle screaming on Strelnikov's on-coming locomotive at the intermission break. <br />
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<span id="goog_1139829266"></span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_on_Fire_(2004_film)">"MAN ON FIRE"</a><span id="goog_1139829267"></span> 2004. Denzel plays a mysterious broken warrior (his specialty) with the best leading lady of his career: a ten-year-old Dakota Fanning. Ridley's younger brother Tony Scott's hard core Mexican kidnap movie from Brian Helgeland's script has more moves than a monkey on a hundred yards of grapevine. Plus Christopher Walken! Its classic ending leaves not a dry eye in the house.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galaxy_Quest">"GALAXY QUEST"</a> 1999. Directed by Dean Parisot and written by David Howard and Robert Gordon is a loving parody of the world wide "Star Treck" phenomena. With Tim Allen, Sigourney Weaver, and Alan Rickman, this Sci-Fi comedy is about a group of has-been TV actors who troupe from convention to convention to scratch out a living. At the same time actual aliens land on earth to save their own civilization light years away because they think that the cheesy "Galaxy Quest" was a documentary! David Mamet, famous writer and Ur grump, called this a nearly perfect movie. In the end (spoiler alert), both Earth and the Alien world are saved by the show's fans...who are the only ones that actually know how to separate the science from the fiction. Thrills, spills, and laughs aplenty.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salvador_(film)">"SALVADOR"</a> 1986. By Oliver Stone and Richard Boyle with James Woods and Jim Belushi. A truish story about the Washington sponsored terrorism and chaos in Central America. Woods brilliantly plays photo-journalist Boyle, a fast-talking weasel who finally finds a reluctant heart hidden in his double time brain. My favorite scene is Woods trying to make a salvation deal with a befuddled priest in the confessional. Both Stone and Woods were nominated for Oscars. You'll see why.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larceny,_Inc.">"LARCENY INC."</a> Comedy 1942, from a play by S.J. Perelman starring Edward G. Robinson, Jane Wyman, Broderick Crawford, and Jack Carson. Tough guy Robinson as "Pressure" Maxwell gets out of prison with a plan. He has a Manhattan bank robbery in mind; right next to the bank is a tatty luggage store for sale. He will take over the failing business and drill sideways into the bank's enormous vault. Things he didn't count on: the savior soul of his beautiful daughter who wants him to go straight...and the sudden success of the luggage store, now full of customers who wonder what the annoying sounds of the jackhammers and drills are about. They save one of their best jokes for the last shot. Why Warners never remade this hilarious movie is a mystery.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/True_Grit_(1969_film)">"TRUE GRIT,"</a> 1969, the first version with John Wayne (for which he won his only Oscar), Kim Darby, Dennis Hopper, Robert Duvall, and Glen Campbell. This movie, written by Hollywood Leftie Marguerite Roberts from a once-in-a-generation book by Charles Portis, is a language dance of the highest order. "You will think a ton of brick have fell on you." Directed by tough old bird Henry Hathaway; the legend was that on the first day of shooting, Wayne came to the set and announced he had some script changes and he was not going to wear that goddamn eyepatch. With that, Hathaway yelled out to the crew "All right, that's a wrap. Shut it down," and walked off the set. The next day, a very quiet Wayne showed up minus the script changes and wearing the eyepatch. Roll camera...<br />
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"<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zulu_(1964_film)">ZULU,"</a> 1964, by blacklisted American Cy Enfield and John Prebble is an overlooked true story masterpiece of the 1879 Battle of Rorke's Drift in colonial Africa which pitted 150 fortified British soldiers against 4000 Zulu warriors. The epic sweep of this movie gives me goose bumps just to think about. It's Michael Caine's first film also starring Stanley Baker, Jack Hawkins, Suzanna York, and Nigel Green. The music score by John Barry is cripplingly beautiful. In a lull before the big battle, dried blood caking his face, a bewildered young fusilier turns to his Sergeant Major and ask "Why us?" The grizzled old vet simply says "Because we're here, lad. And no one else." The ensuing battle is a thing of horror and glory. They fear to make 'em like this any more.<br />
<br />
And of course "Grapes of Wrath," "The Godfather" 1&2, "Saving Private Ryan," "Alexander Nevsky," "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," "Deliverance," "Seven Samurai," "Network," "Les Enfant du Paradis," "Touch of Evil," "Paths of Glory," "Psycho," "La Dolce Vita," "Alien" 1&2, "The Leopard," "8 1/2," "Tom Jones," "Casablanca," "Breathless," "The Conformist," "Shoot the Piano Player," "How Green Was My Valley," "Jeremiah Johnson," "The Philadelphia Story," "Sullivan's Travels," "Treasure of the Sierra Madre," "Face in the Crowd" "Once Upon A Time In America," and hundreds of others.<br />
<br />
Oh, boy, we LOOOOVE movies! And of course<br />
<br />
TV<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slings_%26_Arrows">"SLINGS AND ARROWS"</a> is a Canadian TV series about the misadventures of a down and out Shakespeare Rep company like Ontario's Stratford only broker and funnier. The hammy targets are easy but the sniping is brilliant. I once did two summers in a Shakespeare rep company (I played, criminally unheralded, half a Siamese twin with John Lithgow in a "Measure for Measure" crowd scene) and "Slings and Arrows" is so real, so funny, it gave me the willies. But the good ones. It was designed to run for only three short seasons; trust me, you will want more.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wire">"THE WIRE"</a> is always listed as one of the top shows in TV history. It was an HBO crime series about Baltimore: dealing with the criminal justice system, education, the port, and the press. Like all great TV, it relies on great casting and writing from David Simon, George Pelicanos, Dennis Lehane, Richard Price, and David Mills -- a typing Murderer's Row if there ever was one. It's a grim portrait of saints and sinners, just trying to make it through to the weekend...you know, when they can take a deep breath. And really fuck things up.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_(NBC_TV_series)">"LIFE"</a> ran for only two seasons on NBC, created by Rand Ravitch and Far Shariat (why the hell didn't my mom name me 'Far Shariat?') It stars Damian Lewis as a disgraced former LAPD detective who went to prison for murder only to be found innocent. His lawsuit against the city settled leaving him a multi-millionaire. He's back on the job with the great Sarah Shahi as his new partner. This L.A. police procedural that is never quite what you think it is. Everybody has troubles, is on the make, running from their past, dealing with betrayal and an endless parade of people who want to destroy them. The whole story is shot through with sly humor and jaw-dropping surprises. Perfect hypnotizing TV. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Plain_Sight">"IN PLAIN SIGHT"</a> was a five season crime show from the USA network about the U.S. Marshal Service working out of Albuquerque. Created by David Maples, starring Mary McCormack and Fredrick Weller, it was a odd view of mid-size city Feds running the witness-relocation program amid their TV turbulent lives. The acting is stellar, the writing exemplary. And nobody left their sense of humor back in L.A. I love this show.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saving_Grace_(TV_series)">"SAVING GRACE"</a> was Nancy Miller's super highway of Holly Hunter. Another cop show, this one on TNT about Oklahoma City and the ultimate redemption of an out of control, driven detective (Hunter) trying to make sense out of the new man in her life: A sixty-year-old angel named Earl played by unforgettable Leon Rippy, wings and all.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_So-Called_Life">"MY SO CALLED LIFE"</a> 1994. This ABC show by Winnie Holzman with Claire Danes and Jered Leto was, during its nineteen episode run, was my favorite. A simple concept done well -- a realistic portrayal of high school kids dealing with love, betrayal, alcoholism, sex, homophobia, bullying, homelessness; you know, just the normal patchwork of teenaged fun. When I wasn't cheering, I was cringing. Once at a real life dinner party, I was seated next to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carolyn_See">Carolyn See</a>, a well-known California novelist. I hadn't read any of her books yet and she hadn't seen any of my movies. So we spent the whole night talking about how much we both loved "My So-Called Life." All the way through desert.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mad_Men">"MAD MEN"</a> was a brilliant, grueling look at who America was in the early Sixties as seen through the Madison Avenue advertising eyes in New York City. Created by Matthew Weiner, careers are made and ruined. Backs are stabbed. Cigarettes are smoked. Way too much booze is drunk. If it weren't so well done, I would've quit after the pilot. But it was and I bet you won't want to leave it either.<br />
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To me, Aaron Sorkin's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_West_Wing">"THE WEST WING"</a> was the greatest political series of all time. Looking back, it was NBC's seven years of Camelot viewed through the smokey fires of what has happened to us since. Again, brilliant writing and casting wins the day; somehow its scope was both narrow and huge, its stories both personal and institutional. Just the best. To see more of Sorkin, check out his series "Sports Night" and especially "Newsroom."<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_L_Word">"THE L WORD"</a> was Ileen Chaiken's nighttime soap opera about lesbians that takes place in West Hollywood (my former home) so I'm in! But even with all the soap in these stories, I totally fell for the characters and the actresses who played them. Especially Katherine Moennig who was Shane. And, again, Sarah Shai. I felt like I was suddenly looking at a world I knew but not exactly. Not really. Maybe not at all. But it turns out there's all kinds of 'knowing.' <br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Justified_(TV_series)">"JUSTIFIED."</a> Love, hate, revenge and sometimes even justice comes to Harlan County. Created for FX network by Graham Yost from an Elmore Leonard short story, starring Timothy Olyphant and Walton Goggins. Who is Walton Goggins? Well, if Warren Oates had hooked up with Meryl Streep, their love-baby would've been Goggins. It was a six season series about the beleaguered U.S. Marshal Service in crime-ridden rural Kentucky. Wound tight with family, lovers, friends, and mortal enemies, this show has it all, including the most lethal Bad Guys ever. And the worst is a woman: Mags Bennett played by Margo Martindale who won an Emmy for it. Her gimlet-eyed weasel son Dickie, played by Jeremy Davies who also won the Emmy, is so horrific that, if he came to my front door at night, I believe I'd just go on and kill him. As my best friend used to say, "No judge in the world..." Especially one who'd been to Harlan County.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Good_Wife">"THE GOOD WIFE"</a> is the brain child of Robert and Michelle King. Taking place in Chicago, it is a brilliant, poisonous mix of law and Illinois politics where the phrase "vote early and vote often" came from. The good wife is Julianna Margulies and her sometimes less than good husband is Chris Noth. This is a soap for the brain while retaining (a lawyer pun, get it?) enough love and humor to keep the concentration headaches to a minimum. The casting is perfect, especially the law firm's beautiful, devious fixer Archie Punjabi. <br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BrainDead">"BRAIN DEAD"</a> is a most unusual mix of horror creepy and hysterically funny, also by Robert and Michelle King, their off season CBS followup to "The Good Wife." I would've loved to hear this network pitch: an alien spaceship crash lands in Washington D.C. and is immediately covered up by the CIA because it was piloted by billions of tiny bugs which got loose and are crawling up the drain pipes and stone stairs all over D.C. and into people's ears while they sleep, rendering them (mostly politicians) brain dead! WHAT?! They only got one soaring season so watch it. But not over dinner.<br />
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Oh, sure, for six seasons PBS's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downton_Abbey">"DOWNTON ABBEY"</a> was gunnel deep in upper class British twits and their long-suffering staff, and sometimes it looked a little like "Upstairs Downstairs" or "Brideshead Revisited" but still it was better than all its elements, created as it was by Julian Fellowes who wrote nearly all the episodes, a Herculean feat. And they saved many of the best lines for the manor's dowager empress Maggie Smith. Of whom, let's face it, one can hardly ever get enough.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NYPD_Blue">"NYPD BLUE"</a> a classic cop show from the early 90s by Steven Bochco, David Milch, and former NYPD Detective First Grade Bill Clark. Many of its early episodes were either produced or written by Emmy winning Ted Mann (more about him later) and a nonpareil staff. It went for 12 seasons with many cast and writing staff changes, and all seemed to be as good or better than the ones "replaced." They found a brilliant whip-pan fast cut format and rode it to glory. Great binge watching but lay in the Cheetos, brother. <br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spooks_(TV_series)">"MI-5"</a> by David Wollstonecraft was called "Spooks" in its U.K. home. This epic (86 episodes) spy series had, to me, the greatest array of cast ever. An embarrassment of riches right down to the day-players. And you could never be sure of continued life either; even though their ratings fell off, some of the best characters disappeared into a deep foreign retirement or all manner of death. More than almost any other series, this one is like a drug; the only way out of it is through it. But it's a great journey when you have actors like Peter Firth and Nicola Walker with you.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_Crimes">"MAJOR CRIMES"</a> started out to be a decent cop show called "The Closer" with Kyra Sedgwick. I never bought her "southern" accent. But it was okay and fairly successful. Then Sedgwick decided to move on. Most of the cast remained but her honcho job was taken over by the wonderfully odd Mary McDonnell and that's when it really got good. On TNT, you can plug in anytime but I suggest going back to its changeover beginning because when Capt. Sharon Rader is cooking, you'll be eating. <br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goliath_(TV_series)">"GOLIATH"</a> is an Amazon eight episode series from 2016 starring Billy Bob Thornton and William Hurt as the creepiest villain in years. Wait for his cricket clicker. Eeww. It's a law show co-created by David E. Kelley who, years ago, did "L.A. Law," "Aly McBeal," "The Practice," "Chicago Hope," and many others. Brothers and sisters, he's back! When you see this kind of story telling you'll remember how much you miss him. Billy Bob alone is worth joining the Prime part of Amazon. Even though this series has a definite ending at episode 8, I pray they go on. Saddle back up Billy Bob -- you're not done yet! <br />
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And of course, "Hill St. Blues" "Maverick," "The Simpsons," "Seinfeld," "Breaking Bad," "Letterman," "The Sopranos," "Frontline," "Cheers," "Have Gun, Will Travel," "Antiques Road Show," "Sex in the City," "The X-files," "L.A. Law," "Howdy Doody" (I had a pre-teen crush on Princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring, sue me), and a hundred others.<br />
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Holy ranchero, we LOOOOVE television. And I'm sorry these lists have way more than ten items. But it's my list and I can have however many I want. The twin engines of my life, I've probably seen more movies and TV shows than you've had hot meals.<br />
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When I'm too old and in a home, come check on me. Please? Even though I will have forgotten your name, I probably love you. So make sure I have a tiny private room, lots of decaf, a small high-def TV and an idiot proof remote that will alternate me from Turner Classic Movies to Bravo to Home & Garden Network to Audience.<br />
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I'll find the football games.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-84585170364823121072015-10-29T14:52:00.000-07:002019-02-28T13:47:53.629-08:00#26. New Glory light-show from UCLA film school<br />
#26. New Glory light-show or the UCLA film school goes rock and roll.<br />
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I'm kind of bouncing around and I'm sure some of you are tired of hearing about The Sixties, yet here I go. It re-birthed music, political dissent, clothing (or lack of it), and an overwhelming wave of Let The Good Times Roll!<br />
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For many of us, it was Scene 1, Act 1 of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll. I dearly loved every single day of it although I quake at its lower depth and lowest chakra Camelot memories...even though I was one of the few of us who did not do acid, peyote, or mushrooms. Back in those days, I still believed in Control and I wanted as much of it as I could grab with two paws and a rake. Dogs don't do well on psychedelics. You could look it up.<br />
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I got to the UCLA film school in 1964; oddly the Sixties didn't really start for me until about 1965 and didn't end until the mid to late Seventies when I finally let it go and got my hair cut. Bye bye, Ponytail. I was a little slow on the uptake.<br />
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It was 1965 and with the early success of the Bay Area rock and roll concerts and the meteoric rise of groups like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jefferson_Airplane">Jefferson Airplane</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grateful_Dead">the Grateful Dead,</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Brother_and_the_Holding_Company">Big Brother and the Holding Company</a>, it was only a matter of time before the Southern California dorks caught that same idea and put on their own concerts. As long as you had the money, the groups would come play. But you better have the agreed upon sum because some of the groups began traveling with Hells Angels who were all too good (then and now) at getting said money. And word soon got around the motorcycle gang's 'pound of flesh' was an actual pound of flesh.<br />
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I was a Teaching Assistant / projectionist in 3H, the film school's ratty old theatre. I worked for Gary Essert who knew Hollywood intimately and was a past master at booking movies for us. Gary could get films that hadn't even been released yet and films that had thought to have been lost for thirty years. He could get work prints, ancient explosive nitrate films (one reel of which went off on my friend Dave), Tracy and Hepburn's personal print of "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner." He once got Charleton Heston's first movie, "Peer Gynt," a 16mm student film the skinny well-oiled hunk had made while a seventeen-year-old freshman at Northwestern!<br />
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Gary and a couple of his better-heeled off-campus friends decided to go into the rock and roll concert business. They would call themselves <a href="http://rockprosopography101.blogspot.com/2010/04/6230-sunset-boulevard-hollywood-ca.html">Kaleidoscope</a>. So they got what they thought were the proper permits, got money promises, set up a business checking account, and began wondering how this badass guy <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Graham_(promoter)">Bill Graham</a> was doing so well in S.F.<br />
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I volunteered myself and a few friends to become Kaleidoscope's light show!<br />
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We would be The New Glory (as opposed to Old Glory; get it, get it?). We would wear American flag shirts (made by our friend and downstairs roommate, Gloria Garvin) and cowboy hats (made by Resistol) with American flag hatbands (made by me). Now having envisaged ourselves, we thought we'd better find out what made an actual light show, giving rise to a tour of dance concerts in the Bay Area.<br />
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To accompany the massive amounts of weed and psychedelics consumed, overhead projectors and large concave glass trays of oil, water, and glycerin with colored dyes were employed. Also Kodak Carousel slide projectors and as many 16mm movie projectors as we could wrangle.<br />
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One of us thought to add a portable pop-pop-pop strobe light blaster which was rumored to cause seizures in some but made everybody look like they were in an old-time movie. Lord, if we'd only had the full color high def <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jGaio87u3A">Mandelbrot fractal zooms</a>! But for us, it was early and rudimentary. Excitement, a willing spirit, and the sneaky ability to kite checks helped enormously...as Gary and some of his cohorts proved daily.<br />
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Our mission finally coming into focus as The New Glory, we began to collect throw-out movies from various film school trash bins. Old editing projects, camera tests, animation experiments, abandoned student films, anything that would fit on a reel and get through a projector: track 'em and stack 'em! We gathered boxes and boxes full. Then Carousels of slides, slides, and more slides; I stuck a few handfuls of my own into a tray, shuffled into the mix.<br />
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We found a company in the Valley that would rent us the projectors, 16mm and overhead, the cables, the junction boxes. In L.A. they had everything. We built a colored light keyboard which, in my mind, would be Thomas Edison great, but in reality was more like Billy Bob Edison, his wastrel idiot brother. Although it did manage to nearly blind Jerry Garcia who apparently was staring at it a little too hard.<br />
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Tim, Dave, Gloria, and I set up a test run someplace, I can't even remember where, but it was a disaster. Fuses blew (remember fuses? We later bought like twenty boxes), projector lamps overheated and blew, we even lost power cords and had to replace them. We were new to all this and it showed. However, the difference between this test run and our first actual light show was night and day. Well, at least night and evening.<br />
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Somehow it had slipped my melting mind: we were not the stars of these concerts, the rock and roll bands were. They were musicians and they'd been working together for years.<br />
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Between the ages of ten and thirteen, I was trying to hide from John Lewis Fisher so I wouldn't get beat up during recess or to get one more first kiss from Nancy Thompson. The musicians were at home, practicing the guitar, the keyboards, the drums. It mattered to them. Cool as we hoped we looked in our American flag cowboy drag, we were just along for the ride and for whatever ooohs and ahhhs we might elicit in passing.<br />
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Here are some moments from that time, as seen by flashing strobe light. Don't have a seizure, okay?<br />
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* The Beatles, either together or individually, were rumored to be coming to this particular concert. This happened every week for the six months of Kaleidoscope's operation and was usually low sparked by a high heel of Gary Essert.<br />
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* The concert venue seemed to change every half hour. There was always some kind of looming disaster about the permits, the Fire Marshal, a bounced check, or a "better" deal afoot.<br />
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* As it became an official Scene, regulars began to appear.<br />
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There was a very young <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rodney_Bingenheimer">Rodney Bingenheimer </a>whose endlessly repeated mantra seemed to be "Whaaaat's happening?!" Rodney would go on to manage bands and become the unelected mayor of Sunset Strip.<br />
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One of the regular dancers, an old soul with great legs, showed up one night with her panties worn over and outside her black tights. She became known as Karen Underpants. We'd heard she ran off with Paul Simon who wrote "Bridge Over Troubled Underpants" for her. The song later went to the top of the charts in a slightly different version.<br />
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<a href="http://www.bisonarchives.com/aboutmarc.html">Marc Wanamaker</a> and Hy Slobodkin, two young guys who found their way to us and became helpful, willing to jump in their car and get us whatever we needed. When the shit hit the fan, they were always ready to pitch in. Marc was blood kin to one of my fave Lefty actors, blacklisted <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_Wanamaker">Sam Wanamaker</a> who escaped the rightwing Hollywood purge to England where he became crucial to recreating Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. When Sam invited a then 13-year-old Marc over to London to hang out, the first thing the old dude did was take Marc out to Highgate Cemetery where he showed him Karl Marx's grave. My kind of guy.<br />
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Outside the various concert venues was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_Man_Fischer">Larry "Wildman" Fischer</a>, a bi-polar paranoid schizophrenic street casualty/musician, hawking his one claim-to-fame, a major label record of his songs produced by Frank Zappa. I always greeted Larry but I confess his clear and present damage made me a little nervous.<br />
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Our first gig was a concert in the Grand Ballroom of L.A.'s famous Ambassador Hotel with The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canned_Heat">Canned Heat</a> (the last band managed by the boys of Kaleidoscope). The Dead and Airplane were then the two hottest American rock and roll bands. The Dead were like heavyweight Joe Frazier in the ring, the Airplane were like dancer Rudolph Nureyev without the tutu; both great but totally different. The light show was good...if you shut your eyes and pretended you were watching the star-gate sequence from "2001."<br />
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A year later, about 20 yards from the concert stage where we were set up, Senator Bobby Kennedy, running for President, was murdered, shot dead by some loser Palestinian schmuck who's mother thought he was so nice, she named him twice.<br />
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We lightshowed some amazing gigs. I lost about 25% of my hearing with the great power blues trio <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Cheer">Blue Cheer,</a> your basic stripped down model of Southern three-chord blues apostates. It was rumored that one of them couldn't read or write. True or not, it didn't slow them down a lick. And a bunch of my hearing went with them.<br />
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We played for our old film school friends, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Doors">The Doors</a> at Ciro's on Sunset Strip. They were just getting started on their mach ten journey. A fuller accounting of this night can be found in the UCLA Daily Bruin, wildly over-written, but you'll get the idea. We had the gorgeous Kim Gottlieb with us that night and for a while backstage, she was afraid Jim Morrison, completely drifted away and impervious to her revival attempts, was actually dead. Four years later, in a Paris bathtub, he would be.<br />
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My first and last solo gig with New Glory was in New York City's Carnegie Recital Hall. Malcolm Terrence, a whip smart ex-journalist from Tucson was in L.A. managing Joe Byrd and Dorothy Moskowitz' band, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_United_States_of_America_(band)">The United States of America. </a><br />
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They had recently been signed by Columbia and to celebrate the release of their first L.P., Columbia arranged for a concert at Carnegie Hall. The little one, to be sure, but it was still Carnegie Hall! The band invited me to go to New York with them and do lights...but this time nothing but film. No overhead sploosh splooshing, no strobe lights, no Carousel slide shows. Just six movie projectors and oversized 16mm reels.<br />
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Columbia put us up in the old Henry Hudson Hotel; in a Sixties slump but friendly to the record company's budget and only blocks away from the venue. One afternoon, I walked over to the rehearsal with Gordon Marron, the band's violinist. Classically trained, Gordon was in hog heaven playing rock and roll.<br />
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We saw a crowd of people gathering up ahead. Gordon, of course, heard the fiddle before I did. He quickened his step and began opening his violin case. As we arrived, the crowd parted as Gordon handed his case to me and started playing along with the street busking violinist. His name was Richard, he was (as they say) famous all over town. He had long hair and wore street makeup that he had not taken around the back of his neck. Suddenly Richard and Gordon were soaring on some familiar piece of classical music, the crowd was enraptured. <br />
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And then, here came the cops.<br />
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"Ahright, Johnnie, nothing to see here, keep walking, let's go, nothing to see here!" One of them was already trying to put the cuffs on hapless Richard. Gordon stepped in. "You probably didn't like the Mozart. I don't blame you; it's too effete. I bet you're a Dvorak man or maybe Samuel Barber!"<br />
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With that Gordon began to play Barber's so well known Violin Concerto. Richard somehow got his fiddle back under his chin and began to play too. The crowd went nuts and, as the cops tried to regain the upper hand, the people began to boo. Richard was lead to a squad car and as the cops were looking around for Gordon, he quickly cased his violin, passed it off to me, and we scurried away.<br />
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It was one of the all time coolest moments I have ever seen. Years later, I read in Newsweek that the the famous busking Manhattan 'starving Julliard student' violinist Richard had retired at 45 and was living in his Miami beachfront penthouse condo...paid for with 20 years of tips.<br />
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The USA concert was a slightly befuddling success: the band was playing live rock and roll, using Moog synthesizers, odd time signatures, electronic stuff so common now but back then, most folks, especially rock and rollers, had never heard of such. And <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Moskowitz">Dorothy's glorious voice,</a> ring modulated, holy ranchero! The band got a good review in The Village Voice. And New Glory Lights were mentioned in passing.<br />
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The last L.A. gig I remember was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Country_Joe_and_the_Fish">Country Joe and the Fish.</a> I loved those guys. And maybe <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Miller_Band">Steve Miller</a>, back in the Boz Scaggs days. Somebody get them a cheeseburger! And I think on that same bill was Hammond organist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lee_Michaels">Lee Michaels</a> and his dervish drummer Frosty. Between those two guys, they had so much hair, you absolutely could not see their faces. But when they did what would become their great hit "Do You Know What I Mean," the place went completely apeshit.<br />
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When the gig was over, about 2AM, we packed up and went home, totally exhausted spiritually and physically. Mental had taken an earlier train.<br />
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Our ears ringing, we were covered with sweat, cooking oil, chemicals, dyes, and I don't know what all. We stopped at the laundromat down on Lincoln Blvd. and threw all our clothes into a couple of washers. I may be combining two events here but I think my buddies went home and I stayed, fascinated, watching the wet, soppy clothes go around and around in the smooshy rhythm dancing soap bubbles. Look at that. Finally, a light show.<br />
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Since I was alone, I turned off most of the laundromat's overhead lights, shed my Levis and skivvies and tossed them in. Then, my socks. In the ensuing quiet hour, few cars drove by outside and no one came in. I was so tired, I didn't even have a cover story prepped. Now, in the dryer, the clothes were rolling and tumbling. Made me think of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taj_Mahal_(musician)">Taj</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muddy_Waters">Muddy Waters..</a>..<br />
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The sun was coming up as I got home. But you know, anything for rock and roll.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-32175308905045652292015-09-12T13:05:00.000-07:002019-02-28T13:22:49.493-08:00#25. "Van Nuys Blvd," barely baked. And Wolfman.<br />
#25 "Van Nuys Blvd," a barely baked idea. And my weekend with The Wolfman.<br />
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Many years ago, this wild hare idea of mine was taken up by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burt_Sugarman">Burt Sugarman</a>.<br />
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Burt was a well known hot music/TV executive with a whole floor of the 9000 building on Sunset. This was the same building in which former Monkee <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Nesmith">Michael Nesmith</a>'s mother sold a little product she invented called Liquid Paper (later White Out) which corrected typing mistakes. I used it for years; we all did. It was the triumph of a good idea. A secretary herself, Momma hawked it floor to floor. She later sold the company to Crane or someone for nearly 50 million.<br />
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My story was to be called "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Van_Nuys_Boulevard">Van Nuys Blvd</a>." after a well-known teen-age cruising street out in LA's San Fernando Valley. Under the influence of "Animal House" and "American Graffiti" I had a mob of half-baked characters: One guy had invented a gadget, a crossover TV remote that would change stop lights to green.<br />
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Another had a hotrod built around a WWII P-38 Allison V-1710 supercharged engine.<br />
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There would be prom hijinks under clouds of marijuana smoke, you know, real high class stuff like that. The two lead narration characters were AM disc-jockeys, one guy a perennial favorite, old and tired at 37, and the new hot babe from New Orleans who was eating his lunch in the ratings.<br />
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Burt Sugarman was the creator and executive producer of the long running network rock and roll show, "Midnight Special." He was married then to dynamite blonde actress <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Wayne">Carol Wayne,</a> a frequent guest/target on Johnny Carson's show. Burt knew the music of the day and the men and women who made it. His Rolodex was fat with all their names, addresses, and private lines. By itself, it would have made an excellent 'McGuffin' plot device. "The Heist Of Burt Sugarman's Rolodex!"<br />
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Burt thought it would be a good idea if I spent some time with the hot DJs in L.A. All he had to do was make some calls (he was a maestro at Phone) and soon I was in with <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1239558/bio">Humble Harve</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B._Mitchel_Reed">B. Mitchel Reed</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hudson_%26_Landry">Emperor Hudson, </a>three of the hotties of the day. I spent a few hours with Harve and then he just dropped out of sight, taking humble to a new level. However, a week later it broke that he murdered his cheating wife Mary Gladys and was now wanted for more than personal appearances and light yardwork.<br />
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I did some shifts with other jocks and began to learn the system of record rotations, rack jobbers, under-the-table favors, cash and otherwise and, most importantly, how to keep talking long after you had anything interesting to say. I learned about radio's one unforgivable sin: silence...Dead Air (a title if I ever heard one). I learned that some jocks read aloud from a record's liner notes as if they had just thought of it themselves, that a lot of this hypnotic jabber was fueled by happy drug Dexamyl greenies. Thinner and a fast tongue, what's not to love? Babe.<br />
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I was always waiting to meet the actual rock and rollers but Burt kept me well away from them. They were his. The one celebrity he gave me turned out to be good enough. It was his "Midnight Special" singular voiced announcer, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolfman_Jack">Wolfman Jack</a>. Who had already starred in "American Graffiti."<br />
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Burt arranged for me to accompany the Wolfster on one of his many public appearances; this one, the New Jersey State Fair. We flew out early morning from LAX, first class and all, to Newark. Travel with the Wolfman was unique. Everyone loved him, they felt they knew him, and that he must know them, too. This was a part he played brilliantly. In just a couple of words, a sentence or two at most, he fulfilled them and kept them moving. I asked him how he did it. "We're bound by time and rock and roll. Besides, I like people," he said. "Kinda."<br />
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When we alit from the limo at the N.J. State Fairgrounds, we were met by a team of Clipboard People who had the whole day planned out, down to the minute. Wolfman plugged into them immediately and deep. He was theirs and he made sure they knew it. "They pay the freight, they get the goods," he whispered to me and we were off.<br />
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Wolfman announced the bake offs. Wolfman hawked for the carny Side Shows. Wolfman announced the Any-And-All-Dog-Contest, Wolfman manned the 4H table, handed out the ribbons, got a standing-O when he left. With no script or notes, he announced everything they dragged him to, never at a loss for words or quips. It was a stunning performance. Then there was the looooonnng line at the Take A Picture With Wolfman Jack! And oh, God how they did. His charm and patience never flagged; he was he gravel-voiced Energizer Bunny.<br />
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When we got a little coffee break, I asked him how and why he did this. He smiled. "You'll see, Chow Puppy. You will see." <br />
<br />
I think the highlight for both of us was when he got to present the headline act of the day: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southside_Johnny_and_the_Asbury_Jukes">Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, </a>who for years had been New Jersey's own hard core white boy blues band. Until that pesky Bruce Springsteen came along. But it was early, Bruce wasn't quite The Boss yet and Southside Johnny was still cookin'. We had a great evening of music and Wolfie kept the show moving. The band and the huge audience loved it.<br />
<br />
When the night was over and we were about to climb into the company limo for the airport, an official handed Wolfman a brown paper shopping bag. They said their goodbyes with a manly pelvis-held-safely-away hug and we got into the Lincoln. "I'll call them and tell them you're running a little late." Okay.<br />
<br />
Wait...what?<br />
<br />
On the red eye flight home, Wolfie opened the paper bag and began to count his money: banded packets of well used tens and twenties. "You always want night flights," he said. "Half the seats are empty, they're grateful for the business so they treat you good." On this night, they actually held the plane for him. And when he boarded, me bringing up the rear, the whole plane broke into applause. As he talked, he never stopped counting. Until he did. "How much," I asked. <br />
<br />
"I drifted off at thirty-five grand. There was more. For one day's work. I do ten or fifteen of these a year. Is this a great life or what?!" He reached into his hand-carry bag and pulled out a can of Lysol. He upended it into the paper sack, clamped the sack shut around his hand and sprayed for a full five seconds. "Germs," is all he said.<br />
<br />
That task complete, he washed down a 'lude with some champagne, dropped to the floor on his knees -- what the fuck!? -- as he turned toward the seat, he draped an airlines blanket over his head and flopped down, asleep.<br />
<br />
Okay, by now, you know the drill: way too often I go and see all these cool things and write the script about something else. We should've done a documentary about Wolfman. I should have written a movie about Michael Nesmith's mom and the White Out: Talk about a generous, inventive and empowered woman! And we probably could've gotten a Monkees soundtrack out of it. Hell, they made a whole movie about the guy who invented the intermittent car windshield wiper. Or at the very least, I should've done Humble Harve and his gone wife. We could've called it "Dead Air!'<br />
<br />
But oh, noooo. I had to stick with my stupid idea about the kids and disc jockeys of Van Nuys Blvd. And folks, that script dead flat sucked. Even my cat hated it.<br />
<br />
Burt Sugarman, wherever you are in deep retirement and married now to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Hart">Mary Hart,</a> you are still king of the machers. And I am utterly and forever sorry.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
What makes a hit?<br />
<br />
Oh, God, if they only knew. Every few years, certain movies break out; The Little Engines That Could. They come from nowhere, fighting through the shit storms of indifference, poverty, and fear. Yet somehow they get made, get a limited release, and find an audience. Some hits are bad, some are good -- it doesn't seem to matter. They just spoke to people.<br />
<br />
This is where the William Goldman quote from his 'Adventures In The Screen Trade' shines brightest. <b>"NOBODY KNOWS ANYTHING."</b><br />
<br />
When I was starting out in 1970 (Jesus, does the calendar actually go back that far?), it was a movie called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_(1970_film)">"Joe" </a>starring Peter Boyle and a very young Susan Sarrandon in their first roles, directed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_G._Avildsen">John Avildsen </a>who went on to direct "Rocky" and most of the "Karate Kids." Written by the bizarrely great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Wexler">Norman Wexler</a> (see earlier MGM pitch story) and made for only $100,000, "Joe" grossed over $20,000,000 for the goniffs at Cannon.<br />
<br />
A few years later, there were the Charles Bronson revenge blood-bath <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_Wish_(film)">"Death Wishes."</a> Coming at a time when our national crime stats were out of control, these movies gave lines around the block a simple tough guy approach that completely satisfied...if you didn't look to closely. Like at the movie itself or the U.S. Constitution.<br />
<br />
Then there was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Big_Fat_Greek_Wedding">"My Big Fat Greek Wedding," </a>Nia Vardalos' theatrical memoir licence to print money. And later anomalies were from 'documentarian' Michael Moore and movie star Mel Gibson. Imagine dinner with those two.<br />
<br />
Moore's docutainment <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fahrenheit_9/11">"Fahrenheit 911"</a> was made for 6 million and grossed 222.5 million. As for Gibson, he decided to put up his own money, 30 million, when all his fair-weather buddies passed on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Passion_of_the_Christ">"The Passion,"</a> his hard-core Jesus movie. Then, four-walling it across the world, he ended up making over 612 million. Think anyone saw that coming?<br />
<br />
These movies may yet eclipse <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blair_Witch_Project">"The Blair Witch Project,"</a> a simple film about rage and Tarantino & Avary's masterpiece <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulp_Fiction">"Pulp Fiction"</a> considered the most profitable films in history. They didn't follow the normal success formulas. They blazed their own staggering trail to financial glory, leaving us mystified but happy.<br />
<br />
"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" Well, The Shadow, of course. But after him and all the way down, a screenwriter does. Because every one of these movies came from one. Including Michael Moore who, on "Fahrenheit 911," functioned as a screenwriter as ever a writer did.<br />
<br />
And Sparkie, I love screenwriters! The good, the bad, and the ugly.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-91381645863361726882015-08-28T18:43:00.000-07:002019-02-28T13:06:45.646-08:00#24. The Baked, the unbaked, and the half-baked.<br />
#24. The baked, the unbaked, and the half-baked.<br />
<br />
Here are some half-baked folk sayings that I love but have only the dimmest idea of what they could possibly mean.<br />
<br />
1. "You can't tell which way the train went just by looking at the tracks." Phillip Browning told me this one and I love it. But wha?<br />
<br />
2. "She cuts a wide peel on a small potato." Chester on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gunsmoke">'Gunsmoke' </a>from local accordionist and Alaskan long haul truck driver David Locke.<br />
<br />
3. "Be careful what you're dreaming. Soon your dreams will be dreaming you." Willie Nelson.<br />
<br />
4. "Everything is going in the wrong direction..." Jagger & Richards from The Rolling Stones' song 'Connection.' I know what they mean. I think.<br />
<br />
5. "Eat Death!" Graffiti spray painted on a Dallas overpass. Say what?<br />
<br />
6. "I don't always understand what I'm talking about. But I know it's right." Mohammed Ali.<br />
<br />
7. "Time is a ruthless and hungry lover." Printed without attribution on the inside of a book of matches.<br />
<br />
8. "Civilization is like sour mash whiskey. Too big a dose the first time could put a man off it for life."<br />
<br />
9. "When the heart is full, the mouth is shut." Um, actually, I think we all know what this one means. Even if we almost don't.<br />
<br />
10. "Am I dreaming or did I just see a gorilla and a beautiful dame?!" from the 40s movie <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mighty_Joe_Young_(1949_film)">"Mighty Joe Young" </a>that can be used unsuccessfully in almost any situation.<br />
<br />
11. "You have to get off the porch if you want to run with the big dogs." A bumper sticker seen in Langley.<br />
<br />
And while we're on baking in general, here was my business card, set up in perfect screenplay format, complete with Courier type:<br />
<br />
EXT. 2808 LAUREL CYN PL. LA, CAL. 90046 - DAY<br />
<br />
Screenwriter CHOW PUPPY comes staggering out.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>CHOW PUPPY<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(dramatically)<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anybody else want to talk<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>'story?!' Call (213) 650-1628.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Inside a producer lies dead, shot through his Upmann<br />
cigar. Oh oh.<br />
CUT TO:<br />
<br />
Someone once told me she saw my card on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_Polanski">Roman Polanski's</a> refrigerator door in Paris. Success enough for moi.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Here are a few stories from some of the scripts I either invented, got hired to write, or joined in progress. The reason I mention them at all, is that some of them were okay, a few were awful and one or two were pretty good. But all of them held joy or heartbreak in their typing adventures.<br />
<br />
And, except "Little Richard," they went nowhere but kept me and a small number of others employed for a while. I'll finish this with rock and roll's great architect <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Richard">Richard Penniman.</a><span id="goog_507019236"></span><br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
It's right there in the Hollywood Bible: Man cannot live on development fees alone. Although I gave it a good run. With the three main TV networks, all the cable companies, the Studios, and the various independents, at any one time, there must be thousands of scripts in actual paid development.<br />
<br />
In bedroom or studio offices, in garages, in living room corners, on dining room tables, in coffee shops, there are hundreds of writers hammering out screen or teleplays of all kinds.<br />
<br />
They are based on original ideas, other scripts, novels, plays, true stories, history, even songs. I was once approached by a producer who had the rights to Jimmy Buffett's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaritaville">"Margaritaville." </a> As a recently realized alcoholic, I thought it better to stay away from that one.<br />
<br />
As we all approach our own third acts, I heard somewhere that Buffett was considering a national chain of old-age retirement homes under the Margaritaville banner. I envision a battalion of sloe eyed old hipsters wandering about in their flip flops, stepping on pop tops, looking for their lost shakers of salt.<br />
<br />
I was always waiting for someone brave to come forward with the rights to Van Morrison's <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=t.+b.+sheets">"T.B. Sheets." </a> Now <u>that's</u> a scary song; U-tube it.<br />
<br />
In this process, meetings are held, notes are given, agents hammer out the deals, checks clear and the writers start typing as, in opposite directions, they all sail away on different boats to the mystic shores of Development Hell.<br />
<br />
As these scripts progress all over town, favorites rise and fall, project rabbis come and go, zeitgeists are caught and fly away. And even though many screenwriters make their living in this land, not enough of these projects ever come to fruition.<br />
<br />
It's like a plethora of Hollywood marriages; long term often means boredom and exhaustion. So it is with script development. The longer a script is in this process, I believe the more remote its chances get at ever being made. It's too easy to rewrite the life right out of a good story.<br />
<br />
Knowing when to stop is a gift.<br />
<br />
As my novelist friend <a href="http://www.whidbeylifemagazine.org/judith-walcutt/">Judith Walcutt</a> has pointed out, there is a wild pony strain of childishness in Hollywood. We know time (especially our own shelf life) is short -- so eat dessert first! Part of that dessert is more paid projects, num.<br />
<br />
Say a writer wins an Oscar or an Emmy. And has a genuine hit. And does a big TV interview show and charms everyone (hey, it could happen!). At this point, the writer and his agent set him up with three or four more projects. Wherein the writer will take the necessary meetings to show his best tricks. And then, one of the dirty little Hollywood secrets makes its first appearance: the writer will hire several of his unemployed writer friends to lay down a first draft. The hot writer will then rewrite and polish it until it looks like his. Or enough.<br />
<br />
The principal writer got, say, $350,000 for a first draft and two sets of revisions. Although I never got this kind of bread, most do now, if not more. He or she will pay his friend $10,000 under the proverbial table. This is frowned upon by everyone except the two dancers and yet is one of the hidden economic tenets of screenwriting.<br />
<br />
The second writer gets no credit, is virtually unknown by the production team if it ever gets made, and gets no residuals. Maybe he gets to sneak his high school girlfriend's name for one of the minor characters. But with this unreported income he was able to pay the rent and put food on the table or get caught up on child support. No small achievement.<br />
<br />
Anyway, this is how I remember script development and here are some of the stories it generated for me.<br />
<br />
"BUFFALO MAN"<br />
<br />
The first script I ever wrote; it came to me like a radio-active dream when I was in the UCLA film school. This was in the mid Sixties when our movie ideas seemed to come in little flashes, mostly made up of rock and roll (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Country_Joe_and_the_Fish">Country Joe and the Fish's</a> "Section 43" was a universal favorite), cars, girls, half naked and otherwise, cars with girls in them. And more rock and roll. But suddenly, I had this idea for a Western. Where the hell did this come from? It was 95% fictitious and was this:<br />
<br />
Famed buffalo hunter Joe Victory Smith was selected by Teddy Roosevelt to put down the last buffalo, celebrating the moratorium in 1900. Only three things stood in his way -- Runs at Night, a Lakota Sioux war chief, an old enemy. Time. And finally, the old buffalo hunter's dormant conscience.<br />
<br />
Soon this idea possessed me and I bought every book on the history of buffalo hunting in American I could find. There're more than you'd think. Then I began work on it without ever having seen an actual screenplay. Not one. I just wrote as if I was describing the movie in my head, minute by minute. I think my dialogue even had quotes marks around it.<br />
<br />
I showed the first 30 pages to Colin Young, the film school's director and it generated an idea. He knew I loved the films of director <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_Peckinpah">Sam Peckinpah,</a> ex-husband of Marie, one of Colin's secretaries. And apparently Sam was in an unemployed Hollywood slump after the well publicized problems generated from "Major Dundee," a cavalry picture with Charlton Heston. This was well before "The Wild Bunch." Lots of us movie geeks at UCLA were early to Peckinpah's party. "Ride the High Country" still makes me cry.<br />
<br />
So Colin set it up; Sam would get some sort of honorarium to mentor this film student and we would meet up in Trancas to work on "Buffalo Man." Sam, behind in rent, alimony, and car payments, took me on without having read my 'script' first. I later learned this was a lifetime pattern of his. He couldn't stand to be out of work even for a day. If you got him at the right moment, he'd sign up for the start money to write and direct a laundromat opening. "There's a good idea in there somewhere," he would say.<br />
<br />
Here was my first day with Sam Peckinpah.<br />
<br />
As he opened the door to his rental beach house north of Malibu that morning, he was shorter than I thought he'd be. And apparently my hair was longer than he thought it'd be. For ten or fifteen seconds, we just stood there and looked at each other. He took a slug of his pale orange juice mimosa and told me to come in.<br />
<br />
We sat at a kitchen table in bright sunlight overlooking the Pacific Ocean waves flopping in relentlessly. Boy this was the life. Sam wore shades the entire time. I never saw his eyes. "You wanna drink, Bob?" He called me Bob for the entire time, too. I passed on the mimosa, not having discovered the deadly joys of alcoholic mornings yet.<br />
<br />
"Colin told me you were in the Marine Corps." You could have opened a beer bottle on the lifted lip of his sneer. "I was a World War II China hand. What were you, a hippy Marine?"<br />
<br />
"They didn't have them yet," I said. "So I just waited it out. I couldn't fly a plane, I couldn't shoot the M-1 rifle, I didn't want to carry the base plate of the 81mm mortar, and I hated Parris Island. I thought the Marine Corps was your basic Big Green Dildo." Which at least made him laugh.<br />
<br />
"You were a Marine," he said. "Now, let's talk about 'Buffalo Man.'"<br />
<br />
So we did for the next two hours. And I learned a lot. Unfortunately, fifty years later, I can't remember hardly any of it. Except this: write better...but less. And this, too: even though you're the guide, let the reader (and viewer) find their own way into your story. It will mean more to them.<br />
<br />
"There's a good idea in there somewhere. Call me when you get more pages and want to meet again," said handing me a little slip of paper at the door. His phone number. "And you gotta start drinking, Bob. Writers drink."<br />
<br />
About a month later I called him. The number had been disconnected. The next day I read in the "L.A. Times" Calendar Section that he'd gotten a new picture and was on his way back to Mexico. I never saw him again.<br />
<br />
Twenty years later, I finally wrote a full draft of "Buffalo Man." Then, again. And again. Maybe someday I'll finally catch it, maybe not. So here's to you, Sam, wherever you are. Even though you're long gone, Bob salutes you.<br />
<br />
"IDAHO"<br />
<br />
When I reread my script years later, "Idaho" is one that works. As improbable as the story was, somehow it works. Oh, if I could have just gotten a few more to think so.<br />
<br />
I can't remember whose idea it was; probably a joint-custody job but I jumped on it like a Kardashian to a tanning bed. Its genesis was from the early Nineties, growing out of the pre-Tea Party lunatic fringe's idea to take Idaho (ever a haven for the Good Ideas of the extreme right) and secede from the union. For a while, the movement was led by a bemedaled retired Army Lt. Colonel gasbag named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bo_Gritz">Bo Gritz</a>. While his true history is somewhat suspect, the power of his personality is not. I thought, wow: <b>movie</b>! Because...there's a good idea in there somewhere.<br />
<br />
We got a Canadian company working out of Showtime to finance the development and a research trip to Idaho and northern Montana where there had been recent unrest with the Militia of Montana and some federal officers. For a while in the 80s and 90s, these survivalist nut-cases were on the news every couple of weeks, sometimes with fatalities. The killings at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruby_Ridge">Ruby Ridge</a> were a true believer's nightmare. One of life's enduring mysteries is why some people court death so religiously. And so it came time for me to go see what was up there.<br />
<br />
I flew to Seattle where I met my girlfriend and future wife Paula. We rented a car and headed east together across the Cascades into Idaho never-never land.<br />
<br />
There are great and grave differences between being a screenwriter and a reporter, skilled at interviews. A few like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Simon">David Simon</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cameron_Crowe">Cameron Crowe</a>, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_Dexter">Pete Dexter </a>have done both well. Me, not so much. But over the years, I pretty much learned how things in life work. I mean it's not exactly a secret. So within those holes in the narrative give and take, I just make shit up.<br />
<br />
A long time ago, I interviewed black revolutionary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eldridge_Cleaver">Eldridge Cleaver</a> for the L.A. Free Press. He told me some wild story involving <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angela_Davis">Angela Davis </a>that dropped my jaw; the one where she hides a small handgun in her towering Afro. I asked him if it were true. He smiled and said, "If it ain't true, it ought to be!" I took this rubric directly into my bloodstream, where it remains to this day, the pulse of fiction writers everywhere. <br />
<br />
For years, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandpoint,_Idaho">Sand Point, Idaho </a>has been known as Copville. Hundreds of retired police officers have lived there, many from the LAPD and other southern California law enforcement entities. It is a stunning town on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille. In the late 80s and early 90s, nearby Hayden Lake was the home of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aryan_Nations">Aryan Nation Brotherhood</a>. The northern panhandle of Idaho and the Northwestern tip of Montana was free range to so called patriots of the reddest stripe. There was always cracker-barrel talk, some in jest, some not-so, about secession from the union.<br />
<br />
I thought northern Idaho was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen. The same with Montana. It all seemed like a reality tinged Lake Wobegone. Only nicer.<br />
<br />
We pushed on to the little town of Noxon, Montana. A few years earlier, it had been featured on a CBS "48 Hours" when some of the townies'd had enough of the recently formed all white paramilitary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Militia_of_Montana">Militia of Montana</a>. In a TV-covered demonstration, a beloved local school teacher named Joyce Coupal had called out one of her former students, <a href="https://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/intelligence-report/2001/once-popular-patriot-leader-john-trochmann-now-leads-%E2%80%98mail-order-militia%E2%80%99">John Trochmann, </a>a retired snowmobile mechanic who was now the grand poobah of the Militia. Their face to face set-to, seen by millions across America, was both hilarious and touching.<br />
<br />
I immediately called her.<br />
<br />
We drove up to Joyce's house in the middle of apple pressing time; she put us right to work. The interview could wait as we were recruited to several hours of serious farm/orchard labor. The Coupals insisted on putting us up in their guest room and after a few hours watching us carefully, her advice was that we should definitely get married. As soon as possible. Our time in these haunts were filled with such hi-def moments. One of which was a breakfast meeting with "Colonel" Rick Rackley, Minister of Information of the Militia, which took place in a classic small town restaurant, its counter filled with home-schooled kids all watching a fuzzy Disney's "Cinderella" on a large screen TV.<br />
<br />
Nearly the first thing Col. Rick said was that his former teacher Joyce was a well known commie which then opened his conspiracy gates to the entire left-leaning education system in America, not to mention the U.N.'s black helicopters, the Jew-run media, the new Denver airport where we would all be collected and disposed of in the vast new luggage system whose slots were body-sized, doncha know and he had rock solid proof that the NAACP were all slavering leftie mud-people. The only thing that stood between their chaos and utter ruin was the Second Amendment, its guardian the NRA, and misunderstood groups like his.<br />
<br />
During his deadly eyeball-locking rants, he kept urging us to "read his lips." After he left, Paula pointed out that, ironically, Col. Rick was one of those guys who had no lips.<br />
<br />
After more interviews, more meetings, I was chomping to start writing. I had scenes and characters constantly loping through my mind. Most of them had lips.<br />
<br />
So I started to work. And somehow -- mirabile dictu -- it kept getting better. But one's own opinion is just that. And just when I thought I had it as good as it could get (still do), I turned it in to Showtime and Alliance Films. God I was happy.<br />
<br />
Subsequent events can best be described in the following manner.<br />
<br />
It was like the Coyote in the Roadrunner cartoon: in full chase, catching up, closer, closer then suddenly he freezes and looks around. He's over the edge of the cliff! And then,<br />
W<br />
H<br />
O<br />
O<br />
O<br />
S<br />
H<br />
straight down, finally disappearing into a tiny cloud of dust in the bottom of a deep canyon. Who knows how, who knows why? It just IS, brother and somehow, like the immortal Chuck Jones cartoon, it seems understandable...if not exactly right or fair.<br />
<br />
So bye bye Idaho. <br />
<br />
"LITTLE RICHARD"<br />
<br />
I'm not sure, but I think there has never been a more beloved, a more important rock and roll icon who was gay and a childhood cross dresser to boot than Little Richard Penniman.<br />
<br />
Maybe, generations later, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freddie_Mercury">Freddy Mercury</a> of Queen.<br />
<br />
One of the many differences between them was that Little Richard was there in the beginning, one of the inventors and absolute monarchs of rock and roll. Plus which, in those days, there was virtually NO acceptance of this kind of sexual behavior. I mean in those days, if you started that ol' shit, there'd be someone in the back of the crowd, looking for a rope.<br />
<br />
He was, as his song sings, "Tutti Fruity." And since I first saw him in concert in Greenville, South Carolina in 1955, he was mesmerizing. All us white kids up the balcony were invaded by a wild-eyed demon spirit that night. So much that some of us were actually lowered onto the main stage by our friends so we could dance with the all black audience.<br />
<br />
Little Richard was a pioneer, a rock and rollin' beautiful little bad ass. He was a wild-eyed revolutionary funster of the highest order and once you surrendered to his down bound train, you were NEVER the same. I became Uncle John, as in "Long tall Sally, she built for speed, she got erry-thing that Uncle John need, oh, baby..."<br />
<br />
So I read all the books, all the articles, talked to all the people including Richard, all the while playing his records, night and day and night again. And do you know, I never got tired of them. <br />
<br />
I loved <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Richard_(film)">this script</a>. I got everything I wanted in it. And then some. As it passed from hand to hand going up the necessary but harrowing executive food-chain, the reaction was the same: Great script, let's cast it and go! For a while my stock was rising again. Ahhhh.<br />
<br />
Then, it hit the last guy in line, the president of the company, a thin, handsome guy in a five thousand dollar baggy suit who thought it was maybe pretty okay. But nothing more. "Who can we get to rewrite this thing?"<br />
<br />
This was the last news I heard from the studio for a year until I read they were making the 'new version' with Leon as the eponymous rocker. I was happy I ended up with a 'written by' credit along with the New Guy but was still so discouraged that, shamefully, it was ten or fifteen years before I could actually watch it. One morning reading my beloved "TV Guide," I accidentally saw it listed on B.E.T. and, what the hell, recorded it.<br />
<br />
Holy Kazinties, it wasn't half bad! Most of my stuff seemed to be still in it and Leon was great. In the end, I got paid, had a good time writing it, re-heard a lot of great music, and like the best of life, the bad memories were washed away by the immortal incantation of --<br />
<br />
"A wop bobba loo bop ballew bam boom!"<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-91141652040713141412015-06-29T16:13:00.000-07:002019-06-30T12:07:34.918-07:00#23. "Lakota Woman," what they want and 8 Simple Rules<br />
#23. "Lakota Woman" -- What they want and don't want -- And 8 Simple Rules for success.<br />
<br />
Recalling The Billionaire, the Academy Award winning Actress, and the Indians. Starring <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=ted+turner">Ted Turner</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Fonda">Jane Fonda, </a>and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Brave_Bird">Mary Crow Dog.</a> Featuring <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0094396/">Lois Bonfiglio</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Pierson">Frank Pierson</a>, and a Chow Puppy. Not exactly in this order but you want to lead with your good-looking, big-bucks people.<br />
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Ted Turner is a hero, my benefactor, and will one day be known as Film's savior for three initials: TCM. That's Turner Classic Movies where they show great old movies without commercials (at least so far) and uncut all day and all night! To me, this is one of the great exhibition achievements in film history. And let's face it, he's lots better looking than Louis B. Mayer, David Selznick, Harry Cohen or pretty much any projectionist who ever lived. He's Clark Gable to their Charles Laughton.<br />
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I also found Ted Turner to be bratty, narcissistic, and always in a hurry.<br />
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He'd had his eye on Jane Fonda for years. So when she and hardcore lefty politico <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Hayden">Tom Hayden</a> split up, the Tedster swooped in, all tall, grey, and handsome with the following portmanteau -- He's rich -- He scrubs up nice -- He is a good ol' boy with an adventurous spirit -- He (unlike Georgie Minafer from "The Magnificent Ambersons" which ran on TCM last night) can actually captain a racing yacht to win the America's Cup -- He's progressive and generous; he gave a billion (with a 'b') dollars to United Nations' direct-to-the-people programs back in 1997.<br />
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One of the best things he did, brought us together for a short time; Ted and Jane, America's Fun Couple of the Nineties, for a little while in search of an available screenwriter. Pledging 40 million dollars, Ted had set up a series of programs that would run on his TV network about the plight and heroism of the American Indian to be called "The Native Americans, Beyond the Myths and Legends." Well...maybe in <b>addition</b> to the myths and legends.<br />
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They would start off with movies about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geronimo">Geronimo,</a> the great Shawnee warrior <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tecumseh">Tecumseh,</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crazy_Horse">Crazy Horse</a>.<br />
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It's my theory that part of the energy that brought this project to fruition was a non-fiction book that Ted and Jane had encountered called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lakota_Woman">"Lakota Woman," </a>a memoir by Mary Crow Dog with Richard Erdoes. This is one book that CAN be judged by its cover; a haunting picture of Mary, taken when she was young and beautiful. That one picture drilled me dead and still does. I think it's one of the reasons the book has been in print so long.<br />
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Turning that book into a Turner movie fell into the capable hands of Jane Fonda and Lois Bonfiglio. Lois was the one I saw most often. And I love that woman. Lois is from New York, in her middle years, a strong cookie with an arrestingly beautiful punim (and I am a face man), a great sense of humor, and a deep work ethic. She had toiled on the Sergio Leone masterpiece "Once Upon A Time In America," plus "See You In The Morning," and "Old Gringo."<br />
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I'm sure we must have met in Hollywood before we made the deal. But my first memory of our meet was in Santa Fe where Richard Erdoes lived. I believe Mary Crow Dog was there at Richard's house, too. Years, children, and troubles later, Mary looked nothing like the cover of "Lakota Woman." Life is harder on some than others, I'll leave it at that. And I was just discovering what the Res was like; the hard scrabble ass-end of existence.<br />
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This country is not exactly famous for its generous treatment of the vanquished. It's a known fact that you can take an American flag and fold it in such a way that, when held up to the light just right, it says Hooray For Us -- Fuck You. What with the mysteriously intentioned Catholic Church, the corrupt and self-serving Bureau of Indian Affairs, and Seagrams, the Indians never stood a chance.<br />
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This was our charge with "Lakota Woman:" show it. So we began.<br />
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Mary Crow Dog grew up a multi-race Sicangu Lakota Sioux on the Rosebud Reservation in barren, wind-swept South Dakota. Her autobiography and our movie showed her childhood up to her twenties as she became involved in the American Indian Movement's occupation of Wounded Knee in 1973. It was political, familial, and romantic. But mostly "Lakota Woman" was about institutionalized poverty and racism in America. As Mary found her way through old family, new friends, and first lovers into the protest occupation of the historical shrine, she let go of the girl and became a Lakota woman. And yet somehow held on to her innocence. She was a unique and powerful human being.<br />
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As I wrote and wrote, I felt that I was on my game because I was doing something that mattered. But as they read and read, so were Lois and Jane and for that very same reason. As we gave and rejected notes on the script, sometimes it felt like a free-for-all tennis match with the Williams sisters and Jimmy Conners. In the end, I think we all made things better.<br />
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And as we went about our business, I learned such interesting things. For instance...<br />
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When you build a house, be sure to put plenty of sound-dampening insulation into the inner walls. Not just the outside walls. When Ted's Atlanta Braves were in the World Series, we all lit back to the Turner spread just outside Atlanta. Lucky Lois got the guest room down the hall and I was given the common wall room next to Ted and Jane's master suite. Here's all I will say about that: they had, at least that weekend, umm, a very active love life. And the Braves won. I'm not saying one had anything to do with the other but....<br />
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Later at a meeting on their jillion acre Montana ranch, I discovered the guest room sheets were high thread count, scented and IRONED! Man, I love ironed sheets. And the guest bathroom had new toothbrushes, new combs, new toothpaste, new razors, new shaving cream, new everything! Apparently Ted and Jane would fly in periodically and their full-time staff would have it all sparkling ready. That staff made, to this day, the best coffee I have ever had.<br />
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I fell asleep that night thinking of the excuses I might invent so that I could just live there forever: I'd had a small, painless stroke and couldn't really be moved -- I was getting the best work ever and couldn't really be moved -- I'd give them free options on anything I wrote for life and couldn't really be....zzzzzzzz.<br />
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After Ted had showed me his <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Bierstadt">Bierstadt </a>painting that he'd paid a million dollars for, I decided this was a unique chance to politely ask a billionaire how much was enough. Ted mused for a second and then said, "I think about this. And what I came up with is Just A Little More."<br />
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Time passed, I kept typing, big wheel kept on turning, Proud Mary kept on burning. This latest fire was my actual life, back in North Carolina.<br />
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For reasons that pass understanding, Lois and Jane stuck with me through the death of my mother and father and the loss of my marriage. They easily could have Force Majeured my weepy sad ass out the contractual door but they didn't. And when my beloved ancient cat Frisco died, that was it. I packed up and moved back to Hollywood. Which was prepping its own little Chow Puppy type surprise for all of us.<br />
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At 4:31 AM on January 14th, 1994, Los Angeles was hit by the North Ridge earthquake. A booming 6.7, it was felt as far away as Las Vegas. Here are some of the things that happened that morning.<br />
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Sound asleep, I was shot out of my water bed on a surfable wave.<br />
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My little Hollywood house on Alfred Street shook and vibrated to its groaning foundation, producing a terrible sound of things coming apart that you never hear until it happens to you. It's all your furniture trembling around the rooms at the same time. It's your dishes, silverware, glasses all doing the St. Vitas Dance. It's pictures falling from the shaking, cracking walls. It's your refrigerator swinging open, disgorging its innards. It's your toilet flushing by itself, over and over. It's your neighbors screaming and calling out to one another in terror.<br />
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I heard the signed Tiffany standing lamp that had been in my family for eighty years topple over, its favrile glass lamp shade shattering on the hardwood floor, 3 inches away from a thick rug that might have saved it. My blood actually ran cold.<br />
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My dog Roxy jumped up on my shaking bed, ducked under the covers, scrambled down to the bottom and trembled against my feet. She had never done anything like that before.<br />
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All the lights were out; Los Angeles was without power. My phone rang. It was a friend back in North Carolina and their morning TV shows had been cut into by the We Interrupt This Program earthquake story. I told her it had seemed like 20 or 30 seconds of a war zone. She said she had to go to work but she put her land line phone down by the TV set, left it on so I could hear the over view of what was now being called The Big One.<br />
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Just as the first of the explosive aftershocks rolled in.<br />
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I am proud to report that neither Roxy or I doo-dooed the bed as we rode out another fifteen minutes of these major tremors and listened to the cacophony of the police and EMT sirens woven into the million howling car alarms set off by the quakes.<br />
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By eight that morning I had swept up all the Tiffany glass as tears rolled down my face. Roxy came over and actually licked some off: salt I guess.<br />
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I called my friend Dee, a knockout widowed paralegal, who oddly had been to every Academy Award show in the last decade and years before had co-invented flavored douches. What's not to love?! I was so glad to hear her voice.<br />
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We drove around until we found a place open for breakfast and then we all, perfect strangers, did the heart-pounding Look We've Come Through data dance as we wolfed down our eggs and extra bacon. It was during my third English Muffin that I remembered my computer was in Santa Monica at the Lakota Woman offices on Montana Ave. Yikes. It had all my research and 3/4 of the first draft stuffed in it!<br />
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When we got there, the Earthquake Police were already slapping up the no entrance red tags all over the rickety wooden two-story. It had housed the offices of the Indo-China Peace Campaign for years and some of its staff were there with Jane Fonda and Lois, all of us stunned to silence.<br />
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I wish I could remember what happened next. All I know is the following day, I somehow had my old Zenith laptop (one of the first) dented and covered with sand and dust. I took it to the hallowed, first-of-its-kind Writers' Computer Store down on Santa Monica Blvd. and had them retrieve everything they could, dump it down on ASCII file discs and then download that onto a brand new Toshiba T-1900 laptop. My heart was doing the 1812 Overture as I opened the first file. But there it was! We were in business. And I went to work on the plow horse computer that would faithfully serve me the rest of my screenwriting days.<br />
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I knew if I could get my script past Lois Bonfiglio and Jane Fonda who had, between them, been dealing with scripts for a combined fifty years, we would have something. <br />
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Eventually, we did. And when they hired director Frank Pierson who hired actress <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irene_Bedard">Irene Bedard </a>to play Mary Crow Dog, we sure enough DID have something. They invited me to casting sessions, on locations scouts, and even to the set out in Rapid City, South Dakota. Frank, a writer to his marrow, had the company treat me like a prince. The production was largely made up of various peoples of color and as many qualified tribals as they could find.<br />
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Some months later, Turner Films held an industry screening of "Lakota Woman" at the Directors' Guild's huge theatre. The place was packed and the movie played well. Of course, I saw all the mistakes I'd made and yet it was still a great night. I felt as if I'd finally done something that counted even though I wasn't quite sure what. But I got a single card "Written By" credit, my very favorite kind.<br />
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While cast, crew, and audience milled around after the movie, congratulating, drinking, and eating, I snuck out and went home. I always thought this would be my favorite part but I never know what to say except "thank you" over and over as my embarrassment rises; pretty soon it begins to sound to me like I'm speaking in tongues.<br />
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Thanks to The Program (which is what us alcoholics call AA), I had stopped drinking some years before. So when this kind of social situation begins to overwhelm, I go home where it's much clearer; just me and my dog and cats and my huge Go to Hell television set bought after my divorce when I finally settled into who I really am.<br />
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Later that year, "Lakota Woman" won a bunch of awards, including one for me. Ironically it was a best screenplay award from the National Cowboy Hall of Fame...for a movie about Indians. Go figure. That bronze wrangler award is on the back of my commode where I happily see it every day. I named him Floyd.<br />
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But my biggest thrill came at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humanitas_Prize">Humanitas Awards</a> luncheon. This is an annual screen and teleplay prize (with cash!) given by the Catholic media mafia. I was nominated. However, we didn't win, swept away by "Shawshank Redemption" and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Burning_Season_(1994_film)">"The Burning Season." </a> But afterward, a golden age Academy Award winning screenwriter Daniel Terradash sought me out to say that as a juror he had voted for "Lakota Woman." Best of all, it was in front of Lois and my new love Paula. That was one thank you it was easy to say.<br />
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****<br />
<br />
WHAT THEY WANT AND DON'T WANT <br />
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For a Hollywood screenwriter to find work and keep it (no small task), comes down to who you are. And just as importantly, who they think you are.<br />
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You have to be at least pretty good and you have to be ON. They want writers who are passionate about their project. They want excitability. They want to see you dance because they want to dance, too. Put yourself in their shoes: If you had the choice of a good writer who is sullen, defensive, and constantly whining -- and an only slightly less good one who is receptive, positive, and up-beat...who would you chose? Unfortunately, I have been there, I know.<br />
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It helps to keep in mind that many of these studio and network execs have no real skills in the business they are running. All they really have is judgement and they are as nervous about that as you are. Although they may call themselves "creative," they would do just as well at Boeing or Coldwell Banker. They probably got their job in the same kind of accidental oddball way as you did. Most of them know this and it fuels guilt and resentment for the true creators who they see as sketchy, unreliable flakes.<br />
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These executives are often over-worked: your script is but one of the many they are shepherding through the smokey fens of development hell. They wouldn't actually mind the writing being good, the story problems being solved but it only means more work for them. And since you created the damn thing, you are the enemy.<br />
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Yet it pays real dividends to be kind to these executives. Even though they are now your gatekeepers and make twice the money you do, in a few years, most of them will be somewhere else or out of the business. They know this. And the life fear this engenders gives rise to a bunker mentality and anger. Whatever you can do to defuse this will not only be decent human behavior but is likely to help your career.<br />
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In the end, it doesn't really matter how brilliant you are if you are sitting at home with no food, a repoed car, kids in a school you can no longer afford, with credit cards that glow in the dark, and the bank calling you night and day in a house you are trying to sell for less than you bought it for ten years ago.<br />
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Back when you were fresh and hot, you know, the bulletproof bad-ass, the new fast gun in town. When you were good, in demand, arrogant, and a royal pain in the ass.<br />
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Things change. And as Bob Dylan said "The first one now will later be last."<br />
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It's all about attitude. Given the equality of talent and hard work, the writer who is open, forgiving, and passionate will usually get the job.<br />
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Believe me, sitting at the Farmers Market over a double latte, unemployed, re-running the part where you told the producer and the development exec to tandem kiss your ass is a soul deadening exercise. Because unlike Mark Twain, you must learn to "suffer fools gladly." And speaking of Twain, you are not allowed to ask an executive (as I cruelly did once) how he could have lived so long and learned so little. In fact, stay away from recycling Twain altogether; he mostly worked alone and was an unhappy hardcase to the end. Plus which, he burned the ground behind him so do not try to stand on it.<br />
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8 SIMPLE RULES FOR A SUCCESSFUL SCREENWRITER LIFE<br />
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1. Learn to sort the good ideas from the execrable without making those who sold you the bad ones feel foolish.<br />
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2. Smile and nod knowingly as others steal and spout all your ideas. The legendary former Governor of Texas <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann_Richards">Ann Richards</a> once said, "You'd be surprised at what you can accomplish if you don't care who gets the credit."<br />
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3. Always be on time...even if they are not. And you should be good natured about the wait. I think the Kindle was invented for this purpose.<br />
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4. You must be empathetic. The shoe could so be on the other foot. And probably will be soon enough.<br />
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5. Your time is their time. You must be willing to work on weekends, at night, on holidays, whenever. What they do with their time is of little consequence to you. Comparisons will only serve to enrage. Your mom told you years ago that life isn't fair.<br />
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6. When they have helped you to death with their notes, when you cannot take any more, when they have fubarred the whole mess, you must tell them. Peacefully and with the greatest equanimity. You are your script's attorney. If you let it go down the tubes, you will be haunted by its failure for the rest of your life. And I am not even kidding. So take a deep breath and calmly make its case, point by point, ending with a positive suggestion about where you might start -- together -- to get this train back on the tracks.<br />
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7. During all these rules or ANYWHERE, do not call attention to yourself; it's the script that matters.<br />
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and most importantly<br />
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8. Keep going. Do not listen to the Bad Judge voices in your head; the ones in your heart are the ones that matter. Fuck those Bad Judges and the horse they rode in on. Nothing worthwhile to say, they are old news. So snap that rubber band on your wrist and just keep going. Keep going. Never stop. And<br />
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Keep going.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-56886786051230893912015-04-30T19:03:00.000-07:002019-02-28T09:33:56.862-08:00#22. A slow tango with Wim Wenders. The Power. <br />
#22. A slow tango with Wim Wenders. And the Hollywood pecking-order of The Power.<br />
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I count <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wim_Wenders">Wim Wenders</a> as a friend.<br />
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But I really have no reason for it except I made him laugh. He is certainly one of the world's great film makers. And I am probably one of the pretty okay writers here on South Whidbey Island. If you give extra credit for the Chow Puppy part. For instance, I know for a fact that National Book Award winner <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_Dexter">Pete Dexter</a> who lives here doesn't have a drop of Chow blood.<br />
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When I first met Wim Wenders, it was only briefly, back when he was married to my friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronee_Blakley">Ronee Blakely.</a> She had just delivered an Academy Award nominated performance for Robert Altman in "Nashville." Ronee and Wim were beautiful, hurtling intensities; reminded me of that early 20s newsreel footage of the two driverless steam locomotives charging toward each other on the same track into a collision.<br />
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Wim and I met again some years later through producer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Taplin">Jon Taplin</a> on an MGM rewrite, an early computer movie called "Trapdoor."<br />
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As I recall the script was already pretty good and I liked Jon, with whom I had done a picture in 1973 called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gravy_Train">"The Dion Brothers." </a> He is a very bright and funny guy out of rock and roll who also knows about world-wide finances, you know, half-caff debenture bonds and barking rollovers and all that stuff. We even heard he got the billionaire Bass Brothers to help save Disney in the 80s. Jon was a loyal friend who always believed in whatever it was I had that I might bring to "Trapdoor."<br />
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Actor <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Reeve">Christopher Reeve</a>, white hot off "Superman," was attached to star. Mostly, he wanted to work with Wim and who wouldn't? As Chris was appearing in Lanford Wilson's "The Fifth of July" on Broadway, we convened in New York mostly working out of my hotel suite.<br />
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Those were good old days (by cracky); first-class days, per diem days, sometimes even creative days. But not always.<br />
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I had been on the road with celebrities before but it was nothing like walking down the street with Superman! Jaws dropped, moon faces whirled in our trail as folks danced around like they had to pee. Chris, ever the gentleman, smiled and waved as we ducked into coffee shop after luncheonette to hide and work. Living in Manhattan for the play, he had become used to it. He said it was mostly the tourists; New Yorkers left him alone.<br />
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To get a New Yorker's full attention, you had to be the Pope or the return of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moondog">Moondog</a> or maybe Broadway <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Namath">Joe Namath.</a> I once saw President Gerald Ford and his phalanx coming out of the Sherry-Netherland Hotel into waiting bulletproof limos and the New Yorkers streaming past never looked, didn't even brake stride. God, I love that city.<br />
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We continued to work on "Trapdoor" even as it sprung its own on us, very probably guided by me. In the end, even with Jon, Wim, and the biggest star in America, I couldn't really find a way to an exciting narrative for this early computer movie. All that remained was for my script to do a beautiful cannonball into Lake Suckorama. Which it did.<br />
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As the old chief says in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Big_Man_(film)">"Little Big Man," </a>Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn't.<br />
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By this time, I had moved to Cape Cod and was about to get married again. And there for a while it was a pretty peaceful run. The marriage ceremony on the Cape in the Christopher Wren church was especially festive. Many of my L.A. friends joined us and the reception was held in our yard overlooking a five acre fresh water Lily Pond.<br />
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Wim came.<br />
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I have two memories of that day. One -- I stood next to the shrimp platter and gorged myself. I figured it was half my day, screw it. That's what I mean about the 'same schmuck.' And Two -- when Wim arrived (he was always taller than I remembered), he was in his red frame eyeglasses and a full length black leather SS coat. He came over and joined us, sitting on quilts out on the lawn. He seemed to do a little spin as he dropped down next to someone's brand new baby whose eyes widened in terror. Her scream popped eardrums for miles. That child is now in her early thirties, likely with kids of her own.<br />
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Around this time, Wim had joined forces with Francis Coppola to direct a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hammett_(film)">Ross Thomas</a> script about detective fiction writer Dashiell Hammett. When we were both back in L.A., Wim called me. He was having a terrible time making sense out of it all. He and Francis were at loggerheads and producer Gray Frederickson had been told to keep people away from Wim so he could finish the script polish.<br />
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But invited, I snuck in.<br />
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Wim looked to be at the end of his proverbial rope. So I gave him the present I had brought to cheer him up; a first edition book of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Le_May">Alan LeMay's "The Searchers,"</a> maybe Wim's favorite Western. And as I was going over my few notes I thought might help, the door blew open and there stood a livid Gray Frederickson. I was immediately thrown out. So I went to Tana's and fell face first into a bevy of margaritas.<br />
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When I finally saw "Hammett," it seemed to me they had not quite answered the main question I posed to Wim that night: "What is this story about?" Oh, well...<br />
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In his next movie, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_State_of_Things_(film)">"The State of Things,"</a> the book I'd given to him was featured as a minor plot point. As the director character lends "The Searchers" to someone he tells him to take great care with this book, it was given to me by a friend. When I saw that, shocked, it brought tears to my eyes. And I don't cry pretty. <br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wings_of_Desire">"Wings of Desire"</a> was a hit for Wim and I thought a wonderful movie. We had flown to NYC for the premiere. I still have the tiny gold feather lapel pin Wim gave me. This trip coincided with my friend Susan Felter's opening at some downtown hot shit photo gallery. She had gone on the pro rodeo circuit for a season with the cowboys and a large format camera. Susan June's work is spectacular; I am looking her shot of legendary bull rider <a href="http://leffewbullridingworld.com/">Gary Leffew</a> that hangs in this office right now. As I remember, Wim -- himself a photographer -- loved them, too.<br />
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Now, we arrive at one of the strangest, saddest moments of my screenwriter life.<br />
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Wim came to visit on the Cape with his exotic French German girlfriend and star of "Wings of Desire" Solveig Dommartin. They were putting a new project together, a science-fiction film, and were talking to writers about joining them. This weekend, it seemed, was my turn.<br />
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Well, thank ya Jesus! Let's talk. So we did. And did. And did some more. And it was great; I was drooling, laughing, crying, dying. I knew this was it, I was ready to start then and there. All in. Right up until the moment Wim said, "Okay, that's the back story. Now the film starts."<br />
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W H A T ?!<br />
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I don't know whether it was the shock of discovering that the hour long 'back story' wasn't a part of the deal or whether it was that the ideas they had for the film did not seem as developed or compelling as the amazing story they had just told me. But I realized that this was not going to work for me and I'm sure they could tell. Because when you are dead flat broke and want to play poker, I'm your mark. Everything I think is writ large on my face so you are going home with all my money and probably my car which is why I don't gamble.<br />
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Mercifully, I cannot recall how this ended. Only that they departed the next day. Soon, I read in the trades that Michael Almereyda was set to write the new Wim Wenders' <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Until_the_End_of_the_World">"Until The End Of The World." </a> In the way of things, it was later rewritten by Peter Carey, Wim, and Solveig who also starred in it.<br />
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I finally saw the movie but even at four-and-a-half hours, I didn't quite get it. And here's the sad part for me. I love Wim, and for a while we wuz bro's, but I am mostly not on his story-telling wave length. Any room he is in, he's going to be pretty much the smartest guy. And for sure the coolest.<br />
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Any room I'm in, I'm barely going to be in it, and can't wait to get out. Wim is an intellectual German film maker, living with his history, far away so close. I was an excitable skateboarding Chow Puppy in a cowboy hat and the only history I got was from books about way back when and somewhere else. The British call this kind of mix chalk and cheese.<br />
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We never saw each other again. Except once for about an hour, years later.<br />
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I was having dinner in a Sunset Strip L.A. restaurant with Paula who would become my last and final beloved. We had just ordered when Wim and his new wife Donata walked in and saw us. The years between sightings fell away in a happy avalanche.<br />
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There were introductions and hugs all around: we had never met Donata, a German photographer and Wim had never met Paula, down from Seattle visiting. Someone suggested they join us so we pulled up more chairs, they sat down, and we started talking, catching up. It was a great dinner. And then it was over and Wim had an appointment somewhere about financing for his new project which might have been <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buena_Vista_Social_Club_(film)">"Buena Vista Social Club."</a><br />
<br />
My default position at the end of most restaurant meals, is that I truly enjoy picking up the check. It's an odd but comforting way to pay forward some of the generosity that has been shoveled out to me, now over a lifetime. But I do like to see what happens when the check arrives. There are so many ways these things can go. You know, the big To-Do; here, let me have that! The Stare Down. The Dueling Wait-It-Outs. The I-Don't-See-anything. The Go-To-The-Bathroom Sneak Away. So many ways and, let's face it, I Am Curious (Puppy).<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it seems I am also Bad Memory (Puppy) so that evening's details are fading even as I sit here. But I did happily pick up the check. As we made our good-byes, Wim headed out to get their car when Donata came close to me and said the strangest, most interesting thing. "Wim must really care for you," she said. "He doesn't usually allow anyone to buy him dinner."<br />
<br />
What?<br />
<br />
Then, with the two-cheek European kiss, she was gone.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Hollywood is a company town. Because of the expense, the power, and the celebrities involved, both movies and TV have a strict hierarchy and a pecking order. So no one accidentally goes out of order, ya know. Counter-jumping is strictly forbidden... unless you are with a star or have a mega-hit in tow.<br />
<br />
Here's how it works, no big secret. Take a look at any of the show biz websites or magazines like the Trades or "Entertainment Weekly," the old "Premiere" or "Vanity Fair's" annual Hollywood issue in which the Fabulous Fifty or the Hot Hundred or whatever are laid out. The Heavy Hitters list. You know, who does what and to whom. I think every business has this, ours has it in spades.<br />
<br />
Those that own the multinational corporations that own the studio or network are at the very top. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bob_Iger">Bob Iger</a> who runs Disney, according to informed sources, pulled down $46,500,000 last year. The average salary of his employees was $19,530, below the poverty level for a three person household. Nice, huh? <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Walt_Disney_Company">Disney</a> owns ABC Network, Marvell Comics, pretty much all of George Lucas, Touchstone Pictures, Pixar, all the ESPNs, theme parks, cruise lines, etc. Check the holdings list. So Bob Iger's probably your top dude. And I hear he's actually a pretty stand up guy.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rupert_Murdoch">Rupert Murdock</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Moonves">Les Moonves</a> (now "retired"), there's five or six of these billionaire machers, all tough, all men, all white, all wildly over-paid. Fortunately, they give some of that money away to charities.<br />
<br />
Then, you have the stars; this generation's usual suspects. The Toms; Hanks and Cruise. Bradley Cooper, Julia Roberts, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Sandra Bullock, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fast_and_the_Furious">Fast and Furious</a> actors who one day will probably be racing jet powered wheelchairs down the halls of the Motion Picture Country Home.<br />
<br />
Then, the producer-directors like Steven Spielberg, Joss Whedon, J.J. Abrams, Christopher Nolan, Clint Eastwood, etc. These are the guys, you know: one phone call, one green light.<br />
<br />
And TV (in a new Golden Age, believe me: I watch more TV than any four people you know) we have the show creators and show runners like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shonda_Rhimes">Shonda Rhimes</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dick_Wolf">Dick Wolf</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Bruckheimer">Jerry Bruckheimer</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_King_(writer)">Robert and Michelle King. </a>Money and power for them is delivered in dump trucks. The Kings and Rhimes actually write and they are extremely good at it.<br />
<br />
Also the great <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aaron_Sorkin">Aaron Sorkin</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matthew_Weiner">Matthew Weiner</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vince_Gilligan">Vince Gilligan,</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Chase">David Chase</a>. TV is where the poor little Typing Lambs finally found their way home. Baa baa baa. "Vanity Fair's" editor Graydon Carter recently wrote that TV used to be for the kids, the movies were for adults. Now, it's the other way around.<br />
<ul>
<li>In Hollywood, while writers are crucial, they are also interchangeable. Sydney Pollack and Dustin Hoffman reportedly used a total of 23 of them (most uncredited) on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tootsie">"Tootsie," </a>a masterpiece comedy. I was one of 12 writers (most uncredited) on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/48_Hrs.">"48 Hours,"</a> a pretty okay comedy with Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte.</li>
</ul>
You wonder why the people at the top spend so much money hiring so many writers. I mean, they seldom ever read the actual scripts. They read something called Coverage. This Black Plague is a two page nasty book report done by Readers, often faceless writer hopefuls, making a living now by hating everything that comes across their desk because it's not theirs and they're not going out on any limb so a big-shot's frown can saw it off.<br />
<br />
Trying to understand in what esteem a script is actually held is a constant struggle. The apocryphal joke is the Producer who lumbers into a studio yelling "I just bought the greatest script ever written! Who can we get to re-write it?"<br />
<br />
Who indeed. <br />
<br />
See you next time, boys and girls, for the tale of the Billionaire, the Academy Award winning actress, and the Indians.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-28051861358477215832015-03-31T11:57:00.000-07:002019-02-28T09:11:16.535-08:00#21. "On the Beach" and the process of 'notes.'<br />
#21. "On The Beach" and the process of notes.<br />
<br />
The greatest and the least; they all start out with a phone call.<br />
<br />
You pick it up, it's one of the agents, those caregivers that brought me into being then tended my working life: John Ptak, Rand Holston, Abby Adams, Pat Faulstich saying, "Puppy, we got a call this morning from CBS <u>with</u> <u>an</u> <u>offer</u> (three of my favorite words) about a miniseries remake of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Beach_(1959_film)">'On the Beach.'</a> Remember the movie with Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner? Stanley Kramer?" Boy, did I ever!<br />
<br />
From 1957, the classic novel was written by Australian transplant <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nevil_Shute">Nevil Shute,</a> one of the early end-of-the-world nuclear sagas that later was made into memorable and very successful movie.<br />
<br />
Scenes from its indelibly doomed love story were flying through my mind. After a world-wide atomic war, American submarine commander Dwight Towers brings his boat to Melbourne, the last of the untouched cities, to assess the situation. America was already a smoldering atomic graveyard. Most of the rest of the world has already died under a massive cloud of radiation or nuclear winter.<br />
<br />
"On The Beach" is that nation's cri de coeur for peace and love in a world gone mad. Commander Towers and his U.S. Navy crew track down a mysterious, intermittent radio signal from Seattle then return to Melbourne to wait out their days. Towers falls in love with Moira Davidson and after years of wartime command, finds peace with her.<br />
<br />
But as the end time draws near, his crew comes to him; they know it's hopeless but they want to go home. His sworn duty is to his men and his boat. In a heart breaking sequence, he leaves Moira and, as she watches from cliffs high above, the last of the sailors drop into the boat from the conning tower. The hatch slams down and the locking wheel spins shut as the USS Scorpion submerges into the Australian Sea, headed back to America.<br />
<br />
It's been nearly sixty years since I first saw that movie and it haunts me still. In those days we were on the verge of the Cuban Missile Crisis, "Dr. Strangelove," Mutually Assured Destruction, "Fail Safe," Peter Watkins' "War Game," and a kind of world-wide fear that bordered on panic.<br />
<br />
The two biggest countries in the world hated us and things hadn't changed much on the morning I got the call from my agent. "Does that sound like a job you'd want?"<br />
<br />
My good fellow, does a cat have an ass?<br />
<br />
The new version would be executive produced by and star <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Strauss">Peter Strauss</a>. In the Seventies and Eighties, he was the king of the mini-series. Check those credits! I mean, please. Right now. Turns out it's not a stretch for Peter to play intelligence, honor, and conflict; he was apparently born with all three. I thought he would be perfect to play Towers. We went to the network and made the deal. So I beat feet down to Blockbuster (remember them?) and bought VCR tape of the movie (still got it) and over to Borders for a paperback of the book and went to work.<br />
<br />
Then, I did something I'd never done before.<br />
<br />
I went to the art supply store in Westwood and bought a large 14X20 3-ring notebook. At Kinko's I had them blow up the individual pages of "On The Beach" to about twice their normal paperback size on large format paper they had that would fit my oversize notebook. When I got home and assembled the device, I had a large print (I hadn't yet discovered what I really needed was glasses) book with room on all four sides to make notes! Such a simple rig did me so much good. Even though, open, it seemed to take up half my dining room table.<br />
<br />
After several read-throughs with the subsequent additional notes, I had enough to go back to Kinko's to make another large format copy to give to Peter. So we could be, literally, on the same page. As I recall we looked at the movie together a few times, too. Once we were pretty well synced, I went to work.<br />
<br />
I don't believe I have ever had such great, inspiring material to work from or a better producer to work with. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Paxton">John Paxton</a> who wrote Stanley Kramer's screenplay, novelist Nevil Shute, Peter and I were all singing this wonderful dream-like song about something we totally believed in: to slow the atomic pulse in an angry world's blood stream, to somehow expose national hatred to healing sunlight.<br />
<br />
This was another of the very few Scripts That Wrote Themselves. Thanks to the aforementioned guys. The originals.<br />
<br />
Since there was no WGA strike looming, I didn't go fast. I tried to go good. The story with its three-and-a-half hour running time had me by the throat. I cannot remember my personal situation during this time; where I lived, was I still drinking, was I married? I'm sure this lapse is no accident. I was completely taken over by Dwight and Moira on her father's sheep ranch, by the American submarine's foray to Seattle to track down the endlessly repeating near nonsense Morse Code signal, taken away by Moira's scientist friend Osborne, blazing down an Australian desert highway in his Ferrari at 140 mph.<br />
<br />
I was floating in warm maple syrup for the months I wrote "On The Beach."<br />
<br />
Wherever I was, I wanted to be at home, writing. Whatever I was doing, I wanted to put it aside and get back to the script. Their story I knew would end tragically but it was more real and somehow better than my actual life.<br />
<br />
But as I was coming down the homestretch on Night Two, things were rumbling over in Russia that would change everything.<br />
<br />
As I recall, Peter Strauss loved the first draft but had some notes. Of which I took every one with only a modicum of defensiveness. Peter lived in Westwood at the time and after the notes meeting, we walked down to the Village for lunch. Peter's two young sons, Tristan and Justin had gone five minutes earlier with Peter's assistant Andrew who the kids loved. Andrew was basically a 6'5" kid himself. I remember thinking as we walked through the Village, that this was what Melbourne might have looked like, right out of the story. We stopped when we saw a crowd gathered at a street corner. "What the hell," Peter said.<br />
<br />
Up ahead, lay Andrew, Justin, and Tristan, flat on their backs on the sidewalk, laughing, looking up at the people, the cars, the buildings. When we got to them, Andrew jumped up and explained that he wanted to show the kids what ants must see as they scurry under our lives. Way up here.<br />
<br />
As we ate our sandwiches and Peter drank a West German beer, there was rumored trouble brewing in East Germany.<br />
<br />
When we turned in the revised first draft to the network, it was like some kind of glory bomb had gone off. It had been assigned as the Weekend Read and everyone had loved it; very rare and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Peter and I were summoned the next day.<br />
<br />
As we walked down the long hall to the honcho's office, everyone came out of their offices to look at us. I know, a large part of it was Peter's Emmy-winning acting fame. He was a genuine celebrity. But, as I dimly remember it, a few of the readers, the assistants, the developers actually began to applaud.<br />
<br />
I have never had anything like that happen. I realized that it was the steel strong timeless story and its creators that garnered that kind of appreciation. We were just its latest interpreters. But still.<br />
<br />
The network and Peter started to make preproduction plans before we were officially green-lit. And the next day, the entire first page of the Los Angeles Times and every other newspaper in the world showed the Berlin Wall coming down!<br />
<br />
"Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" As Ronald Reagan's wish came true, our dream went up in smoke.<br />
<br />
The unthinkable had happened. Peace had broken out. Suddenly in the warm fuzzies of what was now taken to be Pax Eterna, no one could see their way clear to making a mini-series about Atomic War. Very quickly, the Soviet Union was over with a capital "V."<br />
<br />
And so were we. <br />
<br />
As the months rolled into years, we tried to set up "On The Beach" somewhere else. Anywhere else. No thanks. As a movie, no thanks. How about a radio show? Umm, no. And in the end, we had to give it back to legend and the movie god of broken dreams. Both Peter and I went on to other but certainly not better things and as time passed, the sadness began to fade.<br />
<br />
Then, one day, ten years later, I read in Daily Variety that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_Film_Commission">Australian Film Commission</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0178505/">Greg Coote </a>were going to make a 3 hour "On The Beach" for Showtime. After a few calls back and forth calls to my agent, as we understood it, Peter and I would not be involved even though they were using my script to get started. They had hired Aussie <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Williamson">David Williamson </a>to re-write me and as I said before, if you're gonna get re-written, it might as well be by somebody good. And he is.<br />
<br />
They told me they had left all my dialogue from the many submarine scenes. I had a friend, a graduate of the Naval Academy, who'd gone into nuclear subs as a weapons officer. He still remembered all the talk, all the details, all the drill. I milked him shamelessly and gave him my gifted pinball machine as payment. And to their credit the Aussies recognized the reality value when it was presented.<br />
<br />
A few weeks later the trades released the casting on the show: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bryan_Brown">Bryan Brown</a> as Osborne the scientist, okay, I guess I can see that. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rachel_Ward">Rachel Ward</a> as Moira, okay, she's been good before. Then <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armand_Assante">Armand Assante </a>as Dwight Towers, oh-oh. His credits speak for themselves. Finally, the director, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russell_Mulcahy">Russell Mulcahy</a>. Double oh-oh. His credits, likewise. To me, this seemed like simple miscasting in order to get the necessary points to make it an Australian project for financing and tax purposes. But hey, what do I know?<br />
<br />
Later I was informed by the Writers' Guild that I would be getting teleplay credit, second position behind David Williamson so at least I'd get some residuals. I was invited to a huge screening of this new version at the Academy.<br />
<br />
I flew down from my Pacific Northwest island and sat with my friend and "Lakota Woman" producer, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0094396/">Lois Bonfiglio</a>. The Academy Theatre was packed. Lois introduced me to her friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larry_Gross">Larry Gross</a>, also a writer, another good one.<br />
<br />
When he heard my name he asked if I was the guy who wrote "Clay Allison" back in the day (see post #2) . I guessed I was, my very first job, nearly thirty years before. His grin took over as he began quoting lines from that script. I was struck dumb but appreciative and thought maybe it was a sign that things tonight might go better than anticipated.<br />
<br />
Or not.<br />
<br />
It was, as they say, a long, LONG evening capped by a new scene at the end where endlessly mumbling and Method-y Commander Towers abandons his command, stays in Australia with Moira and sends his men home alone.<br />
<br />
Apparently this little change was a mandate from the head of the cable company who didn't think today's audience would sit still for the tragic real ending. He can think what he wants. Here's what I think: he has doubtless done some good things at Showtime. But when he made that decision, he left his heart and his courage down in the trunk of his Mercedes. I hope he remembered to get them back.<br />
<br />
After the screening, I saw Peter Strauss for the first time in years. Utterly crestfallen, we embraced and then, just shook our heads and I went out into the jasmine-scented Wilshire night, alone.<br />
<br />
I flew home the next day. Landing in Seattle, taking the shuttle to the ferry and then the boat across to my island, as I was walking in the door to hug my beloved wife, I realized I had not spoken a word to anyone since I left that screening the night before in L.A.<br />
<br />
It's Hollywood, Jake. Hollywood.<br />
<br />
**** <br />
<br />
ON NOTES...<br />
<br />
The notes process can be the bane of screenwriters' existence.<br />
<br />
Typically, after you hand in your first draft, the producer, the studio, or the network executive and their staffs will call you in for a meeting that always runs an hour longer than anyone thinks. You are dealing with one script. Often the exec is facing forty or fifty so sometimes these folks are unable to focus or express themselves in helpful ways.<br />
<br />
Occasionally they are at odds with you and even each other about their ideas. Mostly, they just want to mark it like an old tomcat so they can feel like they helped out, you know, bringing them into the creative process. Even the most highly paid and successful screenwriters have to endure this. The great <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pauline_Kael">Pauline Kael </a>once described this period as "being helped to death."<br />
<br />
Yet bewilderingly, some of these half-baked, soul crushing ideas will be <b>good</b>. The writers' job in these meetings or at a later date is to recognize which is which, yet seem "open" and reasonable to ALL of it. <br />
<br />
Even the stupid ideas that are not likely to help the script. I once had a studio vice-president suggest we reset my Western in Seventeenth Century Russia. He'd just read coverage of this book, see. As you first hear these ideas, concentrate on your breath -- in, out -- and keep a friendly look on your face and say "let me think about that and find a way to make it work."<br />
<br />
Never say 'no.' <br />
<br />
It's contentious and mostly unnecessary. Because as one of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Good_Wife">"The Good Wife"</a> writers pointed out, "The absence of 'yes' plus time equals 'no.'" Or was it the other way around? Russia? Interesting idea; let me get back to you. On that.<br />
<br />
And all this while you take notes. Nobody will be totally fooled but believe me, this kind of attitude will help. Unfortunately I was often unable to do it: that's why I know. Later, they will not remember 70% of their notes and the few that you used, you will lily-gild while you rain praise around them. There isn't much real world embarrassment in Hollywood. They seem impervious to it.<br />
<br />
So now, you want to rake all the typos and format hiccups out of the script. To me, the easiest way to do this is to read through it, page by page, backwards. Then once more from the beginning to make sure the plot points are there and clear. And that you have done the very best job it is possible to do. If you have any doubts AT ALL, hold the script for another week and do whatever needs to be done. Remember, us Chow Puppies have only one chance to make a good first impression and this is it.<br />
<br />
So, praise the Lord and pass the Milk Bones!<br />
<br />
See you next time for a discussion of Jane Fonda and Ted Turner, America's Fun Couple of the Nineties and their "Lakota Woman." And what I learned about the screenwriter's actual life. You know, some goals to achieve and some pitfalls to avoid.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-69792336005965445232015-03-14T23:42:00.000-07:002019-02-27T10:19:37.012-08:00#20. Teaching screenwriting<br />
20. Teaching screenwriting.<br />
<br />
How in the world did I get so lucky?<br />
<br />
Here's how: I kept going.<br />
<br />
I was the sole operator and caretaker of a wild but mostly mid-range talent in which I found a kind of doggy ecstasy in doing every single day. This alone separated me from most writers I knew. So I figured I'd keep going until The Great Unnamed blew taps to drag my sorry ass home.<br />
<br />
Screenwriting was fun and paid well and gave me a new definition to and for my life. Which, despite my then thirty-five birthdays, two degrees, and a smarter-and-funnier-than-me ex-wife, up to that point had not gone all that well. Until a year had passed with further assignments after Warner Bros. first hired me, I had no idea what to put in the 'occupation' box, filling out forms.<br />
<br />
So in the mid-Seventies, when dynamo Gary Shusett asked me to come talk about screenwriting at his Hollywood Blvd. <a href="https://www.google.com/search?safe=off&biw=960&bih=492&noj=1&site=webhp&source=hp&q=sherwood+oaks+college&oq=sher&gs_l=hp.1.1.35i39l2j0i20j0l2j0i20j0l4.4876.5927.0.10811.5.5.0.0.0.0.137.533.3j2.5.0.ehm_lang...0...1.1.62.hp..1.4.395.0.k3VU809Fyb0">Sherwood Oaks Experimental College, </a>I jumped at the chance. He was known for getting name guests to come and talk. It was something I had never been invited to do and the idea that someone, anyone wanted to hear what I had to say about writing was almost more than I could bear. As I remember, I would be on a panel with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Pierson">Frank Pierson,</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Taradash">Dan Teradash, </a>and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Tewkesbury">Joan Tewkesbury,</a> writing shtarkers of the highest order. They had more Academy Awards than I had ever seen.<br />
<br />
I was the New Kid.<br />
<br />
So on that dias in the huge, crowded room, I didn't say much. I was too busy listening to those three screenwriting legends. But when I first said something, it got a laugh. Gary asked us to introduce our credits. Frank, Dan, and Joan were circumspect, even a little shy but out rolled these Academy Award credits. Christ, you could die and be swept straight into Heaven from just hearing them.<br />
<br />
When it came my turn I said, "This won't take long. 'Hooper.'" Then, I added, "With Burt Reynolds and Sally Fields. We're the one about stuntmen but no Coors Beer truck." Laugh. I sat down. Frank Pierson was doubled over. I'd made a friend.<br />
<br />
Here is what I learned that night. I always had a stage-fright bordering on panic. Until I started speaking about the role of the screenplay in movies and television. I'm sure I looked like a hippie Raymond Burr but I felt like Fred Astaire up there. I was totally relaxed because I was talking about something I loved, something I was interested in. What skills I had were afloat because of the sheer love of that game. And I hadn't even discovered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syd_Field">Syd Field'</a>s book...because, as Syd sat there that very night, he hadn't written it yet.<br />
<br />
Afterward, he came up to me. We had known each other from when he worked as a script reader for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fouad_Said">Fouad Said</a> and, because he was polite and unceasingly friendly, we had always gotten along. "I'm going to write a book on screenwriting," he said. "Hurry," I told him. If I'd only known how much good that book would do for so many, I would have picked him up and shaken it out of him right there. I later learned that during this time, he was dating my ex-wife Julie. Or I might have given him an extra shake.<br />
<br />
That night, I also met <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0291905/">David Franzoni, </a>a young screenwriter from Vermont who was so good-looking, you couldn't believe he was a writer. We're talking <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Benioff">David Benioff</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sebastian_Junger">Sebastian Junger</a> handsome. Over the years David and I formed a small but bright friendship. He told me some of his script ideas, all good, and then he'd work like mad to realize them.<br />
<br />
Through the years he took over my apartment on Sycamore when I bought my little house up in Laurel Canyon. David once fought off a home invasion in that apartment and got shot in hand for his efforts.<br />
<br />
He later set up a Roman soldier script, a classy spear-and-sandal epic he'd been working on, which, after even more work and Ridley Scott, became <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladiator_(2000_film)">"Gladiator" </a>with Russell Crowe, winning a whole raft of Oscars, including one for David! I was up dancing in my bathrobe as I watched my boy on TV that night. Later, I found a script he'd written for Oliver Stone on George Washington that was one of the best screenplays I have ever read.<br />
<br />
That night, I also learned a writing/geography trick from Joan Tewkesbury. Every now and then, she would check into some local hotel to do her writing. The idea was to get away from the phone calls, partners, kids, pets, the daily habits of Hollywood living. There was always something around the house to take your mind off the script. But if you committed to the hotel, it was just you and that room and your typewriter, hammering it out. Every time I did it, I doubled my output. And you got room service and lots of puffy clean towels!<br />
<br />
I came back to Sherwood Oaks as often as they'd have me. But even I had to 'graduate.' It happened the day I got a call from my old UCLA mentor Colin Young who had become the first chairman of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Film_and_Television_School">National Film and Television School </a>in England. He wanted to know if I'd be willing to teach a four week writers' workshop in the Spring. They'd pay me enough to live on in London and I'd be teaching twelve students, five days a week.<br />
<br />
YES!<br />
<br />
And it turned out to be so much fun, I did it every spring for the next four years. Until Colin Young got politically side-swiped by an Academy Award winning British producer who took over. Years before, back at UCLA, I had made Colin a desk sign plate, still on his desk, that said "C. Young. HMFICC." That stood for Head Motherfucker in Complete Charge. When that was over, so was I. Chows are loyal.<br />
<br />
That first day of the National workshop #1 was hallucinatory. I was jet-lagged to the max as I looked around at my students crammed into department head Cherry Potter's office.<br />
<br />
They were from England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Iceland, France, Hungary, and South Africa and the way they looked at me with curiosity and amiable suspicion made me nervous. They appeared to be working class, middle class, and upper class; a week later I discovered I had misread almost all of it. But, goddamn, that first week was fun.<br />
<br />
By this time, Syd had published his book and I bought twenty of them (still have two). When I got to England, I gave each of my new charges a copy. "It's short," I said. "Memorize it." Then I added, "you'll see." Eventually, I believe they did.<br />
<br />
I broke them up into pairs. Those who wanted to work together, would. I assigned the rest. Then, starting at 9AM, I took them two by two, each pair for an hour while I heard their story ideas.<br />
<br />
My method of teaching, such as it is, centers around clawing a strong, clear narrative through an actual story with a beginning, middle, and an end, preferably in that order. Once we got the 3X5 cards started, my role slid slowly from trail boss to cheerleader.<br />
<br />
When you are doing the kind of lonely, creative work that sportswriter Red Smith described as "opening up a vein," it helps to have someone along to tell you how great and brave you are and how well it's all going. Anything to shut those judgement voices up. I had named mine Judge Dread and The Boys and had taken to wearing a rubber band on my wrist; every time I heard them start, I'd reach over and snap that band. <b>Hard</b>. Mary R., my therapist loved that one.<br />
<br />
Back at the National, while we push-pinned Student One's cards up, Student Two and I commented on them to help clear the deck of unnecessary detritus. At the end of a half hour, One and Two would switch places and we'd go again, this time with Two's cards. At the end of the day, my head hurt. Trying to keep one under-construction screenplay in your mind is hard, twelve is crazy making.<br />
<br />
But as they caught onto the flow of Syd's so-called paradigm and reconciled it to their own stories, things got easier. For all of us. I began to get legitimately excited about their ideas and they started to gain some creative traction from my face. If not the actual jumping up and down in joy. I am an excitable pup.<br />
<br />
I constantly checked in with them to make sure we were telling their story, not mine. Every now and then, we'd have to re-box the compass and make a slight course change. Sometimes I can sound like I know what I'm doing; you know, a man, a woman, and a gun.<br />
<br />
Many of my former National Film School students' faces roll around in my memory to this day. Even the most complex of them.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0502727/">Niall Leonard </a>from northern Ireland was, as the U.S. Secretary of State once called poet Ezra Pound, "a difficult individual." And like Pound, one of our most valuable. Young Niall was intense, suspicious, curious, kind, funny, and very creative. I never saw him show fear of anything; maybe it was growing up in Newry. Even though it came with some occasional eye-rolling, everyone loved him.<br />
<br />
And finally, one girl LOVVVED him. A beautiful young woman, Erika Mitchell was the studio managers' assistant at the film school and was as tough-minded and treasured as Niall. Everyone was relieved and joyous at their union. And in fact, are together today, thirty years later. And neither of them will have to go on the dole (British welfare).<br />
<br />
See, Erika is also known as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._L._James">E.L. James</a>. She wrote several books and a movie, a franchise high class stroke-book love story that became a Big Bang zeitgeist: "Fifty Shades of Grey." Such Power-ball lottery success could not happen to two nicer people.<br />
<br />
That first Writers Workshop day, Shawn Slovo's eyes seemed haunted. She was the daughter of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Slovo">Joe Slovo</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_First">Ruth First</a> who were with Nelson Mandela in the early days in South Africa. Joe and Ruth were Jews, Commies, and not inclined to idle bullshit; Joe ran the military wing of the Anti-Apartheid African National Congress and was thrown in prison by the ruling Afrikaans over and over. Finally, Ruth was assassinated with a letter bomb sent by those same right wing assholes.<br />
<br />
Shawn's early life was tumultuous.<br />
<br />
I was told she had wanted to write about her childhood for a long time but had been blocked by the various invisible, catastrophic forces that stop writers now and then. Yet, here she was with a little nervous smile, ready to try again. I had paired her with Sally Anderson, a wonderful poet and wandering empath who ended up being the perfect writing partner at this point for Shawn.<br />
<br />
So I dove right in. "Shawn, you don't know me. But you know Sally and you will be safe with us. Take one of those 3X5 cards. Okay, push-pin it to the upper left corner of the bulletin board. Now, get a Sharpie... good. Remember, these are just the cards, we can always change them. So what is your first scene?"<br />
<br />
She blurted something out. I can't remember what it was, only <u>that </u>it was. And we were off and running. We stalled lots of times, sure, but by the time the four week workshop was over, she had all her cards, all three acts and plot points in good working order. Somewhere, I still have a picture of her smiling proudly in front of that cursed bulletin board displaying her cards.<br />
<br />
I haven't seen Shawn since those days but I know she wrote her screenplay called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_World_Apart_(film)">"A World Apart"</a> and it was made and won a bunch of awards. I don't really know how much of it was from those cards but at the very least I figure we helped break through the log-jam she'd had. Secretly, I think to be of some use to Shawn Slovo might have been one of the reasons I was put on this earth.<br />
<br />
I think of those National students often, of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0087805/">Jo Blatchley,</a> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0543323/">Leslie Manning</a> & <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0907520/">Andy Walker</a>. Also <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashley_Pharoah">Ashley Pharoah,</a> director <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001994/">Michael Caton-Jones</a> and his then-wife Bev, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0362379/">Nick Harding</a>, <a href="http://www.pollydevlin.com/bio.html">Polly Devlin</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gillies_MacKinnon">Gilles MacKinnon.</a> And a whole raft of others. God, I loved those guys.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Some odd moments from my showbiz life... <br />
<br />
<b>Close Encounters of the Kamikaze Kind.</b><br />
<br />
There were once two absurdly talented and wealthy comedy writers. For a while everything they touched turned to gold...until they unearthed this idea: A shell-shocked L.A. cop, two steps ahead of his own scandalous divorce, is demoted to a vice case about a man who reportedly exposes himself on a freeway overpasses to the million cars streaming below him.<br />
<br />
The name of the movie was to be the same name the LAPD calls these perps: "Weenie Wagger." In the end, convoluted but clever, it turns out that the perp is the desperate cop himself. I read this script. It was good. And very funny. Their intention was to star no less than Johnny Carson! And they had the connections to get to him.<br />
<br />
The surprising good news was that apparently Johnny Carson read the script and thought it was hilarious. The bad news was that he reportedly said he would rather have his eyelids ripped off with needle-nose pliers than be photographed even holding a copy of that script.<br />
<br />
The most famous guy in America, Johnny Carson, wagging his dick at a rush hour packed Hollywood Freeway? I don't think so, Sparkie!<br />
<br />
<b>The Gas Chamber.</b><br />
<br />
Back when I was in the UCLA film school, HMFICC Colin Young had 'volunteered' five or six of us to the California State Department of Prisons to do a series of short documentaries about life behind bars. Our first prison visit was to be San Quentin up in the Bay area.<br />
<br />
We caught a dawn flight up and spent the longest day any of us could remember in the prison library, the prison chow hall, the prison guard towers, the prison laundry, and finally, even the prison gas chamber.<br />
<br />
This is what we'd been waiting for.<br />
<br />
The Warden himself led that part of the tour. It had been years since its use, and yet it was cleaned every single day, its corrugated green steel panels were spotless. I recall a vague peppermint scent in the actual chamber. Without asking, I quickly sat in one of the two death seats, ran my hands over the steel arms, the back, the seat itself full of drilled out holes. For the gas that would belch up when the pellets were dropped in the acid below. Icily, the Warden asked me to get up, that we were going into the observation room.<br />
<br />
Once there, we were shown its features; three rows of chairs, the curtained window into the gas chamber and at the back of the room, two rows of risers, one a little higher than the other. What's that for, one of us asked. Then my friend Tim Huntley said, "It's for the choir."<br />
<br />
The corrections officers didn't think that was funny at all. But I saw a little smile on the Warden's face. So far as I know, no movie was ever made and our prison visit was never referred to again. Tim went on to become a prolific and well-regarded film editor. He also wrote a great book on learning to make movies; "Film School, '69," available on Amazon.<br />
<br />
<b> The Battle of the Blues.</b><br />
<br />
Back in the late Seventies, during my few days of A-listery, I worked on two projects for John Foreman and Paul Newman. One was a stock car script I had written, an 'original' about two battling brothers, called "Double Zero."<br />
<br />
The other was a rewrite on a script they owned called "Hillman." It was an odd but interesting story about an off-the-grid guy who lived and worked in a city dump, happily surviving on the stuff that people throw out. For a while I had a lock on two of Newman's loves: car racing and recycling. Paul took to calling me "Hotrod," probably because he had forgotten my name. I was like the four millionth writer he'd worked with in his long career.<br />
<br />
They sent me to Tucson where Paul was shooting a Terry Malick script called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pocket_Money">"Pocket Money" </a>in which he was co-staring with Lee Marvin. When I got down there, I met Paul for lunch. I was totally shocked. He had the bluest eyes I had ever seen on a human, bluer than back in L.A. I kind of remembered them from his early movies, but this was ridiculous.<br />
<br />
We talked about both scripts, I took notes, he signed for the lunch tab. This was when I noticed that he bit his fingernails down to the quick. I also met his brother Art who looked just like Paul but was cue ball bald. However, Art's hands and fingernails were perfect. I was told that he did Paul's hand close-ups.<br />
<br />
The next day, I met Newman on the set of the movie and there was Lee Marvin. They were in the middle of a scene. I believe you know by now, I LOVE Lee Marvin; I mean, "Point Blank?!" And "Cat Ballou?" And even "M-Squad?"<br />
<br />
And there he was...with the laser bluest eyes I had ever seen. Then Paul turned and, Jesus McCravey, his eyes were now even bluer! No one else seemed to be paying any attention but I couldn't get my jaw off the floor.<br />
<br />
Later that night I got the skinny. Paul, a high-functioning practical joker, had gone to a local optometrist, and gotten a series of bluer and bluer contact lenses. But, unknown to anyone, so had Lee Marvin! And it was now the unspoken war of the baby blues.<br />
<br />
I heard later that Lee Marvin finally had to surrender; he couldn't see anymore, and was running into the furniture and grip stands on set. But apparently no one said anything, no victory laps, nothing. Just that in the end, one Blue Eyes remained on that picture. It was enough that the two of them knew.<br />
<br />
<b>"Well, I'll tell you, Phillll..."</b><br />
<br />
I first met <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0592771/">Phil Mishkin</a> back at U.C.L.A. in the Theatre Arts Department. He was an actor, a good one, and very funny. His best buddy in those days was Rob Reiner. This was before Meat Head and his brilliant directing career. They were just Rob and Philly.<br />
<br />
So some years later I was glad to see them again when I got my first gig at Warner Bros. They were there on a writing-producing deal for TV development, a show called "The Super" which actually got on the air.<br />
<br />
One afternoon we were having lunch in the commissary when Phil told me the following story. Earlier that week he had been out running on the UCLA track off Sunset Blvd, famously open to the public. He came upon a familiar figure, pounding laps out on the inner lane. Phil slowed down: it was Burt Lancaster, then in his early sixties, still magnificent. Wow, I'm running with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burt_Lancaster">Burt Lancaster</a>. Phil, stride for stride, introduced himself. "Mr. Lancaster, my name is Phil Mishkin and I'd just like to know how you stay in such great shape?!"<br />
<br />
Burt Lancaster looked over at him and then uncorked one of those smiles, you remember that smile, don't you? Phil almost had a seizure. "Well, I'll tell you, Phillll," said Lancaster. "Two glasses of hot watah when I get up in the morning, I shit like clockwork!" <br />
<br />
Seconds later, Mr. Lancaster was twenty yards ahead. And never looked back.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-40134095352299181692015-03-05T15:19:00.000-08:002019-02-27T09:58:24.523-08:00#19. My first long form television, the WGA, and fate.<br />
#19. My first long form television, the Writers Guild of America, and fate.<br />
<br />
If whining were an Olympic sport, most writers would have Michael Phelps' lopsided grin on his "Sports Illustrated" gold medal cover. There are, of course, good reasons for this.<br />
<br />
To be blunt, many of the projects we get hired to do end up in the toilet.<br />
<br />
It wasn't quite what we hoped for, they say, the star wanted to go a different way, we hired a new writer, and in one stunning case for me, the Berlin Wall had come down. I'll tell you about that one later.<br />
<br />
But just know this: It's simply the way of things, the lay of the Hollywood land. It has mostly to do with who owns the copyright (them) and who doesn't (us). Which is why they pay us so well. This is the opposite of the theatre where the playwrights get very little to do the actual writing but end up with the copyright and control of the play. And a significant piece of the gross box office weekly receipts.<br />
<br />
All of us in both businesses -- stars, directors, writers, producers even executives -- have had our share of heartbreak. Many of us have occasionally slipped in under the proverbial wire. And some have had a few real successes and happy working times.<br />
<br />
My biggest one came two years ago on a mini-series about hillbillies I wrote back in the mid-Nineties. I will tell you about it later (yet another 'later'). Its birth had more twists and turns than Script du Soleil.<br />
<br />
My first happy time came years ago on a sad mini-series I wrote for producer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Krantz">Steve Krantz</a> about two hapless Australian boys who tried to smuggle some heroin out of Kuala Lumpur back to Melbourne and got caught. They were charged, tried, convicted, and hanged. This was a true story, names and all, about the first white people ever convicted under the new draconian Malaysian drug laws.<br />
<br />
It was my first long form television. And it had another format entirely. Each night had seven acts, each ending with a bated-breath stinger so the audience would wait through the Ford truck and Campbell Soup ads to come back to us. I found to do this well and smoothly, to hide its trick, is hard...until you learn how.<br />
<br />
That's where Steve Krantz came in.<br />
<br />
Since I was from the movie world and this was my first TV, oddly but happily, he treated me like royalty. For a while. Steve was in his mid sixties, impossibly tall, with a tennis tan and blinding white teeth. He was a published novelist, had produced one of the first black youth films "Cooley High" which I had loved, and a very famous animated feature "Fritz the Cat" with Ralph Bakshi. A hit with the hippie and hipster set, Fritz won some awards that seemed mostly shaped like dildos.<br />
<br />
Steve was married to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_Krantz">Judith Krantz</a>, a fiction factory as popular back then as Fifty Shades' E.L. James is today. Let's just say, the Krantz house up in Bel Air knew about writing for the mass market.<br />
<br />
Steve had made wildly successful network mini-series out of three or four of his wife's best sellers. Not many Emmys but fat, FAT ratings which is the absolute key to happy television. But I sensed he was itching to break out of that mold. He wanted to do something that mattered to him, something true, something shocking that would make you cry real tears.<br />
<br />
My agent Rand called us in to his office and basically said, "Steve, this is Chow Puppy. Pup, this is Steve Krantz. The network deal just closed so I now pronounce you producer and writer!" And thus began my Wild Long-form TV Ride.<br />
<br />
The first thing he showed me was all the news footage from the so-called "Dadah Is Death" trial from Kuala Lumpur. Then, some interviews with the two boys and a mother. Then, he dropped off a pile of mini-series scripts. "This is for format purposes only, not for writing style, character, or dialogue. For all that, we want YOU. The short take on a two night miniseries is First night: crime. Second night: punishment."<br />
<br />
Oh.<br />
<br />
"And by the time this is written, filmed, and gets on the air," he said, "people will have mostly forgotten what actually happened. They will not see the ending coming." So, once again, the network start money check cleared and I went to work.<br />
<br />
First I read all the scripts of the Judith Krantz mini-series he'd given me. I began to see a structural pattern. Then I attacked the boxes of documents and videos. Finally, the translations of the Malaysian court transcripts. Oh, my God. Their perusal would have given Franz Kafka a woody. They had a completely different system of 'justice' over there: Islamic sharia law doled out by Cotton Mather in a British judicial wig and black robes.<br />
<br />
Much of what I read revealed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barlow_and_Chambers_execution">Geoff Chambers </a>to be a cold-hearted dick, an experienced heroin smuggler and Kevin Barlow to be a nervous but good-natured young dork who made one horrendous choice about How To Strike It Rich.<br />
<br />
I thought it best -- this being Eighties American TV and all -- to dial Chambers' drug history back and have them both be a little more Innocents Abroad. This was forty years ago, before Walter White and "The Sopranos" and I needed an audience to care about these guys. So in our version, they weren't big druggies, they just wanted to get ahead and thought one go to hell smuggling trip would do it. Since in my earlier days I had been tempted by just such dip-shit plans, I began to relate to these guys on a deep, personal level.<br />
<br />
Also I came to think that Kevin's mother Barbara was the smartest, fiercest, most driven of the bunch. Her familial love and belief in her son was oceanic. As a result, the Barbara role kept getting bigger and bigger. Even her outline cards went from 3X5s to 5X7s. She was the one who talked the most famous defense lawyer in Malaysia, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karpal_Singh">Karpal Singh</a>, into representing them.<br />
<br />
But finally, I had the cards all push-pinned up on the board; to me they looked like an innards flow chart of a goddamn Rolex. You know, a pretty good watch. So I went to work.<br />
<br />
In my thirty plus years, I only had maybe three Scripts That Wrote Themselves. You've probably heard of those kinds. This was my first. And they all came off strong outlines. I was getting fifteen pages a day! When I finished, I did one more pass, cutting three or four pages out of it. Satisfied, I made copies and Fed Exed one of them to Steve in L.A. I heard from him a day later: my Movie Guy tiara already shined and set at a rakish angle.<br />
<br />
He wasted no time. "This ain't good. Meet me in New York at the Carlyle Hotel." Umm, okay. When? "Tomorrow morning at ten. I'm taking the red eye. We have work to do, kid."<br />
<br />
Since I was then living on Cape Cod, I caught an early morning puddle-jumper to LaGuardia; Scare New England was still flying DC-3s in those days. When I met Steve to go over the script for night one, the bloom was off the rose. Remember the old Carole King song "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" Well the answer to that question is almost always NO. As it was here. There was no more flattery, small talk, or show biz gossip.<br />
<br />
The next hotel room six hours were balls-to-the-wall tough. I listened hard because I realized he was Willy Sutton and I was there to learn how to rob banks. So for one of the few times in my professional life, I took every single note. When it came the usual time for lunch, he just shook his head. He ordered room service coffee. Again. And we kept going.<br />
<br />
It was dark when I packed up to leave. Steve stopped me at the door. "You can do this," he said. "Or I wouldn't have hired you." I straightened my tiara. "CBS wants a first draft of Night One in three weeks."<br />
<br />
They got it.<br />
<br />
You know, without that iceberg, Titanic would have been just another spiffy trans-Atlantic cruiser. Our iceberg was a looming strike deadline by my beloved <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Writers_Guild_of_America,_West">Writers Guild of America.</a> And once it rolled around on the back of a strike vote, I would have to stop work right in the middle of whatever paragraph or cool line of dialogue I was typing. We all would. So everyone in Hollywood was racing to get their ducks in a row.<br />
<br />
When Steve got the new version that addressed all his notes he called me to tell me how happy he was (always a nice call to get) and to go ahead and start Night Two. He laughed wildly when I told him I was already on page 46. <br />
<br />
A few words about the Writers Guild. They protect their own. If it weren't for them screen and television writers would get maybe $1000 a script, there would be no residuals, no health care, no pension plan, the producers and directors would end up with the writing credits, and (the new political climate in America would love this) there would be no collective bargaining <u>at all</u>.<br />
<br />
As usual, the so-called rising Tide of Management's dreams would lift the yachts, leaving our banged up little row boats on the bottom. This is what passes for business logic from the top. But the Writers Guild, with all their faults, protects their own and I totally supported them, then and now. I voted for the strike.<br />
<br />
But that didn't mean I couldn't hurry to get this thing done, especially since it was going so well. Steve and CBS were already sending out Night One for casting as I was coming down the homestretch of Night Two. They'd hired the estimable <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_London">Jerry London </a>to produce and direct -- this bird was gonna fly, Mabel!<br />
<br />
And I was still its only writer.<br />
<br />
When they were casting, a lot of actors turned it down. It was a depressing story; when you got to the last pages and the cavalry was nowhere to be found, people were doubling up on their Xanax. Plus not many of them were willing to go much farther than the Fox Ranch for three months of shooting, much less to Australia.<br />
<br />
Then Steve had a flash: he would take the script to London where he had a whole raft of connections due to his making many of the Judith mini-series over there. He knew everyone. He knew <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julie_Christie">Julie Christie!</a><br />
<br />
It quickly came to pass that she read it and loved the politics of it enough to immediately sign on. It was the first time I had ever heard the expression 'over the moon' which was used to describe her reaction to our project and ours for getting her. Then came <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0689852/?ref_=nv_sr_1">John Polson</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugo_Weaving">Hugo Weaving.</a> Next was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Banerjee">Victor Banerjee </a>who had stared in David Lean's "Passage to India" and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Jessica_Parker">Sarah Jessica Parker</a>, post "Annie" but pre "Sex in the City." I couldn't believe our luck. But would it hold? And would the WGA still love us tomorrow?<br />
<br />
Umm, no.<br />
<br />
The Writers Guild went on strike. But not before I got Steve and CBS Night Two. So they were in business and thousands of writers were suddenly out of work. I had planned to be in Australia, on the set of "Dadah is Death," making cuts, adding dialogue, getting Ms. Christie more tea.<br />
<br />
Not this time.<br />
<br />
I kept thinking of that good-looking line I had written for her when she sees dawn of the last day her son may live to see. She says, "I never knew a night so long could go by so fast." I thought, awww, she's in good hands and with that, and I went out on the picket line.<br />
<br />
The Strike of '88 was ugly, unprofitable, and went on way too long. At 155 days, it was the longest strike in Guild history and got both sides very little except sunk into an anger that has not abated to this day. At least by me. The Strike's biggest crime was that a significant part of the TV audience went away and and never came back. Lots of them discovered books and conversation (the swine).<br />
<br />
And our phones had stopped ringing as agents and producers got out of the habit of calling us. When the strike finally ended, a lot of that didn't come back either. Also it was in this time that networks discovered the true crime series like "Dateline" and "20/20" which did well and cost about a third of what regular programing cost.<br />
<br />
Most of the writers I knew began to ransack the storage lockers of their imaginations. Madly searching for ideas we could build into a spec script, our poor little squinched up faces reflected the hope and despair of our shared situation. Nothing was going well.<br />
<br />
Suddenly with no income, some writers had to sell their houses, take their kids out of private schools, fire Maria the maid, and what was worse for the spouses, the writer was now home, under foot, grumbling about Management's latest offer, and eating Cheerios all day. Most of this didn't apply to me; I don't have kids, I already cleaned my own house, and I ate Grape Nuts, not Cheerios. But twice I had to borrow money from my aging parents and I'm sure I was not alone.<br />
<br />
I got one Australian post card from Steve Krantz as they finished shooting which just said "Everything copasetic, thanks to you." I learned from the WGA that my screen credit on "Dadah" was to read 'Written by Chow Puppy,' the best credit one can get. I was stoked.<br />
<br />
Plus which, I had just thought of a spec script idea. I began working on it, I worked on it later, hell, I'm still working on it. It'll probably never be ready but I love it. It's about three people, two men and a woman, for different but intersecting reasons, mountain climb The Sears Tower in Chicago, then the tallest building in the world. I would call it "Enough Rope."<br />
<br />
GOD, I love titles.<br />
<br />
The WGA could strike the studios and the network but they couldn't strike the grapevine. I had heard that "Dadah" was cut, scored, and scheduled in CBS's fall lineup. This was as smoothly as any project had ever gone for me, starring one of the most beautiful women who had ever won an Oscar. I can't quite remember but I believe the network held my check; I think they probably held all writers' checks during the strike. Added pressure to settle. And they got the accrued interest on those millions they held for the five-and-a-half months. Fuck 'em.<br />
<br />
Since I had not seen a screening of the mini-series, like the rest of America, I would have to wait to see it aired. And because I have a little surprise for you, you have to wait, too.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
So while we're waiting, let's talk again about screenwriting.<br />
<br />
In almost any kind of writing, there is waged an endless war of too much, too little, too dark, too light, too simple, too complicated, too sour, too sweet, revealing secrets too soon or too late. This knuckle-gnawing worry about proportion is a dread companion of all artists, all of the time. Its balance is one of the chief elements in a piece's success or failure.<br />
<br />
As for script devices, pay no attention to Conventional Wisdom. Nothing is totally forbidden in Hollywood except failure. And getting old. Or fat. Or publicly ranting about Jews. Or being Bill Cosby or Harvey Weinstein.<br />
<br />
I have used a narrator. I have used title cards, used characters talking directly to the screen, used songs. Of course, all these devices can be (and usually are) cliched but I am willing to try anything to help tell my story. If it ends up not working, out it goes no matter how cool it seemed or what good writing it may have harbored.<br />
<br />
I found it useful to resist explaining everything, even though they want you to. It will kill the magic. The Man For All Seasons, Sir Thomas More once said, "in the end, the human heart is a mystery." I say leave it that way. If you show them how the trick is done, for a about 1.4 seconds they'll be grateful. Then it will turn to anger because they had to have it explained to them.<br />
<br />
Iago, probably the greatest villain in all of dramatic literature, refuses to tell us and Othello why he did it. Any of it. "What you know, you know," he says. "From this time forward, I will never speak word." And he didn't.<br />
<br />
In <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Close_Encounters_of_the_Third_Kind">"Close Encounter of the Third Kind"</a> we never find out why it's Dreyfus the aliens want. We don't know where they're from, what their mission is, or what's going to happen. In spite of an 'expanded version' later on, part of that movie's lasting greatness is it's mystery. The same with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2001:_A_Space_Odyssey_(film)">"2001."</a> That's why all these years later, it still stays ahead of you. Kubrick and Clarke explained nothing; they just presented it.<br />
<br />
Open the pod bay doors, Hal.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the air-date for "Dadah is Death" was upon us. It had been advertised and reviewed favorably in 'TV Guide.' In one of the Boston papers' reviews, my script got singled out as 'a very effective but somewhat over-wrought teleplay.' Hmm; that's a scorpion's kiss, but at least they had spelled my name right. And now, we would get to have a look at it.<br />
<br />
Friends of mine who had a very large TV, made a small viewing party for Night One at their house with a picnic dinner and lots of beer. As nine o'clock rolled around, my heart was trip hammering. And then, there it was. My friends all cheered as my Written By title card came up. And from that moment on, everyone of them was talking for the entire time. Non-stop. Loudly.<br />
<br />
As I explained before, this is my karma; when I was a kid, I held forth in movies, a full running commentary. Godfrey Daniels, what a pill! My payback is that, for years, I have gotten every like-minded jerk in the audience, sitting right behind me, yacking through the whole movie.<br />
<br />
This night was no different, even though they were MY jerks and I loved them to death and one of them had made me a dozen deviled eggs, my fave. So as I was listening to comments about how Ms. Christie's breasts weren't near as big as they used to be, I was shamefully wolfing down the eggs.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I had taped the show at home on my trusty VCR. So I looked at it the next day by myself. Oh, lord.<br />
<br />
It started with Julie Christie and my Great Line about a night so long going so fast or whatever it was. It just plopped there like a dead fish. And I realized that if a great actress like her couldn't make the line work, like one of Rodin's hands, it should've been cut. I thought the show was pretty okay but, truth be told, it had too many 'hands' sticking out all over the place. Like Emperor Joseph II's famous movie critique of Mozart: "Too many notes."<br />
<br />
And now you can check it out, too. <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=dadah+is+death+youtube">"Dadah is Death"</a> can be seen on Youtube in all its low-def glory. I'm not sure I can join you; too much water under that bridge. But it's there. For the full Chow Puppy experience, make yourself a plate of deviled eggs.<br />
<br />
The '88 WGA strike finally settled and I went on to another mini-series, this one a remake of "On The Beach" with Peter Strauss as the Executive Producer and its star. This was an even happier experience but, in the end, odder yet.<br />
<br />
See you next time, buckaroos!<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-29316729558323160262015-02-19T12:10:00.000-08:002019-02-26T23:50:15.952-08:00#18. Our Broadway smash (up) with Hank Williams<br />
#18. Our Broadway smash (up) with heartbroken dead country legend Hank Williams.<br />
<br />
A year had passed between the end of our Jerry Lee Lewis script and Phillip Browning's call about the possibility of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hank_Williams">Hank Williams</a> musical.<br />
<br />
During that time some changes had come into my life. I got eye glasses and suddenly I could read again. I thought I had gotten too stupid to read or had somehow lost the ability. But when I put on those glasses and everything popped into focus was one of the better days of my life.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I got married again. So I pulled up stakes in Hollywood (as if you could ever really leave that town) and moved to Cape Cod, a little house right next to a five acre cranberry bog. And I learned how to write a TV mini-series (more about that later).<br />
<br />
Best of all, I discovered my old friend Syd Field's recently published book on screenplays called, wisely, 'Screenplay.' He finally wrote it, I finally read it. It was a marvel. Still is.<br />
<br />
Phillip and I met in Nashville to figure out what story we wanted this musical play to tell. How deep were we going to go? In which direction? And for how long? At the hotel, Phillip handed me a cardboard box that was filled with biographical material on Hank Williams: actual books, magazine articles, tapes (the pre CD days), and a self published book, a good one, too, by some guy who'd written it as his Vanderbilt doctoral dissertation on Hank.<br />
<br />
But the big news was that all of Hank's famous music, the songs he had written, were tied up by one of the big Nashville family power brokers. They also controlled <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acuff-Rose_Music">Acuff-Rose</a> Publishing and the legendary Grand Ole Opry; this was with whom Pierre Cossette and Phillip were dealing. In those days -- like the historic relationship between Pittsburgh and U.S. Steel -- Nashville was a company town. And that company was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryman_Hospitality_Properties">Gaylord Enterprises</a>.<br />
<br />
The Gaylord guy we were dealing with was very high up in the food chain. But for the life of me, I cannot remember his name so we'll call him Big Suit.<br />
<br />
His play was to sit in silence, listening, but his main response to anything was a small smile. In that first meeting he did offer that he and his wife had seen "The Will Rogers Follies" in New York and loved it. That's why they were taking this meeting. That and the fact that Pierre, in his younger days as an agent, had represented Ur country legends <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bob_Wills">Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys</a>. Gaylord was sold on Pierre as a country music loving Keeper of the Flame, a real family man with Mary Mother of Five, a guy who could get the job done.<br />
<br />
Now to the man who was going to write it. <br />
<br />
Phillip asked Big Suit if he'd seen the tapes they'd sent him of "The Rose" and "Hooper" and "Gravy Train." He just nodded and smiled. While Phillip doubled down, extolling my several virtues, including the fact that I'd grown up with Hank Williams' music in a tiny town in the Blue Ridge mountains. I could not take my eyes off Big Suit's unreadable face. And slowly my blood began to run cold.<br />
<br />
"What happened to your version of Jerry Lee Lewis," the Suitster asked. Phillip responded, quickly spinning, that our script was just too good. Too honest. I was grateful to my friend but worried that remark might come back in the night, dressed as an E.M.T.<br />
<br />
Big Suit had arranged our accommodations in the enormous Marriott-Opryland hotel, some meetings with the former members of Hank's band, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minnie_Pearl">Minnie Pearl,</a> still alive and, as we were to see, full of intelligence and light and lots of memories about Hank.<br />
<br />
I spent the rest of that day and night reading the biographical material. And oh, my Lord. That wondrous hillbilly icon was a complete mess, God's very own blueprint for everything that could go wrong in a man's life.<br />
<br />
He was born with spina-bifida and thereafter became addicted to pain pills. As an alcoholic, he had a fear of being alone, had poor time management skills, was totally unreliable, had jug-ears and yet was a chronic catnip toy to women. But most of all, and always, he had the high lonesome voice of a lost angel.<br />
<br />
However, this is what great drama is made of.<br />
<br />
And in the next days, meeting Minnie Pearl and Hank's old band members, more and more came to light. Good and bad. Hank was also a loving son, happy-go-lucky, generous to his friends, and up for anything. He could write a great song in half an hour. His voice was so achingly sweet, even when he sang a mediocre song, it sounded wonderful. He was a terrible driver and an All-American depressive.<br />
<br />
Jeez, I couldn't wait to begin.<br />
<br />
In those pre-computer days, I was hauling my forty pound IBM correcting Selectric II around with me in an aluminum Halliburton suitcase. I had already unpacked it, gave it some hay and water, and set it up in my hotel room.<br />
<br />
I was chomping at the bit as we rode up in the elevator that afternoon; I already knew I wanted to start at Hank's memorial, where he would rise out of the coffin to narrate the show. It would end the same way, only everyone would be singing "I Saw the Light." And somewhere, my old Warner Bros. office buddy Billy Faulkner would be laughing. Because along with Scriabin and all them guys, he liked Hank Williams, too!<br />
<br />
GER-JUNK.<br />
<br />
The elevator shuddered and jerked to a stop between floors. I turned to Phillip about to laugh at another of our "fine messes." Until I noticed the other couple in the elevator with us; a middle-aged nicely dressed man and woman. She was white-faced and started to tremble. She began to make panting sound as she sank to one knee and then a low moan. "We're going to die," she said.<br />
<br />
Oh, no, I thought because at that very moment I discovered that elevator panic is contagious. My heart started to pound. Phillip, good in so many situations, went to her side, leaned down next to her, put his hand on her shoulder and spoke to her so softly that I couldn't hear what he said. And then the emergency alarm bell went off. Her husband began to hammer the control panel with his fist as the woman got to her feet, the color coming back to her face. Phillip stood and smiled at me.<br />
<br />
Just as the elevator came back to life!<br />
<br />
It began to ascend and the alarm shut off. "You'll dine out on this, Puppy," said Phillip softly. As often as I have been in elevators, this was the first and last time it ever happened to me.<br />
<br />
About ten that night, Phillip stuck his head in. Unable to resist temptation, I was already on page 9. "Come on, let's go down to the bar. They have a Hank Williams tribute singer."<br />
<br />
Down in the hotel bar things were hoppin'. The Hank Williams guy turned out to be good, if about twenty years too old. Had the voice, though. "Hey, good lookin', whatcha got cookin'..." We found two seats at the bar and ordered Margaritas. "We're going to die," said Phillip as we clinked glasses.<br />
<br />
Just then, a gorgeous babe slipped into the chair next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. Hey, now!<br />
<br />
She leaned in real close. I couldn't believe this. Until she spoke. "Why don't you introduce me to your friend there..." I just lowered my head to the bar and bonked it softly a few times. Phillip turned to see her glowing face staring hungrily at him and immediately assessed what had happened.<br />
<br />
Let's just say he was not exactly unfamiliar with his kind of situation. And then, shutting it down, he explained to the girl he was very happily married to a glorious woman named Junius back in Malibu but he was grateful for her interest.<br />
<br />
The next day we were on a plane to Branson, Missouri to meet Pierre.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Branson,_Missouri">Branson</a> is Las Vegas for the geriatric set.<br />
<br />
The small Ozark Mountain town was packed with enormous parking lots, filled mostly with picture window busses from all over America, motors endlessly running to keep the air conditioning on, in front of the dozens of huge concert venues, each owned by a corporate consortium or by the performing artist themselves.<br />
<br />
Our destination was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Williams">The Moon River Theatre</a> owned and operated by easy-going crooner Andy Williams. Who Pierre Cossette used to represent. Andy had just had his dressing room(s), some three thousand square feet of it, featured in "Architectural Digest," and he was opening a new show.<br />
<br />
Pierre explained that the Branson rationale, wildly successful, was to magnetically pull millions of people a year into a centrally located destination that was only about these shows. There were no other distractions. Like gambling. Or sporting events. Or famous scenic sights. There were restaurants and Best Western motels to be sure, but it was only about the shows. And nothing else.<br />
<br />
Andy owned Moon River; he basically 'four-walled' his show, eliminating the greedy hands of promoters, agents, managers, and endlessly demanding talent. The performer-owners controlled it all. Those with a good business sense were raking it in. Beaming, Pierre said Andy had never been so rich. "And after 'Hank' finishes on Broadway, we're gonna bring it here to this theatre and you'll get rich, too!" I didn't believe it for a second. Not me. I was too busy thinking about the new cowboy shirts and boots I could buy and books and records and all the dinners I could eat at Musso's and and and... <br />
<br />
Andy Williams' opening night dressing room soiree was filled with music and Los Angeles royalty. Not to mention the Mayor of Branson and the Captain of the Missouri State Police in his dress blues. No one worked a room better than Andy Williams as he sidled over to us. Pierre introduced me as "my guy who is writing my Hank Williams Broadway show," two possessive 'my's in a ten word sentence; not bad. <br />
<br />
"Mr. Williams, half hour!" a crackling voice from wall mounted speakers. "Half hour..." With this, the party broke up and we were all led out and into the theatre itself. Given programs, we were shown to our seats by uniformed locals. "Enjoy the show, enjoy the show..."<br />
<br />
The layout of the theatre was totally new to me. About every ten or fifteen seats it seemed, there was an aisle up and down. And when you sat in comfortable seats that whooshed when you sat down, there was at least four feet between your knees and the row in front of you. "What's the deal," I asked Pierre. He nodded to his right. Here's your answer. And there were two elderly couples, three of whom were using those aluminum walkers with the yellow tennis balls on the back legs. As they made their way down our row, they smiled past without us having to even turn our knees to the side.<br />
<br />
Of course, I am older now than they probably were then and I have learned how much it takes to navigate normal theatre rows even without the damn walkers. Especially once the show started and all those pinched and tiny bladders began to kick in. And the race to the bathrooms was on for, as my friend Wayne says, us Morse Code pee-ers.<br />
<br />
Andy opened with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Mancini">Henry Mancini's</a> "Moon River" and closed with the same timeless song. In between, he did his other hits like 'Born Free,' pop song covers, the great American songbook, some light jazz and a few Bossa Nova numbers. The man had an easy, wonderful voice and his orchestra was spectacular. And yet, there I was, making notes on the back of the souvenir program booklet on possible Hank scenes. "Stop that," whispered Phillip. I couldn't. Finally, he grabbed the program and started to read my notes by the ambient light. A big smile came across his face.<br />
<br />
And I knew I was headed in the right direction.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Back in Hollywood, once I had my probable scene cards in the right order, I made an outline. Then did it all again. And again. Finally I was ready to start.<br />
<br />
Putting a play together is a whole other format I had to research and learn. As best I could. I had to remember that in the theatre you are dealing with a stage which is really only a big black box with lights and painted scenery, that only actors and what they say carries the story, that there are no close ups, no cutting to shift the attention, nothing is 'realistic' or natural. It's ALL artifice. It's supposed to be.<br />
<br />
Drove me crazy.<br />
<br />
Such experience and skills as I had learned in screen writing took me, every time, in the wrong direction. So I read plays. I saw as many as I could. I talked to theatre people. It got better. I bought a laptop and typed faster: my first real computer.<br />
<br />
And I loved it! As far as I could tell, here was the laptop's only drawback: One afternoon, I came into my office and my cat Frisco was on my desk. Close to the keyboard. Very close. I got his attention and softly called him to me. He turned and, as cats will, that little bastard walked away from me, ACROSS THE KEYBOARD thereby sending 3 prime, recently written pages of "Hank" into the ozone.<br />
<br />
I yelled, I stomped, I freaked and I didn't see my cat for two days. Good thing, too. I know some of these tales end with the writer rewriting the pages and they are completely, joyously better. Didn't work that way for me. They were okay. But the first ones were better. I called it the Frisco Scene. But I learned about some of them little buttons and clickers you could adjust to automatically save your material every 30 seconds.<br />
<br />
Then finally, I had a first draft. I read it over and over and over. I don't know, I thought it was pretty good. I thought people will like this Hank, these people in his life, the songs of course, but the whole thing just seemed...strong.<br />
<br />
So I handed it in to Phillip and Pierre. I didn't have to wait long. Things started to move fast.<br />
<br />
Phillip loved it, Pierre loved it, his son (and heir apparent) loved it, Mary Mother of Five loved it, assistants loved it, agents loved it; it caught fire. Right up to the time Pierre sent it back to Nashville, to the Gaylords.<br />
<br />
Oh oh.<br />
<br />
Big Suit recognized its potential, its power, and its pedigree. And how many people might see a play like this. That was the problem. I was told he thought it was too hard core, too tough. Their main corporate mandate was to protect what would become known in the ensuing years as The Brand. They wanted a safer Hank. I found it ironic that the same people who had kicked him out of The Grand Ol' Opry <u>for life</u>, now found just the memory of those days too...icky.<br />
<br />
But since without their full cooperation, there would be no "Hank" at all, EVER. So I went back in and began to cut. I took it from an R to the northern border of PG-13. And when I read it, again and again, I thought it was still pretty good. I missed its early rawness, its tough-minded overview of the angelic hellfire of his life. But I still liked it.<br />
<br />
And finally, begrudgingly I was told, so did they. Nashville still had 'notes,' but at least it appeared to be still in play. Then several things seemed to happen simultaneously.<br />
<br />
We were given a green-light to put up a beginning production of the play in the Tennessee State Theatre. Phillip called with the dates and made airline reservations for us all. We would cast the show from back in Tennessee, using as much of their stock company as we could. But they said we could bring a Hank if we had someone we thought was right for it. I think they hoped Pierre and Phillip with their connections would come up with some magic voiced celebrity. And we were, in fact, after one: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dwight_Yoakam">Dwight Yoakam</a>, a great singer/songwriter who was just getting his acting career started.<br />
<br />
Then suddenly it was Thursday chaos by a flurry of phone calls. Pierre's long-time Los Angeles attorney had somehow failed to send a check and renew the option with Gaylord. The date had come and gone and it slipped his mind. At least, this was the story I got. Losing the rights is like taking off from the USS Lexington for a bombing raid on Tokyo and forgetting the airplane.<br />
<br />
By this time Big Suit and his corporate cohorts decided they might as well do this show themselves; why did they need a bunch of suntanned Hollywood interloping fruit-burgers telling them what Hank Williams was really like.<br />
<br />
I was actually packing for the trip when Phillip called. "You remember that lady in the elevator in Nashville," he asked. Umm, yeah. "Well, she was right. We're dead," he said quietly. Then, nearly in tears, he explained it all.<br />
<br />
And by the following day, in spite of beseeching phone calls to Nashville from Pierre, the whole enterprise had disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Simply gone.<br />
<br />
And that was that.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
A lot of writers don't like writing.<br />
<br />
They like 'having written.' I admit there is a certain relief in that but what I really love is the actual writing. I don't like the schmoozing to get the job, I don't really like the research, I hate the interviews you have to do for story or background or both. I am happiest behind this keyboard, and even though I am nearly the worst touch typist in history, I love pounding it out. Part of the pleasure is the solitude. And I like being alone. No one to disappoint. No checking in. Silence.<br />
<br />
Surely you have heard that Chows are not very social. They mostly just sit and stare, glowering, not really knowing what the hell anyone is talking about. Is it time for dinner? Is it time for a walk? No? Then, you suck and I'm gonna take a nap. I am sorrowful shamed by this, but it was my way for most of my years in show biz. Even a little bit now.<br />
<br />
Once in the old Earthling bookstore in Santa Barbara, my final wife was skimming a book on dog breeds. I heard her laugh so I went over. "Look at this," she said. "Golden Retrievers are supposed to be good for families with kids. Labs are good for couples. German Shepherds good for a single person. And here is The Chow." She pointed to the page and right there it said 'a no person breed.'<br />
<br />
Yep.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
SCRIPT EDITING<br />
<br />
This is a crucial procedure: it can mean the difference between a made movie and 117 pages of telephone scratch pad.<br />
<br />
When the first draft is finished, make a copy file immediately, one you're not afraid to play with and then, cut it to the bone! Be brutal. If you're doing this right, you have likely cut 30 pages out. I know, it's absurd, you've just cut the heart and soul out of it, what in God's name have you done!?<br />
<br />
You can't get your breath, this is an atrocity, oh my God! Breathe, breathe, it's gonna be all right. This is not Forever. It's just to see what it looks like. In the giant scheme of things, It. Will. Be. All Right. You have the original full file and a back up right there, a few clicks away.<br />
<br />
So here's what you do next. Go back to the beginning of this massacred new bare bones version -- and put back maybe 10 or 15% for flow and reading ease. And try to do it without going back to look at the original. Restore, say, three cool lines. No more! Now your page count is back up to 100. And you're breathing a little easier.<br />
<br />
Told you.<br />
<br />
You want the version with the least amount of stuff that will clutter up the view and allow the light to shine through, illuminating the strength of your story.<br />
<br />
Now, either email or print out enough versions to give to some friends who will read it and give you notes. Even though they might be wildly divergent, these notes can sometimes mean the difference between success and failure.<br />
<br />
Have you cut so deeply, that no one can follow the story? Have you over-written so much that no one wants to? Are eyes glazing over?<br />
<br />
As you debrief your friends, do not be defensive or morose. Of course this is hard. But they are helping you and the most they will get out of it is dinner or a thoughtful gift. They just did you a huge favor.<br />
<br />
In the overall process of writing your three-ring notebook monster (keep all the drafts <b>all </b>of the time), you will encounter many demons, many angels. And some that come dressed as their opposite. These are very dangerous because while they seem so cool, in fact, they can derail the whole train. They might be majestic stretches of prose, a jaw-dropping brilliant scene, hilarious dialogue that jumps off the page.<br />
<br />
You know, the kind of stuff you want to stop people in the street to show them. I call these 'my babies.'<br />
<br />
May I tell you a story I once heard?<br />
<br />
It was the summer of 1898. Auguste Rodin, the premiere sculptor of his time, had just finished an enormous commission in plaster called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument_to_Balzac">"Monument to Balzac." </a>It was to be a historical figure of one of France's greatest writers, driven, tortured, wrapped in the huge dark cloud-like robe he wore when he wrote. When it was okayed by the powers-that-be, it would be cast in bronze.<br />
<br />
When Rodin finished but before he showed it, he invited the members of his masterclass in to see it. They were euphoric in their praise. Oh, Master, they cried, how stunning, how magnificent! You have captured all of humanity in Balzac's hands. His hands are perfect. His hands say it all. On and on they went. Hands, hands, hands.<br />
<br />
Finally, Rodin thanked them and sent them home. That night, by firelight, he went in with his hammer and a chisel, and chopped off both hands. He had certainly taken pride in their creation; from the drawings that remain, deservedly so. But that piece wasn't about hands. It was about the man, his work, the whole. And that is why today you see Balzac in his robe that seems to come down and cover his hands. <br />
<br />
What matters is knowing that sometimes you have to kill your babies. Because there can be enough, of great hands, even of chocolate mousse.<br />
<br />
Wouldn't it be perfect if the story were true? But who knows? In his earlier "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Burghers_of_Calais">The Burghers of Calais,"</a> you will see six figures and seemingly about a hundred hands. All ropey arms and hands, hands, hands.<br />
<br />
But who the hell am I to question The Great Man? I was just a screenwriter who wouldn't even race Jerry Lee Lewis down his driveway, backward. Yet here is my secret; I am willing to learn from the highest and the lowest, the best and the worst. Even from myself. And apparently, so was Rodan.<br />
<br />
See, I didn't come just to load the wagon. I am here to get in that sucker and, as the sun comes up, drive it to Glory. I already got the pretty girl.<br />
<br />
Yee-hah! bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-61567732518215778462015-01-31T00:04:00.002-08:002019-02-26T23:24:16.069-08:00#17. Phillip Browning and Jerry Lee. The actual writing. <br />
#17. Phillip Browning and Jerry Lee. And the actual writing of a screenplay.<br />
<br />
Even though I am a hard core Leftie and his politics were dead flat Libertarian, Phillip Browning was one of my favorite people <b><u>ever</u>.</b> He brought me slam up to two of my all-time musical heroes: Jerry Lee Lewis and Hank Williams. And got me paid me for it!<br />
<br />
Since, criminally, Phillip is not Googleable, I will tell you a little bit about him. Or what I gathered. He grew up in Taylorville, Illinois -- the heartland of America -- where he trained and raced champion trotting horses.<br />
<br />
After a stint in Air Force intelligence, he found a GI Bill birth in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Theatre_Wing">American Theatre Wing </a>in New York City and into the company of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katharine_Cornell">Katherine Cornell</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guthrie_McClintic">Guthrie McClintic</a>. Phillip played Cyrano in one of their many New York productions. They told him he was going to be the new <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montgomery_Clift">Montgomery Clift</a> who had started in a similar situation with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Lunt">Lunt & Fontanne.</a> Time passes and we all discover that even Montgomery Clift cannot be Montgomery Clift, new or otherwise.<br />
<br />
So Phillip runs that string out and somehow ends up in Los Angeles as an associate producer on the Sixties music hit TV show <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shindig!">"Shindig!"</a> where he made relationships with every musician in pop music. They all did that show, even The Beatles. Seeing them at their best and worst, Phillip knew the whole roster.<br />
<br />
When I met him, he was working with <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=pierre+cossette">Pierre Cossette</a>, the godfather of the Grammys TV show who was starting a new venture, to produce Phillip's project of "Will Rogers at the Follies" for Broadway. "The Rose" had just been nominated for four Academy Awards, including Fredrick Forrest and the mighty Bette (but not moi). Yet there for about forty five minutes, I was on the A-list. It was during one of those minutes, Phillip Browning called me.<br />
<br />
He was oddly formal in the roiling sea of Hollywood shuck and jive. And he had a strange conversational rhythm that I liked. He told me that he and Pierre had optioned the rights to "Great Balls of Fire," a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Lee_Lewis">Jerry Lee Lewis </a>biography seen through the eyes of his former 13-year-old wife and first cousin Myra Gale Lewis. And <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nick_Tosches">"Hellfire"</a> by the great Nick Tosches which I had already read was also in play somehow. Would I be interested?<br />
<br />
Oh, mon frere, does a cat have an ass? Of course.<br />
<br />
I knew all Jerry Lee's work, even the country years on Mercury. "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzhNmhGIfio">What Made Milwaukee Famous </a>Has Made a Loser Out of Me:" how're you gonna get better than that?! Hell, I'd even seen him play Iago in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catch_My_Soul_(UK_stage_version)">Jack Good's "Catch My Soul,</a>" the rock and roll "Othello" in the big theatre downtown L.A.! What a brilliant stroke of casting. And even though you could see him moving his lips for everyone else's lines (he thought he had to memorize the entire play), he was still Jerry Lee, he took the stage like a Cobra, and sang like Satan's very own angel. I thought he was great. <br />
<br />
So I went in to talk to Pierre and Phillip. Pierre was Santa Claus without the red suit and beard; always moving, always smiling, always looking over the top of his reader glasses. A deal a minute: get Mike Ovitz, hold for line four, what's the name of that little hotel in the French Quarter? Pierre introduced me to his wife, in to join him for lunch, as Mary Mother of Five. In the coming years, I never heard him refer to her as anything else.<br />
<br />
A little older than me, Phillip was part Cherokee with browner and more perfect skin than Cher. Who he knew. He had grey curly mid-length hair and looked like the better-looking third Everly Brother. Both of whom he knew, as well. And apparently he had loved "The Rose" which endeared him to me forever, natch.<br />
<br />
So we walked down to Pink's hotdog stand and had our let's-make-a-deal lunch under the greasy sun umbrellas out back. Those hot dogs are seriously good. And I was going to work!<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
The first thing Phillip and I did was to fly to Memphis to visit Jerry Lee who lived across the Mississippi state line down in DeSoto County, I think it was in Hernando. Maybe Nesbit. Since we'd be doing a lot of driving, we rented a big old Lincoln with the first car-phone I had ever seen. We bought all the insurance, reprogramed the radio, half to country, half to rock and roll, and took off.<br />
<br />
Casa Jerry Lee was set off a county road about a quarter mile up a winding drive. It was nice and all, but definitely not fancy. Over the years, he had been beset with career disasters, personal tragedy, and massive tax problems. Mr. Lewis, as they say, was no stranger to the rain.<br />
<br />
The first thing we saw running down the driveway, growling and barking, was the rattiest old Chow dog I had ever seen. Being mostly Chow myself, I usually find common ground with the breed but not this one. His name turned out to be "Killer" and as Jerry Lee strolled up to our long, black Lincoln, he called him off. The patchy black dog slunk away. You could almost see the fleas hopping on and off in the afternoon sunlight.<br />
<br />
The second before Phillip introduced me to this legend, I was hit with an overwhelming wave of cologne. Paco Rabanne, I believe.<br />
<br />
"My dog is a Chow," said Jerry Lee. "They're the meanest dog in the world. You could look that little fact up. Killer'd tear Jim Crotchy's Junkyard Dog down to his fruity pink paw pads! You don't know nothing about Chows, do ya." Phillip smiled as I shook my head.<br />
<br />
Little old me?<br />
<br />
Jerry Lee's handshake was very firm so I met it with what I hoped was matching firmness. He increased the pressure, so I did too. Then, it became a Thing. Tighter and tighter. But this man used his hands for his living! And I was the supplicant, so I surrendered as gracefully as a combat handshake will allow. When it rains, I still have pain in my little finger.<br />
<br />
Just then, an old woman came out of the kitchen door. She went straight to Phillip and give him a huge hug. Her name was Lottie and she had been taking care of Jerry Lee for many years. Phillip had been here before. The three of them started for the house. Suddenly, Jerry Lee turned and looked back at me. "Betcha a hundred bucks I can beat you in a foot race and I'll run backwards!"<br />
<br />
I believe, being the scribe and all, my exact words were "Say what?!"<br />
<br />
"Come on, writer-boy, let's do it!" Lottie rolled her eyes. Phillip was laughing. "I stay in shape, I practice on Killer," Jerry Lee said. "Come 'ere, Killer!" <br />
<br />
The hapless old Chow dog stuck his head out of the open garage door. With that, Jerry Lee Lewis, the one time Crown Prince of rock and roll, 50s teen idol, scandal monger, country music star, and seller of twenty-five million records, began to run backwards down the driveway. "Come on, Killer, you chickenshit!"<br />
<br />
The dog just sat down. I headed for the kitchen door. This was Day One.<br />
<br />
Day Two started a little better. While Jerry Lee played his portable Yamaha keyboard, carrying it from room to room through the clouds of Paco Rabanne, we started drinking and discussing what kind of bite our movie should take of his life. Jerry didn't much care for the biographies done on him. "I guess that weirdo Toshes got some of it right," he said referring to 'Hellfire.'<br />
<br />
While he talked, he continued to play his keyboard turned down low and some of the melodies, the endlessly rolling improvised ideas were striking. Some were so great they stopped Phillip and me, mid-sentence. Jerry just kept playing. The man, simply, is made out of music.<br />
<br />
"Tell ya what I DON'T want in this movie, he said. "I don't want a whole to-do about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Swaggart">Jimmy Swaggart</a> (in the headlines then for soliciting prostitutes and over-crying), or when I lost Stevie, or the IRS buttholes coming up with trucks and takin' everything, or gettin' drunk all the time, or about Myra's bein' thirteen or whatever when I married her -- I'm tired of that shit! Let's just have me singin' songs, man. Hell, it worked for Elvis!" With that, he broke into "Caught in a Trap." And it was flat out better than Elvis' version.<br />
<br />
Still, a two hour Jerry Lee Lewis concert film? With his history of utter brilliance and misrule? I don't think so, Sparky.<br />
<br />
We drank tequila until it ran out. Then, the vodka, the bourbon, and finally, peach brandy. If Phillip and I had stayed there much longer, we'd have been drinking lighter fluid. Lottie had long since given up and gone to bed. At one point I smelled a foul gaseous stink. I looked around and saw Killer, the ratty old dog, half asleep and settled into an over-stuffed chair. He opened his eyes and said quietly, "What the fuck're you looking at, writer-boy?" I told Philip we had to get back to the hotel; I wasn't feeling well. At all.<br />
<br />
Phillip drove the first three or four miles; out in the country. But when we hit the first little town, he faded fast. "Can you drive, Puppy? I'm about half drunk." Are you kidding, dude? I drove in Paris, France and most of Europe!<br />
<br />
He pulled the Lincoln into an abandoned gas station. The old sign said low test had been 32 cents a gallon. Remember that? Taking deep cold night air breaths as I walked around the car to the driver's side, I tried to judge my intoxication. But since I had never been this drunk and conscious, it was anybody's guess.<br />
<br />
But bad luck's salvation was on my side. As I went to pull back out on the main road, I decided to cut across this long, large puddle next to where a rack of pumps had been, couldn't be more than a couple inches deep, no prob.<br />
<br />
CURCHUNK -- <br />
<br />
The Lincoln veered forward to the left, dropped down onto its frame and we were stuck dead. Low gear, nothing. Reverse, more nothing.<br />
<br />
I got out and suddenly was in water above my knees. "Guess what, Pup," Phillip called out. We won't have to drive! We'll get towed..." He called AAA on the car-phone and a half hour later we were jammed into massive tow truck's cab and headed back to Memphis, towing the wounded Lincoln behind us. Phillip promptly went to sleep, leaving me to make conversation with the Triple-A guy.<br />
<br />
"Y'all from California, huh?" Yeah. "What're you doin' in Hernando?" Visiting Jerry Lee Lewis. The guy snorted. "I figured. I'm out there at least once a month. Did he show ya his '40 Ford with the Caddy engine? Fastest thing in the county but he keeps blowing the motors, can't keep it running." By this time, even though I knew the hot rod Ford was going to be part of the script, I could no longer keep my eyes open. So I passed out. But not before I'd had my first inkling that I might be...how shall I put this...<br />
<br />
An alcoholic?<br />
<br />
This was the end of Day Two. I couldn't wait to get to Day Three to start drinking again! Booze: it made you crazy, it took your reason, made your breath stink, it made you piss in the houseplants and, speaking of that little arena, it killed the performance part of the sex drive. Death by confusion. I hated everything about booze...except the actual drinking of it.<br />
<br />
There were other, better days to be sure.<br />
<br />
One was our visit to New Orleans where Jerry Lee closed a huge outdoor celebration at midnight. Right in the middle of "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On," he leaned back, sucked in a huge breath...and inhaled a moth the size of a small bat! Twenty thousand people all went wooooo as Jerry Lee kept banging the piano in perfect rhythm, coughing wildly, trying to wretch up that monstrous insect, second after second -- woooo, cough cough cough, plink plink plink, woooo -- and finally, he spit it out! The crowd cheered, he finished the song, and had never missed a beat.<br />
<br />
I saw this from backstage, fifteen feet away. It was as an Herculean musical feat as ever I did see.<br />
<br />
Let's just say the life of Jerry Lee Lewis is an embarrassment of triumphant and maladroit riches. God dumped down talent and bad luck in equal measure upon this man. Once I had the incident cards collected, I knew I was ready to start writing. So I went home, turned on my IBM Correcting Selectric II and typed almost my second two favorite words back then<br />
<br />
FADE IN:<br />
<br />
And again, I was off to the rock and roll races.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
And here we come to the ACTUAL WRITING OF THE SCREENPLAY. I'll come back to Jerry Lee and Phillip later.<br />
<br />
As I am sure you know, talent is utterly evanescent. It cannot be bought, caught, or taught in some class. Talent is mostly about who you are, not what you want.<br />
<br />
It has to do with your entire life up to this point; it's innate, a gift that not many have. If you do, if you are one of the lucky ones, don't strut. You are only talent's keeper, often just its maid. Sometimes it comes extravagantly, sometimes it dries up and blows away. But having the bones of a great story, its outline, will help enormously if the Muse suddenly falls in love with someone else and heads south. One does not have to be covered up with talent to have a decent career; an evening of network television illustrates this.<br />
<br />
Screenplays are not the best vehicle for "good writing" anyway. Fiction is better served by those gifts. When we start out, we often think good writing is flowery and purple, worked and whipped within an inch of its life, dripping with metaphors and deep meaning. This usually leads to a kind of monkey vomit baroque style that hides rather than serves the story.<br />
<br />
Scripts should be deceptively simple. They are like a strip tease -- intended to elicit a cheap but real response that will glue the reader to the characters and the arc of their story. You want everyone who reads your script to feel like they are its director, its star, its cinematographer, even its writer. Aww, I could do this, you should think. I could do <b>better</b> than this!<br />
<br />
As you write, you should NOT be calling attention to yourself.<br />
<br />
If you still have to do that, find a therapist or go into stand-up comedy. As a screenwriter, you are calling attention to a story, so the fewer the fancy flourishes, the better. Yet this is just a rule-of-thumb.<br />
<br />
Some stories call out for those gymnastics just as some writers are born gymnasts. But few and very few. These artists live trick shot lives. It would seldom occur to them to think about such things. In my thirty years in that business, I've only met, like, two and they have no idea of why people make such a big deal out of it. In fact they don't even know what 'it' is. <br />
<br />
So write simply, write clearly. Remember the Bauhaus architectural dictum: <b><u>less is more</u></b>.<br />
<br />
Happily there are times when it will look like screenplay poetry. And it ends up having the added attraction of a shorter, easier read. When an executive is faced with fifteen scripts on a weekend, they will be grateful, maybe even more inclined to the shorter, simpler ones. In my scripts, I used to leave one or two faint lipstick traces of the hotshitery as evidence but they were few and far between. I knew I shouldn't have but, hey, I'm a poor prideful Hollywood sinner too.<br />
<br />
Action director/writer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Hill_(director)">Walter Hill</a>'s scripts are stunningly short, sometimes well under ninety pages. But those high testosterone stories cover a lot of ground with less verbiage than most. This guy was the 2nd A.D. on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bullitt">"Bullitt,"</a> man!<br />
<br />
The process of this kind of storytelling shakes out into the classic pyramid, but turned upside down on its pointed little head. At the bottom, we have the story teller, then above him, the story itself. Finally above them, getting wider and wider, is the audience. Movies and TV are art for the marketplace. So don't forget your audience. Even though you can't see any of their faces, they are there and they are real. And they are subject to being moved.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
I only wish I could have moved more of them when I handed in my script of "Great Balls of Fire." It started out so smoothly; I liked it, Phillip liked it, Pierre liked it, Mary, Mother of Five loved it, apparently the reader at ABC Films liked it. And then it got to honcho Stu Samuels.<br />
<br />
He at least had the graceful balls to call me up and tell me they wanted to go in a different direction followed by this: "It was a good script, just not what we were looking for."<br />
<br />
My buddy Mark Waxman once jokingly wanted to name his production company: Well, What Are You Looking For Then?<br />
<br />
The next I heard of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Balls_of_Fire!_(film)">"Great Balls of Fire," </a>it was another movie with Dennis Quade, Alec Baldwin, and Winona Ryder, directed by Jim McBride. I bet it's good but I haven't found the nerve to see it. But whatever it was, I would never have to smell Paco Rabanne again.<br />
<br />
So I folded my tent, got paid, and we all went on to different projects. Six months later I was watching the Tony Awards show on TV when I saw Pierre walk up on that stage and pick up his Tony for smash hit <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Will_Rogers_Follies">"The Will Rogers Follies."</a> Two days later I got a call from Phillip. "Chow Puppy, you know, you're our writer. And Pierre and I are about to close a deal to do the life of a favorite of yours --<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hank_Williams">Hank Williams.</a> Have you ever thought about writing for Broadway?"<br />
<br />
I believe my exact words were, once again, "Say what?!" But not even waiting for an answer, I quickly followed it with --<br />
<br />
Hank Hank HankHank HankHank <br />
Hank Hank HankHank Hank<br />
Hank Hank Hank Hank<br />
Hank Hank Hank Hank<br />
Hank Hank HankHank Hank<br />
Hank HankHank Hank<br />
Hank Hank Hank<br />
Hank Hank Hank<br />
Hank HankHank Hank<br />
Hank HankHank HankHank<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-75278666877027091192015-01-15T23:13:00.000-08:002019-02-26T22:57:34.765-08:00#16. The death of "Lazarus." And more about dialogue. <br />
#16. More dialogue about, um, dialogue. And "Lazarus" finally dies.<br />
<br />
There are many different ways of talking even though, for the script, you are doing all of it. It still must have many voices, many cadences, many differences. And they must line up correctly.<br />
<br />
A high school dropout from Alabama who went to work in the mills when he was fifteen will not express himself in the same way a bond trader from Darien will. In fact, that mill worker will probably not sound quite the same as his shift supervisor. Listen to Tommy Lee Jones' character in the woefully underseen <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_the_Valley_of_Elah">"The Valley of Elah"</a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_Country_for_Old_Men_(film)">"No Country For Old Men."</a> God, I'm glad I don't have to live in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cormac_McCarthy">Cormack McCarthy's </a>head.<br />
<br />
One good way to make sure all your characters don't sound alike is to go back and read each character's lines, set off by themselves. Or better yet, if you have actor friends, give the script to them to read. This was hard for me. But screw up your courage and do it; ask them what they think, really think.<br />
<br />
When you get a movie into production, it will be difficult and very costly to set things right if the dialogue doesn't work. Unless your star is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Walken">Christopher Walken</a> who it's been rumored only reads the script to get the gist of the story and then throws out his dialogue and just makes it up. The story in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulp_Fiction">"Pulp Fiction" </a>he tells about hiding his buddy's watch in the P.O.W. camp is great...whoever did it.<br />
<br />
Dialogue is the first, but not necessarily the most crucial, window into the soul of your characters. But I still think its importance is keyed to the story it serves. Otherwise it's just an acting exercise. This is a point <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Mamet">David Mamet </a>makes forcefully in his book to actors, <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=true+and+false">"True and False."</a> The whole idea is for the reader to keep those pages turning. Not to stop and admire the literary scenery.<br />
<br />
So start lush and get spare. Edit and cut, cut, cut. I think a script or painting or poem is done is when you can't take any more out of it. What do you think?<br />
<br />
The next posting will deal with the actual writing of the screenplay. Calling all angels...<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
But first, a few stories about people "along the way" from whom I took great joy, learned some things, and had tons of fun.<br />
<br />
Like the time in Paris that involved me, my buddy Richard Compton, and the Marvelous Marvin Schwartz, you know, Good Marvin.<br />
<br />
Since he had a fairly rich development deal with Fox, Marvin told me and Richard that we should come up with some cool story and pitch it to him. He would pay us to develop it and then, we would make the movie and all grow old and rich together.<br />
<br />
Here is what I can remember of "Lazarus," the story I came up with. The protagonist was an old Hell's Angel, just out of prison for his involvement in a shooting in a rock and roll club like The Roxy on Sunset. Laz and two of his buddies had been set upon by some early Euro-trash and their body guards. Who had guns. It left one of Lazarus's buddies in a wheelchair for life and another in Hell forever. The Europeans bought their way out of the mess, the Angels got sent to San Quentin.<br />
<br />
When they got out, during the 24 hours of tequila, nookie, and dope, they began to plan their revenge (always a good plot engine, said Marvin). They would crate and air freight their choppers to Paris where they would hunt down the assholes who had ambushed them.<br />
<br />
There were two things that positively electrified Marvin in this pitch: The head Angel, Lazarus, I would write for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lee_Marvin">Lee Marvin</a>. And the other element that made him jump was -- for a plot reason I mercifully cannot recall -- that they teamed up with some French and German Hell's Angels chapters (man, we could get <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klaus_Kinski">Klaus Kinsky</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Paul_Belmondo">Belmondo!</a>) to rob three Swiss banks AT THE SAME TIME. Caper city! Jeez, you wonder why Dostoyevsky never thought of this.<br />
<br />
"I can see the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_sheet">1-sheet</a>!" Marvin said.<br />
<br />
"But before we make the deal, I'll get travel money from the studio to send you guys to Europe to Hoover up everything in sight we might be able to use, like those corkscrew Swiss mountain roads filled with roaring choppers! Whatya say?!"<br />
<br />
I'd owned and ridden bikes for years; the aforementioned BMWs and the haul ass Ducati stranded in Mexico. But the only chopper I ever had was a Veg-o-matic. Nevertheless, I was ready to go and two days later, Richard (with his new French wife, Fast Annie) and I were on a plane, headed into a rising sun.<br />
<br />
A few words about Annie.<br />
<br />
Richard had met her when she was a working au pair girl for an A-list Brit transplant writer/director in Beverly Hills. The Brit's three kids were well known little hellions so Annie knew how to handle things when the crazies busted loose. She was quick, cute, young, and she thought her new husband Richard was the Second Coming. In many ways, she was the perfect wife for a director.<br />
<br />
Three weeks earlier, Annie'd had major minor surgery to deal with an ovarian cyst. At her insistence, the doctor had given his reluctant permission to fly. But we had to take it easy, take precautions. Of course we would, certainly. "And remember to take your prescriptions. This one might make you sleepy but you have to take it."<br />
<br />
When we landed in Paris, Fast Annie was in heaven; she was home where everybody spoke French, smoked Gitanes, and drank ten gallons of coffee a day. We tagged along behind her like puppies (easy for me, of course) as she tore through one arrondissement after another: Lee Marvin and the Hell's Angels at the Eiffel Tower, at Notre Dame, at the Crazy Horse. In a traffic jam, being flailed by an enraged grandmother with a loaf of bread!<br />
<br />
Later that day, we rented an old Mercedes 600, got half a dozen maps to Switzerland, put Annie in the back seat to stretch out with her travel pillow where she was fast asleep before we pulled out of the lot.<br />
<br />
Richard and I had both driven in Los Angeles for years so we thought we were combat hardened cowboys. But, buddy, Paris France is like a Daytona 500 stock car finish. We just missed death a whole raft of times before we hit the Swiss border a day later and Annie slept through it all. Every now and then, she'd wake up to say, "Puppee, I muss slep more. Wake me when we get to Surrik."<br />
<br />
We loved Switzerland. Who doesn't? Maybe <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=harry+lime+cuckoo+speech">Orson Welles, what with all those cuckoo clocks.</a><br />
<br />
In Zurich, I thought I'd be able to get plenty of information on the so-called secret Swiss banks. Silly me. Apparently, I'd forgotten what the word 'secret' meant. Nobody in those days before Google would say ANYTHING, they'd just look at me with cold eyes and a half smile. As I told them it was for a 20th Century Fox movie, the smile faded. A Hollywood movie with Lee Marvin as a Hell's Angel! They asked us to leave.<br />
<br />
Back in Paris, we'd heard that the Swiss' main competition for this kind of banking was just over there in the land-locked micro-state 'country' of<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liechtenstein"> Lichtenstein</a>. We had some guide book that told the fanciful story of the Prince, a constitutional monarch, actually coming down from his castle to -- get this -- play darts in the local pub with his subjects. And we believed it!<br />
<br />
When we arrived in Vaduz, Lichtenstein's layer cake capitol, it was sunset and Richard and I were whipped. But recently awakened Fast Annie was up and running. All in French, she found us two rooms in a beautiful little hotel, got us booked for dinner in some snazzy restaurant, then located the very pub that the King (we're so Hollywood we'd already promoted him from Prince), was said to dart in. "Come on," she urged. "I'll bet zee King is in there right now! We can ask him about banks."<br />
<br />
Too many hours and Scotches later, no King. On our way back to the Mercedes, we looked up the hill to the castle on the huge rock outcropping. It was brightly illuminated by hundreds of mercury vapor lights. Finally, half drunk and fully exhausted, I yelled up the hill, "Kingy, come down and play darts with us, man! We're buyin'!" Then Richard started to take it up.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, we heard sirens as Annie pulled us into the car and drove us back to the hotel. All the way, Richard and I made up songs about how great she was.<br />
<br />
But that night, something slowed way down inside Fast Annie.<br />
<br />
When we woke up the next morning, she was already awake, flushed and grimacing, doubled over in pain. "Something is wrong wiv me. Take me back to Paris, Reechard. Please..." First we took her to a local clinic for some pain meds. Lichtenstein is tiny, about 60 square miles, maybe 30,000 people. The richest country per capita on earth, they were extremely accommodating but spoke mostly German which none of us understood.<br />
<br />
"Take me to Paris," Annie kept saying.<br />
<br />
So we did. But I have no clear memory of how. Maybe we turned the car in and went high speed rail but I don't know. Just that suddenly, it was all hands on deck.<br />
<br />
Hell's Angels and darts with Kingy were forgotten as, suddenly without his French bride, Richard the director took over. And that's what we needed. Writers, process oriented, see too much; lost in the pixels, every road looks the same and yet different and each one has endless possibilites and a story behind each and blah blah blah. Directors, goal oriented, see the way through it, to it. <br />
<br />
Back in Paris, we ran into the most important fact about the big central hospital: it was all Catholic, all the time. The place smelled like Clorox and was awash with nuns and their white billowing habits and stern, scrubbed red faces. They seemed to stand as the first line of defense between the patients and the too few actual doctors.<br />
<br />
After she'd been seen, Annie told us she explained to the ER nuns that the ovarian surgery had taken place in America. Not good. In California. Worse. In Los Angeles. Worst of all. She told us the nuns had become convinced she was lying, that she was hiding an <b>abortion</b>!<br />
<br />
And that is why Annie in her hospital bed was given an injection of antibiotics and was told there was no room available for her. She was finally pushed out into a long porch, under a roof to be sure, but completely open to the elements on one side. No wall, no windows. Just air. Richard and I gathered around her bed as it began to snow.<br />
<br />
I am not making this up.<br />
<br />
At ten that night, Richard and I tried to wheel Annie's bed back inside but were stopped by a nun and an orderly. Richard found a pay-phone and called the American embassy and briefly told them the story (if I'd made the call, I'd still be explaining it to them). He tried to lodge a formal complaint and was told since it was after business hours, to call back in the morning.<br />
<br />
So around midnight we went in and stole blankets from empty rooms, took them back out on the porch where we all hunkered down for the night. About four, we tried to sneak her inside again, and again to no avail. <br />
<br />
Sometime during that night, I realized there are some things more important than a screenplay. When I thought of it, there was nothing left in my tank, my brain or heart for it. All its half-cocked absurdities carried it away. It didn't even wave bye-bye. Just gone; in a long dark night in the City of Light.<br />
<br />
So the next morning as Annie was fitfully sleeping, Richard and I ate oranges and dry cereal we stole from the hospital cafeteria. Richard said, "Puppy, I gotta get my wife back to L.A., to her doctor at Cedars. This place is going to kill her." I told him WE would get her home. I was coming, too. Annie had two hands; he'd hold one, I'd hold the other. This time, Lazarus was going to stay dead.<br />
<br />
Eighteen hours later in L.A., Annie was in Cedars Sinai Hospital, Richard and I were across Beverly Blvd. in Jerry's deli, slurping down chicken soups.<br />
<br />
The next day we drove in to Fox to confess to Marvin we had nothing on "Lazarus." We had gone looking for a Swiss bank robbing, revenge bent Hell's Angel and found a very sick French girl in crisis who needed to come home immediately.<br />
<br />
He was not thrilled but he understood when we told him all what had happened. He had to swallow hard, but he got it. Because he was Good Marvin. And was a sucker for a good image. I think it was the light dusting of snow on Annie's green hospital blankets as her husband and his screenwriter slept scrunched down on porch chairs next to her.<br />
<br />
Every once in a while, I dream about those Goddamn French nuns.<br />
<br />
Oh, and Annie fully recovered, Richard went on to direct hundreds of hours of episodic network TV, hell, he directed the pilot of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baywatch">"Baywatch,"</a> ka-ching, and the movie <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macon_County_Line">"Macon County Line</a>" which made a ton of money, but it didn't keep them from getting divorced and the next time I saw Annie she was sixty at Richard's funeral some years ago.<br />
<br />
Oddly, I love getting old. I do. But time's payback can be a bitch. And I miss my friend Richard. <br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-55543733968554703722014-12-31T16:59:00.000-08:002019-02-26T17:11:14.612-08:00#15. Rock & roll hellfire, part 2. "The Rose," SHE LIVES!<br />
#`15. Rock & roll hellfire, part 2. "The Rose," SHE LIVES!<br />
<br />
Handing in a first draft is a butt-clenching process. It happens quickly but feels like forever.<br />
<br />
You've been with it, all alone for months; those characters living and dying on the page, rippling through your dreams, sucking up the air wherever you are. It's a total takeover of trial and error.<br />
<br />
I often worked ten hours a day, seven days a week, giving it everything I had. And some I didn't. <br />
<br />
This wasn't exactly work work, you know, like carrying sheetrock or slinging huge blocks of ice in a peach packing shed (both of which I'd done). But it was so fulfilling, so concentrated that I had to leave notes for myself to vacuum, to water the houseplants, to change the cat litter...notes to remind myself to make more coffee, shower, and eat. One one of my lists, it actually said "make list." It seemed the only thing I could do on my own was write, pee, and smoke.<br />
<br />
Almost every project I did in my thirty years, at some point seemed like a doomed good idea that had utterly consumed me on its way south. Looking back on it, it's probably how I motivated myself until I wrote FADE OUT and then my two favorite words: THE END.<br />
<br />
Finally, the first draft is over. Suddenly all the blinds are torn open, the sunlight floods in from a dozen windows, and you are standing, pear-shaped and naked, in the middle of a strange room, filled with people who all turn and say sourly, "A hundred-and-fifty-one pages?" Now the relief turns into Fear and its psycho twin, Panic. Most scripts are a hundred-and-twenty pages.<br />
<br />
In those pre-computer years, the idea of re-typing it to polish and cut, was completely overwhelming. I'm a 'touch typist' but slow, s l o w. Most writer deals guarantee a first draft and two sets of revisions: I'd wait and get some perspective on this moose. Hell with it, I'm handing in. Plus which, I need to get paid.<br />
<br />
I stopped at the Farmers Market to get some nerve-building coffee and everyone seemed to be eyeballing me sideways, even June, the weird coffee lady who puts her makeup on with a garden trowel. Aren't scripts supposed to be shorter, she seemed to be asking. And yours is how long? "Do you want room for cream?" <br />
<br />
My drive up Olympic Blvd to Fox seemed to take a week. At this point the guards at the main gate knew me as the long haired writer in the old Woody who fed the backlot feral cats. Normally, they waved me through. Not this time. One of the guards came to my window with a clipboard, checked me, checked the board, nodded. "Handing in today, huh?" Yeah. "Good luck."<br />
<br />
Now my heart was pounding, I had a headache, my mouth was dry, and my old car radio suddenly quit right in the middle of Rod Stewart's donut song. "Every picture tells a story, donut," he wailed and then, silence.<br />
<br />
In my short time as a screenwriter, I'd already had two Marvins, both at Fox, just down the hall from each other. One was Marvin Schwartz, Good Marvin that I wrote about mostly in #12, a man I loved and admired. This new one was clearly Bad Marvin...<br />
<br />
Who, even though he knew I was coming in, was at a lunch meeting off the lot so I handed my script into his secretary. This was before I learned never to do that. She took it then weighed it in her hand and her eyes got big. By this time, I was sweating in places I had never sweated. That script had my sum total of rock and roll experience and imagination. And I knew it was simultaneously not enough and WAY too much.<br />
<br />
I started to take it back from her. Her hand tightened. I pulled, she pulled harder and snatched it away. Quickly, she put in in one of her desk drawers, locked it, and dropped the little key down her secretarial showbiz cleavage. "You'll get used to it," she said. "In time."<br />
<br />
But I never did.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Back home, even my cats were looking at me suspiciously. That cut it!<br />
<br />
I sat down at my desk and went to work on the copy of the script I had made before I drove to Fox. Earlier that year, I had bought my own copy machine! It was absurdly expensive, orange and huge, and pulled so much juice, when you turned it on, the lights dimmed for a second. It was like the electric chair in those prison movies: "They're fryin' Lefty," I said every single time. But, baby, I loved that machine and I always had copies, one of which I mailed the next day to the Writers Guild script registration department. Something I'd learned from my "Last American Hero" debacle.<br />
<br />
Then, I started polishing, cutting, adding, re-arranging, cutting some more, correcting typos (stiffening one page with so much White-out, you could hold it out straight by the goddamn corner). And for a while it actually seemed to get better.<br />
<br />
But longer; counting my A and B pages, I now had 164 pages. Oh, no.<br />
<br />
Too much dialogue, too many 'good lines,' too many funny but pointless stories. I was making it worse by making it better! And even though I had officially handed it in to Worth, I was dead flat afraid to show it to any of my friends, a chronic disease with me.<br />
<br />
So I waited.<br />
<br />
And waited.<br />
<br />
Then somewhere, someone heard that 20th Century Fox's president's long-haired son had convinced the old man that "The Rose" was a cool worthwhile project and even though they were looking for a new writer (shit!), it seemed now to have what they call a flashing green light! As my agent was putting me up for new jobs based on the (ha ha) success of this last one. Someone heard that one of the writers Fox went out to was the legendary<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Pierson"> <span id="goog_1001232086"></span>Frank Pierson</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1001232087"></span></a>. Apparently he sent it back with a note that said while he would love to have their money, his advice was to shoot it exactly as written, it didn't need him or anyone else.<br />
<br />
Umm, that was a pretty good day.<br />
<br />
Then -- still no word of any kind from Worth -- I read in the trades, Fox had hired <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Rydell">Mark Rydell</a>, a director with actual credits, some of them impressive. By now, for reasons best known to drunken Hollywood angels, my agent J.P. had gotten me another job and I was off and running down some new tangent. Hollywood script development is a booming but wild hair business.<br />
<br />
So they were now making their movie. And, as my name occasionally appeared in their publicity, I kept getting new job offers which re-tracked my mind on those things and the little house I'd bought up in Laurel Canyon; I G.I.ed it for under fifty grand! It only had one bathroom but it had a washer and a dryer! My first house, formerly owned by a former porn star named Rick Cassidy. And it had roses in he garden. I took it as an omen. Y'know...Roses? Where do I sign, baby?!<br />
<br />
Then, I got a phone call from my mother back in North Carolina. She had just read in<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bob_Thomas_(reporter)"> Bob Thomas' </a>column in the Asheville Citizen Times that "somebody named Betty Midler is starring in Fox's 'The Rose.' Is that your movie, Puppy?" Yeah, Mom. I think it is.<br />
<br />
About four seconds after I'd hung up from my mother's call, I telephoned Worth at Fox. And surprise, surprise --<br />
<br />
He wouldn't take my call.<br />
<br />
In fact I never heard from him again. But after someone had passed me a copy of the script (as it now stood), oh my, how I wanted to. I had gotten no farther than the rewritten title page to discover my name nowhere on it.<br />
<br />
Nowhere.<br />
<br />
As I recall, it said "A Marvin Worth film. Written by Marvin Worth and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Cimino">Michael Cimino</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bo_Goldman">Bo Goldman</a>. From an idea by Marvin Worth. Producer -- Marvin Worth. For Marvin Worth Films @ 20th Century Fox." But no Chow Puppy. Not anywhere?<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
First of all, it's not unheard of for such a naked credit crab by a producer. They've often been with the script in all it's incarnations for so long and they are so familiar with it, they begin to think it's theirs. And in the beginning of his career, Worth had been a writer, so his water just sort of settled that way. But there is NO SUCH THING as an "idea by" credit. "Written by," "Story by," and "Screenplay by," that's pretty much it.<br />
<br />
Man, I was steaming.<br />
<br />
So I called my lawyer Barry. Then, he was steaming. After a very short and tightly focussed phone call he made to Worth the following day, Barry was messengered a new title page and a signed agreement that subsequently attached it to all scripts of "The Rose" on which "idea by" was eliminated, about half the other Worth credits disappeared and my name was added to the growing list of writers.<br />
<br />
After I read the current "Rose" script, I thought it was pretty okay. There was lots of my work still in it and some new stuff that was real good. Later I found out most of it had come from Bo Goldman who has a cottage industry in Academy Awards. Dude can write. I say if you're going to get rewritten, please God, let it be by somebody great. That way your friends might think it was you.<br />
<br />
Then, shooting was finally over and cast and crew were coming home.<br />
<br />
When it came time for the pre-release Writers Guild credit arbitration, I began to prepare my case. This time I hired a friend named <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=cathleen+summers">Cathleen Summers</a> who drove a little red car and had cats and who was real pretty and so smart she had at least two brains, one of them purely for screenplays. She guided my brief, chapter and verse, to what I considered a successful conclusion: Screenplay by Chow Puppy and Bo Goldman, Story by Chow Puppy. And after a week it became official.<br />
<br />
Aww-RIGHT! And thank God for Cathleen Summers.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
As an invited bunch of us got off the plane in Dallas to see the sneak preview of "The Rose," we passed a electronic billboard that announced that the Dow Jones had just cracked 700! THAT'S how long ago this was.<br />
<br />
It was the first time I had ever seen any part of the movie; my heart was hammering so loud, I thought surely they'd put me in the projection booth. Calm down, breathe, in and out, as the lights came down and the movie started.<br />
<br />
Holy suckaroonie: 35MM, color, Cinemascope, mag stereo sound, even the little effects like a limo door slamming seemed four dimensional! And suddenly, there she was -- tiny Bette Midler staggering down the tour plane's stairs, half drunk, a little skimpy sixties dress clinging to her, a huge floppy hat bent low over her dark glasses as her manager, Alan Bates, looked at his rock and roll wreck with disgust.<br />
<br />
It was everything I dreamed it would be. And then the titles began. Wow. Look at all those names, all those people in this movie I wrote. I was flying. They save the last titles for Writer(s), Producer(s), and Director. When the writer(s) titles came up --<br />
<br />
THEY HAD SPELLED MY NAME WRONG.<br />
<br />
Both times! My blood actually ran cold. And I am embarrassed to say that it was like ten minutes until the power of Midler's cyclonic performance pulled me back into the story, into the sweep of the movie.<br />
<br />
The preview audience seemed to like it, even with its sad ending, and the dreaded opinion cards were good enough so the trip back to L.A. was a happy relief for all.<br />
<br />
In fact my relief was so happy, two days later I went out and leased a Cadillac Seville. God, I loved my little house and Caddy; it's true, I'm a hillbilly. But a by-God American one!<br />
<br />
When my lawyer Barry brought it to their attention, Fox apologized all over the place about misspelling my name in the titles, changed it at no small cost to them and then sent a huge floral arrangement to my house in the shape of the corrected letter. For a while, it looked like a Mafia funeral in my living room. Until my cats zeroed in on it. Then it looked more like the crime scene.<br />
<br />
"The Rose" got some great reviews and some just meh. And one from a former restaurant critic who absolutely hated it. But Bette got the cover of "Rolling Stone" with an iconic shot by Annie Liebovitz and was universally praised for this courageous performance in her first film. She still says it's her favorite.<br />
<br />
It opened in Westwood and the lines went down the block. I only drove by five or six times. I swear. For a long time (maybe even still) all its makers rode on the rocket coat-tails of Bette, the masterpiece song by <a href="https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#safe=off&q=amanda+mcbroom">Amanda McBroom,</a> and its "dark" ending.<br />
<br />
I happened to be in New York when "The Rose" opened there. Bette had started in the NYC baths, was a Big Apple darling, so it was a huge deal. My friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_V._Hart">Jim Hart</a> took me down to Times Square to see the campaign Fox had mounted. It was epic. The billboard took up what seemed like several buildings and the square itself. It had everything but the Camel guy blowing smoke rings. The display was so big, from down on the street, you could actually see my name as screenwriter.<br />
<br />
And do you know, for about five minutes there, I was happy.<br />
<br />
It was later that night I realized -- thank God -- that no matter how much praise I got, it would never really be enough. Because, for me, it only lasts about five minutes. Tops. So I would have to let that go and take my joy from the work itself, from the actual doing of it. And some of the people I would meet along the way. The Farrellys, Tony Bill, Mark Waxman, Hannah Hempstead, Warren Miller, Gilda Stratton, the Dunne family...<br />
<br />
Which changed everything. I was finally out of that rock and roll hellfire. But this was Hollywood, Jake. And I'm me.<br />
<br />
So of course, I immediately found a new one...which lasts until today.<br />
<br />
Because I got sole story credit on "The Rose" when some people thought it'd possibly make an interesting Broadway type musical, I controlled the rights with Fox. So who were we to argue with them?<br />
<br />
This is where I first encountered manager Pamela Cooper, daughter of the legendary Frank Cooper, the guy who discovered Frank Sinatra! She thought "The Rose" on Broadway was pretty good idea and signed on.<br />
<br />
Still riding on Amanda McBroom and Bette's coattails, we fielded all kinds of offers: from London, from Sweden, from Australia, from Japan, from The Beatles' musical producer's son, from some actual track record folks who thought they might have famous unnamed pop star interested...right up until Ms. Unnamed broke up with her long term boyfriend and maybe saw the first draft script for the new "A Star Is Born" and got a good look at blue-eyed Bradley.<br />
<br />
Hey, I never said her name.<br />
<br />
But the one who put up some money to have me go to work on it, to develop it further was Karen, a whirlwind singer-florist who stuck with me through thick and thin, as we tarted our version around to every last human in America. If we didn't contact you, check your unread emails.<br />
<br />
Once that went south, Pamela found a well-known producer named Gail Berman. She had a decades long relationship with Fox -- somewhere between helpful and crucial -- the check cleared and we got started all over again, this time without my so-called participation. Which is where it rests now.<br />
<br />
Karen is going to sell flowers and run for Mayor of Newark, Pamela's clients are working and she herself was nominated for a Tony for "Come From Away." And I hope Gail will have a wild shot-in-the-dark success with "The Rose" somewhere, sometime in its new incarnation. These are tough minded, dedicated women, my favorite kind. But I would like to see it all happen before they have to wheel me down the aisle in an iron lung with a drool cup.<br />
<br />
But now, I'm just here. Hanging around, telling you these stories, loving my wife, grateful for my life and friends. Much of which is fueled by the Writers Guild of America who kept everyone honest, and the men who recognized the car and filled the gas tank, Richard Moyer and Barry Beckerman.<br />
<br />
Thanks again, guys.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-47470872400886404372014-12-14T13:57:00.000-08:002019-02-26T16:45:56.172-08:00#14. Rock & roll hellfire part 1. And words about dialogue<br />
#14. The Rose's rock & roll hellfire, part one. And some words about dialogue.<br />
<br />
"I ran the hellfire road<br />
to chase the sweet smell of sin."<br />
<br />
J. Mellencamp 'Troubled Man'<br />
<br />
We were hippies once...and young.<br />
<br />
We had pony tails. And loved rock and roll. And had been front row center for the entire <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monterey_Pop_Festival">Monterey Pop Festival.</a> Netflix it; that's us four UCLA film schoolers in American flag shirts and black cowboy hats shooting my so-called thesis film. We got half a page in color in Time Magazine's 1967 hippie issue! My sister was thrilled, my southern small town parents were mortified.<br />
<br />
Ten years later I was pinballing my way though Hollywood when agent John Ptak heard they were looking for a writer at 20th Century Fox for a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janis_Joplin">Janis Joplin</a> prototype rock and roll crash-and-burn story. At this point, my hippie drag was wearing a little thin, even for me, but J.P. and I figured what the hell. Once more into the breach!<br />
<br />
So I threw my blue Bahne skateboard in the way-back, jumped in my '42 Ford woodie, and drove to Fox to meet producer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marvin_Worth">Marvin Worth</a>.<br />
<br />
I think our simultaneous four word thought bubbles were "Are you shittin' me?!" I was in a faded tie-dye shirt, skinny jeans, Fairchild moccasins, and my black cowboy hat with its American flag hatband. I had a lit Winston clamped in my teeth. I am cringing as I write this.<br />
<br />
Marvin Worth was dressed in a beige cashmere turtleneck, a $300 pair of slacks, Italian loafers, and wore, around his neck what must have been a four pound silver Ankh, popular in those days with hep cat businessmen.<br />
<br />
We probably should have just blown taps right then. Neither of us could quite hide the look of disgust. But neither could we hide the fact that both of us got, well, curiouser and curiouser. So he half heartedly motioned me in and I barely made my way to a stuffed chair and we began our meeting.<br />
<br />
They didn't have the data-urping internet in those dim days, so all we had to go on was reputation and rumor.<br />
<br />
Worth seemed to be in his sixties with his perfectly done Prince Valiant long hair and his buffed and manicured nails. I recently Googled him to discover he was only 12 years older than me! In those days, I thought of myself as Young -- drinking, smoking dope, running around, no kids because I WAS THE KID! I had two cats named Tector and Lyle and an empty refrigerator and a waterbed and a Mickey Mouse rug in the bathroom (still got it) and a skateboard, man. The only thing I could cook from almost scratch was a Tater Tot omelet.<br />
<br />
Is this not a kid?<br />
<br />
Worth seemed so old. And even though he'd had produced and managed the legendary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lenny_Bruce">Lenny Bruce </a>(a complete hero of mine; I could do all his routines including Fatboy's Used Car Lot), I couldn't quite get past Worth's big shot bit. To be fair, I'm pretty sure he felt the same way about me.<br />
<br />
We looked at each other and slowly began to talk. I found out what he wanted, he found out what he might be able to get. And although we never became friendly, never lost the basic distrust from that first impression, we found a kind of peace with it, made the deal, and went to work. Such are the sometime residents in that Hollywood Hotel. In the end, with significant help, we put on a fairly successful party/movie down in the ballroom. It was called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rose_(film)">"The Rose."</a><br />
<br />
After my deal closed, Worth and Fox hired <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Byrne_Cooke">John Byrne Cooke</a> (broadcast legend Alistair's son) a former bluegrass musician who had worked for the famous gonif manager Albert Grossman (Bob Dylan, The Band, Peter, Paul, and Mary, Odetta, Paul Butterfield, Janis Joplin). During that period, John had been the road manager for Janis and had stories for days.<br />
<br />
A good natured guy, he also had a four digit I.Q., made tri-lingual puns, could read upside down and backwards, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of music. He was the first to notice that my parent's zip code -- 28782 -- was a palindrome! Over the next five months, he gave me much.<br />
<br />
Like his notes he'd made over the years, access to his recollections and stories, and a New York introduction to Janis' band, producer John Simon, together again in the studio to work the tracks of her memorial 'final album.'<br />
<br />
However thanks to my substance abuse and being swept away by time and events, here the memory begins to shake and cough. So I will just say I learned some things thrilling, boring, even unpleasant about the record business. From sung and unsung rock and roll heroes.<br />
<br />
Over the years, I have come to spend some time with rock and rollers: Jim Morrison of The Doors, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, to name three. Here is what I learned. They are brilliant, gifted, and utterly damaged. When they are at their zenith, very, very few say "no" to them.<br />
<br />
They end up as children who throw spectacular autonomy tantrums to get their way. After a while, just the threat of this is usually enough. It becomes habituated behavior whose wheels are lubed by staggering amounts of money. The music can be great but make no mistake, fame is a kind of stage four cancer. With occasional fun.<br />
<br />
Here is an illustrative (and perhaps apocryphal) story. When San Francisco's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jefferson_Airplane">Jefferson Airplane </a>hit it big, I mean real big, "White Rabbit" and "Somebody to Love" had been on the charts for months, Grace Slick and Marty Balin were in Los Angeles doing business when they got their first massive check. Wowee wow, look at all them zeros! They were taken forthwith to a Beverly Hills exotic car dealership down on Wilshire.<br />
<br />
Where not a single one of the car salesmen would come over to help them. And Grace was gorgeous! But this was 1967 and to the staff, they were just a couple of no account hippies off the street.<br />
<br />
Grace fumed. She steamed. And then she exploded. Grabbing a cast iron base from one of the Aston Martin signs, she began to beat the steel grey DB-5 in a fury. The first blows froze everyone cold. They they all lept into action, running for her screaming "STOP! What the hell are doing?!"<br />
<br />
Grace calmly dropped the cast iron base the concrete floor and smiled sweetly. "My name is Grace Slick, motherfucker and I want this car." With that she pulled the RCA check out of her purse and showed it to them. "All fixed up. By tomorrow at five."<br />
<br />
This story widely made the rounds: no clue if it's true. But the underlying message is clear. Fair is fair. Money is money. And I want what I want when I want it. One pill makes you larger...<br />
<br />
So with a whole raft of these kinds of stories and some vaguer ideas, I went to work on an outline, a kind of information dump, to see what I had.<br />
<br />
A few years earlier, in the barely imaginable Time Before Computers, I had bought an IBM Correcting Selectric II typewriter, and it had become the new star of my life. There was something mystical about its hum when you turned on; it painlessly opened a vein for me every time and suddenly my fingers were flying over the keys and the little silver printing 'golf ball' was chattering away, page after page.<br />
<br />
May Rose Foster was going to be a glorious, out of control southern girl rock and roll singer at the top of her career. She had been, as they say, rode hard and put up wet. And now she was completely exhausted, worn out by the non stop tours, endless hours in the studio, the business she didn't really understand, interview after interview where they never quoted you right, the booze and drugs, the parade of nameless men...and women, and very little normal human contact. She was always hustled from place to place by a phalanx of well-intentioned robots who treated her like a diseased queen.<br />
<br />
She wanted a year off. On her own. To get well, to read, and to write new songs. To recharge the batteries. To find her creative center again. Maybe in a little mountain cabin by a creek...<br />
<br />
No one wanted any part of this.<br />
<br />
Her millionaire manager Rudge Campbell (a British Albert Grossman type) had a plan to kill all of it. He would guilt trip her, wear her down, threaten to replace her band, and cause her friends to betray her. Then he would move to cancel the one concert venue she wanted, her "homecoming," all to turn her back into the golden-egg-laying goose. He would make it all right again. He would save the day. He would save her.<br />
<br />
It was always assumed that we were modeling our star after Janis Joplin. True to some extent. But to an old drama-junkie jazzbo like me, first there was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billie_Holiday">Billie Holiday</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chet_Baker">Chet Baker</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peggy_Lee">Peggy Lee</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anita_O%27Day">Anita O'day,</a> and even the short career and lost anguish of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnnie_Ray">Johnny Ray</a>. I saw the Rose in all of them. <br />
<br />
So I had my protagonist and my antagonist. I had two clear characters (at least to me) and, most importantly, I had conflict. And, of course, they had history. Now it was time for me to invent the other characters, the every day events, scenes, and some kind of resolution. Now the fun would start. Runners take your marks...<br />
<br />
This was in the days before Syd Field, before I really knew what structure was. But let's be honest; it was also more fun. The old Twain/Gottlieb writers' koan -- if you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there -- had never been more true. But mamma mia, I saw lots of wondrous stuff wandering on my Any Road, my rock and roll midnight freeway to hell.<br />
<br />
I took off ramps, on ramps, overpasses, underpasses, rest areas; I even took runaway truck pull-offs! Because I had left town with no map, and to flog the metaphor further, I tried to stay within sight of my freeway but it didn't always work.<br />
<br />
You get happy and tranced, writing some scene that has absolutely no business in your story but the wasted time and effort is so enjoyable. And my Selectric II printer ball couldn't have cared less. He was just happy to be jumpin'. I named him Russell Dehon and through the hypnotic hum, I could often hear him singing bebop a'lula, you mah baby!<br />
<br />
So, lots of blind alleys.<br />
<br />
But in some of those I found Sarah, an old lover of Rose's. And Houston Dyer, an AWOL Silver Star winning Army combat vet on the run from Vietnam. I found Dennis, Rose's road manager who was most like John Cooke. I found Tiny and Mal, young soldiers on leave before their posting to Southeast Asia, rabid Rose fans, thrilled to get on the Tour plane with her. I found her band, wild boogying horn dogs and all last named after former U.C.L.A. quarterbacks. Hey, be true to your school.<br />
<br />
Since I seemed to have most of my characters, I thought well, it'll be smooth sailing now. I guess I can start. Just see how and where it wanted to go. You know, like novelists, real writers. I'll let my characters talk for a while. They'll show me where they want to go.<br />
<br />
B.F.M. Big fucking mistake.<br />
<br />
Because like children left to their own devices, they're so happy to be up and running, they'll say anything. Endlessly. And here, for a bit, we are going back to THE SCREENPLAY. Because where we left off if you recall was -- tah dah --<br />
<br />
DIALOGUE<br />
<br />
Many people think that dialogue is all that screenwriters write. Until they read their first script (no easy task, believe me). There is where they discover the whole movie; the story, the motivation, the characters, the costumes, the way things look, the action sequences, and -- yes -- the dialogue. In other words, the whole nine.<br />
<br />
In a good script, it's nearly all there. Or arrows that clearly point to it.<br />
<br />
Someone who can write good dialogue has an odd gift that settles somewhere between the ear and the typing fingers. It's fairly important but not crucial. There are very good writers who have a tin ear for talk. But if you can do it, you will find a niche in Hollywood. Because characters tell who they are and what they think by what they say...or don't say. <br />
<br />
As dialogue seemed to be a comparative long suit, I gratefully accepted its gift and turned my concerns toward structure, an area more troubling for me. And it was my first attempts on "The Rose" that made this clear. My peeps wouldn't stop talking! Just blah blah blah. After I had a stack of pages of this mess, I stopped typing, nearly out of breath myself. <br />
<br />
Going back through it, I uncovered about three lines that had some actual meaning, that revealed something, that I would keep. One of them was the shortest sentence in the English language, just two letters long. It was a woman saying "<b>no</b>." I figured at this rate, it would take me about six years for a first draft instead of the projected six weeks.<br />
<br />
About here is where the 3X5 scene cards began to look good.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I knew where the story started, I knew some of the stuff in the middle, and I knew where it ended. Although then, I was not sure where SHE ended. That came later.<br />
<br />
Once I had a collection of possible scenes, I numbered them (as you recall) in pencil and push-pinned them to a bulletin board. After I had rewritten the cards many times and switched them around and around and around, even though Sid Field hadn't written his book yet (come on, Syd, get busy!) I knew I had something up there that looked like a movie. God, what a feeling.<br />
<br />
It was that joyousness that propelled me into<br />
<br />
FADE IN:<br />
<br />
EXT. DALTON, GEORGIA - DAY<br />
<br />
Your carpet probably came from this sleepy midsize town. It has a well-defined class system -- race, money, and the railroad tracks -- with cotillions, cockfights, stock car hero Cotton Ravan, bankers in their sweat through seersucker suits, and The Rose.<br />
<br />
It's a hot smokey day in late summer.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
I spent the next month and a half alone with my cats in my home office in the most exhilarating creative free flight I had ever known. I believe if you are doing something you love, reach out with both hands. My face hurt from smiling.<br />
<br />
But, as bad times come to an end, so do good times. Turned out that was what my script was about. And keeping that balance was about to become a mess. For both of us. Because I had finally finished my first draft: standing there on the edge of the Hellfire Highway.<br />
<br />
Where we'll start next time in Part 2. <br />
bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-22992735855032348762014-11-18T13:01:00.000-08:002019-02-26T15:54:05.238-08:00#13. Lunch with Bobby. And the wealth of charachters.<br />
#13. Lunch with Bobby. The Cookie Jones. And the wealth of flawed characters.<br />
<br />
And God said, let there be producers! So the poor screenwriters will have something to do after they get home from morning coffee at the Farmer's Market.<br />
<br />
It was back in the mid-Seventies when ICM agents Mike Medavoy and John Ptak lined me and director <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Kaufman">Philip Kaufman</a> up for a project-pitch lunch with Bobby.<br />
<br />
These lunch (and sometimes breakfast) meetings are classic; the big shot producer or executive takes the hot(ish) writer and/or director out for a meal where he (or she) pulls up a stool and milks them for all they're worth.<br />
<br />
The big shot writes off the lunches as development costs. These used to be known as The Three Martini Lunch. By the time we got there, they had morphed into The Two Bottles of Cheval Blanc Lunch. The write off remained the same.<br />
<br />
Bobby was the son of a famous art-collecting industrialist who will be headlined in ANY history of Pre War America. Philip and I had been, as I recall, recruited by <span id="goog_73733190"></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hannah_Weinstein">Hannah Weinstein</a><span id="goog_73733191"></span>, a golden era lefty producer who had come upon actual government documents laying bare the sordid details of U.S. Army PX fraud in Vietnam, perpetrated by four senior level Master Sergeants, sunk to the very top of their boots in ill-gotten everything.<br />
<br />
My idea was to lay it out in a bittersweet story about Frank and Mindy Moon (I can't believe I remember this), a couple of first rate human beings, second rate entertainers, stuck in the third act of a career, doing PX shows for the troops in Saigon. While their marriage is coming apart, their act is actually getting better as they fall headlong into the Master Sergeant scandal, beset by careerist government investigators and a sudden NVA attack.<br />
<br />
Philip had already directed "The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid" and "The White Dawn" and was well on his way to a spectacular career. And I was well on my way to lunch at The Palm, yum yum.<br />
<br />
Bobby was late, so Philip and I got caught up on local gossip. I'd just had that terrible walk-out lunch meeting at Le Dump with the two rock and roll millionaire geniuses and he'd just been fired off "The Outlaw Josey Wales." I didn't know directors could even get fired: he said it happened while he was eating lunch. He came back to the set and saw Clint Eastwood up on the Chapman crane rehearsing a shot. In a half- joking manner, he called up to Clint, "Are you directing now?" Clint didn't smile back. He just nodded. And that was it for Philip on Josey Wales. Although he remained the lead credited screenwriter.<br />
<br />
Bobby finally arrived and we set about to have lunch. The Palm is noted for their steaks, so we all ordered them. For many hot(ish) writers, these meals were sometimes the only grown up food they got, so chow down, puppies!<br />
<br />
We had a nice lunch. Philip and I told him our take on the Master Sergeant - Vietnam project; he seemed to like it. Then, talking more show biz gossip, talking about Bobby's wife, a Grammy winning toast-of-two-continents type singer, beautiful and thin as a shoelace, who I had met when we were all prior versions. Bobby said sourly she was always ragging him to lose weight as he forked another bite of ribeye into his mouth. Philip and I thought it was great; we didn't care what he looked like coming out of the shower. Bobby was a sweet guy, a scion-of, and would maybe produce our movie. More Cabernet? <br />
<br />
Then desert. And coffee. And a Sambuca or two. And more stories. I lock-jawed back a yawn. But we weren't worried. Until Philip looked at his watch.<br />
<br />
It was four fifteen. Jesus H! We'd been there over three hours. Most of these lunches last an hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half. Bobby excused himself for the men's room. I signaled our waiter and asked him if Bobby had paid the check. Or had an account there? He smiled and shook his head. Hmmm. What was going on?<br />
<br />
Philip requested a phone. Hillbilly that I am, I remember thinking, Jeez, can you do that? So while Bobby was still in the men's room, it was brought to the table, plugged in, and he called Mike Medavoy, the fount of all knowledge in Showbiz.<br />
<br />
Philip quickly explained the situation. Mike told him that he had been in Bobby's Century City townhouse and it was filled, honest to God filled with art: Picassos, Monets, Pollocks, he even owned the Larry Rivers' Confederate General, the one on the cover of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Brautigan">Brautigan</a> book. You know who his father was. Bobby was rich, he was 'good for it,' he was a player!<br />
<br />
"That's as may be," said Philip. "But apparently not today." We didn't think Bobby should have to sell one of his Renoirs for our lunch. But maybe he had an extra velvet Elvis in his garage. "I gotta go," said Philip. "Rose and I have a dinner."<br />
<br />
"I hope it's more real than this one," I said hauling out my brand new credit card. He took his out, too. "Splitzies?"<br />
<br />
We paid, wrote a big tip for the long afternoon's service, and were on our way out the door when Bobby came back, an embarrassed but friendly smile lopsided across his face. "Thanks, guys! It was a great meeting, a great lunch. If you see my wife, mention that I just had a salad. I'll call your agent, we'll set something up. And thanks."<br />
<br />
We never heard from him again. And the project, like so very many, disappeared in its own smoke. Thank God the Monet and that velvet Elvis are safe. Somewhere.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
JAMIE AND HER FRIENDS GET CONTROL OF THEIR COOKIE JONES<br />
<br />
I have known Jamie Diamond for years. We met in the mid-70s when I went to visit her bosses, producers Mitch Brower and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Getaway_(1972_film)">David Foster </a>at Warners to pitch them yet another exciting project that mercifully faded away half way through the meeting. But on the way out, I stopped to talk to Jamie; she was tall, striking, and had a great sudden laugh. We hit it off.<br />
<br />
For about a week we tried to be...something, I don't know. But that clearly wasn't going to work for reasons best known to the Baby Jesus, so we decided to just be girlfriends. It stood us in good stead for the next forty years.<br />
<br />
Jamie grew up in showbiz: her mother (now a certified scholar with a PhD) had been a showgirl/ dancer in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billy_Rose">Billy Rose's Diamond Horseshoe </a>in New York. Jamie's father was a Hollywood press agent when he met and married Mamma Diamond. Humphrey Bogart was their best man. One of Jamie's first memories was standing in Bogey's lap while they all laughed and smoked and drank. <br />
<br />
One day, Jamie showed me a piece she had written about a first date with a well known screenwriter/playwright. I must have read it three or four times. It was good. I mean real good. God, where does this talent come from; there she was working as a secretary/assistant to a couple of producers and she could write better than most of the scripts that came across her desk. From 'good' writers.<br />
<br />
Time passes and now she has written for the L.A. Times, the N.Y. Times, and God knows where else. She also writes fiction and over the years, she's gotten even better. And yet, not published; one of the great mysteries of life.<br />
<br />
Down deep in her heart, I believe the following Cookie Jones story illustrates how and who she is. <br />
<br />
Years ago in L.A., maybe still in high school or home from college, Jamie went out riding with two or three of her girlfriends. They were hungry and nearly broke, so like many kids at that intersection, they stopped at a Ralph's Market. Trooping inside and pooling their money, they bought a large flimsy plastic tray of chocolate chip cookies, the big ones, and went back out to the car. Where each one had one. Then, all watching their weight, they chunked the package of cookies into the dumpster and drove away.<br />
<br />
They cruised a while, 'bumpin' on Sunset,' you know. Pretty soon, one of them got hungry again. Then, they all did. Only now they were completely broke. So they drove back to that same Ralph's, pulled in next to the dumpster, one of them boosted another one in, and THERE WERE THE COOKIES! Untouched, still in the package. Mostly.<br />
<br />
Back in the car, they each had one -- okay, maybe two. But that's it, swear to God! Then, Jamie got out of the car and lined the remaining cookies up under the path of their car's left rear tire, got back in the car, put it in reverse and backed over them. Okay, took care of that. Wanna go to Westwood?<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
A few more words about the screenplay.<br />
<br />
Here are some of the smartest I've heard; spoken by Ben Afleck on The Charlie Rose Show, attributed to T.S. Eliot. "When you're trying to break into your audience's subconscious, plot is the meat you throw to the guard dogs."<br />
<br />
And to drive the plot, you use CHARACTERS.<br />
<br />
Somebody smart (hell, maybe it was T.S. Eliot, too) said character is destiny. And I believe that it's true. Destiny not only for the Hero but for those around him. Forces, both good and bad, follow him on his journey and often sweep everyone else to heaven or hell. The Hero is kind of a destiny magnet.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citizen_Kane">Citizen Kane</a> ends up a gazillionaire who destroys everything he loves: Jedidiah, Susan, Mr. Bernstein, the newspapers, even a priceless but ignored treasure house of the world's great art (and sled). All gone because the only safe way he knew to love was to buy things and then choke them to death. His destiny.<br />
<br />
Dreaming up and writing characters is a difficult amalgam of showing how they behave, how they dress, how they speak, what they do. As Freud pointed out "We are who we were" so <b>we </b>have to understand their past even if they don't. It always helps to know what your characters love most, hate most, and crucially, as Robert Towne pointed out, what they fear most. So much of our lives are run and ruined by this motor.<br />
<br />
Even our President had said, more than once, that power is born out of fear. And not coincidentally, it's the title of Bob Woodward's book about the 2016 Trump election.<br />
<br />
Once you know these things, you add them in tiny little brush strokes, blending, even hiding, so it's not obvious and simplistic. It's a good idea to salt the script with lots of cool details, factoids, behavioral tics, and throw-away moments. So that everywhere you look, the sweep of the story is reflecting the myriad faces of the main character. Remember: it's on the hero's back the whole thing rides.<br />
<br />
Simpler, paint-by-numbers movies always go down easier for a mass audience. You know, movies with lovable lead characters who generate oodles of what executives call "rooting interest."<br />
<br />
I came to hate those two words. Because even though it's the polar opposite of the exec's daily life, in this case they want their hearts engaged, not their brains.<br />
<br />
However...<br />
<br />
There are times when this is not dramatically possible. Ideally, you want both heart and brain alive and working and above all, ABOVE ALL your main character has to be interesting.<br />
<br />
You're not supposed to get an emotional woody over Hannibal Lecter but you still can't take your eyes off him.<br />
<br />
You don't want to grow up to be Walter White in the legendary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breaking_Bad">"Breaking Bad," </a>but you follow his story wherever it goes because deep in our black little hearts, we know that could be us on our darkest day.<br />
<br />
Even in comedies like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tootsie">"Tootsie,"</a> Dustin Hoffman's stubborn self-obsessed actor is not our ideal best friend or next door neighbor. Can you imagine the meetings the studio had about "softening him up" so they could "expand the brand." Thank god Hoffman and director Sydney Pollack held out. It ain't easy when a bunch of tanned, handsome, well-dressed execs whose money you are playing with, all want you to just make these Few Little Changes. And these are the same men (and a few women) who will hire or not hire you ever again because you might become known as "inflexible" or "difficult."<br />
<br />
But, hey, there are good days, too! The perfectly named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bad_Santa">"Bad Santa"</a> got made, reviewed well, and did good business. Steven Hunter, the smart, tough-minded critic for the Washington Post said the two most memorable Santas in film history are Edmund Gwen and Billy Bob Thornton. Haven't seen it? Netflix.<br />
<br />
This balance between a lovable and a flawed main character is one of the hardest things to strike in screenwriting.<br />
<br />
Orion Films originally paid a lot of money for the book <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Silence_of_the_Lambs_(film)">"Silence of the Lambs"</a> for Gene Hackman to direct and star in as Lecter. But when Hackman saw what Ted Tally had written, he chickened out. He'd won an Academy Award for playing Popeye Doyle in "The French Connection" but Hannibal Lecter was fucking EATING PEOPLE, man! There is an old adage in Hollywood: They can kill ya, but they can't eat ya. I guess Hannibal finished that. Especially for Mr. Hackman.<br />
<br />
For a while the project was as dead as Monty Python's parrot. Then Orion's president (and my ex-agent) Mike Medavoy sent the script to his old pal and former client Jonathan Demme and the rest is box-office and Academy history.<br />
<br />
All great dramatic characters have a fatal flaw.<br />
<br />
It is simply a blind spot. Because of who they are, how they were raised, what they became, they are unable to see the one thing that could save them. Their glorious struggle to survive is what makes for great drama.<br />
<br />
Take a look at James Stewart, driven by revenge and guilt in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Mann">Anthony Mann </a>directed westerns of the early Fifties. Or "Lawrence of Arabia." Or "Raging Bull." Or "The Hustler."<br />
<br />
Robert De Niro and Paul Newman gambled their careers on 'unpleasant' characters like these. So did Bogart, Brando, Lee Marvin, Barbara Stanwyk, Joan Crawford, Jack Nicholson, Woody Allen, Faye Dunaway, Al Pacino and more recently, John Cusack, Sean Penn, Seth Rogan, and Matt Damon. Hell, even Vin Diesel (is that a butch name or what?).<br />
<br />
How these lead characters reveal themselves to us comes primarily though DIALOGUE. What they say or don't say.<br />
<br />
So that is where we will start next time. And remember the wise words of actor <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jake_Gyllenhaal">Jake Gyllenhaal, </a>"Freedom is just on the other side of discipline."<br />
<br />
So keep going. You'll find it.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-20573731012264694892014-10-13T15:54:00.000-07:002019-02-26T15:37:56.548-08:00#12. Marvin, undone by appetites, saved by Dalai Lama<br />
#12. Marvin, undone by time and appetites, saved by the Dalai Lama.<br />
<br />
Marvin Schwartz was a complete original.<br />
<br />
In the course of twenty years, his oddly wonderful path went from movie producer friend of John Wayne's to dope-smoking Emmy winning writer to and even bigger producer at 20th Century Fox and Texas party dog to hard traveling spirit seeker to Buddhist monk working for the Dalai Lama in Nepal. Like I said, a complete original; now sadly departed for brighter shores and richer fields of service.<br />
<br />
As a young man, Marvin had been a press agent. For a while he worked for the jazz impresario <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Granz">Norman Granz, </a>on the road with the mid-50s Jazz at the Philharmonic tours, mostly with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Fitzgerald">Ella Fitzgerald </a>and her husband, bassist Ray Brown.<br />
<br />
Marvin said these jazzbos were a wild horse crew; in the main, they were adult pros, so they knew how to get in trouble. Narcotics were a problem, mostly benzedrine. They'd all get cranked after the show, move all the furniture to the center of the hotel room, then repaint everything with brushes, masking tape, drop-cloths, edgers. When they were done, they'd drag the furniture back in place revealing a perfect job except for the new colors; bruise purple, dayglo orange, turkey turd tan, you get the drift.<br />
<br />
Marvin's mission was to keep the tour going while putting out these kinds of metaphorical (and some, not so) fires. Heroin has to be cooked and addicts are not the most steady-handed, fully concentrating people.<br />
<br />
The guys were forever losing and leaving things at the hotel; watches, their road pillows, eye glasses, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buck_Clayton">Buck Clayton </a>was reputed to have left his favorite trumpet mouthpiece in his hotel bathroom where he'd been practicing. He loved the echoey sound. Marvin had to deal with all this. And, oddly, he was good at it. I think this is where he learned to love being a producer.<br />
<br />
To break into the film world as a press agent, one of his first movie jobs was working for the film company that brought Britain's "This Sporting Life" to the United States. Directed by the weird and great Lindsey Anderson, starring the even weirder and even greater Richard Harris, it was a hard core look at the brutal life of a professional rugby football player surrounded by thieves and thugs.<br />
<br />
When they released the movie in America, it became a smash hit. Marvin worked on getting an Academy Award campaign started for Harris and his co-star Rachel Roberts which ended by seeing them both nominated. Watching Harris in that film is like being in the presence of a young Brando. Marvin said the chiseled Irish actor turned out to be an Olympian drinker who could talk the birds out of the trees and the girls out of everything else. Apparently it was in these lost wild nights where Marvin learned that when in doubt, order another round.<br />
<br />
As he told me these stories and some others about his early days with John Wayne and Kirk Douglas on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_War_Wagon">"The War Wagon,"</a> I think this is where I learned to love him.<br />
<br />
I first encountered Marvin at 20th Century Fox. He was producing "Welcome Home Soldier Boys," a low budget movie about Vietnam vets going berserk when they got home (a media mania back then) directed by my pal Richard Compton. I met Richard and Marvin at the Fox commissary for lunch. There was the usual complement of film and TV stars, producers and assorted execs, and other above-the-line genius presumptives.<br />
<br />
We had just sat down when suddenly, every eye in the place turned to the main door and the hubbub sound died instantly. There, walking in with studio head <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_D._Zanuck">Dick Zanuck</a>, was a UCLA film school acquaintance, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carroll_Ballard">Carroll Ballard. </a>He was wearing tight pink suede hot pants. For those who do not remember hot pants, they were cut reeeaalll high, like at the belly button. They were that generation's thong. I had never seen anything remotely like it, especially on a guy. Suddenly everyone started talking again. I looked over at Marvin and Richard. Marvin just put his head on the table; his shoulders shaking in laughter. A few years later, Ballard would go on to make "The Black Stallion," one of my all-time favorites, pink hot pants notwithstanding.<br />
<br />
Marvin was the first Hollywood producer I knew to wear full cowboy civvies; stove-pipe Levis, H-bar snap button rodeo shirts, Lucchese boots with full riding heel and a beautifully blocked flat brim Stetson. He presented quite a picture folding himself into the cab of his red Ford Ranchero pickup truck amidst the Porches, Jaguars, and Mercedes in the Fox parking lot. Once, when he came down to his truck, he was shocked to see that some joker had dumped a huge wire bound bale of hay in the pickup's bed. He drove with it proudly until the last straws had blown out the back.<br />
<br />
It was around here, Marvin introduced me to his friend Barry, one of the premier entertainment lawyers in L.A. I loved and trusted the way those two were together so I signed up with Barry and have been with his legal armada now for over four decades.<br />
<br />
Earlier that year, Marvin had won an Emmy for co-writing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan-Michael_Vincent">"Tribes,"</a> a highly rated TV movie about a drafted surfer hippie in Marine Corps bootcamp. At the televised ceremony, in front of millions, with a big loopy grin, Marvin thanked his bartender and his weed dealer. What can I say, my kind of guy.<br />
<br />
He also introduced me to saloon society; that demimonde evening pattern of hanging out in bars and lounges, drinking one's life into a velvet oblivion while some 'jazz' singer warbled a Carpenter's song or tried her pipes on (appropriately) "Lush Life." About a year of this was all I could take, but what a year it was; college prep for alcoholics. At that point, of course, I couldn't see it coming. I was just barely understanding that sometimes no matter how hard you stared at the solution, you couldn't always tell which problem it went with.<br />
<br />
Many of my Marvin memories are tied up with Texas. Here's why. He had fallen in love with an original western script making the rounds called "Dime Box" written by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bud_Shrake">Bud Shrake </a>and helped by Gary Cartwright, both doper roper Texans to their core. Marvin optioned it and set about to make the movie. The first thing he did was to somehow cast <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dennis_Hopper">Dennis Hopper</a> as Kid Blue, the lead.<br />
<br />
At that point, Hopper was probably the most famous actor in the world. He had done, of course, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Easy_Rider">"Easy Rider," </a>produced, directed and starred. It was a smash hit yet the toxic rumors flew. On his next project, he went to Peru (oh-oh) to do <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Movie">"The Last Movie." </a> The stories of cocaine, waste and fraud that sprang from the shoot became legendary as they were spoken! Since that movie tanked under the weight of its own reputation, Hopper had become a complete pariah. People were lining up to turn on him. Kind of like the national finger-pointing fallout after President Clinton's sneak blowski.<br />
<br />
By the time Marvin signed Hopper up for ("Dime Box" now called) <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kid_Blue">"Kid Blue,"</a> the actor was radioactive. And yet, this upcoming little western was all anybody in Hollywood could talk about. Dennis this, Dennis that -- he tapped out his wife before he threw her out in the Taos snow, he hoovered so much Bolivian marching powder, he was blind in one eye and had a limp. He ate a live scorpion, for god's sake! You're crazy for hiring him. And Marvin just smiled and honed the screenplay. <br />
<br />
This is where the Chow Puppy came in. Not as a writer; Marvin already had those, and good ones they were. He invited me to come with him to Austin to hang out and maybe we'd even get some work done on a Hell's Angels project we were ghosting up. And we'd get to hang out with Bud and Gary.<br />
<br />
There is just no way to over estimate the burgeoning power of Texas in the Seventies. Outlaws <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waylon_Jennings">Waylon</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willie_Nelson">Willie</a>, wild-man <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Jeff_Walker">Jerry Jeff Walker,</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Texas_Monthly">"Texas Monthly,"</a> the NFL Cowboys, a growing film industry, art collections like the<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Menil_Collection"> de Menil in Houston, </a>big oil (a.k.a. the awl bidness), non-fiction best sellers about high society family murders and their trials. There was "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austin_City_Limits">Austin City Limits,</a>" and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dallas_(1978_TV_series)">"Dallas,"</a> the #1 show on TV; hellfire, Texas was IT. And money, weed, Cuervo Gold, and that around the clock marching powder seemed to be everywhere.<br />
<br />
Hot fun in Texas, bro. Because Mad Dogs party every night.<br />
<br />
A good restaurant-bar we all drifted to was The Raw Deal. Slow moving fast talking people on the make. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_of_Austin,_Texas">The Broken Spoke</a>. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armadillo_World_Headquarters">Armadillo World Headquarters</a>. And (as the cheapie film poster always said) GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS, one of whom was local politician <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann_Richards">Ann Richards </a>who later became Governor and spent her last days with longtime companion Bud Shrake.<br />
<br />
One of my favorite Texas moments oddly came one night in Beverly Hills, at the tail end of a party at Marvin's canyon house. The phone rang. It was one of his woman friends calling from Austin. "Marvin, I'm stayin' up at Uncle Bud's place and we was talkin' about you and movies and all, and them young girls always around you." Marvin looked out at the young girls in his house, some going home, some cleaning up, some helping a blithering Chow Puppy find his car keys. "And we was wonderin," she went on. "Are you in it for the wool?"<br />
<br />
Well, duhh.<br />
<br />
But the 'wool' was only a small piece, as it were, because he was Marvin Schwartz and he was in it for the love of EVERYTHING. And everyone. He burned hot and fast and eventually had to call in the dogs and piss on the fire. Some version of this happens to many of us. Sooner or later.<br />
<br />
But at one point in that era's cyclone, Marvin had accidentally picked up a book on Buddhism at The Bodhi Tree bookstore on Melrose. Then another. And another. I am not sure, but I think these books might have saved his life.<br />
<br />
As his phone stopped ringing and the money and so-called studio 'housekeeping deals' ran out, Marvin sold his canyon home, his red Ford Ranchero, a few of his option deals, and yard saled his furniture and clothes. With those proceeds, he put money aside for his children, paid some of his debts, and then bought a one-way KLM coach ticket to India and a 3rd class train ticket north to Nepal.<br />
<br />
Richard and I took him to<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Musso_%26_Frank_Grill"> Musso & Frank's</a> for one of his last dinners out. We stopped at Cherokee Books where he found a used copy of Somerset Maugham's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Razor%27s_Edge">'The Razor's Edge.'</a> "I always meant to read this," he said with a big smile. "And now, I finally have the time."<br />
<br />
A few days later, he left his Hollywood life and found reality. Only this time, wool was not involved. Just the heart. "Remember, Puppola, if it was easy, anyone could do it. So follow your bliss." He laughed, hugged me, and the next time I saw him, fifteen years had passed.<br />
<br />
We got the occasional letter, those flimsy light blue Aerograms that were covered, edge to edge with his tiny scrawl. He was in the Canary Islands, he was in Sri Lanka, he was on a crowded train going to New Delhi, he was sick, he got well, and finally, he was at the monastery in Nepal. He changed his out loud name from Marvin to 'John' because it was easier for them to pronounce and he wouldn't be writing for a while since he was working, mostly chores and driving the Jeep all day. Then, prayer and chanting. He said the Dalai Lama was a good guy and they laughed a lot.<br />
<br />
Years later, my phone rang in Hollywood. "Hi! Want to have lunch at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nate_%27n_Al_of_Beverly_Hills">Nate n'Al's?</a>" It was him. He was in town to help out his old friend Michael Wayne put together the DVDs for the John Wayne Film Collection.<br />
<br />
Marvin showed up in beat up stovepipe Levis, sandals, and pale orange Buddhist robes, his long curly hair was cut short and even grayer. He had lost twenty pounds; old and thin as a buggy whip. But there was an aura of peace and calm around him, utterly mismatched with that deli's usual suspects.<br />
<br />
As he wolfed down at B.L.T., I told him he was the <u>Deli</u> Lama now. He laughed. "Bacon's the thing I missed most. And flush toilets." His blue eyes were so clear, so happy, half way through my Rueben, just being there with him brought me to tears. He reached out and took my hand. "How's it going for you, Puppola?" I told him, hell, if it was easy, anybody could do it. But I finally found a good chunk of my bliss, I said. Her name was Paula and she was from Seattle. It put a smile on his face and it's pretty much that face I remember now because I never saw him again.<br />
<br />
But I know he's out there, somewhere. Because as Texan Robert Earle Keen says, "The road goes on forever and the party never ends."<br />
<br />
Marvin. <br />
bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-19322086023683559882014-09-14T00:15:00.002-07:002019-02-26T15:09:44.223-08:00#11. Pitch meetings, assorted stories, and Act 3! <br />
#11. Pitch meetings, assorted stories, and Act 3!<br />
<br />
It's likely clear from #10 but I don't really want to be done with UCLA and the Sixties. At least in the remembering of it. No possible way could I ever live through it again. So, like General MacArthur, I shall return.<br />
<br />
But in the meantime, back to the Pup in Hollywood and some notes on the typing that kept him there.<br />
<br />
MY WORST PITCH MEETING EVER<br />
<br />
A little background: Pitches are dirt common in Hollywood. Every day writers, producers, directors and sometimes even stars traipse into some studio or network big shot's office, schmooze a little, settle in, and then pitch their idea for a movie.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's simple; one of the most famous consisted of just three words: cowboys and aliens. Bought on the spot for mid-six figures.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's forgotten; like the legendary MGM, no-notes, on-the-fly pitch by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Wexler">Norman Wexler</a>. The executives were dazzled, Wexler's agent in attendance was amazed, apparently even the secretary standing in the door was blown away. It was the best pitch in history for everyone except poor Norm. He had some mental issues to begin with and was allegedly so baked on Thai stick, that on the ride home, he couldn't remember a word of it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's complicated; with beat outlines, charts, detailed full color story boards, people acting out scenes in a desperate assault to sell the project. For those fifteen or twenty minutes, hearts are pounding because futures are on the line. Half way through most of these fire-fights, M.E.G.O. sets in with the executives. That's what my friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Freeman_(screenwriter)">David Freeman </a>(who has written plenty o' scripts and some of the best books about Hollywood) calls it: Mine Eyes Glaze Over. Most pitches are turned down flat. And yet on they go, rolling over successes, failures, and endless careers.<br />
<br />
My particular pitch happened at Columbia.<br />
<br />
They had just bought the film rights to that year's publishing sensation <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Real_Men_Don%27t_Eat_Quiche">"Real Men Don't Eat Quiche," </a>a clever meditation by Bruce Fierstein on what it meant to be a man back in the early-Eighties. It was on the Best Seller list for fifty-one weeks. <br />
<br />
As a real he-man myself, doncha know, I have always been interested in this sort of phenomenon and its subsequent media fallout. There were Quiche opening monologues, Quiche comedy routines, Quiche NY Times Magazine articles, Quiche Phil Donahue and Sally Jesse Raphael shows. For a year or more, that little book was everywhere. I guess Columbia smelled money. My agent heard them sniffing. Then, finally, my phone rang.<br />
<br />
I read the book many times which kept me laughing. And buried in that consuming frenzy, I ghosted up a story that I thought might serve. Here is the part of it that I can remember.<br />
<br />
Most families have, somewhere, a deep vein of crazy, sometimes hidden, sometimes not. Movies of course do better with "not."<br />
<br />
So my version was a romantic comedy between two unlikely people -- Bobby Wade, an easy-going second generation cast off who grew up in rural Oklahoma and ended up a derrick monkey in the oil fields -- and Hannah, a bright, good-hearted girl from the highest echelons of Philadelphia society. In my story, they are plot welded together by Bobby Wade's loving but insane Philadelphia grandmother who has just died and left her vast fortune to him...IF he can renounce his wastrel Okie ways, return home to Philadelphia which he has not seen since he was five, and become a complete and full functioning gentleman. In a month. The beautiful cross-purposed girl will be his teacher.<br />
<br />
I tell you all this not to seek an opinion but to say I had this mammy-jammer completely worked out. And I mean six ways from Sunday!<br />
<br />
So I boiled it down two a two page ten minute pitch whereupon I was summoned to a pre-disposed Columbia vice-president's office (they owned the rights) and started my audition. After about a minute, all smiles and excited desk pounding, Robert jumped up and stopped me. "This is just what we're looking for, Chow Puppy! Let me get the rest of the gang together; they'll love it! Can you wait about a half hour?" The only acceptable answer to this question is, um, yeah. And then you look around for that day's Trades, the "Daily Variety" or a "Hollywood Reporter" to read. My friend Tom called them The Green Lies and The Red Lies.<br />
<br />
At this point I was happy because Robert seemed to like my story ideas. But I was getting more and more nervous. I hate memorized pitches because my so-called memory can do a Super Duck face-plant AT ANY TIME and without warning. The more I try to calm myself, the worse it gets.<br />
<br />
In his inner office, Robert began rounding up the other Columbia honchos and I worked up a really good flop sweat because my memory was beginning to fall out in chunks again. I had three beloved cats at home, and at this point, I could not remember one of their names. I looked for my notes, my two page story pitch. Hook back in, hook back in! But they were gone!<br />
<br />
Then, I heard Robert laughing, reading one of my gags to someone on the phone inside. I had left the pages in his office! Then, he came bursting out, waving my pages. "Let's go," he said. "Everyone's waiting in Frank's office. I'll keep these. This thing is a home run! You have a copy....<br />
<br />
No. I didn't.<br />
<br />
Life lesson # 352,891: always make copies. OF EVERYTHING! I tried to ask him if we could stop and make me one. But he was already headed down the hall.<br />
<br />
He led us into Frank's huge office and there they were: Frank, a former screenwriter himself, now the co-head of Columbia. Robert, my pages in his hand, all grins and excitement. And two Development Girls from the story department, their Wallace Stegner grants from Stanford nearly visible, clipboards at attention.<br />
<br />
And me, mouth dry as the second reel of "Lawrence of Arabia," moving toward that chair over there. "Leave that one for Guy," Frank said referring to the other co-head of the studio. "He's on the phone with Warren." I guessed he meant Warren Beatty, who, as an agent, Guy used to represent. There was one tiny place on a sectional couch and as I headed for it, I hungrily eyed my pages in Robert's hands. I would have gleefully sold my entire family to the Gestapo for a five second look at them. "Let's go ahead. We can catch Guy up when he comes in," said Frank.<br />
<br />
'Go ahead?' WITH WHAT!?<br />
<br />
The only thing in my mind were the howling Voices of Judgement, all screaming: Why are you here? What are you doing? You can't remember anything, you're a schmuck, a phony, worthless...you know, THOSE voices, now joining in a kind of dissonant harmony, the Thousand Voice Choir of Recrimination and Self Hate. Let us just say I am not unfamiliar with their sound. Personally, I don't think anyone who makes up shit for a living is.<br />
<br />
I perched on the edge of the couch and looked around. All eyes were on me.<br />
<br />
Since I was a toddler, this was all I'd ever wanted. An attention starved pill of the highest order, I was always the last one out of the pool, goose-stepping off the diving board, one hand up the the Heil- salute, the other one indicating the Hitler mustache. "Look, Mommy, look!" And that was when I was in my thirties. Or near.<br />
<br />
But in that office, I just wanted to die. I had nothing. After about ten or fifteen seconds, I looked at Robert and I knew he knew. The color drained from his face as I kept my slow scan of the assembled. Then, I did something I have never done before or since: I shook my head violently once and made a sound that was a cross between a scream and a loud grunt. They all jumped, leaning back in unison, away from the psycho on their couch. But somehow, it cleared my mind of the voices.<br />
<br />
Tector, Lyle, Duke -- my cats' names came back to me and suddenly, I could see in my mind's eye, the first page of my pitch. So with the biggest smile I could find, I started in. I could hear poor Robert sigh with relief. Pretty soon, they were all nodding along and I began to pick up speed as my second act came to an end.<br />
<br />
Now, THIS was a pitch! Hell, I was going great guns -- Ooops.<br />
<br />
And there it was, the first reappearance of the Judgement Choir in nearly seven minutes. See, not all judgements are bad...but they are distracting because they give rise to further judgements about the first judgements. Suddenly I was in a hall of mirrors and the story began to swim away from me again, farther and faster, and pretty soon I was desperately scanning the empty horizon of my mind's eye. I never thought to ask Robert to hand the pages back to me and he didn't know that such a simple act could save me.<br />
<br />
I can no longer recall how my pitch ended -- the third act -- only that it somehow did (although occasionally in my nightmares all these years later, it's still going on). Most of them had a stunned look on their faces; embarrassed yet hopeful witnesses to a minor catastrophe. I could not read the small smile on Frank's face. But if anybody in that room knew what this was like, it was going to be him.<br />
<br />
At this point, Guy strolled into the office, sunflower seed hulls trailing behind him. "What'd I miss? Give me the two minute version." My blood actually ran cold. Frank said they would catch him up after I left. Thank you, Frank, thank you, Frank. Thank you. With that, I left the scene of the accident. Couldn't get out of there fast enough.<br />
<br />
On the car ride back to my agency, I replayed the pitch meeting over and over and could find no solace anywhere in it. I had embarrassed myself, my agents, the material, and Robert who'd only wanted me to succeed.<br />
<br />
It had been a tap dancing disaster.<br />
<br />
With every replay, their originally kind faces hardened into a Day of the Dead mural. By the time I got to my agents' office, I had convinced myself that part of my massive failure was their fault. Yeah, that's it. My agents got me into this, they should've known I was unfit for this kind of job, it was <b>them</b>!<br />
<br />
So by the time I strode into their offices, I was fuming. My agent Rand came out, a big smile on his face. "How'd it go, Pup?" I gave him both barrels. The more I stamped around, pissing and moaning, more and more of the agents came out. They were all laughing and smiling. "What's so goddamn funny," I yelled.<br />
<br />
Rand put his arm around my shoulders. "Columbia called. They said it was the weirdest pitch they'd heard all year. But they loved it. You got the job!"<br />
<br />
Well, Jesus H. Nobody knows anything, least of all me. So like a good screenwriter, I apologized profusely and headed for our nearby Sunset Strip restaurant-bar, affectionately known as Le Dump.<br />
<br />
Later that afternoon, I made many copies of my pitch, sat down at my IBM Selectric II with its lovely hypnotic hum and went to work. That night, fueled by excitement and a little Herradura tequila (tuhhh-keeela), I got 14 pages!<br />
<br />
Speaking of Le Dome: one last story.<br />
<br />
I was to have a business lunch there with two legendary producers who had a rock and roll project they wanted to talk to me about (as they call it) 'coming on board.'<br />
<br />
One of the producers was a billionaire who controlled record companies, rock bands and assorted stars, studios, concerts, the whole nine. The other was a famous flamer millionaire and together they had just done the period movie musical of the year, maybe of all time. An hour late for the meeting, they alit from a vintage purple Rolls out front and were instantly surrounded by fans and early paparazzi.<br />
<br />
When they were finally seated, with no apologies for the hour they'd made me wait, they began a back-and-forth about their historical triumphs, about who they'd laid low, about how many were in their debt, about who they wanted to screw (economically and otherwise...with cringe-inducing details), and all the menu items they were about to order to eat one select bite out of the middle, then send the rest away, for the peons ha-ha-ha-ha.<br />
<br />
I really couldn't tell if they were joking, fueled by years of success and pre-lunch cocaine. Or just assholes. In any case, clearly they didn't need me. So I excused myself for the men's room, walked downstairs, right past the men's room, out the back door into the parking lot.<br />
<br />
On my way to the car I saw the well-travelled beat up Rolls Royce belonging to production designer Leon Erickson with its famous pipe vice welded to the rear bumper. It never failed to make me smile. I got in my car, and drove home.<br />
<br />
Have I mentioned? I love the actual writing. It's all the other stuff I hated.<br />
<br />
<br />
MORE NOTES ON THE SCREENPLAY...<br />
<br />
When we left 'our script,' we were riding the second act to glory. Here is where you get dead flat serious about the Hero's journey and all the things that are trying to stop him (sorry about the masculine pronouns).<br />
<br />
Think of all the bad things that can happen. Take a couple a three days and make a list. Even the crazy things, the absurdos, even the beyond belief ones. When you are first listing these, it's hard to overplay this hand. You won't use them all, clearly; they have to be believable, they have to grow out of what has come before and what a reader/audience will accept. So whittle the list down.<br />
<br />
All right, you say to yourself (and to your hero) mid list -- I got bad news and worse news, which one you want first? BOTH OF THEM!<br />
<br />
Okay. The Hero loses his job. His wife and family no longer understand or care. His car gets repoed, he gets beat up, someone puts a bullet or a scorpion in his mail box. He reaches out for help and almost gets it...but it turns on him instead.<br />
<br />
Starting to panic, he wonders if even his own family is somehow part of the cabal out to get him. The forces that compel him nearly sink him and yet, he is unable to let go. Through betrayal, pain, even death itself, he hangs on beyond his understanding.<br />
<br />
This is the veriest dark heart of the Hero's journey. If it was easy, anybody could do it. If, in his heart of hearts, a Hero isn't afraid, he isn't really heroic. Just nuts.<br />
<br />
This second act is about piling on the troubles. Remember Jason Bourne in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bourne_Identity_(2002_film)">"Bourne"</a> movies, especially the first one? Just because he can kick the shit out of Superman doesn't mean he can find his way to knowing who and what he is. Every way he turns is wrong, getting him in deeper and deeper.<br />
<br />
It will take two-by-fours and mud chains to get him out. This plagues all heroes on this journey.<br />
<br />
Take Richard Dreyfus in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Close_Encounters_of_the_Third_Kind">"Close Encounters of the Third Kind?"</a> It's about his box getting smaller and smaller until it looks like there is no way out. And then, we get Plot Point Two! For hapless Roy Neary in that movie, will he see that the huge construction he has compulsively forged in the basement is a double for the Devil's Tower mountain on the TV news bulletin behind him!? In the audience, our hearts are screaming to him, Turn around, man, it's right there behind you! And then, it happens.<br />
<br />
Plot Point Two -- the second believable but stunning major event occurs, growing out of the story itself, which propels the action into the unforeseen first wild tangent of<br />
<br />
ACT THREE<br />
<br />
This is the completion, the time and place where all the chickens come home to roost. This is where most (if not all) of the secrets are revealed. Act Three is the climax, the hash-settling last 15 or 20 pages of just deserts and hammering paybacks.<br />
<br />
It is the conclusion.<br />
<br />
Your hero can die as John Wayne did in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cowboys">"The Cowboys"</a> or Bette Midler did in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rose_(film)">"The Rose,"</a> both directed by Mark Rydell. Or Tom Hanks in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saving_Private_Ryan">"Saving Private Ryan." </a> This is dramatic but not an altogether good idea even if there is often an Academy Award nomination in it for the hero. Hollywood loves death scenes. If you ask an audience to go through two hours of hell (or at the very least, heck) and then kill the hero? This kind of ending needs careful consideration. Because it turns out that what Hollywood loves is the IDEA of a death scene.<br />
<br />
It's better (but still dangerous) to kill the hero if, at his death, he metaphorically hands off the Torch of Truth to his confused, flawed young protege (us). Great sacrifice has great meaning and should bring tears of sorrow, gratitude, and recognition. To me, this is what saved "Saving Private Ryan." They left Matt Damon alive.<br />
<br />
Your hero can turn into a deeper mystery like Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Third_Man">"The Third Man" </a>or Lee Marvin at the ghostly end of the brilliant <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Point_Blank_(1967_film)">"Point Blank."</a> These are fascinating but dangerous picks (and of course, attractive for that very reason).<br />
<br />
Or your hero can save the day which is what happens in most movies. Like chocolate; simple but always a good choice. Most star actors will respond best to the classic hero's journey with its clean, unfettered triumph in the end. Plus you get the possibility of a sequel. This way we can do an "almost death scene" and yet keep chuggin'.<br />
<br />
Or your hero can dissolve into a big question mark like Tom Hanks in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cast_Away">"Cast Away,"</a> one of my favorite endings, standing at a deserted country crossroads, looking up for a sign, even a hint toward his future as the camera cranes up and out....<br />
<br />
While you're juggling story elements to wind up this hero's journey -- wherever it's going -- don't forget his friends and enemies. They are called 'b' and 'c' stories and give the main story, the 'a' story dramatic richness and texture. So-called real life hardly ever does any of this but movies, TV, plays, and novels always should.<br />
<br />
If you end in Bitter/Sweet, like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Family_Man">"The Family Man,</a>" <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dirty_Pretty_Things_(film)">"Dirty Pretty Things</a>," or the great <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Men_in_Black_(film)">"Men in Black," </a>do it verrrry carefully with the accent on Sweet.<br />
<br />
While we're speaking of Death and Bitter (and at our age, who shouldn't be?) one of the worst things they can say about your script is that it's DARK. I know this because I was unfortunately addicted to night and the D-word was used often on my work. This simple accusation can keep an option from being renewed, a script from being bought, a movie from being made.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, fuck 'em.<br />
<br />
Remember, anyone can create a surprise by killing the hero. But there are good surprises and bad surprises. Unless you are doing a true story (as in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoffa">"Hoffa"</a>) or one in which the death is utterly necessary (as in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Beauty_(1999_film)">"American Beauty,"</a>) killing your star is an idea whose time has went. Unless the hero can enter his house justified (as in Sam Peckinpah's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ride_the_High_Country">"Ride the High Country"</a>) or having done all he can do on this earthly plain, is now happy to be 'going home' (as in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladiator_(2000_film)">"Gladiator"</a>), leave your hero ALMOST dead.<br />
<br />
Well known inherent tragic material is something else again. If you are doing a version of "Romeo and Juliet," it would be unthinkable not to end it with their deaths. I had an experience which confirmed this in a heartbreaking way.<br />
<br />
I wrote the first three drafts of the mini-series <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Beach_(2000_film)">"On The Beach" </a>from the famous <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Beach_(novel)">book by Nevil Chute </a>and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Beach_(1959_film)">movie by John Paxton and Stanley Kramer.</a> It is about the end of the world from an accidentally started nuclear war. Driving its clockwork is a love story, a time-honored tale of sacrifice and duty. In the end, the American submarine captain has to leave his newly found love in Australia and take his men back home to a certain high-rad death in the completely obliterated United States.<br />
<br />
Simply, his men want to go home.<br />
<br />
When a giant American cable network bought into this project, they had a few changes they wanted. One, naturally, was a new writer.<br />
<br />
The other modification was a new ending in which the sub captain abandons his men to their own homesick wishes so he can stay in Australia with his girlfriend.<br />
<br />
Apparently, there was no talking the president of the company out of this change and I must say, I'm glad I wasn't around to try. He felt that today's audience wouldn't sit still for that kind of a "downer ending." I had, um, other feelings. Chowpuppy Screenwriter Goes Berserk In Meeting, Maims Three!<br />
<br />
In the end, it was their dime, so they made it their way. Oh well.<br />
<br />
And on that note, we end this posting. But, kids, STAY TUNED!<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-31022221875810645822014-08-16T16:22:00.001-07:002019-02-26T12:28:35.910-08:00#10. How I got here. Be true to your UCLA film school<br />
#10. How I got there: Be true to your UCLA Film School along with some dine-out characters. <br />
<br />
I thought it might be nice to take a little breather from all the Hollywood and screenplay stuff to tell you where it started with me.<br />
<br />
I have loved the movies since the beginning.<br />
<br />
In the late Forties and early Fifties, my best friend Mike Preston (recently departed) and I would walk home home from the Tryon movie theatre on Saturday afternoon re-staging the fist-fights we'd just seen in the roaring oeuvres of The Durango Kid, Lash LaRue, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry (even though he sang too much), and Randolph Scott (oops -- who knew?!). We did it complete with sound effects and bush crashing falls. I can still do the galloping horse effect.<br />
<br />
Then, in the mid fifties, with dates, we would hold forth in movie theaters across the Carolinas, adding dialogue and sundry remarks. Besties for 66 years, my job was to make Mikey and the rest of the audience laugh, no matter how loving or sad or horrifying the actual movie was. To all of you who might have been somewhere in those theaters, my deepest apologies. <br />
<br />
In college from 1958-62, I saw a few movies that certainly peaked my interest. Like "Sparticus," an early Stanley Kubrick Dalton Trumbo film about the Roman Gladiator Rebellion. It had everything: spray tanned warriors fighting Kirk Douglas in vain, heart breaking shots of Jean Simmons, hysterical shots of Peter Ustinov, leftie politics, huge battle scenes, and hungry male erotic moments between Tony Curtis and Lawrence Olivier. "I am Antoninus, singer of songs and I think you dropped your soap, my lord." Say what?!<br />
<br />
And "The Seventh Seal" although with no background in the classics, all that smarty symbolism was lost on me. I just liked Von Sidow's haircut.<br />
<br />
My first real cinematic wakeup call was "Last Year at Marienbad" by Robbe Grillet and Alain Resnais. I didn't pack the intellectual gear to understand it but at one point, I was so stunned and gripped by its imagery, I jumped up and howled. Then, from behind me I heard: Sit down, asshole! Um, okay, okay. Sorry.<br />
<br />
But where my <b>hard core addiction</b> to movies really started was the mid-to-late Sixties at the UCLA Film School.<br />
<br />
I got there in 1964. Here's what was happening in that world: Vietnam, protests, commitment free love (as opposed to the Fifties sex-free love), 250,000 clear channel Mexican watts of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolfman_Jack">Wolfman Jack</a> rock and roll on XERB served up with weed and sunshine. How could you go wrong?<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
After scoping out the film school's honchos like<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carroll_Ballard"> Caroll Ballard</a> (already nominated for an Academy Award for his documentary "Harvest"), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Ford_Coppola">Francis Coppola</a> (he hadn't gone 'Ford' yet but had already made two low budget features and what was it with these girl first names?), Nietzsche quote-spouting wild man Dennis Jacob, and teachers like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quo_Vadis_(1951_film)">Hugh Gray,</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Renoir">Jean Renoir</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_Jutra">Claude Jutra</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Von_Sternberg">Joseph von Sternberg</a>.<br />
<br />
I had never even seen a movie camera before, had no idea what synch sound was; the whole thing seemed impossibly improbable.<br />
<br />
So I lit out for the smaller hills of student theatre, looking for more familiar ground, something I knew a little more about. A very little it turned out. Because they had their own honchos. On their own mountains. I was misinformed.<br />
<br />
Ten years earlier, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Burnett">Carol Burnett </a>had trod those boards; the alumni list was quaking: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Dean">James Dean</a>, Ga<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gary_Lockwood">ry Lockwood</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Skerritt">Tom Skerritt</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Takei">George Takei</a>. That year, 1964, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonnie_Franklin">Bonnie Franklin </a>was in residence. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rob_Reiner">Rob Reiner</a>. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Rubinstein">John Rubinstein</a>. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_McIntire">Tim McIntyre</a>.<br />
<br />
Every Sunday morning, the atheist theatre geeks played touch football in Beverly Glen park with starlets like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryan_O%27Neal">Ryan O'Neal</a>, his gorgeous wife <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joanna_Moore">Joanna Moore</a> and their one-year-old topless toddler <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tatum_O%27Neal">Tatum</a> along with several USC and UCLA jocks drafted by the Pittsburg Steelers and a few times Elvis Presley. He moved pretty good for a pudge. Thangka, thangka verr much. <br />
<br />
So falling back into old patterns, I auditioned for plays but, unlike New York, began to actually get parts, the best being Don Quixote in Tennessee Williams' "El Camino Real." Even better, I did fairly well and made new friends.<br />
<br />
Then one day, I got a summons from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colin_Young_(film_educator)">Colin Young,</a> the head of the Motion Picture Division. The bearded Scotsman looked at me, I looked at him. "We took a film school gamble on you, Chow Puppy," he said. "So far, it's not exactly paying off. So: less plays, more movies. That's all." <br />
<br />
After my little hitch in the Dog-Marines, I got good at recognizing orders. And one good way to reintegrate a life is often through work. So I got a graduate student job as one of the projectionists in building 3H, the film school movie theatre. In those days, nearly the entire film division was housed in WWII, un-airconditioned, mal-heated, nearly collapsing wooden buildings that teetered on the uninhabitable. For some reason, we loved them.<br />
<br />
We thought the new buildings were pussy.<br />
<br />
Graduate school was a real eye-opener for me. Every course I took was fun because it was all in pursuit of an MFA in film; film history, film editing, cinematography, film sound, film workshops, what's not to love? And here are some moments from those days.<br />
<br />
CINEMATOGRAPHY<br />
<br />
I had two great camera teachers: firey Bill Adams who never let anything upset him. "You have to learn to laugh as the camera goes over the side," he once said. In other words, it's only a movie. You're not curing cancer. Fill out the insurance papers, get another camera, and shoot it again. Keep going. To me, this was one of the great Life Lessons, just those two words.<br />
<br />
<b>Keep. Going.</b><br />
<br />
And there was the great Joseph Von Sternberg. I was assigned to help him get set up at the start of his year. What do I call you, sir? "Call me 'Joe'" he said. Anxious to pass on his secrets, he never seemed to stand on worshipful ceremony.<br />
<br />
One afternoon I watched him reset the various lights for one of our advanced students. As we looked on, agog, the old man walked around, narrating what he was doing and why in the clearest, simplest terms. "There," he said when he had rehung the last lamp. "Is that all right?"<br />
<br />
All fucking right?! He had transformed a more or less acceptable scene into a perfect black and white Caravaggio.<br />
<br />
'Joe,' huh? I believe I'll stick with 'Sir.'<br />
<br />
FILM HISTORY<br />
<br />
We all knew and loved fellow student Mamo Clark. She was from Hawaii and years before had been an actress. But in '64 she was in her mid-fifties maybe, her beautiful skin weathered and lined by years in the tropical sun.<br />
<br />
This moment happened when we were looking at a pristine 35mm print of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mutiny_on_the_Bounty_(1935_film)">"Mutiny on the Bounty." </a> Harvey was projecting, so I got to sit out front, right next to Mamo as it turned out. As Gable and Franchot Tone were playing their scenes with two south sea island babes, I realized that (I believe) Tone's girlfriend was MAMO! Right there, in her twenties, a vision in palm fronds and puka shells. Jesus H. It's Mamo. Suddenly, we were all aware of it. Applause began to build. I looked over at her; tears were running down her face. Pretty soon, a standing O. And then, it was over. At the movie's end, there she was in the cast titles. Our <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mamo_Clark">Mamo</a>. Who knew? I mean, who ever knows anything?<br />
<br />
A year later there was Sister Mary Twiggy, a beautiful, happening, politically active Maryknoll nun who introduced many of us to a lifetime direction. She once said all you need for a revolution was a Big Idea, a mimeograph machine, and a Swingline stapler. We gave her the honorary last name.<br />
<br />
One afternoon again in Film History class, we were watching the 1933 Merian Cooper/Willis O'Brien version of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Kong_(1933_film)">"King Kong"</a> with Fay Wray and Bruce Cabot. In the loving, oddball seduction scene with Wray sitting in Kong's huge hand, one of our best and weirdest students Felix Venable (more on him later) shouted out, "She's littler than Kong's cock!"<br />
<br />
Don't look at me! He said it.<br />
<br />
FILM EDITING CLASS<br />
<br />
For some years UCLA film geeks moved through the process learning to edit on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gunsmoke#Television_version">"Gunsmoke."</a> Colin Young had made a deal with fellow Brit, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Leacock">Philip Leacock </a> who was then producing the highly rated, famous TV western. As I recall, we were all given the same basics: One gunfight scene's worth of 16mm film uncut dailies, the uncut sound takes and the hardware tools to cut it. Like gang synchronizers, trim bins, winders, splicers, viewers, and sometimes even one of the venerated Movieolas! Oooo.<br />
<br />
First we had to synch up the sound and film; a task that came more easily to some than others. I was 'others.'<br />
<br />
Then it was our job to cut that scene as we saw fit. There were enough takes, many different angles to do it dozens of ways. So those days and nights were filled with swearing, heat, the sound of flying winders and the slap of the Movieola brake handle. But mostly what I remember is actor John Anderson saying to James Arness "So you really are a Marshal." After nearly sixty years, I hear this line in my dreams. Like many there, I learned how to cut a scene in a fairly straightforward manner, a triumph of the uninspired. <br />
<br />
When it came time to show our versions up on the big screen, one stood out. Richard Chen, an impossibly tall Chinese graduate student, cut his "Gunsmoke" on nothing but reaction shots. You heard everything including So you really are a marshal but never saw the source; his scene played out on others' faces. It was odd but utterly compelling; a lesson that a straight approach may be the fastest, maybe even the clearest...but not necessarily the best way home.<br />
<br />
OUR FILM 'ORGIES'<br />
<br />
Even though I projected some of these, most in 35mm, I can't quite remember them. The first one was twenty-four straight hours. We showed old movies, new movies, studio movies, independents, some not even released yet!<br />
<br />
Due to the wiles and secret phone calls of our film booker and my boss <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Filmex">Gary Essert</a> who had major connections with every studio in town, we saw "Dr. Zhivago" at MGM before Omar Sharif did. We did a twelve hour marathon of nothing but trailers, previews. It was the hardest, fastest projection we ever did; a thread-up and reel change every two-and-a-half minutes! Everyone smoked in those days and we were screaming hippies, eating mostly cheese burgers, pizza and onion rings. After these marathons, the projection booth smelled like a toxic dump site under a light coat of patchouli.<br />
<br />
FIVE OF US GO TO BRAZIL<br />
<br />
It was the longest short month of my life. Stirling was producing and directing, Charlie was shooting, Kit was doing sound with Bruce, and I was along to schlep and do everything else. It was to be an hour long documentary on the 'successes' of a USAID government program to help foreign small businesses flourish on the theory that then they'd want to become an America-loving democracy. It was 1965; we were more naive then.<br />
<br />
I never worked so hard to do so little. From one end of poverty stricken Brazil to the other, most of the 'small businesses' we were to shoot had either moved or failed. One abandoned tiny factory presented such a good photo op that we had to wait a day for some kind of chemical to be delivered that would smoke prolifically when ignited. From a distance, it looked like the factory was chugging away, 'smoke' billowing from its stack.<br />
<br />
It seemed we were broken down every week with malfunctioning equipment or seized and/or lost film. Most of the time was spent in the dark interior of the huge country, in tiny rooms featuring on-and-off electricity, no showers, mosquitoes so big that when you killed them, they left a quarter-sized blood splatter, and only a single toilet down the hall. We spent most of this off time trying to fix the Arri or the Nagra tape recorder or answering questions about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watts_Riots">Watts race riots </a>in L.A. which we knew nothing about because when they'd happened, we'd been in transit.<br />
<br />
Here's what I learned from that trip: When you are making a movie that Steve McQueen is not in, for the U.S. government, in an unstable country in a paranoid time and you do not speak the language and don't really know what the hell you are doing, either drink a lot or bring enough reading material to get you through.<br />
<br />
I ended up in late evenings, reading aloud "The Tin Drum" by Gunter Grass, a horrifyingly great book and a big hit with the crew. God, I was glad to get home. As for our 'mission,' I don't think I ever saw the finished film.<br />
<br />
SOME REMARKABLE STUDENTS<br />
<br />
Felix Venable was a hilarious, sneaky genius with the morals of a dumpster cat. Back in San Francisco, he'd been employed (proudly) as an FBI informant, mixing good info with bad, selling it to the highest bidding careerist agent. Felix made one of the most memorable films of that time: "LeS ange Dormant." LsD...get it, get it? It was hypnotically beautiful and totally original. He peaked with that film and was lost for a while until he found...<br />
<br />
...<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Morrison">James Douglas Morrison</a>, odd duck from Florida, the young son of a U.S. Navy Admiral. Jim had discovered film, dope, girls, and rock and roll pretty much in the same year. And you remember that face, once the baby fat fell away, oh my god, that face. The resultant apotheosis was a group called The Doors.<br />
<br />
Loyal and true believers, we followed them from little gig to bigger gig, from The London Fog to the Whiskey a Go Go when they famously played with Van Morrison's 60s seminal group, Them. The Doors had something magic from the first time they took the stage. And nothing like "The End" had been heard or seen: "He took a face from the ancient gallery and he walked on down the hall. He came to a door..." Much of their creative force came from keyboardist<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Manzarek">Ray Manczarek</a>, organist and south side Chicago jazz pianist. He still had the "c" in his name back then. I remember working on Ray's 171 graduation film called "Induction Day." We were shooting in some little Santa Monica apartment and Ray, encountering a difficult lighting situation, sent me to fetch his faculty advisor, a Brit/Canadian film maker named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terence_Macartney-Filgate">Terence McCartney Filgate</a>. I found him out in his car, reading an article in the new "Cahiers du Cinema" about himself! Eating my grin, I asked him if the article was any good. He tossed the magazine in the back. "No."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neal_Cassady">Neal Cassady</a> wasn't a UCLA student. He was, of course, one of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ken_Kesey">Ken Kesey's </a>Merry Pranksters and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Kerouac">Jack Kerouac'</a>s famous burned out inspiration for "On the Road." Cassady was going to be the subject of one of our student's Mexican adventure film. They borrowed my Ducati motorcycle (a five speed Diana, the fastest production 250 CC in the world at that time) for their trip, Cassady's last as it turned out.<br />
<br />
One night down there, under the stars and an inspirational miasma of cannabis and Seconal, someone threw out the open challenge to count the railroad ties from their encampment to San Miguel. Along with how many donuts it would take to fill the Grand Canyon -- that sort of night. The next morning, Cassady was gone. Apparently, they found him three days later, near death, twenty miles down the track. His last words were reported to be, "Sixty four thousand nine hundred and twenty eight."<br />
<br />
The UCLA film crew was invited by Federales holding machine guns to leave Mexico immediately. They beat feet with some of their equipment and the clothes on their back minus all their cash. So far as I know, my Ducati is still down there. None of them ever said a thing. I loved that bike.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rodney_Alcala">Rodney Alcala</a>. Ooooo, boy. I will say nothing about Rod except he was famously a contestant on "Dating Game," has been on NBC's "Dateline" three times surely setting some sort of record. And years ago, I was his T.A. in UCLA's beginning film workshop. Find a pair of thick rubber gloves and click on his link. You never know anyone as well as you think you do. <br />
<br />
I guess I should tell you that back in the Marine Corps, for about five months, I was a Naval Aviation Cadet with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Crafts">Richard Crafts.</a> I'd known him at Parris Island, we were actually buddies. I washed out of pilot training (smartest move the Corps made that year) and Dick went on to fly in Vietnam, later for the C.I.A., finally for Eastern Airlines. Then he murdered his wife Helle. Then he froze her body and chainsawed her into manageable pieces. Then he rented a wood-chipper (is it coming back now?), took her out in a snow storm, deep into the Connecticut woods and -- well, you get the idea. So did the Coen Brothers for "Fargo."<br />
<br />
Although he was convicted and is serving 60 years, Dick still claims he's innocent. That she either just disappeared or he was the classic SODDI victim, Some Other Dude Did It. He actually hung his first jury with that one. Ahhh, Dicky, we hardly knew ye.<br />
<br />
ME AND LENI<br />
<br />
Back to better times and another summons from Colin Young. He looked from my new California drivers' licence to me. "Pup, take the film school van and go to the Los Angeles airport tonight to pick up one of our guest lecturers." Okay. Who is it? "She's German, should be in her early sixties." Okay. Who is it? "This is kind of a secret mission. You know her work..." Jesus, Colin (we were better friends now), who the fuck is it?!<br />
<br />
When I first saw <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leni_Riefenstahl">Leni Riefenstahl</a> coming down the long tiled hall at LAX, I froze. First of all, she was still beautiful, high style, all sharp angles and long grey hair radiance. This was the woman who had directed "Triumph of the Will," one of the greatest documentaries ever made.<br />
<br />
One little problem: it was a nearly two hour cinematic paean to the rise of Adolph Hitler. Oh-oh. Don't get me wrong, it's an artistic and strategic achievement by any measure... except the one that actually counts: who it's about.<br />
<br />
And now, it was thirty years later and the people in West Los Angeles (with its significant Jewish demographic) had heard she was planning on coming to guest lecture at UCLA and were beginning to make their own plans. All this, of course, was fully known to Colin Young but unknown to us Chow Puppies.<br />
<br />
With a baggage cart of matched Parisian luggage, Frau Riefenstahl waited curb-side while I went to short term parking and got the van. She already looked pissed.<br />
<br />
When I came to collect her, she scowled as I tipped the Skycap who carefully loaded her endless luggage into the vehicle. As we were on our way out, she asked me why I had given money to a man who was supposed to do exactly what he was doing? "Why do you pay him egztrah?"<br />
<br />
Listen here, Leni baby. This ain't 1934, he wasn't SS and you don't have a goddamn all-event pass anymore so shut up and relax! At least that's what I said in my mind. I think the actual words might have sounded like "To make sure your luggage was handled the right way, ma'am."<br />
<br />
She wanted to know how much I gave him. All right, goddamn it, this is where I drew the line. Right here, right now! Unleashing my blitzkrieg move, I told her it was five dollars. She snorted scornfully. But I totally had her: It was ten. <br />
<br />
Nailed it. And the night ride up to Sunset Blvd. was peaceful.<br />
<br />
When we turned right on Hillgard toward the UCLA guest house, everything changed. There were cars double-parked up and down the street and a stream of middle-aged people were walking toward the UCLA guest house. Wait. What the hell is this?<br />
<br />
I slowed the van; from the passenger side, Leni Riefenstahl rolled the window down and looked out into the night.<br />
<br />
As we pulled up into the guest house parking spaces, we saw that the house was surrounded by two or three hundred people -- adults, strange at any time on a college campus -- their arms linked. There were several police cars, both UCLA and LAPD. I got out of the van and came around to the passenger side. I looked at her, she looked at the crowd. Who was creepily, utterly silent. "I guess I should have expected this," she said, the overweening scorn gone. "Some forgive, no one forgets."<br />
<br />
And then, an older, well-dressed woman came up to us. "Are you Leni Riefenstahl," she asked. Frau Riefenstahl nodded. "Then, go home," the woman said softly. "If you come back, we'll be here. With the L.A. Times and TV news cameras. Understand?" With that, she turned and walked back to join the silent line of people surrounding the guest house.<br />
<br />
"Let's go," Riefenstahl said. So we did.<br />
<br />
I wish I could remember what happened then. I know I didn't take her for pizza and beers. I didn't take her to a hotel. What did a broke hippie movie grad student know from hotels? I didn't take her back to my shared apartment for her to sleep on the couch and then the next day start a career-capping documentary on chow puppies. I didn't take her to a double feature of "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg" and "Night and Fog" and we didn't share a tub of buttered popcorn. I didn't take her back to the airport.<br />
<br />
I think I took her to Colin Young's house -- way the hell and gone up in Topanga Canyon -- and dropped her off for him and the howling coyotes to worry about.<br />
<br />
But who knows? That hot buttered popcorn's sounding pretty good about now.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-18555446294608161042014-07-26T17:17:00.000-07:002019-03-19T14:49:52.728-07:00#9. Jim G. and I go to Paris and Argentina. Plus Act 2!#9. This is where <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Goldstone">Jim Goldstone</a> and I go to Paris and I learn to drink. I promised you we'd get to this.<br />
<br />
Jim (now sadly departed) had the wild heart of a ten-year-old and was always up for a good time. He was a true family man with a bedrock wife named Cookie and three wonderful kids (one of whom I chauffeured to some concert in my old Ford Woody). Jim was the least narcissistic director I ever met. Maybe it was because he'd been raised in Hollywood show biz, but not as royalty; his father was a respected entertainment lawyer. So whatever it was, Jim had already seen it. Twice. Our mutual agents had put us together for a reason. And here it was:<br />
<br />
Word was getting around about me -- clever but undisciplined, quick but careless, all character and dialogue, not much structure. In other words, too much puppy not enough Chow. They thought I'd be better off collaborating with a working director. Especially one who had just finished a big racing movie for Universal with Paul Newman.<br />
<br />
And two star-struck British producers had just the project: a spy book called "Tricks of the Trade." I think it must be out of print now, but, as I recall it was a good story about a husband and wife spy team (ooo, <b>oooo</b>) chasing down their "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MacGuffin">MacGuffin,</a>" a steamer trunk full of spy-type goodies from Paris to Barcelona to the Gold Coast of Portugal to Buenos Aires to the Laurentian Mountains in Canada.<br />
<br />
After we had several meetings with the producers, it was decided that Jim and I would do a little recky, a 1st class travel brochure struck to life. This was back in the insane, halcyon days when both the Directors' Guild and Writers' Guild had all 1st class travel mandates in their Minimum Basic Agreements.<br />
<br />
It was the first limousine I had ever been in. It was so luxurious, so comfortable, so window-tinty quiet, I fell asleep in the back, going down LaBrea on our early morning way to the airport.<br />
<br />
One of the things I loved about Jim was even though he'd been to Paris many times, he seemed as excited as I was. And when we got there, I wanted to go everywhere at once.<br />
<br />
We set out walking from our piss-elegant little hotel suites to the Eiffel Tower and ran smack into about the worst city traffic jam I'd ever seen.<br />
<br />
So this from my first Parisian day: An old lady trudging home from the bakery with a long loaf of bread sticking out of her shopping bag. All of us mired in the city traffic, a little Citroen pulled up and was stopped dead in the walkway, blocked by a thousand other cars. He looked helplessly out his window and shrugged. With that, the old woman wheeled out her baguette and began to beat his car, over and over and over until the loaf just flew apart. His terrified face was priceless.<br />
<br />
Jim and I looked at each other with huge grins. "It's going in the movie," I said. "Dinner's on me," he replied. Here comes Plot Point One in my real life story. You'll see.<br />
<br />
There is a fairly decent restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe not four star, maybe not even three...but it's on the Eiffel Tower, bro, and it <b>rotates</b>! Jim and I were seated and the waiter came over, all tourist milking grin and took Jim's drink order as he handed us the menus. "I'm getting a Bloody Mary," said Jim. "What do you want?"<br />
<br />
The last time I'd had alcohol, it was a mountain rainy night, I was fifteen and heartbroken over getting dumped by Mary Ann Haines. So I showed her. I chugged a pint of Century Club paint stripper masquerading as bourbon and puked so violently, I swear to you, I lost several fillings. I vowed never to drink again. Ever.<br />
<br />
Ahhh, but that was years ago in Tryon, North Carolina, not now in Paris, France.<br />
<br />
"I guess I'll have a Bloody Mary, too," I said. Jim knew I was more of a doper than a roper. He wondered if I should've toked up back in the hotel. I told him I'd had a major panic attack when I came back from my London trip six months before with Eli Silver and The Who. I'd hidden a chunk of blonde Lebanese hash in the fold of my shearling coat sleeve. So my heart was pounding as I went through US Customs eyeballed by a nasty looking German Police Dog, apparently one of those new dope sniffers.<br />
<br />
Though, when he got to me, my coat was so ratty with LA's smog, London's dirt, Keith Moon's flying food splatters, a thousand farts, and my endlessly spilled coffee stains, the poor dog slunk away like he'd just caught his mother getting humped by a Chihuahua.<br />
<br />
So this time, I hadn't brought any illegal substance with me at all. I savored the Bloody Mary. Damn, this is good. Where has this been all my life? So I ordered another one. And as Jim and I ate delicious French food on top of the Eiffel Tower, we talked about the movie we hoped to make, shared life-stories, and watched the scenery circle around us. I kept wondering if it would be cool to order another Bloody Mary, like for dessert? And I could get him to tell me the How Did You Meet Cookie story again.<br />
<br />
This early magical evening along with my somewhat diseased thought process should have warned me about the wonderfully shitty era I was about to enter. But let it not be forgotten, while Chow Puppies can be cute, they are not the brightest dogs in the pound.<br />
<br />
Not even close.<br />
<br />
"I'll have another one," I told the waiter. Jim ordered a port wine. "You should try the port instead," he said. So I did. Yumm-ola!<br />
<br />
Looking back on it, I understand it was probably at that very moment I became a working alcoholic as well as a working screenwriter.<br />
<br />
Jim Goldstone and I went to every single city in every single country that figured into "Tricks of the Trade," the last of which was Argentina. All I remember about Buenos Aires is that right after our plane landed, we were shunted off onto an ancillary apron to wait while the Argentine Army scrubbed and fire-hosed off the tarmac near the terminal. There must have been two or three hundred soldiers.<br />
<br />
I turned from the window to a well-dressed Argentinian businessman next to me. "What're they doing?" He showed me the front page of the International Herald Tribune he'd gotten in Paris that very morning. One of the headlines read, '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juan_Per%C3%B3n">PERON</a> RIOTS FEARED AT BUENOS AIRES AIRPORT.' "So what are they scrubbing?' I asked.<br />
<br />
"Blood," he said and went back to his newspaper.<br />
<br />
We got home, back to Los Angeles. I wrote the script, I even thought parts of it half decent. One of the best scenes was the old woman beating the car with her baguette which, hard as I tried, I could not get it to be an integral part of the story. But we liked it. So foolishly I left it in and handed in my first draft.<br />
<br />
You know how when you toss a stone into a well, you expect to hear it glancing off the sides and eventually splash into the water? That was in 1973, maybe '74. I'm still waiting.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Further thoughts on the screenplay...and the rocks and shoals of the dreaded<br />
domm<br />
domm<br />
domm<br />
DOMM!<br />
ACT TWO<br />
<br />
Act Two is where the whole circus parade is first and finally seen in its full glory. It is in this seventy or eighty pages -- gulp -- that most of your story -- double gulp -- is revealed. Don't worry, it strikes cold dark fear in everyone. As essayist Wendell Berry once observed, "the un-befuddled mind is not fully employed."<br />
<br />
Recall that your set up act, Act One is now over, having been capped brilliantly we hope by Plot Point One. This event or moment should believably (key word that) swing the action, the story, the entire flow of the river into a new and exciting direction.<br />
<br />
For example, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2001:_A_Space_Odyssey_(film)">"2001, a Space Odyssey,"</a> even if (and they did) design it to be a four act narrative, Plot Point One comes when Moonwatcher, the first ape finally works up the nerve to actually touch the mysteriously appearing black slab monolith. Very shortly afterward, he has his first human idea: take a large bone from the pile and use it for a tool. Hey, now.<br />
<br />
Hard on that idea's heels comes another one: You know, thinks the monkey, I bet I could use this for a weapon!<br />
<br />
With that, Moonwatcher beats one of the marauding apes to death, then joyously flings the bone in the air into a match-cut of a space ship. This is one of the most breathtaking cuts in the history of film: Four million years pass in one frame. One twenty-fourth of a second.<br />
<br />
With this kind of plot swing, the story as a whole begins to pick up speed. I believe in any kind of drama, increasing the speed -- however slowly -- while 'falling forward' is the key to wide-eyes, slack-jaws, and open wallets. It holds true for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Lee">Stan Lee </a>and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Albee">Edward Albee,</a> for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gillian_Flynn">Gillian Flynn </a>and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Faulkner">William Faulkner</a>. For every dramatist ever.<br />
<br />
As we enter Act Two, it should engender the feeling of certitude, even of calmness as we bob up in this new swift current. Well sure, I got my life vest on, I can swim this thing. I see why I'm here, makes perfect, horrifying sense. Now, let me look around and see how the hero is doing. Maybe I can help. This is a perfect symbiotic empathy. You're now in the flow with the protagonist; while it's happening to them, it's happening to you.<br />
<br />
And here are some of those 'happenings' as you lay out the huge map of further complications.<br />
<br />
Love and loss. Fear. Task failure. Shifting allegiances. Blind alleys. And throughout, events are seen as dark, darker, darkest. Make a list of the possibles. Most of the things on that list should serve to keep the hero from reaching his/her goal. They should be nearly swamped by an ocean of lies, all of which sound perfectly plausible, even to us.<br />
<br />
This also holds true in comedies. Look at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridesmaids_(2011_film)">"Bridesmaids"</a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Truman_Show">"The Truman Show" </a>or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Some_Like_It_Hot">"Some Like It Hot." </a> Check out <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sullivan%27s_Travels">"Sullivan's Travels."</a> Oh, baby...<br />
<br />
In Act Two, more twists and turns. Friends turn out to be enemies. Dangerous plots against the hero are uncovered. Confusion reigns (for the hero, not you). Other friends fall away, some will even die. Clouds of contention make it rain conflict. The situation looks dire. Is there no escape? We can barely stand it!<br />
<br />
Who do you have to screw to get <u><b>out</b></u> of this movie?<br />
<br />
In his structural view, Syd Field also has a smaller but crucial <u>Mid-Act Two Plot Point</u>. Even though I never quite got it or why it was there, I totally trust Syd and again recommend his book "Screenplay." Maybe you can bring some light and understanding to it. If so, contact me. Old dog seeking new trick...<br />
<br />
But back to the onrushing Second Act train. The hero almost dies, ends up crawling out of a mythic grave with the classic wound that will not heal. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Vogler">Chris Vogler </a>is very good about this, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Campbell">Joseph Campbell</a> even better. The Hero finds the courage and strength to go on in the very last place they look, the last place any any of us would ever look.<br />
<br />
Act Two is where you can add color, patterns, moments, sub-plots, leit motifs, even an occasional red herring or two. But most of it must be in service to keeping the hero from their goal, their Valhalla, their peace.<br />
<br />
It is also the place where you invite the reader/audience to make dozens of tiny leaps ahead: oh, God, are they gonna go that way?! This way?! I can see this happening -- oh, wait, that can't happen. Can it? These tiny spasms only take a second or less. But oddly, they help pave the way to YOUR conclusion by illuminating and then activating the brains and hearts of the reader/audience without ever having them have to jump off the fast moving train of your plot. <br />
<br />
You can certainly stack the deck. You should. But you can't make it so impossible that Jesus in Houdini's dinner jacket couldn't find his way out of it.<br />
<br />
Like real life (whatever that turns out to be), it's all a balancing act.<br />
<br />
And just when it seems like there is no way out, that the pressure keeps building and building until it seems it will all blow up, turning into a throbbing nuclear explosion of maple syrup, it does! And we have Plot Point Two.<br />
<br />
Yet, sometimes Plot Points can be very quiet. For example, Plot Point 2 in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawrence_of_Arabia_(film)">"Lawrence of Arabia." </a> They don't all have to be spectacular. All they have to be is singular.<br />
<br />
Lawrence has been 'tortured and stripped and repeatedly whipped and subject to all kinds of whoredom' and now only wants to quit the desert, to go home to rainy afternoons in England. But General Allenby knows how to play him, how to get him to stay and be part of his Big Push. The conniving old pro simply leads Lawrence into believing that the Arab warrior tribes he desperately needs won't come for money. No.<br />
<br />
But they will come for him. <br />
<br />
When O'Toole turns to face the General, you see he has bought it hook, line, and sinker. And it will cost him his soul. Lawrence tries to save his honor by saying "They will come for Damascus." But falls into his own blue-eyed blond reflection again by adding "I will give it to them."<br />
<br />
In the movie's narrative (not necessarily the same as history's), if Lawrence doesn't go for this, if he sticks to his "I'm an ORDINARY man" and goes home, Damascus might not get taken and Allenby's plan falls apart. Along with the side deal to carve up the Middle East for France and England. As a result, the area, as we know it today, would look entirely different. All from that one little universal moment.<br />
<br />
For want of a nail...<br />
<br />
Which takes us into the final movement of this visual symphony -- propelling us into the inevitable sprint of a concluding Act Three. Normally this is fifteen or twenty pages; in "Lawrence," longer because it's a four hour movie.<br />
<br />
But the principal remains the same. As they almost always do.<br />
<br />
So stay tuned! Because I WILL get to my worst pitch meeting ever, I promise. And my slow dance with the brilliant, sad singer named The Rose, a rock and roll casualty so buried alive in the blues that it almost took me down with her.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-84437626930392798432014-07-08T15:59:00.000-07:002019-03-16T23:30:28.793-07:00#8. Titles, parties, agents, the Farrellys, and Act 1<br />
#8. The meaning of producer titles, parties, agents, the Farrellys, and the great Syd Field's Act One.<br />
<br />
My God, these days it seems to be raining producers!<br />
<br />
Years ago, back before that pesky <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Studio_system">Consent Decree </a> in the Forties, there were only a few that counted. When <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Selznick">David O. Selznick </a>or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Goldwyn">Sam Goldwyn </a>or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darryl_F._Zanuck">Darryl Zanuck</a> produced a movie, they actually produced the movie; from beginning to end, for better or for worse.<br />
<br />
They all had wild egos, ulcers, smoked huge cigars, and slept fifteen minutes a night. They were made out of film. If you opened them up on an operating table, where their heart should've been, was a rack-over Mitchell 35mm camera, a drugstore girl, and a thousand deal memos.<br />
<br />
One movie, one producer. Here's the kind of guys they were.<br />
<br />
The story goes when Selznick premiered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gone_with_the_Wind_(film)">"Gone With the Wind" </a>in Atlanta back in 1939, he was so taken with it all -- the hurricane of adulation, the stars, the show itself, and the clipboard of notes he'd made for 'improvements' -- that he took off for the after-show soiree, leaving his wife <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irene_Mayer_Selznick">Irene Mayer Selznick </a>out in the street in front of the theatre. And brother, this was not just any wife...she was<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_B._Mayer"> Louis B. Mayer'</a>s daughter! Producers.<br />
<br />
But that was the good old Then. Now, we are awash in producer credits, if not actual producers. So here are some of the ever shifting Rules of Thumb about them.<br />
<br />
In movies, the term 'Associate Producer' is a kind of producer's production assistant. They are usually installed for their tireless energy and burning desire. Or they are put in the mix by a friend or relative who wants them around while they make this movie. So they can learn how it's done. The pay is negligible, the credit small, and the work endless. You're a Suit go-fer that everyone laughs at behind your back. Or right to your front. But if you are thick skinned and <i>very</i> patient, you will learn a lot, especially if you are working for a great producer like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Mirisch">Walter Mirisch</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joel_Silver">Joel Silver</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1818288562"></span></a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Rudin">Scott Rudin </a>or, back in the day, the doomed Harvey Weinstein. Of course, ol' Harvey will go down in the Annals of World Class Assholes but they cannot take those great pictures away from him. Yet.<br />
<br />
In movies, the 'Executive Producer' title doesn't mean that much. It often indicates lots of back and forth phone calls by lawyers working out a deal. It can mean that this particular guy once owned the property on its tortuous way to becoming a movie. Maybe he had an option on the underlying rights or some version of the script he financed or shepherded in some prior incarnation at another studio, part of the endless pass-through chain.<br />
<br />
Often these executive producers get some kind of payday along with the placement of the title but were not a part of the actual making of the movie itself. <br />
<br />
The honcho in movies is usually The Producer. They have an equal vote (more or less) about where and how the project is set up, about script rewrites, the director hire, casting, and various other things like locations, scheduling, and the movie's overall look. Of course the director figures heavily into this mix. But the producer is usually the first royalty. <br />
<br />
In television, the opposite is true: the Executive Producer is king. This is why you see so many of those titles now, gathered around the trough. The Executive Producer (along with the Created By) and the last title at the end of the show usually means that they are the Big Cheese. In all the CSIs, it was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Bruckheimer">Jerry Bruckheimer. </a> In all the "Law and Orders," and the current crop of Chicago police and fire department shows, it's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dick_Wolf">Dick Wolf. </a> And the amazingly fecund Shonda Rhimes who birthed "Grey's Anatomy," "How to Get Away With Murder," and "Scandal." Most recently, "For The People."<br />
<br />
Back in the day, it used to to be guys like Aaron Spelling, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steven_Bochco">Steven Bochco</a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Lear">Norman Lear</a><u>.</u> They're even above Show Runner: their word is absolute because they are utterly bankable. They have made networks and studios billions.<br />
<br />
I once counted twenty-two so-called producer titles on a movie. The audience was actually laughing. And it wasn't a comedy.<br />
<br />
The one that perplexes me (and most writers) is "A Film By." I guess if you do two but preferably three of the major jobs on the movie...maybe. One of the few actual 'auteurs' in movies is Woody Allen and he wouldn't be caught dead with A Film By credit. His always say, in that same type-face all these years: Written and Directed by Woody Allen.<br />
<br />
Yet I never begrudged Ridley Scott his film-by because he is the real deal. And Wes Anderson. And James Cameron, Steven Spielberg, Lucas, Scorsese, and Coppola. You know, the usual suspects. Even some unusual ones like<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Hyams"> Peter Hyams</a> who produced, directed, wrote and (get this) was the cinematographer on his movies which were mostly good if not great. But you gotta give a guy props for doing everything but catering (meals) and honey-wagons (porta-potties).<br />
<br />
My favorite credit of all time was just "The Hospital, by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paddy_Chayefsky">Paddy Chayevsky.</a>" Possessive credit by the writer, now we are talking! If there was ever a better screenwriter or a more complicated unhappy individual, let them now step forward. Yeah, I didn't think so.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe Aaron Sorkin....<br />
<br />
On the other end of this possessive spectrum, I remember seeing a movie (I think it was "Message in a Bottle," a Kevin Costner - Robin Wright movie I actually liked) that said A Film By <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luis_Mandoki">Luis Mandoki.</a><br />
<br />
Seriously, dude?<br />
<br />
When you see the ampersand sign (&) between two names, that means they did it in some kind of partnership. Like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coen_brothers">Coen Brothers</a> or the <a href="http://farrellys./">Farrelly_Brothers</a> If the names are joined by the word "and" that means that someone came along usually after the first one listed and did rewrites.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Writers_Guild_of_America,_West">The Writers Guild of America</a> has a good but not foolproof credit arbitration system that a screenwriter may use if he or she needs it. And they usually do because these days there is so much rewriting by so many Script Doctors. These are flavor-of-the- month gunslingers who get paid way too much for way too little. I have doctored, I have been doctored upon; just part of the dance. The Writers Guild arbiters (made up of working members of the Guild) are well aware of this and try to keep their eyes on the work of the first writer on the project. The one who started with the blank page. The second and third writers often swear they never even saw the first, original version. Uh-huh, right.<br />
<br />
Speaking of ampersands: I knew the Farrelly Brothers from our mutual time living on Cape Cod. I was mid-career, they hadn't started yet. But, mamma mia, did they catch up.<br />
<br />
I heard this story on 'Inside the Actors Studio' on Bravo TV when James Lipton interviewed Matt Damon. He asked Damon what the best piece of direction he'd ever received was. Damon laughed and said it was on the Farrelly Brothers' <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuck_on_You_(film)">"Stuck on You,"</a> a comedy about conjoined Siamese twins. Damon said they were in long shot and suddenly he heard them call CUT! Then, the Farrellys trudged from back in video-village out to where the actors were, performing the scene. The four men looked at each other.<br />
<br />
Finally, Peter just said, "Suck less, okay?"<br />
<br />
I met Peter first. He was a bus-boy dishwasher in an excellent Italian restaurant named Cipolina on the Cape where I lived in the late Seventies, early Eighties. Our regular waiter had told him that we were seated in his station and that I was a working screenwriter. With that, Farrelly marched out and introduced himself. With a winning angelic smile he said, "Skip told me you're a writer. I'm a writer, too!"<br />
<br />
All this time later and six days older than dirt, I cannot recall the exact details of our early friendship, only that it <b>was</b> and circled around racquetball, local gossip, and talk about movies and TV. Petey was a completely authentic charming guy with an active curiosity and a wide ranging sense of humor. Ran in the family.<br />
<br />
Brother Bobby told me that when Petey was about fifteen, he'd taken the family's Dymo Home Labeler and clicked out "<b>I JUST FARTED.</b>" Then one morning when his mother was going out to play Bridge with her friends, he gave her a big hug and patted the sticky plastic strip on her back. With that he went back to sleep. He awoke suddenly about two hours later to find his mother standing on his bed, beating him with a plastic fly swatter. Bobby was helpless with laughter recounting this Rhode Island well-worn family story.<br />
<br />
These are, of course, the visionaries who, years later, made "Dumb and Dumber," "Something About Mary," "King Pin," and "The Three Stooges" among others, grossing many hundreds of millions of dollars. And speaking of 'grossing,' Petey told me his parents' first day visiting the set of his first movie was the Jeff Daniel's Turbo-Lax toilet scene. How perfect.<br />
<br />
His last movie, "The Green Book" won him the screenplay Oscar and the movie itself won the Best Picture Oscar. If you missed his acceptance speech, you can see him, all these years later, on YouTube and in his list of Thank Yous, he generously gave a shout out to his favorite Chow Puppy as 'the first actual writer he ever knew.'<br />
<br />
I was stunned, touched, nearly brought to tears by my old friend. It was the last thing I expected but, turns out, the very thing I needed. <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
I was never what you could call a Hollywood party-animal. I had a kind of shell-shock after the Leslie Caron debacle. But every few years I'd go to one.<br />
<br />
And this one was a Friday night, up on Mulholland Drive, at a young producer's house. He was the scion of a famous eastern seaboard real estate developing multi-millionaire. Steve's father built whole communities named after himself, still on the maps, and now his son wanted to make movies. So the first thing Steve did was throw a huge party.<br />
<br />
On this particular night, there were so many invited that I had to walk the last two hundred yards because of all the cars parked on both sides of the road.<br />
<br />
Inside, spilling over to outside, were both top flight and mid flight show-bizzers, dozens of drink-bearing waiters and waitresses, food, and ice-sculptures shrinking by the minute in the hot Santa Ana winds.<br />
<br />
After an hour of wandering around, I noticed that everyone in the room, on the decks, the porches, down by the pool, were all 'A' to 'K.' You know, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Aldrich">Robert Aldrich</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Jacques_Annaud">Jean-Jacques Annaud</a>, Dyanne Asimow, all the way through half the alphabet to Michael Kane, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Kaplan">Jonathan Kaplan</a> and Ron Koslow, an old UCLA buddy. At this point, I surmised there would be another party the following night, and that would be 'L' to 'Z.'<br />
<br />
As a 'C,' I was here on Friday. So I made the most of it by heading straight to Steve's bedroom's en-suite bathroom. And its medicine chest. Youth Wants to Know! But before I got there, I heard a huge cheer from out in the main room. Having the concentration of your average goldfish, I turned and headed straight for that sound.<br />
<br />
In the main room, fully head and shoulders above everyone else, was retired Los Angeles Laker, at 7'1", 245 lbs., basketball legend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilt_Chamberlain">Wilt Chamberlain</a>! 'Wilt the Stilt' (a nickname he hated), 'The Big Dipper,' a nickname he at least would answer to, looked around with a beatific smile on his face. Years later, his autobiography would claim he bedded, what, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand women? Still, even then, we all knew that look. It was the Daddy Lion on the hill, patiently scanning the veldt for his next wham-bam ten second sweetheart. <br />
<br />
I slowly made my way over. The closer you got to Wilt Chamberlain, the more you began to think, 'this is surely what God had in mind.' He was simply a perfect specimen as a male human being, and standing next to the pool table, every eye in the house was on him. <br />
<br />
Spread out on that green felt was now a growing pile of cash. Here was the house bet: Wilt Chamberlain could pick up this pool table, all six legs off the floor or fail miserably in the attempt. We looked at the table, full slate, solid oak, massive, "leave the balls in the pockets, it won't matter." That thing must weigh a thousand pounds! A stunning Eurasian woman came to his side, touching his arm. He smiled. Is everybody ready? He played it like the pro he was.<br />
<br />
Finally, silence.<br />
<br />
Then, he flung his arms across the pool table as everyone moved away. Pulling it back against his thighs and with a huge roar, he lifted the immense table fully a foot off the floor! The one pool ball that rolled out onto the carpet was the eight ball. I love noticing things like that.<br />
<br />
There was a cheer from the crowd as he set the table down and began raking the cash off in handfulls. The beautiful Eurasian girl got credit for the money raking assist. I saw twenties, I saw fifties, and brother this was the start of the cocaine snorting era, so I saw plenty of dusty hundreds.<br />
<br />
"Where're you going now, Wilt?" someone called out. Like they expected him to yell, "Disneyland!"<br />
<br />
He looked down at the girl next to him and smiled. She was probably number eleven-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty-four. "Tomorrow V-ball in Sammo, the next day, Philadelphia. Good night, sports fans!" And he was gone with the spoils of a fifteen minute visit.<br />
<br />
We would later learn from his biographies that in his retirement, he had become one of the truly great beach volleyball players and also was addicted to long distance high speed non-stop driving in his huge Lincoln. Apparently he made the cross country trip fifty or sixty times, setting records that still stand.<br />
<br />
We have all heard of superhuman feats of strength, maybe even seen some. This one is mine. And I never got to prowl though Steve's medicine chest but I was later told by someone who did, it looked like your average Rexall prescription center.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
John Ptak was nearly my first and surely one of my favorite agents. If I wasn't his first client, I was right next to it.<br />
<br />
I had known him at UCLA. During that time he'd been an assistant manager at the Stanley Warner theatre on Wilshire and used to let us destitute movie geeks sneak in through the side alley door. In those days, we called him 'Jack.'<br />
<br />
In his new incarnation, he was 'John' or to me, 'J.P.' I tend to nickname everybody. Ptak had, way more than most, an open door office policy at the hugely successful I.C.M. agency on Sunset. I went up to visit him two or three times a week to see pretty girls and either report on my project's progress or to remind him that I was bushy-tailed and available.<br />
<br />
During these visits, I would occasionally overhear his side of his phone calls. One was him putting the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaws_(film)">"Jaws"</a> deal together with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Benchley">Peter Benchley, </a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Zanuck">Richard Zanuck & David Brown.</a> And some new kid named Steven Spielberg.<br />
<br />
During those years, I got to meet <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rod_Serling">Rod Serling</a> who drove a vintage Auburn boat-tailed Speedster (the one with its own little golf club bag door), the cadaverous noirist and Herculean drinker <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Thompson_(writer)">Jim Thompson </a>and lots of movie machers including <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Sutherland">Donald Sutherland</a>. At the time, he and I resembled each other -- blond pony tails, same height and weight, both favoring a modified cowboy drag. The only real difference being he was a beloved, rich, handsome, successful actor dating Jane Fonda and I could type fast.<br />
<br />
There was also <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitty_Hawks">Kitty Hawks,</a> an agent down the hall from J.P. Director Howard Hawks' daughter, she was about eight feet tall, cascading black hair, so utterly beautiful that after you saw her you wanted to run to the nearest desk and jam a letter opener into your eyes.<br />
<br />
Did I say letter opener? That reminds me...<br />
<br />
An agent spends 3/4 of their time on the telephone making deals, massaging deals, repairing deals, and sometimes getting out of deals. J.P. would be leaning back in his chair, talking his talk and tossing little push pins up into the acoustical tiles in the ceiling. He got very good at this. There seemed to be, at any one time, hundreds of them stuck up there.<br />
<br />
Then, one afternoon, again on the phone, he was absently playing with a letter opener. And I actually saw the thought come from his nine-year-old bad boy mind into his hands and FLIP -- he underhanded the opener up into the ceiling! It stuck. I was agog. And then, with the slamming vibration, all of those little push pins started raining down. I think he actually jumped under his desk, never missing a syllable. <br />
<br />
I loved his sense of humor. One day I heard him spell his name for some harried assistant on the other end of the line. "Ptak. P. 6. T. A. K. The '6' is silent," he said.<br />
<br />
One morning I came in to his office and he had the biggest grin on his face. "Chow Puppy, I just got you your first directing job! Deal is closed. It's a prison picture called 'The Slams' produced by Gene Corman. Starring...<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Brown">Jim Brown</a>! You're gonna be a director!"<br />
<br />
It was one of those moments where the blood actually runs cold. I had to be the only writer in town who <b>didn't</b> want to direct a movie. It's hard enough to write one.<br />
<br />
If I signed off on this, I would become a white over-educated hillbilly directing a blacksploitation low budget quickie with ex-NFL star Jim Brown who had been arrested a few years earlier for allegedly throwing his girlfriend off their condo balcony. When Brown -- the greatest football player who ever lived -- was at Syracuse, he was all-American in football AND lacrosse, in both their Halls of Fame, man. Those lacrosse guys run around for hours in the snow in shorts with hardly any pads and beat each other with sticks. They don't have their own teeth!<br />
<br />
Besides, directing is a social job. I don't give good social. I like working alone, sitting at the typewriter in my bathrobe, drinking coffee, scratching that new rash, trying to unpaint myself from story corners; my idea of heaven. That's why I was a writer.<br />
<br />
"J.P., you gotta get me out of this!" So he did and thank ya, Jesus. My record of cowardice in the face of opportunity remains unblemished.<br />
<br />
Five years later at Fox, working with producer Marvin Schwartz (more about him later), he told me that on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/100_Rifles">"100 Rifles,</a>" a western he produced starring Burt Reynolds, Jim Brown and Raquel Welch, that the great football player was seemingly gentle until seemingly provoked. Then apparently, he had a cold, murderous glare that made Clint Eastwood's death scowl look like the Gerber baby.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
As a screenwriter, structure is your king, your god, your all consuming passion. Because it's gonna lead you and your story to the promised Promised Land.<br />
<br />
As you do your outline, you see where things go. How much to tell, how much to hide. Who does what and goes where, all rough strokes to be sure. The cool detail of what it all looks like and sounds like will come a little later. When you're sure about your first act, your second act, and your third act. And what propels you from one to the other.<br />
<br />
Most of my ideas about structure comes from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syd_Field">Syd Field</a><u>'s</u> book, "Screenplay." To me, his was the first book of its kind. And because of how big it hit in Hollywood, most of the network and studio executives have read it or attended one of Syd's workshops before he died this year. So they now speak the language. Or some Truby-Vogler-McKee version of it.<br />
<br />
Scripts are built on the classic three act frame (Syd called it a 'paradigm') that stretches back to Aristotle's "Poetics." This structure has a beginning, a middle, and an end although as Tarantino showed us in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulp_Fiction">"Pulp Fiction,"</a> not necessarily in that order.<br />
<br />
So let's start with --<br />
<br />
ACT ONE<br />
<br />
Act One is usually about ten or twenty pages long. Maybe even twenty-five. As you can tell from that spread, this ain't exactly brain surgery. Only it kind of is: It sets things up, introduces most of the main characters, shows the tone of the movie, hints at the theme.<br />
<br />
The beginning of anything is important, especially movies. Down the line, its audience will be settling into their seats with a lap full of high-carb no-nutrient goodies as the the light show begins up on the wall. In a short attention span culture addicted to The Next Ten Minutes, at this point, everything is still hopeful. That's why you have to get this first part right.<br />
<br />
For me, the set up stuff is the most fun to write. Movies that fall apart usually self-destruct in the later pages of Act Two or the beginning of Act Three.<br />
<br />
But Act One is getting all your balls in the air (as it were). This alone takes grace, smarts, focus, and hard work. Not to mention sleight-of-hand. A good example of this would be <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Usual_Suspects">"The Usual Suspects" </a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sixth_Sense">"Sixth Sense,</a>" two movies that pay off slowly, that depend on the gathering and manipulation of detail. And it all starts in Act One.<br />
<br />
But sometimes these details can be deadly.<br />
<br />
Back in the 40s, when Warner Bros. was in the middle of shooting the first "The Big Sleep," director Howard Hawks (Kitty's dad) and star Humphrey Bogart became so confused about one of the early murders, they actually called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Chandler">Raymond Chandler,</a> the original author. I believe they finally tracked him down in the bar at Musso's. He heard them out...and then admitted he'd never known who did that one.<br />
<br />
Since the studio was way past the point of no return, they continued shooting fast and stylishly on that thin ice and the result is a classic. Even if you have to squint your eyes just a little.<br />
<br />
This opening act closes with what Syd called<br />
<br />
PLOT POINT ONE <br />
<br />
But you can call it anything you want. It's here in the story, just when you think you have it figured out, that comes some wowie-zowie action or event that happens usually to the main character that <b><u>plausibly</u></b> <b><u>swings the action around to a different course</u>.</b> We are off on a W.T.F. new tangent.<br />
<br />
This is just Newtonian Physics: cause and effect. Of course, there can be lots of little plot points -- twists and turns are always good -- but only two major ones, the kind that completely alter the flow of the river. <br />
<br />
If the plot point is real enough, the new direction can be mind bendingly wild. A good example of this is the car crash about fifteen minutes into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erin_Brockovich_(film)">"Erin Brockovitch."</a> written by Suzanna Grant. It comes out of nowhere, it's stunning, and after it, everything for Erin is different. It sends her, with casts and crutches, to the Albert Finney attorney where, because of a languishing old case he has against Pacific Gas and Electric, she will eventually change all their lives.<br />
<br />
Hard on this plot point's heels comes another one, even more important because it's more personal. Erin is so destitute and stove in by her accident, she ends up interning for this lawyer. A naturally flouncy and somewhat brazen babe, she is motor-mouth nervous in her new job and has big gazingies to boot. Julia Roberts said on "Oprah" that her push-up bra should have gotten the Oscar. The secretaries and para-legals in the office hated her and when they went out for lunch, she was pointedly excluded.<br />
<br />
It was one of those lunch breaks where a delivery comes regarding the PG&E case. That box of files is fobbed off on Erin, eating at her desk, to "keep busy with." If she had been at lunch with the others, it would've been a different movie. But when she opened that first file and began to read, it became hers.<br />
<br />
I believe <b>this</b> is the Real Plot Point one.<br />
<br />
In more recent movies like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gravity_(film)">"Gravity,"</a> we have these: About a third of the way in, plot point one happens when George Clooney unhooks himself from Sandra Bullock' tether to save her life after their space station is smithereened by flying Commie space junk. About two thirds of the way later, when she is totally out of options and ready to give up, comes -- as you sensed it would -- plot point two! She gets (semi spoiler alert) an unexpected visit from an old friend who goads and inspires her to dig deep and find a way home.<br />
<br />
Once you get used to identifying these plot points, your friends and loved ones will hate you. Because unless you are smarter than me, you will tend to mutter "plot point one" in what you assume is a low voice, meant to be heard by only the twenty or thirty people nearby. Sometimes this disease is catching; your friends or loved ones will begin to search for plot points, too. And then we will all be living in a world of movie structure smartypants.<br />
<br />
Be still my heart.<br />
<br />
For next time, the dreaded Act Two, great glory or the graveyard of broken dreams. And my worst pitch meeting ever.<br />
bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-44254023310540787282014-06-19T11:24:00.000-07:002019-03-16T22:54:16.632-07:00#7. Early days in NYC, script notes, and Leslie Caron<br />
#7. Early days in NYC, script how-to notes, and the sublime Leslie Caron. <br />
<br />
We look back on our lives and find a few huge, nearly unimaginable turning points. As life-altering as they are/were, you'd think they'd be spectacular death in car or plane crashes, huge arrivals or departures, finding and losing great loves. Or unthinkably massive moves.<br />
<br />
Mine was a move. But thinkable. In 1964. From New York City to Los Angeles. But the tiny reason for why it ever happened is the plot point. And it wasn't but this big(.).<br />
<br />
I was living in NYC, day-job employed as a New York City Welfare investigator out in Red Hook, trying to 'make it' as an actor. Sadly, I wasn't very good at acting and not even all that driven. But, God, I was having a great time in the city, for much of it living in a tiny carriage house down in the West Village. At night I sold orange drinks and bonbons in the Broadway theatre balcony of "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barefoot_in_the_Park">Barefoot in the Park.</a>"<br />
<br />
I was seeing Johanna then, a former pro whose main john (a top executive at a Fortune 500 company) had given her an elderly Jaguar, a Swallow Standard, type 1. In mint condition. One late afternoon she drove me to the theatre to work, as luck would have it, arriving at the same time as Robert Redford and Elizabeth Ashley, the play's stars. They all swiveled to gape. I know, I know, it was the car. But, hey....<br />
<br />
When I got home from hawking concessions at the theatre, I would turn on the radio and listen to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Shepherd">Jean Shepherd</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_John_Nebel">Long John Nebel </a>all night. On Sunday I played softball in Central Park for The Stay Out Late on Saturday Night and Get Up Early on Sunday Morning to Play Ball Yacht Club of Middle Greenwich Village Nine. We had sweat shirts!<br />
<br />
You know sometimes when you're sailing through golden quotidian days, swept along by happy detail, you sort of forget where the hell you're going? Or why? Well, I had.<br />
<br />
Until one night when my Welfare Department buddy Ray was supposed to meet me for dinner. But about six, he called and begged off, saying he had just scored a hot date with some girl he was pursuing. He seemed genuinely remorseful until I began to hear his blood pounding over the phone.<br />
<br />
So there it was: I was on my own. At home, grumbling, I opened some frozen veggies and a can of my favorite Campbell's Scotch Broth soup. God, why'd they ever stop making that? Set up next to the TV (before the era of the remote), I started eating and flipping through the channels.<br />
<br />
I landed on 13, PBS, a show called "Student Films." After about twenty wide-eyed minutes, I realized my mouth was actually hanging open and my soup was getting cold. The two films that most took me that night were "A <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Time_Out_of_War">Time Out of War</a>" by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_Hunt">Dennis and Terry Sanders</a> for which they'd apparently won an Oscar, and "Freight Yard Symphony" by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Abel_and_Associates">Bob Abel</a>. Both were made at UCLA. The next thing I remember is looking down at my forgotten dinner and two hours and the national anthem had passed. I was eye to eye with the Indian on the test pattern.<br />
<br />
The following day I sent for UCLA's catalogue and began to draft my supplicating letter for admittance to the graduate program in film. "I know my Kent State University transcript doesn't look promising but I have undergone some difficult life experiences recently that have matured me."<br />
<br />
Yeah, sure.<br />
<br />
Months later, I'd heard nothing from UCLA and found myself a crash-and-burn contestant on the old NYC-based TV quiz show "Jeopardy" with Art Flemming. My local friends thought my self-immolation was hilarious but I had totally embarrassed my baby sister back in North Carolina just because I couldn't get a good grip on that damn buzzer or answer questions about opera, particle physics, or Nigerian foreign policy. They hadn't yet invented string theory or I'm sure that would've been one of my categories too. The group right before me had questions about famous literary alcoholics, movies, and things chow puppies know. I left the show with the loser consolation prize of four hundred pounds of Encyclopedia Americana.<br />
<br />
The same day they were dropped at my door by two puffing red-faced delivery guys, I also got my acceptance letter from UCLA! Oh, mamma, I was lost but now I'm found. I left the unopened encyclopedia boxes for the next tenant.<br />
<br />
And that's how I got to the University of California at Los Angeles film school; because Ray Berger wanted to get laid. I hope it worked out as well for him as it did for me. Several years later, I had an Master of Fine Arts degree auto-signed by Ronald Reagan.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
In creating the screenplay, we have talked about story, about characters, about events in the script. You recall the Jean-Luc Godard drill: a man, a woman, and a gun.<br />
<br />
So let's say -- like Les Bohem -- you have the idea for a story about a leak in the Holland Tunnel that gets bigger and bigger, developing into a serious flood, up to the hubcaps, then the door wells and finally into a full blown catastrophe. Car alarms are going off, people yelling and screaming, thousands will be trapped at rush hour and will surely die horrible deaths. You have researched it like a mad dog. You have three notebooks filled with ideas, events, moments, heroes, and of course, villains. <br />
<br />
Now, you just sit there.<br />
<br />
You blink fast and often. You're excited. You know you have something... but what is it? Well, let's find out. Time to stand and deliver. And here comes the Oh-shit moment that stops the faint of heart and some very good writers equally.<br />
<br />
Taking this next step. <br />
<br />
Here is how I sweet talked my way, sometimes conned my way past this quaking moment of self doubt. By asking myself a few simple questions.<br />
<br />
What is the THEME of the story?<br />
<br />
In other words, what is this script about? Many writers, even some pretty successful ones, don't have a clue. But if you think about it, working it out, you will end up armed and dangerous. Producers and executives alike react well to this stuff. If you know your theme, you will be able to defend it. You will be seen as caring, strong, even passionate (a holy word in Hollywood).<br />
<br />
Say, for instance, you have a story whose theme is the power of redemptive love and sacrifice set against the chaotic backdrop of war. Like WWII, in Algiers, just say. Hmmm. Bogart, Bergman, Claude Raines? It worked for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casablanca_(film)">"Casablanca"</a> because a timeless theme never dies.<br />
<br />
I think most writers are obsessive by nature, so chances are they are drawn to a few themes over and over. Those that work smoothly within the story's arc, run through their heart -- and yours -- like a silver river.<br />
<br />
Let's assume that the writer has the theme worked out and spread over some story elements he/she knows they want. At this point, they are chomping at the bit, ready to haul ass even though the compass and half the supplies have been left in the garage. The excitement is so strong, you can hardly wait to type page #1 and FADE IN:. But don't do it. <br />
<br />
<b>No.</b> Staaaay...stay. Good dog!<br />
<br />
If you tear off riding this joy -- fun as it would be for a while -- it can cost you weeks, sometimes months of work from which you will salvage very little. I believe it was (yet again) Mark Twain who said "When you don't know where you are going, any road will take you there." For most of us, the first and best way to start is<br />
<br />
THE OUTLINE<br />
<br />
The outline is to see exactly how the movie gets from the starter's gun to the finish line, from FADE IN to THE END.<br />
<br />
Finding the story's beginning, middle, and end is a tough process which demands clear-eyed creative bean-counting while setting fire to dreamy, hopeful assumptions. This clockwork is what I call plot and is the bane of many writers' existence. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvin_Sargent">Alvin Sargent</a>, one of the best screenwriters who ever lived, hates this so much that he jokingly (I think) said he was going to have his marble gravestone inscribed with just four words -- "At last, a plot."<br />
<br />
I usually do outlines on my beloved 3X5 cards. And after 30 or 40 years, I still have them, rubber banded up and hidden away. So that when St. Peter stops me at the locked and pearlies and wants to know why "The Rose" second act blew so bad, I can wheel out my cards and show him. "There, suckah. Plot point two!"<br />
<br />
On these 3X5s I scrawl a few lines in pencil of what the scene might be, maybe even a line or two of dialogue. These are the building blocks for the story. Okay, this has to happen here. Or should. Or could. You can change the locale, time of day or night, sometimes even who's present. But -- for right now -- this has to be here and now. It is crucial to keep this bad boy moving. You can pause and think yourself straight to hell; I used to have the tee shirt concession on it. So keep going. You can make changes when it's done. You can polish it when it's done. You can sleep when it's done or you're dead. Which ever comes first.<br />
<br />
As we go from chunk to chunk, from card to card, is there a continual, believable conflict? Are the dramatic and character arcs on their way to being fulfilled? Is David fighting Goliath, not some easily beat dweeb named Gavin. There is an old Air Force saying that "it takes a great enemy to make a great airplane." The harder the hero has to fight -- within reason -- the deeper we are pulled into his story. All these things should become clear as you do the outline.<br />
<br />
I number the cards sequentially in pencil as I go. The reason is this: a brilliant but distracted student of mine named Jo at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Film_and_Television_School">National Film School of England</a> once dropped his unnumbered loose cards on Kensington High Street. It took him two full days and a migraine (pronounced mee-grain over there) to get them back in order.<br />
<br />
Once you have ten or fifteen cards, a kind of exhilaration kicks in, good fertilizer for the creative process. Look this this, I got the beginnings of a movie here! Also cards make stopping and starting easier for me. When I come back to it the following morning, I can quickly thumb through them to see where I am and how to restart the engine. When I was in this process, I kept notes, sometimes even a little tape recorder of ideas that will always boil up (eg. card 3: add note from missing wife) but whatever you do, don't stop yet.<br />
<br />
Keep this thing moving. If you want to go slow, write a novel.<br />
<br />
Once the cards are completed, beginning to end, you will feel bulletproof, or at the very least, warmed by the bright winds of Nirvana. Because suddenly you can read your movie. You can see where it flows naturally, which scenes work and which don't. Since they are pencil numbered, you can move them around. Or if there're too many scenes ("Too many notes") or not enough. You can see where the dead-ends and unintended red-herrings are, where you left things hanging. The over-all arc should look something like this:<br />
<br />
holy shit!<br />
x x<br />
x x<br />
x x<br />
x x adios <br />
x x x<br />
x x x <br />
x x x<br />
x x x<br />
x whew<br />
x <br />
x<br />
Hello<br />
<br />
At the end, have things changed? Has the hero, the lead, done a 180 from his initial course because of the story's effect? If it seems good and tight, it's because it now has its most important overall element: STRUCTURE. <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
AN EVENING WITH THE GREAT <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_caron">LESLIE CARON</a></div>
<br />
She was probably in her late forties then. But still breathtakingly beautiful and utterly elegant. She was with a producer named Mark, a guy who was at the opposite end of the Warren Beatty spectrum, the man Caron had been, um, linked with for all those years. Mark looked a little like a small town funeral director which, to me, made it even more fascinating. Because he was a true New York tough guy with a shockingly good education; Columbia, Sorbonne, Oxford, the whole nine. Imagine <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeremy_Irons">Jeremy Irons</a> as played by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harvey_Keitel">Harvey Keitel</a>.<br />
<br />
Mark had called several agencies and set up a dinner party for two or three of their 'hot, young scribes' and luckily I was available and included. We were to come to their hilltop house to meet the legendary dancer/actress so we could get to know her a little, and maybe think of a script idea for her and Mark to develop.<br />
<br />
It was one of those stand-up-walk-around dinner parties; there was a baby grand piano and some guy in a tux playing show tunes. What a riot. Nine writers, basically unsocialized curs who make their living working alone, few of which could 'play well with others,' all wandering around, gawking at the antiques and career memorabilia, balancing plates and wine glasses, trying to come up with some story/script idea for the Great Dancing Beauty sitting over there in her wing chair.<br />
<br />
And like them, on this night, I was lost. So I set up on the closed lid of the baby grand, careful to put a folded napkin under my plate of seafood pasta and asparagus and its already wolfed hollandaise. <br />
<br />
My agent walked up with producer Mark. "Come on, let's go meet the hostess," said my agent. "She thinks you look interesting." I was the only guy in the room with black hand-stitched Lucchese cowboy boots and a pony tail. Takes me a while to let things go. I was still working in Word Star until seven years ago, okay?<br />
<br />
The two of them had caught me mid-bite, so I picked up my plate and followed them over to Ms. Caron, still in her wing chair. The closer I got to her, the more stunning she became and the deeper my undying love.<br />
<br />
"Leslie, I'd like you to meet the screenwriter Chow Puppy," said Mark. "His movie 'Hooper' is in the theaters now." My agent added, "...and cleaning up." Her face brightened immediately.<br />
<br />
"Is zis the movie about stuntmen with Bart Reynolds? I LOVE zis movie!" She extended her delicate hand with a dazzling smile. I was hers for life. <br />
<br />
And then, it happened.<br />
<br />
As I bent down to shake her hand, slowly, slowly (but not slowly enough) my entire seafood pasta and asparagus slid off its plate...and into her lap!<br />
<br />
Her smile did not dim for even a millisecond. "Oh, dear," was all she said. Mark looked like he wanted to kill me. My agent's rictus said he would have gladly taken the night train to Peoria. I wanted to die. As for the galant Ms. Leslie Caron, she simply rose, trapping the whole mess in a filmy longer skirt with one hand and with the other, squeezed my arm and said, "Don't you dare leave. I want to talk to you about zees stuntmen!" And with that, was gone.<br />
<br />
See, to me, this grace, this elegance, this je ne sais quoi (the only French I know besides 'Chevrolet') was what set her apart, even after these nearly forty years. She was back in five minutes in new dress, looking even more beautiful. She came straight for me. "Now, when zay fall, do zay scream? I would! Let's get you a new plate," she said. "I saw you didn't get any hollandaise on your asparagus. I made it!"<br />
<br />
Out of the depths of hell I came, surfing a wave of her very own hollandaise. But I never came up with a story idea for her and on the way out that night, Mark grabbed my hand hard and pulled me close.<br />
<br />
"Don't ever come back here."<br />
<br />
On my motorcycle, I rode home along the Mulholland ridge, hoping the night-blooming jasmine wind would blow me a clear mind. It did. By the time I got home, my heart-rate was almost back to normal. My agent wouldn't take my calls for a week.<br />
<br />
What're you gonna do? It's Hollywood, Jake. It's Hollywood.<br />
<br />bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6352216376503864066.post-32191871067606893752014-06-01T11:32:00.001-07:002019-02-25T19:55:25.244-08:00#6. Carpenter Harry, Veronica, Les B., and "Hooper"#6. Harry the carpenter, Veronica saved, Les hits the jackpot, and my dance with Burt Reynolds for "Hooper."<br />
<br />
We will get to Burt and the stuntmen but first (before I forget them), a few stories about show biz in general and trust specifically.<br />
<br />
The first is the shortest and, for its two players, the truest. Before he became a noir star, sullen and slow eyed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Mitchum">Robert Mitchum </a>met and married his wife Dorothy back east. When they came west to Hollywood back in the late Thirties, Mitchum took her up on Mullholland Drive to show her the lights of Los Angeles spread out below. "Stick with me baby," he said. "You'll be farting through silk."<br />
<br />
Only Mitchum...<br />
<br />
*<span style="text-align: center;">*** </span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veronica_Cartwright">Veronica Cartwright</a> has been a very good actress since she was a child. Veronica had been in "The Birds" and "The Children's Hour." Her sister Angela was in "Make Room for Daddy," "Lost in Space," and "The Sound of Music." These two women know show business.<br />
<br />
In the middle of her career, Veronica had hit a slow patch; happens to the best of them. It was 1978, her last movie, a big budget remake of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invasion_of_the_Body_Snatchers_(1978_film)">"Invasion of the Body Snatchers,"</a> had not been released yet, she was living in a little cottage in Beechwood Canyon and was down to her last $45.<br />
<br />
That morning she got up, went to the bank and withdrew her money, all of it, and went downtown L.A. to the main flower mart. Always one with a designer's eye, she walked around, carefully selecting the perfect flowers, not this one, THAT ONE, that's the one, look how great it is with these others. When she was out of money, she got in her car and drove back home with her flowers. On Olympic, she noticed she only had a quarter tank of gas left. But even in L.A. it was more than enough to get home. For whatever fate awaited her.<br />
<br />
Back in her cottage, she arranged the flowers, then rearranged the flowers, then re-rearranged them. Until they looked perfect. Then she sat down, lit a cigaret, and thought about her life. Here she was, about to be thirty, death for many actresses, tapped out, no real job in sight, recently broken up from a long standing relationship. But, fuck it, it was a beautiful day, she had half a carton of smokes left, and those flowers were absolutely perfect. In a beam of L.A.'s perpetual sun, she closed her eyes...<br />
<br />
The telephone awoke her with a start. What -- who -- what?! It was London.<br />
<br />
A few months back, she had auditioned for some smarty-pants Brit director who was doing a science fiction movie, an American movie, but over there. Since Veronica had not heard anything for weeks, she'd pretty much let it go. Lots of auditions, lots of "they've decided to go in a different direction." But not this time.<br />
<br />
The director on the other end of the phone was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ridley_Scott">Ridley Scott</a>, the movie was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alien_(film)">"Alien"</a> and she had gotten the part: the only other woman on the deep space probe Nostromo, where 'In space, no one can hear you scream.'<br />
<br />
Though only the Show Biz gods could tell you why, Veronica Cartwright believed, trusted, and triumphed. But like many so-called triumphs, there's always a cockroach somewhere. See, Veronica had been cast as Ripley, the lead! Until she got to London and had to switch parts with this young unknown tall drink of water named Sigourney Weaver. What -- who -- what?!<br />
<br />
But still...<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Screenwriter <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Bohem">Leslie Bohem</a> is one of the nicest, smartest, funniest men I know. Even when he was a dedicated rock and roller with Bates Motel, Sparks, and Gleaming Spires, he was truly a decent man. So it is with the greatest pleasure I pass this story to you. <br />
<br />
It was the mid-nineties. Married to long time girlfriend Peggy, Les was in a slow patch of his screenwriting career. His father Endre, a Hungarian emigre had been a working TV and screenwriter in another era; for years a staff writer/producer on TV's "Rawhide." So Les learned early to budget his time.<br />
<br />
Recently, Les had taken some of it to write a few original scripts (meaning not from a book, short story, play, or God help us, song title) on 'spec' (meaning for free, uncompensated, on your own).<br />
<br />
One was called "Daylight," about the catastrophic death of New York's Holland Tunnel. The other was about the catastrophic birth of a new volcano up in Washington's northern Cascades. Les was into catastrophes that year. And births and deaths. Then, one morning, unknown to him, in his agent's office, things began to heat up.<br />
<br />
That afternoon, dead broke, Les was home with three bags of laundry, and no quarters for the machines. He clawed through the couch cushions and came up with some, Peggy's old bronzed baby shoe for a few more -- let's see, if he doubled up on the sheets and tee shirts, he could just about make it -- and then, finally, he hit a stash of change in a coffee mug they used when they played poker. Yesss! As he hoisted the bags, his phone rang.<br />
<br />
"Leslie, are you sitting down," his agent asked. No, but I will. What happened? <br />
<br />
Well, this happened. When Sylvester Stallone revealed his interest to play the hero in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daylight_(film)">"Daylight," </a>suddenly two studios were interested. And two others had looked around. Pretty soon there came two more of the sweetest words a writer can hear: Bidding War. And now, Les's agent was just about to close a deal for the script. $750,000!<br />
<br />
When word of this got around, suddenly Les's volcano script <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante%27s_Peak">"Dante's Peak" </a>went into heavy rotation. It soon sold for a million two. Les Bohem was back on his way. And had lots of clean laundry.<br />
<br />
As I said earlier, every dog will have his day. And good dogs will have two! <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
My friend Richard Compton had a little two bedroom, two bath cottage in the Hollywood Hills, off Laurel Canyon. It needed work, like most of those houses. After Richard finished "Macon County Line," a surprise success, he had a couple of bucks squirreled away for a remodel.<br />
<br />
Back then, there was one guy, <b>The</b> Guy, in the canyon to do the work. We knew him as "Harry." He was to wood what Michelangelo was to marble. And now in between small part acting gigs. So Richard hired him -- cash only please -- forthwith.<br />
<br />
Harry at work was slow, methodical, and brilliant. Nothing seemed to faze him. Carpenter ants? He'd smile and take care of it. Mold? Didn't matter, in two days it was remediated and gone. Twenty year old electrical problems? Harry tore the knob-and-tube out, rewired, and kept on chuggin'.<br />
<br />
Since I was over there lots (hiding from a hot summer in Richard's ratty swimming pool), I would see Harry up close and personal. He was always pleasant, always friendly, but didn't talk much. Just one of those kind of guys. He looked like he was about to tell you a really good joke...if he could just remember what it was.<br />
<br />
At the end of every work day, sawdust on his pony-tail, he'd come in the living room, fire up a blunt, sit on the couch and look around, making note after note in his head about what he needed for the next day's work. Three of those, a tube of that, a new sawz-all blade, a bag of ten-pennies, on and on; you could almost see it registering in his mind through the smoke. Never wrote anything down, didn't have to.<br />
<br />
When he was finally done, we were amazed. Harry'd come in under time, under budget, and, even with his reputation, under praised. The work was immaculate, the joinery was nearly invisible, the the job was perfect.<br />
<br />
But could we make a bank run? Because he had to leave the next day for Northern California and he wouldn't be back for a while. We remembered he was an actor but hadn't thought much about it. He said it was some movie for this young film school director named John Lucas...no, wait, GEORGE Lucas... called "American Graffiti." And then maybe this other movie Lucas was planning called "Star Wars."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harrison_Ford">Harrison Ford</a> was (and apparently still is) about the best carpenter wood craftsman I have ever seen. And I'm sure when Richard sold that little house ten years later, the remodel story probably added another twenty-five grand to the price. Second bathroom and built-in bookcases by Han Solo!<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Years ago, just before <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Garfield">John Garfield </a>was supposed to testify before House UnAmerican Activities Committee in New York about his so-called left-leaning past, he decided he'd go back to Brooklyn where he been born and raised.<br />
<br />
At this point, Garfield was arguably the biggest movie star in the world. Women wanted to have him, men wanted to be him; he was Brando before Brando. Check out "Humoresque" or "The Postman Always Rings Twice" and get back to me.<br />
<br />
He caught an #8-Flatbush Ave. bus, thinking to just ride and look. Through Prospect Park...Lefferts Homestead, Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, the zoo, all the way out to Floyd Bennett Field where a car was waiting to take him back to his hotel. The next day he would face the rabid commie-hunting committee of slavering weirdos. But today it was old home week.<br />
<br />
Garfield had been on the bus for about twenty minutes with other passengers sneaking peeks at him. Finally this old Jewish man put down his paper, looked intently at Garfield. "Julie? Julie Garfinkle is that you, all grown up?"<br />
<br />
Charmed to be remembered by his original name, Garfield nodded. "Yes. It's me."<br />
<br />
The old man folded his newspaper and smiled. "So? Vat's new?"<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
My friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Gottlieb">Carl Gottlieb</a> told me he thought <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Mull">Martin Mull </a>had the best definition of Hollywood: "It's high school with money." <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
I have always loved Hollywood movies about Hollywood. In my opinion, Gene Kelly's "Singing in the Rain" is at the very top. Followed by the tragically under-seen "Bofinger" with Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy, "The Bad and the Beautiful" with Kirk Douglas and Lana Turner, "Career," written by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dalton_Trumbo">Dalton Trumbo </a>among others and staring Dean Martin. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Tolkin">Michael Tolkin'</a>s "The Player" directed by Robert Altman should be mandatory viewing for every show biz aspirant who lands at LAX. Those who drive in, should have to stop at the city limits and look at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Rush_(director)">Richard Rush</a>'s "The Stuntman" with Peter O'Toole and Steve Railsback.<br />
<br />
And for those who still read, here are a few of my current favorite Hollywood books.<br />
<br />
"Lizzie Pepper, Movie Star" by Hillary Liftin. It is trashy and quick, a nearly fictionalized story of a mega star very much like Tom Cruise and his young love, a beautiful Katie Holmes type. It's a knowing, smart, and brave book: I imagine the lawyers mud wrestling the bulging insurance riders dealing with possible retaliatory bombing runs from Cruise, Holmes, and of course the ever present Church of Scientology. If you think you'd like to be famous, this book will give you the full scale Willys as it surely steers you in the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
"Le Jet Lag" by Peter Lefcourt is a frantic, hilarious Hollywood book set in and against the Cannes Film Festival where, thank God, everything is going in the wrong direction. Lefcourt is a really good writer with years of Show Biz experience (see his "The Deal"). One of "Le Jet Lag's" unforgettable characters is an old washed up TV star, playing out his last years in Europe doing cameos in low budget movies. Somewhere, somehow he has learned to be a very good pickpocket to eat and pay his skeletal rent as he winds his way through this story nearly being recognized by everyone. Nearly. <br />
<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Time passed and one day I got hired to rewrite a script Warners was developing called "The Stuntman."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Rickman">Tom Rickman</a> had taken a pass at it so it was already in good shape. I never thought they needed to hire me, but I was grateful. Since Rush's stuntman movie was finished and released first, we had to find a new title. Ours was to star <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burt_Reynolds">Burt Reynolds</a> to be directed by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hal_Needham">Hal Needham</a>, a legendary stunt-gaffer and Burt's best buddy. The reason Warners was so high on this project began to assert itself one evening over at Burt's house, our first actual meeting.<br />
<br />
There I was, drinking coffee, trying to make light conversation with one of Hollywood's biggest stars, and not doing too well. He had just finished "Smokey and the Bandit" for Universal which opened as the #2 movie ("Star Wars" was #1) in America for the third straight week. And Burt was a gross percentage player. In other words, he got a percentage of the gross take, from dollar one, before the studio taught it to jump through hoops, to roll over and beg. This is what all stars and star directors and producers get. So Burt (and maybe even Hal) were already raking it in from "Smokey."<br />
<br />
But it turned out that on Burt's old iron-clad contract with Warner Bros, he owed them one last picture, for, maybe, $250,000, whatever...but <b>no</b> gross percentage. He had "net points," sure, but they never pay off. In a famous lawsuit about profits to Art Buchwald on the Paramount hit "Coming to America," star Eddie Murphy had famously called them "monkey points." Net is meaningless in big movie accounting. For a juicy full accounting of these practices, see the book <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buchwald_v._Paramount">"Fatal Accounting" </a>about Pierce O'Donnell and Art Buchwald. Your jaw will be hanging open for days.<br />
<br />
Two interesting things happened as I was working on this project.<br />
<br />
The first is I got to work part time with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Towne">Robert Towne</a>, one of (if not THE) greatest screenwriters ever. I noticed recently, he had a consulting producer credit on "Mad Men." Maybe that's why it was so good. Back then, Warners had made some kind of 'house-keeping deal' with him in which they set him and his huge, dreadlocked floor-sweeping Komondor dogs up in a continually remodeled casita next to Clint Eastwood on the lot.<br />
<br />
In one of our meetings, Robert (who always seemed aware of an unknown camera angle on him) told me the the first thing he wanted to know about his characters was <b>what they feared</b>.<br />
<br />
I was gobsmacked.<br />
<br />
It set off a four alarm fire in my brain because, as simple as it sounds, embarrassingly, I had never thought of this. I ran back to my office and applied this handy dictum to Sonny Hooper, my main man stuntman. It opened many story doors for me -- then and now -- and as I leafed through what I had already written, it began to rain ideas. What a day.<br />
<br />
The second cool thing that happened was that next to my Warners' office back in the Writers Building, a new bunch settled in: Saul Krugman Productions.<br />
<br />
Saul was a fast talking, funny, very opinionated personal manager from New York City who now was contractually linked to character actor Tony Zerbe who worked constantly and screenwriter <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_K._Eastman"> Charles Eastman</a> who had just done a Robert Redford motorcycle racing picture called "Big Fauss and Little Halsey."<br />
<br />
But mostly then, it was about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Carradine">David Carradine, </a>a huge star from the "Kung Fu" TV show wherein he would talk Buddhism and lounge around like a cat for fifty minutes and then explode and karate kick the shit out of everybody for the last reel. Saul also was managing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Hershey">Barbara Hershey</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jon_Voight">Jon Voight, </a>star of "Midnight Cowboy" a massive hit for which he had been paid scale, nominated for an Academy Award, and become the most sought after actor in the business. He had already made "Deliverance" at the studio for movie star bucks which cemented his career's trajectory. I either didn't know about his bizarro right wing political beliefs or they hadn't surfaced yet. But Jon as an actor and a regular guy was...and is...the real deal. <br />
<br />
Yet to me, Saul was the most interesting. He was then in his mid sixties I'd guess, red-faced with a mane of white hair, barefoot in his Italian loafers, he talked like Thelonious Monk played piano. It never quite made perfect sense, but somehow you got it. And one afternoon, finally off the phone, he invited me to lunch at the commissary. Hello, syrup-soaked Monte Cristos!<br />
<br />
That day, oddly, was one of the most important of my life because over lunch, Saul told me about the most important day of <b>his</b> life...five years before, back on the mean streets of New York, when he'd had his first heart attack and died.<br />
<br />
Nobody had ever talked to me this way before; it made me proud, it made me nervous, it shook me to my core. Because Saul told me the wondrous details of where he went when he died, what he saw, how he felt. All the sarcasm and naked ambition was gone, while I looked at him, he simply became who he was.<br />
<br />
I am not going to recount the details for you here. It was Saul's reality-dream and I am sure he is now where he was then. But he said he'd never known such peace, such beauty, such a profoundly happy feeling. Right up to the point where someone was yelling at him and pounding his chest. Saul said he struggled mightily to stay where he was.<br />
<br />
But slowly, surely, he was dragged back, looking down on his own racking body, coming to in a speeding ambulance, sirens wailing, EMTs shouting instructions, outside horns honking.<br />
<br />
At this point there were tears in his eyes. "I told you this because I thought you needed to hear it, Chow Puppy." Then he started his rice pudding. "God, I love rice pudding," he said.<br />
<br />
I did need to hear it, Saul. More than you know. Thank you. And I love rice pudding, too. Especially the kind with the swollen raisins.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
A week later, I flew down to Mexico with my first draft of (new title) "Hooper" where Burt Reynolds was shooting the big budget <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucky_Lady">"Lucky Lady"</a> with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gene_Hackman">Gene Hackman </a>and Liza Minnelli, a period costume romp in speed boats. On an open ocean. These comprise three of the hardest things to shoot and apparently it was not a happy set.<br />
<br />
Warners arranged for me to hitch down on Gene Hackman's private plane, a sweet little Beechcraft King Air. For reasons best known to himself, this pissed Hackman off royally. Part of the tax-dodge reason he even had the plane was to lease it back to the various film companies for serious money. But every time I'd see him, ol' Gene would give me the stink eye. And that's serious coming from Popeye Doyle.<br />
<br />
The first day, they were all out shooting on the boats so a production assistant dropped me off at Burt's house, a four bedroom three bath Santa Fe style jobbie with open doors just begging to be wandered through. So I dropped the script on the dining room table, set up my IBM Selectric (more on this little beauty later) and looked around for some books to peruse. I love to see what people are reading. But there were none. So I set off exploring.<br />
<br />
Oh, please. Tell me you wouldn't do the same thing.<br />
<br />
The house was as neat and clean as a five star hotel. I think I was supposed to bunk there but I can no longer remember for sure. So I began to stroll around. I am naturally curious and a life-long lookie-loo with semi-elastic boundaries. I know I went to the kitchen first but I can't remember that either. Then the various bathrooms. Don't really remember them either. But I'm sure they were nice. Oh, wait: the master bath had a huge Jacuzzi, the first in-home one I'd ever seen.<br />
<br />
Then in the master bedroom suite -- ahh, the memory returns -- a huge California king bed, a couple of pictures of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sally_Field">Sally Field</a>...or was it <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dinah_Shore">Dinah Shore</a>? Memory, don't desert me now! I glanced at both of the bedside tables and paused for a moment. But I didn't look in them. No way was I going to open those drawers. A few years prior, in another house, I had and saw things I wish to God I'd never seen. You can probably imagine but that's all you'll get from me.<br />
<br />
Then, I encountered Burt's enormous closet; no doors, a huge walk-in. So I did. Lights came on automatically. Jesus. Sue Ellen didn't have a closet this big on "Dallas!" Even the closet had its own closet: shoes, in this case, boots, all shined and lined up for inspection. And in the closet's main room, about twenty feet of hanging, pastel Western suits, each three inches apart, seemed to go on forever. And over there, double hung rows of shirts. On and on. And on. It looked like a men's clothing store in Amarillo.<br />
<br />
Right about here, the water in my memories sort of evaporates. I recall Burt and I at the dining room table talking about some scene in the script which elicited his Carson show famous giggle. And then somewhere, at some point, for something either real or imagined, he told me he was going to tear my head off and shit in it. If you Netflix "Hooper," a movie about making movies, you will see we used that very line to good effect. It's been years since I saw it, but I believe he is talking to the screenwriter when he says it. Hmmm.<br />
<br />
Burt died recently and was remembered fondly. Sadly, he passed without getting to tear my head off and take a dump in it. I supposed I have that to look forward to somewhere in Hollywood Heaven. Line starts over there, Burtski.<br />
<br />
When I finished <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hooper_(film)">"Hooper" </a>and it was made, mirable dictu, the Writers Guild awarded me my co-screenplay credit! My first one.<br />
<br />
The movie cost $6,000,000 and ended up making $78,000,000 which essentially means Warners had to put on extra traffic cops to direct the dump trucks of money. They were so high on it, in front of the main entrance, they built an enormous billboard with a huge model of a bridge-jumping rocket car mid-flight whose WHEELS ACTUALLY TURNED. Across the whole display was the catch line "Ain't nobody can fly a car like Hooper!"<br />
<br />
And there, down just a little, there was my name! I must finally be a real writer; I mean there's the proof. At one point, I think I just stood in front of it and gaped. Wow. Wowie-wow.<br />
<br />
Aren't I pitiful? <br />
<br />
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bkchowpuppyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06834396101153403674noreply@blogger.com5