Hollywood Animal (90 page)

I signed the letter “Trick or treat.”

I added this P.S.: “Paul Verhoeven shot the first draft, the white pages, of
Basic Instinct
. He brought his own explosive visual power to it. The movie grossed over $400 million.”

After the executives read the finished script of
One Night Stand
, New Line was knocked out. The script was 90 percent dialogue, guaranteeing that it could be made for a small budget. Mike DeLuca, the head of production at New Line, told me that people at the company liked it so much that they were going around the office reciting lines of dialogue.

But Adrian Lyne, after reading the script, said he didn’t want to direct it. He was going to do a remake of
Lolita
instead. New Line was enraged and threatened to sue him but Adrian wouldn’t budge.

The
Today
show wanted to do the second part of its series about the making of
One Night Stand
and New Line and I were dodging them. They had paid me $4 million for a script the director didn’t want to shoot—we didn’t think that would sound very good to moviegoers.

· · ·

Gerri gave Guy an expensive, gold ID bracelet for his birthday.

He showed it to me, obviously pleased with the gift.

“You accepted it?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he said.

I said, “She didn’t earn the money she bought it with; I did.”

He said, “I’ll send it back to her if you want.”

I said, “She paid for it out of the $32,500 a month alimony the court said I have to pay her.”

He looked fondly at the bracelet on his arm and said, “Okay, I’ll send it back to her.”

I could tell how much he liked it, so I said, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. Pretend
I
gave it to you.”

I was upset, though. I was fighting for my financial life and my friend and agent was accepting gold trinkets from what I considered my ex-wife’s pirated stash.

Naomi and I were sitting at the bar in the Dume Room, our neighborhood beer joint, sipping our Negras and looking at Jan-Michael Vincent’s framed photograph behind the bar. He was a young man in the picture, the embodiment of the golden boy Californian, blond, tanned, flashing perfect teeth, a bimbo on each arm.

It was taken a long time ago when I was a beginning screenwriter and when it looked for a while like Jan-Michael Vincent was going to be a big movie star.
But
then there was an automobile accident: he broke his neck.

I saw a picture of him in court recently: bloated, his face a roadmap of pain, his eyes unfocused and vacant.

But he was still up on the wall behind the bar at the Dume Room, grinning at us, full of life, the golden boy catching a wave, grabbing a piece, dreaming the dreams he was so certain would never die.

I was in a war with Columbia over my adaptation of Howard Blum’s
Gangland
and appealed not to Mark Canton, the studio head, whom
Newsweek
once labeled “moronic,” but to his boss, Mickey Schulhof, the head of Sony Corporation of America.

Dear Mr. Schulhof
,

I don’t like to begin a letter by listing my credentials, but in this case I feel that I must. I have written eleven movies—my twelfth
, Showgirls,
directed by Paul Verhoeven, is filming now. My thirteenth
, Jade,
directed by William Friedkin and starring David Caruso and Linda Fiorentino, begins filming in January
.

My movies have grossed more than a billion dollars at the box office—among them are
Basic Instinct, Jagged Edge, Flashdance, Sliver, Music Box,
and
Betrayed.

In terms of my ability and willingness to be a part of a collaborative process, I have worked with three directors—Paul Verhoeven, Costa-Gavras, and Richard Marquand—twice. As I probably don’t have to tell you, it is not likely that a director of their stature will work with the same writer twice … if that writer is not willing to be a part of a collaborative process
.

In 1993, I began working on
Gangland
for Columbia Pictures. We had agreed from the beginning, as my quote in
Daily Variety
upon the announcement of the project shows, that
Gangland
would be “an epic, larger than life story” about John Gotti
.

Mark Canton urged me to write a script with ambiguity and grays—so that at the end of the picture, audiences would feel ambivalent about the relative values of Gotti and the FBI. Since I have at other times in my work dealt with ambiguities and processes of corruption, I not only agreed with Mark’s suggestion but felt it was one of the reasons I was picked for the project
.

Jon Peters, the producer, urged me to view it as an American epic. Indeed, it was the way I viewed it. I felt that if we were to do yet another Mafia story, the only way to do it fresh was to do it as a kind of raw, in-your-face street epic
.

I coordinated a massive research project so that we would have other background sources besides Howard Blum’s powerful book. I worked closely with Howard at my home, picking his brain, trying to tap into the wealth of knowledge he possesses about Gotti and the FBI
.

In June of 1994, I turned in my script to the studio. It was more than 170 pages long. I felt it to be a blistering, powerful, emotionally moving epic whose underlying theme was a corruption of the spirit on both sides—the FBI side and the mob side
.

The script was read by more than a dozen people who’d read my work in the past and whom I respect, both industry and media people. Without exception, they told me that it was the best script I had ever written. Some of them said it was the best script they had ever read
.

Since Paul Verhoeven and I had worked on
Basic
and
Showgirls
together, I showed the script to Paul. Paul, of course, is one of the world’s premier directors, a man whose movies have grossed more than a billion dollars at the box office, a man who, I thought, would be ideally suited to direct
Gangland.
Paul, a tough judge of material and at times in the past a sharp critic of my work, told me that he thought the script was “excellent” and the best script I had written. Then, to my great joy, he told me he would be “very interested” in directing the movie
.

Days after I’d turned in the script to Columbia, there was no response from the studio. A week later, two weeks later, three weeks later … there was still no response. Nobody even bothered to call me. It was like I had dropped the script into a vacuum. Finally, about a month after I delivered the script, my agent was informed that the studio had “notes.” Neither my agent nor I heard what the studio thought of the script—we just heard that the studio had “notes.”

I informed Columbia, through my agent, that Paul Verhoeven loved the script and was interested in directing it. I was flabbergasted to hear that, except for a cursory phone call to Paul’s agent checking his availability, no effort was made to tie him into the project. No one met with Paul. No one called Paul. I didn’t understand how a studio allegedly in the business of making money could treat a man of Paul’s stature and track record this way. I began to wonder, frankly, if anybody was at home at Columbia—if the varied press accounts that I had read about the studio’s failed movies, executive arrogance, executive indecision, were true
.

Please understand what I felt at the time: I was the most successful screenwriter in Hollywood. I had managed to interest one of the most respected directors in the world in a script that I had written. It was a script that I was hugely proud of; a script that everyone who read it said was the best that I had done. And at the studio … there was nobody
home;
it was Looney Tunes/Daffy Duck time; some kind of private circle-jerk seemed to be in progress. I was coming to the conclusion that maybe the studio really was, as the
Wall Street Journal
later headlined—“In a League of Its Own.”

And then the “notes” finally arrived. Pages and pages and pages of them, opinions hidden, of course, beneath the corporate umbrella, anonymous except for the Columbia logo and the majestic Columbia “We.” They made the case for a bad television movie that had already been made. To agree with the notes, I felt, would be agreeing to destroy my own work, to kill my own baby, to turn what I was convinced would be a unique, $200 million movie into … warmed spit
.

I disagreed vehemently with the “notes,” both through my agent and also in direct conversation with both your studio executive Barry Josephson and Jon Peters, who finally called me a month after I’d turned the script in. Both Jon and Barry began to back away from the “notes.” These weren’t directives, they said, these were suggestions. Would I think about the suggestions—that’s all, just think about them? Well, I said, as much as you could “think” about something “moronic,” I’d “think” about them
.

At the end of the summer, while in Maui, I got a phone call at seven o’clock one morning from Adrian Lyne. Adrian had directed
Fatal Attraction, Indecent Proposal,
and
Flashdance,
among other things. Adrian was excited. His agent had sent him
Gangland.
He was calling from the South of France. He thought the script was brilliant. He thought it was one of the most amazing scripts he’d ever read. He was very interested in directing it
.

I was thrilled … and sick … at the same time
.

Here was another world-caliber director … another director whose movies had grossed more than a billion dollars, another director who, I felt, made constantly exciting, visually dazzling movies … responding with great excitement to my work … the work which was being trashed by moronic “notes.”

Would Adrian Lyne, I wondered, become another victim of the Looney Tunes/Daffy Duck circle-jerk?

Through my agent, I informed Columbia of Adrian’s interest. The studio pretended to be excited. There would be a meeting with Adrian, I was told … as there would be a meeting with me
.

In the fall of this year, I finally had my only meeting with the studio about my
Gangland
script. More exactly, my meeting was with Jon Peters. Jon brought his new head of development with him to the lunch, then dismissed her a half hour later so we could talk alone. He made the following suggestions for the script: 1. Strengthen the part of Jed, the lead FBI
agent;
2. Give the FBI agents working on the case more of a
Dirty Dozen
feel; 3. Write a scene where Jed, the lead FBI agent and Sammy “the Bull” Gravano are boxing and Jed beats Gravano up in the ring, causing Gravano to turn against Gotti
.

What about everything else in the pages and pages and pages of notes?—I asked Jon. He told me to forget everything else in the notes. He said that if I incorporated his suggestions into the script it would “neutralize the masses over at Columbia who were taking shots at it.” He told me that if Columbia was not pleased with the changes he was suggesting, he would take the project in turnaround to Warner Brothers and we’d get the movie made there. Would Columbia agree to let him take it to Warner’s?—I asked him. Jon said it wouldn’t be a problem because once Mark left Columbia, he’d go back to Warner’s and work with Jon
.

At the same meeting, I urged Jon … in the strongest way … to make a holding deal with Adrian Lyne. He said he’d meet with Adrian and they’d make a holding deal with him. The meeting between Jon and Adrian did take place, but to my bewilderment … and to the complete bewilderment of Adrian’s agent … no holding deal was made with Adrian and no
attempt
to make a holding deal with him was made, either
.

It became clear to me that my fears were justified. Columbia seemed as interested in making
Gangland
with Adrian Lyne as they were in making
Gangland
with Paul Verhoeven. This was a studio that, for whatever reason, was not interested in working with two of the top directors in the world. This was a studio, I concluded, more interested in its masturbatory games than in making money at the box office with a unique and startling piece of material
.

I began the rewrite, using Jon’s suggestions … but only to a point where I felt they wouldn’t hurt the script. I wrote new scenes strengthening Jed’s part. I wrote a new scene emphasizing the
Dirty Dozen
aspects of the agents working the case. I did not write the scene between Gravano and Jed in the boxing ring because I felt it would be unrealistic and juvenile. Writing the boxing ring scene, I felt, would vitiate the power of Gravano’s turn on Gotti as it existed in the script
.

I turned the rewrite in two weeks ago. Adrian Lyne called me to tell me he thought it was terrific. Howard Blum, author of the book, called to tell me it was “brilliant.” “We’ve got to move heaven and earth to get this made,” Howard said
.

To date … I have heard nothing from Columbia … nada … from
anyone
at Columbia … from Jon Peters
.

I did hear, about a week ago, from an industry journalist. This is what he told me: “Columbia is going to sue you for breach of contract for not doing an adequate rewrite.”

I am writing to you, Mr. Schulhof, as an appeal to some sort of reason, decency, and fairness. I wrote a 170-page script that has been praised by everyone who’s read it—except the people at Columbia. My script attracted two of the premier directors in the world to the project. The author of the book feels that the script is brilliant. And
I
am being accused of breach of contract?

Forgive me, Mr. Schulhof, but something is very wrong at your studio. I don’t know who is in charge. I don’t know if anyone is in charge. I don’t know what the agendas are, though I am convinced they have to be private and politically tangled ones. I do know that the agenda is
not
to make original and successful movies
.

I don’t even know, most depressingly, who at Columbia has even read my script. A conversation my agent had with an executive more than implied that neither Mark Canton nor Jon Peters had read the script and/or the rewrite
.