Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (21 page)

“
Unh
…” Al turned around and walked back upstage to chat again with the accompanist. A minute went by before Al returned to his key light. Again we heard
Dada-da-da-da-da
! And Al started singing. Here's what he sang: “Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck…” The stage manager was now coming out with “the hook,” in this case a heavy right arm with which he “escorted” Al off the stage and hustled him out the stage door.

Hal, meantime, was heading directly toward Sue and me. We had not only not been able to maintain our composure, we were just about on the floor. We were laughing so hard we'd nearly peed our pants. Hal walking up the aisle toward us did nothing to quell this. We couldn't stop laughing. “Is this some kind of a joke?” Hal asked me. Unable to keep a straight face, I couldn't even answer this wonderful producer-director for whom I had ultimate respect and admiration. “Don't bother to submit anyone to me ever again,” he said, turning to head back to his seat. That was the end of my professional relationship with the great Hal Prince for at least a while. (Nor did it serve Susie well, who was about to follow me into the role as head of the theater department.)

Once we were outside, the fresh air sobered us a little, but only a little. Susie and I were still laughing but trying hard not to because we had to face Al, who was waiting by the stage door with a questioning look on his face. Al didn't have a clue. Without understanding why we were laughing, Al innocently asked: “So how do you think I did?” Sue and I collapsed in hysteria again. Finally I calmed down enough to be able to ask: “Al, honey, what were you
thinking
?” Al looked perplexed; Susie and I couldn't stand up straight. At last I said, “Al, I don't think a musical is your thing.”

As it turned out, every other thing in theater and film did become his. He
made
it his. I had the pleasure of proposing him to Francis Ford Coppola's company for
The Godfather
, but that was little more than wanting to hear the sound of my own voice. Coppola knew Al's work from having seen him in a short-lived Broadway show called
Does a Tiger Wear a Necktie?
in which Al's standout performance gained him the Tony Award for best featured actor. Coppola wanted Al before I had opened my mouth. He wanted only Al for the role of Michael Corleone from the get-go.

There are reasons that great directors are great directors, and in my opinion casting is 50 percent of it. Coppola also fought for Al. He got heavy resistance from Paramount—who could not have been less interested—but Francis was willing to do battle. It was an uphill fight, and Coppola hung in and finally won when the suits looked at a piece of Al's brilliant work in
The Panic in Needle Park.
I had an opportunity to see something really special, when at a small film studio on the West Side of Manhattan, I saw Coppola screen-test Al four times in one afternoon. Each time the director asked for a different portrayal, and each time Al delivered what Coppola asked for. He was an actor of infinite variety and original talent. It was amazing to watch him go through his paces. I eventually lost Al as a client, having to do with a dustup with his manager. I will come to that later.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Moving On

Liza was thriving. Albert Finney, whom I hadn't met before he cast her in
Charlie Bubbles
, was the first to recognize and beautifully capture the wide-eyed waif on the big screen in 1967, and I thought she was brilliant. She was Oscar-nominated for her screen performance in
The Sterile Cuckoo
in 1969 and, as far as I was concerned, also deserved a nomination for her fine work in
Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie Moon
the following year. It was thrilling for me to see and understand that great directors like Alan Pakula and Otto Preminger wanted to work with her. They saw a special quality in her demeanor, notably her vulnerability.

I submitted her for roles in many films, and while she could definitely play a “love interest,” she wasn't exactly your off-the-shelf ingenue. She fell out of the category of ordinary women's roles. Character leads were better for her, and they were often found in material that was not formulaic or predictable, but that's not always what arrived on my desk. It had to be a selective process. I was forever trying to get my hands on scripts chosen by the top directors to find the kind of role that would exploit Li's special qualities. Hollywood stardom was never going to work if she showed up in schlock.

*   *   *

With Liza now married to Peter, things started to shift perceptibly. Li and I grew apart personally. It was understandable. She had a husband and her own life, and that was a great thing. When her personal life interfered with her professional life, I stepped in, trying to be the mailed fist in the velvet glove. But it didn't work. “You've got to stop singing for free,” I told her. “Barbra Streisand called me from out of the blue to complain that you sang “Happy Days” (one of Barbra's signature songs) in some nightclub. I don't recall booking you there!” (I'd never even heard of the place.) I might as well have been speaking to a wall for all the good it did. Li was anxious to help Peter launch his career. They often ran around to late-night clubs where they could perform together or where she could introduce him. “How can I get you paid for your work if you give it away?” I protested.

Many years later, when I met Hugh Jackman backstage while he was appearing as Peter Allen in
The Boy from Oz,
I told him that Peter had been a thorn in my side for exactly the reasons just mentioned. Peter, as we all know, went on to a glorious career both as a songwriter and entertainer until his untimely death from AIDS. His songs were made popular by many recording artists, including Melissa Manchester and Olivia Newton-John, with one, “Arthur's Theme,” winning an Academy Award in 1981. I had a greater appreciation for him once he was out of Liza's immediate life.

*   *   *

I was learning that representing big talent allows you to be wherever you want. It wasn't necessary—as some insisted—to be in Hollywood. If I signed Redford, the golden boy, no one would care where my desk was. I finally got Bob into a meeting with F&D, and they dazzled him with their soft-shoe routine, talking about prospects and fabulous deals that would stir delight in the heart of any actor. Freddie was starting to discuss putting together the pieces for a company that would be called First Artists, whose mandate was to make it easy for artists to maintain creative control of properties they cared about. It was outside-the-box thinking. He would form a production company of stars mighty enough to persuade studio execs to financially support the artist's creative film instincts. The company would be in the control of the artists. What artist wouldn't be interested in that? Redford was listening.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, Liza continued earning big money and getting great reviews for everything she did. Important film scripts were coming to my desk. Important directors now called me about her, instead of the other way around, and my bottom line was profitable enough for me to insist that Freddie and David give me a crack at the film business even though I lived in New York and had no intention of ever living in Los Angeles. I wanted to raise my kids in New York City. I wanted them to use public transportation. I wanted them to have all this city's cultural opportunities and appreciate its cultural diversity. I love New York! It has always been the center of the world to me.

Film, however, was totally a male-dominated business in the sixties. The well-respected “literary ladies” who were known to have sold important books and plays sat quietly in New York, at home reading or behind closed doors in offices with lots of fresh flowers and potted plants. But they didn't do the actual Hollywood deal making. It was assumed in Hollywood that the only thing women knew how to do was to read and discover talent; negotiating deals remained a man's province.

One of the great literary ladies, Kay Brown, found
Gone With the Wind
for David O. Selznick, but she did not have the privilege of setting up the film deal with MGM. Another great agent, Audrey Wood, represented Tennessee Williams, many of whose wonderful plays were adapted for film. Miss Wood interested producers in these properties, and that's a huge part of it, but the guys in LA did the deal. Had I shown some predilection for the purely literary side of the business, I think Freddie and David would have been pleased. No one in the agency had yet filled that niche. The guys figured I would be a natural fit because of the Misses Brown and Wood who preceded me at MCA, but I was never going to be one of the hat-wearing literary ladies; I don't look good in hats, and I always wanted to go where the men went. I was sure I could. I didn't want to relinquish the care and feeding of my clients to the big boys. Oh no!

Having now been at CMA for eight years, I could look back over the many deals I'd made and know I had become a negotiator. Watching David, I understood that forcing the concessions necessary to close a deal was always his idea, but he was clever enough to make someone else believe it was theirs. One couldn't watch David oil his way around a deal without something rubbing off.

I lobbied my two obdurate bosses about my need and ability to deal in the front offices of Hollywood, and discovered I could plead as much as I wanted but nothing would change. I got angry and dug in my heels. I was going to make a start or else. Or else what? Would I leave? And then providence reared its head, and I received an invitation for lunch with an agent at William Morris. I did not tell F&D, and I did not go to lunch. However, word always has found a way of getting around fast in showbiz even without texting. Maybe F&D felt a little threatened. Thank goodness they decided they couldn't afford to lose me. If working in films was what it would take to keep me quiet and somewhat satisfied, they would open the door for me just a crack. But first they had to replace me in theater.

*   *   *

Enter Sue Mengers. Sue—a brilliant schmoozer, client signer, and irreverently funny woman—was the doyenne of the Sardi's set, hanging out at the “look-at-me” tables night after night with the composer Jerry Herman and many of the other leading lights of Broadway. She was an attractive world-class flirt, an overweight blond with a potty mouth and campy style that attracted every gay director and wannabe star on the Great White Way. Her antics, which included putting out the garbage naked (I wasn't there) and constantly lifting her skirt in public places to adjust her stockings (I was there), dominated her devotees' conversations, which made her the affectionate butt of their jokes.

She'd spent several years eking out a living at a small agency, selling respected stage actors, and doing it well. She was hired to replace me as head of theater, allowing me, finally, to concentrate on films, provided, of course, that either Freddie or David could then deal for my clients once they got the job. She was every bit as ambitious as I, and she, too, had wonderful clients to pitch, including Tony Perkins and Julie Harris (both big Broadway stars at the time) and eventually Barbra Streisand (who, while not signed by Sue, became a great pal of hers).

Although she and I were an unlikely pair—she playing cute, the seductress hiding her smarts; me eager to be the businesslike “brains”—we became good friends. The showbiz set in New York, having nothing better to talk about, bet that we would kill each other; but they lost their bets big-time. Sue and I were the winners. She made me laugh; in return I helped her with deals, and we schemed together as often as time allowed.

*   *   *

The film department in New York was headed up by a jolly man's man named Harvey Orkin, whom Begelman adored. He had lots of friends in the industry (which counts for something), but no muscle and no major clients of his own. His very existence irked Sue and me. We agreed he had to go down. I wanted the chair Harvey was sitting in, and both Sue and I wanted his salary (we both speculated figures for Orkin that were no more than figments of our imagination). I knew full well that the day I brought in signed contracts with Redford it would be over for Harvey.

And along came
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
, written by the hot screenwriter William Goldman, with the very hot director George Roy Hill at the helm and Paul Newman already cast as one of the leads. After almost four years of chasing him, I'd gotten a promise from Bob that if I delivered the role opposite Newman, he would be mine.

Redford needed only the right role to launch him into superstardom. I would be sitting in the catbird seat if I could deliver the movie. There was one little hang-up. Twentieth Century–Fox didn't want Bob. It wasn't a matter of disliking him, he was simply far from their first choice. They had a laundry list of stars they wanted more.

CMA, however, represented George, who shared my Redford obsession. Besides that, George was a little sweet on me and couldn't do a thing about it because he was both married and a nonpracticing Catholic still full of Catholic guilt. He could, however, hang out in my office for hours at a time, for days on end, conniving with me on how we could get Bob the role.

The studio's original intention was to put Newman and Steve McQueen on the screen together, which is why the studio was willing to pay then unheard-of price of four hundred thousand dollars for the script. But McQueen left after a dispute over billing. One down. Next the role of Sundance was offered to Jack Lemmon, whose production company, JML, had produced the 1967 film
Cool Hand Luke
starring Paul. George Hill didn't like this casting, and I pumped him up to call Darryl F. Zanuck and protest. This turned out to be unnecessary because Lemmon did not like riding horses, and he also felt he had already played too many aspects of the Sundance Kid's character before. Two down.