Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (31 page)

I was totally discouraged. I now knew that his having the job had nothing to do with any choice I had in the matter, and, worse (putting aside my ego and my lack of control), Colin's having no musical qualifications could not possibly benefit the movie we were about to make.

The next meeting in Ned's office for the purpose of discussing the creative concept was the beauty part. Even though I knew it would be useless, I told Ned straight out that I didn't think Colin, likable as he was, was the right man for the job. Picture Ned, emblematic of studio heads—dyspeptic and probably suffering from high blood pressure, upset by his day before I even set foot in his office—now listening to the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear. I might as well have just doused him with gasoline and lit the match, considering how he exploded. It was cosmic. He turned bright red, the veins popping in his neck as he screamed the following: “I don't give a fuck about what you think or a fuck about the fucking whorehouse. All I care about is seeing fucking Burt Reynolds fuck Dolly Parton's brains out for two fucking hours for the fucking fifteen-year-olds!”

“Uh-huh!” David Begelman's advice on how to answer when you don't know how to answer was coming in handy yet again. I told Ned I'd like to go home and think about what he'd said. What now? It was clear I couldn't hold on to the movie.

It wasn't long before I got a phone call in my New York office from the business affairs department of Universal with an offer to negotiate my leaving. Two very successful television producers by the names of Tom Miller and Bob Boyett were “willing” to replace me, but I had the contractual right to be the “named” producer. If Universal, however, could deliver to these very successful chaps a major Hollywood movie with their names on the screen instead of mine, then maybe they would deliver a successful TV series to Universal. What a great bargaining chip—so Hollywood. It remains a place where everyone has an ax to grind, a place where relationships are everything. Nothing ever changes about that.

Calculating what I wanted for my departure was easy. I donned my agent's cap and prepared to negotiate. Universal turned its business affairs department loose on me. A studio insider warned me that they were getting ready to make hash of me, but I knew full well that Universal never fully understood the financial potential of a hit Broadway show back then, in spite of the fact that they were getting the box-office checks. Perhaps the lawyers and bookkeepers never conversed. I took advantage of that gap in their knowledge and traded my film salary and producer credit for additional points: 2.5 percent of gross in the Broadway and touring companies. I settled on a film credit of “executive producer,” and I managed to retain part of my profit position in the film. I was delighted with the contractual result; I knew I had the better bargain. I thanked the universe for my training as an agent.

As it turned out, I never saw a penny of profits from the profitable film (hardly unusual in Hollywood, where profits are ephemeral and one's salary is usually all one ever sees), but the additional points that I bargained hard for in the show set me up financially for the rest of my life. It only takes one hit. How I would love to have another!

*   *   *

The film of
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
turned out about the way I thought it would. The studio was kind enough to give me a private screening, and seeing it made me want to take my name off the final credits. And I did. What bothered me was the missed potential. The hilarious truths in the Texas humor were gone, as was the sweet sadness in the original stories of the girls in the house. But there was still enough good stuff there to make it a moderately successful film—mostly based on the title and its success on Broadway—and I was delighted that Universal had had a profitable experience. It boded well for their continuing in theater.

Hollywood's lack of knowledge about Broadway has changed totally in recent years. They now understand everything. Universal has been blessed with its hit
Wicked
, and they know down to the penny exactly what it's worth. And nobody knows better than Disney that Broadway can be an enormous profit center. Little did I imagine that every studio would start taking old B movies off their shelves to remake them as Broadway musicals!

*   *   *

What came after
Whorehouse
for me were some stinkers of my own, four to be exact:
Wild Life
,
Open Admissions
,
Nuts
, and
The Best Little Whorehouse Goes Public.
I loved every one of them in spite of their failure. The last was a disaster that cost Universal nine million dollars. They took it on the chin. Lew Wasserman and Sid Sheinberg could not have been more understanding. They, like me, loved the musical. All of these shows had writers I loved, actors I loved, designers whose work I loved, and crews that I loved working with. They were all good experiences, and theater can be a fine, creative arena in which to play ball—or to play with your balls, as the case may be. I can think of nothing more exciting than standing hidden in a theater and watching audience members enjoy themselves as they're transported by a show that you've been a part of creating. It had been no different with Judy—always thrilling to watch what happened to the audience when she was in the spotlight, but that was all her. To be a creative intelligence on words and music that have a shot at making a little piece of theater history: That's been mine; it's been hugely rewarding.

I'm excited about producing my next musical. Tommy Tune once told me that music already on the planet, however wonderful, is not as exciting to present as new music. One takes a big financial risk to do an original musical these days, but it's well worth it in my opinion.

*   *   *

Judy was responsible for my falling in love with entertainment, but there was one particular film responsible for my wanting to help a show. It was seeing a black-and-white movie released in 1941,
Sullivan's Travels
, directed by one of our greatest film directors, Preston Sturges, and starring the hugely underrated Veronica Lake and Joel McCrea as Sullivan. I saw it in the late seventies; I was forty-two and just starting to produce.

In the movie Sullivan is a successful director of pointless comedies. He enjoys all the perks of the Hollywood rich: wine, women, and song. But he isn't happy. He thinks his work lacks social relevance. Sadly, he's not sure what that is. So he sets out to find it. He puts on tramp's clothing, stows a little mad money in his shoe, and sets off on the railroads. First night out, he's relieved of his shoes, and he legitimately joins the downtrodden poor. His life steadily deteriorates as the train carries him across the United States until one day he's arrested and put on a chain gang in some hellish swamp in Georgia. The prisoners are taken for a little R&R on Saturday night to a black church, where a film is shown after the sermon. (Sturges's blatant social statement here: Poor blacks are the only ones willing to give charity to those beneath them.) The movie screen is finally drawn down, and up comes a cartoon. Sullivan looks around and everyone, even he in his misery, is laughing hysterically. Sullivan now learns that his mindless comedies are a good thing. Sullivan understands that in a life where shit happens, making people laugh is a noble pursuit. Sullivan's last line is one of my all-time favorites: “Boy, there's a lot to be said for making people laugh. That's all some people have in this cockeyed caravan.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

My Last Marriage

I fell deeply in love with Dave Grusin. The feelings I had for him helped me understand that I had never been in love before. I met him after
Whorehouse
was up and running. From my offices at Universal in New York City, I oversaw the daily business of the musical and the subsequent touring companies. In the process I got to know many of the execs on the West Coast. One of them gave me some material that had never gone forward as a film to evaluate as a book for a potential Broadway musical. I thought the writing was good, the story viable, and I set about finding a composer, somebody new and interesting.

I suddenly thought of this successful and immensely talented pianist, orchestrator, arranger, and composer of many celebrated film scores who had never worked on Broadway. I loved Grusin's work. He was an original and his work was amazing. I called him and he told me immediately he had no interest in doing theater. He was enjoying a lot of recognition for his superb work in recordings, personal appearances, and, of course, film, and that's where he wished to remain. He made it clear, however, that he was interested in me, and said he wanted to meet me.

David called me on his next visit to New York. I made a date with him thinking it would be my opportunity to talk him into composing this show for the studio, in spite of the fact that he had definitively rejected the idea. Either I wasn't listening, or it was again a case of refusing to take no for an answer too easily.

Once we met, I found him very appealing. He appeared to have a soft-spoken vulnerability that made you want to take care of him. There was no question that I wanted to see him again—and again—and this no longer had anything to do with Universal.

Our relationship developed quickly. Deepened even faster, and in the fall of 1979 we became inseparable. I loved climbing into bed with this man. Didn't want to get out of it. He was the most experienced lover I'd ever had. It was great. We were relishing each other's company. As I got to know his friends, I discovered there were lots of other women who found him appealing and they also wanted to take care of him. They were the wives of his friends. Happily this was all platonic. I liked his friends. They were talented and recognized. Most were big-time Hollywood players whose work I admired, and it impressed me that they admired him. He introduced me to a starry Hollywood scene, different from my own.

David courted me on both coasts, generously and charmingly, and I was enjoying him immensely. He moved into my apartment on Fifth Avenue after two months, and then, after only five months, he asked me to marry him. I was extremely flattered, but I thought it was too soon. Although I liked what I knew, I didn't yet know nearly enough. We both carried baggage. He would be my third. I would be his fourth. I hadn't yet met his family. I already knew from experience that one learned a lot from families.

I resisted his proposal; I told him that we needed more time together, but he insisted that he didn't want a long engagement. He threatened to walk if I didn't marry him right away. An amber warning light started to flash. Though I saw it, I looked away from it in spite of a voice inside me crying out, trying hard to get my attention. But I didn't want to lose him. I thought about my children, and how wonderful it would be for them to have another father figure better than their own. But had I taken the time to learn what I needed to know about his past as a father, I would have run for the hills!

I put the wedding together quickly, within a matter of weeks. We married on February 23, 1980, in Aspen, in a beautiful home on the famous ski mountain looming over the town. Aspen was a place we both enjoyed. David was born in Colorado, and as a young musician had picked up gigs playing piano in the resort when it wasn't much more than a frontier town. He'd bought some real estate back then on the residential mountain where we would build a second home together—more than merely a vacation home, although it would never replace New York.

I'd been skiing in Aspen for more than ten years at that point and I owned a little condo. By 1980 the town had grown into a world-class ski resort with lavish megahomes, not unlike the one we rented for our wedding day and night. And now, at four in the afternoon on our wedding day, the interior of the gorgeous chalet was filled with glamorous people, many of whom had flown in from both coasts and some who had skied in after a beautiful day on the slopes.

The ceremony took place in front of the big stone fireplace with the perfect log fire, and against a backdrop of gently falling, perfect snow. It was as if a set decorator had done his best work for
Town & Country
magazine. My children were there, of course, ten and eleven at the time. I recall how beautiful Jenny looked in her little red and white polka-dot gown, her hair tied up with red ribbons. They were excited and so sweet to everyone. Two of David's three children did not come, and although I found that strange, he convinced me it meant nothing and I would meet them later. I let it go in spite of knowing that his youngest lived only a few short blocks away. There was nothing to do about it in the eleventh hour. I took the vows from the local magistrate, and I gave this man my heart.

In the first room we inhabited together as man and wife, there were two doors. One was the entrance; the other was a closet. If you know what a movie prop closet is, you know that when one opens it, suddenly all its overstuffed contents come exploding out. It's generally good for a laugh. Well, the closet in our room was stuffed to the max with skeletons, and when I cracked the door they all tumbled onto the floor, making a huge and frightening pile of horror stories. I started picking through the bones and learned things that were no laughing matter at all. I would describe my process as a due diligence that I should have done before we married. My education about my new husband began on our honeymoon.

As the first few months wore on, I discovered the problems were even more severe than I first suspected. They had accrued over many years. And I, who had always wanted a big extended family, thought that I could solve them all. That, then, was the beginning of the end of the marriage. How did my new husband react to my reaching out? Badly! I believe the guilt was too much for him to handle. I'd opened up a can of worms.

No longer my hero, he seemed embarrassed and angry by what I had unraveled, and the whole gestalt of ugly behaviors that went with his personality were manifest. He became silent and morose, a very unhappy man. Nevertheless I continued to dig in with energy and enthusiasm because I was persuaded that love and affection for his family coupled with treatment would make a difference. I will not discuss the nature of the problems because it will only cause more pain to some people about whom I once cared deeply, and a few of whom I still do. It is enough to say that what I saw broke my heart and I cried a river.