Which Lie Did I Tell? (15 page)

Remember my made-up speech about Bogart taking a course in nightclub management? Same thing here. This is what that speech and ensuing references to Remington’s past do to this legendary figure:
They make Remington a wimp. They make him a loser.
He’s just another whiny asshole who went to pieces when the gods pissed on him. “Oh, you cannot know the depth of my pain” is what that seems to be saying to the audience. Well, if I’m in that audience, what I think is this:
Fuck you.
I know people who are dying of cancer, I know people who are close to vegetables, and guess what—
they play it as it lays.

This little speech may not seem like much but not only does it cast a pall over everything that follows, it destroys the fabric of the piece. Every ensuing mention of Remington and children and loss is all so treacly you want to whoopse. Never forget the following:

Well, Bill, why did you do it?
I will answer that for you, but the bigger point is this:

This is not an isolated incident. It happens to us all. And it happens a lot, usually because of star insecurity, but directors can fuck things up pretty good, too.

I did what Douglas wanted. The alternative, of course, was to leave the picture. Which would have been stupid, I think, because the instant I am out the door, someone else is hired to do what I wouldn’t.

In this case I did it for another reason: Douglas’s intelligence. I know he must have known what he wanted was horseshit, was damaging to a project in which his name was going to be billed in several places. From those hours in the room with him, I just knew he would see the lack of wisdom in his ways and we could cut it all out in the editing process.

If you saw the movie, you know it didn’t get cut out. His past and his pain is there for all to see. (When the screenplay was printed in a collection, I got rid of all this. Too late, of course, but I felt a little better.)

Did Michael Douglas suddenly get stupid?

Nosir. What happened, I think, was that in that room he was a
producer,
and later he became a performer, a
star
—with all those terrible feelings of fraudulence stars live with, with all those different insecurities.

Michael wanted the audience
moved
when Remington died. That’s what I think was at the heart of the changes. And the best way to do that was to win sympathy for Remington. What he succeeded in doing was destroying him.

Another thing. In
Adventures in the Screen Trade
I wrote a lot about Dustin Hoffman’s less than ideal behavior during
Marathon Man.
Hoffman always felt he had a problem with himself in the part, which was that he was far too old to be playing a graduate student at Columbia. And of course he was dead right, being close to forty at the time. Well, remember what I wrote about Douglas, what he plays so brilliantly? The flawed,
contemporary
American male? I underline “contemporary” because I think that might have been the problem for Douglas—playing a man from a different century.

I think he did not feel he could play it as written, so changes were made to make him more comfortable. To make his character one the audience would care about and be moved by.

Guess what—when we had our first sneak, one of the questions the audience was asked was to rate the characters in order of how they liked them. And the audience rated Michael Douglas
fourth.

Panic Out There.

A lot of cuts and pads were made to be sure he was more sympathetic the next sneak. The audience wasn’t buying it—they still rated him fourth. Kilmer was third. Now, fellow scriveners, remember this advice—when your two stars are rated
below
two supporting players, do not put a down payment on that beach house in Malibu.

Brutal, as expected.

I was only in South Africa a couple of times, but a few memories:

(1) Two of the lions were gay. The bigger of the two was dominant, the male. The smaller (we’re talking comparatives here), the lady. Now, they traveled a long way to get to the location, and on the journey, one of the lions took sick. The bigger one. He lost so much weight that he became the smaller of the two. And when this happened, the smaller, now the larger, became the dominant, the male. I offer this anecdote to any sociologists amongst you.

(2) One afternoon we were screen-testing lions. No, not right and left profile, but what kind of expectations could we have in behavior. We had giant mechanical lions that had been built, but what we wanted to find out was what, if anything, the real beasts could do.

We are in a bare soundstage that we built. Primitive, obviously; imagine a high school gym and you get the picture. There is a tiny set—some long grass, actually. And the camera crew is all ready; they are also in a thickly barred cage. I am watching from another thickly barred cage. Because this lion we are testing is
savage.

A door slides open and in comes a circus-cage kind of thing on wheels with a single lion inside. The tension in that large room was immediate and terrifying, because here was something primitive in with us now. The trainer, an elegant and well-dressed French man, unlocks the cage—he is the only thing on earth the lion responds to. He brings the lion to his spot.
Stephen Hopkins, directing from behind bars, asks for a few basic things. The trainer speaks to the lion in French, and the animal does surprisingly well.

Back they go to the circus cage and as they get there, this wondrous thing happens. The trainer in his lovely suit bends slightly, puts his arms
out wide. And the lion goes up on its hind paws and for a moment, they dance.

Hours later I ran into the trainer and talked about how touching the moment was. I asked if the lion cared for him. He said this: “Mr. Goldman, I feed him.” But it was so gentle, I went on, I got the sense he
cared
for you. “Mr. Goldman, I feed him,” he said again. I was persistent. “But he wouldn’t ever hurt you, would he?”

He came next to me and took off his glasses and pointed to what the thick-rimmed glasses had hidden—his entire eyebrow covered a long and very frightening scar. “I made a mistake once,” was all he said.

(3) Michael Douglas arrived when we were many weeks into shooting. His first day was a scene with a thousand extras, where Val Kilmer was trying to convince the leader of the workers not to leave, that he needed them.

Val couldn’t get it.

I don’t know if he hadn’t learned his lines or if he hated his lines. Or if, as the character of Patterson, he didn’t want to ask for help. This is important stuff: stars
hate
asking for help.

(Shhh—they’re afraid their fans will find them wimpy.)

A lot of bad things have been written about Val Kilmer’s behavior. I will not add to them here. I will say he was going through a terrible time. His marriage had fallen publicly and painfully apart a few weeks before. He had come directly to us from a nightmare,
The Island of Dr. Moreau.
(How much he contributed to that nightmare is a subject much debated.) He was exhausted and not, I think it’s safe to say, at his best on our shoot.

As I said, Douglas arrives and Kilmer cannot get his lines right in front of a thousand extras. His producer hat very much on, Douglas takes Kilmer aside and asks, approximately, the following: Do you want a career like
Eric Roberts? Do you want a career like
Mickey Rourke? Well, you can have that if you don’t shape up.

I am not telling this to you because it is such great gossip, because obviously it isn’t that. But there was clearly not a whole lot of chemistry between these two stars as the movie unfolded.

And does that matter? It’s certainly not the reason the movie didn’t do what I had hoped. If you were to ask me those reasons I would begin with this:
the script was not good enough.
I always think that on every movie I’m involved with if it doesn’t work.

I also think the time was wrong. Not the time of year when it was released, I mean the
time for lions.
In our long history, perhaps no other animal has had such graph changes. From being vermin to being gods.

Now is a cutie-pie stage.
Born Free
and
The Lion King.
I don’t think the audience wanted much to hear about these two monsters that shredded so many lives.

But I also feel that if Douglas and Kilmer had been in
Butch Cassidy
instead of Redford and Newman, you would not remotely be listening to anything I might have to say about Hollywood …

Absolute Power
is the hardest screenplay I have ever written. Eventually, it stopped me cold—for the first time I was faced with an assignment that I simply could not complete. And would never have been able to had Tony Gilroy not come to save me.

November ’94.

Martin Shafer, who runs Castle Rock films, called and said he was sending me
Executive Power,
a first novel by a young Washington lawyer, David Baldacci. Shafer mentioned nothing specific pertaining to the plot but he did tell me this: that Baldacci, in the last three weeks, had sold the worldwide book and movie rights for
five million dollars.

Better than a sharp stick in the eye.

The next day a 466-page typed manuscript arrived. I had never read a novel with that kind of early success. (Few ever had.) Curious as hell, I started reading, wondering what magic potion Mr. Baldacci had come up with. It broke down as follows:

A great old thief, LUTHER WHITNEY, breaks into a deserted mansion belonging to eighty-year-old WALTER SULLIVAN, one of the more powerful billionaires around. It is very tricky and tense, the break-in, pitting sophisticated burglary tools against a top-of-the-line security system.

LUTHER makes his way to the master bedroom, takes what looks like a VCR remote from a nearby table, points it at what looks like an ordinary mirror, and clicks. The mirror swings open to reveal a room-sized vault—a vault with a chair in it, the chair
facing the door.

LUTHER enters and starts bagging the goodies—cash, jewelry, coins, bonds, stamps, millions of dollars’ worth.

During this, a limo and a van are approaching the mansion. In the limo are two women and a man. One of the women is trying to undress the man, who is good-naturedly trying to fend her off. Both are drunk. The other woman sits opposite, watching with some distaste and dealing with a large appointment book.