Adventures in the Screen Trade (12 page)

Once shooting is over and there is a rough cut of the film available, studios often have screenings for their own personnel. I remember a secretary at Paramount talking to me months before Saturday Night Fever was released. And remember that at this time, Travolta was just another poster pretty boy from a schlock tv series. And she said, "I saw Saturday Night Fever and I loved it and John Travolta is sensational, I don't care what anybody says." I was not surprised at the success of that movie, primarily because of that quick conversation. She didn't have to bring it up, I didn't ask her about it-she just plain loved the film and couldn't stop talking about it. That may seem trivial to you, but there has yet to be a movie that was damaged by wonderful word of mouth.

After these studio screenings, most films have "sneaks," and that's when you really begin to get a strong sense of fate.

Two giant musicals are going to open in the next months or so-maybe a hundred million dollars cost between them, counting prints and advertising and publicity. They are Annie and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

The reaction I've heard on Annie has been mixed. Some say "tremendous" and others say "bland." But everyone has said that it will do business. And so I suspect it will.

About Whorehouse I have heard-absolutely nothing. Not a syllable. Which leads me to suspect it's in trouble. We shall see.

The only reason I'm reasonably current is because I've been researching this book for a long time now and I'm making an effort to talk to a lot of people and ask a lot of questions. But ordinarily, since I live and work in New York, I'm pretty much like everybody else: I know what I read in the papers.

Out there, though, even an introverted loner at USC film school knows more than I do now. Sure, a lot of successful movie people live in the East or San Francisco. But how many of them started there? And how many of those were screen- writers?

It just seems to me to be common sense to start in the center, in the town where there is the most interest and activity. I think if I wanted a screenwriting career today, I would go along with Mr. Greeley. L.A.'s a great place to visit. And there's no law that says you've got to stay. . . .

Enough of practical matters. The emotional reason is at least as important.

I don't think most people realize-and there's no reason they should-the amount of demeaning garbage you have to take if you want a career in the arts. I mean, going off to med school is something you can say with your head high. Or being a banker or going into insurance or the family business-no problem. But the conversations I had with grown-ups after college. . .

"So you're done with school now, Bill." "That's right." "So what's next on the agenda?" Pause. Finally I would say it: "I want to be a writer." And then they would pause. "A writer." "I'd like to try."

Third and final pause. And then one of two inevitable replies: cither "What are you going to do next?" or "What are you really going to do?"

That dread double litany . . . What are you going to do next? . . . What are you really going to do? . . . What are you going to do next? . . . What are you really going to do . . . ? The First ("What are you going to do next?") implying failure.

The other ("What are you really going to do?") implying that my life's daydream wasn't a serious occupation.

That may not sound like much to you, and maybe it isn't, but, you see, I had a secret: I knew they were right. Maybe not about the seriousness of being a writer, but there was no doubt in my mind that I would fail.

I would have been crazy to think otherwise. I came from a businessman's family and I lived in a businessman's town. At Oberlin, I took the one class they offered then in creative writing, There were maybe a dozen of us, and the eleven others all took it for one reason: It was a gut course. I was the only one who wanted to write. All the others got grades of B or better. I got the only C.

In summer school at Northwestern I took another writing class. I don't know about anyone else's ambitions, but the result was the same: I got by far the worst grade.

At Oberlin there was a literary magazine and I was the fiction editor. There was also a poetry editor and an overall head of the magazine. Everything was submitted anonymously and every issue I would sneak in a story and the three of us would meet and I would listen while they both agreed whoever wrote this thing (my thing) was not about to get published. I was the fiction editor and I couldn't get my own stuff included.

When I came to New York in '54 I remember going to a party. I am not good at parties. My SATs in party going are among the lowest in history. But there was this girl there, a native- Sarah Lawrence, I think-and we were gamely going through the motions and she said where are you from and I said where arc you from and she said where do you live and blah blah blah until she asked, "What do you do?" I told her. "I want to be a writer."

And on that, she literally turned her back, but before she did there came a look on her face and she said it: "Oh, another one." . . . Oh, another one. . ..

When you are Jamie Wyeth and you are starting out to paint, well. Daddy did okay. But most of us are entering uncharted ground, and we have hope, but we also know the odds against us. Failure keeps us company.

And that's almost the only company we have. Because no one's going to do it for you. We have tunes in our heads, but what if they stink? We have color and composition dancing behind our eyes, but what if no one cares?

If you think we're a long way from Los Angeles now, I disagree. Every taxi driver out there is just an actor between jobs, that's in the city charter. And of course we know that every shopgirl fantasizes being Streisand. But you would be amazed how many screenwriters there are stocking the grocery shelves at Ralph's or waiting on tables in Westwood. They are multitudes, and even if you're the King of the Nerds, you can't help but meet them. And talk to them. And drink with them and bitch about the Industry and argue about craft. In other words, if you want to be a screenwriter and you live in Des Moines, that's a terrible curse to bear. It's a terrible curse in Los Angeles, too-but at least you're not alone. And oh boy, when you're beginning, does that matter. . ..

Agents

Agents arc the Catch-22 of the movie business: Everybody starting out desperately needs one and nobody starting out can possibly get one.

My memory is that in the years I've been around the business, whenever I meet anyone interested in screenwriting, there is really only one question on their minds: How do I get an agent? No one starts out by inquiring after craft or the color of Paul Newman's eyes. It's always "I need an agent, how can I get one, how?" Obviously, it's impossible.

But you can try. Intelligently. Before getting to that though, this question ought to be answered first: What can an agent actually do for you? Nothing magical.

If you've written Fire Maidens from Outer Space or Billy the Kid Vs. Dracula, not even the legitimately legendary Lew Wasser-man at his peak could have snookered David Lean into direct- ing your efforts.

But the major agents can save incredible amounts of time. If, say, Sam Cohn of ICM wants to deal with Paramount, more than likely he will not call any of the numberless executives that work for the company, he will dial Barry Diller, the boss. And Diller will take the call. Because he knows not only Cohn's client list, he knows Cohn and he knows Cohn wouldn't be calling unless there was a project of genuine value to market.

Even the greenest of agents serve a tremendously valuable function-since very few people in the business will read a script that is unrepresented, because of legal reasons.

Let's say you've written a zombie picture and someone at UA reads it cold and, a year down the line, UA announces they're making a zombie picture. That's how lawsuits arc born. Most studios, before they even go near an unrepresented piece of material, will send out a form to the writer that the writer must sign and return, thus clearing the studio, in theory, of potential legal action.

Agents also know as much scuttlebutt as anybody. More, probably. Not just which studios are looking for a love story all studios are always on the lockout for love stories. But which star wants to change his image and try something else. And which director is getting killed with alimony payments and needs a job fast. And which studio executive is going to get Fired, so don't go near him. (Because when he is fired, those projects he has accepted become anathema to his successors and forget about the movie ever happening.)

And all the decent ones, green or veteran, have a wonderful sense of career guidance. I've been with Evarts Ziegler for fifteen years, and whatever my career has been, he is enormously responsible for it.

"But what goddam good is career guidance when I haven't got a career yet?"

Okay, let's set about trying to get an agent. (1) You better have something written that's as good as you can do. A screenplay, in proper form and-don't laugh-legible. If you have more than one screenplay, better yet. Not that you're going to show the agent two, not at the beginning. But if he reads one and is at least intrigued, he's liable to ask for an- other sample of your work.

(2) Find out who and where the agents are. How? Easy. Contact the Writers Guild of America, either the East Coast branch in New York or the West Coast branch in Los Angeles, and acquire their list of accredited agents. I am looking at such a list now. It is dated July 1981 and it is nine pages long and lists, I would guess, the names, addresses, and phone numbers of at least two hundred agents.

(3) Study the list. Really go over it and over it. Bewildering, but keep at it. On the first page, for example, there are only five entries. "Agency for Artists"-forget about them for now; and the same, again for now, with AAG-Artists Agent Group. But "Adams, Limited, Bret"-that may be of value. Bret Adams is a name. And that's what we're tracking down now--names.

Because any point of contact, no matter how distant, if infinitely preferable to no contact at all.

Do you have a lawyer? Probably you don't. Do your parents? No? Well, somebody in your family must have come in contact with a lawyer sometime. Call that lawyer. Ask did that lawyer go to grad school with anyone who ended up in some form of show-business law? If the answer is yes, throw yourself on the mercy of the lawyer you know to contact his old buddy from Virginia. If he will, fine; if he won't, and he probably won't, thank him anyway and think some more.

Did your mother go to high school with anyone who ended up as a performer? Probably she didn't and if she did, probably you knew that already. But did she go to high school with anyone who ended up working for a performer? Doubtful. But maybe she went to high school with someone who once did makeup for a local tv talk show. If she did, have her renew that acquaintance, or do it yourself. Nothing will come of it. But if you want an agent, get used to frustration. And rejection. A lot of rejection. But maybe-unlikely, but it's within the realm-somebody knew somebody who knows Bret Adams. No? On to the next.

Buddy Altoni. He's next. Anyone have any way at all of getting to Buddy? How about Velvet Amber? Or Fred Amsel? Or any of the B's or C's or down the line. No? Keep at it.

By the time you're done you will have come up with zip. But at least you're in show business, baby.

(4) Even if you luck out and make a contact, how can you know if the agent's any good?

Tough to answer, because I can't really define what a "good" agent is. As close as I can come, it's someone who believes you have talent and will hustle for you.

But you can find out who the successful agents are. Being an agent is really about signing clients. So find out who handles important clients. If you'd want to know who Lawrence Kasdan's or Alvin Sargent's agents arc, all you have to do is call up the aforementioned Writers Guild and ask. You don't have to be a member. Just pick up the phone and dial. They'll tell you. It's a service they willingly perform.

There is a lot of information that is available to you. But Dan Rather isn't going to tell it on the nightly news. You have to think and act and, most of all, hustle. Pester is the password here. Remember the character Lucy in

Peanuts'? Make her your image. She wouldn't have any trouble getting an agent. . ..

One final suggestion: You're a writer, write a letter. You've already found out who handles either people who are successful or whom you admire, write the agent and tell him who you arc and what you want.

I think everybody that's been in the business awhile gets "help" letters from young people. Here are two I've recently received:

Dear Mr. Goidman:

I've got this fantastic screenplay going that I've been guaranteed six hundred thousand dollars for when it's done, but I need the bread fast and I'm a slow writer.

So if you'll do the rest of it with me, I'll cut you in for half. Have we got a deal?

Well, there's no coherent reply you can make to a letter like that. You can pray that the man with the butterfly net catches up to that kid before he does permanent damage, but that's it. It's loony tunes. Here's the second: Dear Mr. Goidman:

I am a young Australian writer-a newcomer both to New York and to the craft of screenwriting. In the past year and a half I have written three screenplays (more accurately, two and a half-the first was a one hour thing commissioned by an Australian director who had seen a short story of mine.)

I also wrote a feature-length script of Troilus and Cressida, knowing full well that costume dramas are not a hot ticket with the studios. I was right, however, in thinking that the executives would be more likely to show interest in work from an unknown, if they recognized the subject. Thus I've been able to get Troilus read by production v.p.'s at Fox, Paramount and MGM. They were positive about the quality of my work, but the consistent refrain is that it would be too expensive to produce.

My other screenplay is a better prospect, commercially, being a spy thriller dealing with a paranoid who comes into possession of some important government documents. I sent it to MGM last week.