Adventures in the Screen Trade (3 page)

Remaining a star over a period of time is a different story altogether-a story of talent and intelligence.

Dudley Moore, from the beginning, was gifted and bright, Twenty years ago, he and three of his college peers were the sensation of the Broadway season in the revue Beyond the Fringe. Moore was then and is now a tremendous musician-pianist, composer-in addition to his chann as a performer. But with all that, nothing much happened to him. He made some movies in England-lead roles-but they stiffed. He came to America eventually and it was still the same story: too short, too "special," no chance. The best he got was a good supporting role in Foul Play. But Chevy Chase was the romantic lead in that movie. If you had said, back in '78, that Dudley Moore could be a romantic lead, they would have locked you out of The Bistro.

Then George Segal left 10. Just before shooting, he walked the picture. With no time to waste, Blake Edwards chose Moore to replace him.

10 was a smash. Dudley Moore was a star. At least that's what the backers of Arthur thought. And Arthur turned out to be even a bigger hit than 10, so obviously they were right, right? Sorry.

Arthur opened, but barely. It was, as they say in the business, "soft." But Arthur had, as they also say in the business, "legs." Word of mouth was wonderful, audiences kept coming in increasing numbers. It became, along with Raiders of the Lost Ark and Superman II, one of that summer's sensations. Moore was no star after 10. (Miss Derek probably had at least a little something to do with its success.) But he sure is now. . ..

WEALTH

Today's stars differ from their ancestors in at least one crucial respect: They arc rich.

I don't mean to imply that Gable dined on gruel during his glory years. He was well paid, obviously; all the great pre-1950 stars were.

But they didn't share in profits of Films. They were contract players: They did what they were told, not only because of the legal agreement, but because they needed the bread. Sure, they lived well, but today's stars have retirement money.

Bend of the River changed everything. In many ways, this little remembered 1952 Jimmy Stewart Western is as important as any film ever in its effect on the industry.

Stewart's agent then was the remarkable Lew Wasserman, today the head of MCA-Umversal. Stewart was already a major star. The studios were losing (or had lost) their contractual autonomy. And what Wasserman did was arrange for Stewart to take less than his usual salary in exchange for a percentage of the film's potential profits. It was a gamble that worked: Bend of the River was the number-two box-office film of its year, and Stewart cleaned up. Nothing has been the same since.

Today, all stars command a percentage of the profits and, if they are superstars, a percentage of the gross, profits being like the horizon, receding as fast as you approach.

So, if you're Jack Nicholson and you make One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, that's maybe ten million in your pocket. Same for Hoffinan after Kramer Vs. Kramer. And all the others.

What this means is simple: Today if a star doesn't feel like working, he just doesn't work. He doesn't have to, not ever.

And what this means is simple: Since studios need stars, their desperation doubles and then some. They act like Siamese fighting fish in their frenzy to get a star's name on a contract. Stars are more powerful today than ever because they are rich-and the studios only want to make them richer, no matter what they have to put up with. Which can be, on occasion, plenty.

"ADD ONE-THIRD FOR THE SHIT"

This is a Hollywood expression I have heard used mainly by production managers. Production managers, sometimes called line producers, are at the heart of any film. They are the men who make out the schedules, do the budgeting, and are on call every hour of every day, both before and during and after shooting. When there is a crisis, the man who must solve it is the production manager.

The expression refers to the actual cost of having a star on a film.

Stars, like Madison Avenue buses, never go out alone. There is, always, "the entourage." Marilyn Monroe toward the end, and Elizabeth Taylor at her peak, were famous for the number of people they added to the payroll. Secretaries, chauffeurs, hairdressers, makeup specialists, still others to care for their costumes, acting coaches, masseurs, various gurus, on and on.

Suppose the picture already has hired, say, makeup personnel. There is a certain standard ritual that follows. The production manager-and these men live and die by trying to stay within budget-will be contacted by the makeup specialist for the star. "Sorry, love to have you, but we've already got our people." Fine. Then the makeup specialist contacts the star or the star's agent and explains, often tearfully, that deep as is his (or her) devotion to the star, much as he (or she) would love to continue the association, the studio says no.

There will then be more phone calls, often rising in pitch. The small battle will go on until the preordained result: The star's makeup specialist will be hired, and at a much greater salary than they ordinarily command because the star insists on it. Therefore, there will be salaries paid for double (or triple) makeup personnel, many of whom end up with nothing to do.

Why production managers bother to engage in these little wars I can't say-because the studio rarely backs them up. Day after day, the production manager gets pasted. I suppose they hang in because they care. And maybe someday, some glorious future morning, they'll win one.

Beyond the entourage are the "perks." These can include the question of how much the star will get per week for spending money. (Thousands is the answer.) And how many free plane tickets will the star gel from location to home? And how many of the entourage will also get plane tickets? And maybe the star already owns a trailer. And would like it a lot if you would rent the trailer. Fine, the trailer is rented. These things may not seem like much, but they are infinite in number. (Agents, often to justify their percentage when all they really do for a big star is make a phone call, are geinuses when it comes to devising new things to ask for. Which they can then tell their clients have never been gotten before. More than one star has used the same word to me in describing this perk or that: "It's precedential," they say.)

One must also never forget the top technicians. Some stars, as we'll sec, have partner-producers; well, they go on the payroll. Or a pet cinematographer without whom they don't show. Or a friend who is a musician and will get paid a ton for any minimal assistance he may contribute to the composer.

Perhaps the largest percentage of the "one-third" that makes up "the shit" is star behavior.

As Mr. Fitzgerald said to Mr. Hemingway about the rich, stars are different from you and me. Yes, they get up in the morning, just like we do. And sure, they go to bed like we do too. But-big but-if they are hot, their day differs from ours in one simple way: From morning till, they live in a world in which no one disagrees with them.

In Tinsel, a Hollywood novel I wrote, I used an incident where a male star on location liked to wander around the set, ditty bag in hand, and take' whatever struck his fancy. (He wasn't stealing as a kleptomaniac might. It was closer to droit du seigneur.) If he saw a pen he wanted, he put it in his bag. A watch, a pack of gum, anything. If the crew member called him on it, the star would make a joke, of course return the object, and the next day the crew member was gone. It got so that at the end of each day, the crew would simply report to the production manager what was taken that day and its value and the production manager would make reimbursement. Well, that happened.

You may find that behavior immoral and I would agree with you; you may think it outrageous and I'd be on your team. But if you're sure it's rare, I'm afraid we part company.

In the contract era, of course, stars stayed in line. Oh, maybe Bette Davis would take suspension rather than play some part Jack Wamer wanted her to, but movies in those days went over budget only rarely. (The same holds pretty much true for television today. One of the reasons for the low quality of performance on the tube is the preference for hiring "one-take" actors - people who can give you a reasonable line reading the first time. Television is strictly budgeted-producers are given

just so much to bring in their product-and an actor who causes trouble can soon find himself condemned forever to doing dinner-theatre work in the boonies.)

Stories of star misbehavior have been a part of the Hollywood legend, I suppose) from the time Florence Lawrence first got billing. When they occur, they spread through the community with amazing speed. One is apt to hear the latest anecdote half a dozen times within a day of its taking place. Here are four. (I have named names in only two, not because I delight in being "hinty," but because the performers involved have recently died.)

One: A crucial beach scene is being shot. A cabin has been built on the sand and the weather, for reasons of plot, has to be brilliant sunshine. The setup involves the male star of the picture.

The first day-fog. No shooting at all. Just a lot of frustration and a great waste of money.

The second day--fog. Again no shooting, and now the frustration is turning sour. The whole crew is sulking, the director is being eaten alive by the studio over costs.

The third day-yes, fog again, but this time it seems to be lighter. And as the hours drag on, at long, long last, there seems to be a definite chance to shoot. If the fog will only continue to burn away.

Hours pass. The sky is definitely brightening and the crew races for position. They stare at the sky, literally praying for sunshine.

Finally the sun breaks through for a moment and precisely at that moment the male star jumps into a dune buggy and goes for a long ride down the beach. The entire crew turns toward the director and on their faces he sees their message: Do something.

The director, helpless, turns away from the crew, stares out at the ocean, and cannot stop the tears of frustration from streaming down his face. (He swore, as he stood there, never to work with a star again.)

The sun goes away, the fog returns. So does the male star half an hour later. He hops out of the dune buggy and can't understand why everyone seems so unhappy. . . . Two; Rehearsals of Marathon Man in New York. Dustin Hoffman and Roy Scheider are about to rehearse their first scene together. Hoffman has the vehicle role and is the more important of the two, but Scheider, coming off the lead in Jaws, is not chopped liver. In the story, they play brothers. Hoffman is a graduate student. Scheider, whom he adores and thinks is in the oil business, actually works for the government as a killer and a spy.

Hoffman has just been brutally mugged in the park. He has written this to Scheider. Scheider suspects it was not an accident-bad guys are trying to gel at him by threatening his kid brother. So he comes down from Washington to visit.

It's night, and Hoffman is asleep. Suddenly, he realizes he's not alone in his apartment, so he grabs a flashlight from his bed table and points it around the room, trying to catch the intruder. As he does this, he has a line of dialog:

HOFFMAN (very James Cagney) I got a gun, you make a move, I'll blow your ass to Shanghai.

Okay, rehearsal. A mock set is prepared. Hoffman lies down, closes his eyes, Scheider mimes opening a door, bangs his fool down to indicate the closing of the door, and Hoffman springs awake, mimes getting the flashlight, and says his Shanghai tine. Then rehearsals stop.

Hoffman says to hold it and he turns to the director, John Schlesinger, and tells him that he thinks it wrong for his character to have a flashlight in his bed table.

Schlesinger tells him we'll get to it later, let's continue rehearsing the scene, please.

Hoffman shakes his head. The character that he is playing, he feels, would not have a flashlight by his bed.

Now, if this had not been a star complaining, Schlesinger or any director would have told him that they were wasting rehearsal time, which was gold, since most movies don't bother with rehearsal. (The studios don't like it, they can't see rushes the next day, they consider it a waste of money. I think they're wrong-rehearsals save money, because you can work out problems without the. intense pressure of a crew standing around doing nothing. Studios are, in this case, like the late Sam Goldwyn, who used to creep to the writer's building on the lot and was unhappy if he didn't hear typewriters clicking.)

But Dustin Hoffman is very much a star, and he has to be dealt with. Scheider stands quietly in the imaginary doorway, waiting.

A lot of people have flashlights by their bed tables, Schlesinger tries.

Hoffman isn't playing a lot of people, he is playing Babe and Babe wouldn't have a flashlight by his bed table.

Schlesinger makes another attempt: You've just been mugged, you're upset, you're taking precautions. No sale.

Now a practical assault from the director: We need the effect of the flashlight beam bouncing off the walls to add interest to the scene.

Hoffman replies there won't be any scene worth anything if he can't play it, and he can't justify the goddam flashlight. Through all this, silent and waiting, stands Scheider. And that is probably my strongest memory of the situationit took an hour, by the way-Scheider, waiting quietly, a perfect gentleman through it all.

Now, as stated, rehearsals are meant to deal with problems. And Hoffman is not only one of the best actors we have, he is also known to be a perfectionist. And maybe in his preparations he really couldn't figure out why his character would have a flashlight in his bed table.

But that sure wasn't my feeling in the rehearsal hall at the end of the day. Rather it was this: Hoffman was perfectly able to Justify anything, he is that skilled; in my opinion, he didn't want the flashlight because he was afraid his fans would think him chicken.

I believed that then and still do. But that is the kind of thing one dares not mention to a star.

Three: A movie is shooting on a Hollywood sound stage and the female star is number one in the world. By half past nine, the setup is ready. The star is in her trailer and the second assistant director goes about one of his functions: delivering the talent from the trailer to the set. He knocks on the trailer door and says "Ready." Pause.