What Just Happened? (20 page)

And neither was I.

After the screening, as Fincher and I watched Mechanic and Ziskin weave their way back to their respective offices, huddled in conversation, I swear I could hear Procol Harum's ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale' come drifting over the soundstages.

Here's a bitter tale. This is where vanity and greed override any sane producing principles to such a degree that it's a wonder I talked myself through it. When you consider all the excellent ideas there are for a producer to draw from, when you think of all the great books and writers that he can buy or steal from to invent a movie, imagine what kind of hefty weirdness it took for me to try to carve a movie out of my own life experience, stuff that took place more than twenty-five years ago. And worse, sugarcoat it, just so I can get the fucker made. I realize that this outburst is vague and ill defined, but it's a place to start. I produced a movie called
Sunset Strip
. It was my last movie for Fox. I know the title doesn't ring a bell because the movie was released in one theater in Los Angeles, for only one weekend, before being trash-heaped into the discounted-video bins. There are worse things that can happen to a movie producer, but they usually involve a life-threatening illness to irreplaceable organs. As always, I went into this adventure with high hopes. But good wishes are never enough. In fact, I'd say they're not to be trusted. Working through this, perhaps we can both come to understand that golden rule of producing: ‘Hand someone his lunch before he hands it to you.'

‘Jerry, look at you, you're still happening.'

‘Whad'ya mean?'

‘Your car is already waiting for you.'

‘As it should be.'

We were standing on the sidewalk outside Giorgio's, directly across the Pacific Coast Highway. You could hear the waves crashing on State Beach behind the volleyball courts. Jerry was getting weary. What had initially been a vicarious thrill, listening to my tales of woe mixed with gossip and failure, was starting to reverse itself. He had become more reticent. His vulgar references to dark body parts three months ago were slowly being replaced by sighs and far-off stares. I couldn't tell whether he was thinking about his withering digestion or whether he was scheming his reentry into the Hollywood fray.

The power to green-light movies leaves a tattooed imprint on the soul. That unquenchable urge to walk around town saying ‘When
I made
that film' never goes away. Who could blame a deposed movie despot for claiming a bit of authorship? It was merely a petty theft. A misdemeanor. Think of it. You're a studio executive who just put a big hit movie into play (let's say
The Nutty Professor
) and you are surrounded by greedy well-wishers from the industry wondering how
you made
it. Is it not an irresistible urge to say, ‘Thanks, fellas, but you should have seen the three-hour rough cut. Well, the damn thing fell off the screen. Woowee, it was hard sledding, but once I got in there, I really turned that bitch around.' Rarely is this conversation within earshot of the director or the screenwriter, and it is never heard by the film's editor because they never get invited within two blocks of a studio executive. Unfortunately, taking credit for other people's work is not limited to studio executives; producers share the disease as well.

Jerry would never admit it, but the more we talked about one asshole topping another asshole in Hollywood, the more his cravings to get back were awakened. Since he had once been considered one of the major assholes in Hollywood, a source of much personal pride, our little chats only reminded him that the word
major
had inexorably been deleted from his letterhead. I wasn't sure, but I felt he still wanted to kick some ass.

‘Jerry, how 'bout that, the guy didn't even ask you for a ticket.'

‘I didn't get a ticket.'

‘But you never come here.'

‘I know.'

‘How did he remember?'

‘I slipped him twenty bucks when I drove in.'

‘But if you took a ticket, it would only cost you five dollars.'

‘I know, that's the beauty of it:
no
ticket.'

‘I don't get it.'

‘No ticket.' He held up his palms like a Vegas croupier.

‘You do see that it cost you an extra fift—'

‘To avoid the indignity of holding a ticket.'

‘Of course, what was I thinking?'

I was still drawing sustenance from these gatherings. More directly, I needed them.

‘So, what'll it be for next week?' I asked.

‘What'dya mean, like Chinese or sushi?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Jerry, you're kidding.'

‘No.'

I needed Jerry; I had to boost his spirits.

‘But I only got a little bit to go.'

‘Can I be straight with you?'

‘Why not?'

‘You don't have enough power in the business to keep up my enthusiasms.'

‘What about my movie that didn't get released?'

‘Small potatoes, babe.'

‘I need one more shot.'

‘Lemme think about it.'

For twenty bucks the car attendant partially bowed when Jerry approached his car. Without acknowledging either of us, Jerry got in and drove off.

In the spring of 1969, in front of the Whisky A Go Go, on the Sunset Strip, John Phillips, leader of the Mamas and the Papas, wearing a psychedelic robe and a Russian fur hat, slid out of a vintage Rolls-Royce creamed on acid. As he slipped past me with
a generous smile, certain that the world was his playground, I tried to remind him that we had a meeting at Universal at ten o'clock in the morning. I was there because I was working for him. What's interesting from a movie-producing perspective was that in those days rock-and-roll royalty were the stars of the neighborhood. They had that heat the movie and television minions were chasing. On any night the cast of characters circling the Whisky was a microcosm of bizarre Hollywood hopefuls, from agents and publicists dressed in tie-dyed shirts and beads, to young Midwestern girls just off the bus looking for Jim Morrison. If you threw a party and John Lennon or Bob Dylan or Mick Jagger was going to show up, everyone clamored for an invitation. Actors wished they could play the guitar. For a brief time, movie stars were in second position.

At that time, I was employed by Phillips and his partner Lou Adler with the intention of helping them get a foothold in the movie industry. The vast success of the Mamas and the Papas was fading, and they were looking for new conquests. They had already been toying with ‘movie ideas' and they needed someone to get them in the door. I think I was chosen for the task because I was cheap. Their most recent idea was a twist on Mary Shelley's life with Byron, which John Phillips wanted to write with Michael Sarne (
Myra Breckinridge
) for Sarne to direct. My job was to get a studio to listen. I was so fresh at the movie game that even though I was aware of the key Hollywood players, it was still a struggle to get any of them on the phone. I had to fake it.

At MCA/Universal there was a young, square-jawed executive, Ned Tanen, who was put in charge of the movie division. Prior to his promotion, I knew that he had had substantial success in the music business. I figured he would be the obvious choice to have an affinity for these guys. That's all I knew. I did not know how to get an introduction to him, and I could hardly admit to my employers that I needed their help to set up a meeting. I tried for several days to reach Tanen on the phone, but to no avail. Finally, I resorted to that terrible Hollywood device of telling his secretary it was someone else calling.

‘Would you tell Mr. Tanen that Lou Adler is calling?' I asked.

‘Please hold.'

‘Sure thing.'

Adler was a highly visible and successful record producer. He reverberated style from the sixties and seventies. Bearded and known for wearing odd caps and shoes, he was the kind of guy whom I thought Tanen would be eager to be in business with.

‘Can I have Mr. Adler's number? Mr. Tanen will have to call back.'

Well, that was the last hope. Five minutes later the phone rang.

‘Hello, Adler residence,' I said in a slightly altered voice. We were working out of Adler's house across the street from the Bel Air Hotel.

‘Mr. Tanen returning.'

‘Lou'll be right there,' I said in an even higher voice.

Click.

‘Hello.'

‘Lou?'

‘Ned?'

‘Lou?'

‘Not really. I'm really sorry. I'm not Lou. I work for Lou and I'm trying to get you to meet with him and John Phillips to discuss a movie idea.'

Complete silence.

I don't recommend children trying this at home. After a brief awkward pause, I couldn't tell whether Tanen had put me on hold without responding or had done the right thing and hung up on me. Just as I was about to drop the phone, his secretary returned and said that he would be willing to schedule a meeting the following Wednesday at ten in the morning. I thanked her. I had broken through. John and Lou had their movie meeting with the head of Universal Pictures, and they had assumed that I'd done it with aplomb.

By the time I had picked up Lou and driven up to 783 Bel Air Road to John Phillips's house, it was 9:30 am This still gave us an ample half hour to drive over the hill to Universal Pictures and get
there on time. The home looked deserted as we drove up the long driveway; the only thing that seemed to be moving were a couple of plumed peacocks. They were roaming across the front lawn between four Rolls-Royces haphazardly parked near the entrance. It was a large Tudor-style home perched on a Bel Air hill overlooking the ocean. What had once been occupied by Jeanette MacDonald was now home to rockers wanting to smother themselves in grandeur.

The front door and the two side windows were wide open, but the house seemed to be unoccupied. Adler and I got out of the car and entered the foyer. In an alcove off to the left, on a gray slate floor, was an empty baby casket converted into a coffee table. As we entered the main room with thirty-foot vaulted ceilings, we passed a large glass-enclosed cabinet filled with an assortment of stuffed birds and small dead animals. Lou looked around, but it was evident nobody was there. Lou told me to wait in the car while he tried to find John.

Forty-five minutes later, Lou returned. He came out of a pool house (which I later discovered was John's new recording studio) some fifty yards from the main house. He was alone. He got in the car and didn't say a word.

‘How we doin'?' I asked.

‘Good.'

I wanted to say, ‘How good is good?' but Lou wasn't up for that kind of comedy. If everything went perfectly from here, we were going to be over an hour late. A bit new at this sort of protocol, I was certain that Tanen would never take my call again. The only question left was whether he would even take the meeting once we got to the studio.

Twenty minutes later (and it might have been even longer), John emerged from the main house dressed in a long, colorful Indian robe and wearing his Russian fur hat. Next to him was Michelle Phillips, wearing a similar Indian robe and sandals. She looked pissed off. Michelle was a surprise addition to this meeting, but by this time there was no reason to rock the boat. John motioned that we should go in one of his cars, an old four-door Rolls that was finished in gray primer. John and Lou got in the front seat, and
Michelle and I sat in the back. We were just about to drive off when Michelle got out. She told John to wait. She said that she had forgotten something and would be right back. I looked at my watch. It was too late to call.

‘What could she have forgotten?' I asked.

‘Darvon,' John said.

‘Darvon?'

‘She has a toothache.'

‘Oh …'

‘We've been burning the candle as they say.'

‘Does she know where we're going?'

‘Yeah, she wanted to go to the meeting too,' John added.

‘Of course she did.'

Ten minutes later, Michelle surfaced. Dropping a Darvon temporarily softened her spirits. She fell asleep in the car before we got to Sunset and stayed asleep until we got to Universal. When we arrived, we were almost two hours late. I wondered whether the guard was even going to let us pass through the gates. Lou, who had not said a word since we left, anticipated my exasperation, turned, looked at the unconscious Michelle, and said, ‘Tanen won't mind.'

And Lou was right. As we got off the elevator on the top floor of Universal's black tower, we were not only greeted by Tanen as if we were fifteen minutes early, but he was almost apologetic for the inconvenience. He quickly eyed Michelle, who appeared starkly beautiful while ragged from pain. She walked past him without speaking. He looked at me as if to say I should have been more clever. I should have scheduled this meeting later in the day. Didn't I know that acid, blow, and liquor wasn't conducive to making anyone a ‘morning person'? Tanen then thanked John for making the big sacrifice of driving over the hill before lunchtime. John smiled back, forgiving Tanen for putting all of us through such an ordeal. As the entourage proceeded down the hall, every employee on the floor was prepped for their arrival. They all stood up to get a glimpse of the famous rock stars. You could almost hear them humming ‘California Dreamin' when the procession passed their desks.

Tanen's office was backdropped by white walls, had thick, white carpeting with staid European antique furniture. Michelle entered Tanen's office first and immediately threw herself facedown on the couch. John and Lou took their seats without ever referring to Michelle. They continued to wear their hats. Ned took his seat at his desk, the entire San Fernando Valley visible through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. He leaned back and smiled at the colorful spectacle in front of him. This parade was an executive perk. I looked over at Michelle. Her robe had inched up her legs as she'd tried to get comfortable. She was seductive in her misery.