What Just Happened? (22 page)

Samaha, dressed in a neatly pressed dark olive suit and tight black T-shirt, recalling the
Miami Vice
pimp fashion of the eighties,
removed his jacket. He waved at the cook scurrying around the open kitchen. We were waiting for our food to come. It was 1:30 pm but no other tables were occupied.

‘David, you have to shoot the movie in forty-five days.'

‘I can't.'

‘Sure you can.'

‘I'll need at least fifty-five days.'

‘You must shoot it in Canada. We save lotta money.'

‘I'll consider that.'

‘Forty-five days.'

‘Fifty-five days.'

‘How many days you shoot
State and Main
?'

‘Thirty.'

‘Y'see. I love that movie.'

I tried to momentarily divert the conversation. ‘What's with this fucking bathroom, Elie?'

‘It's a famous spot.'

‘Maybe we should admire it from a different table.'

‘This is best table in the place.'

‘Aren't you concerned that the heavy Lysol might leak into our salads?'

‘I'm not worried.'

‘Well, I think it's an issue.'

‘Djya know that Jim Morrison OD'd in there years ago?'

‘No.'

‘Everyone wants this table.'

‘Elie, no one's here.'

‘Listen, we can move over there by the wall, but this's still the best table in the house.'

Samaha did not go to USC film school. He did not get an MBA from Boston University. He didn't weep at Bertolucci movies. He didn't give a fuck about the Coen brothers. He got here on a different bus. Born in Beirut, he left Lebanon as a teenager and wound up in Manhattan as a bouncer for Studio 54 before migrating to Los Angeles in 1982. Once he hit Hollywood, instead of trying to cozy up to rising directors at the monthly film festivals,
he decided the dry cleaning business would be a more direct route to fame and fortune. He opened Celebrity Cleaners, mounted many autographed pictures of celebrities on the wall, and courted the studios' dry cleaning business. He told us at lunch that he found the studios would pay any amount to get their wardrobes cleaned, especially if the service was top-notch. He decided to always stay open on Sundays and always stay open until midnight. Once he got ensconced in the movie business, if he thought an agent or an executive had done him a good turn, he would provide that person with a laminated card that entitled the cardholder to one year of free Celebrity dry cleaning. Make fun of him if you wish, but while the rest of Hollywood was hoping to sit next to Arthur Schlesinger Jr. or Henry Kissinger at some charity ball for the aged, Samaha was on the street hustling models and small-time celebs while he figured out a way to get the money to finance movies.

Through his Franchise Film company, Elie had boldly found a niche. He had figured out a way to finance movies that the major studios were shying away from, yet still make money. What he had come upon was nothing new. Years ago, mavericks like Dino De Laurentiis and Arnon Milchan had discovered a worldwide market that was vast and rich and that with the right kind of schmoozing could be exploited. Some movie stars and a handful of star directors, whether they knew it or not, had an international cachet that meant something. Packaging and selling the talent to the foreign buyers was the combination to the safe. If Samaha could get these key elements to cut their fee for a project dear to their heart as well as convince the producer to cut the cost of filming by scurrying off to a foreign country, Samaha could make a score. With the right package in place, his game was to presell the movie to foreign territories for more than the cost of the movie, leaving no risk, only reward.

Here's an example: Travolta had a pet project,
Battlefield Earth
, that no studio in Hollywood would touch, even though Travolta was enjoying a personal revival at the box office. Perhaps because of its intimate link to L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology, or because science fiction is enormously expensive, or because the project could
not attract a bona fide first-class director, Travolta could not get the movie jump-started. Ergo, Samaha smells the opening, calls Travolta up, and declares that the one movie he's dying to make is
Battlefield Earth
starring John Travolta. Travolta at the time was making upward of fifteen million dollars a picture. But this was his labor of love. Samaha knew that if the movie could be made for a certain number, he could sell off most of his financial exposure to international markets before one set was built, one costume sewn. If the movie died, the only ones holding the bag would be the foreign investors, while Elie could dine out on the Travolta connection. Travolta wanted to see this movie made so badly that, apparently, he not only reduced his fee substantially and agreed to limit the cost of production, but also ultimately put up some of his own money to see the damn thing through.

For Elie, this was a perfect fit. Although the movie met a truly grim fate at the box office and an even sadder fate with critics, Travolta made the movie he wanted to make and Elie walked away with money in his pocket. I suppose his foreign partners, once they were able to get up off their knees and wipe the vomit from their shoes, could only hope to get their money back by betting with Samaha on the next one.

From a filmmaker's point of view this is not such a bad situation. Elie doesn't give you script notes, doesn't hand out his opinions on the final cut, and doesn't tamper much with the casting choices of the additional roles. Shit, he might not even have read the script. He leaves the ‘making' of the movie to those who can. After years of wading through the silly litany of comments from studio executives whose only film credentials are a leased BMW and a studio job, there's something irresistible about a guy who simply plays it as a businessman. He's gonna fuck you if he can, but it will be just about the money. How long he can pull this off is hard to say.

‘I want to make this movie,' Elie said.

‘We do too,' Mamet answered.

‘I love it.'

‘We do too.'

‘No, I really love it.'

‘That's great,' I added.

‘I love Hackman.'

‘We do too.'

‘And I just had dinner at Danny's house. I love him too.'

‘We agree on that.'

‘You know, uh, forgive me,' Elie said, punctuating his face with fatigue, ‘but I'm a little tired.'

Mamet turned to me with that ‘Here comes the bad news' glance.

‘I think you look good,' I said.

‘Thank you.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘Last night I was at the Sunset Room, my club, until four in the morning.'

‘Elie, you're moonlighting.'

‘I was drinking with Sly.'

‘That's good.'

‘Sly was at
my
table, Don Johnson was three tables down. A real good night.'

The conversation stalled for about ten long seconds.

‘David, you want to come to my club tonight?'

‘No, thank you,' he said politely.

Another awkward pause.

‘You know, David, did I tell you that I made more than sixty films over the last three and a half years?'

‘I had no idea.'

‘It's true.'

‘Really … ?'

‘I swear.'

‘That's a lot of volume,' I said.

‘I made a lot of money.'

‘I bet.'

‘Over sixty movies.'

We were desperately trying to locate some common ground.

‘So which ones are your favorites?' David asked.

Elie looked at us carefully. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn't quite come up with one title that stood out from the pack. It was like watching a magician in a slump fumbling to pull out the right card. I was trying to help, but I didn't know any of the pictures he had sponsored either. He finally mentioned some movie in the planning stage that he was working on with Billy Zane and director Ted Demme. He said he was proud of that one, but they had yet to start filming. He added that if we wanted to meet Billy Zane, he was also going to be at the club tonight.

‘Thanks for the lunch, Elie,' I said, dropping my napkin on the table.

‘It was very generous.' David smiled.

‘Okay, okay. Let's make it fifty days,' Elie said.

‘We'll give it a college try,' I said.

As with all other meetings in Hollywood, the decisions were made before the meeting began. Samaha had already sussed out what the foreign market would bear for a Gene Hackman/Danny DeVito combination with David Mamet at the helm. So long as we committed to the right number, this deal was closed. Predictably, Samaha would make a profit before the movie ever wrapped.

As a final footnote, we ended up shooting
Heist
in fifty-five days.

I arrived at Tana's early. The bar was filling up and the booths were already occupied. For the first time in weeks, I was actually looking forward to meeting with Jerry. I know that the first thing he's going to say when he scans this room is ‘Fucking hell, the place is packed and there's nobody here.' I ordered a drink and waited.

Warner Bros., the domestic distributor for
Heist
, had just begun screening the movie for the long-lead press (magazine editors and magazine critics), and the early returns were encouraging. For a film noir filled with violence and irony, it was a nice surprise to watch people warming to it. To top it off, Alberto Barbera, the head of the Venice Film Festival, had called two days before to say that he loved the movie and wanted to invite us to the festival. It
was to be the first of many invitations. And, of course, there was something unforgettable about having a front-row seat to watch Gene Hackman (Joe Moore) standing over a critically wounded Danny DeVito (Bergman) at the climactic shoot-out. Bergman, shocked that his life force is ebbing away, asks Moore, ‘D'ya want to hear my last words?' Without hesitation Moore blows him away and says, ‘I just did.' Mamet served up the meat cold on this one.

Not that everything had gone smoothly during the making of this film. With all of the sacrifices that have to be made when you reach outside the studio system for money, one of the most ludicrous is the impact all of this has on ‘producer' credits. In the final credit roll, the audience is mercilessly bombarded with nine producers: three producers, of which I am one with Samaha and one of his partners; three executive producers, all of whom are either Samaha friends and/or employees. Two coproducers. One line producer. And, no, I'm not going to add ‘and a partridge in a pear tree.'

Suffice it to say that not only did these people rarely make any producing contributions, but in most cases, neither Mamet or I have ever met them. There's a producers' guild, rising from the ashes, currently trying to sort out this horrible indignity on future films. But it's a troubling thought to assume there's going to be a big outpouring of sympathy for the poor mistreated movie producer. Maybe a league should be created to protect agents who have had their feelings hurt, or maybe some umbrella organization for film executives who sense their time is running out. Ain't it sort of like asking people to cheer for the fox in the henhouse?

I always forget how good the margaritas are at Tana's. I must have gotten distracted because I suddenly realized that Jerry was now forty-five minutes late. I wasn't surprised. He was a no-show. That rat bastard had the antennae of a Siamese cat. He could smell my good news coming from across Coldwater Canyon, and he wanted no part of it. He knew it was time to find a new den and some fresh blood, time to take his black voodoo down the road and piss on some rookie. I should've just walked away, but I decided to give him another few minutes. If he didn't show up, I would call
him, leave a blistering message on his answering machine, then get on with it.

I moved to the rear door where I could get better reception from my cell phone.

Trying to compose a message to Jerry, behind three margaritas, wasn't all that easy. All kinds of weird detritus ran through my head. First, I wanted to sour his mood by thanking him for the amateur therapy sessions. I had to let him know that being one of ‘les grandes facilitators'—as he sarcastically referred to movie producers—didn't necessarily mean that your arm is laced up to your elbow in Crisco. I wanted to remind him—and this would surely test his stomach—that there's even a parcel of dignity in getting this shit done. Yeah. And by the way, before we get too mawkish, let's not forget the ultimate mantra: It's a helluva way to keep your pool heated.

Arrivederci
, baby. Thanks for the memories.

Art Linson was born in Chicago and grew up in Los Angeles. He has been producing movies for over twenty years, and his credits include
The Untouchables, Heat, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Scrooged, Fight Club
, and
Heist
. In 1995, he published his first book,
A Pound of Flesh: Perilous Tales of How to Produce Movies in Hollywood
.