Fiasco: A History of Hollywood's Iconic Flops

FIASCO A History of Hollywood's Iconic Flops

James R o b e r t Parish

John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 by James Robert Parish. All rights reserved Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey Published simultaneously in Canada No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 646-8600, or on the web at www.copyright.com. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008, or online at http://www.wiley.com/go/permissions. Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and the author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages. For general information about our other products and services, please contact our Customer Care Department within the United States at (800) 762-2974, outside the United States at (317) 572-3993 or fax (317) 572-4002. Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books. For more information about Wiley products, visit our web site at www.wiley.com. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Parish, James Robert. Fiasco: a history of Hollywood's iconic flops / James Robert Parish. p. cm. Filmography: p. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-471-69159-4 (cloth) ISBN-10: 0-471-69159-3 (cloth) 1. Motion pictures —California —Los Angeles —History. 2. Motion pictures — United States—Plots, themes, etc. I. Title. PN1993.5.U65P35 2006 791.43 09794'94-dc22 2005009862 Printed in the United States of America 109876 5 4 3 2 1

To Arleen and Ron Schwartz for their support throughout the years

Contents

Acknowledgments

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Introduction 1

Cleopatra (1963)

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The Chase (1966)

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Paint Your Wagon (1969)

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The Wild Party (1975)

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Popeye (1980)

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The Cotton C/uh (1984)

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Shanghai Surprise (1986)

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/shtar (1987)

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Last Action Hero (1993)

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Cutthroat Island (1995)

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1 1 Showgirls (1995)

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Waterworld (1995) and TheÌ Postman (1997)

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Battlefield Earth: A Saga o/ t h e Year 3000 (2000)

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Town & Country (2001)

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Afterword

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Appendix A: Filmography

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Appendix B: Hollywood Featu re Fil ms That Were Box-Office Disappointments in Domestic Theatrical Release (1960-2004)

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Bibliography

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Index

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Acknowledgments

I wish to thank the following for their kind cooperation on this project: Sheila Benson, Robert Bentley, Billy Rose Theater Collection of the New York Public Library at Lincoln Center, Ronald L. Bowers, John Cocchi, Stephen Cole, Bobby Cramer, Ernest Cunningham, Douglas Fairbanks Center for Motion Picture Study (Jenny Romero), Michael B. Druxman, Echo Book Shop, David Ehrenstein, Filming Today Press (G. D. Hamann), Alex Gildzen, Bill Givens, Beverly Gray, Pierre Guinle, JC Archives, Matthew Kennedy, Alvin H. Marill, Mart Martin, Lee Mattson, Jim Meyer, Eric Monder, Christopher Nickens, Kimberly O'Quinn, Jay Ogletree, Michael R. Pitts, Barry Rivadue, Jerry Roberts, Jonathan Rosenthal, Brad Schreiber, Margie Schultz, Arleen Schwartz, Nat Segaloff, Sam Sherman, André Soares, David Stern, Allan Taylor (editorial consultant, copyeditor, and indexer), Bryan Taylor, Vincent Terrace, Michael Tunison, Lou Valentino, Tom Waldman, Jane Ellen Wayne, and Don Wigal. With special thanks to my editor, Eric Nelson, and my agent, Stuart Bernstein.

VII

Introduction I don't know anybody honestly financing a picture to be a flop unless they're a complete knucklehead. Their interest is getting butts in seats. That doesn't mean that some actor or director might not take a payday to make the picture, or some producer has a secondary agenda. I can't argue that. The picture may be a flop, or, in hindsight, ill-advised, but I posit to you that inside every disaster is a hit film, and inside every hit film are the seeds of a disaster. It depends how they're cultivated whether you get Howard the Duck [1986] or [Who Framed] Roger Rabbit [1988].The whole process, from the epiphany to the eureka . . . has a lot [that] can be lost in translation.

— F I L M PRODUCER PETER GUBER,

2003

The Old Hollywood System For more than a century U.S. moviemakers have been turning out bigscreen product to entertain and/or inform audiences. Among these many thousands of entries —including feature films, documentaries, and short subjects—there have been a goodly number of commercial and/or artistic failures. Back in the era of the silent cinema, the pioneering American film director D. W. Griffith (1875-1948) had great success with his highly controversial feature film, The Birth of a Nation (1915). He followed up this enormous undertaking with an even more ambitious project—Intolerance (1916), an immense 197-minute offering that depicted bigotry in four historical eras. Produced for a then mammoth $386,000 ($6.69 million in I

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2004 dollars), the epic failed to find its audience or recover its tremendous production costs. The picture's unfortunate fate was a staggering setback for Griffith. However, like Hollywood, he continued to turn out more movies, convinced that his next entry would grab the public's interest and lure people into buying tickets. During Hollywood's golden age (the 1920s through the 1940s), the American film industry perfected a generally efficient studio system for making pictures. Major companies like Paramount, Metro-GoldwynMayer, Warner Bros., and, later, Twentieth Century-Fox and RKO churned out an average of one new feature film each week. To achieve such productivity, the studios made most of their films on a "mass" production basis, similar in many ways to any industry's assembly-line process. Each studio lot had a stable of contracted cast members and crews who made pictures on the firm's sound stages to be distributed throughout America in theaters usually owned by the film company. By controlling production, distribution, and exhibition, the big-film enterprises could apportion the overhead of running their operations among their hits and misses. Even in these decades, when most Americans were avid moviegoers and attended picture shows two or three times a week, there were still many significant box-office flops. These included 1924's Greed, 1928's The Wind, 1934's Nana, 1935's The Devil Is a Woman, 1936's Sutters Gold, 1937's Pamell, 1940's The Blue Bird, 1944's Wilson, 1947's Desire Me, 1948's Arch of Triumph, and 1949's Beyond the Forest. Fortunately for the studios, the financial setbacks from these recurring commercial missteps were, by and large, offset by profitable releases. By the 1950s, however, the Tinseltown studio system was crumbling. The once smooth-running Hollywood factory structure was suffering from, among other things, the repercussions of a late-1940s consent decree. That U.S. government ruling required the Hollywood film companies to divest themselves of movie theater ownership. Suddenly, exhibitors had far more leverage in their dealings with the studios over movie rental fees. In addition, the now empowered theater owners no longer had to blindly accept a string of average (or worse) entries from a studio in order to book the company's surefire product into their venues. Adding to the film industry's plight was its need to cope with the spread of free commercial television. With more and more Americans having TV sets in their homes, the public's enthusiasm for paying to see entertainment at a local cinema diminished dramatically.

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These developments forced the studios to slash their overhead. As a result they turned out increasingly fewer pictures annually and dramatically reduced the number of personnel under long-term contracts. However, even with the compacted output from Hollywood, the industry still provided an ample share of box-office duds (e.g., 195 l's The Red Badge of Courage, 1953's Scandal at Scourie, 1956's The First Traveling Saleslady and The Vagabond King, 1957's Saint Joan and The Spirit of St. Louis, 1958's The Barbarian and the Geisha, and 1959's The Scapegoat). Given th way studios now operated, it was far harder for a movie lot to offset (or even hide) losses from major screen failures, because its much-reduced number of releases contained far fewer entries that proved to be profitable. By the 1960s—where the focus of this book begins—the major Hollywood plants were experiencing frequent changes of regime (unlike in the old days, when a studio mogul such as Louis B. Mayer, Darryl F. Zanuck, or Jack L. Warner might reign for decades). This constant turnover of decision makers destroyed the once consistent management policies of a continuous leadership—which had allowed the film lots to focus thoughtfully on their production lineups and finished products. Further upsetting the applecart, international conglomerates were now gobbling up film companies. Often these newly acquired subsidiaries were drastically restructured to promote synergy with other divisions of the parent corporation. In this fresh setup the once powerful, often privately owned studios lost even more control of their fates. Company policies frequently were being dictated by corporate headquarters—by executives and managers who had no real knowledge of, or interest in, filmmaking. As the movie lots became pawns in global big business, their profits and losses came under intense scrutiny from Wall Street stock analysts and shareholders —as well as their latest corporate owners. All of these groups were quick to condemn a studio's hierarchy when the lot's revenues slipped because too many of its new pictures were unsuccessful in distribution. This situation only increased the pressure on studio bosses to make "guaranteed" box-office hits.

Doing Business in the New Hollywood In their desperation to survive the changing economy and the altering structure of the film industry, the Hollywood studios of the 1960s sought salvation in manufacturing oversized road-show releases as part of their

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mix of big and small pictures. (These special, key movies were designed to be released initially in big urban theaters with reserved-seat ticket admission for the film's one or two daily showings.) Studio bigwigs reasoned that these prefabricated blockbusters would provide the lot with great industry prestige, stellar public notice, and, they hoped, large boxoffice returns. In lavishing such tremendous attention and budgets on these occasional superspectaculars, the film companies' executives often failed to pay proper attention to their lineup of everyday pictures. Having so fervently invested in and promoted their latest colossal offerings (e.g., 1960's Exodus, 1961's Judgment at Nuremberg, 1962's Mutiny on the Bounty, 1963's Cleopatra, 1965's The Sound of Music, and 1967's Doctor Dolittle), the studios' administrations frequently rose or fell on the basis of the commercial fate of such high-profile, big-budgeted fare. In 1975 the remarkably huge success of Jaws, Universale adventure thriller, prompted other Hollywood studios to institute new rules for marketing mainstream movies. They now appreciated that an action picture could become a tremendous hit even if it was released in the summer— a season exhibitors once dreaded because so many people were more focused on taking vacation trips than on seeing movies. The film companies also accepted the wisdom of opening pictures in saturation bookings in thousands of theaters all at the same time (a tactic made far more feasible with the building of so many multiplexes at malls throughout the United States). Moreover, the studios' hierarchies came to value the use of a tremendous promotional campaign targeted to this simultaneous wide release of pictures, a targeted volley that could be extremely costeffective. In addition, the Hollywood studios learned that extensive merchandising tie-ins could ensure significant secondary profit streams and promotional outlets for appropriate pictures. Hollywood quickly adapted to mass marketing its "important" pictures, earmarking substantial resources for these special do-or-die ventures. At the same time, Wall Street and financial and trade journalists took an even keener interest in monitoring the resultant successes or failures of these expensive, make-or-break features. It wasn't long before the general media got into the game, reporting on box-office winners and losers in the weekly battles among film releases competing for consumer dollars. Prior to this new availability of information, the public at large had never been much aware of—let alone interested in—the cost of a

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particular movie and the breakdown of its expenses and profits. Now a large number of nonindustry people were citing statistics about the past weekend's grosses, excitedly noting which films had "legs" to grab more income and which were turkeys already in free fall. With this change in public perceptions and increased enlightenment about the business of moviemaking, the studios had to step up their promotion of forthcoming releases. Now they not only had to tout the new entries' supposed spectacular entertainment value, but they also had to assure potential moviegoers that these upcoming pictures were guaranteed financial winners. Furthermore, they had to convince filmgoers that they would feel left out if they missed seeing these "essential" event movies. Then too, with many theaters charging $10 to $12 or more for admission, moviegoers required a lot of prodding to pay such steep ticket prices. Thus the studios' promotional machinery had to strive even harder to make them believe that buying tickets to the lots' releases was a good investment. (Once inside the cinema multiplex, patrons had to pay hugely inflated prices at the refreshment stands, where exhibitors now made most of their profits.) As the new millennium began, fresh technology was producing increasingly strong competition for motion pictures in the race to gain the public's attention and dollars in the entertainment arena. By 2003, at a time when the U.S. population had nearly doubled from its late 1940s total, the number of theater tickets purchased in America had declined to 1.4 billion annually from 4.7 billion in 1947. Thus filmmakers had to depend increasingly on new revenue streams—foreign sales, pay and cable TV, DVDs, video games, and other merchandising—to provide the bulk of the profit on their new movie releases. Such had become the complex ways of Hollywood in the 21st century.

What Qualifies as a Noteworthy Film Flop? As a perusal of this volume's appendix B reveals, over the past decades Hollywood has produced many box-office disappointments. In some instances the economic repercussions from the flops were relatively minimal, while in other cases the losses were staggering and involved major screen personalities. The involvement of stars in box-office bombs is the first requirement for consideration as a significant movie fiasco. (After all,

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most filmgoers are more impressed when mighty superstars are toppled from their lofty career pedestals and know-it-all executives are tumbled from their high-salaried thrones of power.) Another criterion for a movie to be included in the pantheon of film failures is moviemakers' becoming so crassly and blatantly intent on turning out a hit picture that nothing else seems to matter, such as the quality of the script, the use of appropriate talent in front of and behind the camera, the integrity of the marketing blitz, or the degree of entertainment value in the finished product. Columbia Pictures' 1993 Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle, Last Action Hero, is an excellent illustration of this self-serving, narrow-minded attitude, which led to an artistic and commercial disaster. The intricacies of financing such expensive, big-scale movies often cause those authorizing them to make strange creative and/or financial decisions. For example, the 1970s government tax shelter laws in particular seemed to foster the reckless making of dangerously expensive pictures whose losses provided advantageous business write-offs for their cagey participants. Sometimes these available tax shelters prompted studios and producers to take gigantic economic (let alone artistic) chances on celluloid ventures that should have died in the planning stages. Later in the 20th century, most of the loopholes in tax shelter laws were sealed shut. This turnabout prompted mini-major Hollywood studios such as Carolco, Vestron, and Franchise to develop the "art" of selling foreign distribution rights to their way-in-the-future productions to bring immediate capital into their coffers. These wheeler-dealers negotiated wildly lucrative deals based on the "merits" of high-concept movie packages that they promised would feature big-name (action) stars spotlighted in special effects-driven showcases that couldn't miss with moviegoers around the globe. Under this highly creative financing system, a tremendous amount of cash flow was generated and loan guarantees were achieved —usually long before the picture in question even began pre-production. With such a setup it seemed to matter little to these crafty studio money wranglers how or on what they spent the investors' money when it finally came time to make the presold entries. This bizarre way of doing business encouraged producers to display enormous hubris and indulge tremendous egos as they galloped from one superhyped movie project to

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another, almost inevitably at the expense of gullible foreign exhibitors, international banks, and other prey with ready checkbooks. At other times the drive to make a particular expensive film came directly from a star. For example, Bruce Willis (with 1991 's Hudson Hawk) and John Travolta (with 2000's Battlefield Earth) were both so blinded by vanity about their ability to bring a pet film project to realization and box-office success that they were unable or unwilling to objectively evaluate the showcase's merits. This self-deluding attitude led to several such ill-fated vehicles being made, often at unrealistically high costs and initiated only because of the celebrity's industry clout. A similar situation occurred when a powerful filmmaker or producer became so enamored of a topic and so challenged by the naysayers who rejected a favored script that he or she devoted years—and eventually millions of someone's dollars—to getting the picture made. A recent example of this trend was Academy Award-winning director Oliver Stone's fierce determination to bring the story of Alexander the Great to the screen. He finally succeeded, and the historical epic Alexander (released in 2004) proved both a creative and financial bust. On a production budget of more than $155 million, along with domestic marketing costs of well over $40 million, this Warner Bros, saga grossed only $34.3 million domestically, with another $125 million from foreign distribution. Yet another key factor in determining whether a particular screen flop really stands out from the run-of-the-mill box-office losers is the amount of promotion lavished on building up the public's expectation for its release. (Think of such promotional hype as "If you never see another picture this year, see . . . ," "Five years in the making . . . ," or "On December 12 experience the movie of a lifetime . . . ") Such highpressure, saturation marketing campaigns, which may get under way even before the movie in question starts production, often create tremendous expectations among moviegoers and reviewers. Having inspired so much anticipation, heaven help the picture if, after all the barrage of huckstering, it does not measure up to the advance buildup about its stellar cast, wonderful director, exotic locales, remarkable script, and mindboggling special effects. Should the highly touted picture fail to meet the lofty standards promised by publicity flacks, irritated critics and disappointed filmgoers tend to pounce on it with a vengeance. The former will write scathing

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reviews dissecting everyflawin the once guaranteed hit, while the latter will gleefully spread bad word of mouth (an especially easy task today with the use of the Internet). Then too, the initial onslaught of hype about an "important" picture going into production may prompt the media to follow diligently each step of filmmaking, with revealing stories of just how things are going (or not going) with this feature on which so many millions of dollars are being expended. Sometimes, as with Heavens Gate (1980), Ishtar (1987), and Waterworld (1995), the studio's promotional blitz before and during production backfires. The publicity furor that is generated leads a curious press to go to great lengths to uncover and then report on all the extravagant expenditures and wacky missteps that occur during the making of these movies. Such persistent negative coverage creates an intense backlash for these pictures. It causes the public —long before the actual films reach theaters—to perceive these entries as artistically hopeless and financially irresponsible. As with the trio of releases already mentioned, adverse news stories and commentaries tend to convince many potential attendees not to waste their money on buying tickets to see such fiascoes. A twist on this type of backlash situation occurs when the public becomes fed up with a filmmaking celebrity in the wake of a nonstop media onslaught chronicling his or her private life. This can also damage a film's potential box-office take. Such was the case with the frenzied reportage concerning the romance and subsequent breakup of Hollywood lovebirds Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. As a result of the tremendous press overkill, which wore out the couple's welcome with the public, both of their costarring vehicles — 2004's Jersey Girl and, especially, the prior year's Gigli — suffered tremendously at the box office.

On Choosing Which Film Fiascoes to Discuss In selecting the 15 Hollywood box-office catastrophes presented within this volume, I was guided by several factors. First of all, I wanted to present the backstories of prodigiously expensive movies whose tortuous paths from start to finish and subsequent infamy were especially representative of the Hollywood system at the time of production. From among many likely entries I picked extremely colorful and contrasting candidates that well demonstrate how the combination of ill-matched

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personalities and tangled situations can result in chaos during the making of a must-succeed, extremely costly Hollywood feature. In each instance I sought to pick the most vivid example that explored the big question, "How in hell did this picture ever get made?"

1=1 No study of the pitfalls of Hollywood blockbuster mania —and its resultant excesses and legacies —could be complete without including Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton's Cleopatra (1963). This massive historical extravaganza (which was shot abroad) nearly bankrupted a longestablished, upper-echelon studio (Twentieth Century-Fox). The havoc wreaked in manufacturing this gargantuan epic changed forever how Hollywood (not to mention Wall Street, stockholders, and the public) regarded outrageously expensive, much-touted screen projects. This artistic clinker proved to be a shocking, yet intriguing, real-life illustration of how studio politics, self-indulgent stars, overwhelmed production talent, and greedy capitalists could convert a planned $1 million entry into a nearly $44 million nightmare. Among other infamously (and needlessly) expensive Hollywood pictures of the 1960s that warranted inclusion in this volume is the prestige drama The Chase (1966). In the making of this Columbia Pictures train wreck, Marlon Brando and company were caught in an escalating web of overambitious artistic intents, unchecked and conflicting egos, and the lack of anyone powerful enough on the project to rein in the runaway production. Likewise, Paramount's exorbitantly budgeted musical Baint Your Wagon (1969) provided an awesome illustration of a desperate Hollywood film plant scrambling to duplicate the box-office magic engendered by a competitor's enviable genre success, The Sound of Music (1965). The case study of American International Pictures' The Wild Party (1975) demonstrates that it was not only the big-league Hollywood studios that embarked on recklessly chancy, (relatively) expensive projects in the hopes of creating box-office magic. In this instance, from the start of pre-production someone with common sense should have alerted everyone involved that such an arty, period vehicle could not be supported successfully on the shoulders of a fading 1960s' cinema sex symbol (Raquel Welch). The making of this debacle and the bungling of its delayed

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distribution was a tremendous humiliation and a bitter lesson for the usually lustrous screen team of director James Ivory and producer Ismail Merchant. United Artists' nearly $40 million gross error of judgment, Heavens Gate (1980), led to the studio's being sold off by its irate corporate owner (Transamerica) to MGM. As a result the film's title became synonymous with large-scale box-office messes that generated catastrophic repercussions. (The complex account of misguided motives and bungled supervision of this completely out-of-control Western has already been fully detailed in Steven Bach's excellent 1985 book, Final Cut: Dreams and Disaster in the Making of Heaven's Gate.) Therefore, the history of this notorious misadventure —directed by Michael Cimino, who had won an Oscar for helming 1978's The Deer Hunter—is not repeated here. The bright idea to adapt the beloved comic strip character of Popeye, the Sailor Man, into a lavish screen musical was developed by onetime Hollywood Wunderkind Robert Evans. His Popeye, released by Paramount in 1980, showed just how badly a "foolproof" movie venture can go afoul. It was also Evans, by then in desperate straits to regain his industry luster as a producer with a magic touch, who conceived another infamous high-concept picture, The Cotton Club (1984). This Paramount entry was touted as "The Godfather with Music." Instead, it evolved into an extravagantly costly screen dud and an artistic embarrassment for filmmaker Francis Ford Coppola and its other participants, including star Richard Gere. The making of The Cotton Club also involved the grisly murder of one of the picture's would-be producers, which enhanced this flat song-and-dance gangland tale's status among the landmarks of Hollywood's many follies. I have also discussed here the checkered production history leading up to the major failure of MGM's Shanghai Surprise (1986). This boxoffice lemon verified the dangers of miscasting a film's lead roles with two highly temperamental artists. (In this instance the coleads were, for the moment, wed to each other, and both of them suffered from the strains of adjusting to each other's strong domestic and career demands.) Add into this tinderbox a light, rather than a melodramatic, script not suited to the chosen stars and a director immersed in constant battles of will with the warring talent on the picture. The unfortunate mix produced a box-office embarrassment of major proportions.

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Next to Heavens Gate, 1987's Ishtar has long been regarded as one of the most notorious A-list stinkers ever unleashed by Hollywood. As detailed in its chapter, its troubled making involved the lethal teaming of three difficult major personalities: writer/director Elaine May and coleads Warren Beatty (also the producer) and Dustin Hoffman. The badly miscast and mismanaged production —undertaken during a difficult changeover in regime at Columbia Pictures—well illustrated pivotal lessons of what not to do on a big-scale project. It revealed what bad things could happen when extreme perfectionists—all noted for their oversized egos and procrastinating natures—were packaged into an inappropriate venture that lost its artistic vision long before the cameras began to roll. The 1990s began with the release of another milestone Hollywood misfire, The Bonfire of the Vanities. It was based on Tom Wolfe's bestselling 1987 novel, which satirized life in status-fixated New York City. Warner Bros.' movie adaptation underscored just how a cacophony of wrong creative and financial decisions —regarding talent, the director, the script's tone, and the size of the budget—could make a $47 million feature sink at the box office with only a $15.7 million domestic gross. This landmark misfortune has been supremely well-documented—step by painful step —in Julie Salamon's The Devil's Candy: The Bonfire of the Vanities Goes to Hollywood (1991). Arnold Schwarzenegger's Last Action Hero (1993) and Geena Davis's Cutthroat Island (1995) provide clear examples of how a studio's intense preoccupation with producing the biggest, noisiest action spectacles imaginable can so quickly and dangerously cause mayhem. In these two cases, artistic considerations constantly were sacrificed to the whims of the large egos engaged on the productions and to the major hubris of the executives at the producing studios, who arrogantly thought they could foist most anything on an unwitting public if the blockbuster movie marketing formula was followed (and even surpassed). The major box-office crashing of MGM's Showgirls (1995) illuminates how a wildly misconceived screen project can emerge so creatively bad in every way that the resultant flop gains a remarkable afterlife as a campy illustration of fumbled moviemaking on a grand scale. Along with Heavens Gate and Ishtar, 1995's Waterworld completed the archtrinity of the most outlandish (to date) examples of runaway filmmaking—Hollywood style. Its vain but, at that time, powerful star, Kevin Costner, was so

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totally convinced that he knew best what would please moviegoers that he, along with the studio, the film's backers, and other talent involved, got sucked into a fantastic quagmire as production costs went colossally awry. That the movie eventually recouped much of its enormous costs in foreign distribution and through other revenue streams did not mitigate the fact that this Universal release racked up a wildly irresponsible production cost of nearly $200 million. Proving that Hollywood rarely profited from past mistakes, two years later, Costner starred in yet another postapocalyptic big-screen saga, Warner Bros/ The Postman. Once again, the ego-oriented, determined Costner did it his way—including directing the failure. The resulting picture bombed with critics and audiences alike. It is often preached that faith can move mountains. However, that proved not to be so in the instance of John Travolta's Battlefield Earth, Warner Bros.' disastrous error of judgment, which quickly sank upon release in mid-2000. In this case the star's fervent belief in Scientology (whose founder, L. Ron Hubbard, wrote the novel on which the sci-fi movie was based) did not prevent the disaster from happening. Travolta was so determined, for so long, to make this movie a reality that when circumstances finally allowed him to star in the much-rejected project, he recklessly galloped ahead full steam. Before, during, and after its making he seemed blind to the fact that his vehicle had neither the substance nor the execution to make it anything but a laughable mess. The debacle proved to be a sad tribute to the movie star's spiritual mentor. The most recent example included in this book of outrageously chaotic Hollywood filmmaking is New Line Cinema's Town Ö Country (2001), a case in which a glib pitch from an industry veteran became the basis for a staggering film calamity. From the start it should have been recognized that headlining an aging Warren Beatty and other ensnared middle-aged actors within an overblown, thin "comedy" of midlife crisis and adultery was hardly a concept for commercial success in the new millennium. This was another example of an awful idea that should have been extinguished before even one dollar was wasted on production. However, as so often has happened in the Hollywood film business, once a go-ahead is given no one in a position of authority has the courage, conviction, or clout to halt a brewing A-listflop.As a result of this all-toocommon problem, this particular major blunder kept a-goin'. It ran up a production tab of nearly $80 million during its extremely protracted (almost three years!), undisciplined shoot.

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1=1 In examining the case histories presented here of monumental errors of artistic and business mis judgments by Hollywood film industry professionals, my hope is that readers will come away with a better understanding of ( 1 ) why moviemakers so often fail to recognize that their big-budgeted pictures are doomed to disaster from the start and (2) what some of the factors are that distract studio executives and filmmakers from heeding the egregious mistakes of their predecessors as they embark on what may ultimately become one more of Hollywood's fiascoes.

1 Cleopatra (1963) Cleopatra was first conceived in emergency, shot in hysteria, and wound up in blind panic, but any effort to saddle blame on Miss [Elizabeth] Taylor for the cost is wrong. . . . Miss Taylor may have had problems of illness and emotional problems, but she didn't cost Twentieth [Century-Fox] any $35 million! —FILMMAKER JOSEPH L. MANKIEWICZ,

F

1962

ew motion pictures made during the entire twentieth century received as much worldwide publicity as did Cleopatra. During its prolonged production (1959-1963) this overbloated biblical epic came under tremendous scrutiny. The press provided daily details of the film's latest extravagant production expenditures and titillating tidbits about the real-life adulterous romance between the picture's amorous costars, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. By the time this colossally expensive feature reached theaters in mid-1963, it had racked up a staggering $42 million cost—$259.8 million in 2004 dollars. Thus it became one of the most expensive cinema excursions of all time, if not the most expensive. Compounding the folly, much of the money lavished recklessly on the picture never translated into anything seen on the screen. 5

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In retrospect, one has to be awed by the astounding degree of chaotic mismanagement, clashing egos, and incredibly self-indulgent behavior that occurred on Cleopatra. From start to finish, Cleopatra was a stupefying example of how, in the era of the rotting Hollywood studio system, a film could run so out of control because there was no longer an efficient studio hierarchy and machinery to guide the unwieldy production. The fantastic account of Cleopatra reveals that no one at the once illustrious Twentieth Century-Fox studio could, or would, bring the elaborate production under fiscal—let alone artistic —control. Once the dubious screen spectacular was launched into production, the momentum built at an insane rate. While it was on its thorny path to completion, none of the changing Fox regimes was strong enough or sufficiently objective to put a stop to this project so full of staggering self-indulgence and foolhardy business decisions. As a result Twentieth Century-Fox nearly fell into total financial collapse, careers were made and lost, and, most notably, Hollywood was never the same again.

1=1 In the 1950s the once lucrative U.S. film industry was in a bad state, buckling under three devastating blows to its fiscal well-being. First, there was the 1948 antitrust consent decree in which the U.S. government required the major movie studios to divest themselves of their lucrative theater exhibition divisions. Second, the simultaneous spread of commercial television kept a growing number of filmgoers at home watching free entertainment on the small screen. Third, Tinseltown hysteria was spawned by the House Un-American Activities Committee's investigation of the supposed Communist "infiltration" of the film business. (This witch hunt led the frightened studios and TV networks to blacklist anyone suspected of a Red taint and created a damaging talent drain.) In 1950, as these factors were making themselves felt in Hollywood, the studios released 622 pictures in the United States to 19,306 theaters. The average weekly cinema attendance in America was 60 million, with the average admission price being 53 cents. By 1958 the number of Hollywood releases for the year had dropped to 507, and there were only 16,000 theaters. Average weekly cinema attendance in the United States had sunk to 40 million, and the average ticket price had dipped by two cents (largely due to the increase in the number of drive-in theaters, which

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charged lower admission than traditional cinemas). These developments accounted for the $384 million falloff in annual box-office receipts between 1950 and 1958. In 1950 Paramount^ Samson and Delilah (which had debuted in late 1949) was the big box-office winner, with MGM having three entries in the top five earners, and Twentieth Century-Fox having one (the fourth-place Cheaper by the Dozen). Seven years later, Fox was represented by a single superlucrative entry (the second-place earner, Peyton Place). A great deal had happened at the Fox lot since it was incorporated in 1915 by movie pioneer William Fox. The founder had been ousted in 1930. In 1935 the studio merged with the relatively new Twentieth Century Pictures and became Twentieth Century-Fox. Darryl F. Zanuck was placed in charge of the new studio's production. In 1942 film exhibitor executive Spyros P. Skouras, who had participated in the 1935 Fox Films restructuring, was appointed president of the studio. During these decades the autocratic Zanuck remained fully in charge of the company's production output (with the exception of his World War II duty supervising a documentary film unit). In 1953, due to the push of the studio's longtime president, Spyros Skouras, Twentieth Century-Fox released The Robe, which introduced CinemaScope, its patented wide-screen process. The biblical spectacle, which lured viewers away from their TVs and back into movie theaters, was an enormous hit. Made for about $5 million, it grossed more than $17.5 million in North American film rentals to theaters ($124.1 million in 2004 dollars). CinemaScope was anointed Hollywood's savior in its war against the rival television industry. To profitable results, Fox licensed use of its wide-screen anamorphic lens to other Tinseltown studios. Three years later, even as the novelty of CinemaScope was wearing thin, Fox maintained an average annual profit of $6 to $7 million. Early in 1956 a restless Zanuck, one of the studio's founders and its longtime production chief, resigned from Fox to undertake independent film production abroad and to satisfy his sexual lust with a series of shapely protégées. His replacement as Fox's production chief was the experienced but low-key film producer Buddy Adler. Adler brought in Jerry Wald, a veteran production executive/screenwriter. (Wald was one of a team of independent producers now attached to the studio to help churn out product that would offset the company's large plant overhead.) Among

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the new regime's offerings were such box-office winners as The King and I (1956—begun during Zanuck's reign), Anastasia (1956), Love Me Tender (1956), Island in the Sun (1957 —one of Zanuck's independent projects), Peyton Place (1957), and South Pacific (1958). (On the flip side were such costly financial misfires as 1957's A Farewell to Arms and The Sun Also Rises, and 1958's The Barbarian and the Geisha and The Roots of Heaven.) As 1958 wound down, Fox's front-office executives looked forward to the release of Ingrid Bergman's The Inn of the Sixth Happiness. On the slate for 1959 distribution were a few prestige productions (i.e., The Diary of Anne Frank and Compulsion). Jerry Wald had in preparation The Best of Everything, The Sound and the Fury, Beloved Infidel, and Hound-Dog Man. Also set for distribution were the Clifton Webb domestic comedies The Remarkable Mr. Pennypacker and Holiday for Lovers, a Jules Verne adventure yarn (Journey to the Center of the Earth), and Return of the Fly (a modest sequel to an earlier studio hit). But the remainder of Fox's 34 pictures scheduled for 1959 debuts was slim pickings. It left a nervous Spyros Skouras vulnerable to increasingly dissatisfied stockholders and Wall Street investment firms, who were convinced he and his underlings were losing touch with public taste.

1=1 In 1958 the erudite Walter Wanger was 64 years old and suffered from a heart problem. The longtime film executive had served as chief of production at Paramount in the late 1920s and early 1930s, followed by similar stints at both Columbia Pictures and MGM. Thereafter he turned to independent production. His screen successes in the 1940s (including 1945's Salome, Where She Danced) were offset by his tremendously expensive Joan of Arc (1948). This failed costume drama forced Wanger into near bankruptcy. Back in 1940 the well-bred Walter had married his second wife, screen beauty Joan Bennett. The couple had two daughters. In 1952 the dapper Wanger was sent to prison briefly for having shot and wounded talent agent Jennings Lang the previous year. Walter had fired on Jennings because of the latter's suspected affair with Bennett. Once paroled, Walter found it difficult to reestablish himself in Hollywood. However,

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he made a major career comeback with the late 1958 United Artists release J Want to Live! It won six Oscar nominations and earned its star, Susan Hayward, a Best Actress Academy Award. In September 1958, a few months before I Want to Live! opened, Wanger visited Spyros Skouras at Twentieth Century-Fox. Skouras was deeply troubled over the company's dim fiscal prospects: Fox would make a small profit in 1959, suffer a minor loss in 1960, and then dive into a major economic tailspin in 1961 and 1962, with losses of $22.5 million and $39.8 million, respectively. With this adverse economic situation under way, a frantic Skouras was looking for a tremendous picture that could restore the company's economic luster as had The Robe a few years prior. He believed that the studio could still cash in on the biblicalpicture craze, a rejuvenated movie genre bolstered first by The Robe and then by Paramount's huge commercial success with The Ten Commandments (1956). Such box-office winners had convinced MGM to undertake a costly remake of its 1925 box-office winner Ben-Hur. (The 1959 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer release, made for an estimated $ 15 million, would gross more than $70 million.) United Artists had Solomon and Sheba in production. (That 1959 extravaganza would soar to a near $5 million budget, due, in part, to the fact that its leading man, Tyrone Power, died midway through the shoot. His scenes had to be reshot with a replacement, Yul Brynner.) In this period Universal had green-lighted Spartacus, a saga of a slave revolt in ancient Rome, for 1960. (Made at a cost of $12 million, this Kirk Douglas vehicle brought in $14 million at the domestic box office.)

1=1 When Spyros Skouras met with Walter Wanger (who had an independent producer's arrangement with Fox), the studio leader planned to assign Wanger to oversee a project he hoped would turn the lot's financial tide. After examining the studio's inventory of owned film properties, Spyros had settled on redoing Cleopatra. That 1917 silent feature had been enormously profitable for the studio. It was Skouras's ill-conceived notion that the creaky old vehicle could be "inexpensively" updated and mounted as an upcoming Fox CinemaScope release. At the time, Buddy Adler, Fox's production head, was unexcited by Skouras's idea. However,

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Adler was too preoccupied with running the studio's operations. He was also suffering from the early stages of the cancer that would kill him in July 1960 at age 51. As a result, in the fall of 1958 Adler reluctantly went along with making Skouras's historical epic. When Skouras conferred with Wanger, he was well aware that Walter already had a strong interest in antiquity's famous siren. Months after the 1957 publication of Charles Marie Franzero's The Life and Times of Cleopatra, Wanger had taken a $15,000 screen option on the book. His immediate notion was that MGM's Elizabeth Taylor would be ideal to play Egypt's wily queen, who ruled from 51 B.C. to 30 B.C. (In her fight with her brother over who would control Egypt's throne, the young Cleopatra sought and then seduced Julius Caesar, the great general/leader of the Roman Empire, after his army defeated the Egyptians. Thereafter, Caesar placed her in power and she had a son by him. Later, Caesar was killed by his opponents in Rome. To further support her claim on the Egyptian throne, Cleopatra made a romantic alliance with Mark Antony. The latter was in a fight of his own with Octavian Caesar, who was to become Augustus Caesar, the first emperor of Rome. After Antony's defeat and death, Cleopatra reputedly committed suicide rather than surrender to Octavian's invading Roman forces.) Wanger approached Taylor's husband, stage and film producer Mike Todd, to discuss the casting. However, the gruff Todd, who micromanaged his wife's career, vetoed the idea. Months later (in March 1958) Todd died in a plane crash, and Wanger's Cleopatra venture stalled. Nevertheless, Walter still hoped to somehow convince Elizabeth to portray the Egyptian monarch. From the start of negotiations, Skouras and Wanger were an illmatched team. The crude, tyrannical 65-year-old Greek-born film executive, a father of four children, was a self-made man who had never mastered the proper use (or pronunciation) of English. A shrewd businessman, he understood how to sell movies to exhibitors and to the public. However, he had little appreciation of—let alone experience with — the moviemaking process or screen aesthetics. In contrast, the Dartmouth College-educated Wanger knew all facets of picturemaking and had substantial film credits to his name. Thus, the battle of wills began. The Fox studio head envisioned Cleopatra as a $1 million production to be shot within a month on the company's backlot. As a further cost-saver, Skouras planned to use talent

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already under contract to Fox. One possibility for the title role was Joanne Woodward, the Georgia-born actress who had won an Academy Award for The Three Faces of Eve (1957). An alternative was the comely Joan Collins. (The British-born performer had already played an ancient Egyptian princess in Warner Bros.' 1955 spectacle Land of the Pharaohs.) Countering Skouras's concept, Wanger told Skouras that he wanted to shoot the film in Italy to give the project scope and that he hoped to use Taylor in the crucial lead. He theorized that if Elizabeth was cast in a well-mounted production (that is, a blockbuster), it could emerge as an important feature that would garner tremendous reviews and huge box-office returns. The crafty Spyros did not say definitely "no" to the use of Taylor. Skouras wanted to get Wanger on board before imposing his strong will on the film. The Fox decision maker believed that he would have minimal difficulty riding roughshod over the professionally vulnerable Wanger once the gentlemanly producer had committed to the venture. For his part, Wanger, who was close to retirement age, envisioned making one final important picture to cap his long filmmaking career. This pending Fox assignment could be the memorable professional finale Walter craved to leave the industry on a high note. With this goal his prime motivation, Walter chose to overlook his previous thorny experiences navigating daily through irksome studio politics. He dismissed the downside of having to work again within the committee system of an oldfashioned, gargantuan studio operation run by crass, self-serving, often badly informed individuals. Wanger and Skouras each left their meeting convinced he had come out the victor. An immediate wake-up call for Walter should have been his conversation —directly after his Skouras confab —with Joseph Moskowitz, Fox's executive vice president. As they departed the conference, Spyros's dedicated associate, a man of no warmth, told Walter, "Who needs a Liz Taylor? Any hundred-dollar-a-week girl can play Cleopatra." « By November 1958, having signed his Cleopatra agreement with Fox, which would pay him $2,000 a week plus 15% of the picture's gross, Wanger took it upon himself to present Elizabeth Taylor with a copy of

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The Life and Times of Cleopatra (upsetting the Fox hierarchy). He hoped this gesture would pique her interest in the pending Fox project. At the time, the 26-year-old beauty was at a career high. She was receiving great praise for the just-released Cat on a Hot Tin Roof made for MGM, her longtime home studio. (Taylor would be Oscar-nominated for her performance in this Tennessee Williams drama, which further enhanced her industry standing.) On a personal level, however, her popularity with the public was in flux. Months before, the grieving widow of Mike Todd had proved she was a show business trouper by returning to the sound stage so soon after his death to complete Cat. This endeared Elizabeth to her legion of fans. However, more recently, spicy rumors had been circulating about the three-times married Taylor (the mother of three) and the increased quality time she was spending with the popular vocalist Eddie Fisher (the protégé of the late Todd). The crooner was then married to the adored movie star Debbie Reynolds, with whom he had two children. By early 1959 the hearsay about "man-hungry" Taylor and sweetfaced Fisher being in love had proved to be a scandalous reality. Reynolds and Fisher underwent a nasty divorce. After converting to Judaism, Elizabeth wed Eddie in May 1959. Thereafter, Fisher put his singing career on the back burner in order to cater to his high-maintenance spouse's every whim. He became her on-set companion during the London filming of Suddenly, Last Summer (1959), directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz. Meanwhile at Fox, pre-production for Cleopatra was in high gear. Without having a proper shooting script ready, an impatient Skouras, with Buddy Adler's compliance, imprudently ordered designer John DeCuir (a Twentieth Century-Fox contract art director) and his staff to start preparing models and sketches for the massive outdoor sets to be constructed on the studio's backlot. While this was in progress, the studio belatedly assigned a succession of scribes to convert the creaky 1917 Cleopatra screenplay into a workable vehicle. Eventually, Wanger persuaded Skouras to use the Charles Marie Franzero book as a basis for the film (along with the works of such ancient historians as Plutarch and Appianus). As to casting the pivotal role, Spyros and his team were having problems. They had thought Suzy Parker, the former model turned Fox actress, might suffice in the lead part, but she was pregnant. Joanne Wood-

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ward made it clear she was not interested in the assignment. British-born Joan Collins was actually screen-tested. While she gave an adequate performance, the higher-ups eventually decided that they wanted someone more special. Other candidates from within and without Fox—including Susan Hayward, Marilyn Monroe, Kim Novak, and Jennifer Jones—all came under consideration to play the Egyptian queen. By the late summer of 1959, Wanger was more determined than ever to have the luscious Taylor portray the Egyptian royal figure —at whatever cost. He dismissed Skouras's concerns that Elizabeth had a track record of being troublesome and was prone to health problems on film shoots. As to her current ill favor with the public (for having "stolen" Eddie Fisher from Debbie Reynolds), Walter believed that would evaporate eventually and/or enhance her backstory for playing the seductive «¿rueen. Meanwhile, Wanger's wish list for the film's coleads included Sir Laurence Olivier as Julius Caesar and Richard Burton as Mark Antony. (The studio preferred Cary Grant and Burt Lancaster in these roles, respectively.) On September 1, 1959, the unrelenting Wanger telephoned Taylor in London—where she was completing Suddenly, Last Summer—to ask her yet again to be his Cleopatra. By now, the five-feet-four-inch star was amused by Walter's notion but did not think it would ever come to be. In fact, when she discussed the pipe dream casting with Fisher, Eddie supposedly suggested, "You ought to do it for a million dollars." Since Elizabeth was then earning a "paltry" $125,000 per picture under her MGM pact, which had one picture to go, she was intrigued by her husband's ambitious salary suggestion. (For the hedonistic Taylor, receiving such a remarkable movie fee would foster her lush lifestyle. More important, it would validate her sense of self-worth, placing her at the top of her industry and proving that she was indeed loved and wanted.) When Taylor laughingly told Wanger her exorbitant contractual demands (which now included receiving 10% of the box-office gross), he did not say no. After agreeing that the current script draft that had been sent to her needed work, he told her he would get back to her on the deal. At this juncture the cancer-ridden Buddy Adler was on the decline at Fox, and Spyros Skouras had become the point man on all decisions regarding the screen venture. Fearful of being ousted from his lucrative post by disgruntled stockholders, the besieged Skouras had latched onto

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Cleopatra as his ticket to professional salvation. Getting this picture through the production process had become his Holy Grail, as it was already for Wanger. By this time bulldozers were destroying standing sets on the Fox backlot to make room for the planned elaborate set pieces for Cleopatra. Already Skouras et al. had agreed with utilizing a major star in their "big" picture—a vehicle that they estimated might rise in its budget to $2 million. They had narrowed their choices for a leading lady to Susan Hayward, Elizabeth Taylor, and Audrey Hepburn (who wanted to do the picture but had prior filming commitments). Despite Wanger's lengthy past professional association with Hayward, he much preferred Taylor for the part. However, her astronomical salary demands astounded the Fox hierarchy. To that date only William Holden and one or two others had ever been paid $1 million for a single picture. Wanger was now ordered to bargain Taylor's price down to $600,000. While he negotiated with Taylor (and her agent and lawyer), the studio considered using Italy's Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida for Cleopatra. In the seesawing negotiations, Taylor finally agreed to do Cleopatra for a fee of $750,000; $4,500 in weekly living expenses for her, Fisher, and their entourage; 10% of the box-office gross; and $50,000 a week if the picture went over its planned sixteen-week schedule. She demanded directorial approval and that the film be shot abroad (for tax purposes). Other requirements and perks stipulated by Taylor included deluxe living accommodations during the shoot and a $150,000 salary for Eddie Fisher to handle unspecified duties as her assistant. Elizabeth also insisted that the epic be lensed in the Todd-AO wide-screen process. (This had an adverse effect on the studio, as it required Fox to make hefty licensing payments to the company founded by Elizabeth's late husband, Mike Todd. Moreover, using this filming process necessitated extra-careful attention to the lighting of the sound-stage sets, which was both time-consuming and expensive.) What made Elizabeth's extraordinary deal "acceptable" to the Fox team was that her salary would be paid in yearly installments into a trust fund for her children. This deferred payment made Taylor's unprecedented salary demands viable to Skouras, who had touted Cleopatra so frequently to staffers and to stockholders that he dared not turn back. In mid-1959 Taylor signed an agreement (which led to a later final contract) to headline Cleopatra. Because Elizabeth was already locked

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into making one more MGM picture (1960's Butterfield 8), Cleopatra's start was delayed to the fall of 1960. To comply with Taylor's requirement that filming be done abroad, set building on Cleopatra at Fox was halted. Several executives, including Wanger (whom the studio was already trying to freeze out from his position of authority), visited Italy to scout locations. Shooting in that country was rejected because the upcoming 1960 Olympics in Rome would create difficulties in obtaining needed housing, transportation, and building contractors and crews for Cleopatra. Fox accountants convinced the studio that England was a better choice. By taking advantage of that country's Eady Plan, which required using several British actors/technicians in the project, Fox would receive tax breaks and subsidies from the U.K. government, as well as have access to some of its frozen funds in England. These financial inducements to film in England clouded the studio's judgment. It caused them to dismiss the concerns of Wanger and others that a British shoot was wrong on several counts: (1) the countryside hardly resembled the terrain of Italy or Egypt, where the narrative takes place, (2) existing British studio facilities were either already booked or too small for the increasingly elaborate Cleopatra project, and (3) England's inclement climate (much fog, rain, and cold temperatures) was not conducive to shooting many scenes outdoors. Skouras and his squad failed to heed the warnings. Contracts were signed to film at the Pinewood Studios some miles north of London. While a succession of increasingly expensive writers were attached to (re)revamp the still unsatisfactory Cleopatra script, Fox finalized its choice of director. Wanger, who had produced Alfred Hitchcock's Foreign Correspondent (1940), wanted to hire the famed British helmer. Hitchcock declined the offer. Skouras "suggested" that 62-year-old Rouben Mamoulian, an old friend, be used. Although Wanger had worked with Mamoulian on 1933's highly lauded Queen Christina with Greta Garbo, the veteran stage and film director was a strange choice to guide the mammoth Cleopatra. Most recently Mamoulian had been fired from the screen musical Porgy and Bess (1959). His few recent film credits were largely musicals (including 1957's Silk Stockings and 1948's Summer Holiday). Nevertheless, Rouben came aboard the picture. At this juncture good business sense no longer existed where Cleopatra was concerned. In fact, Skouras and his subordinates were so convinced that Cleopatra would be their salvation that they were determined

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not to be deterred by reality. This mentality meant that the hierarchy rarely, if ever, read the many production reports (prepared by costly outside professionals) that alerted the studio to budget costs, options, and dangers on the ever-expanding venture.

1=1 By mid-May 1960 an already frustrated Walter Wanger wrote in his Cleopatra production diary, "This is an absolute disaster. . . . Hollywood has given us an August 15 starting date, but we don't have enough studio space, don't have a full cast, don't have a script, and don't have a crew of laborers." Fox had escalated the film's budget to an announced $4.2 million. (The ever-fluctuating "official" budget was part of the embattled Skouras's accounting game with stockholders to hide the already embarrassingly high actual costs on the project.) This sum was an unrealistic figure, given that $2 million had already been spent on the project, with few tangible results. (Soon Fox would add to the budget by paying $275,000 to Italian producer Lionello Santi to prevent his already completed Cleopatra from being shown in the American marketplace. This was typical of the monetary outlays the studio was expending on its extravaganza.) Greatly concerned about the spiraling situation, Wanger and Mamoulian visited Darryl F. Zanuck in Paris. They hoped to enlist the counsel of the studio's former production chief (and still one of Fox's largest shareholders). However, Zanuck was too preoccupied with preparing his dream movie project—1962's The Longest Day—and catering to his latest mistress. He rejected his visitors' plea for help. In July 1960 Buddy Adler succumbed to cancer. He was replaced (temporarily) as chief of studio production by Bob Goldstein, whose lack of experience for the demanding post quickly earned him Wanger's mistrust. By this point Cleopatra's official budget had risen to $6 million (nearly $5 million more than the cost of a typical movie production in 1960). Despite the studio's having upped the sum to make the picture, it was an impracticable figure, given the obstacles of shooting in England on a five-day workweek (in contrast to the six-day workweek allowed in Italy) and the lack of a finished script, sets, or costumes—all of which were now being addressed in helter-skelter fashion at overtime costs. Meanwhile, as an "economy" move and to satisfy the demands of the Eady Plan, Britishborn Peter Finch (who had worked with Taylor in 1954's Elephant Walk)

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and Northern Ireland-born Stephen Boyd (the villain of 1959's Ben-Hur) were cast, respectively, as Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. By August 31, 1960, the Elizabeth Taylor-Eddie Fisher contingent had arrived in England, with the famed couple settling into plush penthouse suites at London's elite Dorchester Hotel. In the meantime, on more than eight acres at the Pinewood Studios, landmark structures of ancient Alexandria and Rome were being constructed at excessive cost and effort. (Fox decision makers would quickly discover that the expansive sets were vulnerable to quick deterioration in British weather, requiring expensive and constant refurbishing.) Wanger continued to kowtow to the control of the highly frazzled Skouras. In his panic to retain his studio power, the latter was becoming more self-serving and duplicitous. Spyros constantly countermanded Walter's requests and demands and even shut him out of the decisionmaking process. Concerned about his own fragile health, Walter lacked either the stamina or the requisite degree of down-and-dirty craftiness to combat the Fox home team. More and more he became a passive player in the snowballing chaos. Before long he would become a figurehead whom Skouras and his lieutenants (especially Sid Rogell and Bob Goldstein) sabotaged and/or ignored at every possible turn.

1=1 On September 28, 1960, filming on Cleopatra began at the Pinewood Studios. The imperious Taylor had demanded that her longtime MGM hairstylist, Sydney Guilaroff, dress her hair and wigs on Cleopatra. This went against U.K. labor union laws, causing the British hairdressers to stop working—twice —on the first day of the shoot and then go out on strike. With the American film squad pitted against their English brethren, it seemed Cleopatra might permanently grind to a halt. However, it was finally resolved that Guilaroff could style Taylor's hair at her hotel digs but not on the film set. Since the regal Elizabeth had largely won her way in this matter, she confidently turned her attention to other caprices (including a fling with costar Peter Finch). Throughout her life Taylor had been prone to a rash of actual and psychosomatic attention-grabbing ailments and was a magnet for accidents to befall her. Whether real, imagined, or just bad luck, her array of physical disabilities over the years had earned her a reputation for being

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a potential major liability on a movie set. (Her shaky health was certainly not helped by her long-standing regimen of drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, and binges of gluttonous overeating followed by unhealthy bouts of severe dieting.) As a precaution, Fox paid hefty insurance premiums to Lloyds of London to protect their investment in Taylor and their costly film. (Elizabeth's presence on the set was so central to the Cleopatra script that her being sidelined for even a day could put the production schedule and the spiraling budget into real jeopardy.) Nearly from the start of filming, Elizabeth was suffering from a cold, which soon developed into a viral infection complicated by an infected impacted tooth. This caused chaos for Mamoulian, who was already overwhelmed by the size of the production and the lack of a completed script, sets, or costumes. The director attempted to shoot around Taylor, but little could be accomplished without her participation. The star's incapacitation continued. (Her condition was aggravated when Eddie Fisher temporarily left her to go to the United States on business and she flew into an emotional tailspin.) As the production fell seriously behind schedule and costs continued to skyrocket, a highly nervous Lloyds of London recommended that Fox shut down production, which would halt much of the daily financial outlay. The insurance firm offered a $1.74 million insurance settlement and suggested the studio restart filming after Taylor had recovered. A panicked Skouras vetoed this practical notion, insistent that his troubled shoot must move ever forward. He knew that if he closed down Cleopatra he would have no leverage to keep angry Fox stockholders from demanding his immediate removal. Over subsequent months the star's health reached a new low when she contracted meningitis. After a week's hospital stay, she and Fisher returned to California so she could recuperate fully. Meanwhile, a stymied Mamoulian, way over his head in this exasperating state of affairs, shot thousands of feet of film (mostly endless costume tests). Exploding under the pressure of this growing disaster, Rouben threatened to quit the troubled project. He assumed that Taylor would demand he be retained on the production and that somehow he could finally regain control of the shoot. However, unbeknownst to Mamoulian, by this point Elizabeth had changed her allegiance. She quietly advised Fox executives that she would accept George Stevens or Joseph L. Mankiewicz —each of whom had directed her previously with positive results —as a replacement for the floundering Rouben.

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In mounting desperation, Skouras and his minions contacted Mankiewicz, who reluctantly accepted the offer to take over Cleopatra once the studio agreed to pay $3 million (half to him, half to his NBC network partner) to purchase his production company, and to provide him with a $150,000 salary, plus other fees. Once Mamoulian officially quit Cleopatra as of January 19, 1961, Mankiewicz informed Twentieth CenturyFox (to which he had once been under long-term contract) that he must rewrite (with some outside help) the inferior existing script. Since the ten minutes of existing completed footage shot to date was not usable, in Mankiewicz's estimation, he planned to scrap it and start over. (The new director also demanded that the expensive costumes be tossed aside and new ones created for Taylor by Irene Sharaff and for the men by Vittorio Nino Novarese.) Caught in a bind, Skouras gave his consent. This meant that the production had to shut down for a further two months, which cost Fox $45,000 per day in overhead! By now, more than $7 million had been expended on Cleopatra, with nothing viable to show for the humongous effort.

1=1 While Mankiewicz and others were struggling to revamp the script for the second start to filming Cleopatra in England, the fragile Taylor again became ill. On March 4, 1961, she was rushed to a London hospital, where she was diagnosed with a virulent form of pneumonia. An emergency tracheotomy saved her from death. Recovering from the ordeal, she observed, "I felt I touched God." Her touch-and-go situation (during which she "died" four times) made her the center of worldwide media attention. Suddenly, Taylor, not so long ago branded a husband stealer, was back in the public's favor. She and Fisher again flew back to California so she could recover in a warm climate. On April 18, 1962, a sympathy vote earned her a Best Actress Oscar for Butterfield 8. Skouras and Fox were jubilant that Elizabeth's brush with death had resulted in such favorable publicity. While a bored Taylor dallied out of media range with Max Lerner, her Los Angeles-based columnist lover, Fox negotiated a settlement with Lloyds of London over the protracted shutdown of Cleopatra. (The insurance firm eventually paid Fox more than $2 million, but this was less than a third of what the studio had expended to that date on the floundering

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epic.) Lloyds advocated that ailment-prone Taylor be replaced by Kim Novak, Shirley MacLaine, or even the Italian sex siren Rossana Podestà (who had starred in 1956's Helen of Troy). For once in agreement, Skouras and Wanger rejected these untenable choices. (Said Walter, "No Liz, no Cleo!") They insisted that Elizabeth be kept on the troubled project. Meanwhile, production costs kept mounting at a tremendous rate, further riling already agitated Fox shareholders.

1=1 When Cleopatra filming resumed once more (actually, began anew) in the late summer of 1961, much had changed. Not only was director/scenarist Joseph L. Mankiewicz now in charge, but cinematographer Leon Shamroy had replaced Jack Hilyard. Production had been relocated to the sprawling Cinecittà studio in a suburb of Rome. There for a third (!) time the complicated and expansive sixty sets for Cleopatra were constructed from scratch. Much of the costuming from the English filming had been abandoned, and a new wardrobe had to be substituted, including 26,000 outfits for supporting players and extras. Because of Taylor's ever-fluctuating weight, her nearly sixty costumes —including a $6,500 formfitting gold dress—had to be constantly revamped. In the rush to find a location for re-creating the harbor of Alexandria, the studio production scouts in Italy hastily chose a site near Anzio, unaware that (1) there was a massive sandbar near where Caesar's ship was to dock, (2) the adjacent waters still contained live mines set in place during World War II, and (3) NATO maintained a firing range in the vicinity, which frequently ruined the sound recording of photographed scenes. By now Peter Finch and Stephen Boyd had been paid off and had left the stalled film project. They were replaced, at great expense, by Rex Harrison (at $10,000 a week, plus expenses and perks that soon added up to well more than $200,000 during the course of his participation) and Richard Burton. The latter, a 36-year-old Welshman who had gained initial show business fame on the British stage, had been under a Twentieth Century-Fox contract in the 1950s (during which time he costarred in, among other films, The Robe). At the time Mankiewicz requested Burton to play Taylor's on-screen lover, Richard was headlining a Broadway musical (Camelot). That show's producers insisted upon a hefty $50,000 to

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release Richard from the final months of his stage contract. Thereafter, Burton rushed to Rome, where he sat around largely unused for several months. By the time Mankiewicz was ready to shoot Richard's scenes, the actor was on overtime pay. Before he finished with Cleopatra, Burton's original $250,000 salary had mushroomed to $750,000. (Another cast member hired away from Camelot was Roddy McDowall, the former child actor and a longtime friend of Taylor's. The Britisher had already played the role of Octavian on stage in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra and was hired to perform that part again in the screen epic.)

1=1 Mankiewicz, a bright and articulate industry veteran who had won Academy Awards for directing/scripting A Letter to Three Wives (1949) and All About Eve (1950), had previously helmed a version of William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar (1953). That MGM costume drama was a carefully budgeted, relatively modest production, made on the studio's backlot under controlled conditions. With Cleopatra Mankiewicz had bitten off more than he could comfortably chew. Because of the studio's dictates to get filming in Rome under way at once, he had no time to leisurely redraft the script. As a result he wrote scenes at night while shooting other sequences during the day. Not only did this put tremendous pressure on him, but it also prevented the company from efficiently filming scenes in the established Hollywood manner: that is, out of script sequence to make the most cost-effective use of cast, sets, and technicians. Adding to the filmmaker's woes, by now Walter Wanger had succumbed to the daily grind of the overwhelming project and the unrelenting studio politics. Yielding to the morass, he retreated from most of his duties. Many of his producer's responsibilities fell onto Mankiewicz. To survive the mushrooming ordeal, the director embarked on a nonstop regimen that allowed for little sleep (he bolstered himself with daily injections to stimulate his adrenaline). The cumulative results of this punishing schedule left him too often unable to deal effectively with his cast, let alone with revamping the script, making on-set technical decisions, or handling the ever-present visiting contingent of worried Fox executives. By the time the picture resumed filming in late September 1961, the long-hoped-for blockbuster had zoomed well past its latest revised budget

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of $17 million. To ensure that Elizabeth came to Rome, Fox had acceded to her latest demands. These included such perks as Fox subsidizing accommodations for her expanding entourage and paying her Beverly Hills personal physician $25,000 to be on hand during the envisioned seven-week shoot in Rome just in case she needed medical attention. Besides providing Elizabeth and Fisher with a swanky large villa on the fashionable Via Appia Antica, Fox allocated a special building at Cinecittà as Taylor's commodious dressing suite. It provided ample space for Elizabeth and her large support staff of makeup, wardrobe, and stylist artists. There was even a special room designated just for her many on-screen wigs. (When other key cast members learned what special treatment Elizabeth was receiving, they insisted upon their own additional perks.)

1=1 As 1961 wound down, the filming of the first half of Cleopatra's story line, focusing on Cleopatra's romance with Caesar, went relatively smoothly— at least on screen. It resulted in solid performances, especially by the superb, albeit temperamental, Harrison. For the frantic Fox executives, this completed footage outweighed unpleasant reports of the chaotic muddle in Italy that was causing much of the talent to sit about for weeks or months and be paid for doing nothing. With such rampant confusion on the set, many of the cast and crew began taking extra-long workday lunches as well as disappearing from Rome on weekends for lengthy jaunts elsewhere. As executives had feared when Rome had first been considered as a location site back in 1958, the Italians took shrewd advantage of their disorganized American employers. Extras would show up at the studio, sign in for pay vouchers, then disappear from the lot to attend to their real daytime jobs, returning in late afternoon in time to be paid by the Fox cashiers. Many supplies —including a vast number of paper cups—were billed and double-billed to the Fox project, or materials ordered and paid for to construct the enormous sets would mysteriously vanish and be resold elsewhere. (Some members of the film's Hollywood contingent, deciding to do as the Romans do when in Rome, ran their own lucrative scams. One executive secretly owned a controlling stake in the catering company supplying the meals for the massive Cleopatra cast and crew. This enterprising individual found ways to ensure that the catering firm

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was overpaid for services rendered and funneled much of the profits back into his own pockets.)

m At the end of January 1962 Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton filmed their first real scenes together. Having spent months on the sidelines collecting an impressive salary and indulging himself in bouts of heavy drinking and womanizing, the married leading man (who had two daughters with his wife, Sybil) arrived on the Cleopatra set on January 22 suffering from an extreme hangover. His hands shook and his eyes darted about in nervous confusion. Years before, in the Hollywood of the mid-1950s, Taylor had casually met her costar and had thought him too full of himself. Now she had a magical change of heart. Elizabeth immediately began nurturing the hungover Burton on the Cinecittà sound stages. Soon she found herself awed by Richard's rugged masculinity (which reminded her of Mike Todd). The self-focused Taylor was unmindful that her husband, Eddie Fisher, was a witness to the growing flirtation. For his part, Richard had long indulged in affairs with his leading ladies but had always tired of them and returned to his faithful wife. This time it was different. He became besotted with Elizabeth's beauty and raw sensuality and was agog by his sudden realization that she was "so fucking famous." (Having experienced a tough working-class childhood, Burton had developed a strong appreciation for the finer material things in life. He realized that orbiting in Taylor's galaxy would increase his own fame and, in turn, would make him worthy of higher salaries on future projects. The Welshman would observe later of his Cleopatra escapade, both on and off the set, "A man who comes through that ordeal of fire in Rome must emerge a different or a better man." )

1=1 Although weighed down by his Herculean multitasking on Cleopatra, Mankiewicz quickly understood the depth of the amorous situation on the Cleopatra set. He alerted Twentieth Century-Fox, "Liz and Burton are not just playing Antony and Cleopatra." Back in Hollywood, studio executives wondered how the media and the public —in the still relatively unadventurous 1960s—would react when the affair (soon nicknamed

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le scandale by Richard Burton) became general knowledge. The front office worried that conservative, fickle moviegoers would again turn on Taylor and boycott Cleopatra. The Taylor-Burton romance quickly built momentum and soon left an embarrassed and irate Eddie Fisher and Sybil Burton in its messy wake. The naturally gloomy Richard masked his guilt about committing adultery by drinking even more heavily and swearing to himself and others that he would return to Sybil and their children. (As a distraction from the too-captivating Elizabeth, the Shakespearean actor imported a past fling—a New York showgirl—to Rome to be at his side.) Reacting to the complicated domestic situation she had fostered, Elizabeth either treated her current spouse with cruel indifference or, on occasion, begged his forgiveness. The stress caused Taylor to suffer fresh bouts of physical illness and to attempt suicide on a few occasions, especially whenever either Richard or Eddie insisted they were through with her. Enmeshed in this circuslike atmosphere of ongoing shenanigans, most of the cast and crew—especially key players Taylor and Burton—were too often distracted from focusing on their filmmaking chores. This created production delays and propelled the film's mounting costs, compounding the difficulty for Mankiewicz in controlling the production. When asked by a coworker how he kept a relative surface calm during these trying times, he replied, "When you're in a cage with tigers you never let them know you're afraid of them or they'll eat you." As for the supremely egocentric Taylor, who had grown up in the film business and thrived on being the center of attention, the global hullabaloo over Cleopatra and the costars' off-set antics was getting to be too much —even for her. When asked to do a publicity chore that might put a positive spin on the picture, she retorted, "The picture has had too much fucking publicity." Contrary to Fox's original fears, the emerging news of the deliciously scandalous behavior of Elizabeth and Richard amused much of the press (but not Vatican City's L'Osservatore della Dominica, which castigated the indiscreet couple) and endlessly fascinated the public. The cinema pair became the most famous lovebirds of the 20th century. Indulging themselves to the full limit, the excessively pampered duo would take long workday lunches, stay out far too late at night, and disappear for long weekends away from the hysterical paparazzi. In short, filming Cleopatra had been reduced to a secondary priority for the hedonistic stars.

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(As the Taylor-Burton scandal became the focus of global attention, a miffed Rex Harrison became increasingly demanding of his employers, jealous that his costars' activities had robbed him of the limelight.) While this astonishing three-ring spectacle was occurring in Italy, back in the United States, Spyros Skouras was losing his battle with irate stockholders, who held him accountable for the folly of this unbelievable runaway production. (By now the Cleopatra debacle had forced the studio to sell off much of its backlot to gain a desperately needed flow of fresh cash. Because of Fox's near-bankrupt status, production was nearly nonexistent. As a result, what remained of plant expenses was almost entirely thrust on Cleopatra, thus adding to its out-of-control costs.) Spyros and his subordinates commuted frequently to Rome to push the drained Mankiewicz to wind up the shoot on this notorious film. (At this stage of production there was already a massive twenty-six hours of "usable" Cleopatra footage, which Skouras wearily sat through —or slept through. It prompted the frazzled studio chieftain to tell Walter Wanger, "I wish to hell Fd never seen you in my life.")

1=1 It was not until late June 1962 that Elizabeth Taylor finished shooting in Rome on Cleopatra, with the production winding up the next month with location work in Egypt. (In the final weeks of filming, Mankiewicz was so exhausted and ill that he had to be carried to the film set on a stretcher.) By this time Skouras had been ousted from his post of power and pushed upstairs to become the chairman of the board. In a coup, Darryl F. Zanuck had returned to active management of the floundering Twentieth Century-Fox with his son, Richard, installed as vice president in charge of production (replacing Peter G. Levathes, Skouras's son-inlaw and an interim executive in charge of Fox productions). As Cleopatra entered its final months of filming, Walter Wanger was unceremoniously relieved of his duties on the mammoth project he had initiated so many months ago. Desperate to retain some face within the industry and to see his long-cherished vehicle completed, he remained in Rome at his own expense as a near-powerless onlooker. To exact revenge on his studio adversaries and earn a healthy fee, Wanger wrote—with the collaboration of journalist Joe Hyams—My Life

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With Cleopatra (1963). It was Walter's subjective account of the bizarre twists and turns that occurred in making the enormous picture and how, from his point of view, the Taylor-Burton romance had overwhelmed the shoot. (The book, considered a daring behind-the-scenes look at a major studio, was followed later that year by The Cleopatra Papers, written by two former Twentieth Century-Fox publicity department staffers. Both tomes caused Skouras and his cohorts much public embarrassment.) Later, Wanger would sue Twentieth Century-Fox regarding his proper screen credit, producer's participation percentage, and so forth, on Cleopatra. (He eventually settled for $100,000.) In October 1962 Mankiewicz flew to Paris to screen a rough cut of Cleopatra for Zanuck. (By now Zanuck's own long-in-the-works vehicle, the World War II epic The Longest Day, was opening to a highly positive response around the world. Its profit helped Twentieth Century-Fox survive through the final Cleopatra expenses.) A past master at effectively (re)editing pictures, Zanuck found many faults with the overly talky, excessively lengthy version of Cleopatra that he previewed. He rejected the director's plea to release the epic as two separate three-hour features (Caesar and Cleopatra and Antony and Cleopatra). Zanuck reasoned that if he spaced the suggested two releases several months apart, audiences might not attend part one, which featured very little of Taylor and Burton. Besides, he worried that the (in)famous love team might have broken up by the time part two was distributed and it would kill the film(s) at the box office. Mankiewicz proved intractable to his boss's demands to cut further large chunks out of the picture (especially scenes involving the weakwilled, alcoholic Mark Antony character, which Darryl despised —seeing too much of his real-life self in the screen figure), so Zanuck publicly fired the filmmaker and brought in Elmo William to shave down the epic and rearrange the narrative. After a few months of effort, Zanuck came to a sudden realization. Because Cleopatra had no intact final shooting script, only Mankiewicz was capable of stitching together the huge number of scenes into a cohesive whole. This led to a rapprochement between the two veteran talents. Under Zanuck's impatient command, the director completed the edits. In addition, in February 1963 he reconvened several crew and cast members to restage the film's opening scene (the battle of Pharsalia) in Spain, all done with Zanuck on hand to ride herd over Mankiewicz. When at last it was finished, the final cut of

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Cleopatra had a mammoth 243-minute running time, making it 5 minutes longer than the previously longest feature film, 1939's Gone With the Wind.

a=¡ Promoted as "The Entertainment of a Lifetime" and "The Film the Whole World Is Waiting to See," Cleopatra bowed with much fanfare in New York on June 12, 1963. (At one point Skouras had a brainstorm to open the giant-size film at Manhattan's massive Madison Square Garden.) One Hollywood wit had already quipped of the much-ballyhooed new release, "Don't send a movie critic to review it. Send a CPA." But the film reviewers did pass judgment, and their reactions were mixed at best, ranging from fawning praise by the New York Timess Bosley Crowther to a scathing appraisal by the New York Herald-Tribune's Judith Crist, who decided, "Cleopatra is at best a major disappointment, at worst an extravagant exercise in tedium." Time magazine opined that the much-hyped movie lacked style "both in image and in action," adding, "Never for an instant does it whirl along on wings of epic élan; generally it just bumps from scene to ponderous scene on the square wheels of exposition." The New Yorkers scribe judged Taylor "less an actress than a great natural wonder, like Niagara or the Alps." (Many critics found Elizabeth too contemporary a personality to properly evoke an Egyptian queen of old, and that in the film's second half her performance became increasingly and annoyingly shrill and shrewish. Time magazine said, "She screeches like a ward heeler's wife at a block party.") Regarding Mankiewicz's contribution to Fox's white whale, most reviewers assessed that he had failed to provide crowd-pleasing entertainment in the manner of Cecil B. DeMille, who had directed Paramount's highly successful Cleopatra (1934) starring Claudette Colbert. John Simon of the New Leader noted, "Mankiewicz, as writer or director, has no genuine flair for the action-crammed historic canvas; his gift, such as it is, is for the brisk comedy, which is of small avail here, and for witty repartee, which will not be squeezed from stones like Elizabeth Taylor." (On the other hand, many reviewers commented favorably on the picture's cinematography, set designs, and costumes, as well as Alex North's evocative score.)

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Despite the critical pans and the disapproval of the Catholic Church's Legion of Decency, which decried the film's salacious aspects (such as a nearly nude Taylor being massaged by her handmaiden), the public flocked to Cleopatra to see the infamous lovebirds cavort on the big screen. After its road show—reserved-seat engagements in big cities—the picture was trimmed by twenty-two minutes for general release. Nominated for nine Oscars, Cleopatra won four (for cinematography, art/set direction, costumes, and special visual effects). However, it lost in the Best Picture category to the British-made Tom Jones. Of the main players, only Harrison was Oscar-nominated, but he lost to Sidney Poitier (the star of the low-budget Lilies of the Field). Thanks to the hubbub surrounding the extended making of Cleopatra and the intensive, blatant campaign to promote its release, the screen saga went on to earn a massive $26 million in theatrical rentals during its first year. This sum was not enough to cover the enormous costs of putting together the celluloid spectacle. Eventually, however, after the sale of ancillary rights (for TV showings, home video, and DVD editions) the movie made a relatively modest profit. But in the process a studio was eviscerated. Taylor first saw a release print of Cleopatra at a charity screening in London. She was distraught by the emasculated story line, which deleted many of her and especially Burton's "best" scenes. Angered, she embarked on a vocal campaign of badmouthing the "vulgar" finished results. This led Twentieth Century-Fox to later file a $50 million lawsuit against her and Burton for their lack of deportment during the filming, which had caused so many delays and huge overages. The legal tiff was eventually settled out of court. Instead of the nearly $7 million Elizabeth might have walked away with from Cleopatra, she ended up with $2.4 million.

i=S In Hollywood you are only as good as your last picture. If Cleopatra nearly toppled the fast-decaying Twentieth Century-Fox, two years later the studio was back in the money with the massive success of The Sound of Music. In 1969 Skouras, the scapegoat for the Cleopatra debacle, was removed from his meaningless post as the studio's chairman of the board. He died in 1971 at age 79. In a strange twist of political intrigue and power play, in late 1970 Darryl Zanuck fired his son, Richard, from the once

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again financially faltering studio. (The then-current regime had obviously learned little from the company's Cleopatra catastrophe, making such later costlyflopsas 1967's Doctor Dolittle, 1969's Hello, Dollyly and 1970's Toral Toral Toral) In May 1971 Zanuck Sr. was forced to resign as Fox's chief executive, retaining a meaningless emeritus board post. In 1977 he died at age 77. After the Cleopatra chaos, producer Walter Wanger, who once said, "Nothing is as cheap as a hit no matter how much it costs," never supervised another movie. Although he had several Hollywood screen projects in the pipeline before and during the Cleopatra turmoil, many in the industry—including the Fox studio—blamed him for the spectacle's runaway costs. He died of a heart attack in late 1968 at age 74. As for Taylor and Burton, they married in 1964, divorced in 1974, rewed in 1975, and parted again the following year. During this span of domesticity they costarred in eleven features, including the stellar Who s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), for which Elizabeth won her second Academy Award. Burton died in 1984 at age 54. Taylor went on to marry and divorce twice more. Looking back on the Cleopatra (mis)adventure, Taylor would assess, "It was like a disease. An illness one had a very difficult time recuperating from." Joseph L. Mankiewicz directed only three more features in his career, the last in 1972. After the Cleopatra shambles, he would describe the experience as "the hardest three pictures I ever made." Of Cleopatra he noted wryly, "If you want a textbook on how not to make a film, this is it!" He passed away in 1993 at age 83.

1=1 Elizabeth Taylor's once seemingly supersized Cleopatra paycheck pales next to the $20 million to $30 million salaries demanded by top movie superstars in present-day Hollywood. However, Taylor holds a special place in Hollywood history for the lavish treatment she demanded and her exceptionally self-indulgent behavior, which were the pivotal forces in an originally planned modest motion picture's skyrocketing out of control creatively and financially. As cinema historian Paul Monaco wrote in History of the American Cinema —Volume 8: The Sixties: 1960-1969, "Cleopatra was not just a movie that had spun out of control: rather, it was emblematic of the breakdown of an entire production process that historically had been well planned, systematic, and accountable."

2 The Chase ( 1966) If names alone were a guarantee of an excellent movie, The Chase . . . would have to be ranked among the best. . . . Having seen The Chase, I must sadly report that all of the above "names" have failed us. They have managed to turn out an exaggerated, violent, unintentionally ludicrous account of a Southwestern town losing its collective mind, the lurid events all telescoped into a twenty-four-hour period. — FILM C R I T I C H O L L I S

ALPERT

in the Saturday Review, 1966

T

he mid-1960s, when Lyndon B. Johnson was the president of the United States, saw the continuation of the cold war between democratic nations and Communist countries. In America the economy was expanding and the computer revolution was igniting the explosion of high technology. In this same period the country was undergoing tremendous social and political changes and dealing with such controversial issues as the hotly contested recent civil rights legislation, the erupting race riots, the accelerating, unpopular Vietnam War, and the mushrooming hippie/flower-child movement. 40

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At the same time the American film industry was experiencing enormous changes as conglomerates began gobbling up the old-guard Hollywood film lots and folding them into their various worldwide enterprises. Hollywood was transitioning to the rise of (nearly) autonomous filmmakers (such as Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, William Friedkin, Steven Spielberg, and George Lucas). In the 1970s such filmmakers would hold sway in an industry sorely lacking in dynamic leaders and effective production-line moviemaking systems. During this interim period of the sixties several big-league independent producers dominated the filmmaking scene. These major movers and shakers packaged talent and technicians with "important" motion picture properties, guiding these projects through to completion, with the goal of drawing moviegoers away from their TV sets and back into the cinemas. Among these all-important wheeler-dealer producers—who typically operated on the international film scene with the American movie market as a prime focus—were Dino De Laurentiis, Joseph E. Levine, Carlo Ponti, Ray Stark, Martin Ransohoff, Samuel Bronston, the Mirisch brothers (Harold, Marvin, and Walter), Ely Landau, and Sam Spiegel. Of this lot none was as colorful as Sam Spiegel (1901-1985), the producer who spearheaded such landmark—and often multi-Academy-Awardwinning—screen fare as The African Queen (1951), On the Waterfront (1954), The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), Suddenly, Last Summer (1959), Lawrence of Arabia (1962), and Nicholas and Alexandra (1971). Born in Jaroslau, Austria-Hungary (now Jaroslaw, Poland), the young Jewish man later attended school in Vienna. After serving with a youth group in Palestine, he came to the United States in late 1927. While visiting Hollywood he found work as a story translator at MGM. Returning to Europe, he joined Universal Films in Berlin, producing German- and French-language versions of their releases. With the rise of the Third Reich, Spiegel fled Germany and produced pictures in England, France, and elsewhere. During these precarious years he survived on his wits and his knack for generally remaining one step ahead of serious (financial and legal) trouble. (On one occasion, however, he spent several months in jail for having passed bad checks.) In 1935 Sam emigrated to the United States. By the 1940s the experienced business schemer/negotiator was producing Hollywood films (e.g., 1942's Tales of Manhattan and 1946's The Stranger) at major studios.

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At the time he used the moniker S. P. Eagle. It sounded more distinguished and less Semitic than "Sam Spiegel," and it helped to throw past creditors off his trail. By the time of his acclaimed The African Queen, Sam had reverted to his original name. A dedicated bon vivant, the paunchy, bald Spiegel married his third wife, Betty Benson, a model/ actress, in 1957. However, none of his domestic unions prevented him from carrying on affairs with starlets, the occasional celebrity, or several young movie industry/social set groupies. During these hectic decades, the fortunes of the high-living, impetuous Spiegel (whose biggest joy was his yacht, Malahne, based on the French Riviera) rose and fell as he alternated between movie hits (e.g., On the Waterfront and The Bridge on the River Kwai), and flops (e.g., 1953's Melba and 1957's The Strange One). Because of his consistently lavish spending, this vibrant personality of the international jet set was frequently broke. He often existed—seemingly quite happily—on extended credit, ingenuity, and the kindness of famous friends who had been won over by his indomitable zest for life. Over the years Spiegel observed, "I'll either become a very rich and famous man, or die like a dog in the gutter." When Sam passed away of natural causes at age 84, he was still living the good life. A supreme egotist and a master manipulator, Spiegel understood (from having personally launched big-screen celebrities like Peter OToole and Omar Sharif) that when "you make a star—you sometimes make a monster." Sam often worked closely with illustrious movie directors such as Orson Welles, John Huston (with whom he formed Horizon Films), Elia Kazan, David Lean, and Joseph L. Mankiewicz. However, Spiegel noted cynically, "Hollywood has always been full of bartenders and waiters who want to be directors. Trouble is most of them have achieved their ambition." The entrepreneur's two favorite business maxims were "Always turn your liabilities into assets" and "I'm not interested in your efforts, I am only interested in your results." One of Sam's guidelines for conducting business was never bothering to respond to correspondence. He reasoned, "It's amazing how if you leave letters that they answer themselves." When all else failed in a touchy business negotiation, crafty Spiegel was not above feigning a heart attack and dropping to the ground as if the end were at hand. In his lengthy career Spiegel had a reputation for being a man who quickly forgot a pledge—especially when it involved money. (He was an

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individual for whom the truth of his words vanished as soon as he spoke them.) According to writer Budd Schulberg, who worked with Sam on the award-winning On the Waterfront, "Instead of being open, he [Spiegel] couldn't do that with you, he had to go sneaking around. It was just deep in his psyche to conspire and play one [person] against the other." Leo Jaffe, a Columbia Pictures top executive who had lots of hands-on experience with the cunning Sam, once observed, "He was a rough man to do business with. Rough in the sense that he'd like to have control of everything. . . . And Sam was a tiger when he wanted something. Usually," admitted Jaffe, "his demands tended to make sense." In the estimation of Norman Spencer, a key production associate of director David Lean, Spiegel was like a "corkscrew. . . . He was very effective but in order to do the job he was somewhat twisted and bent." As an adventurous, free-spending independent producer, Sam Spiegel began his often stormy, lengthy working relationship with Columbia Pictures with 1954's On the Waterfront (which earned eight Academy Awards and grossed domestically more than nine times its $910,000 cost). Three years later, Spiegel's blockbuster The Bridge on the River Kwai (made for $3 million) went on to take in more than $27.2 million at the U.S./Canadian box office and was credited with having saved the studio from bankruptcy. In addition the entry accumulated seven Oscars, which further enhanced Sam's reputation within the film community. Suddenly, Last Summer, based on Tennessee Williams's one-act play and filled with exploitable, highly controversial themes, boasted a stellar cast (Elizabeth Taylor, Katharine Hepburn, and Montgomery Clift). It was a huge commercial success. Sam next turned to making the epic Lawrence of Arabia. Far grander in scope than anything he had ever tackled, it was made for $15 million. (It would eventually gross more than $70 million and earn seven Oscars.) Spiegel insisted that both the film industry and the filmgoing public constantly be made aware that each of these milestone cinema successes was a "Sam Spiegel production." On April 13, 1964, at the annual Academy Awards, Sam received the Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award for his excellence as a film producer. It reflected his exalted position in the Tinseltown hierarchy. As the 1960s progressed, Spiegel was in his heyday. He was flush with success and prestige and was thriving on his hedonistic lifestyle. Looking back on his wild career gambles, he could boast of his celluloid ventures, "They may cost a lot. But none of the money is wasted. All my pictures

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can be reissued again and again. They stand up pretty well, and they retain their residual values, both financial and prestige-wise." His lofty status in the movie community allowed Sam the luxury of taking his time in preparing his next big-screen offering, The Chase. It was to be another project for Columbia Pictures. It was also to be Sam's first Hollywoodshot feature since 1951, and he was determined, no matter what the cost to the studio, to have this entry be splashy and important. He intended to show the California film community that the former hanger-on had really made it big in the industry.

1=1 In 1952 Texas-born playwright and former actor Horton Foote was represented on Broadway with The Chase. Produced and directed by actor José Ferrer, the drama revolved around a small-town sheriff in the Lone Star state who agonizes over the fate of an escaped convict who has threatened to kill the lawman. The play costarred John Hodiak, Kim Hunter, Kim Stanley, and Murray Hamilton. The reviews were generally unflattering, with the New York Herald-Tribune deciding that the play was "sluggish, emotionally flat . . . like a watered-down western with moral commercials." The show lasted a meager 31 performances. Although the play came to Spiegel's attention during its brief Broadway run, it was not until four years later that Sam showed real interest in it by acquiring the screen rights. (Something about the determined nature of Foote's characters appealed to the showman.) By that point Foote had revised his drama into a novel (which was not commercially successful). A liberal spender on himself, Spiegel was far more conservative in paying talent when it came out of his own corporate bottom line. As an opportunist seeking top-rate screenwriters at bargain prices, Spiegel was among those movie powers who often tapped into the cadre of blacklisted writers who were in desperate need of employment. These tainted victims of the House Un-American Activities Committee's 1940s—1950s investigation of Communists in Hollywood were willing to work for low pay under aliases —anything to practice their craft and earn a livelihood of sorts. One of these unfortunates to whom Sam turned in order to bring The Chase to the screen was Michael Wilson, the Oscar-winning scenarist of A Place in the Sun. (He later worked —uncredited —on Spiegel's The Bridge on the River Kwai and Lawrence of Arabia.)

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During the late 1950s and early 1960s Wilson toiled on several drafts of The Chase. However, none of the versions met with the approval of the demanding Spiegel. Sam's idea was to turn this once intimate drama into a significant project. He envisioned further expanding the script's tapestry to cover all the social strata of the steamy, small southern town. Spiegel ambitiously wanted to depict the harsh realities of greed, bigotry, turmoil, and brutality that hovered beneath the facade of morality in American life, especially in the untamed backwaters of Texas. In broad terms, the cutting-edge chronicle would reveal the hypocritical moral values and corrupt power-seeking in the ongoing battle between the local affluent folks and their have-not opposites. The catalyst for this clash would be the sudden arrival of a hunted escaped convict, which stirs up, among other evils, a lynch mob mentality in this town ruled by empty values. By 1963 Wilson was off The Chase, and Spiegel had turned to the estimable Lillian Hellman, whom he knew socially. The Louisiana-born writer, famous for being a chain smoker and wearing a lush mink coat, had enjoyed great success on Broadway with a series of acclaimed dramas: The Children's Hour (1934), The Little Foxes (1939), and Watch on the Rhine (1941). In the mid-1930s to early 1940s the striking, shrewd woman was a highly paid Hollywood screenwriter employed by independent producer Samuel Goldwyn. Divorced in 1932 from screenwriter Arthur Kober, the outspoken Hellman embarked on a long, turbulent relationship with the nonconformist Dashiell Hammett. The latter was a former detective turned writer who solidified the mold for the hardboiled American detective genre with such literary classics as The Maltese Falcon, The Glass Key, and The Thin Man. A tormented substance abuser and philanderer, Hammett became Hellman's lover (for a time) and her creative muse (for the rest of his life). It was Dashiell who often restructured Lillian's writing, refining her text with positive results. The alcoholic Hammett died in 1961 of throat cancer, a year after revamping the script to Hellman's Toys in the Attic, which became another Broadway success for Lillian. Like Hammett, Hellman had openly sympathized with left-wing political groups in the 1930s. In 1952, after a cagey appearance before the Congressional Committee in which she skirted around the issue of naming names, the provocative playwright was blacklisted from Hollywood screenwriting assignments. Throughout her travails, she remained

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decidedly pro-Soviet in her politics. Now, in 1963, Sam Spiegel's Lone Star Pictures Corporation—a business entity created for this picture — hired Lillian at a relatively lavish $125,000 fee to prepare a fresh adaptation of The Chase. (By this point Michael Wilson's script drafts had been discarded.) As Spiegel anticipated, much media hype was generated because this was Hellman's first screenplay since her blacklisting. In accepting the deal, the playwright wrote the famed producer in January 1964 concerning his desire to make this a "major" cinematic work. Her note suggested that even at this early stage of their working relationship, the two parties had different ideas regarding "big" and "important." Lillian communicated, "You said that you wanted the picture to be 'large.' So do I, but I always have trouble with the word large. (One can say that whatever is good is large, but that isn't what is usually meant.)" Having been rebuffed so completely by the film community over her leftist politics, Lillian was adamant that her return to Hollywood would be on her terms in every way possible —no matter whom she offended. In 1964 Hellman and Spiegel, like much of the world, were still in shock over the November 1963 assassination of President John F. Kennedy in Texas. This tragedy gave Spiegel and, in turn, Hellman, impetus for making The Chase a much more significant contemporary political statement (i.e., about America's penchant for violent results to situations) written on a far broader canvas. It would be an indictment of American corruption and violence. Set in Tari, Texas, a racially and economically segregated burg, the narrative revolves around homeboy Bubber Reeves, who breaks out of the state prison with a fellow inmate. His cohort viciously kills a passerby and then takes off in the man's car. Desperate to escape the fastapproaching law, Reeves returns to his hometown. He hopes that his wife can help him out of this latest scrape. She is of mixed emotions, since she has been carrying on a long-term affair with her husband's best friend, Jake Rogers. The latter is the spoiled son of the town's banker/oil baron and the community's most powerful (and corrupt) individual. News of the convict's escape sends the town into a frenzy, stirring up people's worst natures. As the out-of-control citizens take the law into their own brutal hands, the liberal local sheriff, Calder, attempts to stem the tide of senseless violence. Although the lawman tries to conceal Bubber's hiding place (and is badly beaten in the process), the town's redneck ringleaders track down the fugitive and shoot him (in a tableau deliber-

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ately paralleling Jack Ruby's shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, the alleged Kennedy assassin). The sheriff retaliates by pummeling Bubber's cornered killer. Realizing he is no different from the other primitives in Tari, Calder packs up and leaves town with his wife. At the fadeout there are no heroes on the horizon to provide salvation. In preparing the new screenplay, Spiegel and Hellman gave great consideration when shaping the role of the sheriff to the fact that Marlon Brando had long been slated to appear in the project. (The Method actor had won his first Oscar starring in Spiegel's On the Waterfront.) Although Brando initially had planned to play the town's wealthy young man, now, at 41, he had outgrown that part and was, instead, to portray Sheriff Calder. In the years preceding The Chase, Brando's once illustrious screen career had dissipated due to a series of unsatisfactory projects (including 1962's big financial flop, Mutiny on the Bounty, 1963's The Ugly American, and 1964's Bedtime Story). Determinedly rebellious against the Hollywood establishment, Marlon long had been branded a troublemaker on film sets and was known for walking out on picture commitments. As Brando prepared extensively for The Chase (including learning a Texas drawl), he believed that this picture could turn around his sagging career. He determined to exert himself at being cooperative on the sound stages and turning in a solid performance. He was also motivated to do well on this project because he was a confirmed civil rights advocate (especially for African Americans and Native Americans), deeply upset by Kennedy's assassination, and an outspoken supporter of sundry liberal causes. The (sub)text of The Chase spoke to him. However, by the time The Chase was ready to shoot in the spring of 1965, other events had intervened in Marlon's often bizarre life. Brando had made a fact-finding trip to northern India, where a great famine was under way. Shocked by the conditions he witnessed, he had attempted to make a self-financed documentary about the plight there and UNICEF's emergency food program. The film came to naught and Marlon returned to the United States exhausted and disillusioned. In this state he found he had little remaining enthusiasm for the once promising movie venture. He had to fight against his feeling that his upcoming role consisted of little more than "wandering around and doing nothing." However, with a $750,000 salary and an additional $130,000 production fee earmarked for his moviemaking company (Pennebaker Films), Brando

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could ill afford to drop the venture. Of equal importance, he sorely needed a new film hit. With Brando starring, Hellman writing the script, and Spiegel producing the feature film, many actors were eager to come aboard this prestige project. Among these was Jane Fonda. Long an ardent liberal, she was anxious to win the role of the fugitive's young wife. She craved the opportunity to work with the revered Marlon, a fellow Actors Studio alumnus. Then too, she liked the idea that this potential assignment would be in sharp contrast to her past Hollywood froth (e.g., 1963's Sunday in New York and In the Cool of the Day), her sexy, French-made entries (e.g., 1964's Circle of Love and Joy House), and the soon-to-bereleased satirical Western Cat Ballou (1965). So Fonda campaigned hard to become a part of The Chase. One of Jane's top competitors for the role of the slatternly wife was Candice Bergen. Spiegel had personally brought that young performer to the attention of Columbia Pictures, and the studio, in turn, had placed her under contract. It seemed Bergen might win the coveted role. Then based in France, Jane flew to Los Angeles to make a personal appeal to Spiegel, even screening Cat Ballou for him. While he was impressed with her performance in that entry, that is not what cinched her being offered the job. What most intrigued the master showman about Fonda was the recent hype over an erotic billboard advertisement in Times Square with an unclothed Jane Fonda promoting her new French movie, Circle of Love. The controversial giant poster had solidified Jane's position as an international sex symbol in the public's mind. Spiegel appreciated that having Fonda aboard The Chase would add to the film's box-office appeal. Upon getting the acting assignment, Jane set up headquarters at a rented Malibu home with her longtime lover, French director Roger Vadim. At twenty-seven, the blond Robert Redford, a Broadway alumnus who had made only a few (unmemorable) feature films to date, was eager to be considered for this meaningful "message" project. There were now two available parts for Robert to choose from: Jake Rogers and Bubber Reeves. Once Brando had been switched to the sheriff's role, the producer initially wanted to cast Irish-born Peter O'Toole as Jake Rogers, the playboy scion of the grasping Texas town banker. Although O'Toole was grateful to Spiegel for having provided him with the starmaking lead in

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Lawrence of Arabia, he was furious that Sam had stuck him with a lowpaying long-term acting agreement. The odious pact had already prevented Peter from accepting other desirable screen work, such as the lead in Doctor Zhivago (1965). When OToole rejected the "ghastly" assignment in the Texas-set picture, a miffed Spiegel wrote his ungrateful protégé, "It might be interesting to reread your letter when The Chase has been completed and judged by our betters." With OToole no longer in contention for the part of Jake Rogers, Sam offered the role to Redford over several more established performers. However, Robert rejected the offer, preferring the smaller role of Bubber Reeves. Redford decided that the fugitive character was the more intriguing option. He reasoned, "The part had a kind of special meaning for me as well. I spent some time in jail, just overnight, when I used to get in trouble as a kid. I understood what made Bubber what he was. I felt close to him." Eventually Sam settled on the youngish British actor James Fox (then best known for 1963's The Servant and 1965's King Rat) to be Jake Rogers. Once signed, the English performer worked hard to acquire a nondescript Texas accent that would blend in with those of the rest of the cast (all of whom ended up using a variety of American accents, none of them especially Texas-southern). The shapely Angie Dickinson, noted for being pretty window dressing in many of her movie projects, was cast as the sheriffs understanding spouse. To round out the cast, Spiegel corralled an array of rising personalities (such as Robert Duvall, Diana Hyland, Robert Bradford, and actor/ composer Paul Williams), as well as an assortment of veteran talent, including E. G. Marshall, Martha Hyer, Janice Rule, Henry Hull, Bruce Cabot, and Miriam Hopkins. (Hopkins had a long history with Hellman. She had starred in the 1936 original screen version of Lillian's The Children's Hour and was featured in the 1961 remake.) As a favor to Brando, Spiegel contracted the star's older sister, Jocelyn, for a featured role as one of the townsfolk. Several old-timers (including Eduardo Ciannelli, Billy Bletcher, Monte Hale, and Grady Sutton) were hired for bit parts, some of which almost totally vanished from the final release print. Many of the attractive young women used in the film's key party scene were products of the casting couch, the "auditioning" done at the producer's impressive suite at the swank Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Pat Quinn, a New York stage performer then living with actor Richard Bradford (who had

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been cast as one of the vicious vigilantes), was given a small part in the picture. She accepted primarily for the opportunity to be in the proximity of the legendary Brando (who, although middle-aged, still held great sexual appeal for women). While Spiegel and his team were busy handpicking their cast for this already much-discussed project, Sam was coping behind the scenes with the headstrong, opinionated Hellman. Spiegel insisted that the story line should be much expanded to make it a big tapestry (to emphasize "the consequences of affluence"), while the writer insistently continued along her own creative path. Dissatisfied with Lillian's output (which did not have the advantage of the late Dashiell Hammett's usual edits), Sam turned to Ivan Moffat. The slick English scenarist had been Oscarnominated for his work on Giant (1956) and was writing Kirk Douglas's The Heroes of Telemark (1965) when he received an urgent SOS from Spiegel's office. Far more used to scripting melodramas than pictures of social import, Ivan found his labors with Sam to be extremely arduous. The producer, who could be so carefree or even lax about some aspects of the filmmaking process, always, once the shoot had begun, kept a tight rein on his scripters —"crablike and all controlling," said Moffat— always pushing for that extra drop of blood in exchange for their reluctantly paid fee. Still dissatisfied with the screenplay—and with pre-production expenses mounting all the time —Spiegel next called on Horton Foote (who had won an Oscar for his screenplay for 1962's To Kill a Mockingbird) to help doctor Moffat's script for The Chase. When Horton reviewed the material, he was aghast at how much the script veered from his original play and novel. (Eventually, elements of two teleplays Foote had written were also incorporated into The Chase.) Before leaving the project altogether, Moffat would summarize the yet-to-be-made The Chase as "a bad version oïHigh Noon." (When it was finally released, several reviewers dismissed Spiegel's "important" movie as a cross between that 1952 Western and the 1957 movie soap opera Peyton Place.) As for Hellman, who would retain solo writing credit for this screen venture, she became increasingly appalled by the constantly reshaped scenario, saying the "bite and freshness and comment have been in many places, lost altogether, and a rather well-organized, old fashioned quality has crept in." (More such distracting plot elements would creep in during production, as constant daily rewrites were made

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by Sam's people —and some suspect by Spiegel himself—to the everevolving The Chase.)

i=S Having worked with some of the era's best filmmakers, Sam Spiegel wanted a major director attached to his new project to give it added weight in the eyes of Hollywood and the world. The in-progress script was shown to such veterans as Elia Kazan, David Lean, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, William Wyler, and Fred Zinnemann. However, each of these heavyweights had his reasons for declining to direct Sam's already overblown screenplay. Then Spiegel turned to 42-year-old Arthur Penn, who had been campaigning for months to be considered to direct this important feature and whom Lillian Hellman had recommended to helm the film. Penn had made his show business reputation as a TV director in the 1950s and then guided such popular Broadway vehicles as Two for the Seesaw (1958), The Miracle Worker (1959), and 1960's Toys in the Attic and All the Way Home. His film directing debut was the violent, psychoanalytical Western The Left-Handed Gun (1958). The picture starred Paul Newman and attracted critical attention. However, it was not a box-office success. Thereafter Arthur was Oscar-nominated for directing the wellreceived screen edition oïThe Miracle Worker (1962). Penn also had received critical endorsements for his oblique French New Wave-style drama, Mickey One (1965), starring Warren Beatty, but that too was a commercial misfire. In the interim Arthur had directed the Sammy Davis Jr. Broadway musical Golden Boy (1964). On the downside, Arthur had clashed recently with movie star/producer Burt Lancaster and been replaced as director on Lancaster's The Train (1964). Then too, not long before, Penn had voiced openly his dislike of the Hollywood film factory system. Nevertheless, after weighing all the pluses and minuses of hiring Penn, Spiegel liked the idea of reuniting Arthur and his good friend Lillian on her new script. The producer knew this reteaming would generate added luster and publicity for the film venture. Sam also understood that in some sectors of the Hollywood establishment, Arthur was considered an important "new" moviemaker. Equally key for Penn's being signed was the fact that he was a strong political liberal and highly sympathetic to the progressive, leftwing mind-set that appealed to Hellman, Brando, and Spiegel.

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Penn readily accepted the offer to direct The Chase, eager to work with Brando and the film's other notables. Before relocating from New York to Hollywood for the shoot, Arthur spent time with Lillian (and sometimes with Sam) to fine-tune the screenplay. Penn was unaware that back in California, the script was undergoing a not so positive secret metamorphosis. Meanwhile, Hellman, always the grand lady, was pulling rank with members of The Chase production team. For example, she demanded that the Oscar-winning production designer, Richard Day, make his way to her summer retreat on Martha's Vineyard —a difficult chore at best—to confer with her on the film's sets. Once he was there, she imperiously decided she was too busy to see him at the scheduled time and made the veteran designer return the following day. Equally preemptive, Spiegel felt he was above consulting with his too-docile director on the choice of cinematographer, a post that should be filled by a person with whom the director has both mutual respect and a rapport. Wanting his drama to have an "epic" look, Sam hired Robert Surtees, the Oscar-winning cinematographer of 1959's Ben-Hur. (Early into the shoot, Surtees was taken ill and replaced by another Spiegel choice, the veteran Joseph LaShelle. Later, Penn would say of the 64year-old substitute cinematographer, "I found him to be difficult and slow. For the night scenes, he would be lighting until midnight. And, in The Chase, we had a lot of night scenes." ) With the production costs swelling as Spiegel and company tinkered constantly with the script, Columbia Pictures grew increasingly nervous. They were fearful that Sam would lead the studio down the same expensive path as with Lawrence of Arabia, which went hugely over budget. (As it was, the cost of the film would rise to nearly $5.7 million, at a time when the average Hollywood feature cost just over $1 million.) Finally, under pressure from the studio, The Chase went into production in the spring of 1965.

When The Chase cast members gathered in Los Angeles for initial readings of the current version of the script, everyone was impressed by Brando's extensive preparation for his above-the-title screen part. Not only had he worked on his Texas accent, he had deliberately and dar-

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ingly added weight to his frame, so that he would have a paunch (which he felt symbolized the emotional going-to-seed of the ex-farmer turned reluctant sheriff). He also had explored the various dimensions of his character's stance against, and then succumbing to, the blood-lusting mob's brute force. Fonda would say of her illustrious costar, "I was there when he came the first time to discuss the script. He will not settle for anything less than the truth. He wants to get at the root of something and not in the way most actors do, in terms of entire script. If he senses something is wrong he cannot agree to do it anyway. He just cannot." (Later, Jane was a bit less enthusiastic about Brando when he "requested" that her significant other, Roger Vadim, not be allowed onto the film set. Marlon was concerned about the potential artistic influence that the outspoken French filmmaker might have on his wife-to-be, which would diminish Brando's creative control over his leading lady.) As the 22-week shoot began in May 1965, both on the sound stages of Columbia Pictures in Hollywood and on an outdoor town set at Warner Bros, in Burbank, most everyone still had high hopes for The Chase. Ironically, despite the importance of this expensive project to Sam Spiegel, he turned up infrequently on the sets to oversee day-to-day matters. Preoccupied with his extensive social life and hobnobbing with the Hollywood power brokers, the producer communicated with his director via late-morning calls to the sound stage or messages dispatched from his production office. One of the producer's major concerns was that Brando, still an avid motorcyclist, would seriously injure himself during the lengthy shoot. (At the start of filming he had already had an accident and cut his knee.) Still early enough into the project that he found Sam amusing, Marlon deliberately brought his cycle onto the studio lot and then disappeared. When Arthur Penn duly reported Brando missing—and the ominous presence of the motorcycle —the distressed producer rushed to the set. When Sam discovered the origin of the hoax, he was only mildly amused by Marlon's prank. Rather quickly the novelty of the shoot wore off, and Brando became increasingly annoyed by the persistent daily script changes that arrived from Spiegel's office. Marlon voiced his complaints to Sam about the diluted story line. However, the latter dismissed these concerns as the star's urge to "pseudo-torture himself to function." As the battle of wills

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continued between superstar and superproducer (with the studio making heavy demands on Spiegel to spice up this increasingly exorbitant undertaking), Brando reached an artistic breaking point. Suddenly, he could no longer motivate himself to believe in the project. He told one associate, "Fuck 'em. . . . If they're [i.e., the studio] going to be so stupid, I'll just take the money, do what they want, and get out." In retrospect, Penn admitted that during the making of The Chase he had been too much of a babe in the woods. For one thing, he felt he should have fought harder to retain the screenplay's integrity, especially regarding the impact of the lawman's inability to prevent mob rule in his jurisdiction. (The director said, "Calder was an interesting character with a fascinating motive, but we stepped all over our feet trying to get that on the screen.") For another thing, Penn foolishly thought he could get through to the headstrong Brando—whom he held in awe as a genius—and change his growing negative attitude toward the picture. (At first Penn was beguiled by his star's famous process of burrowing into a role. It took him a while to perceive that Marlon, who was losing interest in The Chase, had begun amusing himself by conning Arthur about his supposed deep passion for the picture and the various ways each scene could be played.) Meanwhile, to further distract himself, Brando became a sexual predator on the set,flirtingwith various women involved with the production. This led to a distracting procession of females visiting his trailer or making assignations to visit the celebrity after work at his Mulholland Drive house. Brando's growing, visible disenchantment with the picture negatively affected most of the cast. They had joined the project expecting to have a memorable experience acting with the still highly regarded great Method actor. Instead, they were subjected to a generally uninterested leading man sleepwalking through his paces and carelessly mumbling his character's words. (To further demonstrate his scorn for the taskmasters Spiegel and Columbia, Brando began to deliberately slow things down on the set. He took exceedingly long breaks from filming to have meaningless discussions about the interpretation of a scene or merely to horse around with cast and crew. Such activity was prompted by the star's childish desire to exasperate his bosses.) With the key player so casual and/or hostile about the picture, many of the others (especially Jane Fonda) became disheartened, and their performances suffered. Meanwhile, those dreaded new pages of inept dialogue kept appearing on the set with regularity, further dispiriting everyone involved.

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Two cast members less affected by Brando's unprofessional walkthrough performance were Miriam Hopkins and Robert Redford. The former, once a great movie star and now in her early sixties, had found decent screen roles hard to come by in recent decades. But this did not make the egocentric Miriam more amenable and humble; instead she became more demanding and hypersensitive as to her rights and needs on the film set. Penn utilized all his charm and experience to mollify the difficult lady and to tone down, at least to a degree, her overblown interpretation of the fugitive's hysterical mother. As for Redford, his role as the fleeing convict required him to be in front of the cameras for only four weeks of the protracted shoot. During the initial two months of filming he was needed for only seven days of work. (The actor joked, "I had to keep reintroducing myself when I went on the set, but I was on salary all that time so I wasn't unhappy.") For much of the project, Robert was away on location with the second unit: "I didn't see much of Arthur Penn. I was up in Chico, California —happily, I might add —running through rice fields alone with the second unit crew. The only things I talked to were animals for the most part. Arthur wasn't there. He was down in Hollywood shooting principal photography." Back in Los Angeles, things went from bad to worse as the production dragged on. Between combating constant interference from Spiegel and studio executives and trying to stabilize his first mainstream film production, Arthur had little strength to be a forceful presence upon whom Brando could rely. As the director became more submissive to the pressures confronting him on The Chase, Marlon succumbed to his own impassivity. Since Brando's role was the heart of the film, his enervated state ate away at the narrative's juice and logic. One point in the production when Marlon did come back to life as a thinking actor and craftsman was in the important scene in which a trio of the town's bigots viciously beat him. Recalling how the pulverizing he received in On the Waterfront had impressed critics and awed moviegoers, Brando had a resurgence of professional interest when it came time to undertake this brutal sequence. Thus he was full of ideas on just how the footage should be shot (that is, by increasing the camera speed to make it seem in slower motion). He enthusiastically expressed his thoughts on exactly how the fake blood should be applied to his face and shirt and precisely how his character would stagger through his remaining scenes. He reveled at portraying the bloody lost soul who tragically

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gives in to the same primitive viciousness that he has previously been combating in the violent townsfolk. (Ironically, in the final edit, this pivotal sequence lacked sufficient credibility to arouse the audience's emotions.)

t=i If the high-profile The Chase did not have enough internal problems, outside events impinged constantly on the plagued production. In June 1965 Brando's father, with whom the legend shared a complex, unsatisfactory relationship, was diagnosed with what proved to be terminal cancer. He died on July 18, 1965, at a Santa Monica, California, hospital. The passing of Marlon Sr. left the actor further sidetracked from concentrating on the filming at hand. During this shoot Fonda was enduring her own family angst. Long estranged from her movie star father (Henry Fonda), she seemed determined to gain her father's attention in a negative way. When he did not rise to the bait during her Hollywood sojourn, she grew more agitated. To dissipate her frustrations, she focused her attention on the younger brother she had ignored in recent years. At the time her sibling, actor Peter Fonda, was in great despair. Anxious over the recent downturn in his own film career and still reacting to his own long impasse with his icy father, Peter was now extremely depressed over the recent suicide of his best friend. Jane reached out to her needy brother. However, it distracted her from concentrating on The Chase and overcoming her great insecurities at being matched onscreen with the great Brando. Despite all these distractions, the filming wobbled on. However, in midsummer, real-world events in southern California affected everyone on The Chase. On August 11, a routine traffic stop of an African American by police officers in South Central Los Angeles sparked the already seething unrest in the city's black ghetto. It ignited the Watts riots, which lasted for six days, leaving 34 dead, more than 1,000 people injured, nearly 4,000 arrested, and hundreds of buildings destroyed. This civil unrest—which occurred only miles from Columbia's film studiohad a serious impact on the politically sensitive members of The Chase. It further reminded them of their frustration over the fact that their intended big-screen indictment of important values gone amiss in America had been transformed by Spiegel and the studio into a glorified, costly soap opera.

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As if these events were not enough to further derail the focus and energy of The Chase, two of the film's leading women wed during the shoot. On May 15, 1965, Angie Dickinson married composer Burt Bacharach. On August 11, as The Chase lumbered along, Jane Fonda flew to Las Vegas with her longtime lover, Vadim. There, three days later, they were joined in matrimony. The small bridal party consisted of family members (but not her father) and a few friends (including Jane's current leading man, James Fox). Thereafter, Fonda, anxious to return to France, where she and Vadim were scheduled to make a new film together, returned reluctantly to The Chase sound stages. Finally, on September 4, 1965, the picture ended principal photography. By now the crestfallen Brando had retreated to his remote Tahiti island. At this juncture most everyone connected with the feature knew that it was likely to fall flat. Following the conclusion of filming, Arthur Penn returned to New York to direct a new Broadway play (Wait Until Dark). There was no longer any rapport between the director and his overbearing Hollywood producer. Nevertheless, Penn assumed that because Spiegel seemed to have taken so little active interest in the actual shoot (including only rarely attending screenings of the daily footage) that he (Penn) would have relatively free rein on the all-important edit. To Arthur's consternation, Sam suddenly confronted the director with a choice (which violated the terms of their contract): did he want to edit the film in Los Angeles or London? Since Arthur was committed to remaining in New York with his theater project, neither suggested location was feasible for him. Anticipating this desired reaction, Spiegel blithely shipped the footage to England, where he and veteran editor Gene Milford (another alumnus of On the Waterfront) edited The Chase without Penn's participation. When Penn was finally free to fly over to London, he found that the bulk of the picture had been already edited into final form. He was sorely disappointed with the results. "I'm not saying that the film would have necessarily been better if I had edited it, but I just knew the rhythm that was in my gut and it was not on that screen. The tempos were not right, and I pride myself on the tempo." (Penn was especially upset that all the wonderful improvisation done by Brando and some of the other cast members had been deleted from the final cut.) Later it was Spiegel who selected composer John Barry (then most famous for his James Bond

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movie scores) to do the score for The Chase. Arthur found himself left out of this critical process as well. While Spiegel did little to smooth Penn's ruffled feathers, he made a far greater effort to appease Lillian Hellman, who felt she had been excluded from many production decisions regarding "her" script. Because she and Sam still had a good social relationship, he went out of his way to rectify her unhappiness (including providing her with further invitations to be a guest on his swank yacht).

1=1 Shortly before The Chase was to debut in mid-February 1965, celebrity journalist Rex Reed interviewed Arthur Penn for the New York Times. In the lengthy piece, Penn blasted the Hollywood film factory system and complained of the interfering hands that can so hamstring a director from doing a proper job. (The director reasoned, "I like the mistakes to be mine, then there's nobody I can blame but myself.") Among the filmmaker's shopping list of complaints: (1) the studio would not let the production shoot on location in Texas, which made the resultant footage look staged, (2) he was not permitted to use his New York crew and the chosen Hollywood technicians "were not sympathetic to my way of seeing things," (3) from the start of filming there was an antipathy against Penn on the Columbia lot because several executives regarded his prior film, Mickey One, as "artsy-smartsy," and (4) too many studio hands had meddled in the moviemaking process. Claiming the troublesome venture had damaged his friendship with Lillian Hellman, Arthur vowed to Rex Reed, "It's the end of big studio moviemaking for me. I'll never do another one unless I really need the dough." Penn's blatant attack on the West Coast powers behind The Chase was not unique in Hollywood history—especially when an integrityminded New York film director was involved. Nevertheless, Columbia Pictures and Spiegel were apoplectic that the director's lambasting had occurred so close to the film's opening. Adding insult to injury, Arthur's attack was reported on in the New York Times only a few pages from the studio's big ad announcing the picture's forthcoming premiere. Rushing to Spiegel's defense, the always contentious Hellman let it be known that she intended to publicly rebut Penn's published diatribe. While her refutation never appeared in print, a week after the harsh Penn

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interview appeared, the New York Times printed a follow-up piece in which the director had a major change of mood. He now insisted he had been "misunderstood." Many industry sources, including the trade paper Variety, assumed that Spiegel and Columbia Pictures had put strong pressure (of the "you'll never work in this town again" variety) on Penn to backtrack from his adversarial position.

1=1 Promoted with the tagline: uThe Chase Is On! . . . a breathless explosive story of today . . . from Sam Spiegel, the man who brought the screen its most exciting productions," the movie debuted on February 19, 1965. After the disastrous Manhattan preview, at which the sophisticated audience jeered loudly at the film's overheated dramatics and inappropriate performances, it was no surprise when mainstream reviewers lambasted the condescending feature, rating it a mess in which few of the cast were on the same wavelength. The New York Times opined, "This is a picture to leave you cold. Yes, it's a phony tasteless movie, and it is unbelievably played." Life magazine said, "The Chase is no longer a modest failure. Thanks to the expenditure of a great deal of time, money and talent, it has been transferred into a disaster of awesome proportions." The New York Morning Telegraph chimed in, uThe Chase i s . . . an overblown, overstaged, overacted witless and preposterous hunk of drivel that utterly belies all the talents that went into its making." One of the few major critics to defend the picture was Judith Crist of the New York Herald-Tribune. She reasoned that this "contrivance" was a "series of shameless clichés and stereotypes balled up with such skill that you roll right along with them to a smashing conclusion. And hate yourself for having been hooked." When distributed in Europe, the film received mixed reviews. However, when the dust settled, The Chase registered a balance sheet loss of nearly $3 million (almost $17.5 million in 2004 dollars). Some of the key behind-the-camera personalities were eager to cast blame on others. Penn claimed, "I have never made a film under such unspeakable conditions. I was used merely to move the actors around like horses." On a later occasion he complained of having been a "functionary" on the picture: "I'm not sure I was ever able to coherently tell you what I thought the film was about. . . there was no way of saying, 'Wait a minute, what does this all add up to?'... I was simply caught up in the components, making

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each of those as good as I could." Hellman carped self-servingly that the final picture had "mauled about and slicked up" her original concept: "A modest picture about some aimless people on an aimless Saturday night." In retrospect, Robert Redford, one of the few actors in The Chase to emerge relatively unscathed by the critics, judged that the costly movie "suffered from the 'kitchen sink syndrome' —it tried to do too much," adding, "I think it could have done well with a quarter of the relationships." He felt the overblown picture did not live up to the theme expressed in its title: "The movie wasn't a chase —it just tried to bring in all the liberal concepts of civil rights." As to Penn's badmouthing of the much-troubled project, Redford assessed, "He didn't have to work under them [the unspeakable conditions]. He could have changed them —or left. I don't think retrospective criticism was very admirable in this case. If it was me, I would have said, 'Either let me direct this film my way, or I'm leaving.'" Following the debacle of The Chase, Arthur Penn bounced back professionally the next year with the box-office bonanza Bonnie and Clyde. The Chase's leading players continued their roller-coaster high-status careers for years to come. After making several other box-office clinkers, Brando reversed his professional descent with his Oscar-winning role in 1972's The Godfather and his attention-grabbing performance in 1979's Apocalypse Now. He died in 2004. One of Fonda's future screen assignments was playing Lillian Hellman in the 1977 picture Julia. She won two Oscars, for Klute (1971) and Coming Home (1978). Robert Redford became a major Hollywood leading man, reteaming twice with Fonda, in Barefoot in the Park (1967) and The Electric Horseman (1979). As a director, he won an Academy Award for Ordinary People (1980). As for playwright Lillian Hellman, she never wrote another screenplay (although she published several successful memoirs). The Chase was the beginning of Sam Spiegel's professional downfall, one solidified by a trio of subsequent costly Columbia Picturesflops:1967's The Night of the Generals and The Happening and 1971's Nicholas and Alexandra. After two more movies for other studios, Sam's career was essentially over, and two years later, in 1985, he passed away. By then Columbia Pictures, suffering from a long spate of costlyflops,had undergone dramatic changes in management and had been acquired by the Coca-Cola Company. Yet another era in Hollywood —that of the colorful major independent producer—had passed.

3 Paint Your Wagon (1969) It [Paint Your Wagon] was a disaster, but it didn't have to be such an expensive disaster. We had jets flying everyone in and out of Oregon, helicopters to take the wives to location for lunch, crews of seven trucks, thousands of extras getting paid for doing nothing . . . $20 million down the drain and most of it doesn't even show on the screen! —CLINT

T

EASTWOOD,

1984

oday people go to see a movie, they no longer go to the movies," insisted Robert Evans in 1967. He was Paramount Pictures' recently installed production chief. The ex-actor (1957's Man of a Thousand Faces and 1959's The Best of Everything) may have been relatively inexperienced at film producing—let alone supervising the substantial movie slate for a major Hollywood studio —but he perfectly understood the significant changes in people's moviegoing habits in the late 1960s. According to Evans, "The theater audience for movies had narrowed dramatically and had become increasingly selective." In 1960 there were 21,000 theaters in the United States, of which 6,000 were drive-ins. By 1969 the venues had dropped to 17,000 cinemas, of 6

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which 4,700 were drive-ins. (This decade also saw the birth and rise of the multiplex cinemas as more Americans moved to the suburbs away from decaying inner cities. This demographic change helped to bring about the decline of road-show films, which were released as two-showings-aday, reserved-seat attractions at huge urban cinemas.) The average weekly number of moviegoers in 1960 was 40 million, whereas nine years later, weekly attendance had tumbled to an anemic 17.5 million. The average price of a ticket in this same time frame escalated from $0.69 to $1.42. This jump in ticket prices largely accounted for the upturn in annual domestic box-office receipts from $951 million in 1961 to $1.099 billion in 1969. Many other crucial changes occurred within the film business during the 1960s. The era of family-oriented, relatively wholesome pictures was disappearing as an increasingly large share of audiences gravitated to motion pictures with more adult, explicit themes. This transformation in viewers' big-screen interests was reflected in the crumbling of the film industry's self-regulatory production code, which long had decreed what was fit screen fare. (In 1968 the weakened Motion Picture Association of America created a Code and Rating Administration that granted all acceptable pictures its seal of approval. X-rated features were denied a seal but were still permitted to be shown.) It was also in the 1960s that the demographics of filmgoers changed noticeably, with a greater number of moviegoers being adolescents and young adults. As a result, the once homogeneous type of movie made to appeal to many age groups was fading in favor of product targeted especially to the economically powerful young set. This expanding category of ticket buyer not only bypassed many of the traditional entries that once had been sure box-office bets, but it also often denounced such traditional releases as "old-fashioned." In this decade of free love, pot-smoking hippies, and growing protest against the Vietnam War, movies, moviegoers, and movie studios were in a dramatic flux. Reacting to the challenges of the contemporary film business, the once powerful Hollywood studios desperately latched on to a variety of genre trends and marketing gimmicks to lure reluctant filmgoers back into theaters. In the mid-1960s an old-fashioned movie format—the big movie musical —emerged as the economic bonanza for many picturemakers. With the tremendous box-office success of Mary Poppins (1964), My Fair Lady (1964), The Sound of Music (1965), and Thoroughly Modern

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Millie (1967) —most of which were based on established major hits from other mediums—the oversized Hollywood musical came back into vogue. In short order almost all the American studios were planning their own song-and-dance extravaganzas. Paramount Pictures gamely followed suit. In the process they blithely jumped into a quagmire of commercial and artistic problems.

i=S In 1966 the Gulf + Western conglomerate (whose product line ranged from car parts to cigars), headed by the Austrian-born Charles Bluhdorn, had successfully taken over Paramount Pictures Corporation, which was then in worse financial shape than some of the other old-guard studios. This trendsetting buyout represented the first purchase of a major Tinseltown film factory by a bigger and richer corporation. The latter—run by pragmatic businessmen —thought such purchases would bring their business empires glamour, synergy, and profits (through selling off studio real estate, restructuring outmoded movie production and distribution methods, remarketing the studios' film libraries, and gearing new releases to satisfy changing audience tastes). The aggressive, volatile Bluhdorn soon put 36-year-old Robert Evans in charge of Paramount^ worldwide production. However, the forceful G + W chief executive officer could not resist imposing his personal artistic dictates on his new enterprise. Bluhdorn 's policies for the movie lot were based on a mixture of his old-world tastes and the capitalist's brand of snap decisions. (The CEO told Evans, "I want to see tears, laughs, beautiful girls—pictures people in Kansas City want to see.") One of Bluhdorn's first miscalculations at Paramount was vetoing Evans's intention to star Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl, the screen adaptation of her smash Broadway hit. Bluhdorn insisted that most moviegoers around the globe would not want to watch an unconventional-looking Jewish girl headlining a period song-and-dance fest. He was dead wrong. Released by Columbia Pictures in 1968, Funny Girl earned more than $26.3 million at the domestic box office alone and won Streisand an Oscar. Chagrined at his misjudgment, Bluhdorn vowed to remedy the situation—albeit belatedly, and blindly. To salve his oversized ego, the Gulf + Western chieftain demanded that Paramount make its own big and expensive musicals. In this reckless atmosphere, Robert Evans, the

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onetime Manhattan clothing manufacturer, turned to his pal Alan Jay Lerner to supply the studio with several musical properties. The New York-born Lerner was the scion of a prosperous Manhattan retailing operation. Compact, handsome, and boasting an I.Q. of 175, the hyperactive young man gravitated toward show business, writing lyrics and book for stage productions at his prep school and then at Harvard University. A few years later he teamed with the Austrian-born Frederick Loewe. The latter, 14 years older than Lerner, was already an established show business composer. The duo's debut Broadway musical collaboration was the unsuccessful What's Up? (1943). Four years later they had a tremendous hit with Brigadoon, which ran for 581 performances. The pair was next represented by Paint Your Wagon, which, despite a decent New York stage run, ended with a $95,000 deficit. The two reestablished themselves with their theater megahit, My Fair Lady (1956); their Oscar-winning screen musical, Gigi (1958); and their longrunning Broadway offering, Camelot (1960). Unlike the far more relaxed Loewe, who appreciated his leisure time, the equally rich and successful Lerner was a workaholic, a perfectionist, and a nervous, frantic person. When not collaborating with Frederick, Alan, who led an extremely active, upscale social and domestic life (he married eight times), often worked with other musical talent. This included joining with composer Burton Lane on the film Royal Wedding (1951), the Broadway musical On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (1965), and other projects. Meanwhile, Lerner alone provided the story and screenplay for the highly acclaimed An American in Paris (1951), an MGM offering that used the lyrics and music of George and Ira Gershwin. More so than his partner Loewe, Lerner (the consummate stickler for perfection) had been dissatisfied with the screen adaptations of their Brigadoon (1954), My Fair Lady (1964), and Camelot (1967). He felt these film versions had not captured properly the essence of the original stage productions or effectively utilized cinematic technique to highlight these prized properties. Halfway through the 1960s, Alan vowed to change all that with any future movie projects in which he participated. Meanwhile, in 1966, Lerner wed his fifth wife, the much younger Karen Gunderson, a screen performer who had been featured in the low-budget comedy-drama The Young Swingers (1963) at Twentieth Century-Fox (the same studio where Robert Evans had been an independent producer of sorts before moving upward to Paramount in 1966).

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1=1 As Warner Bros, brought the budget-heavy Camelot to the screen in 1967, 63-year-old Loewe was settling into quasiretirement. In contrast, 49-year-old Lerner was jockeying to establish himself as a Hollywood power player, which led to his multifilm pact with Paramount. The studio agreed to picturize two past Lerner and Loewe Broadway productions (Paint Your Wagon and On a Clear Day You Can See Forever), as well as to undertake other planned ventures with the songwriter. (This agreement also included Coco, an upcoming Broadway musical based on the life of French couturière, Coco Chanel. Since Loewe was not interested in the project, André Previn teamed with Lerner to write the 1969 New York stage show, which would star Katharine Hepburn. Paramount would invest $2.5 million in this pending Broadway vehicle, thus assuring them the right to make the screen adaptation of Coco, if they so chose.) As part of the overall package, Lerner was to be a producer on Paint Your Wagon.

When Paint Your Wagon, a song-and-dance account of the 1849 California gold rush, was launched during the 1951-1952 Broadway season, the Hollywood consensus was that the plotline had too much old-fashioned sentimentality. (It was a tale of a drunken old prospector with wanderlust and his romance-hungry daughter, who finds love with a Mexican outcast.) The naysayers also pointed out that the musical, which suffered from a weak book, especially came up short on verve in act two. They also felt that the production lacked enough outstanding tunes — despite such well-received numbers as the title song, "They Call the Wind Maria," and "I Talk to the Trees." Nevertheless, Paramount Pictures considered Paint Your Wagon as a possible Bing Crosby vehicle. Warner Bros, toyed with converting the property into a showcase for Doris Day. Meanwhile, MGM, where Alan Jay Lerner had participated on An American in Paris, thought it had the inside handle on acquiring Paint Your Wagon for its Arthur Freed musical unit. (MGM envisioned teaming Spencer Tracy, Kathryn Grayson, and Fernando Lamas as the three leads.) Ironically, the winning bid for the show's screen rights came not from MGM but from film mogul Louis B. Mayer, who had recently

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been ousted from MGM, the studio he had headed for 27 years. Mayer's Paint Your Wagon contract provided the sellers with a $200,000 payment, plus 5% of the film's gross after twice the negative cost had been recovered. Mayer's personal choice to play the male lead was Gary Cooper, although the superstar had never been noted for his singing abilities. Already an adviser to the Cinerama corporation, Louis B. Mayer envisioned the musical being lensed in that company's extra-wide-screen process. Unfortunately, like other properties Mayer acquired, Paint Your Wagon never went into production. When the film industry pioneer died in 1957, the picture rights to the Broadway musical passed to his estate. Some years later, in the mid-1960s, popular crooner Eddie Fisher, now divorced from his movie-star wife Elizabeth Taylor, was interested in becoming a film producer. He acquired the screen rights to Paint Your Wagon thinking he might play the role of the Mexican prospector. There was talk that 1940s box-office magnet Mickey Rooney might portray the grizzled prospector. Kim Novak, the 1950s sex siren, was anxious for a screen comeback and auditioned to play the leading lady. However, as with so many ventures in which Eddie dabbled, his plans for the film were never realized. (At the time, Fisher was addicted to a variety of drugs, hooked on them through Dr. Max Jacobson, the infamous Dr. Feelgood who had "treated" many celebrities, including President John F. Kennedy and Alan Jay Lerner.) With Fisher out of the project, the Paint Your Wagon screen rights became available yet again. In stepped hotshot Robert Evans, who helped to negotiate the Paramount arrangement with his lyricist pal Lerner. (The jewel in Paramount's multiproperty deal with Lerner—at least as far as Evans's big boss, Charles Bluhdorn, was concerned—was On a Clear Day You Can See Forever. Bluhdorn planned to hire Streisand to star in this thin vehicle about psychotherapy and reincarnation.) From the start, the glib Robert Evans had strong reservations about Bluhdorn's broad edict that Paramount should undertake expensively produced (and hopefully schmaltzy) film musicals. Evans had observed how the studios were more often than not faltering with their overbloated song-and-dance entries. For every successful Funny Girl or Oliver! (both released in 1968), there were several genre flops. These included 1967's Doctor Dolittle (Twentieth Century-Fox) and Half a Sixpence (Paramount—put into the works by the pre-Robert Evans regime), and several

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other musical misfires: 1968's Star! (Twentieth Century-Fox) and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (United Artists) and 1969's Sweet Charity (Universal). Fearing that Paint Your Wagon could easily fall into the same flop category, Evans pushed an agreeable Lerner into revamping the book of the 1951 musical. (Alan had already done so once when the stage show went on a national tour in 1953 but had never been happy with his modest revisions.) Now the lyricist/librettist agreed to the hiring of Paddy Chayefsky, the esteemed stage, film, and TV writer, to revamp the story line into something that would better appeal to the edgier, younger audiences of the late 1960s. At the time, Chayefsky was experiencing writer's block. He figured this film assignment, for which he would receive a princely $150,000 fee and a portion of the potential net profits, might be a mindless diversion in which he would not have to invest himself emotionally. Chayefsky's new plot discarded much of the original story. As restructured, it became a dark tale of human greed, with the action taking place in No Name City, a California gold rush hamlet of the late 1840s. The rough-and-tumble settlement solves its woman shortage by importing a bevy of French tarts. Quickly, the community becomes a 19th-century version of Sodom and Gomorrah with its saloons, dance halls, gambling casinos, and bawdy houses. The revitalized narrative centered on two gold prospector partners who share as their wife a new woman passing through town. It was thought that this risqué ménage à trois would make Paint Your Wagon more relevant to 1969 moviegoers. Although most of the show's original songs were retained, new numbers were needed to flesh out the film version. When Frederick Loewe decided against participating on the fresh material, composer André Previn was chosen to work with Lerner. They turned out six new items, such as "The Best Things in Life Are Dirty," "A Million Miles Away Behind the Door," "The Gospel of No Name City," and "Gold Fever." (These costly fresh ditties would all prove to be remarkably unmemorable.)

1=1 As momentum built on Paint Your Wagon (a dubious commercial venture with its already lofty $10 million budget), Alan Jay Lerner made the first of several strange artistic choices. After Don Siegel declined to direct

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the rugged outdoors vehicle, Lerner offered the assignment to one of his friends, the classy Joshua Logan (who had been a backer of the original New York production). The Texas-born, overly genteel Logan, a Princeton graduate, had made a name for himself on Broadway directing such hit musicals as Annie Get Your Gun, South Pacific, and Fanny and such winning comedy entries as Mister Roberts and John Loves Mary. In the 1950s he helmed a trio of hit movies: Picnic, Bus Stop, and Sayonara. In the process he won two Best Director Oscar nominations. Artistically, Joshua was far less successful with the movie translations of the stage musicals South Pacific (1958) and Fanny (1961). He had a real flop with the service comedy Ensign Pulver (1964). Thereafter, Logan would be much criticized for his direction of the Hollywood version of Camelot (1967). That lumbering movie was filled with endless close-ups of the stars, had too little pomp, and suffered from being an elephantine 179 minutes. Nevertheless, Lemer still had faith in Logan's abilities to translate Paint Your Wagon to the screen. In contrast, the fastidious Logan was far less certain ( 1 ) that he could instill any life into the hefty-budgeted Paint Your Wagon, which he had found tedious on the stage or (2) that he cared much at all about this tale of randy, heavy-drinking 19th-century gold prospectors. When director Blake Edwards (who had achieved great success with his Pink Panther movies and screen dramas like Days of Wine and Roses) suddenly said he would love to do Paint Your Wagon, Logan gallantly agreed to drop out in favor of Edwards. However, Lerner insisted that Joshua remain with the project. (As a consolation prize, Paramount hired Edwards to direct Darling Lili, the 1970 musical that proved to be another costly fiasco.) Having been wooed into a lucrative film contract, Logan had no way out of the project without suffering costly penalties. The situation helped to trigger his recurring manic depression, for which he took lithium.

1=1 When it came to casting Paint Your Wagon, the film's decision makers had several thoughts. One inspiration was to hire veteran film star James Cagney as the older prospector. However, the Oscar-winning Cagney was happily retired. Another favored option was maverick Hollywood actor Lee Marvin. He had earned an Academy Award for the 1965 sagebrush

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farce Cat Ballou, in which he handled memorably the dual roles of an outlaw and a drunken desperado. (Another inducement for studio executives to sign Marvin was that he was a much publicized, hard-living rebel. They hoped that his antiestablishment reputation would appeal to the era's growing number of authority-hating younger moviegoers.) Upon being told that Marvin was being considered to play the prospector, Logan said diplomatically, "He doesn't consider effects —I love the way he just goes out and does it." The director also noted, "He's a really typical Southern gentleman. He tips his hat, says 'Sir,' and does all those other things we were told to do in the South." To cinch the deal, Lerner informed Marvin, "Look, Lee, if you don't play this part, I can't make the film." While Lee had demonstrated his acting mettle in thrillers, action pictures, Westerns, and dramas, he had never been the lead of a film musical. No matter, the studio assured him. He would still be perfect as the mangy, drunken, greedy Ben Rumson. After all, in Lerner and Loewe's My Fair Lady, Rex Harrison had successfully talk-sung his way through several song numbers. That matter aside, there was also the always recurring crisis whenever Lee went off on one of his wild, drunken binges during a film shoot, carousing with local women or inexplicably becoming difficult on the sound stage. (The studio foolishly chose to ignore the unorthodox Lee's penchant for misbehavior.) Marvin signed on to Paint Your Wagon for $1 million. During the restructuring of Paint Your Wagon, the Mexican prospector figure had been replaced by Pardner, the clean-cut, quiet cohort of Marvin's character. To handle this new part—after giving brief consideration to film/TV star George Maharis —Robert Evans turned to his pal Clint Eastwood, with whom, months earlier, he had attended the first Super Bowl. Eastwood, a man of chiseled good looks, began his movie career in the mid-1950s playing bit parts in largely unmemorable productions (1955's Francis in the Navy and 1956's Law Man). Thereafter, he costarred in a successful network TV Western series (Rawhide, 1959-1966). He made his mark in a trio of European-made Sergio Leone spaghetti Westerns, including 1966's The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Now a boxoffice magnet in the United States, Clint had been top billed in 1968's Hang 'Em High (a Western) and Coogans Bluff (a police thriller). He was now about to go to Europe to make MGM's Where Eagles Dare

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(1968), a World War II action yarn. Paramount thought the lanky, sixfoot-four-inch Eastwood had just the right cowboy image to bolster Paint Your Wagon. Clint's diverse background included being a musician and a composer. He had a pleasant, light singing voice. Nevertheless, he knew he lacked the powerful delivery usually associated with belting out Broadway songs. As they had when luring Marvin onto the project, Paramount/ Lerner/Logan convinced Clint that the arrangements for his numbers would play off his existing musical abilities. Still dubious, Eastwood was lured by the lucrative $500,000 fee (part of which was in deferred payments) being offered (as were his agents). Eastwood was also intrigued that the Paint Your Wagon script was dark and edgy. He thought it was a gutsy move for the studio to invest in such a mature story line as two men sharing one woman and that it might just work with young adult moviegoers. Thus Eastwood agreed to do the Hollywood musical after Where Eagles Dare. Initially, Paramount was keen on casting Lesley Ann Warren as Elizabeth (the restless younger wife of the Mormon traveler, who is auctioned off to Marvin and Eastwood's characters). However, the pert ingénue of the Disney studio screen musical The Happiest Millionaire (1967) had other commitments. Similar scheduling problems prevented the Britishborn Sally Ann Howes, who had replaced Julie Andrews in the stage version of My Fair Lady, from accepting the role. In their search for a leading lady, Paramount somehow got the strange notion that Jean Seberg, a blond gamine type who usually played sophisticated roles, might be acceptable as the outspoken heroine. The Iowa-born Seberg had won the title role in Otto Preminger's Saint Joan (1957) after a major talent hunt. That movie was a box-office dud, and its failure was forever tied to Seberg. The next year she did better in Preminger's Bonjour Tristesse, but her career was already in a tailspin. Meanwhile, she married a French actor/director and settled in Paris. Seberg made a professional comeback in Jean-Luc Godard's New Wave-cinema entry Breathless (1960). Thereafter, she alternated between European-made features (e.g., 1963's In the French Style) and Hollywood productions (e.g., 1964's Lilith). By the late 1960s her second marriage — to French-based novelist/screenwriter Romain Gary, with whom she had two children—was badly faltering.

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Back again in the United States, the emotionally fragile Seberg was eager to reestablish her Hollywood film career. She jumped at the chance to play the self-sufficient Elizabeth in Paint Your Wagon. With her penchant for antiestablishment causes and the residue of her French New Wave acting successes still intact, Seberg was hired. She was so excited that she rushed out to find a vocal coach, assuming the studio would keep its promise that she could sing her own numbers.

1=1 With the Paint Your Wagon decision makers having already made several questionable artistic decisions, things only got worse. Obsessed with placing his personal stamp on the movie, Lerner rewrote Chayefsky's Paint Your Wagon screenplay. (The Oscar-winning writer said that the final shooting script contained only six lines of dialogue that he had written. When the screen musical was released, Chayefsky received credit as adapter, while Lerner was listed as screenwriter.) After receiving a copy of Lerner's diluted revamping of Paint Your Wagon, Clint Eastwood was deeply upset. He was discouraged that the story's grit and darkness (which in one of the script drafts had the Ben Rumson character dying) had been so softened. Eastwood wanted out of his commitment. In reaction, Lerner, with Logan in tow, flew to London, where Eastwood was filming scenes for Where Eagles Dare. They begged him to stay with the venture, even promising that Alan—with Joshua's participation—would further rewrite the script. (They offered to make the actor's part larger, but Clint explained, "I don't need a big part. Bigness isn't bestness; sometimes lessness is bestness.") Eastwood still balked, but his agents convinced him to honor the agreement. While this was occurring, two key technical crew members joined Paint Your Wagon. The youngish Australian John Truscott, who had designed the production, scenery, and costumes for Camelot, was hired to be production/costume designer for the new vehicle. Having been given a lavish budget (and a rather free hand) on Camelot—his first feature film—Truscott had grown bolder and more demanding in the interim. It was his conviction that to give the project "the truth of nature," Paint Your Wagon must be shot on breathtaking locations —and damn the budget. Logan was strongly against Truscott's demand, preferring to

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work in the confines of a studio sound stage, where he had more control over the goings-on. However, Lerner took Truscott's side, which alienated Logan. When Truscott went on a scouting expedition throughout the Pacific Northwest to find locales, Lerner accompanied him on some of the initial explorations. Meanwhile, Tom Shaw, a veteran assistant director who had received a fine recommendation from filmmaker Richard Brooks, with whom he had worked on The Professionals (1966) and In Cold Blood (1967), was signed as second-unit director. (He later took on the added capacity of associate producer.) Used to working with assertive, decisive filmmakers, he quickly took a dislike to the ultrarefined Josh Logan, who was obviously already overwhelmed by the size of Paint Your Wagon and the demands and politics involved. The Truscott-Shaw-Lerner faction happened to fly over the Wallowa Mountains region of northeastern Oregon and were immensely impressed by the terrain: the splendor of the forest, the sparkling Eagle Creek, the rising pinnacles of the area's mountains, and the brilliant blue skies. They agreed that their film must be shot here in Baker County, which in the 1870s had been home to several gold mining towns. The contingent insisted on using this rural area to build the film's colossal sets (a gold mining tent camp and a town). They blithely ignored the fact that their chosen sites were 47 miles from Baker, the nearest town where the cast and crew could be housed. As it developed, access to the filming spots proved so arduous over the narrow, twisting backwoods roads that major players and crew would commute daily by helicopter to the shoot. Other less-pampered participants had to navigate the primitive one-lane dirt road back and forth from tiny Baker (population: 9,986) to the shoot locations, which meant a trip of two or more hours each way. At one point in the protracted filming, the weather wreaked such havoc on the roadway that Paramount had to repair it at a cost of $10,000 per mile. It was here in this remote area that the film crew would construct No Name City. In the plot finale the buildings crash down and/or sink into the ground. This is because greedy Ben Rumson and Pardner have dug wide-ranging tunnels under the town in order to gather up the gold dust that has seeped through the floors of the local saloons, casinos, and whorehouses. When the tunnels collapse, so do the town's many structures. To make this special-effects climax work in those pre-digital effects times, concrete-lined tunnels had to be constructed with hydraulic lifts

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installed to control the many buildings' collapse. (In case the intricate devastation of No Name City did not work properly the first time filmed, the edifices were so constructed that the lifts could restore all the buildings to their erect position for retakes.) Completing this massive set (which could have been constructed far more simply and much more cheaply on a studio sound stage) took seven months and cost $2.4 million.

1=1 By the late spring of 1968, Paint Your Wagon was ready to film in Baker County, Oregon. (Filming was preceded by weeks of seemingly pointless rehearsal back at the studio. There, an already unconfident Logan, reverting to methods he had employed successfully on the Broadway stage, had put his bewildered cast through line readings and hours of staging directions. Many of the participants thought this a foolish waste of time since the picture would be shot largely outdoors or on location-constructed sets that had special space and lighting demands, requiring fresh blocking.) Once on location, the principal participants had their own separate quarters in and around Baker. Joshua Logan and his elegant wife, who had brought their servants along, did their best to turn their rented house into a center of refinement in this backwoods oasis. Clint Eastwood lived away from the others on a rented 40-acre ranch. His wife, Maggie, had given birth recently to their first child and had remained behind in southern California. (This was as Eastwood preferred, since on many of his films he found his own social diversion among the cast, crew, and locals, or with imported women friends.) Seberg arrived with her Spanish maid in tow. Accompanying the incorrigible Lee Marvin at different times on the lengthy shoot was Michelle Trióla, a singer whom he had met when she played a bit part in his Ship of Fools (1965). They became an unofficial couple whose relationshipfluctuatedfor several years, overlapping his 1967 divorce and his 1970 wedding to another woman. Trióla sometimes had the ability to keep Lee in line. However, when he went off on a drunken toot or became too ornery, crude, and resistant to authority on the set, not even she could coax him back into tolerable behavior or undo the chaos left in his wake. Another key performer on the shoot was singer Harve Presnell. A handsome actor in the Howard Keel mold, the married man was stuck

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with the thankless role of gambler Rotten Luck Willie. However, he got to sing "They Call the Wind Maria" and "There's a Coach Comin' In." Veteran actor Ray Walston, who provided comic relief in Logan's movie South Pacific, was cast as Mad Jack Duncan. When the stress of the snail's-pace filming got too much for Walston, he would disappear into the countryside to calm down. This being the late 1960s and the countryside being a favored retreat for hippie communes, Logan became enthusiastic about using the local long-haired, bearded counterculturists on his film. Those who agreed to have their hair cut to reflect the look of the 1840s gold camps were hired at $20 a day. (Soon, taken with their "importance" to the production, these extras struck for higher wages, which Paramount was forced to agree to in order to keep peace on the set.)

1=1 Mutiny was in the air from day one of the Paint Your Wagon shoot. An opening scene called for a wagon to tumble over a steep precipice. In the process one character is killed and his brother (played by Eastwood) is badly wounded. As Logan prepared to film this sequence, Lerner (who usually wore white gloves to prevent himself from chewing his cuticles) strode front and center. He informed Joshua —in front of the entire assemblage —how he wanted the scene filmed. Shocked by this breach of etiquette, not to mention the lack of Lerner's cinematic knowledge in making his particular demand, Logan got into a battle of wills with the producer in front of everyone. Tom Shaw and many of those on hand backed up Lerner—even though Alan's creative choice and usurping of the director's province was dead wrong. Already shaky directing this cumbersome vehicle, a humiliated Logan diplomatically compromised with the belligerent Lerner. But the damage had been done. The director had lost credibility with much of his cast and crew (with the exception of cinematographer William A. Fraker and his assistant, who remained loyal to the director throughout filming). The next day Lerner persisted in micromanaging the shoot. (On one occasion, while investigating a steep cliffside for a possible camera angle, the producer-lyricist scrambled down several hundred feet over dangerous terrain. Then he grew fearful, and the crew had to hoist him up 400 feet to safety.) With Alan poking his nose into every aspect of Logan's

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domain, Joshua constantly had to tiptoe around the increasingly antagonistic producer. Days later, on July 12, 1968, Hollywood gossip columnist Joyce Haber noted in her syndicated newspaper column that it was rumored Logan would be replaced on Paint Your Wagon but that "no one was talking at Paramount, at least not yet." Haber's piece mentioned that Lerner's good friend, director Richard Brooks, was the likely candidate to take over. (Brooks had been counseling Lerner throughout Paint Your Wagon pre-production. Among other things, he explained to Alan how he had handled Lee's quirkiness during the making of The Professionals, and suggested that Tom Shaw and others be included in the Paint Your Wagon crew.) While the gossip maven did not reveal her source for the news, it was assumed by most in the industry that the petulant Lerner had leaked the story to Haber. When Brooks was asked by several people, including Lee Marvin, if he'd take over the troubled picture, he said he wouldn't, that it would be unethical, and that the producer and the others should stick with Logan. To his credit, Eastwood backed this viewpoint. While Logan's fate swayed in the wind, Marvin treated Logan with less than expected respect and mugged through his scenes to his heart's content. One day when he was in a fit of pique, a drunken Marvin supposedly urinated on Joshua's fancy cowboy boots. (Logan denied this happened, even insisting that later in the shoot the two coworkers fully resolved their artistic differences. Nevertheless, after finishing the film, the director said of his irksome star, "Not since Attila the Hun swept across Europe leaving 500 years of total blackness has there been a man like Lee Marvin.") Meanwhile, Paramount executives jetted up to Oregon to calm down the situation. Studio honcho Robert Evans repeatedly assured Logan that his position on Paint Your Wagon was secure. But the situation had so damaged Joshua's confidence that he became increasingly unstable and indecisive. At every juncture he was running to this and that person asking his advice on staging the current scene. Such indecisiveness caused the difficult filming to come to an expensive near-halt several times. Later, when columnist Rex Reed visited the Oregon filming site, a distraught Logan admitted to the newsman, "I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. All these extras, all these unions to contend with. You're afraid to give anybody an extra line to say or the budget will go up another $10,000. You have to organize all these horses, all these cows, all

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these people, get the shot during Magic Hour, while the sky is light enough to silhouette the nature you've come to photograph. I'm living each day to the next. I can't wait to get back to civilization." Not unexpectedly, Marvin, marching to his own beat, on several occasions repeated his annoying, costly habits of vanishing from the shoot, getting drunk, or becoming lascivious and crude with both cast and crew. As for Jean Seberg, she tried to be a model of friendliness. She got along with Logan, found virtues in the oddball Marvin, and especially adored the hippie extras (to the point where she served as bridesmaid when two of them married). Meanwhile, Jean quickly succumbed to Clint's charms, and the two began a passionate affair. While Eastwood's wife, who occasionally visited the shoot, seemed unaware of her spouse's extracurricular romantic activity, Seberg's husband was a different story. Back in Europe, he heard of the adulterous situation. Coming to the United States on business, he rushed to the filming location. One early morning at the Lerners' location home he had a horrendous confrontation with Clint, even challenging the movie star to a duel. Eastwood managed to defuse the situation. However, the showdown—which became the talk of the movie set—led Clint to end his relationship with Seberg. Being dropped by her costar left Jean feeling wounded and cynical about men. (Oddly, none of the vim and vigor of the heated affair between Seberg and Eastwood came across on screen in their love scenes.) At a daily cost of $80,000, Paint Your Wagon plodded along through the summer, prompting Tom Shaw to tell the media, "We're in one helluva fucking mess up here." The weather proved uncooperative, being either too hot, too rainy, or, as fall neared, far too cold. (Meanwhile, the elements wreaked havoc on the standing sets, necessitating constant, costly repairs.) Eventually, after the collapse of No Name City was filmed, the production was forced to relocate back to Hollywood because winter was setting in. At Paramount several sets were duplicated, adding to the film's ever-escalating budget, which would reach a sum variously stated as $18 million or $20 million ($92.8 million to $103.2 million in 2004 dollars). Years later, looking back on the tumultuous time he'd spent in Oregon, Logan would sigh, "It just seems to me that I was there for an entire century."

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Paint Your Wagon was in expensive post-production throughout much of 1969. With the backing of Nelson Riddle's large and plush sound-stage orchestra, Eastwood recorded his songs in his whispery voice, while Marvin growled through his numbers. (To back Lee on "Hand Me Down That Can o'Beans," Lerner used the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, a popular country rock group of the day. Producers hoped that their presence in the movie would attract young filmgoers.) Because Jean Seberg had developed a bad case of nerves when it came to singing her numbers, the songs were dubbed (much to Jean's disappointment). As the months rolled on, the hyperactive Lerner kept his fingers in every aspect of the picture. He decided that the blues of the Oregon skies (for which the production had gone on a costly location trek) were too blue. He worked arduously with technicians to bring down this color on the film so it would not distract from the actors and the story. Later, Lerner tinkered with Logan's final cut on the picture, in particular, emphasizing the songs. As Paint Your Wagon prepared for its October 15, 1969, bow, a massive 166-minute film was screened for the Motion Picture Association of America. Considering the movie's plotline, it was little wonder that the conservative group rated it M for mature audiences. (This was the first such musical to receive this designation.) Parents were unlikely to take their children to see a picture with an M tag, so the studio was forced to target its marketing toward young adults. Peter Max, famous for his pop psychedelic drawings, created the ad for the film, which carried the tagline: "Ben and Pardner Shared Everything—Even Their Wife!" The reviewers were not encouraging about this static narrative on which money had been lavished so recklessly. Variety cautioned that the picture would have "an uphill fight to be a blockbusting boxoffice hit." Newsweek gave it a thumbs down: "Rarely has a film wasted so much time so wantonly." Rex Reed judged in Holiday, "Paint Your Wagon is a monument to unparalleled incompetence. First they bought an expensive musical property and hired actors who can't dance or sing. Then they took a score that is an American institution and cut out most of the songs." Reed complained, "Everyone is so busy overacting around Clint Eastwood, they make it easy for him to walk away with what little there is of the shambles." The New York Times s Vincent Canby was disturbed by the "rather peculiar psychological implications in the plot" involving the close bond between the two leading male characters.

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For all the money spent to bring Paint Your Wagon to the screen, audiences were sadly cheated in many ways. For one thing, the filmmakers never resolved the difference in tone between Chayefsky's original script, which was a cynical study of greed, and Lemer's various rewrites, which sought to make the production more upbeat. Then too, despite Lerner's constant pestering of director Logan, the musical aspects were fairly anemic. Many songs are performed in voiceover during visual montages or with the singers in long shots. (During close-ups it is very obvious that the vocals were recorded separately on a sound stage or dubbed in, as with Seberg's numbers.) Often the vocals are nearly drowned out by the overly plush orchestrations. The Broadway original had boasted choreography by the noteworthy Agnes de Mille. Lerner had always been upset that de Mille's contributions had overshadowed the music. For the film, Lerner hired Jack Baker (whose screen credits included several Annette Funicello-Frankie Avalon beach-party musicals) to supervise the reduced amount of dancing retained in the film. Unsurprisingly, Baker's effort lacked any imagination and was compared unfavorably with Michael Kidd's choreography for the classic backwoods screen musical, 1954's Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. After its first-run, road-show presentation, Paint Your Wagon was clipped of nearly 30 minutes for its general release. In domestic distribution, according to the studio's "official" box-office figures for industry consumption, the musical racked up a total of $14.5 million. However, this left the film with a deficit of at least $5.5 million. (By stark comparison, that same year, Paramount's Goodbye, Columbus, a property far easier to manufacture, grossed $10.5 million. Starring Ali MacGraw and Richard Benjamin, the well-received, intimate romantic drama cost $1.5 million to produce —which was the normal price for making a movie at the time. In contrast to the results achieved with Goodbye, Columbus, the huge investment of time, energy, and money devoted to Paint Your Wagon seemed a bizarre exercise in futility.) When Paint Your Wagon was released in Europe, several of the musical numbers featuring Eastwood and/or Marvin were deleted. (Left intact was Lee's hammy, off-tune rendition of "Wand'rin Star," which, because of its hilarious awfulness, became a hit recording both in the United States and abroad.) Paint Your Wagon was nominated for only one Academy

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Award —Best Music Score. However, it lost to Hello, Dolly! — another boxoffice flop. In the wake of Paint Your Wagon, Joshua Logan never directed another movie. However, he got his revenge when he wrote his 1978 memoir, Movie stars, real people, and me. In the book, Logan described his nemesis —Lerner—as having been "pieced together by the great-greatgreat-grandson of Dr. Frankenstein from a lot of disparate spare parts." As for the movie itself, Logan insisted, "No one tried to hold it to a budget. It was the most flagrant throwing away of money I've ever seen." Lerner and Loewe's subsequent two movies for Paramount—On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (1970) and The Little Prince (1974)were both box-office losers for the studio. Paramount canceled plans to film Coco, which had been a Broadway hit of sorts due to the drawing power of its star, Katharine Hepburn. Lee Marvin continued to make movies —although never again a musical —right up until his death in 1987 at age 63. Jean Seberg's film career nose-dived in the 1970s. In 1979, at age 40, having married twice more, she died from an overdose of barbiturates. Clint Eastwood credits the bad experience on Paint Your Wagon — with its extravagantly wasteful excesses —as a good lesson in what not to do on a movie. He decided that, thereafter, he was "going to go back to doing just regular movies." As for Paramount Pictures (which inaugurated yet another new management regime in 1975), it—like the rest of Hollywood—soon stopped making unwieldy road-show attractions and generally steered clear of musicals for several years to come. In the assessment of New Yorker film critic Pauline Kael, Paint Your Wagon and other such musicals of the time had "finally broken the back of the American movie industry." She insisted further that the studios, with their "rotting system," were "collapsing, but they're not being toppled over by competitors; they're so enervated that they're sinking under their own weight."

4 The Wild Party ( 1975) When a director has been ousted from his editing room, all appeals to reason having failed, he may find allies among the powerful stars who have acted in his film. O r he can go to influential critics, who may be willing to take up his cause in the newspapers. But once the altered version of his film is before the public, there is little chance that it will be recalled in favor of the one acceptable to him, and it will continue to play, for better or worse, usually giving everyone a bad name: director, writer, actors, and—finally—the persons responsible for the mutilation. — J A M E S IVORY,

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ilos Forman's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (United Artists) won the Best Picture Academy Award for the year 1975. The runners-up in this prestigious Oscar category were Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon (Warner Bros.), Sidney Lumet's Dog Day Afternoon (Warner Bros.), Steven Spielberg's Jaws (Universal), and Robert Altman's Nashville (Paramount). At a time when the average price of a theater ticket was $2.05 ($7.21 in 2004 dollars) and the average weekly 80

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number of moviegoers in America was just under 20 million, Jaws was the top earner in domestic film rentals. It pulled in more than $102.7 million ($361.4 million in 2004 dollars). Also for 1975, theater exhibitors named as America's top ten stars Robert Redford, Barbra Streisand, Al Pacino, Charles Bronson, Paul Newman, Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds, Woody Allen, Steve McQueen, and Gene Hackman. In this new Hollywood it was the global conglomerates, big talent agencies, and brand-name movie directors who held the bargaining chips over the old and new film companies. One of the "minor" moviemaking factories in 1975 was American International Pictures (AIP). It had been founded in 1954 by James H. Nicholson (1916-1972) and Samuel Z. Arkoff (1918-2001) on a borrowed $3,000. The company began doing business as American Releasing Corporation. Its specialty was double-bill schlock features (which frequently played the drive-in-theater circuit). Its movies —made on shoestring budgets—were quickly assembled exploitation entries, usually in the sci-fi or horror genres. (One of the company's earliest and most prolific directors was Roger Corman. Among other filmmakers who made their film industry start at anything-goes AIP were Francis Ford Coppola and Woody Allen. Future stars who had early acting assignments at AIP included Robert De Niro, Peter Fonda, and Jack Nicholson.) At AIP more care was taken in choosing a catchy title for a film and crafting a slam-bang marketing promotion than in making the actual picture. This topsy-turvy state of affairs was acknowledged by co-owner Arkoff. This maverick loved to recount, "Exhibitors would come up to me and say 'Sam, if we could just punch sprocket holes in the campaign and throw the film away.'" By 1960 the company had switched to making more expensive feature films, hoping to better compete in the fast-changing movie marketplace. Now AIP's pictures were shot in a "leisurely" one or two weeks rather than in a scant few days—and were lensed in CinemaScope and color. The success of AIP's initial new-style production, The House of Usher (1960), led to further such entries. They, too, were usually based on Edgar Allan Poe stories and had Vincent Price as the headline star. This winning format was followed by another AIP marketing cycle: teenage sand-surf-girls musicals. Inaugurated with the surprise hit Beach Party (1963), these low-budget comedy frolics generally teamed Annette Funicello with Frankie Avalon.

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Later, with the box-office success oïThe Wild Angels (1966), a motorcycle gang yarn, AIP launched into a succession of protest/exposé pictures, such as Riot on Sunset Strip (1967), Wild in the Streets (1968), and Boxcar Bertha (1972). Next, capitalizing on the early 1970s craze for black exploitation features, American International cranked out Black Mama, White Mama (1972), Hell Up in Harlem (1973), and Sheba, Baby (1975), among others. Meanwhile, back in the mid-1960s the studio had begun distributing occasional foreign and art house releases. In early 1972 AIP's president, Nicholson, left the company to make independent productions. However, he died before his first such offering was released by Twentieth Century-Fox. Three years later, Arkoff, now American International's president and chairman of the board, announced that his lot would produce bigger-budgeted features, ranging in cost from $3 million to $4 million. This was a surprising economical decision for the penny-pinching,fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pantsArkoff, whose rule of thumb was "Thou shalt not put too much money into one picture. And the money you do spend, put it on the screen; don't waste it on the egos of actors or on nonsense that might appeal to . . . highbrow critics." During this transitional period the company released such films as The Land That Time Forgot, Return to Macon County, Old Dracula, and Part 2, Walking Tall. When the year-end tally was made, American International had racked up profits of $3.5 million ($12.3 million in 2004 dollars). Early in 1974, during this heady atmosphere of corporate expansion and artistic aspiration, wheeler-dealer Arkoff negotiated to produce/ release The Wild Party. This offbeat feature (starring Raquel Welch) proved to be one of the studio's most contentious projects in its lengthy and colorful history. The nasty public clashes between key members of this highminded project have become Hollywood legend. The film demonstrated that it was not only the major movie studios who could aim "high" with a special screen project and fall flat on their corporate faces.

1=1 Future filmmaker James Ivory was born in 1928 in Berkeley, California, but was raised in Klamath Falls, Oregon, where his father operated a sawmill. Ivory majored in fine arts at the University of Oregon and planned to become a set designer. Later he became intrigued with movie directing and matriculated in the film department of the University of

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Southern California. By the end of the decade he had made his third short subject, The Sword and the Flute, a documentary concerning Indian art objects. As a result of this well-received work, in 1960 he was commissioned by the Asia Society to go to India to undertake a filmed study. The refined, soft-spoken Ivory was enraptured by his rich new environment. He delighted in studying the clashing and blending of Eastern and Western traditions. He remained in India for several years to pursue his moviemaking craft, turning out such naturalistic comedies of manners as The Householder (1963) and Shakespeare Wallah (1965). These elegant, highly regarded pictures were made in conjunction with the India-born producer Ismail Merchant (with whom the American filmmaker formed Merchant Ivory Productions in 1961). They worked in tandem on their movie projects with scripter Ruth Prawer Jhabvala (a German-born novelist of Polish-Jewish descent who had wed an Indian). The trio was much less successful with their next celluloid entries, The Guru (1969) and Bombay Talkie (1970). Coming to the United States, the Ivory-Merchant duo created the offbeat allegory Savages (1972), which found more acceptance in Europe than in America. This was followed by the small-budgeted and low-key Autobiography of a Princess (1975), which was shot in England for British television. It dealt with an exiled Indian royal and a British officer who meet once a year in London to sip tea and watch home movies of their past life in India. In the interim, on another trip to the United States, the fortysomething Ivory was referred by art dealer Peter Marks to Marks's brother, Walter. The latter was involved in a new film project. (Having composed the music for the 1962 film Satan in High Heels, Walter had since provided the music and lyrics for a trio of Broadway productions, including Bajour.) The pending movie was being packaged by the British-born Edgar Lansbury, a sibling of show business notable Angela Lansbury. In the past, Edgar had been the art director or producer on assorted TV series. Subsequently he turned to producing feature films, including the 1973 musical Godspell. Lansbury was now allied with former actor Joseph Beruh and Marks to put together a song-and-dance movie. The property being written by Marks was based on a cult favorite narrative poem, "The Wild Party" by Joseph Moncure March. March was born in New York City in 1900. An intelligent, creative individual from a well-to-do family, he was the first managing editor of

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The New Yorker, a smart new magazine first published in 1925. The following year, subsidized by his family, March quit his publication post to devote an entire summer to writing a long narrative poem. His ambitious aim was to capture the decadent flavor, vivid color, and raw emotions of bohemian life in Greenwich Village, wrapped together with a bawdy account of sex, mayhem, and murder. His cautionary tale of passion gone amok in the midst of Prohibition focused on a stunning vaudeville dancer, Queenie. ("Grey eyes. Lips like coals aglow. Her face was a tinted mask of snow.") The pulsating story tells of her twisted relationship with her abusive boyfriend, Burrs, an alcoholic stage comic. Bored and/or frustrated with each other, the illmatched couple hosts a disastrous shindig. Among the guests at their apartment are several distinctive Village types (show business folk, gangsters and grifters, a boxer, homosexuals and lesbians, and several blacks, including a smart dresser who becomes drawn to Queenie). In the course of this unbridled evening, tempers and passions flare as the magnetic Queenie and the dour, self-destructive Burrs torment each other by flirting with others. The night involves excessive debauchery, ranging from an orgy to drug-taking and heavy booze consumption. Before the fateful bash concludes, gun-wielding Burrs is dead, the snappy black man has fled, and temptress Queenie is left to deal with the arriving cops. Upon completing his morality epic —a blend of innocence and cynicism told in syncopated rhyming couplets —March discovered that its risqué text and blatant imagery of dissolute living offended the staid establishment. No publisher could immediately be found for the manuscript. It was not until 1928 that the lengthy, art deco-flavored work was published in a limited edition of 2,000 copies. It was banned in Boston, which guaranteed the taboo book a success of sorts. For a new 1931 edition of "The Wild Party," the noted writer and editor Louis Untermeyer prepared a special foreword. He observed of the controversial jazz-age work: "It is repulsive and fascinating, vicious and vivacious, uncompromising, unashamed and unremittingly powerful. An amazing tour-de-force." Moreover, Untermeyer confessed in the preface, "I haven't the faintest idea whether it is good or bad poetry. In fact, Pm not sure that it is poetry at all." (Decades later, the iconoclastic underground novelist William Burroughs was asked what he thought of "The Wild Party." He replied, "It's the book that made me want to be a writer." When queried whether he regarded March's writing to be actual poetry,

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the author of Junkie and The Naked Lunch responded, "Of course it's poetry. It rhymes.") After writing "The Set-Up" (1928), a second narrative poem—this time dealing with a defeated black boxer caught up in underworld corruption—Joseph Moncure March was lured to Hollywood. His early screenwriting credits included two major 1930 releases: Journey's End and Hells Angels. Next, he became a scripter at Paramount, working on A-level features. However, by 1940 the once in-demand scenarist was writing a trio of Westerns at lowly Republic Pictures. That was March's last commercial work for the film studios until, in 1949, RKO adapted his poem "The Set-Up" to the screen. When it was released, the gutsy black-andwhite film noir drama was well-regarded by critics. By then March, who had turned to writing documentaries for the U.S. State Department, had become a features writer for the New York Times Magazine. When Walter Marks, Edgar Lansbury, and Joseph Beruh joined forces to bring "The Wild Party" to the screen, March was a mostly forgotten name in artistic circles. (There were those readers like Marks, however, who had chanced upon the out-of-print chronicle of Queenie and Burrs and were beguiled by its energy, lurid descriptions, and hard-boiled characters.) The more Ivory discussed "The Wild Party" with the producers and Marks —March was not involved in the project and would die in 1977 without ever meeting Ivory—the more the director was intrigued by the screenplay's potentials. The subject matter—antiestablishment outsiders running amok in a well-defined social structure during a past era—was in line with many of Ivory's prior cinema works. The topic spoke to Ivory's intrigue with (old) Hollywood, his desire to become a mainstream talent in his homeland, and his ambition to create a popular success. As matters progressed it was agreed that Ivory would join the venture as director and Ismail Merchant as one of the film's several producers. Meanwhile, Walter Marks's rather lurid script underwent modifications. While keeping the structure and pulse of the original work, Marks had changed the poem's setting from Greenwich Village to 1929 Hollywood as talkies were taking over the industry. The stage comic character had been tranformed into Jolly Grimm, a silent film comedy star whose career was on the skids. In shaping Grimm's character, Marks had grafted on a few similarities to aspects of the tragic life of Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle (1887-1933). The latter was one of the silent cinema's great comedians,

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whose career was wrecked in 1921 by the unexplained death of a minor film player who had attended a party Arbuckle hosted in San Francisco. The rotund star quickly found himself caught in a scandal that made headlines around the world. Persecuted by a politically ambitious district attorney and smeared by the tabloid press, Roscoe suffered through three trials. Finally, he was acquitted with the jury's full apology, but his life had been destroyed. In the early 1930s he made a modest comeback in movie short subjects before dying of a heart attack. By now it had been decided that The Wild Party should not be a fullscale musical but rather a dramatic movie with a few songs. (Marks had already created several songs, a few of which would be utilized as production numbers of sorts, while others—such as "The Herbert Hoover Drag"— would become background counterpoint to the story's dramatic action.) As he prepared for the movie shoot, Ivory sought advice on his upcoming directing task from George Cukor, a newfound industry friend. The latter was a veteran movie director whose hit pictures included Camille (1936), The Philadelphia Story (1940), A Star is Bom (1954), and My Fair Lady (1964). Cukor carefully explained to Ivory the Tinseltown of the late 1920s: its social structure, ambience, and party chatter and just how notables made their spectacular entrances at plush social gatherings. The Manhattan-based decision makers on The Wild Party had relatively little difficulty in finalizing some of the key casting. It was agreed that the corpulent James Coco was a good physical fit to portray Jolly Grimm, the funster who is a bitter man at heart. A veteran stage, screen, and TV performer, Coco had been Tony Award-nominated for starring in Neil Simon's Broadway success The Last of the Red Hot Lovers (1970). His film credits included playing Sancho Panza in the 1972 screen musical version of Broadway's Man of La Mancha. He hoped that The Wild Party would establish him as a character leading man in the movies. However, when it came to casting the pivotal character of Queenie, there was much debate. Should they seek a big-name player who might not be right for the part, or search for an unknown who could capture the magnetic physical appeal and range of pathos required of Grimm's mistress? While the talent search was under way, James Ivory happened one day to watch TV's Today show. Movie sex symbol Raquel Welch, who had enjoyed a recent resurgence of screen success with the elabo-

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rate 1973 movie spoof The Three Musketeers (and its sequel the following year), was being interviewed. Ivory recalled, "She seemed intelligent and interesting, and she said she'd like to do comedy and wanted to play different roles than she'd been playing, so we sent her the script." To their great surprise Welch was genuinely delighted with The Wild Party screenplay and was eager to portray Queenie. The daughter of an immigrant engineer from Bolivia who married an American girl he met at the University of Chicago, Raquel Tejada was born in 1940. Two years later the family moved to La Jolla, California (on the northern outskirts of San Diego). During her high school years the statuesque five-feet-six-inch brunette—who boasted 37C-22 1 /2-35 1 /2 measurements —participated in beauty pageants and became interested in show business. In 1958 she married a classmate, James Welch, with whom she had two children. By 1963, having acted in a little theater and divorced her spouse, Raquel had relocated to Hollywood, where she modeled and attended movie casting calls. She made her screen debut in Elvis Presley's Roustabout (1964). With a memorable look and a strong ambition, the newcomer quickly rose within the film colony's ranks. By the mid-1960s Welch was under contract to Twentieth Century-Fox. That studio took advantage of her sensational looks (and her knack for flaring her nostrils in an erotic fashion) in such exploitative movies as 1966's One Million Years B.C. Thereafter, she continued as gorgeous window dressing in a range of Fox product, including the campy misfire Myra Breckinridge (1970). Smart enough to know that at age thirty, her days as a reigning sex goddess were numbered, Raquel campaigned furiously for better acting roles as a freelance leading lady. However, she had an uphill battle. To Hollywood —and even to her cadre of admiring fans—she had become a joke of sorts because of her string of unmemorable screen portrayals. Hardened by her grueling industry experience, Welch had come to realize that "being a sex symbol was rather like being a convict." (It also did not help her equanimity that many people in and out of the movie business constantly took potshots at her allegedly manufactured extravagant good looks. For example, makeup artist George Masters quipped once of the movie beauty, "Silicone from the knees up.") Now on her own and calling all the shots (she divorced husband number two in 1972), Welch had developed into a self-protective, demanding

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diva on and off the screen. The difficult-to-please celebrity described her new philosophy of work life with, "Once you get rid of the idea that you must please other people before you please yourself, and you begin to follow your own instincts—only then can you be successful. You become more satisfied, and when you are, other people will tend to be satisfied by what you do." In The Last of Sheila (1973), a smart whodunit, Raquel was noteworthy in an ensemble cast that included James Mason, Dyan Cannon, Richard Benjamin, and James Coburn. During this and subsequent picture projects the industry grapevine gossiped about how trying Welch could be on the movie set.

1=1 With Raquel aboard The Wild Party, it was not long before the producers found financing for their $750,000 venture from American International Pictures. AIP's wily chief, Samuel Z. Arkoff, knew that with Welch cavorting in this risqué screen adventure, it would definitely gain reviewers' attention and would draw in her moviegoing audience of ardent young men. Besides, Arkoff reasoned, the movie already had a catchy title (which always won Sam's attention), dealt with exploitable lurid topics, and had cachet from the original poem's being such an underground cult classic. Arkoff also envisioned that the film's promotional campaign could emphasize a supposed tie-in to the legendary, spicy Fatty Arbuckle debacle. (The studio would play up this angle, giving the picture the tagline "Hollywood in the 20s. . . . Gin, Sin, and a Night They're Still Whispering Big About!") In addition Arkoff was aware that the major studios were preparing several upcoming entries about old Hollywood — The Day of the Locust, W. C. Fields and Me, Gable and Lombard, and The Last Tycoon—and thought it might be good business to jump on the bandwagon. On the downside, Arkoff had strong reservations about the director attached to the project. Due to James Ivory's close association with Indiathemed films, the pragmatic studio head categorized Ivory as one of those bizarre, impractical Eastern mystics. Arkoff was also concerned because Ivory's past movies were typically slow-paced literate narratives involving dimensional characters engaged in subtle interplay. Because of this, Arkoff regarded Ivory as an egghead type who made "artsy-fartsy" movies, a brand of product that was not AIP's strong suit and that rarely

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did well at the box office. Furthermore, Sam had major concerns about The Wild Party script, in which the poet-narrator sometimes spoke in verse directly to the camera. Nevertheless, the veteran showman was convinced that his promotional department could counter the negatives of The Wild Party by exploiting the story's tawdry elements. Sam reckoned that AIP could concoct a titillating marketing campaign highlighting the fact that the voluptuous Raquel Welch was playing an unbridled wanton in a hotbed of depravity. Also, in a seeming contradiction, part of Arkoff believed that producing a James Ivory film would bring a fresh degree of respectability to his quick-buck studio. So Sam agreed to participate in this lofty and costly—by American International standards—venture. Before long, Arkoff was boasting to the media about AIP's new prestigious production and his bravery in shepherding this artsy tale of long-ago decadent Hollywood into reality. For his part, Ivory appreciated that the deal with Arkoff was not a deal made in heaven. As he observed candidly after the fact, "To try to make a film with American International out of such material would perhaps seem to many... an act of madness. To accept money (but who refuses an offer of money to make a film?) from such a source might seem to be either calculating or an act of extreme innocence."

1=1 Production on The Wild Party was set to start in May 1974. Up-andcoming Perry King and Tiffany Boling had been signed to play, respectively, the handsome actor/stud who has a fatal bedroom tumble with Queenie, and the Los Angeles beauty who loses her escort to the seductive hostess. David Dukes, at the start of his film career, was hired to be the sensitive screenwriter/narrator, with veteran character actor Royal Dano as Grimm's loyal friend/retainer. Because this feature was not being underwritten by a major Hollywood studio, every effort was made to economize once the cast was in place. The production's great piece of luck was negotiating the economical use of the historic Mission Inn in Riverside, California (55 miles east of Los Angeles). Built in 1902 and expanded over the next 30 years, the rococo-flavored complex, which spanned a city block, would represent Grimm's Tinseltown mansion—the setting for most of the picture's

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action. The Mission Inn's owner had amassed a $5 million collection of antiques and artifacts, leading some to observe that the juxtaposition of antiques and assorted ornate architecture made the Mission Inn a rival of William Randolph Hearst's San Simeon castle near San Luis Obispo, California. Eventually boasting 239 rooms and suites, the predominantly Spanishstyle period structure in Riverside featured a multilevel circular wroughtiron staircase, imposing clock towers, elaborate domes, and several courtyards and patios with lush vegetation—all of which would make excellent, inexpensive backdrops for the feature. Over the decades many celebrities had visited the inn, including acting great Sarah Bernhardt, scientist Albert Einstein, President Theodore Roosevelt, and show business legend W. C. Fields. Politician Richard Nixon was married in the Presidential Suite, while another future U.S. president, Ronald Reagan, honeymooned there with his bride, Nancy. And now, The Wild Party was to shoot there. Arkoff was pleased by this cost-saving coup, which would provide his production a fantastic, atmospheric location. Since this was an AIP production, the cast and crew of The Wild Party were housed economically at a nearby Howard Johnson motel. At the relatively no-frills facility, the production provided no special accommodations for the stars or key members of the crew. Everyone had the same utilitarian quarters. Filming began on May 6, 1974. Walter Lassally, the German-born cinematographer, who had won an Academy Award for lensing Zorba the Greek (1964), was undertaking his fourth film collaboration with James Ivory. Ralph Lauren, a rising fashion designer who had just provided the costumes for Paramount's period outing The Great Gatsby (1974), agreed to do the main male characters' wardrobe for this ribald tale of the Roaring Twenties. The noted establishment of Van Cleef & Arpéis had been persuaded to loan jewelry to be used by cast members on camera. Meanwhile, in further counseling James Ivory for his Hollywood directing debut, George Cukor cautioned him to be very careful with the extras used for crowd scenes. According to Cukor, if not monitored carefully, these supernumeraries could easily spoil the intended look and feel of the period proceedings. George's advice was that James, in selecting the extras, spend the needed time to give each one a defined personality to help him or her remain in character when in front of the cameras. Unfortunately, due to the film's short production schedule and compact

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crew there was no time or support staff for the luxury of such tutoring. The director had to rely on the instincts of the 75-plus extras (who were tasked with multiple roles) to make the party sequences on the big screen seem heavily populated. Having already developed a satisfactory rapport with the experienced trouper James Coco, Ivory was focused primarily on guiding Raquel Welch through her challenging assignment. When the director had made his prior project, Autobiography of a Princess, costar James Mason had regaled the filmmaker with classic stories of what it was really like to work with Welch on 1973's The Last of Sheila. While forewarned, Ivory nonetheless was insufficiently prepared to deal with his demanding female star on The Wild Party. She arrived in Riverside with a typical movie star's entourage (including a drama coach and assorted gofers) and expected that they all would be given special consideration. This emergency situation was resolved through compromise, but no one was happy with the results. However, what proved most unnerving to Ivory was that Welch had built up a strong apprehension about working with James Coco. She was convinced that this old hand at stage acting would make her screen performance seem amateurish by comparison. As a result Raquel was highly suspicious of everyone on the set and was resistant to taking suggestions from a perplexed James Ivory. (As this was his debut Hollywood-shot feature, the director was especially eager to make a good impression on the film community. The last thing he wanted was to acquire a reputation for being unable to handle his stars on the set.) Ironically, the one person with whom Raquel seemed to get along on The Wild Party shoot was the actor she had come to fear—James Coco. (In fact, a few years later, in 1980, Welch would have Coco guest star on her ABC-TV variety special.) Desperate to find a satisfactory way to convey directorial touches to his supersensitive lead performer, the tactful Ivory developed an elaborate ruse. He was abetted in this scheme by Coco. Their system was that before shooting a key scene the director would meet secretly with Coco and go over the dynamics of the upcoming sequence. Once on set, Coco would "suddenly" come up with bright inspirations for him and Welch to use together. So that Raquel would be more receptive to such suggestions, Coco presented the ideas as having sprung from movements and line interpretations that Welch had used during rehearsals. Now convinced that she had originated these acting

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moves, Raquel was relatively amenable to doing the scene the way Coco suggested —providing some approximation of what Ivory had envisioned. This cumbersome subterfuge worked okay. However, nothing Ivory did directly seemed to please the overly sensitive Welch. According to the filmmaker, if he praised her on a scene well done, she was convinced that this erudite gentleman was somehow mocking her. She reacted by stalking off the set without ever acknowledging his compliments. This tense ongoing situation became harrowing to the moviemaker, who was struggling to bring credibility to Marks's already modified script. (During the shoot Arkoff kept reminding the filmmaker that he wanted the screenplay to be far less literate and much more sexually sensational.) After weeks of treading carefully to avoid upsetting his prickly star, Ivory finally fell victim to the cumulative pressure of the disconcerting situation. One evening the harried director made a tactical "mistake." Unable to mask the fact that a just-shot night scene needed to be redone, he dared to say aloud that he found the sequence "just a little bit boring." He respectfully suggested they do a new take. The indignant lead actress froze and then stalked off the set. Nothing would compel the fuming leading lady to return to work. Ivory feared that Welch might abandon the film and in so doing would lose the production the necessary backing of American International. Other forces on the picture went to appease Raquel. Finally, after much coaxing, she conceded she would return to her filming duties if Mr. Ivory apologized to her—in front of the entire cast and crew. Humiliated by the situation but traumatized by the possibility of losing Welch's services, Ivory agreed to the degrading demand. (The director's partner, Ismail Merchant, was aghast at Raquel's demand and begged his longtime friend not to humble himself thusly. The practical-minded Ivory explained he must do so for the good of their picture.) With the stage now set for a public apology, Welch defiantly strode front and center wearing a black satin robe. As production members stood around in a semicircle with the filming lights blazing on this "impromptu" scene, Raquel announced coyly, "Well, Mr. Ivory, I think you have something to say to me." An embarrassed but cool-acting Ivory managed to say, "Raquel, I'm so sorry that I offended you tonight." With that, filming began again, but the working relationship between Ivory and Welch remained strained throughout the shoot. Remaining the gentle-

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man, Ivory publicly admitted only years later what a great judgment error it had been to cast Welch in the lead role of The Wild Party.

Principal photography on The Wild Party concluded in mid-July 1975. When assembled, the initial rough cut of the film ran for a lengthy 135 minutes —much longer than the average AIP release. After a screening for studio executives in Los Angeles, James Ivory took the assemblage's critiques back to New York, where the picture was being edited. Some of the suggestions from the West Coast were followed, others ignored as being inappropriate. A month later, the director returned to the Coast to show the studio's decision makers the new version (which ran just under 120 minutes). This time around Arkoff was openly "disappointed" with the results. One of the producers, Edgar Lansbury, was on hand at this run-through, and looked glum. However, Ivory was confident that Lansbury, who had been supportive of the director throughout the problemplagued shoot, would remain in James's camp. Returning again to New York, Ivory received a list of suggestions (and orders) from AIP to improve The Wild Party. Still resisting many of the studio's requests for altering his picture (which included requests to condense Welch's major musical number, the naughty "Singapore Sally"), the director nevertheless trimmed an additional 10 minutes from the work print. Now the running time was down to about 108 minutes. Thereafter, a disgruntled Arkoff dispatched two of his associates to the East Coast to review the "final cut" so the film could hopefully meet its firmly established re-recording date. The Los Angeles duo were displeased with the version Ivory showed them. By now Lansbury and his partner (Joseph Beruh) had grown impatient with the continual interference from AIP and ordered the two representatives back to Los Angeles. Because cinematographer Walter Lassally already had returned abroad for a new film assignment, James Ivory went to the Los Angeles film lab himself where The Wild Party was going through its next post-production steps. AIP executives were on hand constantly. They carped about Ivory's artistic choices regarding each phase of the technical process. (If the director ordered the lab technicians to make a particular sequence darker to create a particular mood, the American International VPs piped up, "You

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have these fantastic sets, what do you want to make them so dark for?" As this battle of artistic wills continued, Ivory was made to feel that the studio believed "it was time . . . for the real professionals to take over." Finally, with the post-production process completed, the negative cut, and the initial prints being made, Ivory hoped that all his hassles with Arkoff and AIP were behind him. He was wrong! When Ismail Merchant requested prints of The Wild Party to show exhibitors back in Manhattan, the studio resisted the request. They disagreed with Merchant's concept that their picture should be released to appropriate art house showcase theaters in New York and Los Angeles as quickly as possible. (Merchant's theory was that The Wild Party should take advantage of the media hoopla that Paramount Pictures had created for its pending release of The Day of the Locust, another account of bygone Hollywood.) In addition, Merchant's suggested release pattern for The Wild Party, which had worked well for past Merchant Ivory pictures, upset AIP. The Hollywood contingent was used to the studio's standard method of releasing a picture on a massive scale rather than allowing word of mouth to build for a special type of entry. Eventually AIP handed over a print of The Wild Party to both Merchant and Lansbury. They, in turn, screened it for interested parties, including influential mainstream critics. It was hoped that if positive talk built about the movie, American International would think twice about its rumored plan to chop the picture down to 95 minutes or less. Not only did the key reviewers react favorably to The Wild Party, but so did Raquel Welch when she finally got to see her movie. Whereas during the shoot Raquel had been at strong odds with Ivory and his team, now she became a great booster of the film, especially after learning that several critics had been impressed by witnessing her previously untapped screen talents. (Time magazine found her "genuinely touching" and a "really sensual woman, not a creature of synthetic sexuality." Playboy magazine applauded Welch for "displaying a kind of fallen-angel vulnerability not often expressed in her standard sexpot roles.") Meanwhile, in late January/early February 1975, American International had tested The Wild Party with two southern California sneak previews: one in Santa Barbara, the other in San Diego. The Santa Barbara showing was a flop, with the predominantly college-student audience antagonistic to the "new" Raquel. On their response cards they badmouthed the sleek leading man (Perry King) and were annoyed that the

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picture was not a typical Raquel action-sex-fast-moving entry. In San Diego—where Raquel had grown up —the more conservative, middleaged preview audience had a far different reaction to the picture. They adored the "Singapore Sally" number while despising the orgy sequence and the fight scene. The Wild Party had reached a difficult crossroads. AIP had lost faith in the movie and was in no rush to distribute it. On the other hand, Lansbury-Beruh wanted the film released so they, perhaps, could get their money back on this harrowing venture. At this impasse Arkoff asked Lansbury whether the director might have thoughts on how further to trim back the picture. Working with a new editor, Ivory removed another eight minutes of the running time, mostly chopping out bits of footage showing characters entering and exiting scenes. AIP was still unhappy. They had hoped for a miracle in Ivory's cutting room. (Meanwhile, according to Ivory, Lansbury and Beruh had forwarded on to Sam Arkoff a private list of suggested cuts to be made to the picture.) Time passed, and Ivory again queried the studio as to what was happening to the much-postponed release. He heard rumblings that AIP was considering more cuts and pastes to make James Coco's character more audience-friendly. (This finally did occur, and it resulted in Coco's performance becoming an inconsistent series of overstated emotional moments.) Distraught at how their film was being mangled, Ivory and Merchant pleaded with the studio to—finally—release their movie. To distract himself, Ivory busied himself with editing Autobiography of a Princess, which was just now reaching its appointed release time. Through the industry grapevine, Raquel Welch learned that AIP was reportedly recutting her vehicle with an in-house editor. She advised her attorneys to inform the studio that unless she was shown the latest version of the picture and was happy with it, she would refuse to do any promotion for The Wild Party. When she sat through the further revamped print, she hated the results. While all of this was transpiring, Lansbury, Beruh, and Marks gave their stamp of approval to Arkoff's overhauled edition of the picture—which was now cut back to 90 minutes, the typical running time for an AIP release. By this point, according to Ivory, only 3 of the film's 60 scenes were left intact. In both the 90- and 100-minute editions oí The Wild Party, the basic plotline remains the same: silent film star Jolly Grimm is hosting a lavish get-together at his Hollywood mansion to screen his long-in-the-works

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vanity production, Brother Jasper, for key studio executives and local notables. During the premiere showing of this outdated silent film, several guests leave and others are too busy eating, drinking, snorting drugs, and carousing to pay much attention to Jolly's picture. Suddenly realizing his career is over, Grimm takes out his frustration on his loyal mistress, Queenie. In reaction, she adjourns to an upstairs bedroom with a good-looking guest. Later, a drunken, despondent Jolly shoots and kills both Queenie and her paramour. The scripter, wounded in the melee, recovers at the hospital, where he completes his poem "The Wild Party." Already news was circulating in Hollywood that The Wild Party was in deep trouble and might never get released. Ivory learned this when film festivals requesting screenings of the picture to consider it for inclusion in their lineups were refused by AIP. In the late spring of 1975 rumor had it that AIP was thinking of having a dual release oí The Wild Party: Ivory's 100-minute version in urban centers and Arkoff's truncated edition in small cities. Then, almost magically, American International had a change of heart. (Ivory credits the clout and persistence of Raquel Welch for this turnabout.) It was announced that The Wild Party would open in Boston and Washington, D.C., take its New York City bow, and then play in other cities. The director recalls that at the major party he and Merchant hosted in Manhattan to introduce the film's stars to the media, he was given clips of the film's recent D.C. debut. The press feedback about the movie was "terrible." When people in Boston had the same negative reaction, AIP withdrew the picture from its release schedule. By now Ivory and Merchant were convinced that one day soon they would discover that AIP was tossing into release the abbreviated 90minute version of The Wild Party. That idea horrified them. Then, while in London for pre-release work on Autobiography of a Princess, to his dismay Ismail discovered that in the adjoining screening room AIP was showing the 90-minute edition oí The Wild Party to exhibitors from the J. Arthur Rank circuit. After hearing this latest bad news, Ivory immediately wrote of his concerns to Arkoff. The director mentioned that he planned to take the matter public if AIP continued to disregard his wishes. As with past letters, this communication was ignored. In August 1975 Seven Keys, a British distribution company, screened the revamped The Wild Party for the U.K. trade press and several magazine critics. (Adding insult to injury, the British censors had chopped an

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additional three minutes from the movie's already diminished running time.) The chief executive of Seven Keys admitted to Ivory's lawyer that he had indeed seen the longer cut of the picture and that he preferred it. However, he explained that Rank was convinced that only the shorter version was worth exhibiting. Appalled at this state of affairs, a riled Ivory carried out his threat of taking his cause to the press. In a letter sent to assorted British film critics, the director stated that the "wreck that is about to be released in London as my work . . . is the distributor's cheap attempts to exploit everything exploitable." Ivory cited how deleted footage (sex episodes, unsatisfactory sequences) had been added back into the picture willy-nilly, along with bizarre flash-forwards andflashbacks.With all the changes made, Jolly Grimm emerged a far more sympathetic character, which destroyed the plot's thrust. Ivory's heartfelt, strong letter was quoted in print in full or in part by many British journalists. The rhubarb created great dissension in the film industry on both sides of the Atlantic. After AIP's long silence, Ivory suddenly heard from Arkoff's studio. They were shocked that the director had taken such a drastic step with his public communiqué. They threatened to hold the moviemaker personally liable for sabotaging the financial well-being of the release. Similar reactions came from Seven Keys's London representatives. They, too, demanded that Ivory "immediately desist" from his course of negative activity. They noted that they also would hold the director liable for the "devastating effect" his letter had had on the film's distribution.

1=1 Despite Ivory's campaign with the British press, the film received mixed reviews from English critics. The Spectator weighed, "Even after its adulteration it has the quality of a modern morality play." In contrast, the Financial Times argued, "At no time do the film's talented parts. . . [add] up to an effective whole. . . . I would doubt that the authorized version of The Wild Party is quite the masterpiece that its status as a cause célèbre helps to suggest. But there can be no doubt that American International have made things worse: and that what might at least have been a critical success for Ivory, if no great shakes at the box-office, is now doomed to sink without trace in both areas." The British Monthly Film Bulletin judged that "the upstairs orgies tend to break into the continuity like

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pseudo-pornographic afterthoughts, and the interjected romantic scenes between Welch and Perry King often create awkward ruptures in tone." Following its controversial brief release abroad, the short version of The Wild Party had a few scattered showings in the United States, then disappeared from sight in the era before VCRs and DVDs. In 1976 the short version aired briefly on pay cable and on network TV. Years later, in 1981, Merchant Ivory purchased back the British rights to its picture and were thus able to show the 100-minute version (the one now available on DVD). A jubilant Ivory told the press, "This really is my version. It is a poetic, artistic work. It is good. I like it very much. It restores some of my faith." The reviews in 1981 of the "restored" pictures were not positive: The New York Post reported, "It's all too clear why AIP with its tropism for the sensational grabbed the project, just as it is understandable in retrospect why they insisted on meddling with the serious Merchant-Ivory approach, and indeed, why the latter were not ideally equipped to handle this material most effectively." The New York Times was more blunt: "The movie often looks very good . . . but the script is. . . really terrible. Never do Mr. Ivory, Mr. Coco, Miss Welch and the others discover the proper way to play it, probably because it's unplayable. . . . The orgy is fairly funny, especially at the end when the exhausted guests are lying in awkward poses all over poor Jolly Grimm's house, suggesting that someone has inadvertently set off a lethal bug bomb."

Looking back on this most unhappy chapter in his lengthy filmmaking career (which has included three Academy Award nominations as Best Director), James Ivory described The Wild Party misadventure with, "The egos and temper tantrums in the heat of May and June, the large crowds of extras, the festering atmosphere reminded me of working among those tempestuous movie stars in Bombay." As to AIP's tampering with the picture, Ivory recalled, "They did more than reçut it. They turned it upside down." He also explained, "They removed a lot of the poetry and cut scenes which were important to establish characterizations." The director acknowledged, "It's standard procedure that a distributor has the right to edit any way they like and can even add new sequences, but ordinarily the director would be called in for consultation." Labeling AIP's final version "a mess," Ivory observed that The Wild Party "proves once more

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that you cannot effectively re-edit a picture and change its character in order allegedly to 'save' it."

1=1 The saga of The Wild Party did not end with the misguided film's rise and fall in the mid-1970s. In 1968 a diluted version of Joseph Moncure March's poem had been published in which the racial and social stereotypes were softened. It was an edition that the poet executed in the name of political correctness. Then, in 1994, Pantheon Books published a fresh edition of "The Wild Party," restoring the text to its original form. The new printing included striking black-and-white drawings of key moments in March's work. These were stylishly executed by Art Spiegelman, a magazine/adult-comic-book artist and publication editor whose Maus: A Survivor's Tale had earned a special Pulitzer Prize in 1992. The praised new edition of "The Wild Party" prompted the mounting of two competing musicals based on the cult classic poem. Both debuted in New York City in 2000. While neither production had a lengthy run, the rival stage shows renewed interest in the long-ago controversy over bringing The Wild Party to the screen and its ultimate commercial failure. It also brings to mind Samuel Z. Arkoffs bottom-line philosophy of picturemaking and how alien it was to the artistic vision of the literate James Ivory and Ismail Merchant. It was cigar-chomping Sam who summed up his lengthy experience in the film business with: Perhaps none of our AIP pictures were "classics" in the tradition of Gone With the Wind or Citizen Kane, but I've never believed that any of us really make movies for posterity. There's a difference between today's motion pictures and the art of Rembrandt, da Vinci, and Michelangelo, which have lived and flourished for centuries. Probably not a single picture produced by anyone will be anything but a historical memento in a few hundred years.

5 Popeye ( 1980) When I was training for Popeye, I thought this is it. This is my Superman [1978] and it's gonna go through the fuckin' roof. I also had the dream of getting up and thanking the Academy [of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences], but I got beyond the "this-is-it" stage as soon as we started shooting. After the first day on Popeye I thought "Well, maybe this isn't it," and I finally wound up going, "Oh God, when is this going to be over?" — R O B I N WILLIAMS,

1998

I n the 1970s—the decade in which powerful film directors dominated I the Hollywood production mill —Paramount Pictures was experiencI ing major management transitions. The studio traced its origins back to the formation of Famous Players Film Company in 1912 and the Jesse L. Lasky Feature Play Company in 1913, both of which later merged into one organization. In 1966 the financially shaky Paramount was absorbed into the Gulf + Western conglomerate empire. Eight years later the studio went through a new internal change of command. Barry Diller became the lot's chairman of the board and chief executive officer 00

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(and later became one of the industry's most formidable figures). Diller's squad included Michael D. Eisner as the company's president and chief operating officer and, in the mid-1970s, production designer Richard Sylbert as production head. In the corporate changeover, Robert Evans, the studio's former production chief, became an "independent" producer based at Paramount. As a producer Evans had great critical and box-office success with Chinatown (1974), but less positive results with both Marathon Man (1976) and Black Sunday (1977). Robert suffered negative returns with Players (1979), a toss-away romantic entry that featured his ex-wife, Ali MacGraw. Anxious to restore his luster and clout within the Hollywood community, the high-flying Evans had two high-status projects in the works at Paramount for 1980 release. One was the Texas-set Urban Cowboy starring John Travolta; the other was an unusual musical titled Popeye.

1=1 On April 21, 1977, Annie premiered at Broadway's Alvin Theater. Based on Harold Gray's enduringly popular comic strip, Little Orphan Annie, the stage musical ran for an impressive 2,377 performances. A few weeks after the upbeat show bowed, Robert Evans, the former actor who once worked in the New York garment industry with his older brother, took time out to see this tune fest, which featured the rousing song "Tomorrow." When he left the theater that night, Evans, a man of perspicacity and impulsiveness, was in a buoyant mood. The movie producer promptly contacted Paramount bigwig Barry Diller back in Los Angeles. Robert excitedly told his superior that they should immediately put a bid in for the screen rights to Annie. With Evans's solid reputation for sniffing out properties that would translate well to the big screen, and his remarkable box-office track record, Paramount put the machinery into motion to snap up Annie. However, this time around, the autocratic Evans, a hedonistic wheelerdealer, did not get his desired product. Other studios had entered the Annie bidding war. When the acquisition price rose to $10 million, Evans and Diller dropped out of the battle. The "victory" went to Columbia Pictures. (Released in 1982, the faltering screen adaptation of Annie, which cost an estimated $50 million, drew in only $37.5 million in North American theater rentals.)

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In the bidding fever to acquire Annie, Evans (and Diller) conveniently overlooked and/or ignored the studio's poor luck over the last decade in mounting screen musicals that made a real impact—let alone generated substantial money. The generally dismal earnings of Paramount^ Haifa Sixpence (1967), Paint Your Wagon (1969), On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (1970), Darling Lili (1970), and The Little Prince (1974) should have alerted the company's movers and shakers to a reality: at that time, song-and-dance entries generally fell into a black hole of wasted funds, energy, and time. (An exception to the rule would be the company's 1978 release Grease, produced by Allan Carr and starring John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. Made for roughly $6 million, this youth-oriented fare chalked up $96.3 million in domestic theater rentals, with a worldwide gross of nearly $380 million.) Undaunted, Evans was determined to make a big-screen musical and show the world that he could still be a big Hollywood winner. He appreciated that this movie genre was especially close to the heart of Charles Bluhdom, the head of Gulf + Western. Shepherding a musical to bigscreen profits would keep highly competitive Robert a top power player on the lot, where such people as writer/producer Don Simpson were climbing rapidly through the ranks. Evans searched around for another likely property. Then one day it occurred to him (or to a knowledgeable staff member) that Paramount still owned the screen rights to Popeye, a beloved comic strip. Robert was struck with a sudden inspiration —this property could make a wonderful musical picture! In wanting to transfer the cartoon Popeye into a new movie, Evans could point not only to Columbia's Annie but also to Warner Bros., which currently had a live-action version of the Superman comic strip in the works. (Made for an estimated $55 million, 1978's Superman would take in $82.8 million in domestic rentals and enjoy a global gross of nearly $290 million. It led to several sequels.) Robert sensed there was a potentially wide (family/youth) audience for a comic-strip property restructured as a live-action feature (with the added bonus of song and dance). The basic concept—without the musical overlay—would become a Hollywood mainstay decades later with such lucrative movie franchises as Batman (1989), The Crow (1994), Blade (1998), X-Men (2000), and Spider-Man (2002). Once he latched onto the high concept of Popeye as a potential new Paramount vehicle, Evans's tenacity and vanity would not let him be

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deterred. It did not faze him that the film lot had faltered with L'il Abner, a 1959 movie adaptation of the Broadway musical success (which sprang from Al Capp's popular cartoon strip). Robert was certain that he had a winning idea with Popeye and could sell it to the moviegoers of the day. Immediately he began assembling the creative team needed to make his most recent pet project a triumphant reality. Despite his serious attention to womanizing, partying, and playing the Hollywood game of extravagant materialism, Evans was a dynamic, hands-on type of film executive. He subscribed to the theory that "the producer is the most important element of a film. It's the producer who hires the director. . . . The producer buys the property, he hires the writer, the director; he's involved in hiring all the actors, involved with production, costs, post-production and involved with marketing. He's on a film for four or five years and [usually] gets very little credit for it." (The last point was not really true in Evans's case. As a major participant on the Tinseltown work and social scene, he always managed to remain in the limelight, ensuring that the world knew full well who was really in charge of his pictures.)

E. C. "Elzie" Segar (1896-1938) began his illustrating/cartooning career in Chicago in the mid-1910s and soon had his own strip at the American, one of the Windy City's several newspapers. By 1919 Segar had been hired away by William Randolph Hearst's New York Evening Journal. There E. C. inaugurated the syndicated property Thimble Theater. Although Segar was not a remarkable artist, he had the knack of presenting engagingly loopy adventures in his newspaper forum. These strips not only satirized other adventure offerings but also poked fun at mores and politics at home and abroad. The initial roster of lead characters in Segar's new strip included Ham Gravy (the hero), Olive Oyl (his gal friend), and Castor Oyl (her brother). Despite its complicated, sprawling, and often weird plotlines, Thimble Theater caught on with the newspaperreading public. The January 17, 1929, installment of Thimble Theater introduced a new character. In that installment Ham and Castor, about to embark on an ocean voyage requiring a sturdy seaman, approach a veteran salt they spy standing on the dock. They ask the mangy stranger with the one-eye

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squint, "Are you a sailor?" To which the corncob pipe-smoking individual replies, "Ja think Fm a cowboy?" This was the birth of Popeye, the Sailor Man. The inimitable figure quickly became the focus of the ongoing strip, which soon became known as Thimble Theater, Starring Popeye. By late 1932 Max and Dave Fleischer, who operated an animation studio that produced, among other entries, the successful Betty Boop cartoons for Paramount Pictures, were seeking a new property. They negotiated with Hearst's King Features Syndicate for the screen rights to Popeye. The Fleischers debuted their new Paramount-released series with Popeye, the Sailor Man in July 1933. The shorts continued for the next 24 years — through changes of producers and talent—for a total of 234 episodes. Meanwhile, the property was launched in other formats: book adventures, three different radio series, and a host of merchandising items. Over these decades the spinach-loving gob with the massive arms became world famous, renowned for mumbling slangy dialogue out of the side of his mouth and foiling his adversaries. Everyone seemed enamored of this crusty old dog, along with his super-skinny, perpetually jittery girlfriend (Olive) and his burly, bearded nemesis (Bluto). The original movie cartoons were released to television in 1958, followed by a freshly made Popeye cartoon TV series (1960-1962). That, in turn, prompted the animated The All-New Popeye Hour in 1978 (which in different formats endured until 1983).

In reviewing his fast-track, glitzy show business life, Robert Evans said once, "I didn't hang around with famous people . . . they hung around with me." In the 1970s his coterie of close Tinseltown pals included major actors Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, and Dustin Hoffman. Hoffman had starred in Evans's Marathon Man, and the two compulsive, self-focused individuals had become friends. They often played tennis on the courts of Robert's plush French Regency-style Beverly Hills home. Evans had a flash of inspiration that the five-foot-six-inch Dustin, then turning 40 years old, would be "ideal" to portray the unique Popeye. The notion appealed to Hoffman. Enthusiastically he began delving into ways to translate effectively the two-dimensional sailor into a flesh-andblood onscreen person. Although to date he had played a wide variety of

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film types, he had never danced or sung his way through a movie musical comedy. To prepare himself for the upcoming challenge, the actor took dance and voice lessons. With Dustin now attached to Evans's vehicle, Paramount became far more intrigued with Robert's wacky venture. However, as the production costs for the undertaking were detailed, the studio became increasingly concerned about the tally. Whereas the average Hollywood studio-made feature in the late 1970s cost approximately $9.4 million, the budget for the brewing Popeye was escalating quickly to more than $11 million and soon would reach $13.5 million. Paramount decision makers balked at the risky high price for Evans's wild gamble. After much negotiation the producer worked out a deal whereby the expensive picture would become a coproduction of Paramount and the Walt Disney Studio. The two partners would share responsibilities, expenses, distribution territories, and, they hoped, massive profits. (The Disney lot had tremendous experience in marketing and merchandising family-oriented product. The company was a past master at bringing cartoon properties to the screen, albeit not live-action renditions of cartoon strips.) With the star and financing for Popeye "settled," Evans turned to hiring the appropriate scriptwriter to translate Popeye into a winning screen presentation. Paramount executive Richard Sylbert had worked with screenwriter Jules Feiffer on the highly successful Carnal Knowledge (1971). Sylbert suggested that this East Coast talent would be ideal for the task ahead, insisting, "Feiffer is the only guy who can make cartoon characters come alive on the screen." When it served the cause, Evans could be a team player. He agreed to meet with Feiffer. Born in the Bronx in 1929, the precocious Jules was drawn to the art field at an early age. He studied at the Art Students League of New York and later enrolled at Brooklyn's Pratt Institute. In the 1940s he apprenticed with Will Eisner, who created the well-regarded cartoon The Spirit. By the 1950s Feiffer had brought his cartoon talents to the Village Voice (he would later also contribute to the New York Times), where, over the next four decades, he produced prolifically. (Originally his cartoon entry was entitled Sick, Sick, Sick: A Guide to Non-Confident Munro. Later it was labeled simply Feiffer. Jules utilized a trademark stark drawing style, which showcased effectively his biting, witty political cartoons.) Feiffer entered the film industry ranks by designing an animated short (1958's Foofle's Train Ride). Thereafter, in 1961, an animated movie of

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his Munro character won an Oscar in the Best Short Subject—Cartoon category. Jules's short-lived Broadway play, Little Murders (1967)—an ironic, often savage commentary on family life, urban violence, and apathy—became a 1971 feature. It earned Feiffer a Writers Guild of America award nomination in the Best Adaptation category. That same year, he received more acclaim for scripting the hit picture Carnal Knowledge. As a passionate creative force who was politically left-wing, Jules was known for his cynical, often self-deprecating remarks ("I grew up to have my father's looks, my father's speech patterns, my father's posture, my father's opinions, and my mother's contempt for my father"). When Evans discussed Popeye with Feiffer, the latter allowed that he would be agreeable to writing the screenplay, as he venerated its late creator. However, he had one condition: the script must be faithful to E. C. Segar's original strips, not the distorted variations used for Paramount's past animated shorts. For his part, the producer demanded that Feiffer emphasize the sailor man's uniqueness. The script must stress that in today's cookie-cutter world, individuality was a highly admirable trait. In Evans's view, Popeye's doctrine —"I yam what I yam (and that's all that I yam)"—had to be the script's driving force. The producer, who related strongly to the character's philosophy of life, felt that this was at the heart of Popeye's enormous popularity. "Though it was written fifty years ago, it's so much more today that it was fifty years ago. That's what I . . . [want] to get across in the story—that one line. People are individuals. They are what they are." Jules agreed to the guidelines. As 1977 moved into 1978, and on into early 1979, Jules wrote several Popeye screenplay drafts. Each one came a bit closer to Robert's particular vision. Meanwhile, between other projects, Dustin Hoffman had expended considerable time and effort preparing for his challenging characterization. Becoming increasingly itchy to nail down his difficult role, he arranged for Feiffer to meet with him at the actor's East Seventyfourth Street town house to review the current script. According to Jules, Hoffman "kept me waiting two whole days. By the time the little fuck gave me an audience, I was drunk." When the conference finally occurred, the two opinionated personalities clashed badly. Each party grew increasingly stubborn in holding firm to his interpretation of what the script should encompass. A quirky perfectionist, Dustin grew frustrated that he was not getting his points across and angrily ended the session, much to Jules's bewilderment. In a fit of pique, the actor called his friend Evans

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on the West Coast and announced that he could not work with Feiffer. Hoffman gave the producer an ultimatum: It would have to be either Dustin or Jules on the project, but not both. Common wisdom in Hollywood would have suggested that the producer side with the lead actor. Not only was Dustin a three-time Best Actor Oscar nominee and a box-office draw, but he also was Robert's buddy. To everyone's amazement Evans sided with Feiffer (who had devoted so many months to revamping the script), and Hoffman soon dropped out of Popeye. The slick producer and the intense movie star did not speak to each other for a long time thereafter. At this tenuous stage Paramount/Disney could have easily canceled the iffy project. After all, as Evans acknowledged candidly, "Without Dustin, I had nothing but a script." However, luck was with the glib producer. He boldly informed the studio's power brokers that Popeye was such a sure-bet property it did not require a name star to succeed magnificently. Reaching, Evans theorized that even that fellow—whose name he could not at the moment recall—who was on the cover of the previous week's Newsweek could easily handle the pivotal part. Evans was referring to the fast-rising comedian Robin Williams. It just so happened that this motormouthed standup comic was working already for Paramount—costarring on a sitcom for the studio's TV division. On Mork ó Mindy (1978-1982) Robin played Mork from the planet Ork. Because of his too-humorous approach to life, which upset the serious-minded Orkians, the misfit had been dispatched to the distant planet of Earth to observe what made those "crazies" tick. He was then to report back his findings to his homeland. The debut season of this ABC-TV show was warmly received by viewers and critics. In the wake of the tremendous success of Mork Ó Mindy, its idiosyncratic star suddenly had to cope with enormous fame and elevation into an A-list lifestyle. In the process Robin realized how bored he was by the weekly grind of manufacturing a TV series. Meanwhile, the network and the show's producers began tinkering with the program's successful formula, its cast, and its Thursday evening time slot. (The ratings would plummet in the second season.) As all these disturbing events were occurring, the restless Robin Williams was eager for any creative break from his Mork Ó Mindy prison. In particular he hoped to cross over into feature films. (Williams had already performed in an uninspired 1977 movie revue, Can I Do It. . . Till I Need Glasses.

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However, his skits had been deleted from the insipid sex-themed entry. After Robin's burst of TV fame, the film was reissued in 1979 with Williams's few sequences reinstated.) By April 1979 it was confirmed that 27-year-old Robin Williams would star in Popeye. Born in Chicago to an upscale family, Robin attended the Juilliard School in Manhattan. Later, his wild sense of humor made him a favorite on the comedy-club circuit. He had a razorsharp mind, a rapid-fire delivery, and a penchant for jumping madly from one topic to another. Onstage his enormous energy level and biting wit were pushed several notches higher due to the use of assorted stimulants. (He quipped once, "Cocaine is God's way of telling you [that] you are making too much money.") With a bullet-fast presentation and his off-the-wall comedie observations and imitations, Williams was regarded as a highly talented "lunatic." (Such categorization prompted the brainy funster to observe, "You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it.") With Williams set in the title role, there was still the question of who would play the uniquely shaped, shrill-voiced Olive Oyl. Originally, when Dustin Hoffman was to portray the beloved seaman, Lily Tomlin was a top contender for the female colead. When Dustin left the venture and there were new delays in scheduling the project, Tomlin became unavailable. Some Paramount executives thought that Gilda Radner, then part of the stock company on TV's Saturday Night Live, would be an ideal replacement. (A faction on the lot, however, was concerned that Gilda was "too Jewish.") Negotiations were under way with the SNL comedian, but, so far, no agreement had been finalized.

1=1 In bringing together all the disparate Popeye elements, Robert Evans had been stymied in landing and keeping a director he and the Paramount/ Disney forces both approved. (In filling the crucial project post, Evans was guided by his principle: "When a director hires a producer, you're in deep shit. A director needs a boss, not a yes man." ) Originally Hal Ashby (director of such 1970s features as Harold and Maude, Shampoo, and Coming Home) had been slated to helm Popeye. He dropped out of participation in the wake of the production delays caused by Hoffman's sudden departure. A host of other name directors was then considered,

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ranging from Arthur Penn to Mike Nichols. All of them proved either uninterested in the project or committed elsewhere. Meanwhile, the current Popeye script had come to the attention of filmmaker Robert Altman. Born in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1925, the lapsed Catholic and born rebel had served in World War II as a bomber pilot. Upon his discharge the restless young man moved from one business venture to another before winding up in Los Angeles. There he had little success breaking into films as a scriptwriter. Returning to his Midwestern hometown, he worked for a firm making industrial films and learned the full range of movie directing. In 1957 he helmed his first feature, the lowbudget The Delinquents. Again back in Hollywood, he spent the next decade directing episodes of several TV series. After many other directors had declined to direct M*A*S*H (1970), an antiwar black comedy, the major studio project was offered to Altman for a low fee. Initially reluctant to work under the confines of the studio system, he finally accepted the challenge. He turned out a sensational commercial success and also won an Oscar nomination as Best Director. Always the maverick out to subvert the establishment, Altman's subsequent 1970s directing assignments were a mixed bag. Such diverse genre entries as McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971) and Thieves Like Us (1974) won critical endorsement but were box-office disappointments. As always, the fast-living, hard-drinking, womanizing Altman was quick to create (new) industry enemies and even faster to badmouth openly his latest adversaries. Bouncing back with 1975's stunning Nashville (Paramount), a quasimusical, he earned another Best Director nomination from the Academy. Remaining true to form, the strong-willed Robert still refused to parlay his recent accomplishment into more commercial successes. Instead, he directed —or sometimes produced through his Lion's Gate Films company—a series of quirky pictures (including 1977's Three Women, 1978's A Wedding, and 1979's A Perfect Couple). These failed to appeal to mass audiences and often, as with 1979's oblique and depressing Quintet, were self-indulgent and sloppy. His spotty industry track record combined with his thorny, self-destructive nature —unpredictable, pigheaded, and abrasive—brought him to yet another low professional ebb. (Currently he was feuding with the Twentieth Century-Fox marketing department about his recently completed Health. As a result this screen satire was sitting on the shelf, eventually to be given very limited distribution in 1982.)

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As Altman explained his ongoing contretemps with the Hollywood establishment, "We're not against each other. They sell shoes and I make gloves." By all indicators Airman's status as an insolent insurgent constantly battling the Tinseltown forces made him a most improbable candidate to be handed the high-profile Popeye. However, Altman had a bit of history with Evans. Once, back in New York at Elaine's, a trendy restaurant, the producer had stopped to chat with Altman. The latter was in great pain, suffering from a severe back problem. Evans suggested a physician, who worked medical wonders with the ailing director. When next the two men happened to meet—again at Elaine's—a grateful Altman expressed his appreciation for the favor. Later that evening Evans sent a note over to the filmmaker. It read, "You owe me a picture." The director scratched out the words and scribbled, "I owe you my life." Another facet of Evans's mercurial nature was his penchant for hiring directors who were then at a career low point but who had once exhibited great talent. Evans believed that past high creativity could be nurtured to a new peak. He had proven this with Francis Ford Coppola on The Godfather (1972). The producer was now amenable to being Altman's all-powerful benefactor even though he, like the director, was suspicious of the other's methods of operation. While the studio honchos viewed Altman as a loose cannon and much preferred bringing a more commercial director onto Popeye, Evans refused to budge on his hunch. Thus, the eclectic Altman was hired.

1=1 Over the next months Altman and Feiffer collaborated on refining the Popeye screenplay to point up the plot's morality tale of a young man searching for his long-lost father, finding love, and becoming an adoptive parent. (Altman said, "The only thing we're doing in Popeye is showing a microcosm of an oppressed society.") Meanwhile, Robin Williams had rid himself of 20 pounds through exercise, was taking tap and boxing lessons, and was getting himself into excellent physical shape through gymnastic training. While the director was pleased with Evans's choice of leading man, Altman did not want to use Gilda Radner as Olive Oyl. Always loyal to his own stock company of movie players, he urged the casting of Shelley Duvall.

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The five-foot-eight-inch Duvall was just turning thirty and was at her own career impasse. Having made her movie debut in Airman's Brewster McCloud (1970), the gangly Texan had appeared in several later entries for the director. For her costarring role in Altaian's Three Women (1977), she was named Best Actress at the Cannes Film Festival. Despite such accolades the Hollywood studios did not consider her viable leading lady material. They were turned off by her unconventional looks and unique persona. Consequently she did not make another film until Stanley Kubrick cast her opposite Jack Nicholson in The Shining (1980). Having endured a miserable time abroad on that shoot, she returned to the United States to find that Altman was paging her to play Olive Oyl. She was giddy at the opportunity of working with her mentor again. With her quirky features, voice, and nature, Duvall seemed an ideal fit to play the sailor's odd true love, the long-legged gal with the strange hairdo. However, as could be anticipated, Paramount resisted casting her in the role. They fought Altman on this choice, even after Shelley made an effective screen test. However, Evans, increasingly preoccupied with getting John Travolta's Urban Cowboy into successful release, deferred increasingly to Altaian's wishes and managed to push through an approval for Shelley. Soon thereafter, six-foot-four-inch Paul L. Smith was cast as the villainous brute, Bluto. At one point months earlier, comedian Buddy Hackett had been mentioned for the role of the hamburger-loving Wimpy. However, the part went to Paul Dooley, another frequent Altman player. Seasoned actor Ray Walston was recruited to be Poopdeck Pappy, the man who turns out to be Popeye's dad. In a bit of nepotism, the director's grandson, Wesley Ivan Hurt, was assigned to play the good-natured Swee' Pea, the discarded infant Popeye and Olive Oyl find and nurture. (Casting this relative meant that Altaian's then somewhat estranged daughter would be on the set throughout the shoot.)

1=1 For an original screen musical it might have made good sense to settle on the songwriter(s) early in pre-production. However, as with so much on Popeye, things took a topsy-turvy course. With Altman now on the film, there was discussion of using Leonard Cohen, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, or Randy Newman to compose the picture's score and songs. Instead, Altman fixed on Brooklyn-born Harry Nilsson, the pianist/songwriter/

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vocalist noted for singing the theme song in the movie Midnight Cowboy (1969). Generally, when not turning out his own albums, Harry worked on little-seen pictures, including such clinkers as Paramount's Skidoo (1968). As Altman recollected years later about hiring Nilsson, "Nobody wanted him at first except Robin [Williams]. Everyone said, 'You'll get in trouble with him—he'll get drunk, he won't do it, he's washed up.' As a matter of fact, I said all of those things about Harry to Robin myself one day. Then I went home and thought about it and said to myself, 'Jesus, that's what people are saying about me!' So I called Harry Nilsson, because I had never met him in my life, and we got along terrifically."

1=1 After a long and bumpy gestation period, Popeye lurched into preproduction in the fall of 1979. Although summertime would have been the ideal season in which to film the project (largely set outdoors), waiting until then would lose them the services of Williams, who had prior commitments to tape a new season of his TV series. Besides, Paramount/ Disney decreed that Christmas 1980 was the best time to release this family-oriented feature. This deadline required that the shoot commence no later than January 1980. In choosing a filming site for Popeye, Robert Altman—who abhorred working on studio sound stages —picked Malta, a republic in southern Europe. Comprising three adjacent islands in the Mediterranean Sea south of Sicily, Malta has a total land area of 122 square miles and a population of about 300,000. Since the days of the ancient Phoenicians, Malta had been key to the maritime trade. From 1814 to 1964 it was held by the British. As its naval importance declined over the centuries, its tourism business grew. Malta attracted Altman for several reasons. Its climate was Mediterranean, which meant the summers were generally hot and dry and the winters mild and sometimes rainy. (The filmmaker was gambling that this would be an atypically dry winter.) There was also a large water tank facility that had been used on other movie shoots that seemed just right for Popeyes climax, in which the vigorous sailor and the others battle a menacing octopus. Then too, many of the population spoke English. Most important, this out-of-the-way location was thousands of miles from

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Los Angeles, which Altman hoped would minimize studio interference. (In addition, Malta's being off the beaten path would keep a good deal of the media away during production. This pleased the freewheeling Altman but bothered the Paramount/Disney marketing departments, which wanted to build as much press as possible for their expensive feature film.) Airman's team at Lion's Gate had dealt with difficult location shoots before, so working on Malta was not an impossible challenge to them. However, the director's core staff was suffering from internal dissension and personnel defection. As everyone geared up for Popeye, Tommy Thompson, the filmmaker's longtime right hand (and once good friend), became fed up with the shifting sands of power at Lion's Gate and, eventually, quit in disgust as Popeye's filming was getting under way. Among the remaining subordinates was Robert "Egg" Eggenweiler, an assistant/ associate producer on many Altman projects. Like Thompson and several others, Egg was in constant conflict with Scott Bushnell, a driven female staff member. The latter had begun with Robert Altman by working on wardrobe for Thieves Like Us. Insinuating herself into the inner circle, she had risen to being the moviemaker's casting director, then costume designer, and later associate producer on his features. On the road to becoming the boss's chief confidante, she grew combative with anyone who seemingly sought to diminish her power. (Some observers said it was she who encouraged Robert's anti-Hollywood stance.) Although Bushnell and Altman would go their separate ways after Kansas City (1996), at the time of Popeye the filmmaker was content to let her make many production decisions —and the hell with anyone whose feelings might be hurt. A particular sore point with Thompson and Eggenweiler had been the choice of Wolf Kroeger as art director on the new picture. (Kroeger had done similar chores on Altman's much-reviled Quintet and had been associate producer on the director's ill-fated Health.) With Altman's okay, Kroeger was building the fictional New England seaport town of Sweethaven at Anchor Bay, an isolated horseshoe-shaped cove situated on Malta's northwest side. After needed access roads were built and an artificial breakwater in the bay was created by partially sinking a ship there, construction of the ramshackle Sweethaven fishing village began in September 1979 using a crew of 165 workers. In a grandiose attempt to make the sets substantial,

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special lumber was imported from Austria, and hand-split roofing shingles were sent over from British Columbia. Over the next months 19 deliberately off-kilter buildings (including the Roughhouse Café, the Oyl house, and a working sawmill) were erected on Malta. They were not the usual structural fronts employed in most movie productions but freestanding, four-sided buildings (which added to the cost and complexity of construction). Meanwhile, half-submerged vessels in Anchor Bay were refitted to become the story's gambling casino, the Commodore's headquarters, and Max & Sons Square Gardens —"the World's Only Floating Arena." (Adding to all this effort and cost, several shops were built on the island to handle different facets of the elaborate set building, along with a recording studio, which proved too makeshift and caused many production problems, editing facilities, a screening room, a dining hall, rehearsal quarters, and living accommodations in a compound for the cast and crew. What upset Thompson and Eggenweiler about the emerging sets was that they were so bleak and sinister-looking. They agreed this was all wrong for a supposedly lighthearted, positive musical and would give Altman problems as he began filming. Bushnell favored the foreboding ambiance of Kroeger's Sweethaven, and Altman sided with her. During this crucial decision-making period and the brewing contretemps among Altman's inner circle, producer Evans was preoccupied with post-production work on Urban Cowboy and an assortment of personal concerns, leaving him little time or inclination to give his "cherished" Popeye the full attention it needed.

Filming on Popeye officially began on January 28, 1980. From the start the filmmaker was under a great deal of pressure, which he did his best to disguise from the others. Not only was his directing career on the line with this high-profile assignment, but the picture presented special obstacles. According to him, "The biggest problem we had making Popeye is that we had no norm to fall back on. [Unlike Superman or Batman] Popeye . . . was not sci-fi or derring-do, it was more an old-fashioned romance." To achieve his vision, Altman has said, "I wanted a different look. I wanted a roundness, even though the characters are two-dimensional. I wanted a tone and sense of realism, but not in a literal sense."

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In the coming months the director would also find himself hamstrung by the fact that this production was being made under the partial aegis of Disney, so its content had to be sufficiently "innocent" to earn at least a PG (Parental Guidance Suggested) rating from the Motion Picture Association of America. This meant that Altman constantly had to be on the lookout for any potential bawdiness within the dialogue and the action. (One expletive —in which Popeye jumps into the water and says "Oh, shit!" —escaped Altaian's notice, and when that footage reached the Disney studio back in Burbank, California, there was soon hell to pay back on Malta.) It did not take long for those in the cast and crew who were unfamiliar with Altman's filmmaking methods to realize that this would be no ordinary production. A great believer in community, the director delighted in having a self-contained, isolated locale where the film's talent and workers could live and bond together over the coming weeks. These participants were sometimes joined by family, friends, and/or lovers, with Robert orchestrating the entire situation like a feudal lord. (Among those not so happy to be confined together on such a desolate spot was star Robin Williams and his then wife, Valerie Velardi. A dancer by profession, she had come on location to play a tiny role in Popeye and to help with the dance sequences. Married less than two years to the comedian, she was keeping tabs on her spouse, who was inclined toward romantic encounters with other women.) Jules Feiffer had come to Malta because the script was constantly being rewritten as the shoot progressed, and the reconstruction of the movie's finale depended on how earlier scenes were captured on camera. (Said Jules, "The way Altman shoots sometimes alters or makes unnecessary later scenes in the script.") The scripter arrived on location with great concerns about the director's excessive focus on the characterizations of the minor townsfolk and his seeming lack of concern for the character development of the central figures. (Belatedly and too deep into the filmmaking process, Altman would discover the flaw in Feiffer's having engineered his dialogue to resemble the comic strip's text balloons with their abbreviated, simplistic wordage. It became evident that this served only to confuse audiences as to plot points and —even worse —diminished viewers' attention spans.) Eventually, Feiffer and Altman worked in wary harmony on Malta, but the two were often on the brink of exploding into new battles of creative disagreements.

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In addition, Jules was disturbed when he first heard the compositions Harry Nilsson was preparing for Popeye (some of which were being turned out at the last minute on Malta). Feiffer was convinced that Altman had made a horrible choice of a composer, in that the lyrics did not seem to suit the characters. (Later the director compounded the problem by switching some of the numbers intended for particular figures to others.) It also did not help matters that the filmmaker insisted on shooting the singing live, which created sound problems and vocal distortions on the sound track. The snowballing situation led to a round of complaints among the creative personnel about one another. Eventually, the grievances reached Evans back in Hollywood, forcing the producer to break away from other chores to pacify—temporarily—the various parties. (Partway through the shoot Nilsson left the production, and some of the songs were completed by Tom Pierson and the orchestrations by Van Dyke Parks.) Meanwhile, the director was having problems reining in Robin Williams, a moviemaking novice who was used to improvising dialogue (a holdover from his stand-up days). Between Altman and Feiffer, they were able to somewhat tone down the actor's zealous spontaneity with the scripted words while allowing Williams more freedom to riff on the script's physical action. Robin soon discovered he had a host of other obstacles to overcome with his sailor man characterization. The part called for him to work with one eye squinted shut (as was true of the cartoon Popeye) and to mumble out of the side of his mouth while firmly clenching a corncob pipe in his teeth. Because Popeye traditionally spoke in fractured English, the resultant sounds that came out of the actor's mouth were often hard to distinguish. (It led to Robin's having to redub much of his dialogue twice in post-production, and even then the sound track was often hard for audiences to understand.) An even greater hitch was the special-effects makeup devised to create the gob's oversized forearms. The original set of wraparound inflated muscles made by American crew members just did not function properly, nor did they look credible on camera. While new ones were being constructed at great cost in Italy, for a month Altman had to shoot around his leading man whenever a setup shot called for the star's forearms to be visible. When the new rubber and plastic arm prostheses arrived and were tried out, Williams discovered that they not only restricted his arm

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movements but also almost completely cut off his circulation. However, they looked okay to the camera's eye and were used in the filming. As a result of the artificial muscles, Robin could only work with these devices for so long before his arms went numb. Then shooting had to be halted while the star got the bloodflowingagain in his limbs. All in all it proved a painful and time-consuming ordeal for the lead player. If these delays were not damaging enough, the weather proved uncooperative and there were many, many days of rain on location. With everyone stuck on Malta, the Popeye company soon developed island fever. While it had always been traditional on past Altman shoots for his community to have a rip-roaring time on their nights and weekends away from filming, the situation got out of hand on Popeye. If the consumption of drugs and booze had been rampant on past pictures, it was wild on the Mediterranean isle, where everyone was extremely bored, creatively frustrated, and longing to return home. (Altman has recalled, "There was a lot of cocaine and a lot of drugs going around. Everybody was shipping stuff in.") Robin, in particular, grew highly agitated by the stretched-out production schedule in the disorganized, overcrowded compound that he labeled "Stalag Altman." Initially he had been thrilled to get away from the Hollywood hubbub surrounding his Mork Ö Mindy success, but now he craved after-work activities that only a big urban center provided. He found little satisfaction in the nightly communal showing of the footage shot that day and longed for the chance to blow off steam in the way he found most satisfying—doing stand-up comedy. In desperation he scoured the island for local bars, where he would often perform in front of the soused patrons.

1=1 As Popeye hobbled along, several on the production wondered —as would critics and moviegoers later—why Evans-Altman had bothered to make this live-action cartoon a musical. (Many observers later theorized that this entry was Airman's turn at deconstructing yet another of Hollywood's established film genres, as he had with several other movie formats previously.) Certainly the dancing "choreographed" for this undertaking was not in the traditional Fred Astaire-Gene Kelly movie mode. Rather, in

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Popeye, the actors were directed to move —like cartoon characters —in a jerky manner. This resulted in no one's being rhythmically graceful on camera. Whenever a "dance" scene did occur, for some reason Altman confined the action to a claustrophobic setting, which prevented the performers from really letting loose. (This particularly bothered Williams during a major dance sequence he shared with Duvall. He thought that in the tradition of the Popeye movie cartoons, he should swing his game lady love all about and really "kick out the jams.") As for the film's songs, they were hardly geared to stick in viewers' minds. Such tepid offerings as "He Needs Me" or "He's Large" (both sung by Duvall) or "Blow Me Down" (performed by Williams) were overly simplistic in melody and lyrics (and not much saved by such plays on words as "I'm no physicist, but I know what matters"). These numbers were guaranteed from the start to never climb onto any recording industry bestseller charts. Even Robin's rendition of the picture's anthem, "I Yam What I Am," lacked special magic. The picture's most "memorable" musical interlude was Robin and company performing "Popeye the Sailor Man," but that was a nostalgic rehash of the tune created long ago for the old Paramount cartoon shorts.

1=1 Occasionally, an executive team from the Los Angeles-based Paramount/ Disney combine jetted over to Malta (usually with a pleasant stopover in Rome) to observe firsthand why production costs were constantly rising—soon to reach beyond the $20 million mark. On a few occasions Robert Evans made the transatlantic trek himself. On one of these visits, his baggage got mislaid en route. In a panic, the producer made frantic calls back to Hollywood to explain to confidants —who had powerful connections—that his vanished luggage was loaded with drugs and other items he was couriering to the Popeye location (and also for his own use). If the contents became known to the Malta authorities, it would be a great embarrassment to this family-oriented project and could certainly damage Paramount's working relationship with the image-sensitive Disney organization. Emergency calls were placed to Washington, D.C., where none other than former secretary of state Henry Kissinger was persuaded to help solve the problem The missing bags were located and delivered to the frenzied producer in Malta.

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(In May 1980 Evans, who freely admitted his excessive past usage of recreational drugs in his 1994 memoir, The Kid Stays in the Picture, would be implicated in a U.S.-based federal drug bust involving his brother and another associate. The situation created a major humiliation for the movie producer, who in his panic over the potentially career-shattering episode chose not to ask for the help of Sidney Korshak—a famous and powerful mob lawyer who was a longtime mentor of the fast-and-loose Evans. Eventually, on July 31, 1980, while Popeye was in post-production, the producer pleaded guilty in court to a misdemeanor charge of cocaine possession. As his atonement he was placed on a year's probation and required to produce a public service antidrug message.)

1=1 The action highlight of Popeye was designed to be the climactic battle between Popeye, Olive Oyl, and company, and the belligerent octopus. However, in conformity with everything else involved in this picture, as time came to film this haphazard sequence, no one could get the mechanical sea animal to function in a usable manner. As a result, the take-it-as-it-comes Altman chose to go with what he had, and he relied on the performers (such as Shelley Duvall) to grab onto the artificial water creature and pretend to be engaged in a battle to the finish. If this situation was not severe enough to diminish the film's finale, by mid-1980 the Hollywood studio powers had had enough of the dragged-out shooting and skyrocketing costs on Popeye. They ordered Altman and his squad back to Hollywood, where they would have to piece together the footage the best they could.

1=1 Finally, after some less-than-spectacular previews of Popeye, the expensively mounted misadventures of the spinach-fueled sailor man debuted in early December 1980 (in the same month that Universale also expensively mounted cartoon-to-live-action feature, Flash Gordon, failed to generate good box office). Newsweek faulted Altman's style on Popeye, saying it flattened out "characters who ought to burst forth in bold relief," and calling the slapstick "too distanced and joyless." The publication also noted, "The songs and minimal dances are designed for singers who

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can't sing and dancers who can't dance." As to the coleads: "The fault is not in the performances by Williams and Duvall, but rather, I suspect, in Altman's refusal to allow any movie-star turns to violate the onedimensional texture he's created." The New York Times criticized, "You keep expecting the film to erupt with the kind of boisterousness that is only possible in a musical. It never ever does. The dances, like the music, are tentative and restrained." While acknowledging that both Ray Walston (as Poopdeck Pappy) and Wesley Ivan Hurt (as Swee' Pea) were a delight, the newspaper continued, "Giuseppe Rotunno, Federico Fellini's favorite cameraman, sometimes makes the movie look very Italiandreamy, which doesn't suit the material, and there are mysterious lapses in continuity." Pauline Kael of The New Yorker assessed, "Altman may have been trying too hard, taking on the task of creating a live-action musical version of a comic strip . . . too literally. He was probably reaching for something beyond the written scenes—trying to create a whole comic environment. Altman has to introduce an element of risk on top of the risks that all directors take. Whether this is interpreted as a form of hubris or as part of what makes him an artist or as what keeps him from falling asleep on the set (and it's probably all three), it's Altman's way of directing." Pinpointing her concern about Altman's effort, she noted, "When you watch the actors in Popeye doing cartoon stunts, you're aware of gravity, and how difficult what they're doing is. When you see an actor lifted up and put on a hot stove, the literalness is dumb and oddly unpleasant." She concluded, "You don't get much pleasure from it, but you can't quite dismiss it. It rattles in your memory." New York magazine carped, "If Popeye is about anything at all, it's about grouchiness and frustration —odd subjects for a big-budgeted movie based on one of the most popular comic strips in the world." One of the few mainstream critics to fully endorse the new release was the Chicago Sun-Times s Roger Ebert, who enthused of Robert Altman, "He organizes a screenful of activity, so carefully choreographed that it's a delight, for example to watch the moves as the guests in Olive's rooming house make stabs at the plates of food on the table." The critic reasoned, "If Altman and his people had been the slightest bit condescending toward Popeye, the movie might have crash-landed. But it's clear that this movie has an affection for Popeye, and so much regard for

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the sailor man that it even bothers to reveal the real truth about his opinion of spinach." Thanks to the built-in recognition factors in Popeye, and a huge $2 million plus marketing blitz by Paramount/Disney, Popeye managed to draw in $24.6 million in North American film rentals. When released abroad, Disney had more say in the version to be distributed. Several of the more "violent" sequences and some of the salty dialogue within Popeye were trimmed, and a few musical numbers vanished. When the global figures were tallied, Popeye, which cost more than $22.7 million to create, had a worldwide gross of approximately $60 million. While profitable to a degree, there had been such a buildup about this picture that the industry expected much stronger cash results. Its lackluster performance created a perception, one now long perpetuated, that the picture was a true financial flop and a full-scale creative turkey. This view, along with the many slams Robert Altman received for creating an "antimusical," did much to diminish the director's professional standing in Hollywood. Although he had been slated to direct Paramount's Ragtime, it was Milos Forman who was contracted for that major-league project. Another pending Altman project, Lone Star, to be made for United Artists, was canceled (especially after that studio suffered a stunning boxoffice disaster with Heavens Gate.) In December 1981 Paramount Pictures filed a $250,000 lawsuit against Robert Altman concerning an alleged agreement that he would pay the studio if Popeye went over budget. The suit claimed that if the picture went over its $13 million ceiling, Altman would reimburse Paramount for 10/19 of such amount—up to $250,000 plus interest. Eventually, the case was settled out of court. While Altman has made many motion pictures since, including the successful The Player (1992) and Gosford Park (2001), he has not yet made another Paramount entry. Continuing to turn out new movie releases, the veteran survivor says blithely, "Admire me, not for how I succeed, and not for how 'good' the films are, but for the fact that I keep going back and jumping off the cliff." As for Robert Evans, he rebounded from Popeye to make Paramount's The Cotton Club (1984), a true fiasco that almost finished him in the industry. However, he reemerged in the Hollywood firmament in the 1990s and thereafter with several less ambitious new screen entries. Looking back on Popeye, the producer notes, "The picture got an odor

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because it wasn't Superman, and that's what they were looking for." Then he adds, "The real problem was, it shouldn't have been a musical. . . . If it were made not as a musical, it could have been very successful. But because of Annie . . ." For Robin Williams Popeye remained a disappointing acting experience in which he felt that he had been too hamstrung in delineating his comic-book character and that the conflicting forces on the project sabotaged everyone's original lofty intentions. It also convinced the actor that he never wanted to direct a picture. He explains, "It would be very difficult for me to say to someone, Tm sorry, you know that wasn't very good' and then have them go, 'Well, what about Popeye?"' Despite the unspectacular artistic and commercial results of Popeye, the decades-old film production has left a tangible legacy. On oftensunny Malta stand the abandoned Sweetwater village sets. These wooden buildings from Popeye have become a tourist attraction that draws thousands of visitors yearly. One can walk about the filming sites, hear the sound track blaring, and stop at a nearby restaurant to sample "Wimpy's Best Burgers" with a bowl of spinach soup.

6 The Cotton Club (1984) The movie [The Cotton Club] was like a vampire. You'd think, "This is it, it's finally got a stake through its heart." But every day it would come out of its coffin. It didn't die. Somehow, it didn't die. — P R O D U C T I O N DESIGNER RICHARD SYLBERT, 1984

I n Hollywood's long, colorful history certain movies sparked huge I (pre)production hype along with postdistribution dissection to explain I the picture's ultimate success or failure. These much-vaunted features include 1939's Gone With the Wind, 1947's Forever Amber, 1963's Cleopatra, 1972's The Godfather, 1980's Heavens Gate, 1987's Ishtar, 1990's The Bonfire of the Vanities, 1993's Last Action Hero, and 200Ts Town Ó Country. However, few such high-stakes entries generated the media frenzy surrounding the chaotic, often sleazy saga of 1984's The Cotton Club. In most instances the expression "I'd die to be in pictures" is an exaggeration to suggest one's passion to become a player within the glamorous film industry. However, in the instance of would-be movie producer Roy Radin, his ambition to be an active force on The Cotton Club led to his grisly gangland-style execution.

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In addition, the (un)making of The Cotton Club provided spellbinding examples of reckless hubris and public backbiting. Veteran producer Robert Evans and respected filmmaker Francis Ford Coppola had barely survived their acrimonious association on the 1970s' The Godfather and The Godfather Part II. Their rematch on The Cotton Club was far more rancorous. They engaged in fierce power plays, costly bouts of indulgent one-upmanship, the mass firing of key personnel during production, and bitter lawsuits —all while coping with an underfinanced, wildly out-ofcontrol screen vehicle. Meanwhile, these battling personalities had to contend with their image-conscious, demanding star, Richard Gere. He was earning a fortune to portray a gangster—a role he kept reminding everyone he did not really want to play (although he did insist upon displaying his unspectacular cornet skills on screen). Throughout the decades organized crime often had strong involvements with the Hollywood film factories. Using its squads of bootleggers (during Prohibition), drug pushers, whorehouse madams, and racketeering gamblers, the underworld profitably catered to the vices of Tinseltown's well-to-do and desperate. In the 1930s the New York and Chicago mobs grabbed a stranglehold on the entertainment industry by infiltrating movie-related labor unions. Later, when Paramount Pictures made The Godfather (and its sequels), the studio had to strike an accord with gangland figures so the Mafia-themed production could proceed. On The Cotton Club, when the Las Vegas backers saw their hefty investment being squandered, they turned for help to a highly persuasive associate — a man with reputed strong ties to organized crime. This tough guy became an on-set presence (and received credit on the film as a line producer) to "guarantee" that the unmanageable feature got finished. Originally The Cotton Club was budgeted at a relatively reasonable $13 million. This was at a time when many "important" Hollywood features were already costing around $20 million. However, by the time The Cotton Club finally premiered, in December 1984, its price tag had zoomed to a then-enormous $47 million. At the time, it was estimated that with distribution costs factored in, the dangerously overbudget movie would need to gross about $150 million just for its financiers to break even.

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In 1977 James Haskins authored The Cotton Club, a pictorial history of the famed Harlem nightspot. Located at 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue, it was situated two miles north of 110th Street—then the unofficial demarcation line between white and black New York City. The glittery venue operated there from the fall of 1923 to February 1936. Then, in the wake of the Harlem race riots, the operation relocated downtown to Times Square. The Cotton Club came to be because mobster Owney Madden required a centralized site to serve his bootleg booze, headquarter his numbers rackets, and monitor rival gangs out to grab control of the lucrative Harlem turf. This led the English-born hoodlum to take over the former Club Deluxe and convert it into the Cotton Club. The refurbished nightspot—with its discreet staff and late hours—had a strict policy of using only African American performers on stage. (An array of the era's leading black talent performed there, ranging from Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington to the sultry vocalist Ethel Waters. The nightspot also showcased a chorus line of shapely young hopefuls, including the future singing star Lena Home.) The black artists performed for white-only audiences—those customers who could afford the stiff cover tab, overpriced liquor, and expensive meals. With so much to offer its swanky clientele, the sparkling joint became a mecca for celebrities. Those arriving at the Cotton Club in their chauffeur-driven limousines included show business luminaries (such as Charlie Chaplin, Gloria Swanson, and Jimmy Durante), politicians (including New York mayor Jimmy Walker), and an assortment of top dogs of the East Coast gang world (such as Lucky Luciano, Dutch Schultz, and Legs Diamond). By the time Haskins's book came to film producer Robert Evans's notice in 1979, it had already attracted the attention of stage producers, who envisioned using the legendary Cotton Club as the springboard for a Broadway-bound musical. To acquire the screen rights to Haskins's tome and pay off the theater folk cost Evans more than $350,000 of his own funds. Upon becoming a power in Tinseltown, Robert had greenlighted a string of hit pictures (including 1968's Rosemary's Baby and The Odd Couple, 1970's Love Story, and the 1972 and 1974 Godfather entries). These commercial successes saved Paramount from bankruptcy. In 1974

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Robert became an independent producer on the lot. In his new capacity he had success with Chinatown (1974) but increasingly less luck with Marathon Man (1976), Black Sunday (1977), and especially Players (1979). At the time he purchased the Cotton Club book, the 39-year-old executive had two troubled productions slated for release: Urban Cowboy and Popeye. He envisioned that The Cotton Club could replenish his cash assets and, more important, restore luster to his corroding industry standing. Evans anticipated financing the picture on his own to cut out, as much as possible, the studio middleman. In assessing his prospects with The Cotton Club, the sleek, welltanned Evans reasoned that this new film would be "The Godfather with music." He bragged, "Gangsters, music, and pussy—how could I lose?"

1=1 Robert Evans was a master at elevating even the most dubious business situation with an upbeat spin. Scrambling to reestablish himself with his peers, he touted his lofty dedication to The Cotton Club: "I've gotten to a time in my life when Fd rather spend four years on a movie that is a happening or an event than do four movies in a year. Fd rather be remembered than rich." On another occasion he bragged that his proposed film would do much to "break down the barriers for blacks in film making." Stating that his picture would be "entirely integrated," he explained, "It would have been very easy to have a white story and have the blacks do all the boogeying, but I didn't want that. . . . We're not going to patronize anybody. It's a story that partially involves gangsters. In those days there were white and black hoods—we'll be equally hard on everybody." In actuality, by 1980 Robert was in danger of being shunted aside in the fast-changing movie industry and was on the brink of losing his highwheeling lifestyle to creditors. Not only had Players tanked, but Urban Cowboy and especially Popeye would soon prove not to be the anticipated tremendous hits. Adding to Evans's woes, federal agents had implicated him, albeit distantly, in a drug deal involving his brother and another party. Although he received only a slap on the wrist for his indiscretion, the stink surrounding this court case severely damaged Robert's professional credibility. Putting on a good face, Evans proceeded with The Cotton Club. Without any script in hand, he devoted time, money, and effort to devis-

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ing a smashing movie poster to promote his vague upcoming production. The end result was designed with a gold, silver, and black motif and read, "Its violence startled the nation; its music startled the world." Evans positioned this gangland musical to feature an abundance of outstanding black talent. Unfortunately, Hollywood then was not in the mood for a bigbudgeted, black-themed picture. Studio executives had not forgotten moviegoers' lackluster reception to Universale The Wiz (1978). That allblack-cast musical had grossed only $13 million domestically, which was disastrous considering its $24 million budget. This convinced Hollywood "suits" that the once lucrative 1970s cycle of black-themed pictures had outstayed its box-office welcome. Therefore there was little interest in The Cotton Club. (It did not help Evans's huckstering of his "baby" that the taint of the drug bust had so besmirched his image.) Moreover, by 1980 most of Hollywood's major studios were owned by global conglomerates and were staffed by businesspeople who lacked film business training or the creative vision of old-time movie moguls like Louis B. Mayer, Jack L. Warner, or Darryl F. Zanuck. These bean counters did not respond to Evans's high-concept pitch. This convinced Robert that he must, somehow, self-finance the picture. One of Robert's many Los Angeles acquaintances was the pretty Melissa Prophet. A former beauty queen turned actress, she had appeared briefly in Evans's box-office dud Players. Now, in March 1981, she mentioned to the money-hunting executive that she was good friends with Adnan Khashoggi, a Las Vegas-based Saudi Arabian who had amassed a fortune brokering military hardware deals to his government. Khashoggi bartered a shrewd profit participation deal with Evans in return for providing $2 million in seed money for The Cotton Club. (As part of the negotiations, Melissa was designated an associate producer on the film.) With his windfall, Evans contacted Mario Puzo, who had written The Godfather (1969) and other novels, as well as (co)scripted such blockbuster movies as the Godfather entries, Earthquake (1974), and Superman (1978). Robert trumpeted the fact that he was paying the author a magnificent $1 million for writing The Cotton Club. For the next several months, Puzo, with Evans's input, labored on the screenplay. They presented it to Khashoggi, who said that if he liked what he read he (and his brother) would invest an additional $12 million. However, Adnan hated Mario's draft and imposed several stringent terms before he was willing to

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proceed further. Refusing to be dictated to, Robert walked away from the partnership. Thereafter Evans latched onto a Texas tycoon, but the millionaire died of a heart attack before any agreement was signed. The resilient Evans searched further for fresh funding. In the process the obsessed moviemaker, still dealing with substance abuse, often pushed aside his better judgment. In his desire to be fully in charge of this muchnurtured project—which he had decided he would direct—he didn't care about anything else. ("I had it in my mind I wanted to own it. The whole inspiration was to own something.") He envisioned himself a newgeneration David O. Selznick, the legendary producer who had brought the mammoth Gone With the Wind to the screen. Meanwhile, the driven Robert was hard-pressed to find a way to reimburse the arms dealer for the advanced $2 million (plus ever-mounting interest). While hoping for a miracle, Robert and Mario continued revising their screenplay. To lure in fresh investors, Evans needed a star name attached to his project. He turned to Al Pacino, the Oscar-nominated costar of the first two Godfathers. Despite the inducement of a $2 million fee, the actor rejected the offer as being too much déjà vu. Evans's next choice was Sylvester Stallone, whose career had stumbled after Rocky (1976) and Rocky II (1979). At the time Evans approached Sly, the action star had two upcoming 1982 releases—First Blood and Rocky III. It was an open question in the industry if these pictures would be the major profit makers that they ultimately proved to be. Initially Stallone said yes to Evans's job offer. However, when Sly read the latest Cotton Club script, he was dissatisfied. Puzo and Evans set about revamping the text yet again to please Stallone, himself an award-winning scripter. By early May the screen's Rocky Balboa had given his provisional okay to Evans's movie. In mid-May 1982 Evans jetted to France for the Cannes Film Festival. At the glamorous event he anticipated corralling sizable advance commitments from foreign distributors for his yet-to-be-made movie. Just hours before his planned sales pitch, he learned that Stallone now wanted a $4 million salary and that he had new reservations about The Cotton Club script. Bridling at this last-minute pressure play, Robert nixed the Sly deal. (Smarting at the star's leverage gambit, the producer voiced his annoyance by writing an open letter to the trade press lamenting Stallone's actions. This was the first of several feuds involving the making oí The Cotton Club to hit the newspapers.) Despite Evans's sudden lack of a major name or a workable script—and with only his fabu-

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lous film poster as a selling tool —Robert nevertheless spun a bright enough yarn to entice foreign distributors into making $8 million worth of firm commitments to this future release. Back in Los Angeles, Evans anxiously shopped around for a replacement for Stallone. In this same period he met with Richard Pryor, hoping the black movie superstar would play a lead in The Cotton Club. After a hard sell, Pryor was amenable to the offer if he received $2 million. However, within days the comic's asking price suddenly doubled. Regretfully, the producer withdrew from the negotiations. (Later Pryor said that his attorney had advised him against being in a picture to be directed by Evans. The comedian acknowledged, "The best way to get out of something is to ask for [more] money, and that's what I did.") While Pryor was in and then out of The Cotton Club, Gregory Hines, the tap-dancing sensation of Broadway and nightclubs, had latched onto a copy of the script. He was determined to grab the part that Evans had been touting to Pryor. Having already made a few films, Gregory wanted to expand his screen career. He pursued Evans with tenacity, even doing an impromptu desktop tap dance in the producer's study at his Beverly Hills home. Robert was duly impressed. But what sealed the deal was when the executive's precocious 11-year-old son advised his dad that if he used an assertive star like Pryor the movie would become "a Richard Pryor picture, and that's not what you want." Not long afterward Hines was signed for The Cotton Club. (During this period Evans hyped that he wanted Catherine Deneuve for the film's female lead and that another French movie star, his pal Alain Delon, would be part of the proceedings.) With Evans still scrounging for investors, Melissa Prophet once again offered assistance. She introduced him to Edward and Fred Doumani. These brothers were the sons of a Lebanese immigrant and had become self-made multimillionaires who owned valuable Las Vegas operations (such as the Tropicana Hotel and the El Morocco Casino) and dabbled in oil enterprises. Along with a business associate (Denver-based insurance magnate Victor Sayyah), the Doumanis responded favorably to the producer's enticing investment presentation. They were starry-eyed at becoming part of the glamorous film business and partnering with the mover and shaker who had shepherded the Godfather hits. Robert explained that The Cotton Club could be brought in for $18 to $20 million. The backers agreed to team with him. (Evans enthused of the triumvirate, "They did it without a contract. Just on the shake of a hand.

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My own family wouldn't do that.") Immediately Robert paid off his debt to Adnan Khashoggi.

1=1 While Robert Evans was gathering his financing, Hollywood finally took interest in the producer's Harlem-set musical of the Roaring Twenties. Front-office executives were impressed with the fact that Mario Puzo was aboard the production and with Evans's funding successes to date. These developments made Paramount rethink the pros and cons of Robert's new endeavor. Ignoring the recent box-office failure of Evans's Popeye, the studio began negotiations with Robert. To show their good faith, the film lot suggested that it could make Richard Gere available to star in the vehicle. The 31-year-old actor was a fast-rising property, having scored in the studio's Looking for Mr. Goodbar (1977) and American Gigolo (1980). He had already completed An Officer and a Gentleman, which, when released in the late summer of 1982, would make him a highly bankable movie attraction. While weighing Paramount's distribution offer, Evans courted the actor, even inviting him to move into a guest cottage on the producer's estate. The wooing paid off. Gere signed for the part, despite script concerns. However, Evans was forced to pay the hot actor a mighty $1.5 million, plus 10% of the picture's adjusted gross. Other terms—which proved far more difficult to accede to in the coming months —included giving the actor script approval and $125,000 in overage pay for each week that The Cotton Club ran over schedule. (Gere was committed already to starring in Paramount's biblical picture King David.) As the elements fell into place on his comeback showcase, Evans's cockiness led him to make a fatal business mistake. Intent on maximizing his profit participation in The Cotton Club, Robert vetoed Paramount's bid to produce and release the musical. His rationale was that such a deal would cost him all or much of the picture's back-end income (especially in such auxiliary areas as pay and broadcast TV and vidéocassettes). Moreover, Evans believed that if he made The Cotton Club a success without relying on his former studio, he would earn that much more esteem from the film community. Instead, Robert succumbed to the blandishments of Orion Pictures, a film studio that did not have a movie lot. That company had been formed

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in 1978 by five disgruntled United Artists executives. The relatively new enterprise positioned itself as a "financing and distribution organization" that provided independent filmmakers not only with the use of their film distribution network but also supplied the money and mechanism for the pictures' marketing and advertising. Orion offered Evans up to a $10 million budget for such back-end services. Most important to Robert, he received favorable terms concerning his slice of the film's potential profits. There were downsides to Evans's deal. Orion did not provide any actual production funding. Furthermore, unlike a traditional film studio such as Paramount, Orion was not expected to supervise the production's progress or provide sound stage facilities/equipment, services (e.g., seasoned creative talents such as company cinematographers), or post-production needs (e.g., scoring, special effects, and editing). For a fledgling director making his debut independent production —and a big one at that—this was asking for trouble. At the time, however, Evans was so fixated on likely box-office profits that he dismissed the negative aspects of working under Orion's limited system.

1=1 Having already personally restructured Puzo's script in an unsuccessful effort to accommodate first Stallone and then Gere, Evans was desperate to obtain a strong rewrite on The Cotton Club. He knew that without this crucial next step, everything would grind to a halt on the film. In full crisis mode Robert placed a call in February 1983 to director Francis Ford Coppola. "I have a sick child," the wily producer implored. "I need a doctor." That Coppola, at his northern California home/filmmaking complex, did not slam down the receiver when Evans called is a testament to Robert's persuasive charm. After all, producer and director had fought throughout the filming of the Godfather sagas. Thereafter, these two high-level egotists lost no opportunity to badmouth each other. Robert constantly emphasized that without his input (especially regarding reediting and rescoring) the Godfather entries would never have been huge artistic/ commercial successes. Coppola, whom the producer had labeled "Prince Machiavelli," countered that Evans's creative contributions to those pictures had been, at best, minimal. However, like Robert, Francis was in a bind.

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Having scored so well with his Mafia movies, which won him two Oscars, Francis had gone on to Apocalypse Now (1979). This troubled production was made for the filmmaker's independent Zoetrope Studios and his American Zoetrope distribution outlet. Eventually, that hugely costly Vietnam War tale earned back its $31.5 million budget and release costs. Later, he came under the gun for One from the Heart, a 1982 debacle that represented a loss of more than $25 million to Zoetrope. He next turned to more modest filmmaking with The Outsiders and Rumble Fish. (When they were released, in 1983, the duo proved to be a mixed bag; the first made a decent profit, but the second lost more than $7.5 million.) By now Coppola had been forced to shut down his Hollywood studio and to curtail many other business ventures. At this dicey juncture he was staving off bankruptcy and doing everything possible to avoid selling his Los Angeles film lot. When Evans contacted Coppola, the latter was at desperation's door.

1=1 Initially, Coppola volunteered just to read the Cotton Club script and provide Evans with feedback. He soon informed the producer that Puzo's script required a full rewrite. Evans flew to San Francisco to meet with the filmmaker. With prompting, Francis agreed to put aside other work to tackle Robert's troubled property. Coppola suggested a $500,000 fee, and Evans agreed to the sum. In grabbing at a quick fix, Robert ignored his past experience with Francis. This was a man who had a beguiling way of taking over projects with which he became involved. Initially, Coppola was lukewarm about his chore. (An opera devotee, Francis had no affinity for jazz.) However, after he flew to New York to research the history of Harlem and the Cotton Club, his enthusiasm for the subject matter picked up. By early April he had completed a new draft. Evans was aghast at the effort, which had shifted the focus away from the characters in favor of a strong history of Harlem's cultural rebirth in the 1920s. Robert showed Gere the new text and he was equally unhappy. Said Evans, "The more everybody hated it, the more Francis loved it." Afraid of his backers' reaction to Coppola's misguided attempt, Evans concocted a special cover note to the revamped script. Supposedly written

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by Francis, it actually was composed by Robert. It read, "Well, after 22 days, here is the blueprint. Now let's get down to writing a script. . . . You always use the word 'MAGIC . . . we're going to touch it again!" Regardless of the deliberately evasive attachment to the screenplay, the Doumanis and Sayyah were dissatisfied with what they read. In their estimation, "It wasn't a script." They halted further funding of The Cotton Club. This turn of events thrust the adventurous producer into great jeopardy. Already he had jumped the gun by leasing a Manhattan town house on the Upper Eastside to serve as his production headquarters. By now Evans had decided that the only place to shoot the film was in New York City, to take advantage of needed location sites and to utilize talent who might be unavailable to work on the West Coast. He also already had made a favorable deal with the recently revitalized Kaufman-Astoria Studio in Queens. Moreover, Robert had done the near impossible. He had negotiated with eight New York unions to allow an unprecedented use of what is termed "French hours" on the shoot, meaning the usual 7 A.M. to 7 P.M. schedule would be replaced by a shorter one that ran from 11 A.M. to 7 P.M. (This would not only accommodate cast members who worked in stage shows or clubs at night, but it would be especially pleasing to people who—like Evans—often partied through the night and hated earlymorning calls.) Evans proudly announced that this adjusted filming shift would save the movie millions of dollars. Meanwhile, without a finished shooting script, he had hired his pal Richard Sylbert, the production designer, to meticulously reconstruct the Cotton Club on the sound stages in Queens. This would cost $1 million. Already other members of the team were at work on pre-production activities, at a weekly overhead of $140,000. This squad included Oscarwinning wardrobe designer Milena Cañonero, record producer Jerry Wexler, and executive producer Dyson Lovell (a former actor turned casting director and producer). Lovell was already recruiting dancers for the picture—without benefit of a completed script or any knowledge of what talent actually would be required. With his cash flow from the Doumanis halted, Evans's only option was to sell the Paramount Pictures stock that he had acquired when he was a studio chief executive. But at the rate the project was gobbling up money, he was almost immediately frantic for yet more cash. In his mounting anxiety, he was not fussy about where the money came from.

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One item in Robert Evans's fast-depleting portfolio was his investment in a Los Angeles limousine service. Through one of the firm's drivers he was introduced to one of its customers, a newcomer to Los Angeles. She was a wealthy widow named Elaine "Lanie" Jacobs. The producer claimed later that at the time he met her, he had no idea about her checkered past. Karen DeLayne "Lanie" Jacobs was born in 1947 in Birmingham, Alabama. By 1975 she had been twice married and divorced and was living in Miami. Attracted to the fast life, she had become involved with a drug crowd, socializing with drug dealers and becoming one herself. In the process she met Milan Bellechasses, a Cuban who proved to be a power within Miami's drug underworld. His connections were reputedly so high that he imported cocaine and marijuana directly from Colombian sources. Lanie started a relationship with Milan, later giving birth to their child. In the summer of 1982 she relocated to Los Angeles to supervise Bellechasses's West Coast drug operation. At the time, her fifth husband, Honduran immigrant Joe Amer, was in prison, having been convicted on drug-related charges. Always intrigued by an attractive new face, Evans began socializing with Jacobs, and they quickly became intimate. She was flattered to be hobnobbing with a famous movie producer and to learn about Robert's exciting new film, The Cotton Club. When he mentioned that he was searching for fresh capital, Lanie, who wanted to be part of the exciting world of film, suggested that she might invest a sizable amount. Moreover, she knew an individual who had much more ready cash than she. His name was Roy Radin. The 33-year-old Radin, a rotund Easterner, had recently relocated to Los Angeles, where he had become one of Lanie's drug customers. Roy had a questionable résumé. A show business-loving huckster, he had made a fortune packaging vaudeville-style shows that played the hinterlands. These tours, set up ostensibly as benefits for local police departments (with most of the profits being secretly manipulated into the promoter's own bank accounts), featured former well-known performers such as Red Buttons, Joey Bishop, Jan Murray, and Milton Berle —as well as assorted animal acts. It was reputed that the volatile entrepreneur had ties to the Atlantic City mob.

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With a $6 million yearly income, Radin had bought a huge old mansion in Southampton, New York. At a wild weekend party there in April 1980, model/actress Melanie Haller was allegedly badly beaten and sexually molested. The ensuing police investigation did not turn up sufficient evidence to indict Radin on major offenses. Instead, he was charged only with misdemeanor counts for improper gun possession. The spicy case became a tabloid favorite, and the notoriety killed Radin's lucrative policesponsored show tours. In his frustration the egocentric businessman blamed photographer Ron Sisman, who had initially brought Melanie to Radin's attention. The paranoid Radin was convinced that Sisman had set him up. Later, in the fall of 1981, parties unknown broke into Sisman's Manhattan apartment and shot the photographer to death. The ganglandstyle killing remained unsolved, with no links to Radin ever established. In October 1982 Roy (along with his assistant, Jonathan Lawson) moved to Los Angeles, hoping to reestablish his business there. Radin grandiosely dreamed of insinuating himself into the film industry and becoming a major player. Thus he was excited in the late winter of 1983 to be invited by Lanie Jacobs to meet the famous Robert Evans. At the get-together Roy boastfully said that he had contacts with a banker (José Alegria) who had solid connections with the Puerto Rican government. As he outlined later, in exchange for Evans filming some of The Cotton Club —and other future projects —in Puerto Rico, funds would be forthcoming for Robert's screen musical. Robert drafted a short agreement with Radin that called for them to "act on an exclusive basis towards each other." Each main partner was to have 45% of the business enterprise, with the remaining 10% going to Alegria and an associate. The desperate Evans signed the constricting deal. By late April Evans and Radin met with Puerto Rican government officials at the producer's New York town house. Already Robert regretted his involvement with the shady, control-happy Radin. (In this same period Robert flew with Lanie to Miami, where she introduced him to shadowy associates who had influential contacts that might back his movie. These leads did not pan out.) Meanwhile, the grasping Jacobs discovered that Radin only intended to pay her a finder's fee of $50,000 rather than share his interest in the film venture with her. Already upset with Radin for not helping her locate a missing drug courier who had recently stolen nearly $1 million of her drug/cash stash, she now became

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enraged with Roy. She turned to Evans for support. He backed her, which infuriated Roy. Radin refused to yield to Lanie on the setup, which prompted Robert to call off the deal. Roy stalked out of Evans's town house, leaving his raincoat behind. Meanwhile, Evans and Jacobs attempted to renegotiate the Puerto Rican deal by cutting out Radin. Alegria and his team refused to do so. Radin flew back to Los Angeles to attend the bar mitzvah of his pal Red Buttons's son. On May 12 Jacobs, now back on the West Coast, phoned Roy to meet that night for dinner and iron out their differences. Already nervous about further contact with this unpredictable associate whom so many people warned him against, Radin postponed the gettogether until the next evening, Friday the thirteenth. As protection for this dubious meeting, he asked an acquaintance, actor Demond Wilson (costar of the 1970s sitcom Sanford and Son), to be waiting in a car outside the hotel that night and to be armed with a gun. As Roy outlined the plan, when he and Jacobs drove off in a limousine for their dinner at La Scandia restaurant, Demond was supposed to follow them. However, on the ill-fated night Wilson somehow lost the limo in traffic. That evening was the last time Radin was seen alive. About a month later, his bulletriddled, decomposed body was discovered in a desolate desert canyon 65 miles north of Los Angeles. Robert Evans was among those whom Los Angeles police detectives interviewed regarding Radin's demise. He claimed to have no knowledge of the murder, and the lawmen left the lengthy interview with autographed copies of the Chinatown script. Later, Evans, who admitted to others that he had learned of Radin's homicide before the body was discovered, became highly agitated that he might be the next victim in this escalating nightmare. It took weeks for the shaken producer to regain his stability. With the police having no solid clues in the Radin killing, the case receded from the headlines. Jacobs and her son moved back to Florida. For a time she tried to stay in contact with Evans, but he never returned her calls. Eventually, Lanie realized that her dream of becoming part of the film colony was not to be.

1=1 While reeling from all this real-life drama, Evans never gave up on The Cotton Club. He believed that if Coppola could be persuaded to rewrite

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the script yet again, maybe the Doumanis would rejoin the project. Robert turned to a black performer, Marilyn Matthews, whom he had met months earlier. When Francis Ford Coppola was next in New York, Robert sent her to meet with Francis. Using information provided by Evans and throwing in her ethnic background as a trump card, she convinced Coppola to revamp the screenplay. He did so in Manhattan, making further revisions back at his Napa Valley estate. He was joined there by Evans, Matthews, Gere, Hines, and a few others, who provided feedback on the script's new direction. During this 10-day creative session when everything seemed so mellow, Evans suggested that, perhaps, Coppola should direct the picture. Initially, Francis declined, but he soon changed his mind. Next, Evans flew to Las Vegas, where he presented the latest version of The Cotton Club to the Doumanis and Sayyah. They were sufficiently pleased to resume funding the picture. However, having heard about Coppola's work methods on past productions, they expressed concerns about Francis's directing the new picture. Evans reassured them with, "Don't worry, I can control Francis." By early June Coppola was at Evans's Beverly Hills mansion discussing terms for helming The Cotton Club. He wanted $2.5 million and a percentage of the gross, as well as total power over the moviemaking (including the right to the final edit). Within weeks Robert had acceded to the tough deal and was elated that everything was moving forward. With only six weeks to prepare for the August start of The Cotton Club, Coppola and his staff (including his teenage son Gian-Carlo, assigned to be the film's second-unit/montage director) set up headquarters in New York. (This included having Coppola's 28-foot special trailer driven East for the shoot. The Silver Fish contained a customized kitchen for the food-loving director, as well as an assortment of the newest hightech video equipment.) Initially, Francis announced that the film would have a 12-week shooting schedule, which seemed highly improbable given the picture's complexities. Then everything took one more expensive turn. Many of the technical staff had been hired by Evans when he planned to direct the feature. Several of them were now let go, but settling their contracts required hefty payments. Among those discharged were music producer Jerry Wexler (later brought back as a consultant) and cinematographer John Alonzo (who received $160,000 for not working on the picture). They were replaced by people more to Coppola's liking.

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Robert's control over the picture was further diminished when Francis made it known that he had definite casting choices in mind. These included 19-year-old Diane Lane (who had been in two previous Coppola films) as Gere's love interest, the director's nephew Nicolas Cage as the hero's deranged gangster brother, and Fred Gwynne (most famous for playing Herman Munster on TV's The Munsters) as a mobster. Things grew tense between Evans and Coppola. The latter said he would immediately return to California unless he was allowed the full authority outlined in his contract. Facing an immovable force, the producer surrendered his power on the set. Nursing a badly bruised ego, Robert retreated to his Manhattan town house. He refused to come to the sound stages, reasoning, "If you're not calling the shots, you're not the producer." (Some onlookers alleged that Evans became more heavily involved in substance abuse during this period.) Now happily in full charge of The Cotton Club, Coppola assembled the rest of his cast. His selections included Gregory Hines's brother, Maurice (as Gregory's dance partner), British actor Bob Hoskins (as racketeer Owney Madden), nightclub singer Lonette McKee (as the Cotton Club vocalist who becomes Gregory's love interest), and Laurence Fishburne (as a Harlem gangster). As the filming start date approached, Francis continued reworking the script, but he remained dissatisfied. He called in William Kennedy, who had written a superior novel dealing with the mobster Legs Diamond. For a $70,000 fee Kennedy collaborated with Coppola on yet another version of the script, which virtually bypassed everything in the expensive Mario Puzo drafts. (Before filming wrapped, there would be some 40 versions of the screenplay.) Rehearsals began on July 25 at the Astoria Studios. The cast soon learned that Francis preferred to use an improvisational method with his performers. In tandem with the constantlyfluctuatingplotline of the ever-changing scenario, this made some cast members nervous about the enterprise. This was especially true of Richard Gere, who had become highly protective of his newfound star standing and was concerned that (1) he would be overshadowed in the story and (2) his character would not emerge as a nice guy. Moreover, he was insistent that his childhood training as a musician be utilized in the plot, requiring that he be allowed solo on-camera moments to play his horn. His wishes were accommodated and the actor was mollified — or so Coppola thought.

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1=1 Filming began on August 22, but Gere was a no-show. In order not to waste the day, the director had Gregory Hines perform an impromptu dance, which ended up in the film. When Gere continued to absent himself from the sound stages, Evans stepped in to meet with the star's lawyers. (Meanwhile, Francis suggested that Matt Dillon, who had been in past Coppola pictures, could replace the defecting actor.) In the bargaining, Gere relinquished his 10% of the gross in exchange for an additional $1.5 million in salary. He was now guaranteed $3 million, plus the still-in-force term of $125,000 for each week the film went over schedule. Once the shoot began, the much-heralded "French hours" were quickly abandoned and the production was back to the 7 A.M. to 7 P.M. union shift schedule. This added enormous overhead to the production, with drivers, for example, earning $1,200 for a 60-hour workweek. As the confusion at the Astoria Studios mounted, there was another instance of production team attrition. Victor Sayyah, representing the backers in New York, grew distraught at the constant script changes, the Gere renegotiations, and the realization that many of the costly sets, costumes, and other paraphernalia assembled before the "final" script was in place would never be used. In his frustration Victor got into an argument with associate producer Melissa Prophet, during which she was shoved against a plate-glass window. Soon thereafter Sayyah left New York. As a replacement, Ed Doumani rushed to the East Coast to watch in distressed wonderment as production costs escalated. By examining the official film budget versus actual expenditures to date, Ed quickly discovered that The Cotton Club was anything but a $20 million picture, especially with no one being conscious of the tremendous cash outlays. Doumani complained, "I'd ask them to give me a breakdown on something, and they couldn't tell me how they got it. It was just arbitrary." Experienced at running a tight Las Vegas operation, he was astounded at the casualness with which money was being wasted on the film. If a scene required several period automobiles for atmosphere, the props department would rent a few dozen to be on the safe side, but only five actually would be used for a sequence. Lightbulbs used on the sets that could be bought by careful shopping for $700 were costing the production $1,300. Ed learned that Evans had promised key

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members of the creative team $50,000 apiece as a bonus if they came in "under budget." But no one knew what the budget truly was. On the sound stages the backer was amazed by the number of takes Coppola demanded for every scene. Doumani observed that some takes were shot as throwaway warm-up sessions, others just to meet the director's favorite number of takes: seven. Assessing the overall situation, Doumani calculated that this film was costing $1.2 million a week—or $300 per hour. Suddenly he had visions of his family fortune slipping away on this celluloid gamble. In desperation Doumani turned to Sylvio Tabet, a producer of low-budget films, to be the backers' new on-set watchdog. The Lebanese Tabet was paid $20,000 for his services. Experienced hands in front of and behind the cameras were well aware that things were running amok on The Cotton Club. (By now rumors were flying about regarding the supposed rampant use of drugs on the set.) While most everyone was venting his or her frustrations in one way or another, Coppola remained amazingly calm in the wake of the storms of confusion he seemed to generate constantly. When asked by production designer Sylbert why he operated like this, Francis replied, "If nobody knows what's going on, nobody can discuss it with you."

1=1 Relentlessly pushed to cut costs on The Cotton Club, Coppola and Kennedy chopped out 25 pages of the 135-page script. However, revisions kept being made to the remaining screenplay as Francis had new inspirations or discovered that plot gaps required patching over. With so many constant shifts within the narrative, no one knew from day to day when his or her scene might be shot. Actor Bob Hoskins described the situation: "I gained twenty pounds waiting around for something to happen. You sort of sit around and eat and drink and philosophize, and suddenly you've forgotten what you do for a living. Then somebody says, 'You're on the set,' and you say, 'What do you mean I'm on?'" Nicolas Cage recalled, "I was slated for three weeks' work. I was there for six months, in costume, in makeup, on the set in case Francis got an idea that would involve my character. Meanwhile, I'm getting offers of starring roles in other movies and I can't do them." To vent his aggravation, Nicolas took to acting up on the set, at one point getting so

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mad that he trashed his trailer, including smashing its furniture; another time he demolished a vendor's cart being used in a street scene. Gere remained frequently bewildered and upset by Coppola's improvisational approach. Eventually this led to a heated argument between star and director. Francis screamed, "Listen to me, you don't like me, you never liked me at all. But let me tell you something. I'm not only older than you, I'm richer than you. Now get out of here." (Eventually, the two artists patched up their differences, with Diane Lane acting as a frequent go-between.) The situation soon got worse. In late September came "Black Sunday." Coppola had revamped the script yet again and decided that several scenes, sets, and personnel could be dispensed with. Not only did he curtail Dyson Lovell's activities as executive producer, but he also let go Lovell's squad, which handled the picture's song-and-dance elements. (The replacement music supervisor was an experienced jazzman, but he was already committed to working in Europe, which meant Evans's production had to pay for his frequent commutes on the Concorde to his gig in Switzerland.) Other prominent production personnel loyal to Evans were among the 18 fired that fateful day. As everything deteriorated further with no end in sight, the Doumanis sought in vain to negotiate loans from both Las Vegas and New York banks. With no alternative available, Ed borrowed funds from his son's trust fund. (In exchange, the young man was allowed to be on the set to observe filmmaking in action.) Even these new millions of dollars were quickly devoured. Before long it became a nightmare once again to meet the production's weekly payroll. While havoc was engulfing the Astoria Studios, Evans remained holed up in his New York town house. ("I didn't want to see anybody, because I didn't know what to say to anybody.") As the pressures on the sound stage mounted, Coppola was still dealing with his own financial perils out West. Reacting to the enormous strain, he suffered major mood swings that left both cast and crew confounded. Then Francis took drastic action —he went AWOL. On a Monday morning in October he flew to London, saying later that he had been off seeking other film work. He had not yet been paid any of his directorial salary on The Cotton Club, and a panicked Ed Doumani had just attempted to cut back his share of the film's gross profits. More infuriating, Doumani now wanted to hold Francis responsible if

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the shoot went over schedule. Hasty transatlantic negotiations ensued, with Ed tempering his demands and agreeing to start funneling payments to Francis. Coppola was on the set by Wednesday, only to discover that the payroll for everyone had not arrived. Per union rules, everything ground to a stop. Hours later an armored car arrived with the cash to keep the production moving ahead—at least for the time being. With Francis back in charge, expenses continued to snowball —seemingly unnecessarily. Often, hundreds of extras were on hand for scenes that never were shot or for which only a few extras were needed. Music for key song-and-dance routines was sometimes changed at the last minute, with the resultant proceedings ending up more impromptu than organized. Meanwhile, with the picture way behind its appointed schedule, Gere was soon collecting overtime pay, which mounted up to a windfall of $450,000. Doumani sat on the sidelines as the film lurched onward. Deciding that Sylvio Tabet was unable to deal with Coppola's filmmaking methods, he dismissed him. As a replacement he imported Joey Cusamano from Las Vegas. Joey was a longtime friend of the Doumani brothers and a close associate of Anthony Spilotro (then the reputed Mafia chieftain of Las Vegas). By mid-October 1983 Joey was a daily observer on The Cotton Club set. His philosophy was to watch and learn before speaking. Unlike Tabet, he did not agitate Coppola. In fact, Francis arranged for a director's chair to be placed on the set next to his. It was marked " J o e v " Before long the director was including Cusamano in the evening ritual of watching videotape of the day's shoot. Soon Ed Doumani was staying away completely from the set, leaving matters to his new representative. Joey proved to be a strong presence, ensuring that everyone was organized each morning for that day's work. Cusamano decided, "I like Francis as a man, and he's not a bad cook either." However, he was ever vigilant that principal photography should wrap by December 23. To make his point, he distributed T-shirts to the crew that had "Dec. 23, 1983" emblazoned on the back. To emphasize the seriousness of finishing before the Christmas holiday, he calmly said to Coppola, "You see this Silver Fish? If we go past the twenty-third, this is going in the ocean with the rest of the fish."

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Back in Manhattan, Robert Evans felt like a caged tiger with his pet project moving ahead without his direct supervision. After the renegotiations with Coppola, Evans visited the set on only one occasion, to watch a lengthy patch of assembled footage. He liked some parts of it but not others. Later, newspaper news items began appearing that referenced the mounting troubles on the film and set the blame on the director's doorstep. Coppola was enraged. He believed the stories had originated with his producer. Francis hastily dispatched a telegram to Robert: "You have double-crossed me for the last time. . . . If you want a PR war or any kind of war, nobody is better at it than me." Evans responded with, "I cannot conceive what motivated your malicious thoughts." This led to the director threatening to challenge the producer to a duel. Evans countered, "No pistols, just fists." Even with the belated economy tactics, Evans and his backers were desperate for additional cash. (By this time the working relationship between producer and backers had turned unpleasant.) After following through on several demeaning wild-goose chases, Robert met with Barry Diller, the head of Paramount Pictures. Evans suggested that he could declare bankruptcy, which would end his agreement with Orion and allow another studio to step in. After receiving legal advice, however, the producer realized that Orion could bring the matter to court and put everything in limbo indefinitely. In that case, The Cotton Club would become history. With hat in hand, Robert met with Orion officials and begged for help. He had no other option but to submit to their tough terms. In exchange for $15 million to complete the picture, Evans relinquished whatever remaining control he had over it (including a say in the advertising and distribution). Disheartened, he acknowledged, "It was like giving up your kid." To add insult to injury, the Manhattan town house lease had expired and he had to move in with friends. With the new capital, filming on the beleaguered production finished on December 23. After the holidays many of the cast reassembled for pickup shots and needed additional scenes, which had to be shot on a relative shoestring. (Some of the actors, such as Allen Garfield, who played one of the hoodlums, were not brought back, because it was too costly. They had to be written out of the new footage.) By the end of March 1984 The Cotton Club finally ended its agonizing, protracted shoot. The cost had risen to a staggering $47 million.

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While Coppola edited the 400,000 feet of footage down to a twohour-plus movie, assorted lawsuits were launched between various of the film's angered decision makers. Among the several causes of actions filed, the most crucial was the one by Robert Evans against the Doumani brothers, Coppola, and Orion Pictures. In the courtroom Francis testified in a relatively calm manner about what he believed had transpired during the production. In contrast, Robert emoted strongly—even crying— that losing control of this much-cherished venture was the most crushing disappointment of his long industry career. Winning some points and losing others, the producer was jubilant at the legal outcome. In his words, "The kid stayed in the picture." With his newfound leverage, Evans negotiated a settlement with the Doumani siblings. They paid him a sum for his work on the film, wrote offa $1.6 million loan note that they had on Evans's Beverly Hills manse, and gave the producer his much-desired screen credit. In exchange, Robert relinquished all stakes in the movie that he had spent years to make happen. Since the courtroom proceedings had not won Evans any rights in post-production matters, Coppola and company paid no heed to him as they prepared the picture for release. After sitting through an October 1984 preview of The Cotton Club in San José, California, as a paying customer, Robert was infuriated by what he saw (and did not see) on screen. In his estimation, for the sake of arty visuals, Francis had ignored a great deal of needed character development. Evans also believed that too many of the musical sequences had been chopped down to throwaway shots or, as in the case of the elaborate "Stormy Weather" number (reputed to have cost more than $1 million), deleted altogether. Gaining the attention of the Doumanis, Robert spent hours composing a 15-page memorandum explaining how the existing cut of The Cotton Club could be vastly improved. Ed Doumani personally drove several hours to Coppola's northern California headquarters to deliver the message. Unable to see the director in person, he left the lengthy communication with a subordinate. When The Cotton Club was finalized, not one of Evans's suggestions was incorporated into the release print. Francis had had the final word. After a fund-raising premiere in William Kennedy's hometown of Albany, New York, on December 2, 1984, The Cotton Club bowed in New York on December 10. Coppola was noticeably absent from the fes-

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tivities. When the media inquired why he had failed to show up, Francis responded, "I didn't want to be involved with those people. They have been my most horrible enemies." He added regarding Evans, "I almost think he would love the picture to be a giganticflop."Robert had also not materialized for the East Coast events. He explained, "It's Francis's movie, not mine. The picture I wanted is on the cutting-room floor." Later, the public contention between the two adversaries heated up. Evans argued, "Coppola came in with his contingent, his perks, and his per diems. He profiteered from the film and raped the Doumanis." Coppola countered, "Had they not hired me the film wouldn't have been made. I got a call and took over the picture, and now they're blaming me for what happened in the last five years." Clocking in at 127 minutes, The Cotton Club received mixed reviews. Variety weighed in that Coppola's "latest effort may be a bit of a letdown, but it is by no means a disaster, nor is it a film lacking commercial appeal." The New York Times, among others, compared the new release to another notoriously costly blockbuster: "Just as Cleopatra was somewhat better than its harshest critics said, and considerably worse than its supporters thought, The Cotton Club is not a complete disaster, but it's not a whole lot of fun." The New Republic pointed out, "[Coppola] has made a picture with much of the manner and matter of the very gangster films he once tried to supersede." On the plus side, USA Today rated the picture "fabulous," labeling it "a dazzling impressionist painting of the legendary Harlem nightclub/ speakeasy." (The publication did, however, point out, "Coppola seems to have modeled his gangster elements more on old Warner Bros. B movies than on real hoods.") Newsweek applauded the new entry as "one of the few original films of the year" and "a movie of driving pace and swirling style." With an accumulation of so much media coverage and hype, initially The Cotton Club did well at the box office. However, by January 1985 it was fast sinking out of sight in U.S. distribution. (Matters were not helped when rumors circulated in early 1985 that The Cotton Club, with much added footage from the cutting-room floor, would emerge as a multipart TV special. This news led many moviegoers to wait to see the expanded edition for free on the small screen. However, the suggested miniseries never came to be.) The Cotton Club ended with a disappointing domestic

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gross of $25.9 million. In contrast, Paramount's Beverly Hills Cop, released at the same time, grossed $234.8 million based on a $15 million budget. With the negative financial tally, the Doumani brothers' heavy investment and stressful times netted them no profits from their first taste of moviemaking. As for Evans, making The Cotton Club was a devastating experience. (He bemoaned, "I wanted to tell the story of an era, not a slice of life.") Asked what lessons he had drawn from the harrowing situation, he responded "A fat fuckin' nothing!" Another time he summarized his misbegotten pet project with, "I wanted to be David Selznick. Instead I was David Schmuck." Stuck in a low career ebb, Robert distracted himself by becoming involved with Jack Nicholson in The Two Jakes, a Chinatown sequel that went through many starts and stops before finally being made and released in 1990. Coppola was still in financial peril after The Cotton Club. His period musical misadventure had further damaged his reputation with Hollywood studios. They feared becoming involved with a talent whose most recent project had been such a financial loss. For the time being Francis turned to TV and other quick-pay work before opportunities allowed him to return to big-screen entries, including The Godfather Part III (1990).

1=1 By 1989 The Cotton Club movie had vanished from general public consciousness, but the "Cotton Club Murder" had not. In that year the Los Angeles police had tied together enough pieces in the still unsolved Roy Radin homicide case to bring it to court. At the preliminary hearing, held on May 12 at the Los Angeles County Criminal Courts Building, Robert Evans took the Fifth Amendment on the advice of his counsel, Robert Shapiro. Despite Evans's silence, the prosecuting attorney continued to say that he had not ruled out the producer as a suspect. Robert protested to friends, "I am the living victim. I had nothing to do with it." On the other hand, there were sufficient grounds to take Lanie Jacobs and her alleged accomplices to trial. (Since leaving Los Angeles after the Radin killing, Jacobs had returned to Florida and married for a sixth time. Her latest husband, Larry Greenberger, had since died in circumstances that suggested murder.) In July 1991, eight years after Radin's death, Lanie and three bodyguards/confederates were found guilty of the kidnapping/ homicide. She received a life sentence without the possibility of parole.

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1=1 More years passed, and, once again, The Cotton Club made news. In 1995 Robert Evans, who had suffered through more disappointing film projects in the intervening years, announced that he hoped to bring The Cotton Club to Broadway as a musical. He explained, "The worst mistake I made was making it as a movie rather than as it was presented to me, as a play." Nothing came of this dream. In 1999 filmmaker Lorenzo Doumani, the son oí The Cotton Club backer whose trust fund had been drained to help finance the movie, produced a documentary called Apocalypse Always: Tales of The Cotton Club. By this time Orion Pictures had gone out of business, and control of The Cotton Club had reverted to the Doumanis, so Lorenzo's documentary included much footage not used in the original release print. In this behind-the-scenes look at the picture's tortured history, Ed Doumani placed a great deal of the blame for the film's financial and artistic failure on Francis Ford Coppola (who declined to be interviewed for the documentary). Doumani said of the director, "Had his deal been with a major studio, he never could have gotten away with it. But he took advantage of me because I was a first-time producer. . . . He failed the same way he's failed in most of his efforts since The Godfather. . . . He threw the plot out the window to go for a visual style. What he wound up with was a lot of everything and enough of nothing." Even more recently, Evans, once a Hollywood golden boy, took a few more public jabs at his old adversary, Coppola. This occurred in the noholds-barred documentary The Kid Stays in the Picture (2002), based on Robert's 1994 memoir. At a screening of the picture an audience member asked Evans, "If you could change one thing about your life what would it be?" The Cotton Club survivor quipped, "The second half."

7 Shanghai Surprise (1986) I thought it was a great script and the idea of going to China was exciting to me and the idea of working with my husband [Sean Penn] was exciting to me, because he's a great actor. But sometimes everything goes wrong. —MADONNA,

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y the second half of the 1980s several new trends were having a serious impact on the American entertainment industry. Half the homes in the United States that had television sets had VCRs and were utilizing cable TV providers. There were more than 23,000 cinemas in the United States, but the number of drive-in theaters was fast decreasing: from 3,550 in 1980 to only 1,100 in 1989. (Regarding driveins, in 1986 the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that movies containing sexually oriented scenes could be banned from such venues if they could be viewed from outside the premises.) Also in 1986, 1.02 billion theater tickets were sold, with the average price of admission being $3.71. There were 451 American-made features released that year, and the average cost of making a movie was $17.5 million.

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During this decade Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, once the Tiffany of Hollywood movie studios, was coping with turbulent changes. In 1985 television mogul Ted Turner purchased the financially ailing MGM and the MGM/United Artists Entertainment Company. However, that same year, he sold them back to entrepreneur Kirk Kerkorian, while retaining those studios' large movieATV libraries. Alan Ladd Jr., the son of the late movie star, was made the new chairman of MGM. With a limited production schedule, the studio's highest-grossing release of 1986 was Poltergeist II: The Other Side ($41 million), followed by the action entry Running Scared ($38.5 million), costarring Billy Crystal and Gregory Hines. At the bottom end of the spectrum for Metro that year were such low-earning pictures as Dream Lover ($759,000), with Kristy McNichol, and Where the River Runs Black ($676,000), featuring Charles Durning and Peter Horton as priests. And then there was MGM's expensive fiasco, Shanghai Surprise.

Throughout its long history Hollywood had often relied on the novelty of pairing real-life husbands and wives on screen (some of whom actually met while making a movie together). This ploy allowed filmgoers the opportunity to watch their latest favorite lovebirds interacting on camera. Such casting also had the virtue of appeasing demanding stars who did not wish to be separated from their spouses while shooting a new picture. Over the decades this gimmick led to such big-screen couplings as Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks Sr., Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacali, Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh, Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger, Warren Beatty and Annette Bening, and Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. And then there was the teaming of Madonna and Sean Penn. Madonna was born Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone in 1958 in Bay City, Michigan, the third of six children. When Madonna was six her mother died of breast cancer. Raised by a strict Catholic father (a design engineer in the car industry) and stepmother, the girl switched her career ambitions from wanting to become a nun to dreams of being a professional dancer. By mid-1978 Madonna was living in New York.

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Struggling to survive, she worked in a doughnut shop, did figure modeling, and made a soft-core porno film (A Certain Sacrifice). After discovering that she lacked the discipline and/or the particular talent needed to succeed with a professional dance company, she turned to performing music. Between assorted lovers (who were often musicians and/or deejays at trendy Manhattan clubs), she formed her first band, the Breakfast Club, and began perfecting her attention-grabbing style as a singer/musician. Soon Sire Records signed her to a recording deal. Her initial album (Madonna) was released in mid-1983. In short order two of its cuts were in the top ten on record industry charts, while the music video for one ("Lucky Star") was frequently broadcast on MTV. By the debut of her second album, 1984's Like a Virgin (with its extremely controversial title number), Madonna was a confirmed star. The newly anointed star entertainer, who had a flair for business, quickly became an international craze, renowned both for her controversial posturing and constant reinventing of her image and for her trend-setting vocalizing. Madonna made her mainstream movie bow in Vision Quest (1985) performing "Crazy for You" in a club scene. When Diane Keaton dropped out of the film Desperately Seeking Susan (1985), Madonna substituted as Rosanna Arquette's costar. With Madonna's character built around her own unique personality, the offbeat comedy was a box-office success. By then the outrageous personality had met actor Sean Penn. Born in Santa Monica, California, in 1960, the second of three sons of actor/director Leo Penn and actress Eileen (Ryan) Penn, Sean was a rebel. As an adolescent he repeatedly got into minor scrapes with authorities. After graduating from Santa Monica High School in 1978, he joined a Los Angeles theater group. With a few TV credits already to his name, he made his Broadway debut in 198Ts Heartland. That same year he was part of the acting ensemble in the stark screen drama Taps. He came into his own as the spaced-out surfer dude in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982). While making Racing with the Moon (1984) he had an intense, stormy romance with colead Elizabeth McGovern. By now the forceful actor was well known for his professional seriousness and his increasing disputes with the media. Eventually, the Method-style actor, dubbed a Hollywood bad boy, demanded that if any newsperson was allowed onto his film set, the journalist was never to be in Penn's line of vision. In January 1985 a friend invited Sean to the set where Madonna was shooting a music video of "Material Girl." He was immediately entranced

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with her, but, initially, she played hard to get. However, within days their tumultuous romance was in high gear. From the start, the couple's highly contrasting personalities triggered problems. For example, the selfsufficient and stubborn Madonna was not about to stop dating the diminutive singer Prince just because she was also seeing Sean. This cavalier decision caused volatile, jealousy-prone Sean to go ballistic. During one stormy encounter with his lady love at her Manhattan digs, he grew so enraged by her independent ways that he supposedly smashed his fist through her apartment door. While Penn was filming MGM's At Close Range (1986) in Tennessee, his singer girlfriend visited him. Although the couple appeared to have little in common, they became engaged to marry. This new state of affairs prompted tremendous media coverage of the newsworthy twosome. In turn, the unwanted attention led Penn to frequently erupt against his tabloid pursuers. When a persistent British paparazzo got in Sean's face once too often, the actor began pelting the interloper with rocks and then chased after the man. Penn was charged with misdemeanor assault and battery; eventually he was fined $100 and given a 90-day suspended sentence. The film star's burning hatred of the media intensified when old nude photos of his fiancée suddenly appeared in Penthouse magazine. Instead of enjoying a quiet, dignified marriage ceremony, the celebrated couple hosted a three-ring circus for their August 16, 1985, nuptials. It was not difficult for the press to learn of the pending wedding— and its whereabouts at a friend's Malibu estate—because the duo invited 220 people to the supposedly secret service. Throughout the ceremony overzealous newshounds hovered overhead in noisy helicopters hoping to capture every least detail of the extravagant wedding of the year. The belligerent groom became incensed, reputedly firing two warning pistol shots at the bothersome craft overhead. (Earlier the actor had rushed down to the beach and scrawled in the sand his personal message to the pushy media. It read "FUCK Off.") After returning from their brief West Indies honeymoon, Madonna quickly became restless with the alien Los Angeles lifestyle. The urbanité especially missed her coterie of New York pals. Already the famed singer was questioning the wisdom of her impetuous domestic union. (Later in life she quipped, "I think that everyone should get married at least once, so you can see what a silly, outdated institution it is.") The singing star wondered if she had fallen in love with the actual Sean Penn or, instead,

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with an image she had concocted of the sterling talent. She discussed her quandary with friends and her therapist. She attempted to get her hottempered, brawling, heavy-drinking spouse to seek emotional help. (At the time he refused. However, months later, after a further brush with authorities, he was court-ordered to undergo psychological counseling.) Meanwhile, even before their nuptials the pair had talked about making a movie together—if the right property came along.

1=1 A confluence of events led the Penns into signing to make Shanghai Surprise. In 1985 the Australian-born Tony Kenrick, a prolific, globetrotting novelist, was living in the United States. His latest book, Faraday's Flowers, had just been published by Doubleday & Company. Set in 1940 Shanghai, the lighthearted account dealt with a rascal (a necktie salesman) who becomes involved with a beautiful missionary. She is determined to locate a stash of stolen narcotics that is passing from hand to hand in the Chinese underworld. She plans to sell the opium and use the funds to help unfortunate victims of Japanese tyranny. With her persuasive charm she convinces the ne'er-do-well American to collaborate on her mission of mercy, leading to an assortment of zany brushes with danger and the sparking of a romance between the ill-matched couple. The undemanding narrative did not make a great impact on U.S. readers. However, the property came to the attention of John Kohn. The New York-born Kohn had spent much of the late 1950s and early 1960s writing for Hollywood TV sitcoms (including The Ann Sothern Show, Bachelor Father, and The Many Loves ofDobie Gillis). By the mid-1960s he was established in England as a scriptwriter/film producer. He collaborated with Stanley Mann on the screenplay for The Collector (1965), for which he shared an Oscar nomination. Kohn went on to produce such European-lensed entries as The Magus (1968) and Theater of Blood (1973). In the late 1970s he became a team member at the British-based EMI Films Ltd. A few years thereafter, EMI dispatched him to Los Angeles to help represent its interests there. However, during a changeover in regimes at EMI, Kohn was let go. Next, John became involved in American film production, instigating several potential movie deals while producing Paramount's Racing with the Moon.

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By the time Kohn became interested in Faraday's Flowers, the book (before its publication) had made the rounds of Hollywood film studios. There had been some interest in the project at MGM, but during the studio's chaotic ownership changes the project had been shelved. When Alan Ladd Jr. was placed in charge at the new Metro, his regime expressed interest in reviving Faraday's Flowers, which had undergone a title change to Shanghai Surprise. (The new title referred to a plot point in which a "Shanghai Surprise" was defined as a money belt that exploded when tampered with.) John Kohn became attached to the project as producer, having already coauthored the book's adaptation with Robert Bentley. To induce MGM to give the venture the go-ahead, Kohn turned to an acquaintance, Denis O'Brien. The latter operated Handmade Films Ltd. for ex-Beatles star George Harrison. Handmade had already produced many movies, including Time Bandits (1981) and several Monty Python frolics, such as Life of Brian (1979) and Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl (1982). Eventually it was agreed that Handmade would produce Shanghai Surprise and that MGM would release the picture. While these arrangements were being made, the influential Creative Artists Agency began packaging the talent required for the pending production. MGM provided a list of actors it favored for the project's male lead. Their top choice was Kevin Costner. His career was on a fast track with such 1985 releases as Silverado and American Flyers and more A-list assignments in the works. Kohn and others met with Costner, hoping that he could work this movie into his increasingly busy work schedule. (At the time it was thought that Kelly McGillis—who had been in the 1985 success Witness and was soon to appear in the 1986 box-office winner Top Gun—would costar.) However, Costner was committed to Steven Spielberg's Always. That venture was experiencing delays, and thus Kevin was unavailable for Kohn's production. Later, there was talk that Harrison Ford or Tom Selleck might take over the male lead in Shanghai Surprise, but neither actor was signed. Meanwhile, CAA was considering Jim Goddard as a possible director for Shanghai Surprise. The London-based Goddard had directed episodes of several British TV series (including Rumpole of the Bailey, Fox, Smuggler, and Reilly: Ace of Spies) as well as the American miniseries Kennedy (1983) starring Martin Sheen. He made his feature film debut helming the British crime drama Bones (1984). Although Goddard was well-regarded as a craftsperson, he was little known outside the U.K.

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entertainment industry. In explaining the man's low profile, the British Monthly Film Bulletin suggested that "his style is so essentially efficacious, so admirably functional, as to be practically invisible." Along those lines Marty Auty observed in his piece on Goddard for the publication Stills, "Goddard's distinction is best defined by the French term réalisateur. . . . He lets the scripts come to him and then applies his imagination." When CAA suggested that Goddard be signed to guide Shanghai Surprise, MGM was not especially impressed. The studio preferred that a better-known director helm their picture. With Metro so tepid on Goddard and CAA continuing to strongly press his cause, the project stalled. However, John Kohn was not about to give up on this venture. He already knew Sean Penn from Bad Boys (1983), which his then employers, EMI Films Ltd., had produced. It was John who produced the next year's Racing with the Moon, a gentle romantic drama costarring Penn, Nicolas Cage, and Elizabeth McGovern. With Sean now wed to Madonna, Kohn decided to submit the property directly to her. He hoped its mix of comedy, romance, and adventure would appeal to the nonconformist singer as a costarring vehicle for her and Sean. In due fashion the Shanghai Surprise screenplay was dispatched to Madonna. Because the color green was considered bad luck in the British entertainment world, the script's presentation cover had been made yellow. Madonna happened to love the color yellow and later said it was the only reason she grabbed that screenplay from the pile of submissions on her desk. Once she read Shanghai Surprise, she responded favorably to the script on several levels. For one thing, Mrs. Penn was a great admirer of Marlene Dietrich. The latter was a legendary, magnetic sex goddess who, like Madonna, constantly reshaped her image to keep the public intrigued. One of Madonna's favorite Dietrich screen showcases was Shanghai Express (1932). In that exotic, effective movie hokum, Marlene had played a notorious China-coast prostitute. Shanghai Lily was a captivating woman who gained the audience's sympathy for being an exploited victim of men's carnal whims and, more important, for using her beauty and wits to gain power, material rewards, and even romantic love. Although still a moviemaking novice, Madonna envisioned that Shanghai Surprise could have a similar potent impact for her. For another matter, Madonna thought the essentially lighthearted romp would be good therapy for her and Sean. They could have a wonderful trip abroad—without cost to them —to film the picture. She envi-

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sioned that the role of the seedy down-and-out hustler who is buoyed by his association with the enticing missionary lady would, perhaps, leaven Penn's somber, explosive nature and set an example for their private lives. In addition, she was a great admirer of the Beatles, and it pleased her to make a movie for George Harrison's production company—especially after she learned that he was one of her fans. (When she and Sean first met with Harrison in Los Angeles to discuss the production, she exclaimed, "There goes a legend. In all my time I've never met a legend and he's a real one.") Excited by the prospect of being associated with Harrison's new venture (for which he had agreed to compose songs), she touted this picture to Penn as a wonderful opportunity for both of them. She appealed to Sean's chivalrous, macho nature to playact her savior and lover in the celluloid romp. Penn, however, was not particularly enticed by the Shanghai Surprise screenplay, his role as the alcoholic fortune hunter (which really demanded an older, more world-weary type), or the script's semi-tongue-in-cheek flavor (which was so contrary to his persona). On the other hand, he appreciated that his bride was so enchanted with the property that she would likely make the movie with or without him. His jealous nature could not abide being separated from her for months, let alone having another man make love to her on camera. When MGM offered the couple about $1 million each to team in Shanghai Surprise, they agreed to the deal. The terms of the Penns' contracts gave them right of approval of director. A choice put forth by John Kohn was Richard Benjamin, who had directed Racing with the Moon and had a good rapport with the tough-to-please Sean. The problem was that Benjamin was involved with completing Universal's The Money Pit (1986) and was then thinking of directing Ruthless People (1986), a comedy that Madonna and Sean had been considering making. However, The Money Pit was taking longer than expected to finish. Restaging several scenes in the Tom Hanks—Shelley Long picture made Benjamin unavailable for either Ruthless People (which embarked with other talent involved) or Shanghai Surprise. As a result Goddard came back into consideration. Initially he developed a good rapport with his future costars, ambitiously suggesting that this picture might be a mixture of Shanghai Express and the classics Casablanca (1942) and The African Queen (1951). Finally it was agreed that Shanghai Surprise would go forth in January 1986, with filming to be accomplished on location in the Far East.

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1=1 Madonna was certain that Shanghai Surprise was an appropriate vehicle for her and Sean —and that she could handle the film's acting demands. She told the press that she related to her screen role of Gloria Tatlock, the prim and proper missionary (who, inexplicably, wears bobby socks). The singer explained, "Like me she falls in love with someone as different from her as Sean is from me, and that's how I explain Gloria's attraction for the character my husband plays." However, Madonna, the novice screen performer, was not on the same page as others involved in the upcoming production. After getting to know the acclaimed vocalist from several meetings in Los Angeles, producer/coscripter John Kohn already had made an evaluation of his leading lady, who would have to act so much against type. "I thought we had the next Judy Holliday on our hands. She reminded me also of Raquel Welch, whom I worked with [on 1967's Fathom]. She knew all about makeup, publicity and costumes but didn't know how to act. I thought that she had the potential to be a terrific actress." Director Jim Goddard, getting his feet wet on making a major feature film with this high-profile shoot, had already decided that the quality of this movie was not really at stake. He was convinced that because the newlywed celebrity couple were headlining the picture, it was bound to be a box-office sensation. Apparently Penn was of the same mind, saying, "People will go to see this film because we're in it and not because of the script or the direction or the sets." According to cast member Paul Freeman, "It almost seemed as if the producers started off trying to make a serious film and were looking for the right actor and actress when suddenly Sean Penn and Madonna arrived in their laps. That's when they thought they had hit pay dirt and dropped all their ideas about making a serious film." Initially Sean had hoped that his pal Dennis Hopper, the actor/director, would be contracted for the role of drug trafficker Walter Faraday, whose 1,000-pound opium stash is stolen by his servant as Japanese troops enter Shanghai in 1937. However, Jim Goddard favored casting Bernard Hill in the part, as the two already had worked together. Hill was tested and hired. Penn was furious that his wishes had been ignored. (Sean felt that the Faraday character demanded a performer who was

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essentially a bad boy at heart and that this quality was lacking in Hill's somber nature.) This difference of opinion between star and director immediately set the two men at cross-purposes with each other. Penn and Madonna reached Shanghai, China, on January 9, 1986. (Among their support staff was Madonna's brother, Christopher Ciccone, who had been hired as her assistant and to help with her costumes and hairstyling.) After a few days the cast and crew moved on to Hong Kong for the actual shoot. Initially the lead couple occupied a lavish suite at the city's Regent Hotel. However, they found that being based there made them too visible to the news-hungry media. They soon moved into lesser quarters where others from Shanghai Surprise were staying. On the set it became immediately obvious that Sean's and Madonna's acting methodology, as well as their attitudes toward the picture, were diametrically opposed. Sean was a constant worrier, always striving for perfection in a scene and wanting to better his approach to his characterization. As such he had no problem with doing several retakes of a scene to get everything just right. Regarding his other responsibilities to the film, he wanted nothing to do with glad-handing the press who found their way onto the set. (In contrast, Goddard and his associates were more than amenable to reporters being on hand no matter how contentious it made Penn. They believed any publicity—even Sean in conflict with the press—would improve the film's box-office take.) On the other hand, Madonna owed her meteoric career rise to her careful manipulation of the press. She knew full well the value of being on the media's good side. On the shoot it was she who constantly calmed down her temperamental spouse and served as a goodwill ambassador between her difficult mate and the world at large. (However, some of his belligerence toward the press began to rub off on her. In turn, she soon became less cooperative with reporters.) Being an inexperienced screen player, Madonna was convinced that her first, spontaneous take of a scene was her best. She regarded retakes as a waste of time and energy and thought that the repetition of a scene did nothing to improve her performance. John Kohn recalled of his leading lady, "Before a scene she would never ask questions about the character's inner motivations or how she related to the other characters. So on set the minute the guy shouted 'Action!' she didn't have a clue what she was doing. She was only good in the love scenes with Sean because she really loved the guy. That was her, not the character. In the rest she

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was very wooden because she was so inexperienced. She would just walk through a scene and think she had given a fine performance when it was nothing of the sort. It was a very funny part but she didn't carry it off." Whenever Penn, a veteran actor, attempted to make suggestions that would give more nuance to his wife's emoting, they were resisted by Goddard, which only increased Penn's resentment toward the director. The mounting tension on Shanghai Surprise was made worse by the working conditions. Madonna had already grown accustomed to amenities of the top order. This was not the case on the Hong Kong set. (For instance, the diva became tremendously upset when she discovered a horde of rats nesting under her trailer, which was adjacent to the set.) Then there were the ongoing problems with the city's disreputable elements. During one day of filming around Hong Kong, a local gang blocked off a thoroughfare, leaving the star couple stranded. The situation was remedied only after the production paid the hoodlums a "ransom" fee. Another time, in hopes of a payoff, Chinese gangsters turned off a needed power generator, causing the shoot to come to a temporary halt. Amid all this chaos a Hong Kong newspaper offered a sizable reward to anyone who could point the publication's photographers to where the celebrity couple might be found in their off-camera time. The same newspaper also encouraged the locals to take candid photographs of the notables in order to earn a tidy sum when the shots were delivered to the editor. After a few troubled weeks in Hong Kong, the Shanghai Surprise cast and crew moved on to Macao, a city located on the Pearl River estuary opposite Hong Kong. The Penns were booked into the Oriental Hotel. To enjoy any privacy when they dined out, they needed to wear disguises. Whenever the singer wanted to swim in the hotel pool, a security team had to close off the area to others. One day as the celebrity couple and their entourage (which included muscular bodyguards) left the elevator on the hotel's 18th floor and headed to the stars' suite, Penn was surprised by a stranger suddenly darting forth out of the shadows. It turned out the man was veteran Hong Kong Standard correspondent Leonel Borrahlo. The newsman was determined to snap pictures of the couple. He optimistically anticipated that he might even secure an interview with one or both of the elusive movie team. Sean claimed he was so taken off guard by this unknown figure appearing out of nowhere that he went wildly out of control in his efforts to

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protect his wife. In the ensuing scuffle, during which Borrahlo got ensnared in his camera straps, harsh words and hand jabsflewabout as the bodyguards attempted to contain the situation. The melee came to an eventual halt when a Penn representative volunteered that in exchange for the newsman's handing over the film in his camera, Sean would later provide Borrahlo with an exclusive interview. Two days after this fracas, paparazzi chased after the famous couple as they were driving about Macao. The pursuit created a huge traffic jam. When Borrahlo's hoped-for interview with Penn did not materialize, the frustrated journalist filed assault charges against the actor, along with suing him for $1 million in damages. The 61-year-old journalist alleged that his assaulter was "loco, crazy, like a mad dog." The short-fused Penn, whose prickliness had been exacerbated by his heavy drinking during the shoot, was escorted to the Macao police headquarters. Meanwhile, Madonna, the dutiful wife, attempted damage control by saying that her husband's actions in this encounter were justified. However, it made a much more newsworthy story to paint Sean as the latest ugly American to rile the Far East. To offset the increasing bad publicity Sean and the film were getting, Handmade's experienced publicist on the shoot, Chris Nixon, suggested that the Penns pose briefly for the Macao press, perhaps sitting in rickshaws. This, Nixon reasoned, would greatly defuse the animosity between the press and the stars, who had vetoed media interviews for Shanghai Surprise. A steamed Penn refused, countering that Nixon was being paid to promote the film and to look out for the stars' well-being—not to cater to the paparazzi. Later, the publicist contended that Sean (whom he labeled "aggressive" and "arrogant") demanded that Nixon be removed from the film—which he was. As the public relations situation got badly out of hand, executive producer George Harrison flew over from England. He made his points with Sean and Madonna about their needing to focus on the welfare of the project. Meanwhile, Penn had to be kept under wraps because of the charges filed against him. While the situation was being worked out with local authorities, Sean quietly left the country, with the case against him scheduled to be tried in his absence. (Eventually the legal matters were resolved out of court. Penn was even given an official pardon for offenses for which he had never been charged officially.)

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By mid-February 1986 the Shanghai Surprise team was in England to continue the shoot at the Shepperton Studios. The Penns rented a home in Holland Park. As before, their lodgings were constantly surrounded by the overeager press. The resolute newshounds braved freezing weather and snow in the hope of capturing the elusive celebrities in their telephoto lenses. By now actor Bernard Hill had left the film's cast. Paul Freeman replaced him as the nefarious Walter Faraday. This substitution required that many scenes be redone in England without benefit of the authentic Far East backdrops, adding to the ever-growing production budget, which would reach an eventual estimated $17 million. (Removing Hill from the shoot had another repercussion on the movie. Years later Hill explained, "I remember saying [to the filmmakers] at the time, 'If you let me get sacked, your film's fucked because Penn and Madonna will think they can do what they like.' And they did.") With Sean and Madonna still refusing to be interviewed, the angered press labeled the "ungracious" couple the "Poison Penns." To show their mounting displeasure with the twosome, the media wrote vitriolic accounts of the couple's alleged shenanigans. Meanwhile, on the set, the sulky Penn had abandoned all interest in the film (which resulted in his looking bored on camera). He much preferred to focus on plans for partying after work. After weeks of having his directorial abilities publicly disputed by Sean, Jim Goddard walked off the set. While a nonplussed Sean stared through the camera lens as if setting up the next shot, producer John Kohn hastily interceded. As a result Penn once again toed the line on the shoot—at least on the surface. Reputedly, Penn attempted continuously to have Goddard removed from the picture. However, filming was too far along for this to be a viable option. As an alternative, Sean had Jim Foley (who had directed the star's Ai Close Range and was Penn's best man at his wedding) come to London and watch the Shanghai Surprise dailies. Penn listened to Foley's suggestions of how he should handle himself on camera, since he was not heeding Goddard's direction. This ploy added further to the discord on the sound stage. As for Madonna, she came to regard this difficult shoot as a "hellish nightmare." Said coplayer Freeman, "I think Goddard was intimidated by both Sean and Madonna, and his generation's method of coping with that was with dirty jokes and put-downs. . . . She reacted badly, but she

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was always quietly furious and fuming. Sometimes she would simply say that she didn't want to hear that kind of talk and walk away." While the filming struggled onward, the media's rancor against the uncooperative American movie notables intensified. (Especially after a member of the press was alleged to have been injured by Madonna's moving car.) One of the picture's executives did his best to stir up the conflict between the media and the film's stars. Sometimes, when the cast and crew were on location in the London area, he would march over to Penn and show him the latest tabloid accounts tearing into the Hollywood celebrity. Predictably, Sean would fume and then explode, giving the photographers who had been stalking the site ample ammunition for their candid pictures. This would then cause the enraged leading man to storm off to his trailer, where he sulked for hours while the cast and crew waited and waited. Eventually, someone (usually Madonna) calmed Penn down and filming resumed. On March 6, 1986, George Harrison finally held a press conference to defuse the deteriorating situation. Sean refused to attend, but Madonna was present to meet the hostile press. During the session she was restrained as she answered a battery of hostile questions. When asked to apologize for her rash of "bad" behavior in recent weeks, she refused to do so. The gum-chewing Harrison (who himself had not given an interview since 1974) buckled under the reporters' repeated barbs. At one point he labeled some of them "animals" and insisted he would prefer to be at home gardening. Trying to end the unsatisfactory conference on a positive note, Madonna said as she departed, "We're not such a bad bunch of people, are we?" The net result of this much-hyped publicity gambit was, as one observer noted, "Too little too late." The trouble-plagued, unhappy shoot finally ended in late March.

1=1 After their miserable experience on Shanghai Surprise, the Penns returned to the United States to promote Sean's At Close Range. (Madonna had cowritten and sung a ballad on the film's sound track.) When the MGM picture bowed on April 18, 1986, it received mixed reviews. Made on an estimated $6.5 million budget, it grossed only $2.3 million in domestic distribution. While Penn licked his wounds over this professional setback,

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Madonna worked on her third album (1986's True Blue), which proved to be a major hit. (Its popularity made her spouse even more sensitive about his movie flop.) Meanwhile, Penn was having hits of a different sort. On April 12, in Los Angeles, the Penns were partying at the club Helena. When songwriter David Wolinski spied Madonna, he rushed over and gave his pal a "hello" kiss, a gesture that incensed the volatile Sean. He began punching and kicking at his wife's friend as well as lashing out at him with a chair. Madonna and the club's owner managed to pull Penn out of the nightspot and calm him down. Later, the battered victim filed charges. In mid-July 1986 Penn was fined $1,000 and placed on a year's probation. Things did not improve when the couple was staying in New York. They got into a violent screaming match at Manhattan's Pyramid Club. This much-reported-on episode was a prelude to an August 1986 misadventure. Madonna and Sean were ambushed by a band of paparazzi as the couple left a Manhattan restaurant. One of the pursuing reporters attempted to snap a photo as they entered their apartment building. Sean turned around to swing at the photographer. He missed, but then apparently spat at the man. Having incensed his intended subject, the photographer got several animated shots before being hit by Penn. The latter also turned his wrath on another nearby picture-taker. Although no charges were pressed, the incident contributed to Sean's unflattering public image. It was in this turbulent period that Shanghai Surprise underwent the post-production process, which included the reshooting of some scenes.

1=1 By the late summer of 1986 MGM was convinced that its forthcoming release Shanghai Surprise was largely a misfire. (At least the entry offered new songs written and sung by George Harrison, as well as an on-screen cameo by the ex-Beatle.) Because of its contract with Handmade Films, Metro was required to distribute the picture. However, there was no stipulation as to how or where the distribution should occur. The film's announced release date kept shifting, which was a bad sign. Another negative was that the Penns were doing no publicity to promote their offering. (They also had not permitted their likenesses to be used in the movie-tiein paperback edition of the novel on which the picture was based.) Yet another warning indicator was that the picture suddenly bowed in late

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August without the benefit of press screenings. It played in only 402 theaters in medium-size cities in the Northeast and Midwest United States, and in some cinemas across Canada. The film garnered a paltry $730,000, leaving in question any further playdates beyond the already scheduled September 19 limited engagements in Los Angeles and New York. Even more depressing was the critical reaction to the initial showings of Shanghai Surprise. Said the Chicago Sun-Times, "This movie has taken the dazzling, marketable and decidedly sleazy personality of Madonna and turned her into bland mush." According to the Buffalo News, "The Prince Charles and Lady Di of the Noxzema set strike out here completely." The Cleveland Plain Dealer judged the film "awesome in its awfulness, momentous in its ineptness, and shattering in its stupidity." The Milwaukee journal chimed in, "[Madonna] acts and emotes with all the conviction of a guest in a sketch on a Bob Hope special." The Indianapolis Star judged Jim Goddard's direction to be "mundane" and "incredibly slow." Based on such negative initial results, the studio further hedged its bets on Shanghai Surprise. It bypassed taking out ads in major national magazines or producing a promotional video for TV/cable distribution. When asked if eliminating the traditional media screenings might have damaged the picture's chances, an MGM spokesman replied candidly that the screenings would have made "no difference" whatsoever. Dissecting this rationale, a Hollywood observer reasoned, "If it does terrible, as it apparently has, then they can say, 'Let's bury this thing.' And if it had done well, and their instincts were wrong, then they've gone to the trouble to test it out." Yet another industry insider commented, "Well, if the movie's so bad that the studio hasn't shown the film to the press, you have to wonder—maybe they haven't shown it to them [i.e., the stars] either." By September 15 —a few days before the abbreviated New York City opening of Shanghai Surprise — Gregory Morrison, MGM's worldwide marketing president, told Daily Variety that the studio was narrowing its promotional outlays on the movie because "the interest in the film [has been] nonexistent" in its recent showings. Morrison noted that if they had undertaken a national print and TV ad campaign it would have cost the company between $3.5 million and $4 million. In evaluating the recent late-August showings of the picture, he conceded that the "theaters were empty except for teenage girls." He revealed that surveys of audiences as they left the theaters reflected that "satisfaction with the film was

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at a very low level." Moreover, the "believability level" of Madonna as a missionary was also "very low." The Metro executive acknowledged that the extensive —and often negative —publicity surrounding the temperamental stars during production led to the movie's acquiring a "junior Cleopatra status." He summed up the situation with, "We didn't throw away $4,000,000 on a 1,000-print release pretending that we didn't know what we were doing." In his estimation, the stars—who displayed no chemistry on screen together—"bit off more than they could chew" by undertaking a period costume entry rather than a contemporary piece more appropriate to their personalities. The critics' response in New York and Los Angeles to Shanghai Surprise was also largely negative. The Los Angeles Times judged it "a movie of jaw-dropping, high-water mark dreadfulness." The New York Times advised, "The nice thing about Shanghai Surprise . . . is that you can watch it in near-total privacy. At the first show at Loew's State . . . there were hardly enough bystanders to make up a baseball team." The Los Angeles Herald-Examiners reviewer detailed, "One hour into the first public screening I attended on Friday, as I left the theater to put another quarter in the parking meter outside, I heard the manager mutter, 'There goes another one.'" When all was said and done, Shanghai Surprise, which had cost a mighty $17 million to produce, earned a disastrous $2.3 million in domestic distribution (and fared equally poorly overseas). A Variety staffer judged, "I've rarely seen a worse opening."

1=1 While making Shanghai Surprise, Madonna had politely observed that the process was "a great learning experience." Later in the year, after the feature had come and gone in release, the singing sensation spoke of her cinema failure less nobly. She now referred to her once idol George Harrison as a "sweet sort of hapless character." At the time, the executive producer remained mum about the picture and its leading players. But by April 1987 the ex-Beatle was singing a different tune. He told the London newspaper Today, "It's pointless to pretend that we didn't have any problems [on Shanghai Surprise]. . . . Let's just say that Madonna and Sean could have been much better if they'd not been hounded by the press and hounded by their own minds. . . . I'm not trying to be nasty.

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She's probably got a lot in her that she hasn't discovered yet, but she has to realize you can be a fabulous person and be humble as well." By November 1987 Harrison had grown even more candid in discussing this box-office bomb. He now labeled it "a bloody nightmare," with "the wrong script, the wrong director, and the wrong stars." As to his leading players, he termed them "pretty bad." In referencing his bothersome stars on this production, Harrison told Britain's Woman's Own magazine, "If there are dogs barking at your heels, it's much better to throw them a bone to keep 'em happy than totally ignore them. You've got to keep your sense of humor. Madonna and Sean took it all too seriously." On the plus side of this bad experience, the ex-Beatle allowed that the fiasco had at least provided him with two songs to recycle in his new album (Cloud Nine). George explained, "This was my one way of salvaging something out of that film disaster." In recent times Richard Griffiths, one of the Shanghai Surprise coplayers, offered his own take on that messy film production: "It was a good idea and it was shafted by that . . . [Sean] Penn. He was vying for control all the time, when he should just have kept his head down. After all, he was going to bed with Madonna every night, never mind getting paid X amount of millions of dollars for wanking around."

1=1 Following their creative defeat with Shanghai Surprise, the Penns wisely decided against costarring in Who's That Girl? (1987), a comedy that eventually teamed Madonna with Griffin Dunne. By late 1987 the everbattling Penns split, and Madonna filed for divorce. However, she soon had a change of mind and they reconciled. Later, she reversed that decision by pursuing a marital dissolution in January 1989. Thereafter, Sean embarked on a relationship with Robin Wright, whom he wed in 1996. The couple had two children and worked together on several movies (including 1990's State of Grace, 1995's The Crossing Guard, and 1998's Hurlyburly). After three Oscar nominations, Penn claimed an Academy Award as Best Actor for Mystic River (2003). In contrast, Madonna never truly caught on as a movie star. Her zenith was the anticlimactic Evita (1996). However, along the way she suffered such cinematic misfires as 1993's Body of Evidence and Dangerous Game. In 2000 the veteran singing star wed British filmmaker Guy

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Ritchie, with whom she had a child. Apparently forgetting that, for her, marriage and filmmaking did not mix, she made the atrocious Swept Away (2002) with Ritchie. Determined one day to make a real go of her tenuous acting career, Madonna has insisted, "What's a 'trained' actress? I think that in living the life I live I've paid my dues." Madonna's attitude about her thespian aspirations exemplifies how celebrities can become so wrapped up in their egos that they end up clueless about their craft, their abilities, and even their thoughts —all of which can contribute to a film project turning into a major fiasco.

8 Ishtar (1987) Since I'd been told the worst was over with Ishtar, I was staggered by the post-production costs that kept coming in.The theory had been that Columbia [Pictures] was out of the woods when shooting had finished, but financially we weren't. The whole thing ballooned even further out of proportion in post-production, both in cash terms and in delivery terms. — F O R M E R COLUMBIA PICTURES

PRODUCTION

CHIEF DAVID PUTTNAM,

P

1989

rior to 1987, if one mentioned the word "Ishtar" (ISH-tar), it was assumed that the speaker was referencing the ancient Babylonian and Assyrian goddess of love and fertility, a major deity similar to the Greek Aphrodite and the Roman Venus. Ishtar was also the divinity of war and was capable of extreme cruelty. In biblical times her cult spread throughout West Asia and became an intrinsic part of several cultures. However, thanks to the May 1987 release of Columbia Pictures' Ishtar, this word association changed radically. The notoriously costly movie was such an artistic misfire that the six-letter word took on a new primary definition: colossal, embarrassing Hollywood film flop with few to no I 67

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redeeming aspects. Such was Ishtar s infamy as an exercise in costly selfindulgence that it quickly superseded United Artists' mammoth disaster Heavens Gate (1980) as a synonym for American filmmakers going amok financially and creatively in the (un)making of a "major" motion picture. In fact, when Time magazine created a list of "The 100 Worst Ideas of the [20th] Century," Ishtar ranked among the key faux pas of the last hundred years, along with the Blacklist, asbestos, and the Edsel car. By the time Ishtar was foisted on the world, the public already had developed a new attitude toward the great American pastime of moviegoing. Giant conglomerates continued to absorb Hollywood movie studios into their global portfolios. In this new business world, films were no longer regarded by their makers as primarily an art form and/or entertainment. Instead, movies were categorized increasingly as an end product being manufactured by film factories. Each release was seen as a potential item to add to the bottom-line assets of gigantic global businesses that, in turn, had millions of interested stockholders. Therefore the studios' financial status, their lineup of executives, and the major talent under contract to them were being scrutinized by the media for their relationship to corporate profit-and-loss statements. This changed perception of the place of films in the corporate world was gradually filtered down into the public at large. With filmmaking now considered a facet of big business, TV newscasts and newspapers throughout the United States began reporting weekly tallies on how new films had fared at the box office. Tabloid TV shows such as Entertainment Tonight no longer focused just on show business glamour and its beautiful people. Now these media outlets were also highlighting the financial aspects of the entertainment industry. In this atmosphere —and with the Internet now making information of all sorts far more accessible to everyone —the public was becoming increasingly conversant with the fiscal aspects of picturemaking. This prompted the moviegoing audience to become aware of (and interested in), far more than before, the power shifts at Tinseltown film studios, stars' latest extravagant salaries, and the extravagances, indulgences, and follies that so often occurred when Hollywood's movers and shakers produced pictures. Thus everyday people began discussing movies' opening day grosses, the number of theaters a film was playing at nationwide, and the latest examples of Hollywood profligacy.

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In short, the public finally was understanding what pioneering movie moguls had quickly realized many decades earlier: the film industry was major commerce. As such, profits and losses were the prime indicators of a film's true worth, not the reviewers' regard for the picture or the number of awards it won.

Elaine Berlin was born in Philadelphia in 1932, the daughter of Yiddish stage actor Jack Berlin. As a youngster she toured in plays with her father's troupe. He died when she was 10, and it turned her world topsyturvy, leaving her forever after suspicious of men and full of other anxieties. She dropped out of high school at age 14. Following a brief teenage marriage to Marvin May—during which the future actress Jeannie Berlin was born—the extremely bright Elaine enrolled at the University of Chicago. There she met another aspiring entertainer, Mike Nichols. He, too, was an outsider in mainstream society and also had developed a cynical outlook on life, which fueled a burning rage. These two extremely shy individuals found a creative outlet for their anger in an improvisational group. Soon the duo developed a satirical comedy act. (Nichols once described the twosome as "insanely judgmental," a pair tied together "by tremendous hostility to everyone else but never to each other." Elaine May said of her successful teaming with Nichols, "The secret we share is that neither of us really likes people very much. They have no reality for us.") In a trailblazing act that savaged contemporary mores, the duo boasted intelligence, quick wit, and, most of all, chemistry. (May observed of her craft and livelihood, "The nice thing is to make an audience laugh and laugh and laugh and shudder later.") The team reached its professional zenith with the 1960 Broadway hit An Evening with Mike Nichols and Elaine May. Next, they participated in A Matter of Position, a play written and directed by May and starring Nichols. The pre-Broadway show not only closed in Philadelphia but created such friction between the two that it caused them to terminate their partnership and nearly end their friendship. Thereafter they largely went their separate ways professionally, although their kinship and occasional collaborations kept them bound to each other over the years. Nichols went on to direct several

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stage hits, and he had enormous success helming such films as 1966's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (for which he won an Oscar) and 1967's The Graduate (a landmark feature that made Dustin Hoffman a star). As a solo act, Elaine performed in clubs, on TV, and in movies (1967's Enter Laughing and Luv). She wrote and directed the film A New Leaf (1971), a dark comedy in which she costarred with Walter Matthau. On this long-delayed production she earned a reputation as an extreme perfectionist who could never shoot sufficient takes of a scene or meditate long enough on her film's edit choices. While this Paramount picture was well reviewed, it did not make a significant amount of money. In an industry that worshipped team players, Elaine was branded now as a maverick who valued her personal vision far more than a shooting schedule or avoiding production cost overruns. Elaine's status as a demanding, highly eccentric individualist was further substantiated when, as the scriptwriter for Such Good Friends (1971), she feuded with autocratic director Otto Preminger. The net result was that she refused screen credit on this Paramount entry, instead opting to use the name Esther Dale (the moniker of a late character actress). The next year Elaine had far better luck when she directed Twentieth CenturyFox's The Heartbreak Kid. Based on a Neil Simon screenplay, this biting comedy paired May's daughter, Jeannie, with Charles Grodin. The picture was a success. What nearly permanently destroyed Elaine's Hollywood reputation was her 1973 return to Paramount. She wrote and directed Mikey and Nicky (1976), a study of the longtime friendship between two small-time hoodlums. By now Elaine had become so completely obsessed with obtaining the perfect take on each scene that she might reshoot the same sequence 40 to 50 times and still not be happy with the results. (Famously, during one such endless cycle of retakes on a Mikey and Nicky location scene, emotionally exhausted costars John Cassavetes and Peter Falk wandered out of camera range and kept on walking away. However, the director insisted that the cameras keep running for several minutes thereafter. When asked why she had not stopped the shooting when her leads disappeared, she replied that the actors might just meander back onto the set and it would be interesting to see what happened next. Finally, the studio called a halt to the endless shoot, which had gobbled up more than 1 million feet of film. (The average feature film edits down from 40,000 to 50,000 feet to about 10,000 feet.)

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Thereafter May embarked on an astonishingly lengthy editing process on Mikey and Nicky. It extended for well over a year. Disgusted Paramount executives demanded her final cut so they could, at last, distribute the beleaguered picture. To prevent this "premature" release, Elaine stashed two reels of her production in a friend's garage in Connecticut, hoping to hold the entire movie hostage while she pursued further edits. Undaunted, the studio released the incomplete picture in a few venues to satisfy contractual requirements. Mikey and Nicky received mixed reviews and disappeared from sight. It led to lawsuits between the studio and May. Eventually the rights to the trouble-plagued picture reverted to Elaine. In 1985, at a screening at Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art, May's very belatedly complete version of Mikey and Nicky was shown. This was May's final edit—which she had only just finished, ten years or more after completing her shooting of the picture. After this debacle May was considered a poor professional risk by the Hollywood establishment. It was Warren Beatty, another world-class perfectionist and master procrastinator, who resurrected Elaine's Tinseltown career. He asked May to collaborate with him on the script for his Heaven Can Wait (1978). The Paramount picture was a huge box-office success and earned Elaine an Oscar nomination for her cowriting efforts. Now much in demand, she became an uncredited script doctor on such A-list films as Beatty's Reds (1981) and the Dustin Hoffman comedy Tootsie (1982). The latter was hugely profitable. As a participant in its creation, May was, once again, highly prized within the movie community. (According to May, "Hollywood doesn't care what you did as long as you're making money for them.")

1=1 Over the years of working together, Elaine and Warren developed a close professional and personal friendship. In the mid-1980s the two emotionally reticent individuals traveled together to South America. Their experiences there prompted the pair to think that their (mis)adventures might become the basis of a screen comedy. Beatty suggested that May start writing a script. If it met their expectations, he would both star in and produce the film. (At the time Beatty was also involved in supervising the long-in-gestation 1987 film The Pick-Up Artist, starring Molly Ringwald and Robert Downey Jr.) Elaine agreed to Warren's proposal. She also

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mentioned that she would like to direct the vehicle. Beatty championed the notion, although he knew it would be difficult to sell May as a director in 1980s Hollywood due to her checkered filmmaking history. Meanwhile, May, Beatty, and Dustin Hoffman happened to share the same Los Angeles attorney, which created a sense of commonality among the three talents. More important, Elaine had worked in tandem with Dustin for several weeks on script rewrites for Tootsie, and the two hyperperfectionists had enjoyed a good rapport both on and off the set. Hoffman had not worked since making Tootsie. However, this was not unusual for the Oscar-winning star, who often had significant downtime between bursts of filmmaking due to long-nurtured projects' falling apart or his decision to focus on his private life. Dustin was now anxious to return to moviemaking. Elaine suggested that he and Warren Beatty, who had never worked together or even socialized before, meet. If the get-together went well, the three of them might work on her new project, which was still in an early treatment form —not really much more than an elaborate idea. The six-foot-two-inch, handsome Beatty was a world-famous womanizer who had yet to marry. In contrast, the five-foot-six-inch Hoffman — who boasted unconventional looks by Hollywood terms—was a family man (he and his second wife had three children together). Each of these screen stars had an entrenched reputation for being enormously indecisive about committing to a film venture —often taking years to come to a decision, only to experience another sudden change of heart about making the picture. Once having joined a project, they were extremely demanding about having their creative viewpoints followed on the production. Each was willing to go to great lengths to ensure that his ideas were implemented. It seemed insignificant to them that their actions often caused great dissension among the cast and crew, or that their notions elevated production costs, or that their demands sometimes prompted expensive lawsuits. Such behavior had branded the two men as both difficult and temperamental. These seasoned actors were fast approaching the age of 50 and could not ignore how increasingly tricky it had become to find suitable lead screen roles for themselves. To one degree or another each was suffering from a midlife professional crisis (especially Warren, who was showing his age more than the compact, tanned Dustin). Despite their many dissimilarities, Hoffman and Beatty discovered that they had many things in common (including their liberal politics),

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and they struck up a friendship. They discussed the Elaine May project then in development. Both men concluded that they would like to work together and that this might be a good vehicle for their collaboration. While Dustin still debated the wisdom of the project, Elaine continued to tinker with her movie concept. It had evolved into a comedy involving two buddies who are caught in a tug-of-war between members of the American CIA and the emir of a fictional North African country. Beatty and May agreed that the next step was to pitch her still-formulating idea to a film studio, even though Hoffman was still making up his mind about the property. Warren Beatty was a shrewd observer of, and manipulator in, the complex, ever-shifting Hollywood power game. Since starting his acting career in the late 1950s, he had fostered many key industry associations. Over the decades such contacts had often proved quite useful as these individuals rose through the ranks at the studios. Currently one of Warren's prime Tinseltown contacts was Guy McElwaine, who had been Beatty's press agent years earlier. Recently McElwaine had become head of production at Columbia Pictures, the old-guard movie studio that had been acquired by the Coca-Cola Company in 1982. Guy was a great booster of his longtime pal Warren. He loved to cite Beatty's impressive industry track record, which included Warren's producing and starring in the surprise hit Bonnie and Clyde (1967). The actor had gone on to write, produce, and headline another mainstream victory, Shampoo (1975). Thereafter, Beatty wrote, produced, directed, and was the leading man in Heaven Can Wait, a potent financial success. Warren performed the same quartet of tasks on Reds (1981), his longbrewing epic of American journalist John Reed's involvement with communism and the 1917 Russian Revolution. The sprawling saga was too expensively mounted to be a real box-office winner, but it earned Beatty an Oscar as Best Director. (Over the years, as an actor Beatty had had his share of commercial misfires, including 1970's The Only Game in Town, 197l's McCabe and Mrs. Miller, and 1975's The Fortune.) In the early spring of 1985, with May in tow, Beatty pitched their still-brewing script (then known as Blind Camel) to Guy McElwaine at Columbia. The presenters suggested that the project would be a modernday successor to the highly popular Road to pictures. That comedy series —churned out in the 1940s and early 1950s—had profitably teamed Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, and Dorothy Lamour in comedie excursions to

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such exotic (sound-stage) locales as Singapore, Morocco, Zanzibar, Rio de Janeiro, and Bali. As part of Warren's hype to McElwaine on Elaine's still incubating screenplay, he said he believed the production could be made on a roughly $25 million budget, even with all the filming to be done away from Hollywood. Because of their lengthy friendship and prior working relationship, McElwaine was blinded to the financial perils of dealing with Beatty, a man notorious for being overly meticulous, egocentric, and vacillating. (The studio production chief reasoned, "You had to be very careful of saying no to something of Warren's because at that time his record as a producer-star was about a thousand percent in terms of what has been recouped from his pictures, cost to gross.") Guy believed it would be an important feather in his executive cap at Columbia to nurture this Beattyproduced property. If it was as successful as McElwaine anticipated, it could be the productive start of a new working rapport between Columbia and the superstar. Adding to McElwaine's positive reaction to the pitch was his reasoning that he had a surefire package: a comedy written by the esteemed May and costarring Beatty and (McElwaine hoped) Hoffman, two Oscar-winning box-office legends. Guy was not keen on the idea of Elaine's directing the vehicle, but that was subject to further consideration. McElwaine discussed the Beatty-May project with his boss, Francis "Fay" Vincent, then the head of Columbia's parent company. While the executives pondered the wisdom of proceeding, Elaine produced a draft script that sufficiently appealed to Dustin, who now said he was totally aboard the project. In May 1985 Beatty assembled a group at his Hollywood Hills home to read through and then discuss the latest version of May's screenplay. Present on that fateful day were Warren, Elaine, and Dustin, as well as TV star Mario Thomas (a longtime pal of May's), Herb Gardner (the accomplished Broadway playwright and a friend of Hoffman's), and actor Charles Grodin (who had starred in May's The Heartbreak Kid). Also there were writer Peter Feibleman and Warren's cousin David MacLeod, who had been the associate producer of Heaven Can Wait and Reds and would fulfill similar chores on the pending new production. May assigned everyone (multiple) roles and they read the script. When they were finished, they all decided that, despiteflawsin the text, the screenplay had a lot of potential. The question now was whether Columbia Pictures was serious in its intent to finance the film. In the proposed deal, Hoffman would receive

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$5.5 million, Beatty $5.5 million (plus another $500,000 for producing the picture), and May $1.5 million for writing and directing the project. With such large chunks of cash, along with several other benefits allocated to the key trio, it was unlikely that the project could be made for even the now suggested $27.5 million. More realistically, the studio estimated that the film's cost would reach well into the mid-to-high 30 millions. (Some sources have insisted that at this initial stage of preproduction, the three heavyweights offered to defer their salaries to make the project more attractive to the studio. However, this alleged offer was not acted upon.) Even with the healthy infusion of cash flow from its corporate parent (the Coca-Cola Company), the Columbia Pictures hierarchy seriously questioned the viability of the proposed film. It was one thing to back an expensive effects-laden blockbuster like the studio's high-grossing Ghostbusters (1984). But Elaine's script was a conventional comedy that relied on extremely expensive location shooting. With filming to be accomplished so far away from studio supervision, there was strong concern about entrusting the costly project to three such notoriously self-oriented, painstakingly slow talents as May, Beatty, and Hoffman. Adding to the executives' worries was the fact that each of the trio had great problems dealing with authority, and each carried around excessive emotional baggage. (For instance, stage and film director Ulu Grosbard said of Hoffman, "Dustin is a professional victim, and when you put yourself in that position you can make preemptive strikes against everyone and feel morally righteous. I think he does sincerely care about quality, but that's not a license for his behavior.") There were other negative factors in the proposed cinema venture. Beatty and Hoffman would be playing roles ideally suited to actors 20 to 25 years younger than they were. Moreover, May had firmly decided — and the star duo had agreed—that the two leads should play against type: Hoffman would be the aggressive girl-chasing hipster, and Beatty the girlshy hick. Then too, there was the obvious problem that neither of these celebrated actors had any noticeable singing talent. In the proposed movie they would be cast as struggling composers who perform their own numbers in assorted club sequences. The plotline called for them to vocalize in several such routines. It had been one thing for Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, both veteran singers and hoofers, to play a soggy song-and-dance

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act in their Road to frolics. With them it had been a case of experienced musical-comedy talent deliberately performing badly and audiences going along with the humorous conceit. In contrast, Hoffman and Beatty, as the film would embarrassingly demonstrate when released, were both unremarkable amateurs in these crucial performing arenas. So it was too close to reality—and not satire —when the pair sang and danced badly. Furthermore, neither Dustin nor Warren had ever excelled at broad comedy that relied on sight gags and snappy repartee. In other words, they were creatively in way over their heads with Elaine's project. However, the two veteran actors, as well as the unconventional May, were convinced they could carry off the enormously costly gambit and draw in a large number of moviegoers. There was yet another troublesome consideration involved in the negotiations. Dustin had not been on camera since 1982, while Warren was making his first film since 198 Ts Reds. This meant that a large percentage of the young adult and teenage moviegoing audience—a crucial segment of the era's ticket buyers—were either uncertain about who these two mature actors were or had never seen either Hoffman or Beatty on the big screen. Meanwhile, later in 1985 May presented McElwaine with a final script. It led to several meetings between her and the buoyant studio honcho. In their discussions Elaine assured Guy that she would not "misbehave" on this venture. Ultimately, they agreed that the film project (eventually titled Ishtar) would go ahead pending further script rewrites. Looking back at this fatal choice, McElwaine said in 1987, "Everyone thinks it was a tough decision to do Ishtar. It was not a tough decision. The fact is, people don't know anything about this business. They just don't know." (Such self-serving statements do not really explain anything, as though insiders in the Hollywood scene do not really have to explain themselves or their methods or accept any blame for the consequences of the decisions made.)

The battle plan called for the filming of Ishtar to get under way on locations in Europe and Morocco. As conceived originally, there would be eight weeks of filming abroad and six weeks of shooting in New York (on city locations and at the Astoria Studio in Queens). The principal cast

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now included Beatty, Hoffman, and the French-born Isabelle Adjani as the native rebel involved in overthrowing the emir of Ishtar's regime. (Adjani was then one of Warren's several paramours. Beatty described her as "the most gifted person for the screen I have ever known.") Charles Grodin was assigned the role of the befuddled American CIA agent trying to stop the uprising. Jack Weston (who had been in May's A New Leaf) was hired to be the seedy agent who gets the talent-challenged songwriters a low-paying club gig in Morocco. From the start, delays were the order of the day with Ishtar. The picture was slated to go before the cameras in August 1985, with plans to release the comedy in November 1986 in time to compete in that year's Oscar race. However, more script changes were required to appease all the principals. The launch date was pushed ahead to October. This meant replacing several of the already hired minor supporting cast members and some of the production crew—those who could not afford to wait through the extended delay. (Among the technical staff who had to leave the postponed project was cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno, best known for his work with Federico Fellini. He was replaced by Vittorio Storaro, an Italian noted not for filming comedies but for shooting intense dramas such as 1972's Last Tango in Paris. The new cameraman had worked previously with both costars, having lensed Hoffman's Agatha [1979] and Beatty's Reds.) Although Richard Sylbert had been the production designer on several of Beatty's past movies, he declined to participate in this venture. (Later Richard explained his decision not to work on Warren's questionable project with "I ain't stupid.") Instead, Richard's twin brother, Paul, himself a veteran production designer, filled in. Paul and his associates were dispatched to North Africa to scout the ideal locations for shooting the desert sequences. May required that the desert sites not only be expansive but also boast wonderful rolling sand dunes. In addition, the desert locations had to be within a reasonable distance to decent accommodations so the cast and crew would not have to endure lengthy daily commutes. Sylbert and his staff did the near impossible, finding just the right locales in Morocco, with two more than adequate hotels in the relative vicinity. Meanwhile, other staff members were searching for a new addition to the cast—a camel that looked blind to play the key dromedary in the story line. Miraculously, the crew located the "perfect" beast, with just

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the right droopy eyes, an impressive hump, and an amenable nature. Knowing what a stickler Elaine was, the workers feared wiring back to the United States that they had so quickly found an admirable camel. Instead, they informed the animal's owner that they would be back in touch on the matter. Thereafter, they pursued for days on end other possibilities among the dromedaries available in the region. Having made an exhaustive, costly investigation, the group concluded that their first choice had been the best—and would certainly meet all of May's special requirements. They rushed back to the first camel dealer and excitedly explained that they now wanted to buy his unique camel. Sadly, he informed them that this was no longer possible. When they pressed him for the reason, he confided that he had eaten the animal. The distraught crew renewed their expensive hunt for the ultimate dromedary and several backups. The quest was one of the many items that quickly added to the ever-rising Ishtar budget. Back in the United States, the super-finicky Hoffman and the fussy Beatty were having second thoughts about the wisdom of filming on location in Morocco. With the then explosive state of affairs between the United States and several foreign powers, Dustin was alarmed at the possible danger of terrorists targeting celebrity members of this production while on North African locations. Being a family man, Hoffman feared being kidnapped —or worse. Through government connections, he and Beatty wheedled a special advisory report about the likelihood of terrorist activity in Morocco. The verdict from this covert federal agency contact was that Morocco was actually one of the safest places to be in that region of the world. Relieved, Dustin and Warren now made arrangements to fly to North Africa.

1=1 When Elaine May arrived in Morocco, Paul Sylbert and his helpers proudly showed her the various locations chosen for the filming. When they reached the desert site, with its impressive sand dunes, May had an unexpected reaction. She no longer wanted a terrain filled with majestic dunes. She had a new thought. It now occurred to her that most moviegoers would expect the arid topography to stretch in endless flat vistas. Dejected and aghast at this turnabout decision, Sylbert and his people spent the next two weeks having a bulldozer crew level the dunes to meet the filmmaker's revamped demands. This was but one of the many

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continually altering situations on the tricky shoot. (In recalling the ongoing Ishtar ordeal, Sylbert detailed, "Elaine reduced us all to ineffectuality. [Cinematographer Vittorio] Storaro, myself, Beatty, who is a good director. We were all nullified by her fears. People who are frightened get really defensive, so nobody could help her at a certain point") As filming finally began, on October 21, 1985, many members of the American crew girded themselves to cope with the legendary persnickety on-set behavior of Hoffman and Beatty. To everyone's surprise, Dustin was extremely relaxed on the location. Not only was he accommodating to the director's wishes, but he also spent much of his time between takes amusing the cast and crew with anecdotes and jokes. It seemed a good omen for the picture's success. Even Beatty, who had the additional demands of being the picture's producer, was far less withdrawn —relatively—than was his usual wont on a shoot. (Later Paul Sylbert provided insight into why Warren remained relatively nonargumentative on Ishtar. "Beatty was so angry. His control is magnificent. He knew if he blew up it would all stop and nothing would happen, so he backed off.") However, it was not long before Elaine May reverted to her usual exacting habits, demanding take after take after take of even the simplest scenes. Warren and Dustin remained surprisingly tolerant of their director's peccadilloes, which required the cast repeatedly to go through their paces —rarely with any guidance from the director as to what she wanted done differently in the retake. All she offered was "Let's do it again." Eventually, the cumulative effects of working away from the comforts of Hollywood in the hot climate of Morocco wore down the cast and crew. Even the stars began losing patience with their compulsively precise filmmaker. It led to many tense moments during the shoot. Another perplexing problem on the set was how to "best" photograph the aging lead players to minimize their mature appearance on the big screen. Despite customized costuming, special makeup, and flattering lighting and camera angles, there was no hiding the fact that Warren especially was middle-aged and pasty-faced. The extreme creative efforts devoted to disguising the costars' overripe looks ended up accentuating them. (Ironically, for whatever unknown reason, May chose to clothe the beautiful, shapely Isabelle Adjani in baggy outfits and distracting cloaks and to give the accomplished performer little to do.) Meanwhile, with the production being so far away from home base, all the little daily aggravations that can occur on a shoot became magnified and, in the process, extremely pricey. For instance, one day a small

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but crucial piece of a key camera snapped off. A replacement part had to be ordered from New York. Rather than risk the vital mechanism's being delayed or lost in customs, a courier was dispatched from Manhattan to fly to Morocco with the needed equipment. Such expenditures became the norm on the exorbitant shoot. (G. Mac Brown, the film's unit production manager, rationalized Ishtar s ever-escalating price tag with, "It seemed to me that money was of secondary importance to creativity— that was the main issue.")

1=1 It is a rule of human nature that if you forbid people to do something, their curiosity will usually get the better of them and they will endeavor— one way or another—to circumvent the edict. Such was the case on Ishtar, shooting on its faraway, not easily accessible location. The powersthat-be (especially press-shy May and Beatty) demanded a strong cloak of secrecy on the set. This applied not only to the media but even to representatives from Columbia Pictures. Nevertheless, the latter periodically breached the fortress. They were determined to see for themselves what was going on with the "simple" comedy that was becoming so expensive. These occasional studio visitors met with a frosty reception during their Moroccan sojourn and usually returned home knowing little more than when they had arrived. With the high-profile ishtar so off-limits, persistent media, as well as industrious studio people, used their ingenuity to connect with those compliant Ishtar production staffers who could be persuaded to sneak out information about the film's progress. In this scattered fact-finding process, a good deal of misinformation got dispatched and actual data got magnified out of proportion. All this led the press and the film-industry grapevine to focus intently on the runaway production and expose all the artistic and financial excesses actually (or likely to be) going on there. In this atmosphere a good deal of bad word of mouth spread about the picture long before its actual release.

By January 1986 the behind-schedule ishtar production was back on domestic turf. If the foreign locations had been off-limits to outsiders, it

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was far more difficult to keep away nosy intruders when filming at the Astoria Studio or, especially, on the streets of New York. Media observers were quick to note that because May was utilizing an Italian camera crew, U.S. union demands required her to have a standby American camera squad, further adding to the escalating charges on the Ishtar ledger. Attention was also paid to the film's intentionally bad songs, being prepared by songwriter/actor Paul Williams. He had been among the contingent in Morocco busily providing last-minute new awful numbers for the star duo to perform deliberately poorly. When the production relocated to New York, it was decided that other such numbers were required. Filming shut down for days while Williams turned out such gems as "Wardrobe of Life" and "That a Lawnmower Can Do All That." The film's celebrity triumvirate got into the act, with Dustin contributing such ditties as "Sitting on the Edge of My Life," Elaine providing the lyrics to "My Lips on Fire" and "Have Not Blues," and Warren writing the music to the two latter offerings as well as teaming with Hoffman on the construction of "Half Hour Song." Elaine's perfectionistic methods did not diminish when she was on home turf. The cabaret scenes at Chez Casablanca provided a prime opportunity for constant retakes as Warren and Dustin did their Simon and Garfunkel-like routines repeatedly for their exacting director. One element that did not require much rehearsal was the club extras' reaction to the extreme awfulness of the stars cavorting onstage. Nevertheless, there was much debate as to how dismayed the on-camera audience should be by these bottom-of-the-barrel entertainers. Finally, on the evening of March 24, 1986, three months past the original deadline for completing principal photography, the "final" shots on Ishtar were accomplished on the Astoria sound stages. It was the night of the Academy Awards. As a goodwill gesture to the exhausted cast and crew, Beatty hosted an on-set Oscar party. Besides the catered food, there were TV sets stationed about so everyone could watch the industry festivities. (Some of the more optimistic members of the group wondered if their current film would be up for awards at next year's Oscars.) Post-production was the next step for the already media-vilified picture. With May's reputation for endlessly revising her film edits, everyone anticipated and feared that this key step would not go any faster than had the protracted shoot. Months passed as Elaine and her staff toiled at a Manhattan edit lab poring over the massive amount of shot footage. Ever

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so painstakingly, the 104 hours (more than 600,000 feet) of film were slowly assembled into a final cut, which ran 107 minutes. (At times May had three teams of editors working on 24-hour shifts, which led to enormous overtime charges.) Producer Beatty constantly backed his pal May in her excessive attention to finalizing their film. He reasoned, "When you're making a movie, you have to keep your eye on the ball and let someone work the way they work." Meanwhile, as the snail's-pace edit process developed a life of its own, some of the film's sets remained intact at the Astoria Studio. When the facility asked repeatedly if they could strike the elaborate, spaceconsuming Chez Casablanca set, Elaine's response was "not yet." In March of 1987 —a year after the shoot concluded—staffers at the Astoria sound stages were still contacting the director about dismantling her sets. Even at that late point May's edict was, "We're still not done." Such extraordinary delays not only mushroomed the costs on Ishtar but also further convinced industry observers and the public that Ishtar was a box-office disaster waiting to be unleashed.

1=1 During the long-drawn-out making of Ishtar, the Guy McElwaine regime was having more than its share of box-office disappointments, including Big Trouble, A Chorus Line, Desert Bloom, The New Kids, Out of Bounds, and Quicksilver. Of great concern to the Columbia/Coca-Cola hierarchy was that McElwaine's administration had greenlighted not only the now frightfully expensive Ishtar but also the production of another similarly overbudgeted, bloated comedy—Bill Cosby's Leonard Part 6 (1987). Following the Hollywood rule of "when in doubt, change the ship's captain," Francis "Fay" Vincent had been ordered by corporate higherups to secure an immediate replacement for McElwaine at Columbia. The person of choice was British-born David Puttnam. Born in 1941 in London, David quit school at age 16 to join a local advertising agency as a messenger. Within four years at the firm he became an account executive. Next, he founded his own agency, which specialized in handling name photographers. By the early 1970s Puttnam had become a film producer in the United Kingdom, with such features as Melody and The Pied Piper. After executive producing two Ken Russell features (Mahler and

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Lisztomania), he supervised the popular Bugsy Mahne (1976). Three years later David received international acclaim as a coproducer of the Oscar-nominated Midnight Express. His production of Chariots of Fire (1981) was named Best Picture by the Academy. Subsequent projects included Local Hero (1983) and The Killing Fields (1984). With his knack for picking fledgling directors with great potential and keeping productions within budget and on schedule, he had earned a extremely positive reputation in his homeland. At the time of Vincent's mission to find a new production chief for Columbia, David was considered the great hope of the then faltering U.K. film industry. Columbia offered Puttnam a lucrative deal that included all sorts of perks. However, he had reservations about accepting the post. He knew if he migrated to Hollywood he would be considered a traitor at home for having abandoned his country's picture business in its time of need. Then too, the articulate producer—who had a penchant for being arrogant, outspoken, and undiplomatically direct—knew that in Hollywood he would no longer be a big fish in a little pond. He anticipated (correctly) that the American film colony would close ranks on this outsider from abroad and make it exceedingly difficult for him to make good on his duties and goals. There was also the matter of Ishtar. The much-delayed picture was being positioned as a major upcoming release, and its success or failure would be attributed to Puttnam's reign, even though the picture, a holdover from the previous studio regime, was already in post-production. While the same situation held true for the problem-beset Leonard Part 6—another McElwaine-sanctioned misadventure —Puttnam had great foreboding about any type of dealings with Ishtar s Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman. He had an unpleasant history with each of them. In the late 1970s Puttnam had been producing Agatha in England. It was an account of what really happened on those 11 days in 1926 when famed mystery novelist Agatha Christie went missing. The picture starred Vanessa Redgrave in the title role. At nearly the last minute Dustin Hoffman, anxious to be away from Hollywood for a period, asked to join the production. He wanted to play the subordinate role of the journalist who pursues the missing writer and becomes entranced with her. The surprise request was granted. Before long, American financing had entered the equation and the script was being rewritten to beef up Dustin's role. It all

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became too much for a frustrated Puttnam, and he dropped out of the project. Thereafter, on several occasions he had badmouthed Hoffman to the press. (He referred to the actor as "this worrisome American pest." Explaining his label for Dustin, David said, "There seems to be a malevolence in him, a determination to make other human beings unhappy.") Such remarks infuriated Hoffman, and he became Puttnam's sworn enemy. A few years later, when Puttnam was casting The Killing Fields, Dustin's name was submitted as a choice to play the American journalist. The producer recoiled in horror at the mere suggestion of having to work again with Hoffman. The key role went to Sam Waterston. As for Beatty, Puttnam's carefully budgeted Chariots of Fire had gone up against Warren's massive Reds at the spring 1982 Academy Awards. Paramount and Beatty spared no promotional effort in pushing their entry for prizes, having a much bigger budget to do so than the U.K.-produced Chariots. While Reds received many Oscar nominations and three wins (including for Beatty as Best Director), Warren was furious that David's entry had garnered four victories (especially the coveted Best Picture). From Beatty's viewpoint, Puttnam's remarks comparing Chariots to Reds had been too self-congratulatory, at the expense of Beatty 's lavishly financed saga. Thereafter Beatty lost no opportunity to express his frank feelings about Puttnam for having uttered such "unacceptable chickenshit." As Puttnam weighed the Columbia Pictures job offer, word of the pending deal reached both Hoffman and Beatty. Due to their past encounters with the Englishman and their growing obsession with how Ishtar should be marketed to the public, they reportedly campaigned against David's being given the high-ranking studio post. Columbia and CocaCola disregarded the stars' anti-Puttnam lobbying. In contrast, the same decision makers acceded to most of David's demands, including his wish that his team have no participation in or responsibility for Ishtar s release. The guidelines set by Puttnam also included not having to deal in any way with either of that picture's stars. By September 1986 Puttnam was installed in Los Angeles as chairman and chief executive officer at Columbia Pictures. He reviewed all the projects in consideration or pre-production, keeping some and canceling others. In the process of assembling his own lineup of new products, he made several no-nonsense statements regarding the future of Columbia Pictures under his command. His bluntness (which many viewed as tactlessness) set many in the Hollywood establishment against him.

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Meanwhile, as promised, Fay Vincent dealt with all Ishtar matters at the studio. This allowed David to remain aloof from that film's torturous post-production progression, which now included focusing on a marketing campaign for its eventual release. That aspect was already stumbling badly. For example, it was not until late summer of 1986 that Columbia even dealt officially with the constantly postponed premiere date for this much-discussed (and already much-maligned) feature. A trade newspaper ad was placed stating: "Ishtar: National release 22 May 1987." It led many media sources to suggest that Ishtar must be in real trouble to be so long in reaching distribution. Such public commentary further entrenched negative thoughts about the film in the mind of the public. While the world at large was loving its growing ridicule of the unseen Ishtar, Warren was doing his thing. In exasperating fashion, Beatty the producer could not decide upon the proper promotional angle for the picture (including the film's official poster). Weeks turned into months as he deliberated over each new revamp of the planned publicity for this once supposedly uncomplicated screen comedy. Beatty's costly procrastination and shifting demands concerning the thrust of the film's publicity—including its theatrical trailer—prevented studio publicists from giving attention to other company films. Ultimately the situation reached such an untenable point that Puttnam broke his own noninvolvement policy. He grumbled publicly about the inordinate time and expense being devoted to the constant reshaping of Ishtars marketing and told his studio superiors that this was wrong. This prompted the equally outspoken Beatty to tell a Columbia executive, "Who gives a shit what Puttnam thinks? I certainly don't. }ust tell the asshole to keep paying the bills." As the time for ishtars debut drew closer, its two stars eventually broke with their tradition of not promoting their pictures. However, even in this area the end results proved costly and not especially effective. Because Warren thought he would look better if filmed rather than taped for the various TV interviews, he insisted that such question-and-answer sessions be shot with the quality of a movie production. Then he demanded to edit the footage when it was transferred from film to tape, deleting responses he felt did not reflect well on him. Some TV outlets refused to air these staged dialogues.

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At last, in May 1987, more than a year after filming wrapped in New York, the much-analyzed Ishtar was ready to bow. But a new obstacle arose. Upon finally being shown the picture only days before its release, the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee launched a strong campaign against the movie. The group claimed the film was disrespectful to "the religion and Moslem culture." Among many stated points, the ADC found the picture's closing song ("I Look to Mecca") truly offensive. They argued that it trivialized the sacred Muslim city. David Picker (chief operating officer at Columbia) said the studio had no comment on the well-publicized protest, while David Puttnam had chosen this period to be back in England. The well-timed trip allowed Puttnam to avoid dealing with the Ishtar debut. (Just before the ADC flare-up there been much discussion in Hollywood and in the media as to whether Puttnam had refused to see a pre-release screening of Ishtar or whether Beatty et al. had kept the studio boss from viewing the celluloid farce.) Either way, fresh fuel was provided for the press to insist that ishtar had to be a dog if the studio's big honcho could not be bothered to see it. (By now media sources were debating the correct final cost for this out-of-control feature. A favored production estimate was an overwhelming $45 million. Other industry observers claimed the costs ran up to a staggering $51 million. Columbia representatives insisted that these figures were untrue and that the film had come in in the $30-plus million range.) On May 17, 1987, ishtar opened at a trio of Manhattan theaters and then spread to 1,142 cinemas domestically. Seeing the picture was anticlimactic for many critics, who had been inundated for too many months with the bad press on the film's bumpy road to completion. New York magazine labeled the film "a vanity production" and its plot idea "suitable for a workshop." After assessing the various faults of the offering, the publication asked, "Did Ishtar originate as a gigantic party joke?" The Washington Post berated the production for not even living up to its advance reputation as a mammoth stinker. Instead, the publication dismissed it as a "hangdog little comedy with not enough laughs." For Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times, Ishtar was "a lifeless, massive, lumbering exercise in failed comedy." Far more so than director-writer May or Hoffman (who at least breathed some life into his scenes), Beatty became a central target of several displeased critics. Leading this faction was the Village Voice, which

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carped about his indifferent performance, "He's a bit long in the tooth to engage in the adolescent skittishness about sex, hetero and homo, that adds a dose of painful infantilism to the massive ineptitude of the movie as a whole." In fairness, some reviewers found positive aspects to Ishtar. The New York Times reckoned it "a likable, good-humored hybrid, a mixture of small funny moments and the pointless, oversized spectacle that these days is sine qua non for any hot-weather hit." The same source, while noting that the movie offered moments that were "even genuinely inspired," also acknowledged, "The film's budget may well be a matter of outtakes and overtime, since the huge expense doesn't show up on the screen." The Los Angeles Times championed the release as "a smart, generous, genuinely funny affair," adding, "Sometimes, like the camel who almost ambles away with the picture, it's longish in the tooth, but it is based on an extremely astute vision of life." Despite Ishtar s mixed reviews, so much heat had been generated over the course of its protracted making—and by Columbia's $8 million promotional budget—that curious moviegoers rushed to see what all the fuss was about. In its first days of distribution Ishtar grossed $4.3 million. (During the same release period, an independent horror feature, The Gate—made for $4 million—grossed $4.2 million domestically and went on to take in $13.5 million at North American theaters.) By the second week of Ishtar s release, audience interest had sagged badly. Ishtar was now competing against saturation bookings for Eddie Murphy's Beverly Hills Cop II. (Made for an estimated $21 million, that entry went on to accumulate $153.7 million in domestic distribution.) Ticket sales for Ishtar dropped off drastically in coming weeks. When it wobbled out of distribution, it had earned only $14.4 million. While the feature failed to win any of the once anticipated Oscars (or even nominations), it did achieve a Razzie Award for Elaine May in the Worst Director category. (She was also nominated for a Worst Screenplay Razzie, while Beatty as producer was nominated in the Worst Picture category.) In the wake of Ishtar s large-scale failure, there were many postmortems concerning its downfall. One of the key questions constantly asked was why no one had closed down the picture when it had started to zoom out of financial control. Responding to this query, producer David Chasman, an industry veteran, suggested, "If an executive pulls the plug on a project he authorized, he is announcing to the world that

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he has erred in his judgment. . . . And it's never clear-cut. They sink in quicksand a little at a time. If they muddle through, the failure becomes the producer's failure. The villain is not the importunate star but the irresolute, weak, and indecisive executive. Artists aren't supposed to be responsible. Executives are supposed to make shrewd judgments." In contrasting the budget history of Ishtar to that of Paramount's Beverly Hills Cop II, Paramount's studio head, Frank Mancuso, said the Eddie Murphy action comedy went only $4 million over its original $17 million budget due to strong studio control: "We approved overages for extra music, an extra chase sequence and reshooting two scenes to get more reaction shots of Eddie." (Because the Murphy cop entry was shot in Los Angeles, it was far easier to control expenditures on that film than on the foreign-lensed ishtar.) As the feeble Ishtar faded from American distribution, several film industry sources supplied the New York Times with their assessment of why the picture had failed so dramatically to live up to initial expectations. These movie executives agreed that the initial error of judgment was saying yes to a venture that required Beatty and Hoffman to scramble around desert terrain bundled in burnooses. Said one of these observers, "If you're buying these two actors, you're buying them as movie stars. Audiences don't want to see Warren having trouble getting women and Dustin covered in sand."

In the aftermath of what became known in Tinseltown as "Warrengate" (referring to the monstrous movie flop Heavens Gate, not Richard M. Nixon's 1972 political debacle), Beatty rebounded eventually with his oversized comic book adventure, Dick Tracy (1990). Dustin Hoffman came back strong in Rain Man (1988), winning his second Oscar. Outside of an acting gig for In the Spirit (1990), a mild film comedy written by and starring her daughter, Jeannie Berlin, Elaine May had become persona non grata in Hollywood. That changed when director Mike Nichols asked her to script his The Birdcage (1996) and Primary Colors (1998). For the latter she was Oscar-nominated. However, since Ishtar, May has yet to direct another feature film. As for David Puttnam, he quickly wore out his lukewarm welcome in Hollywood. By late 1987 he was gone from

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Columbia (which merged that year with TriStar Pictures). He was replaced by Dawn Steel as Columbia's new production chief.

1=1 The infamous Ishtar, which for years to come placed a curse on Hollywood's making any romantic comedies, had an ironic coda. In March 1989 Beatty, Hoffman, and May filed a suit against Columbia Pictures Entertainment Inc. in Los Angeles Superior Court. They claimed that although the picture itself had not made any profit, contractually Columbia owed them proceeds for their percentage points of gross revenues from the picture's ancillary sales (e.g., vidéocassettes, pay TV). Regarding their more than $8 million cause of action, which included back fees, damages, and interest, a source, described by the Wall Street Journal as being "close to the plaintiffs," stated, "If you're entitled to money and the picture isn't successful, does that mean you should forget about it? A deal is a deal." Interestingly, in their suit—which was eventually settled out of court—the three high-profile plaintiffs referenced the odorous Ishtar only as "The Movie."

9 Lost Action Hero (1993) We're still making expensive movies but only when they're very good bets. More often, today, we're making films for $15 million that would have cost $20 or $25 million three years ago. We've stopped overpaying. We're making the right film at the right price. . . . We're leaner and much more flexible. We used to say, "We want it, no matter how much it costs." Now we've adopted the mantra of all well-run businesses: "We want it, but only if the price is right—or if Arnold [Schwarzenegger] is in it." — C O L U M B I A PICTURES CHAIRMAN MARK C A N T O N ,

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he Hollywood film studios had long profited from their on-screen displays of heightened emotions, bold dialogue, intensified visuals, and flashy action. Off camera, the industry's stars and decision makers had long wallowed in splendiferous lifestyles. In this gaudy environment of overstatement on and off the sound stage, the price of moviemaking had vastly accelerated. In 1972 the average cost of one of Tinseltown's 376 releases was $1.9 million. Twenty years later, the typical fee for each of Hollywood's 481 features was $28.9 million. During this same time frame the average ticket price escalated from $1.70 to $4.15. 90

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In these decades of spiraling production costs, the American film industry was reeling from several devastating examples of extreme overspending in making pictures. For example, United Artists' extravagantly budgeted Western Heavens Gate (1980) lost a gargantuan $42.5 million on its estimated $44 million cost. This monumental financial disaster essentially destroyed the studio and damaged the careers of many involved with the picture. There were a number of cautionary lessons to be learned from the Heavens Gate fiasco. However, many moviemakers and studio regimes ignored this graphic example of fiscal irresponsibility. Thus, Paramount Pictures lavished $47 million on The Cotton Club, which lost well over $20 million. Columbia Pictures allowed the price tag of its lackluster comedy Ishtar (1987) to soar to more than $40 million and, in the process, sacrificed more than $25 million. Three years later Warner Bros, sanctioned The Bonfire of the Vanities (1990). What resulted was a feeble adaptation of Tom Wolfe's best-selling novel that generated a deficit of $31.3 million. Such recurrent Hollywood folly led Jeffrey Katzenberg, chairman of the Walt Disney Studios, to ponder the ongoing fiscal irresponsibility within the business. In late 1990 he wrote an interoffice memo that, somehow, was leaked to the media. His famous memorandum focused on the industry mania that was leading to continuous financial mayhem on the studio lots. He observed, "Each of us [is] trying to outrun and outspend and outearn the other in a mad spring toward the mirage of the next blockbuster." He bemoaned that "this box office mania is fostering a frenzy among actors, writers, directors, and their agents," adding, "The time has come to get back to our roots. If we remain on our current course, there will be the certainty of calamitous failure." In summation, he warned, "We should now take a long and hard look at the blockbuster business, and get out of it." Unfortunately, Katzenberg's words of wisdom went unheeded by most industry honchos. (For example, in 1991, TriStar's Hudson Hawk, a puerile, tongue-in-cheek comedy conceived by and starring Bruce Willis, incurred a loss of $47.2 million.) As the ledger sheets continued to prove, many Hollywood decision makers were routinely (and often unnecessarily) allowing the cost of making movies to rise to such astronomical levels that it would require a near miracle for them to recoup their costs on such releases, let alone make a profit. These rash gamblers included a good percentage of newly installed top executives overzealous to

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demonstrate their power and perspicacity at the film lots they now (albeit usually briefly) supervised.

1=1 In 1987 the Sony Corporation, the Japanese electronics colossus, with an eye to creating more synergy among its many divisions around the globe, purchased CBS Records. Two years later Sony paid a gargantuan $3.4 billion to the Coca-Cola Company to acquire Columbia Pictures Entertainment (which included Columbia Pictures and its sister company, TriStar Pictures). In taking over the Los Angeles-based enterprise, Sony also assumed more than $1 billion in studio debt. Rather than staffing their studio plant with Sony executives from Japan, the megacorporation brought in the hotshot Hollywood team of Peter Guber and Jon Peters. To acquire this duo's services, Sony had to buy their production company for a mighty $200 million, plus provide the fast-living new co-chairmen with a generous compensation package. The many tantalizing perks extended to Guber and Peters included: $2.75 million each in annual salary, involvement in a $50 million bonus pool, and financial incentives tied to increases in the studio's worth over the next five years. The hiring of the two men led Warner Bros, to file a $1 billion lawsuit against Sony, claiming that Guber and Peters were bound to their studio by terms of a recent contract they had negotiated with the Burbank lot. To save face, Sony settled with Warner Bros, for well over $500 million. (Part of the compromise included Columbia's leaving its headquarters at Warner Bros, and relocating to the old MGM lot in Culver City.) Once installed in their plush posts, Guber and Peters cavalierly embarked on a lavish spending spree that was considered a new milestone in film industry excess, as was their nepotism in providing family members and friends with cushy studio deals. With the parent company bizarrely impassive (for the time being) to this spectacularly extravagant binge, the Guber-Peters regime continued on its wild, merry way with apparent disregard for management accountability. In 1991 the studio complex was renamed Sony Pictures Entertainment. Peters was forced out of the setup, leaving Guber as SPE's sole chairman of the board. By then Mike Medavoy was head of the TriStar subsidiary. Mark Canton, formerly vice president of production at Warner Bros., had been brought over in the fall of 1991 to be in charge of Colum-

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bia Pictures. One of the last projects Canton had supervised to completion at Warner Bros, was the infamous The Bonfire of the Vanities. (His pal Guber had been a co-executive producer of that much-vilified misfire, along with Jon Peters.) The 42-year-old Canton was determined to make a bold splash in his important new post. He wanted a surefire boxoffice winner to inaugurate his Columbia regime. In the process he foresaw creating a blockbuster franchise —filled with tremendously lucrative ancillary merchandising tie-ins—that would rival the triumphs of Warner Bros.' Lethal Weapon and Batman series. Columbia-Sony's money was no object for the ambitious Canton as he strove to achieve this grandiose personal goal, which was focused on everything but making a really good picture.

1=1 In the late winter of 1991 Zak Penn and Adam Leff, young graduates of Connecticut's Wesleyan University, were working on a fresh screenplay. Their first two scripts had found no Hollywood takers. For their third effort—also written on speculation—they shrewdly had studied the marketplace to pick a viable topic. Their research made them decide to write a male buddy picture that would be a mixture of macho action and satirical comedy. The fledgling scripters rented video copies of several successful action pictures, including Lethal Weapon (1987) and Die Hard (1988), and pulled together these entries' key ingredients. Their new screenplay concerned a youngster who is yanked into a fantastic celluloid dimension. In this world within a movie, the adolescent becomes pals with a famous action hero whose greatest screen success has been playing a Los Angeles Police Department (super)detective named Jack Slater. Because the boy is so astute about the action movie genre, he can easily forecast each upcoming hazard that will befall his not-so-bright screen idol as the latter charges through his current adventure. (In its premise of blurring the lines between characters within a film and moviegoers watching the picture, the screenwriters were following in the tradition of Buster Keaton in his 1924 comedy short, Sherlock, Jr., Woody Allen in his 1985 feature The Purple Rose of Cairo, and the 1988 part-animated, part-live action comedy Who Framed Roger Rabbit.) By October 1991 the ambitious novice screenwriters had finished their script and found representation with Intertalent, a relatively new Los

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Angeles agency. Their agent, Chris Moore, first tried to interest Carolco Pictures in the property, then called Extremely Violent. (Carolco had a penchant for producing bountifully budgeted action pictures, including Sylvester Stallone's Rambo entries and such Arnold Schwarzenegger offerings as 1988's Red Heat, 1990's Total Recall, and 1991's Terminator 2: Judgment Day.) When Carolco passed on the Extremely Violent submission, Intertalent swung into quick action before word of the rejection circulated within the film community. Gambling on the conceit of auctioning the "prized" property, it hurriedly dispatched copies of the script to five other studios, hoping to ignite a bidding war. The ploy worked with both Columbia Pictures' Steve Roth Productions and TriStar, each of which expressed interest in the project. Although Intertalent asked for $700,000, eventually it agreed to consider a $350,000 outright purchase of the script by either Columbia or TriStar. In the heat of in-fighting between the sister Sony companies to land this "coveted" property, both companies eventually thought better of their impetuous first offers and lowered the amount they were willing to pay for the script. When the dust settled, it was Columbia/ Steve Roth who was the victor, agreeing to a $100,000 payment against a total fee of $350,000 if the picture was actually made. The jubilant Roth said he felt he had just won the lottery. Columbia's hierarchy examined the crop of current top action stars who might headline this vehicle. At the time, Bruce Willis was reeling from the stink of The Bonfire of the Vanities and Hudson Hawk, Mel Gibson was tied up with his Lethal Weapon series, and at age 61, Clint Eastwood was too old to play the cop hero. Another likely contender, Sylvester Stallone, was far too stolid to handle the lighthearted spoofing demands of the new property. Therefore, the Columbia authorities agreed that this screenplay was perfect for only one person: the highly bankable Arnold Schwarzenegger. (This made full sense, since Penn and Leff had written the script with Schwarzenegger in mind.) The cocky Canton and his Columbia team were convinced they could, somehow, woo Arnold into making their picture. At the time, the Austrian-born world champion bodybuilder Schwarzenegger, then 44, was at a career peak, with tremendous clout in the film community. His Total Recall, made on a $65 million budget, had grossed $119 million domestically. The star's latest release, Terminator 2: Judgment Day—made for $100 million—was in the process of accumulating

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$204.8 million at the North American box office (with a final worldwide gross of $516 million). Proving his versatility as a performer, the six-foottwo-inch, hulking Arnold (pronounced by the star as "AH-nold") already had done very well in such screen comedies as Twins (1988) and Kindergarten Cop (1990). A great self-motivator, the unique Arnold believed, "The worst I can be is the same as everybody else. I hate that." Having taken a year off from moviemaking, Schwarzenegger was now interested in getting back to work, and he expressed interest in Columbia's genremocking script. (Later he said of the film's premise, "Having a kid come into a movie awakened certain fantasies I had as a kid in Austria. What would it be like to sit on John Wayne's saddle, or have him come with this huge horse right out of the screen? The script had a great concept.") Equally important to Schwarzenegger in considering this potential picture was the fact that it would not require lengthy location treks. This would allow the star more time at home with his wife, journalist Maria Shriver, and their young children. Moreover, the feature fit in with the current trend —a reaction to the recent Gulf War—of deemphasizing screen violence. Arnold envisioned this picture, with its teasing story line, as the next progression in softening his tough, serious screen image. It would team him (as had the R-rated Terminator 2) with a young costar in a PG-13-rated property that would, cannily, still have sufficient (mock) violence and a high enough body count to appeal to his core audience of (young) male moviegoers. Like any mighty star in the top 10 at the box office, Arnold had several film projects already under consideration, including Sweet Tooth (in which he would play a tooth fairy). With so many lucrative offers heaped on his plate, Schwarzenegger refused to commit immediately to Extremely Violent. This made the Columbia honchos all the more eager to sign up the much-in-demand superstar for their showcase. Being a master at leveraging his star power in all possible situations, Arnold effectively capitalized on his advantageous position. In January 1992 he grandly invited the Columbia big shots to dine at Schatzi, the trendy Santa Monica restaurant he owned. At the pivotal lunch, for which he insisted on paying, he agreed that the offered project had great possibilities. However, added the cigar-smoking entrepreneur, who now earned $15 million per picture, there was one problem: It wasn't "executed professionally." Guber and Canton—who would soon shunt aside producer Steve Roth with a token screen credit and a $1 million fee —reacted immediately to

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Schwarzenegger's negotiation signals. Even without a firm commitment from the prized leading man, the Columbia big shots agreed to hire Shane Black to revamp the Extremely Violent screenplay. Black was a UCLA film school graduate who had acted in Arnold's Predator (1987). He was currently Hollywood's hot action specialist after having written the surprise big-screen hit Lethal Weapon. For scripting Bruce Willis's action entry The Last Boy Scout (1991), Shane had been paid $1.75 million. Now Columbia paid the 30-year-old Black $1 million to redo the Extremely Violent screenplay. In turn, Black gave $250,000 ofthat to his writing partner, David Arnott, to join him on the rewrite, which they began in late February 1992. Their overhaul made the original narrative slicker and a lot more far out but also decidedly more violent. Its text was now bursting with crude scatological jokes (including those revolving around a grotesque gangland character named Leo the Fart). Commenting on their efforts, the Black-Arnott duo said, "We threw in every actionmovie convention we could, but it's not Naked Gun [1988] —no one pulls out a bazooka and says, 'Mine's bigger.' " The rewrite team labeled their results "a cross between The Wizard of Oz [1939] and 48 HRS. [1982]." While Black and Arnott were in the midst of their (re)drafting, Columbia was angling to make the project so irresistible that even the elusive Schwarzenegger would have to say yes to doing it. To help entice the finicky Arnold, they sought out an appropriate A-list director for the planned production. One possible choice was the Dutch-born Paul Verhoeven, who had directed Arnold's Total Recall and was thinking of directing Carolco's Crusade, with Arnold penciled in for the lead assignment. (Eventually that intricate period piece went into turnaround due to its staggering budget.) When Verhoeven remained unavailable, the studio considered, among others, John McTiernan. Not only did McTiernan have tremendous credentials —he had helmed Die Hard and the Sean Connery hit The Hunt for Red October (1990)—but he also had directed Schwarzenegger's Predator. As a result of that profitable collaboration, John already had a good working relationship with Arnold, as well as with scripter Shane Black, who had acted in that hit set in a South American jungle. After reading the original Extremely Violent screenplay, McTiernan rejected Columbia's offer. However, later, when he studied Black and Arnott's rewrite of the property, he was excited by the changes. (The direc-

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tor enthused, "The script had so much venom that I loved it.") John excitedly called Arnold and told him the property was now a must-read. Although both McTieman and Schwarzenegger were pleased with the current script (now called Last Action Hero), they still had some reservations. According to the muscle-bound leading man, "They had crafted rhythm and pace and staggering action scenes. What I felt was missing was bonding between this kid and his hero." (The star and the director were also unhappy with the story-line twist concerning the projectionist who provides the youngster with a magic ticket/passport into the onscreen dimension. The old man turns out to be the devil, which Arnold thought would give the picture too much of a horror twist.) By this point in the negotiations, Schwarzenegger, like Columbia Pictures, was quickly getting into a scheduling bind. They each soon needed to make a firm decision about whether this project was a "go," otherwise the elaborate undertaking could not possibly be ready by 1993 for the allimportant summer season, when such mindless escapism fared best with moviegoers. Forced to make a commitment to Last Action Hero or take on another starring vehicle, Arnold announced that he would make Columbia's picture. However, his acceptance was contingent on the studio's hiring William Goldman to rewrite the Black-Arnott version and "sweeten" it. It was Arnold's contention that "in the 90s now, families want to go together to the movie houses. You have to provide entertainment that is much acceptable to the entire family, which means that you give them all the drama and adventure and the action but you don't really have to zero in and show all the explicit violence." Thrilled to have brought the world's biggest box-office magnet so close to signing, nothing would stop Guber-Canton from acceding to Arnold's latest dictate. There was too much glory and potential profit at stake for the executive team to walk away from this venture. They immediately contacted Goldman, a two-time Oscar winner who had become Hollywood's most famous script doctor (including having done a successful polish on Arnold's Twins a few years earlier). Initially Goldman said no to Columbia's request, but this rejection did not faze the self-satisfied studio executives. A few days later Goldman was persuaded to participate in a conference call with Arnold, Columbia's big brass—including Canton, Michael Nathanson (head of production), and Barry Josephson (executive vice president of production)—and the star's agent. The conversation resulted in the prestigious writer's agreeing to devote four weeks

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to retooling Last Action Hero to make it more palatable for the broadbased audience everyone now felt was needed to recoup the projected huge outlays on this intricate production. Goldman's rewrite excised many toilet jokes, deleted several supernatural elements, and turned the satanic projectionist into a kindly elderly man (while converting a subordinate villain into the main scoundrel). He also softened the character of the youngster and developed a strong bond between the hero and the bright youngster in the plot line. For his month of toil Goldman received $750,000. While restructuring was acceptable, in the process other useful script elements had become too downplayed or lost—at least according to Schwarzenegger. Black and Arnott were hastily rehired to interweave some of their discarded plot points and nuances back into the patchwork text. Still later, three others, including Larry Ferguson, who had scripted The Hunt for Red October, contributed to the final screenplay. By that point the eight scripters involved had been paid a total of nearly $3 million. This included a $150,000 bonus given to the original writers, Penn and Leff, who ended with a screen credit of "story by." At long last, the savvy Arnold was satisfied with the much-reworked, amalgam screenplay and agreed to go ahead with Last Action Hero. His deal included a $15 million salary and a percentage of the profits from the film and various ancillary rights, along with being named the venture's executive producer. In this off-screen capacity, the astute star—who had earned a college degree in marketing since coming to the United States— was guaranteed a strong voice in all marketing, promotional, and merchandising decisions regarding Last Action Hero. Director John McTiernan soon came aboard at a $5 million fee. After the estimated high expenses for the film's planned elaborate special effects were added in, there was no question that the picture would cost at least the budgeted $60 million that Guber and Canton had persuaded the Sony higher-ups to sanction. By August 1992 Canton was proudly and loudly hosting a conclave on the Sony studio lot for some 70 executives drawn from Sony's assorted divisions. The meeting was a launch session for this picture of pictures, which Canton anticipated would effectively display tremendous in-house synergy among the many Sony companies. Plans were bandied about for producing the film's sound-track album on the Sony label, creating Sony video games based on the Jack Slater hero character, utilizing Sony's new digital audio release format for motion pictures (Sony Dynamic Digital

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Sound), and so forth. In addition there were to be assorted major tie-ins negotiated with brand-name outside entities (such as Mattel for action figures, Burger King for premium items and collateral promotion, Reebok for shoes, and MTV for on-air music videos). At this sophisticated on-lot pep rally, the enthusiastic attendees were shown a high-energy compilation reel of the best past screen moments created by Schwarzenegger and/or McTiernan. As the main attraction of this motivational seminar, Arnold went front and center to spur on the corporate teammates about their collaborative event movie. Smiling, Arnold told the excited assemblage, "I want to be involved with every facet of this film from start to finish. I'm behind you. Fm accessible to each and every person in this room, anytime." Throughout the meeting much energy was devoted to the participants' convincing one another that this was a surefire property that boasted every marketing ingredient essential to making it the blockbuster of blockbusters. Very little was discussed at the summit about what usually is the key premise in starting any picture —making it as high quality a product as possible. In the coming days Sid Ganis, Columbia's new marketing chief, shared with the media the studio's tremendous excitement over the project. While hyping Columbia's tremendous coup in signing the worldfamous Schwarzenegger for this can't-miss undertaking, Ganis was unable to pinpoint just what category the antiviolent adventure parody fit into. Sid explained excitedly, "There's no genre for this movie. It only looks like an action movie. It's about an action movie star. I think it's more — what it is, it's. . . uh . . . fantasy." Meanwhile, the swaggering Schwarzenegger assured reporters that his upcoming big-screen showcase was "the ticket for '93." The glory-seeking Mark Canton insisted to one and all, "Next summer is the season that will make me or break me. This is the big one, this is the best thing I've ever done." Mark noted that he and other key studio associates (including Josephson) planned to give this project their full personal attention. (Canton had already rejected the offer of genre specialist Joel Silver, a strong producer, to supervise the tricky production.) Full of hubris, Canton exultantly claimed that Last Action Hero would be the best audience-pleaser that Hollywood released in 1993—bar none! (This arrogant boast included and dismissed such in-production competition as Universale Jurassic Park, which Steven Spielberg was then directing.) At the time, few journalists cared to remember or to indelicately

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point out that the enraptured, self-aggrandizing Canton was the same film executive who, less than two years before, had insisted repeatedly before its disastrous release that his Bonfire of the Vanities was "the best movie I ever saw."

1=1 With only a recklessly brief eight weeks of pre-production, Last Action Hero geared up for its November 2, 1992, start date. A surprisingly strong cast had been assembled to handle the now hodgepodge script, which lacked sufficient plot coherency, tone, or entertainment value. (As time would prove, the self-mocking movie-within-a-movie story line did not make much sense, nor was that premise strong enough to shoulder the whole picture.) The valiant performers hired to support the Austrian Oak included: Britisher Charles Dance as the chief villain; Amadeus (1985) Oscar winner F. Murray Abraham as a corrupt FBI agent; veteran screen star/Academy Award-winner Anthony Quinn as a Mafia gang lord; Art Carney as the hero's favorite second cousin; England's Sir Ian McKellen as a tart-tongued Death; Mercedes Ruehl, Best Supporting Actress Oscar winner for The Fisher King (1991), as the mother of the film's key adolescent (played by experienced child actor Austin O'Brien); seasoned character actor Robert Prosky as the projectionist; and Joan Plowright, the distinguished English stage and film performer and the widow of Sir Laurence Olivier, as the boy's English teacher. Danny De Vito was contracted to provide the off-screen voice for the cartoon cat, a police detective named Whiskers. (To further boost the entertainment quotient, several celebrities were tapped for cameos. Among this group were Sharon Stone, Damon Wayans, Little Richard, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Tina Turner, Chevy Chase, James Belushi, and Arnold's wife, Maria Shriver. Sadly, few of these in-joke appearances had any impact, as the talent involved were stuck voicing bad quips or seen in toss-away surprise walkons that proved flat.) Besides shooting on the Sony backlot using the leftover castle set from Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula (1992), Last Action Hero had a busy location schedule away from the sound stages. It encompassed treks to various part of Los Angeles, as well as down the coast to Long Beach and San Diego, and included lensing on the streets of New York City. Priming himself for this showcase that would poke fun at his larger-than-life screen

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image, Arnold said, "Most actors take themselves too seriously. I don't take any of this too seriously. The trick is to have a sense of humor—not to take it too seriously. That's what it's about, a sense of humor." As filming got under way there was no question in the minds of anyone important at Columbia that this complicated effects-laden movie needed every day of its four-month shoot to complete its principal photography on time. However, there was little margin allowed for the unexpected, because Canton —in a grandiose display of recklessness —already had staked out June 18, 1993, as the picture's firm release date. (Under the governing Hollywood "rules," the major studios announced well in advance the release dates for their upcoming blockbusters, hoping to scare off the competition from opening their entries on the same prime playdate. Winning the box-office sweepstakes on a big film's all-crucial first weekend was key to promoting a movie to potential audiences in its subsequent weeks of release.) This supremely overconfident executive was unmindful that Steven Spielberg's dinosaur romp (]urassic Park), already gaining tremendous industry buzz as "the" picture of summer 1993, was scheduled to open on June 11. As cast and crew went through their elaborate paces on the actionladen Last Action Hero, many of the studio's power players were singularly and intently focused on hyping the "guaranteed" hit. (As with every stage of conception on this picture, the agenda and primary goal were to prefabricate a whopping success. All other artistic ingredients of the film were subordinated to following the formula that marketing data dictated necessary for a guaranteed hit.) In an unusual turn of events, Schwarzenegger (in his capacity as firsttime movie producer) was the point man on all marketing and promotional matters relating to Last Action Hero. Each and every new ploy of the promotional campaign was brought to the attention of the star, who was headquartered in his impressive 40-foot trailer on the Sony lot. When it came time for Arnold to sanction the planned one-sheet poster for the film, he insisted that Columbia's team go back to the drawing board—he felt that the action pose should have his hair flowing rather than tightly lacquered. It was not publicity department underlings who negotiated such approvals from Schwarzenegger but rather key studio executives, who spent much of their day rushing to and from Arnold's command center. In fact, after one conference in Arnold's control bunker, Mark Canton only partially joked to the star, "Have your distribution

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plan on my desk tomorrow." (The next morning Arnold had a mock report delivered to Canton. While this interplay between them was in the guise of a joke, everyone knew there was no kidding about who was the real final authority on this shoot.) The Columbia squad kept telling themselves that their upcoming picture would be an amazing, enormous hit. As they repeated this mantra—far too often and too publicly—it became clear that to most of them it did not matter much what was on the screen as long as the film's contrived body count, car chases, explosions, and self-deprecating humor always kept its star in major focus. With this mandate, barely had the film gone into production than Columbia was spending a mammoth $750,000 on a glitzy theatrical trailer for Last Action Hero to be shown around the country during the Christmas season. With no expense too dear, the overconfident studio executives pushed for several unique gimmicks to help promote their surefire summer release. When it was rumored that NASA expected to launch an unmanned advanced-model rocket into outer space in May 2003, Columbia had the bright idea that it would be marvelous publicity if the Last Action Hero logo, along with Arnold's name and so forth, appeared in large, colorful letters on the missile's casing. For this privilege the studio gladly allocated $500,000 to outbid other potential advertisers. The studio boasted, "It's the first time in the history of advertising that a space vehicle has been used." The ever-jocular Schwarzenegger, scheduled to press the button that launched the rocket, approved of the wild gambit. "It makes it look like we are dealing here with a monster movie. A giant monster." (While the proposed stunt achieved a lot of initial media coverage, the launch was delayed well beyond the time of Last Action Hero's opening, making the advertising pretty much useless.) Another of Columbia's publicity strategies was to prepare a 75-foot inflated balloon figure of Schwarzenegger as the mighty Jack Slater. It was to be an oncamera prop in the New York segment of the shoot, which dealt with the premiere of Jack Slater's latest action sequel. Initially the giant replica featured the unstoppable screen hero holding large sticks of dynamite. However, because it was now just after the February 26, 1993, bombing of the World Trade Center, in which five people died and hundreds of others suffered from smoke inhalation, a quick change of plans was needed. The hulking figure was altered so the hero held a law enforcer's badge in his hand. Meanwhile, the potent leading

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man, with so much at stake on this production, agreed to be featured in a music video for MTV that would promote the film's sound track. Most of all, the studio overconfidently believed that their magnetic star could sell anything to the public, including this by-the-numbers, selfmocking picture. Arnold was counted on to glad-hand the press at every chance and to be the film's goodwill ambassador during production and, especially, during the crucial initial release period. On one such tubthumbing mission he insisted —in what might pass for double talk—that his new movie was geared to please any type of audience: "It is a thinking man's movie. It is safe enough for kids because we never really show any impact of bullets, no blood—we always cut away. It's kept within certain guidelines although we kept the action in it. But at the same time we wanted to make it intelligent and to say something about action movies; about how this character changes and what impact the real world, the real violence, has on him when he goes back to be the fictional character." Another time the muscular spinmaster explained, "In a way, Last Action Hero is a spoof on the stereotypical aspects of action movies. It shows 'inside' the movie and how tough movie heroes are. . . . What I think makes it really work is that since I've done so many action movies in the past, now I can make a spoof. It is a satire." (In actuality it would be this very element that was the film's downfall. Since gaining movie fame in the mid-1980s, Schwarzenegger had played most of his features with an engaging self-deprecation that moviegoers relished. As audience response proved on Last Action Hero, there was nowhere to go creatively when parodying a parody in which every element—including story, costumes, and sets—was a gross overexaggeration. This heavy-handed overkill merely obliterated the foundation on which Arnold had achieved box-office fame.)

1=1 Most everyone at Columbia was in extremely high spirits as Last Action Hero continued its shoot in the winter of 1993. However, director John McTiernan, who knew better than anyone how the day-to-day filming was faring, was concerned. Unlike the others, who were blinded by dollar signs, he sensed that some scenes within the film were not playing effectively and would require a good deal of the usual fine-tuning. But

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with the film's June 1993 opening looming ever nearer, it became more apparent to him that insufficient time was being allowed for the necessary post-production steps so key to this movie's success. He was increasingly bothered by "the immutability of the release date," and argued — along with Arnold—for pushing the picture's bow to a later date. Canton insisted that the release schedule must be strictly adhered to. If it wasn't, he explained, it would send the wrong message to the industry and the media —that is, that the picture was in trouble. Last Action Hero concluded principal photography on April 3, 1993, with a humongous wrap party on the Sony lot. Thereafter post-production crews worked literally around the clock (on hefty overtime) to rush the summer 1993 event to completion in its extremely tight 10-week turnaround. Meanwhile, the strutting Canton was bursting with anticipation. He was so eager to test the film on a live audience that he organized an early test marketing showing. It was to be held on May 1 in Lakewood, in a 1,000-seat theater of a shopping mall complex located some 18 miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles (and directly north of Long Beach). A high-powered firm was hired to supervise this research screening, during which the specially recruited test audience was to watch, judge, and provide feedback on the picture by filling out response card questionnaires. In all fairness, what was presented to the test audience was an extremely rough cut of Last Action Hero, without the final dialogue dubs or score, and many of the action scenes still lacked their full array of planned special effects. McTieman said, "I had great trepidation about showing the movie in that state." However, the director—seemingly overanxious to convince himself that everything would work out okayallowed, after the fact, that he had felt "quite relieved" at the screening because he'd had an audience "not tolerate technical flaws anywhere near as well," adding, "I interpreted that to mean that they were basically having a pretty good time." Schwarzenegger later said of this premature test run, "I would say the movie was shown in the roughest form I've ever seen a movie screened." Besides the test audience, the theater that night was filled with topranking Columbia front-office executives, as well as such pivotal production figures as Schwarzenegger and McTiernan. The film's insiders did not need to wait until the 138-minute version of Last Action Hero finished unspooling to make a judgment. They knew from their own reactions —

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let alone that of the civilians in the audience—that their picture was hardly living up to (inflated) expectations. Naturally none of the studio brass acknowledged to one another that they were witnessing a hugely costly picture sinking in front of their eyes. Of all those at the Lakewood theater, Mark Canton was the most upset, since this potential defeat would be laid directly at his doorstep. Rushing into action, he prevented the market research staffers from collecting the ominous audience response cards. He knew that few of these score sheets would rate Last Action Hero as a "must-see." Gathering together the telltale evidence, the Columbia executive quickly decided not to share the irrefutable bad news on the cards with either the filmmaker or the star. Canton reasoned, "I didn't want the director, who had literally been working eighteen hours a day, and our star to come up with fourteen more ideas that would take three weeks. . . . We didn't have three weeks." Following the disastrous Lakewood Center screening, Mark Canton and his underlings did everything possible to avoid having news of the moviegoers' negative response to the film reach the press. He ordered that the telltale survey cards be shredded. He instructed everyone that when the media —or industry figures —called Columbia to inquire about the showing (news of which had already leaked out), the official word was that the test screening had generated no audience response statistics whatsoever. None of the callers bought this senseless explanation. Thereafter, what Canton and everyone feared most actually happened. Bad word of mouth about the forthcoming release spread throughout the industry and to the media. (In retrospect, many agreed that if the much-heralded production had been entered into in a far humbler way and if the studio and its star had not so insistently and smugly proclaimed that they were packaging the "big ticket of 1993," far fewer news sources would have been gunning to bring down the extremely expensive venture.) Panic can lead to disastrous executive decisions. Such was the case when a Los Angeles Times article by Jeffrey Wells appeared on June 6, 1993. It was headlined PHANTOM SCREENING; YOU HAVEN'T HEARD THE LAST ABOUT "ACTION HERO." Relying on several (undisclosed) industry sources, the piece referenced a supposed recent Last Action Hero test rescreening held at a multiplex theater in Pasadena, California, that had gone badly. The article noted that the studio denied any such Pasadena screening. Days later Entertainment Weekly published a cover story

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dissecting the troubled pending release and its exorbitant costs. One of the contributors to the national magazine piece was Jeffrey Wells, the Los Angeles Times reporter. Wells's actions led to a much reported showdown (in June) between Columbia executives and the Los Angeles Times. Fighting mad, the film lot threw its impressive weight around in the ensuing battle royal. Columbia wrote the Times a letter threatening to cut off all studio advertising in the paper, refuse all interview queries from the publication, and so forth, unless the newspaper agreed not to publish any future piece by Wells that even alluded to Columbia Pictures. This back-and-forth power maneuvering eventually ended in a stalemate in which both parties quietly backed down. However, the studio's knee-jerk response to the initial Los Angeles Times article (which was later proved to have been in error about the Pasadena screening) set off a tidal wave of articles from a large number of publications. These pieces dissected and editorialized on Columbia's chutzpah in so indelicately trying to steamroll the media. In the process the publications found ways to regurgitate the accumulated negative information on the yet to be released but already lambasted movie.

1=1 After the end of principal photography—and especially after the unfortunate May 1, 1993, test screening—several scenes in Last Action Hero underwent retakes and/or were supplemented with new footage. The intent was to patch up the picture's worst narrative holes and to improve other sequences that noticeably slowed down the action. This last-minute rescue operation was accomplished under the tremendous pressure of the fast-approaching release date. Because of the haste of the new filming, it proved to be extra costly and added to the movie's bursting budget, which rumor now said had exceeded its initial $60 million ceiling. (Some sources estimated the costs to be past the $100 million mark.) For the cast and crew doing the repair work on Last Action Hero, it was a tough situation. They were attempting to salvage a movie that both reality and the industry's and press's perception already had categorized as a disaster. It was difficult for most of them to generate the needed enthusiasm to carry through with their Band-Aid chores.

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The PG-13-rated Last Action Hero had its world premiere in Westwood, Los Angeles. Although Columbia expended $500,000 on the gala and invited 2,300 guests, the turnout was not very star-studded. Many celebrities chose to bypass the event, not wanting to sit through the unpromising screening or—worse—have the fiasco somehow rub off on them. Meanwhile, that same weekend, the competition, Jurassic Park, debuted throughout North America. The Universal release took in a recordshattering $50.1 million at the box office and generated the kind of audience excitement that promised a long, profitable playoff. (Made for an estimated $63 million, Jurassic Park's worldwide gross would be an astonishing $920 million.) This picture's phenomenal success meant the beleaguered Last Action Hero would open the next Friday in competition with a proven box-office winner that, unlike Hero, was inspiring terrific positive word of mouth. (What made this situation even more upsetting to Sony executives back in Japan was that Universale parent company was Matsushita, a rival Japanese electronics giant.) Cementing Columbia's panic, the early reviews of Last Action Hero in the trade papers could not have been more devastating. Variety slammed, "Last Action Hero is enough to make one nostalgic for Hudson Hawk." The Hollywood Reporter branded the offering "a joyless, soulless machine of a movie," nothing more than "a noisy monstrosity." Further solidifying the projected public lack of interest in Last Action Hero was another wave of articles that appeared in major newspapers and national publications. They summarized, in great detail, how and why the about-to-open feature had been doomed from the start. As more advance reviews of the picture appeared, things got even worse —if that was possible. On NBC's Today show, critic Gene Shalit wisecracked about the Schwarzenegger vehicle, "It's supposed to be a movie within a movie. Turns out it's a movie without a movie." (Later, the Los Angeles Times would be among the many sources that panned the picture: "An awkward mixture of overproduced action and underwhelming comedy, this ponderous joy ride is more notable for how strenuously it's been promoted than for how much pleasure it delivers." The Chicago Sun-Times s Roger Ebert pinpointed, "From beginning to end, the movie is about its gimmick, without ever transcending it.") Back at Columbia Pictures, everyone was engaged in damage control, trying to create a positive spin —somehow—for their already muchlambasted would-be summer blockbuster. Caught up in the paranoia that

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the world was maliciously out to bury the costly picture, Canton and his staff sought to plug any internal leaks from the studio that might further fuel negative perceptions of Last Action Hero. In the process Columbia officials slammed particular members of the press who were seemingly out to destroy a perfectly good picture. (As it turned out, there was apparently a well-placed executive on the Columbia lot who had been getting revenge for past slights by spilling confidential news on Last Action Hero to the eager media.) As long ago decreed by Canton, Last Action Hero opened as scheduled in mid-June 1993 at nearly 2,400 theaters. Even adding in the revenue from the special Thursday night (June 17) showings, the picture's initial weekend gross was a relatively tepid $15.3 million. In a face-saving gesture, Columbia officials insisted to the trade press that they were "very, very, very happy" with the box-office numbers thus far. However, in its second weekend in release, the blockbuster-that-was-not-to-be brought in only $8 million, dropping off a steep 47% from its prior week. With subsequent playoffs, the picture grossed a total of $50.02 million in North America and $71.2 million overseas. For a picture that had cost a crushing $83.1 to $120 million, the final tally was catastrophic (even with latter ancillary sales from pay TV, video rentals and sales, etc.). One of the few merchandising elements of Last Action Hero that did work well was its sound-track album, which actually rose to number seven on the Billboard music charts. In the summer of 1993, as Last Action Hero rapidly faded from theatrical distribution and many of its merchandising tie-ins gathered dust on the shelves, Mark Canton reflected on his decision to jump into a release date and stand by it—no matter what: "I would never again want to make that date. You're promising something too extraordinary and it can cause a backlash." Attempting a philosophical approach to his public humiliation, Canton noted, "Failure is not the end game —it is an almost inevitable cul-de-sac on the road to success." A dismayed John McTiernan observed, "In some other circumstances people might have, if not applauded, at least noticed the attempt to make an honest movie." The director added, "We really got tromped on by a dinosaur, period." As for Schwarzenegger, he allowed, "In hindsight, if the kids see TG-13' they say, 'Well, I've heard you talk about that, Arnold; you want to tone down the violence. I'm not interested in that—I want to have limbs come off, I want to have heads come off like in Total Recall. I want to see bodies

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flying around." (In assessing this gigantic career misadventure, Schwarzenegger certainly could have summarized the bad experience with the catchphrase of his Last Action Hero character: "Big mistake.") Having offered their weak mea culpas, which did not suggest that any of the guilty parties accepted any meaningful responsibility for their costly filmmaking error, Canton, Schwarzenegger, and the other key decision makers involved in the crass, disappointing Last Action Hero were all too eager to move on and forget this landmark fiasco. It seemed doubtful that they really had learned from their gigantic industry misstep.

1=1 The curse of the flubbed Last Action Hero did not end with the picture's tepid box-office take. While Mark Canton and others in the Columbia hierarchy had been focusing their attention and the company's financial resources on this elephantine picture, too little attention was being paid to nurturing new properties to help restore the company's luster. The result was that the studio had a paltry release lineup of new pictures for the coming years. Then along came the Heidi Fleiss scandal to add a tawdry coda to the Last Action Hero fiasco. On June 9, 1993, the Los Angeles-born "Madam to the Stars" was arrested outside her Benedict Canyon home on charges of pandering and a charge concerning narcotics—all of which were in the felony category. While she was being released on $100,000 bail, Hollywood went into panic overdrive concerning rumors that the often indiscreet twentysomething Fleiss might release her list of high-profile clients if the offer was sufficiently appealing. According to media speculation and the film industry grapevine, many of Heidi's suspected celebrity clients had ties to Columbia Pictures. Among those named in the gossip were such Columbia personnel as production chief Michael Nathanson and Last Action Hero's original producer, Steve Roth. There was also buzz that several of Heidi's stable, who had supposedly frequented the studio lot, had been hired for walk-on roles in the Schwarzenegger picture. As the Heidi scandal escalated, gossip focused on another Columbia executive, Barry Josephson, alleged to have partaken of Fleiss's services. On August 3, 1993, Nathanson issued a preemptive statement through his lawyer insisting he had had no business relations of any sort with the notorious Heidi. This led many amazed/amused Tinseltown observers to

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suggest that perhaps the nervous executive was protesting too much. The next day, Ivan Nagy, a director of nondescript telefeatures who had maintained production offices on the Columbia lot, was arrested on pandering charges involving a new woman friend. (Previously Nagy had had a strong personal relationship with Heidi and had also been a close friend to Madam Alex, Fleiss's onetime mentor in the trade.) While all this muck was swirling about Tinseltown, Columbia Pictures instigated an intensive internal investigation of its executives. Its mission was to determine if any of these key employees were actually linked to Fleiss and whether any staffer had permitted inappropriate expenditures for call girls who allegedly serviced studio personnel and/or clients. As Fleiss was being arraigned on the charges against her (which eventually led to her serving a jail sentence), Columbia took its own action. Steve Roth's production deal with the studio ended and was not renewed, while Michael Nathanson was "promoted" to a company post as executive vice president (later leaving the lot to produce pictures elsewhere). The Heidi Fleiss stain on both Columbia Pictures and Last Action Hero certainly did not help the already failing action picture as it sank from distribution. There were further reverberations from the colossally expensive flop, which was nominated for a near-record six Razzie Awards. In 1994 Sony Pictures Entertainment chairman Peter Guber left his post at the still-struggling studio, and several months later Mark Canton's Columbia reign ended. It was two years before director John McTiernan helmed another movie —the Bruce Willis vehicle Die Hard: With a Vengeance. In contrast, Arnold Schwarzenegger bounced back successfully from Last Action Hero with the already-in-the-works True Lies (1994). C'est la viel

1=1 In reviewing why the industry and the media had become so vicious in its attacks against Last Action Hero, a former production chief for another studio assessed at the time: "Because it was made so irresponsibly. That has to do with throwing so much money into the pot and not handling it properly."

10 Cutthroat Island (1995) We are making an American mainstream, mass appeal, action adventure spectacle. . . . [T]he movie is the star in itself. N o matter what the budget limitations or the physical handicaps are, we've got to offer the audience an unprecedented milestone in action and movie spectacle. Our imagination and sense of invention can not be limited by mundane reality. . . . No sequence or setting that you've seen in movies before is good enough. Any idea previously used has to be reinvented now and then cranked up ten times. . . . I don't want big, I want huge. I don't want surprising, I want stunning, I don't want fast, I want explosive. I don't want accidents, I want disasters. I don't want dirt, I want filth. I don't want a storm, I want a hurricane. I don't want hills, I want mountains. I don't want groups, I want crowds. — S T A F F MEMO FROM CUTTHROAT

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n June 1975 Universal released Steven Spielberg's Jaws. Made for $12 million, the thriller about a deadly shark generated a worldwide gross of $471 million ($1.66 billion in 2004 dollars). Hollywood quickly 21 I

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became fixated on emulating the phenomenal commercial success of this summertime release. It became every studio's dream (and the agenda of many ambitious producers) to turn out blockbuster movies: special, oversized entries that could be considered "event" films. The ideal entries were typically big-budgeted action pictures that might—like Rocky (1976), Star Wars (1977), Superman (1978), First Blood (aka Rambo: First Blood, 1982), The Terminator (1984), Lethal Weapon (1987), Die Hard (1988), and Batman (1989)—be marketed to generate a franchise of sure-bet sequels and, simultaneously, to launch lucrative merchandising tie-ins. By the 1990s Hollywood studios and their conglomerate owners routinely counted on such blockbusters as their economic salvation. They were also a quick means for film companies to generate excitement within the business —and with stockholders—for their lucrative moviemaking operations. These tent-pole film productions (that is, ones that could provide glamour, industry buzz, and the distributor enthusiasm that would support a studio's entire slate of upcoming releases) became the main focus of most studio regimes. Fueled by greed, ego, and desperation, the blockbuster mentality led to many oversized, embarrassing misfires, such as Heavens Gate (1980), Supergirl (1984), Howard the Duck (1986), The Bonfire of the Vanities (1990), Hudson Hawk (1991), and Last Action Hero (1993). Nevertheless, the tantalizing potential of turning out the next colossal celluloid hit (e.g., 1992's Lethal Weapon 3, 1994's Speed, 1995's Apollo 13) kept filmmakers focused intently on the high-risk blockbuster genre. It was not only the traditional front-rank Hollywood studios that became ensnared in this blockbuster mania. The perilous craze also consumed many of the big independent filmmaking companies that had sprung up in the flush economy of the 1970s and 1980s. These included the Cannon Group, De Laurentiis Entertainment Group, New Line Cinema, Vestron Pictures, and, especially, Carolco Pictures. It was Carolco, in a wild, desperate ploy to stay afloat in the mid-1990s, that greenlighted Cutthroat Island (1995). This gaudy, noisy pirate yarn proved to be the firm's final release and one of the most spectacularly disastrous failures in Hollywood's history.

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Carolco originated in 1976 as Carolco Services Inc., a financing and foreign distribution operation. It was founded by Mario Kassar and Andrew G. Vajna, who met in May 1975 on the beaches of Cannes during that city's annual international movie festival. The Beirut, Lebanon-born Kassar began his industry career at age 18 as an international film sales agent, quickly making useful contacts throughout the global business. The Hungarian-born Vajna became a successful entrepreneur in his twenties, operating both a wig manufacturing business and an apparel company (that turned out prefaded jeans). With this bankroll Vajna purchased two movie theaters in Hong Kong. Next he founded a foreign film sales business (Panasia Films) and soon produced his debut feature film, 1972's Deadly China Doll (aka Opium Trail). Made for $100,000, the schlocky entry generated $3.7 million in global distribution. It was in 1982 that Kassar and Vajna's Los Angeles-based Carolco Pictures produced its debut release, First Blood, starring Sylvester Stallone. Taking full advantage of tax shelter laws and convoluted international financing, the wheeler-dealers called upon their impressive array of global industry contacts to fund their $14 million action entry, craftily preselling the picture's distribution rights in foreign territories. The antihero action thriller grossed $120 million worldwide. This tremendous success gave Carolco and its high-living cofounders tremendous leverage within the international film business. Over the coming years they produced several small movies (such as 1988's Watchers and 1990's Repossessed), but their specialty was attention-grabbing, major event pictures. These high-profile action entries, filled with special effects, showcased such genre superstars as Stallone (in 1989's Lock Up) and Arnold Schwarzenegger (in 1990's Total Recall). To gain access to these in-demand actors, Carolco offered the superstars astronomical salaries and perks, which made the small studio's projects hard to resist. As Carolco's successes continued to pile up, so did the overhead of its films and the company's debt. For example, Rambo III (1988) cost $65 million, with $16 million ofthat earmarked for Stallone's salary. While that release fell short of expectations in domestic distribution (earning $53.7 million), it nevertheless grossed $189 million worldwide. More important, from this third Rambo installment Carolco had gathered a much-needed $80 million up front by preselling the picture's theatrical, foreign, and video rights. This not only fueled the sequel's tremendous,

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uncontrolled budget but also allowed Carolco's two high-stepping principals to continue leading their super-lavish lifestyles. In 1989, however, the lucrative Los Angeles-based partnership broke apart. Vajna, the relatively more cautious of the rash duo, was increasingly opposed to the gigantically budgeted pictures they were packaging. (Vajna also foresaw that their smoke-and-mirrors company could not indefinitely continue to give away ever larger chunks of their upcoming pictures' potential profits to back current operations.) For a price tag of about $106 million, Kassar acquired Vajna's 32% stake in Carolco. Turning a blind eye to the future, the flamboyant Mario, an inveterate gambler and ostentatious showman, continued to operate his spiraling-out-of-control enterprise as wildly as before. He was aided in his intricate financial endeavors by tax attorney Peter Hoffman, who had become the company's president in 1986. Despite poor returns on such expensive 1990 releases as Mel Gibson's Air America and Gene Hackman's Narrow Margin, Carolco kept its maverick operation afloat with the profits generated by Schwarzenegger's Total Recall (1990) and Terminator II: Judgment Day (1991), Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone's Basic Instinct (1992), and Stallone's Cliffhanger (1993). By 1994, however, Carolco was in an extremely precarious state —even by its bizarre standards. (In 1991 and 1992 the company had lost $353 million. In 1993 Carolco temporarily had averted financial disaster by restructuring its organization with the infusion of $112 million of fresh capital from Canal Plus of France, Pioneer Electronic Corporation of Japan, Rizzoli Editore of Italy, and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the latter controlled by Credit Lyonnais, the French bank.) Meanwhile, stringent tax law changes were making it increasingly difficult for cavalier big-stakes players like Mario Kassar to operate as he had before with those all-encompassing offshore tax shelters. Moreover, the Internal Revenue Service had begun investigating the high-flying Carolco and its head honchos. This ongoing government probe discouraged new investors from partaking in the corporation's reckless methods of doing business. Desperate for immediate cash flow, and having lost its once dominant position when preselling its latest event offerings, Carolco now had to accept bargain-basement prices in its financial dealings, such as for territorial rights to foreign distribution. (As a result, Cliffhanger, which cost $65 million to make and brought in $255 million in global grosses, did very little for the floundering company's bottom line.)

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1=1 Around 1990 Mario Kassar optioned and then acquired the screen rights to a screenplay called Cutthroat Island. He and his staff envisioned this as the 1990s version of the classic Robert Louis Stevenson novel Treasure Island (1883), which would generate the same excitement as such Errol Flynn seafaring classics as Captain Blood (1935) and The Sea Hawk (1940). Over the coming months Kassar tried unsuccessfully to find sufficient backers to launch this big-canvas pirate story. At one point Kevin Reynolds (1990's Dances with Wolves, 1991's Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) was touted as the likely director for Mario's ambitious opus. Then the project stalled. The international film community had become wary of the seafaring movie genre, scared off by such highticket flops as Swashbuckler (1976), Yellowbeard (1983), and, especially, Roman Polanski's Pirates (1986), which cost an estimated $40 million to produce and yielded only $1.64 million in domestic distribution. Even box-office king Steven Spielberg had lost favor with the critics and some of the public with his expensive genre entry, Hook (1991). This overblown pirate tale based on Peter Pan struggled mightily to find its audience. Then, in the spring of 1993, free-spending independent producer Jon Peters began shepherding a pirate project titled Mistress of the Seas. It was based on a 1964 novel that highlighted the adventures of Anne Bonney, a ruthless seventeenth-century buccaneer, and her ocean-bound adventures accompanied by another distaff pirate. Columbia Pictures considered taking on the costume action vehicle. Paul Verhoeven (1988's RoboCop, 1990's Total Recall, and 1992's Basic Instinct) was being considered to direct the venture. When news of Peters 's large-scale project circulated in Hollywood, Geena Davis campaigned hard to star in this tale of treacherous doings on the high seas. Columbia seemed agreeable to the idea of her taking on the demanding lead role. Then, suddenly, in July 1993 Davis walked away from the negotiations. Some said it was because she did not care to work with Verhoeven. (Other industry observers conjectured that script restructuring—to intensify the film's action quotient, expand the part of the male lead, and diminish the main female character—was the strongest factor in Geena's change of heart.) To woo Davis back aboard, Peters considered hiring Renny Harlin (1990's Die Hard 2 and 1993's Cliffhanger) to helm the seafaring entry, since the director

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and Davis were then engaged to marry. But Harlin's potential involvement still did not bring Geena back to Columbia's tale of the high seas. (Thereafter Peters attempted to package the seafaring project with Verhoeven directing and Michelle Pfeiffer and Harrison Ford costarring, but those plans eventually fell apart.) Meanwhile back at Carolco, Kassar was engineering an immense future production, Crusade. He hoped that this historical saga would bring in enough presale guarantees and cash to stave off Carolco's latest financial turmoil. This action tale set in the Middle Ages was to be directed —Kassar hoped —by Verhoeven and star Arnold Schwarzenegger (at a $15 million salary). However, the budget for the proposed epic soon escalated from between $60 million and $70 million to nearly $120 million. Even the free-wheeling Mario realized he had to back away from this prohibitively costly property. In doing so he relinquished the rights to the epic film to Schwarzenegger as a consolation prize for not paying Arnold the salary required by the star's pay-or-play deal. Still in need of an exciting major new production to provide a resuscitating influx of presale deals to keep Carolco afloat, Kassar had few remaining options. (He had already negotiated away to other studios such to-be-filmed properties as Showgirls and Lolita and had abandoned the projected Manhattan Ghost Story with Sharon Stone.) The only likely screen vehicle still on hand at Carolco was Cutthroat Island. Luckily for Carolco, because of the recent industry interest in Mistress of the Seas, it was now more feasible for Kassar to wangle backing for his long-in-theworks pirate caper. (At the time there was even another pirate project, Anne of the Spanish Main, being packaged by a Hollywood production company. It was to costar Timothy Dalton and Mercedes Ruehl, but the project never came to be.) Although Cutthroat Island centered on a daring female buccaneer, Kassar needed a major male star to be attached to the project to make this extremely costly venture attractive to distributors, banks, and financial syndicates. Mario seized upon the idea of casting Michael Douglas, who was still riding high with the public as the result of having costarred in Carolco's smash hit Basic Instinct. Kassar dangled a $12 million to $13 million salary in front of Douglas and gained the star's conditional acceptance. (Douglas explained his interest in the seafaring swashbuckling tale with, "I was looking for a romp for a sort of positive change away from the dark films I'd been doing." )

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Now entitled to a strong voice in the pirate film's fate, Douglas restudied the original screen story by Michael Frost Beckner and James Gorman. In short order the actor demanded rewrites. He wanted his role beefed up to equal that of the leading lady. He also requested that the film's initial violent approach be rethought, to put it more in the vein of his PG-rated adventure hit Romancing the Stone (1984), as well as the highly successful Indiana Jones series. (All these films were full of high action and campy good humor.) The overhaul was accomplished by the team of Bruce A. Evans and Raynold Gideon. With Douglas seemingly appeased, Kassar concentrated on completing the Cutthroat Island package. He envisioned hiring Renny Harlin to direct, with Geena Davis playing Morgan Adams, the daring rascal of the high seas. While these negotiations were under way, Davis and Harlin finalized plans to marry on September 18, 1993, in an elaborate $700,000 ceremony. The couple was also purchasing an expensive new home in the Los Angeles area. All of these outlays sharpened their interest in the Cutthroat Island project, which would provide Davis a salary of between $3.5 million and $5.5 million and Harlin a fee of $5.5 million for producing and directing the epic. By the fall of 1993 both had committed to Cutthroat Island. Born in Wareham, Massachusetts, in 1956, Davis was the daughter of an engineer and a teacher's aide. In 1979 she relocated to Manhattan hoping to break into show business. While struggling to get her acting break, the six-foot-tall performer with the imposing figure worked as a dress shop salesperson and also modeled. She landed a small role in Tootsie (1982), which led to TV series work (Buffalo Bill and Sara). She made her professional breakthrough in The Accidental Tourist (1988), which won her an Oscar in the Best Supporting Actress category. Thereafter, she had great success in the female buddy/road picture Thelma Ó Louise (1991). Even more popular was A League of Their Own (1992), about a professional women's baseball league that sprang up during World War II. Next, she suffered two major box-office flops: Hero (1992) and Angie (1994). This double whammy was followed by the unmemorable Speechless (1994), an inept updating oí The Front Page. (The limp comedy was produced by Forge, a company founded by Davis and Harlin.) Despite Davis's shaky marquee allure, she expressed qualified enthusiasm about making the pirate picture, and her projected participation would ensure that Harlin would direct the film.

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Harlin was born Renny Lauri Mauritz Harjola in Helsinki, Finland, in 1958, the son of a physician and a nurse. As a youngster he was intrigued with cinema and made amateur short subjects. After attending film school for a time, he dropped out to work on TV documentaries and commercials. When he failed to acquire the needed financing from the Finnish government to make a feature film, he left his homeland. He moved to Los Angeles, where, eventually, he wangled his first feature film directing assignment, the low-budget Born American (1986). Two years later the ambitious Harlin made his mark helming A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master, one of the most successful entries in that horror/slasher series. He directed Bruce Willis's Die Hard 2, which was a tremendous winner, and that same year's The Adventures of Ford Fairlane, starring the insufferable Andrew Dice Clay, which was a flop. Next Harlin produced Rambling Rose (1991), an artsy little drama starring his then girlfriend, Laura Dern. Given his reputation as a ladies' man who dated high-profile women, the film colony was amazed when he abandoned bachelorhood to wed Geena. (In contrast, it was the third union for Davis. Her second husband was actor Jeff Goldblum, with whom she had made three pictures, including 1986's The Fly.) Harlin once said, "In Europe filmmaking is perceived as an art form with marginal business possibilities, and in the U.S. filmmaking is a business with marginal artistic possibilities." Initially Cutthroat island was to have begun filming in January 1994, but with the cycle of rewrites its start date jumped ahead to June. It then was rescheduled for a September launch after Michael Douglas completed his current screen vehicle, Warner Bros.' Disclosure (1994). As plans stood, the actor would have just two weeks between the finish of that thriller and the start of Cutthroat island. While Douglas was busy with Disclosure, Harlin and Davis instigated a new revamping of Cutthroat island. This version was done by Susan Shilliday, who received a substantial fee for her efforts. No one was happy with Shilliday's efforts on Cutthroat Island. One of those most displeased was Michael Douglas, who had carefully noted that each new draft of the picture saw his role diminishing as Geena's expanded. Michael also expressed a growing fear that Harlin would make Davis's performance a priority on the shoot—at Douglas's expense. By July 11, 1994, Douglas had left the project, for which he had never officially signed. His public reason for jumping ship was that he would be

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too exhausted from having just completed Disclosure. He also felt that the imminent start date of Cutthroat Island would not leave him sufficient time to train for the fencing and stunt demands of the pirate caper. (At the time, many in the film industry wondered why, if Douglas was the bigger draw, Kassar did not cater to Michael and scuttle the use of Geena Davis. After all, it was reasoned, she was not a great box-office draw overseas, where a picture like Cutthroat Island was expected to earn more revenue than from the American market.) With Michael ditching the picture, Geena had grave concerns about tackling her physically demanding role without the support of that boxoffice magnet. She tried to break away from the project, but her contract locked her into remaining with the production. As for Kassar, in order to keep Carolco alive he had to make Cutthroat Island—no matter what! Geena found her plight ironic: "The ludicrous thing was that the only reason I was there [on the picture] was because of Michael [Douglas]. I never wanted to carry the movie." (Later, Harlin remarked that his wife had never been truly interested in doing Carolco's pirate epic. "She wanted to do Mistress of the Seas. . . . [That film] was much less of an adventure and more of an extremely erotic story about these two women and their escapades with pirates. It was more like a Dangerous Liaisons on ships.") Kassar was frantic to come up with a new leading man to play Cutthroat Island's William Shaw, the blundering con artist who lurks throughout the plot in the shadows of the brazen female pirate. The role was offered to a wide array of actors, including Liam Neeson, Keanu Reeves, Daniel Day-Lewis, Michael Keaton, Tom Cruise, Ralph Fiennes, Gabriel Byrne, Charlie Sheen, and Kurt Russell. Each of them said no for one reason or another. Now even more desperate for a Michael Douglas substitute, Kassar turned to Matthew Modine. To many in Tinseltown —and probably even to the idiosyncratic Modine —it was a bizarre casting choice. Born in Loma Linda, California, in 1959, Matthew was one of seven children in a Mormon household. His father managed drive-in movie theaters, and the family moved frequently, including to Utah, where they stayed for some time. At 18 Modine went to New York to study acting. After training with the renowned Stella Adler, he got his industry start in TV commercials and on a soap opera. His early film assignments included difficult dramatic assignments in Streamers (1983) and Birdy (1984). One of Modine's career

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decisions was to reject the major role in Top Gun (1986), which went to Tom Cruise, because he was at odds with the story's promilitary politics. Six-foot-three-inch Matthew reached a career peak with his offbeat performances in the Vietnam war drama Full Metal Jacket (1987) and the gangland comedy Married to the Mob (1988). In the early 1990s, besides directing short subjects, he toiled in such forgettable features as Equinox (1992) and Bye Byey Love (1995). By the time Modine was offered Cutthroat Island, he had already appeared in Wind (1992), a tale of a determined crew out to win the America's Cup sailing race. That nautical drama had disappeared quickly from distribution. It should have been an omen to Matthew and the makers of Cutthroat Island that this new adventure set on the open seas was in for stormy waters. Despite everything, Modine signed on for Kassar's picture for a reported fee of under $1 million. It saved Carolco a bundle but at the same time left the feature without a macho box-office draw. Meanwhile the scenery-chewing Frank Langella (best known for his screen roles in 1970's Diary of a Mad Housewife and 1979's Dracula) was cast as the heroine's roguish uncle, Dawg Brown, a sea captain.

1=1 When Michael Douglas dropped out of Cutthroat Island, the planned production date had to be pushed further into 1994. Meanwhile, locations had already been selected for the picture. After scouring the Caribbean and other likely possibilities, the filmmakers decided to do the bulk of filming on Malta, the exotic Mediterranean island south of Italy. That site boasted two huge water tanks, where much of Cutthroat Islands nautical footage could be shot under controlled conditions without fears of Mother Nature spoiling the filming schedule. (To their credit, the pirate film's decision makers had learned from the example of Universal Pictures' then shooting of the much-troubled Waterworld. That ocean-set epic was reeling from costly delays due to the fateful decision to film on the unpredictable waters around Hawaii. It was a strong reminder to filmmakers to never film on the open seas.) With Harlin acquiescing, Kassar had ordered huge, expensive sets to be constructed for Cutthroat island's land scenes, and for the building of the story's two main ships (the Morning Star and the Reaper) with 80 working cannons.

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In a perfect world, sets are not constructed until a final script has been approved, and building is not undertaken unless the director and other key decision makers are close at hand. However, Harlin was still in Los Angeles settling on a new leading man for his picture. Once Modine was cast, the director was further delayed from flying to Malta by the need to have the script retuned yet again. The screenplay now had to accommodate a pleasant leading man who, unlike Michael Douglas, would not register a strong screen presence, especially opposite the imposing, squarejawed, athletic Geena Davis. Harlin hired Robert King to adjust the screenplay to further enhance the leading lady's part while reducing the screen time allotted to the male lead, making him a scamp and a slave who orbited in the sphere of the fetching female pirate. It was in this crucial pre-production period that Renny dispatched his July 25, 1994, memo to the crew, which had already been in Malta since the spring. He urged the task force to continue going full steam ahead — without his supervision —on the costly construction of the sets (including the Jamaican port town façade) and the gathering and/or making of the period set dressing, cutlasses, pistols, cannons, costumes, and paraphernalia required to make the atmosphere seem authentically seventeenth century. Thus, without having a finished script to guide them in the requirements of the massive production, or a director available to approve or disapprove of plans for the set-building before the pricey materials were gathered and the labor-intensive activity began, the technicians charged ahead full speed. (Later, when criticized for "recklessly" giving his crew such free rein to go to any lengths or expense to make this grandest pirate production ever, the director claimed that his intention had been merely to buoy the workers' morale and spark them to great creativity, not to financial irresponsibility. He explained, "I wanted them to believe in the picture, that the company was behind it. . . that this was going to be something special and not just slapped together.") Whatever the truth of the situation, the staff on Malta felt adrift without a captain at the helm. However, they pushed forward with the intensive preparations for the filming. The feeling among the bewildered set builders was "If we build, he [Harlin] will come." Back in Los Angeles, Robert King delivered a new version of the Cutthroat Island scenario. Unfortunately, no one, reportedly, was happy with the results. In need of yet another new writer to salvage the imperiled

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production, Renny turned to Marc Norman. The latter was an established script doctor who signed on for a large fee to overhaul the screenplay and to undertake last-minute rewrites on the Malta sound stages. (In this helter-skelter situation, Norman would often find himself delivering new scenes for the cast and crew on the day they would be shot.) Before Cutthroat Island had wrapped, the assorted scripters involved in the saga had been paid a total of more than $3 million. (Because Carolco was in such financial straits and Renny was in such a bind to get a usable new script immediately, much of Norman's $800,000 fee came out of the director's own pocket.)

1=1 By late August 1994 Renny Harlin and Geena Davis were in Malta preparing for the much-delayed filming, now set to begin on October 31. Immediately upon arrival, the director discovered that his latest vision of what the sets and accoutrements should be like did not match that of the efforts provided by his till-now leaderless crew. Adjustments to the built sets were hastily accomplished, while costumes and other items already purchased or made were either altered or replaced. (At a later date Harlin defended the charge that he had been a martinet about historical accuracy on the picture, even down to requiring authentic shoelaces for each character's footwear. "I never intended to make some epic, period film where everything has to be perfect for the time. Look at the guns. You didn't see some of those guns back then. I'm the last person to care about authenticity.") In these weeks of restructuring the sets and getting the shoot under way, there were several personnel changes. Early in pre-production, producer David Nichols had left the project. Now the film's art department was let go, including the art director, Wolf Kroeger (who insisted he left due to scheduling problems). Replacement talent was hired. The chief camera operator (Nicola Pecorini) was let go after he clashed repeatedly with the director. This led some two dozen crew members to quit in sympathy. Then, during the early weeks of filming, cinematographer Oliver Wood fell and broke his leg while preparing to lens a storm scene. He was replaced by Peter Levy. Veteran British actor Oliver Reed had been hired for a lead character role, that of John Reed. However, the heavydrinking player arrived on Malta drunk. After a meeting with Harlin and

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Davis in which the inebriated Reed reputedly dropped his trousers as an indicator that no one was to tell him how to behave on the set, he was sacked. Oliver was replaced by the Brooklyn-born performer Maury Chaykin. Given the haphazard pre-production phase of Cutthroat Island, it was little wonder that many problems cropped up during the actual filming. There was the time when the sewage system on Malta faltered, resulting in raw waste's finding its way into the huge water tanks being used on the picture. With the filmmakers unable or unwilling to halt production until the serious sanitation matter was resolved, cast and crew were forced to work in the unhealthy waters, leading to several individuals' becoming ill and causing production delays. During the lensing of a storm sequence, Modine was smacked in the head with a flying plank, requiring four stitches to close the wound. Others in the cast, including the game Davis, incurred injuries as they executed a variety of athletic stunts required by the script. Because of European Community laws regarding horse transportation, the animals could not be shipped to Malta but had to be flown in from Italy, which added to production outlays. When the largely American film crew began working on Cutthroat Island, they discovered that because much of the lighting and camera equipment had been rented in Italy, they were unfamiliar with its use, and this also slowed down the shoot. With production expenses escalating due to the extremely slapdash preplanning, the demands of the ever-changing new script, and just plain bad luck, the Cutthroat Island budget quickly soared past its initial $65 million ceiling. This forced Harlin to defer (essentially forget) more than half of his original $5.5 million fee for producing and directing the picture. (As a producer of the film, he was also to participate in profits from the picture, which never were to be.) To cut more costs, Harlin eliminated filming several costly sequences or restructured them to save money on sets, special effects, stunt work, and extras. Further "economizing" much of the work typically done by others on such an action/special effects-intensive feature was left to Renny. These add-on chores distracted him from devoting his full attention to the key main scenes. As Michael Douglas had anticipated, because the leading lady was married to the director and she was part-owner of Forge, one of the production entities involved with this pirate picture, the attention on Geena Davis kept growing as filming progressed. Modine, who was mild-mannered by nature, found himself without much directorial guidance. Playing a

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character that had essentially been emasculated as Geena's Morgan Adams character became increasingly the focus, Matthew was stuck in what was essentially the part of a male ingénue. Thanks to the script, the direction, and the situation, he had little more to do than be a simpering follower in the mighty wake of Davis's aggressive character. This situation hardly created the good screen chemistry so needed to elevate audience interest in the hodgepodge narrative. Further undercutting the tottering production was the overriding need to avoid having what was intended to be a gritty study of brigands and boisterous times on the high seas become an R-rated big-screen excursion. If that happened, it would prevent a good portion of the potential youth audience from seeing the picture in theaters. Thus, a lot of the much-hyped realism that Kassar and/or Harlin had envisioned initially for the movie had to be toned down or eliminated —either during or after production—to keep Cutthroat Island within the bounds of a PG-13 rating. With its original tone compromised, the picture became only a patchwork treasure-seeking tale set in 1668 Jamaica. (About moving away from his trademark violent pictures like Die Hard 2, Harlin reasoned, "It's much more interesting for a director to create a whole world for the characters instead of just people shooting each other." This was the same filmmaker famous for his quasi-mock statement, "My motto is: If you build it, you either have to burn it down or blow it up. Otherwise, it's a waste of money.") Cutthroat Island now related the scattered account of Morgan Adams (Davis), a sword-wielding young woman whose pirate father is made to walk the plank by his dastardly brother (Langella), an evil sea dog. When she attempts to rescue her dad, he is fatally wounded during their escape. The dying man bequeaths to Morgan his third of a map that when put together with its missing parts will indicate where a fabulous treasure from a sunken Spanish galleon is buried. She takes charge of her late father's ship and goes in search of the remaining two thirds of the map (held by her two uncles). Because the strange markings on the chart portion she holds are apparently in Latin, she seeks an educated person to decipher the script. At Port Royal she purchases William Shaw (Modine), a handsome slave who is a self-styled doctor and a con artist. Eventually Morgan and her crew, with Shaw (who has fallen in love with the comely skipper) tagging along, blow up the uncle's vessel, while saving the pre-

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cious loot. Morgan, Shaw, and their crew sail off in search of fresh adventures on the high seas.

1=1 After further production delays to complete the filming of the sequences scheduled for Malta, cast and crew moved (via private jet) on to Thailand in late January 1995 for several weeks of outdoor location work at Phuket and Krabi. Once there they would work aboard fully seaworthy replicas of the Morning Star and the Reaper that had been made in Jakarta, Indonesia, and sailed to Thailand. While this relocation was occurring, on the other side of the world Mario Kassar was belatedly nailing down additional financing so that his pirate film, operating without a completion bond (which guarantees that the picture will be finished even if the original funding runs dry), could conclude its protracted filming. (It certainly did not help Kassar's pitch to banks and other money sources that he no longer had Michael Douglas attached to the picture.) Finally, in early February 1995, Kassar miraculously inveigled a more than $40 million loan from a European banking syndicate. The loan guaranteed that Cutthroat Island would not be jettisoned. Once in Thailand and based at Phuket, the production was at the mercy of the unpredictable weather, which caused more delays to the schedule and further elevated the production costs. Additional problems arose when Geena and others involved in the athletics of the pitched combat scenes between the factions aboard the pirate ships suffered assorted physical mishaps. Constantly it was touch and go whether Cutthroat Island, put together in haste, produced in desperation, and rife with deep misgivings about its viability, could or would reach the end of its trouble-fraught production. However, with the incentive of either finishing the picture or having Carolco go under, Kassar goaded Harlin and his cast and crew into moving steadily forward. As one executive with close ties to the company admitted, "If we made the film, there was at least some chance we could survive. It was a classic case of going forward when you have no other choice." (Also behind Mario's tenacity about Cutthroat island was that under his employment contract as the picture's executive producer, he would receive $1 million for seeing the picture through to completion.)

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Well past its originally estimated 85-day shooting schedule, the highly problematic Cutthroat island completed principal photography at the end of March 1995. The production wrap party was held in Thailand on April Fools' Day. By then both Harlin and Davis had departed the location.

1=1 Initially MGM had intended to release Cutthroat Island at the end of June 1995 to take full advantage of summertime audiences in search of mindless escapist film fare. This would allow Carolco's make-or-break production to be in distribution during the all-important July Fourth holiday weekend, during which such movies traditionally earn a lot of revenue. However, with the casting changes and other production delays, Harlin kept alerting Carolco that a summer release was unrealistic. It was just too much pressure. With his livelihood at stake, Mario Kassar kept pushing for the original release schedule. Later, as the high-seas film moved into the complex phase of post-production, Kassar reluctantly arranged for the picture to bow in late July. That time slot proved impossible to meet as well due to the crunch of adding special effects (including shots of pirate vessels), editing, scoring, and further polishing of the movie. It was now announced that Cutthroat Island would open on December 22, 1995. (This scheduling change occurred while preview trailers in theaters throughout the United States were still announcing that Cutthroat Island was coming to cinemas that summer.) Many in the industry thought this reshuffled debut date was a foolhardy decision on Carolco/MGM's part, as the Christmas season was notoriously highly competitive, with many new releases battling for moviegoers' dollars. Meanwhile, Hollywood was agog over another waterlogged screen saga, Waterworld. This Universal Pictures release, a science fiction thriller starring Kevin Costner, had captured the full attention of the world media due to its many extreme and infamously costly production problems. Reaching a staggering production cost of $200 million, Waterworld opened in late July 1995 to mostly unflattering reviews. While it recouped only $88.2 million in domestic distribution, the feature drew in another $167 million in foreign release, helping to soften the impact of this highprofile misadventure whose title had become the new industry catchword for a mighty film fiasco.

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On one hand, the massive price tag of Waterworld made the enormous costs of Cutthroat Island pale in comparison. However, the fact that both event pictures were ocean-set and paralleled each other in their production extravagances brought the stain of Waterworld to the pending release of Cutthroat Island. Adding to the pirate film's accelerating bad public image were constant media references to how poorly other bigbudgeted skull-and-crossbones yarns had fared in recent decades. But the worst taint of all was that Mario Kassar and Carolco were under such intense scrutiny from the press, the 1RS, and accelerating badmouthing from the Hollywood community. If Carolco had managed to stay afloat in recent years despite every indication that it could not hold out much longer, things took a dramatic nosedive in 1995. By March the trade press was chronicling how the once cash-happy studio was laying off staff and contemplating selling the rights to its inventory of scripts, film library, and movie series franchises (e.g., The Terminator and Ramho). In short, the film company was in its death throes, and its torturous demise, rightly or wrongly, was now blamed by many commentators on the excesses of Cutthroat Island. In November 1995, one month before Cutthroat Island was to be launched, Carolco filed for Chapter 9 bankruptcy protection. Chairman Mario Kassar resigned. Canal Plus Distribution purchased Carolco's film library for $58 million. (In September 1996 the firm's remaining assets were auctioned off.) This corporate disintegration gave the press fresh negative financial data about the now orphaned Cutthroat Island and its imminent opening. Earlier in 1995 in discussing its release oí Cutthroat Island, MGM had noted that it would be allocating about $30 million to promote/open the pirate picture. By fall that sum had dropped to around $18 million. It was a sure indication that MGM, having seen the final product, was cutting its losses by paring down the promotional effort on the apparent theory of "why throw good money after bad." This placed that studio's management in a delicate situation, since the once mighty Metro-GoldwynMayer facility was now owned by Crédit Lyonnais, the French bank, which was one of the funding partners of Cutthroat Island. Rarely has such a gargantuan-budgeted feature been slaughtered by reviewers to the degree Cutthroat Island was. Daily Variety labeled the entry a "megabudget behemoth" and noted that the picture "does little with its reversal of gender expectations and features a seriously mismatched

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romantic duo in Davis and Matthew Modine." The Hollywood Reporter lambasted the film for its "horrendous script and overall laziness in the storytelling department." The San Francisco Chronicle's Peter Stack judged, "They should have sunk the regrettable Cutthroat island before ever casting off. . . . The most punishing aspect of Cutthroat Island is that it just wears down the viewer with a helter-skelter, needlessly overblown quality." The New York Times's Janet Maslin really tore into Cutthroat Island: "It's not possible to believe that Ms. Davis is the highly respected captain of a pirate ship, and it's not even fun to try." Then, giving the film its death knell, Maslin reported that the movie "proves too stupidly smutty for children, too cartoonish for sane adults and not racy enough for anyone who regards Ms. Davis in a tight-laced bodice as its main attraction." Disputing the theory that bigger is better, the reviewer noted, "This film's big moments are pumped up with torrential rains, gunpowder blasts, dizzying altitudes and a score so obnoxiously exultant it suggests the composer ought to walk the plank." Maslin thought that colead Modine, with his restrained demeanor, was more ideally suited for a production of Peter Fan. With such negative reaction from most critics, and bad word of mouth, Cutthroat Island earned an incredibly paltry $9 million at North American theaters in its first four weeks of distribution. (Its total domestic take would be $11 million.) By January 22, 1996, in papers recently filed with the U.S. Bankruptcy Court in Los Angeles, Carolco already had written off its $46 million investment in Cutthroat Island. Within weeks thereafter, the soggy seafaring tale vanished from domestic distribution. Foreign distributors who had put up guarantees of more than $45 million fared little better than had the American distributor of this box-office turkey. As the London Times noted, "Ten years ago a film that bombed in America had a second chance elsewhere. With the onset of global television newscasts, it is more difficult to offset a bad start." By mid-1996 it was confirmed that Cutthroat Island had set a new record as Hollywood's most costly fiasco to date.

1=1 By the time Cutthroat Island sank from sight, the team of Renny Harlin and Geena Davis had already shot the action-thriller The Long Kiss Goodnight in Canada. Made for New Line Cinema (in conjunction with HarlinDavis's Forge production company), the $65 million chase drama opened in

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October 1996 to generally positive reviews. However, Davis, this time in onscreen tandem with Samuel L. Jackson, still did not prove to be a box-office magnet. The well-executed feature grossed only $73 million worldwide. The Harlin-Davis team fell apart in 1997 when Geena discovered that her husband had fathered a child by a staff member at their production company. In the divorce proceedings the Forge production firm lost Davis's participation. Thereafter, except for appearances in two Stuart Little features (in 1999 and 2002), her stalled career took a backseat to a new marriage (this time to a plastic surgeon) and the birth of their three children. Harlin continued to make big-budget event pictures (1999's Deep Blue Sea and 200l's Driven) but not on the same massive scale of Cutthroat Island. As for the charismatic Mario Kassar, he survived the long-drawn-out battle with the 1RS a poorer but wiser man. He reteamed with his old partner Andy Vajna to turn out Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003). Made for $175 million (with $30 million going to Arnold Schwarzenegger), the middling action sequel grossed $418.2 million in worldwide distribution. This prompted the duo, through their C-2 Pictures, to package a 2006 sequel to Basic Instinct and to gear up for a proposed Terminator 4. As for the pirate film genre after the devastating Cutthroat Island, it remained for Walt Disney Pictures-Jerry Bruckheimer Films to revive the moribund movie category with Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003). Starring Johnny Depp and using a premise that sprang from a Disney theme park entertainment ride, the $125 million comedie adventure yarn grossed $653 million worldwide and led to plans for lavish sequels. In retrospect, one can only wonder how Cutthroat Island might have fared with audiences had the project been conceived and executed with solid entertainment values as the top priority. Instead, the film's decision makers relied far more on hype than substance in their wild gamble to prefabricate a surefire blockbuster feature. Had much greater attention been given to casting decisions, patching script deficiencies, and revving up the picture's pace, the mammoth amount of resources expended on Cutthroat Island might have produced far more positive results. Unfortunately, because the film's reckless leaders at Carolco were so preoccupied with bailing themselves out of financially treacherous waters, the caliber of the end results on screen became a matter of lesser importance for the filmmakers, resulting in the film's failure as entertainment.

11 Showgirls (1995) Unfortunately, the strain of trying to make America's dirtiest bigstudio movie has led. . . . [director Paul Verhoeven and scriptwriter Joe Eszterhas] to create an instant camp classic. . . . The filmmakers had declared they were bravely exploring new levels of licentiousness, but the biggest risk they've taken here is in making a nearly $40 million movie without anyone who can act. The absence of both drama and eroticism turns Showgirls into a bare-butted bore. — N E W YORK TIMES FILM CRITIC JANET MASLIN, SEPTEMBER 22, I 995

H

ollywood is renowned for its self-congratulatory award ceremonies celebrating the best the industry has offered moviegoers during the past year. One of the more intriguing annual presentations is the Golden Raspberry Awards. Since 1981 this organization has been bestowing trophies (Razzies) that "honor" the year's worst releases and talent. In 1995 MGM's Showgirls set a Razzies milestone. This bigbudgeted, major studio release received an incredible 13 nominations. (This remarkable feat occurred at a time when the group presented only 230

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12 awards.) Showgirls won seven prizes, establishing an all-time record for its number of "victories." (A few years later the Razzies voted Showgirls the Worst Picture of the 1990s.)

1=1 Traditionally most film flops quickly disappear from distribution and become a mere footnote in Hollywood's long history of fiascoes. That certainly should have been the fate of Showgirls, which many critics dismissed as an excruciatingly dull dirty joke that lacked any satisfying payoff. (The New Yorker ruled it "the first film about Las Vegas that is actually more tasteless than Las Vegas!") Other reviewers found perverse pleasure in this trifling ripoff of such cinema classics as 1950's All About Eve and 1933's 42nd Street. (USA Today proclaimed, "A hoot with hooters!") Despite the critical scorn and the film's relatively poor box-office receipts, Showgirls refused to vanish from sight. Instead it developed a wacky afterlife of its own. The picture soon became revered as schlock of such a high order that it overshadowed such earlier landmarks of Hollywood absurdities as Beyond the Forest (1949), Valley of the Dolls (1967), and Myra Breckinridge (1970). Today—over a decade after its ignoble theatrical release—the tawdry, tasteless Showgirls has become a cult classic in the tradition of the far superior The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), worthy of special midnight art house screenings. At such love-ins (and in the picture's various home entertainment versions) aficionados can relish anew the over-the-top tribulations of Showgirls s highly disturbed heroine, Nomi Malone. Within the film's loopy narrative, she is the switchblade-wielding, psycho hitchhiker determined to achieve her Las Vegas dream: climbing the career ladder from hooker to lap dancer to star attraction in a major casino's topless stage revue. What is perhaps mostflabbergastingabout the now legendary Showgirls is that this dumb, smutty, supercostly mainstream Hollywood production was the net result of the creative reteaming—following the box-office bonanza of their Basic Instinct (1992) —of well-regarded filmmaker Paul Verhoeven (1980's Spetters, 1987's RoboCop, and 1990's Total Recall) and noteworthy Tinseltown scripter Joe Eszterhas (1983's Flashdance, 1985's Jagged Edge, and 1989's Music Box). To this day there is heated discussion on the Internet and elsewhere as to what the actual

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intentions of this A-list duo were in making this daffy wet dream, which was indulgently budgeted at more than $40 million. What could these industry professionals have been thinking to turn out such an embarrassingly empty picture, which solemnly and stolidly celebrated gratuitous nudity, glorified rape, and exploited lesbianism? Could Verhoeven and Eszterhas actually have been serious when they filled their pricey voyeuristic picture with such dumbfounding trash dialogue as "She looks better than a 10-inch dick and you know it" and "I have a problem with pussy. I always have, and I'm always gonna"? Why had the once lofty Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film lot made and released this shoddy, numbing misfire, whose empty-headed female characters have nothing more on their agendas than nibbling potato chips, varnishing daggerlength fingernails, and exposing/celebrating their oversized breasts?

i=S By the early 1990s Carolco Pictures, then one of Hollywood's leading minimajor studios, was in perilous financial shape. Studio head Mario Kassar had particularly close working relationships with major macho Hollywood stars such as Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, and Michael Douglas. In the early 1990s Kassar's Carolco favored employing two key filmmakers from among the current talent pool of hot action directors, the Finnish-born Renny Harlin and the Dutch-born Paul Verhoeven. By 1993 the devil-may-care Kassar was constructing his latest mammoth offering, a screen project designed to snare a huge influx of new cash to resuscitate the failing Carolco. He pinned his hopes on Crusade, a gigantic epic of the Middle Ages to be directed by Verhoeven and to star Schwarzenegger. When the projected budget for this historical action tale proved overwhelmingly high —even by Kassar's reckless standards—the picture was abandoned before production actually began. Immediately thereafter Mario turned his full attention to Cutthroat Island, his new mega-event picture, which he though would surely replenish the empty Carolco coffers. Instead, of course, Cutthroat Island soon went out of control and eventually cost more than $100 million. This rudderless seafaring saga was a major contributor to Carolco's falling into such a deep financial abyss that not even ace manipulator Kassar could keep the studio from insolvency. Before filing for bankruptcy in the fall of 1995 (weeks before

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Cutthroat Island sank at the box office), Carolco sold off several film properties in various stages of (pre)production. (For most of these properties he bargained away, the cunning Mario retained a power position as a well-paid executive when, and if, the cast-off project reached completion at another studio lot.) Among the high-status productions dispatched from Carolco were the sci-fi entry Stargate (a surprise hit when released by MGM in 1994), Lolita (a costly flop distributed by the Samuel Goldwyn Company in 1998), and Showgirls, another Carolco-conceived entry taken on by MGM.

1=1 In 1992 independent Hollywood producer Ben Myron (whose featurefilm debut was the minor 1986 release Signal Seven) had a concept for a flashy picture about female dancers in Las Vegas. He discussed the idea with screenwriter Joe Eszterhas, who had scripted Myron's second movie, Checking Out (1989), a failed comedy released by Warner Bros. (Despite such career setbacks, Eszterhas had, by the early 1990s, become a major entity in the moviemaking community.) Josef Eszterhas was born in 1944 in Hungary, the son of Istvan Eszterhas, a Hungarian novelist. When Joe was still a child, the family relocated to the United States, settling in Cleveland, Ohio. After graduating from Ohio State University, Joe became a news reporter at the Cleveland Plain Dealer, where his unorthodox journalistic style led to his moving to Rolling Stone magazine. Later Joe wrote two nonfiction books (including 1974's Charlie Simpsons Apocalypse, which was nominated for a National Book Award). Eszterhas broke into feature films by scripting F.I.S.T. (1978). This drama about the teamster union underwent rewrites by its star, Sylvester Stallone. Next Joe Eszterhas wrote the erotic fantasy Flashdance (1983) and the crime thriller Jagged Edge (1985), both of which were substantial hits. When he agreed to do Carolco's Basic Instinct, Eszterhas received a record-breaking $3 million fee. He earned a similar salary for 1993's voyeuristic thriller Sliver. That expensively mounted feature was produced by Robert Evans in his comeback bid at Paramount Pictures. Robert's brother Charles, a real estate entrepreneur, had also dabbled in film producing (1982's Tootsie and 1988's Monkey Shines). Ben Myron brought Eszterhas along to an October 1992 business dinner with Charles

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Evans at Le Dôme in Los Angeles. Joe was a master at selling highconcept screen ideas. In a four-minute pitch to Evans, Eszterhas elaborated on Myron's notion about the gaming capital. According to Joe's hard sell, the projected picture would be the end-all account of lap dancers and topless stage performers on the fabled Las Vegas Strip. Legend has it that Charles Evans was so taken with Joe's brief presentation that by October 30, 1992, he had given the writer a $2 million check to draft Showgirls. (If the picture was actually made, its scripter stood to make a total of approximately $3.2 million.) Evans enthused, "I'm paying this amount of money because I think I'm going to make a lot of money on the property and I think it will be an enormous commercial success." (Meanwhile, a few weeks earlier the in-demand Eszterhas had sold Robert Evans/Paramount a two-page outline for a sensual crime thriller, Jade, a deal potentially valued at $2.4 million if the movie materialized. Jade was made at a $50 million cost and released in 1995. The flop generated only $9.8 million in domestic distribution.) When hotshot Eszterhas signed to write Showgirls, he and his powerful Hollywood talent agents were already at work packaging their highpriced property. Joe soon said that he hoped to make this a musical of Las Vegas's underbelly with director Paul Verhoeven at the helm. This choice of director came as a big surprise to many in the film community. It was well-known that Eszterhas and Verhoeven had disagreed strongly and repeatedly over both the making and the editing of Carolco's Basic Instinct—especially regarding the thriller's controversial lesbian slant and its underlying misogynistic tone. However, at a dinner at the elegant Ivy restaurant in Beverly Hills, the two men now patched up their differences. (The task of making amends was certainly made easier by the fact that the salacious Basic Instinct—made for $49 million —had generated $353 million worldwide.) Paul Verhoeven was born in 1938 in Amsterdam. As a young child he witnessed and survived the Nazis' brutal occupation of the Netherlands. He aspired to be an artist, but instead attended the University of Leiden, where he received graduate degrees in mathematics and physics, writing his doctorate in mathematics (with a concentration on the theory of relativity). By that point Verhoeven already was intrigued with filmmaking. This led to his creating documentaries for the Royal Dutch Navy and Dutch TV. After directing the late 1960s TV series Floris in his homeland, Paul pushed forward in the entertainment industry with such

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feature films as Turkish Delight (1973), Soldier of Orange (1977), and The Fourth Man (1983). Then came his first English-language picture, Flesh + Blood, a U.S.-Dutch coproduction. Realizing he could not make American-style features in Europe, Verhoeven relocated to southern California. His debut Hollywood feature was the popular science-fiction action entry RoboCop (1987). Three years later Paul made his debut project for Carolco, the sci-fi adventure caper Total Recall. After that huge success, the much-in-demand director helmed Basic Instinct, another blockbuster success for Carolco. Following Basic Instinct, Verhoeven considered directing Mistress of the Seas, Columbia Pictures' upcoming pirate extravaganza. Paul dropped in, out, and back in on that big-scale venture as its focus and budget kept shifting at the dictates of Columbia Pictures and its producer, Jon Peters. Meanwhile Paul became enmeshed in the pending production of Carolco's Crusade, which would reunite him on the sound stages with Arnold Schwarzenegger. That elaborate medieval saga was in its formative stages of pre-production when Showgirls first evolved. During 1993 Eszterhas, joined by Verhoeven and coproducer Myron, enthusiastically undertook field research in Las Vegas to learn firsthand all there was to know about lap dancers, topless showgirls, and the rest of the town's non-family trade entertainment scene. In the process they interviewed more than 200 individuals. (Said Verhoeven, "Ultimately I was involved from the beginning in this movie. So that's why the movie is so personal even from an objective point of view.") As the year progressed, Paul detached himself once again from the floundering Mistress of the Seas (which its producer and studio eventually abandoned). Freed ofthat distraction, Verhoeven focused on preparing Carolco's Crusade for its complicated shoot. By this point Paul was already committed to directing the sometime-in-the-future Showgirls. However, his prior obligation to the Schwarzenegger vehicle meant that Showgirls would have to delay its planned March 1994 start date for several months to accommodate Arnold's sudden availability to make Carolco's spectacle set in the Holy Land. Then everything changed. Before mid-year 1994 Carolco's Mario Kassar surprised many (including himself) by abruptly halting his company's involvement with the much-touted Crusade. With this venture removed from production, Verhoeven turned his full attention to working with Eszterhas on Showgirls. (His other career option at that moment was

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to undertake a remake of Moby Dick, a project that held little appeal for him: "Big whales. No thank you. Shooting would be a nightmare.") Meanwhile, as Carolco's financial plight intensified, Mario unloaded several of the studio's pending projects to other filmmaking lots. One of those was Showgirls. In a complex financial deal, it went to MetroGoldwyn-Mayer (and its United Artists distribution arm). At the time MGM was itself a failing studio operation kept on life support by its then owner, Crédit Lyonnais, the French bank that also had an intricate stake in Carolco. (During this period the French textile and communications conglomerate Chargeurs developed its involvement with MGM, including becoming a producing partner on Showgirls.) When Carolco initially agreed to put together the Showgirls deal, both Eszterhas and Verhoeven were at career high points and used their great industry leverage to achieve their project demands. The duo was still smarting from their experience on Basic Instinct. On that picture their contracts included a standard industry clause requiring the contractées to deliver a finished picture that would receive nothing stricter than an R rating from the Motion Picture Association of America. (An R rating meant that filmgoers 17 or under had to be accompanied by a parent or guardian.) As a result, on Basic Instinct Paul and Joe had been forced to make small cuts and changes demanded by the MPAA. Having learned from Basic instinct, Eszterhas and Verhoeven let it be known from the start of Showgirls that they would not cave in to such oppressive censorship demands on their new big-screen collaboration. (Joe announced, "This picture will absolutely be on the cutting edge of contemporary musicals. It may or may not be NC-17, but we want to make sure that the artistic freedom is there, and won't be changed after the movie is shot.") In fact, the creative team made it a condition of signing on to make Showgirls that the producing studio would not require the R-rating limitation. (Verhoeven said, "I'm not a crusader. I'm too amoral to care. And it's not to shock. I just don't want to shock myself by cutting my film.") The footloose Kassar, anxious to seal the deal, found it expedient to agree to the groundbreaking term, although he knew this concession could impact ticket sales when the picture was released. When MGM took over the Showgirls property, the famous studio had already sold off its Culver City headquarters and was now based close by in Santa Monica. Frank Mancuso was the studio's new top honcho, with Michael Marcus in charge of MGM productions. In making the Show-

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girls deal—with pressure from their foreign owners — Metro authorities knew they were moving into treacherous marketing territory. Not only would the potential ticket-buying audience be limited by the stigma of an NC-17 tag, but many multiplexes in shopping centers that catered to a family trade would not book such a movie. Moreover, some American newspapers and magazines, as well as TV network/station outlets, would not allow an NC-17-branded movie to advertise with them. Since the MPAA had adopted the trademarked NC-17 rating category in 1990 (as a replacement for the X rating, which many filmmakers had been self-applying to gain publicity for their product), only a few mainstream Hollywood pictures to date had braved distribution with this highly restrictive classification. The first such Hollywood feature was Universal's Henry ó June (1990). That drama about novelist Henry Miller had earned an unremarkable $11.6 million in domestic release. Another mainstream NC-17 picture was Artisan Entertainment's Bad Lieutenant (1992), starring Harvey Keitel. However, its paltry box-office take was more the result of its over-the-top pretentiousness than its rating.

1=1 From the start of their collaboration on Showgirls, Joe Eszterhas and Paul Verhoeven gave off mixed messages about the thematic thrust of their big-budgeted musical. Joe enthused of his richly rewarding new screen assignment, "It is ultimately about personal moral choices. It is about life, music and dance and about the death of the spirit. It will be raucous, joyous and powerful. It's about rock 'n' roll, the flesh, dollars and dreams. It begins in the world of erotic dancers, lap dancers, table dancers, strippers and sleaze. It moves into the world of big hotel showgirls, billboards and glamour. It examines the sleaze and glamour and asks the audience at the end to make its own moral conclusions." Anyone familiar with Eszterhas's bent for focusing his screen writing on controversial plot points (including graphic acts of violence) could anticipate that Joe's latest script would not be a refined, objective study of the gamier side of Sin City life. However, because MGM executives hoped that this event picture thrust into their laps would emerge, somehow, a commercial bonanza like Basic Instinct, no one apparently objected very strenuously to the tenor of the projected Showgirls. Undoubtedly, many of these decision makers were titillated by and (silently) approved

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of the type of "daring" picture that Joe's sexually explicit screenplay anticipated. Perhaps they thought that in the changing moral climate of the mid-1990s, an NC-17 rating on such a provocative release would not inhibit the picture's marketplace viability. Rather, they envisioned that the adults-only label might give the upcoming movie a highly exploitable angle that would guarantee healthy box-office returns. If this meant going along with Joe's boundary-pushing scenario, which emphasized nudity, crudity, tackiness, and sexual violence, so be it. For his part, Verhoeven had long been "entranced by American musical films" and claimed to have been thrilled by the sudden opportunity to make a song-and-dance showcase in the grand MGM tradition. He also acknowledged that the new project would allow him to "deal with the American obsessions with sex, violence, power, and success —themes that clearly pervade all my European work." In preparing for his new venture, for which he was being paid $6 million (more than 60% of which was to be deferred to keep down production costs), Paul, in particular, studied two cinema classics: Federico Fellini's SVi (1963) and Orson Welles's Touch of Evil (1958). Verhoeven explained, "Fellini moves so fluidly through that movie and does so much with the camera that I learn something new every time I see it. Touch of Evil is a film noir that is very much choreographed for the camera." For Paul one of the creative challenges in making Showgirls was to explore "the potential for expressing emotion through movement." With the knowledge he'd acquired when he wanted to be a painter, Verhoeven anticipated having the opportunity in Showgirls to explore further the potentials of using "the camera like a brush." On a psychological level, Verhoeven intended, as in his past screen work, "to hold the mirror up to life." He said, "What you see is the sex and the violence that already exist in modern societies. But, of course, I sometimes push beyond the framework of reality, because that's my pleasure." From an intellectual and political perspective (and incorporating Joe Eszterhas's similar "I'll show you" agenda), Verhoeven thrilled at the notion of pushing the emotional buttons of the film industry and the moviegoing public on matters of sexuality and violence. The director reasoned, "Censorship is a sign of a society's weakness. It demonstrates that the censors are afraid of ideas that are different from their own. It suggests that some people are too weak to deal with words or images with which they disagree. The First Amendment, however, supposes that the

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American people are strong enough to deal even with ideas and words that they abhor. The First Amendment is a statement of belief in the strength of the American citizen." In summing up the qualities that made him uniquely equipped to helm Showgirls, Verhoeven said, "I think of myself a s . . . a director who explores the differences between reality and the way in which we usually see reality portrayed. I feel that there is a huge discrepancy between what life really is and what we are supposed to see in the movies." He pointed out, "As a director, my goal is to be completely open. Just look at how I portray sex in my films. They're considered shocking and obscene because I like to carefully examine human sexuality. It has to be realistic. I really like documentaries, therefore, reality is important to me when I do fiction."

As Showgirls moved toward its October 23, 1994, start date, a few of the production's participants acknowledged a quasi-nervousness about their "daring" gamble. For example, Charles Evans, one of the film's producers, admitted, "I started sweating 30 minutes after I wrote that [$2 million] check [to Joe Eszterhas]." Then Evans added, in a more positive mode, "Life's a crapshoot, but this is my shot. It's a terrific script, and with Verhoeven available, it's like 1 + 1 equals 11." Meanwhile, MGM was squeezing a lot of media mileage out of its announced intention to back this production with the widest release that its distribution arm (MGM/UA) could muster, despite the film's probable NC-17 rating. The studio's publicity releases suggested that it was being bold, noble, and liberal (not to mention commercial-minded) in supporting such adult screen fare. Putting aside the mix of crafty, crass, high-minded, expedient, adventurous, and rebellious motivations that launched this "pioneering" establishment production, the filmmakers were having difficulties assembling its talent lineup. Back in June 1994 it was rumored that Drew Barrymore might play the lap dancer lead, Nomi Malone. But that did not come to pass, nor was Madonna enticed (who had a rather unenticing box-office track record) to take on the second female lead, of veteran topless star Cristal Connors. After much consideration —especially of its budget allocations —the powers that be decided to go with relative screen unknowns. Among those

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auditioning for the main role of Nomi Malone, Las Vegas's new girl in town, was future Oscar winner Charlize Theron. However, the winner of the "coveted" assignment turned out to be leggy Elizabeth Berkley. She was a lanky five feet, ten inches, with the desired big breasts and a very photographable backside. She sported a pretty (if blank) face that had a unique look because her left eye was green while her right one was half green and half brown. Besides Elizabeth's impressive physical attributes, the ambitious young woman was hired by Verhoeven also because she insisted she had no inhibitions about playing out the dictates of the sexdriven script. Elizabeth Berkley was born in Farmington Hills, Michigan, in 1972. The younger of two children, she began taking ballet lessons when she was five and soon started to appear in local dance and musical productions. Her driving enthusiasm to be part of show business was so great that her family relocated to Los Angeles in the mid-1980s. By 1986 the adolescent Elizabeth was appearing in episodes of such TV sitcoms as Silver Spoons and Gimme a Break. She made her telefeature debut with a small role in Frogs (1987). In 1989 she landed a continuing role on the Saturday morning TV comedy Saved by the Bell, in which she played brainy Jessie Spano for four seasons. In 1994 Elizabeth made her theatrical feature debut in the little-seen murder mystery Molly Ó> Gina. Then came her "big break" with Showgirls. For her assignment as the frequently buck-naked Nomi, Berkley was paid a relatively modest $100,000. Cast as Berkley's rival was the dark-haired Gina Gershon. A Los Angeles native, the nearly five-foot-six-inch Gershon was ten years older than her Showgirls colead. Gina graduated from New York University. She made her feature film debut in Beatlemania (1981) and went on to featured roles in such pictures as Pretty in Pink (1986), Cocktail (1988), City of Hope (1991), and The Player (1992). With a background in dance, music groups, and acting, and a career status that did not require a huge performing fee, Gershon joined the cast of Showgirls. The film's other key assignment went to the jut-jawed Kyle MacLachlan, who was born in Yakima, Washington, in 1959. The steely-eyed, sixfoot-two-inch actor made his movie debut in David Lynch's science fiction dud, Dune (1984). Lynch used Kyle in the bizarre crime drama Blue Velvet (1986) and featured him as FBI agent Dale Cooper in the surrealistic nighttime TV soap opera Twin Peaks (1990-1991). Before being cast as Stardust Casino entertainment director Zack Carey in

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Showgirls, Kyle had played a colead in The Flintstones (1994), the liveaction movie version of the old TV cartoon series. Since Showgirls was a musical, it would seem important that it have a good original score. Initially Prince was touted as the likely artist to supply the needed material. However, Prince was preoccupied with other matters and ended up contributing only two songs ("319" and "Ripopgodazippa") to the movie. Instead the moviemakers relied on David A. Stewart (who gained fame in the early 1980s as part of the British synthpop duo the Eurythmies) for a contribution. There were also offerings by the likes of Rene Riffel (who also played Penny in Showgirls). To choreograph the expensive movie's many dance and movement interludes, the decision makers did not choose an already well-established industry name. Instead they hired Marguerite Pomerhn-Derricks. She had begun in the business as a member of the Fame TV series ensemble in the early 1980s. Since then her credits included being a dance double in the low-budget horror entry Death Spa (1988). More recently Pomerhn-Derricks had choreographed the lightweight Leslie Nielsen screen comedy All I Want for Christmas (1991). With such expedient artistic choices, it became obvious that, unlike with the traditional grand MGM musicals that Verhoeven claimed he wanted to emulate, song-and-dance talent (in front of and behind the camera) was not a pivotal concern of the makers of Showgirls.

The shooting of Showgirls took place at the Raleigh Studios in Hollywood, with location work in Los Angeles and Encino, California, and primary lensing in Nevada. Only brief scenes were actually shot at the Stardust Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. Most of the film's musical numbers were staged in the specially revamped showroom of the Horizon Casino in Lake Tahoe. Production designer Allan Cameron (1986's Lady ]ane, 1988's Willow, 1992's Far and Away, and 1994's The Jungle Book) quickly got into the swing of this ersatz production. He noted, "Our biggest challenge was to actually design theater sets that could be shot for the movie." More crucial to the spirit of the film, he allowed, "I love the grittiness of the underside of Vegas, in contrast to the plateau that Nomi's trying to reach. I tried to make it very raw, very realistic. I found it very enjoyable to create these opposite settings."

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Veteran costume designer Ellen Mirojnick (1987's Fatal Attraction, 1990's Narrow Margin, 1992's Chaplin, and 1994's Speed) explained in great understatement, "Our biggest concern was to really make it feel contemporary and not make it appear like the cliché of the old Las Vegas showgirl. . . . We wanted the costumes to be sophisticated and provocative, but also bright and colorful. It has a particular flavor unto itself, kind of like an ice cream sundae with every type of topping one can order." As filming began, some industry observers had doubts about the seriousness of the effort and the quality of Eszterhas's screenplay—which seemed more accidentally satirical than dimensional and ironic. Apparently, however, Verhoeven took his Showgirls chores quite seriously. Watching rehearsal footage of the director at work as he maneuvered through the film's displays of lap dances, girl chitchat, cat fights, and quasi-lesbian interplay reveals that (for whatever reasons) Paul believed sincerely that he was painting an important tapestry about the behind-the-scenes world of Las Vegas nightlife. The enraptured director was particularly delighted with staging the movie's cinematography so that it appeared as though the camera was following the actors, "as it might do in a cinema vérité documentary." He elaborated, "In fact, the actors are moved or choreographed by me so that the camera can move when and where I want it to go. We had some very complex and detailed choreography, and we gave the actors a lot of freedom to work within those moves, so what we end up with is a technique that always uses the movement of the actor to camouflage the movement of the camera." Sadly, Verhoeven's fixation on fluid camera work and appropriate movement/dance within the narrative seems to have made him oblivious to the embarrassing tripe that actually appears on the screen. Then too, while Elizabeth Berkley was tireless in researching her role and extremely dedicated to her rehearsal regimen, her efforts were of little avail. On-screen, her gymnastics on and about the obligatory lap dance pole — let alone the moment when she gyrates convulsively in Kyle MacLachlan's lap during a Cheetah Club private lap dance sequence—were laughably bad. Berkley's spastic attempts at sensual exhibitionism were even more off-putting than Demi Moore's passionless calisthenics in 1996's Striptease (also choreographed by the ubiquitous Marguerite Pomerhn-Derricks).

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Paul Verhoeven would reveal later that the "Goddess" dance number seen in Showgirls derived from a proposed TV commercial that he and Eszterhas once planned for promoting Chanel products. One of the concepts for that unrealized ad was to have a couple dressed in finery standing before an erupting volcano in Hawaii. This idea was the genesis of the frantic, unsatisfying "Goddess" number—with its erupting phallic volcano —seen in three (!) abbreviated versions within the picture: once as Nomi watches a run-through from the audience, again when she is a chorus member of the so-called extravaganza, and finally as she triumphantly gyrates as the lead performer in the production routine after replacing the star (Gershon), whom she had earlier pushed down a flight of stairs. (The less said about Showgirls s other "big" production number, a puerile sadomasochism dance sequence, the better.) If Berkley's character in Showgirls was coping with a bipolar disorder (how else to explain the performer's weird, abrupt mood changes?), then she must also have been a closeted victim of epilepsy. The only better rationalization for her character's thrashing about in her lover's fancy swimming pool as they made violent love was that poor Nomi was suffering an insulin attack. (One source called this turbulent coupling "Flipper-meets-stripper.") The preoccupied Verhoeven did not allow only his lead figure to run amok on camera. Berkley's robotlike performance was matched to a large degree by that of the film's leading man. Kyle MacLachlan's acting specialty had always been playing straitlaced, passionless men fighting back their strong need to exhibit kinky behavior. Here he walked through his cardboard role in a state of somnolence. His one bit of "creativity" occurred when he got the strange notion to adopt an Adolf Hitler hairdo, which covered his impassive face. For some reason he found great character meaning in this distracting, bad-hair-day look. During the production of Showgirls, only cast member Gina Gershon seemed to appreciate that this high-profile, adventurous film was turning into a discomfiting collection of major artistic miscalculations on most everyone's part. She adjusted her performance accordingly. Gina detailed, "I decided to make my part campy because I initially thought that it was going to be really dark and really intense and then it just turned out to be completely different. So instead of going in that direction, I decided to make it so that drag queens would want to dress as my character on

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Halloween." As a result, Gina provided a sometimes delicious, mocking approach to this hackneyed backstage tale set in a misogynistic fantasy world.

1=1 Showgirls wrapped in the spring of 1995 and then embarked on its postproduction phase. It is hard to believe that by then some —if not many— at MGM and UA did not realize they were witnessing a major box-office disaster in the making and that drastic action was needed (as in shelving the dud). Instead, fearing to admit their basic mistake in backing this stinker, the studio put on a game face. That summer it focused on an enterprising marketing drive for their upcoming release. Soon MGM could boast that of the four major TV networks, only NBC had declined to air Showgirls commercials. (Some of that network's owned-and-operated stations, as well as NBC affiliates, did carry the film's ads.) Another publicity success was that only two newspapers (one in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and one in Fort Worth, Texas, had refused to publish the provocative Showgirls print ad, which featured a partially naked woman standing against a black backdrop. As for the picture's theatrical preview trailer—which highlighted nude women in lewd situations —it played without major incident in many U.S. cinemas that showed R-rated features. Becoming increasingly bold (or desperate), MGM/UA prepared a far more explicit home video trailer for Showgirls. (It provided tantalizing sound bites of the film's rough, raw dialogue and showed scene snippets involving lesbian interplay as well as footage revealing showgirls in frontal nudity, close-ups of women's nipples, interracial copulating, the psychotic lead character wielding a pocketknife, and so forth. All of this footage played into the picture's promotional tag line: "Leave your inhibitions at the door".) Consumers could obtain this eight-minute offering free of charge at retail outlets. (However, family-oriented chains such as Blockbuster Video declined to carry the preview tape, as part of their policy not to stock NC-17 films.) To further hype its controversial entry, the studio plugged the down-anddirty feature with banners on airplanes flying over beaches, and with attention-grabbing posters on bus shelters, kiosks, and taxicab panels. The enticing Showgirls Web site became so enormously popular that it was getting a million hits a day.

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As MGM went into overdrive promoting Showgirls, Joe Eszterhas could not resist grabbing some of the limelight. He offered publicly his contentious insights on the Motion Picture Association of America's NC-17 rating system, maintaining that "Showgirls is a morality tale about a young woman who turns physically and psychologically against the forces trying to corrupt her." Then he made a wild suggestion: "I'd like to advise teenagers: Don't let anyone stop you from seeing this movie. You'll love the music and the dance, and the message will find an echo in your hearts." When Jack Valenti, the president of the MPAA, was told of Eszterhas's recommendation to American youth, Valenti reacted by saying that Joe needed "medical attention." At the film's premiere the unstoppable, outspoken scriptwriter took a new tack: he suggested that the quality and thrust of his picture had been damaged by the performance of its leading lady. Then the blunt Eszterhas paid $3,800 for a full-page ad in the September 21, 1995, issue of the trade paper Variety in which he took potshots at MGM for its male-oriented marketing campaign on Showgirls. The incensed screenwriter defended the film's excesses, saying it was not a celluloid showcase that condoned the victimization of women but rather was intended to create an impetus for change. He ended his print crusade by urging female moviegoers not to be put off by "misguided, fast-buck advertising" and to go see the movie and form their "own conclusions." Meanwhile director Verhoeven told the media, "This is a gamble well worth taking. If there are consequences, we'll all have to live with that. It's an adult movie, but so what? It's entertainment. It's honorable. American audiences are strong enough to accept this movie. You're not going to be ashamed to see your neighbor in the movie theater when you see Showgirls."

Back in 1990 Universale NC-17-rated Henry Ó June had bowed at 700 screens in North America. In contrast, five years later, Showgirls negotiated to open in 1,388 theaters. (In comparison, the R-rated gory crime thriller Seven, costarring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman —which like Showgirls would be released on September 22, 1995 —negotiated to play on 2,441 screens domestically.)

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As any reasonable person who had viewed objectively a pre-release print of Showgirls could have anticipated, the film was greeted with derision by most critics (who were not invited to a screening till nearly the last minute). Even the usually kind Roger Ebert of the Chicago SunTimes was put off by the picture, labeling it a "sleazefest" that seemed "basically to be Joe Eszterhas' masturbatory fantasies." The San Francisco Chronicle's Mick LaSalle reported, "Call Showgirls appalling, pornographic, silly, trashy—and the filmmakers might say, 'No kidding/ But Showgirls fails even on its own terms." However, thanks to curiosity seekers, during its first weekend in release Showgirls grabbed $8.1 million at domestic box offices. But word of mouth (especially outcries from deeply offended female filmgoers) soon killed viewer interest. After just five weeks of distribution, the movie had nearly bottomed out in North American markets. Days later it was pulled from its remaining 103 playdates, having made a sad domestic total of $20.3 million. When the movie was released abroad, snippets were cut from the graphic, tasteless rape scene for showings in England. The overseas gross —including box-office proceeds from France and the Soviet Union, where the film found some appreciation —added another $17.4 million to Showgirls's take. The result was a final global theatrical release return of $37.7 million on the studio's approximately $45 million investment. The Showgirls saga, however, did not end there. A revised, R-rated version of Showgirls was created for home entertainment distribution at Blockbuster Video and other less adventurous chains. Sixty-one seconds of footage were deleted and 20 seconds were altered by utilizing alternate camera angles. When the VHl cable network bargained to air Showgirls, it demanded that the risqué film go through a literal cover-up. (The gratuitous nudity was digitally—and clumsily—painted over to approximate skin tones or previous articles of attire that had covered those body areas.) The greatly altered VHl version listed "Jan Jansen" (a pseudonym for Verhoeven) as its director. When Elizabeth Berkley refused to dub in the replacement dialogue for the altered scenes, a substitute performer did the chore. At the March 24, 1996, Razzie Awards, Showgirls won a cluster of "accolades." To his credit, Paul Verhoeven had the sense of humor to accept in person the seven trophies earned by his besmirched picture. (He explained his appearance later with, "You must carry the conse-

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quences that come with the freedom you take in making certain decisions. You shouldn't risk your authenticity by saying things like 'Sure but that's not really what I wanted to do/ You should say, 'Yeah, that's what I meant!' or at least admit that you actually made that decision and you want to defend your movie because of that") Making the best of an embarrassing situation, MGM smartly played along with Showgirls's status as a newly minted camp classic. It sponsored midnight showings of the picture at art house cinemas emphasizing the over-the-top qualities of the costly box-office turkey. Following suit, many individuals organized Showgirls parties, during which they screened home video/disk copies of the movie, urging their guests to relish each deliciously awful moment of this grand misfire. In 2004 MGM played specifically to this audience by issuing a deluxe DVD version of its much-maligned Showgirls that contained a marvelous commentary by David Schmader, noted for hosting his "annotated" Showgirls screenings in Seattle, Washington. Included in the deluxe package were such goodies as a "Pin the Pasties on the Showgirl" game and V.l.P. Edition shot glasses. Paralleling this special new DVD release was a fresh burst of midnight showings of Showgirls that were scheduled around the United States. The Showgirls craze even inspired Harvey Finkelsteins Sock Puppet "Showgirl" which appeared off-Broadway in the summer of 2004.

1=1 In the wake of Showgirls, it was two years before Paul Verhoeven's next picture, the sci-fi entry Starship Troopers, appeared. As with his subsequent feature, the thriller Hollow Man (2000), that picture failed to find a responsive mass audience. Joe Eszterhas suffered more ignoble flops post Showgirls. After the particularly reviled An Alan Smithee Film: Burn Hollywood Burn (1997), none of his scripts to date have resulted in film productions. Gina Gershon emerged relatively unscathed from Showgirls and continued to make movies and pursue a rock career. Even Kyle MacLachlan went on to small-screen success with his ongoing role on the cable TV series Sex and the City. However, Elizabeth Berkley took the brunt of public blame for Showgirls's failure and suffered a severe career setback. As she described it, "Ever since those reviews for Showgirls, it's like I was that woman in The Scarlet Letter. Except that instead of having to wear

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the letter 'A' for adulteress, I was condemned to wear an 'S' for showgirl." She was largely condemned to such mediocre pictures as Tail Lights Fade (1999), The Shipment (2001), and Meet Market (2004), but received good notices for appearing on Broadway in the 2004 comedy Sly Fox.

Looking back on the Showgirls debacle, Paul Verhoeven said a few years ago, "People came to the theaters because they thought they would see a highly erotic movie, but clearly it isn't." Still insistent that he had created a worthy picture, he explained, "Showgirls is looking at the hypocrisy of sexual politics. The movie uses Las Vegas as a kind of a symbol to portray the elements of decadence in the United States. Showgirls exposes an area in the United States where a lot of Americans go to, but that they don't acknowledge as existing. Vegas is like a hidden sin city. That's why Showgirls was badly received. I think it's a very elegant and provocative movie. It's the best documented movie that I've done in the United States. People think Showgirls is shocking . . . but to me, it isn't."

12 Waterworld (1995) and

The Postman ( 1997) I've always gone to my own drummer. . . . The press say it [The Postman] will be a disaster. I don't quite understand this climate of hostility. Why doesn't everyone pull for the picture? I try to make the best picture I possibly can each time out, but I made it my way. That's the only way I can make it. I can't say I don't care what people say, but I don't quite remember the last time I read something correct about something I knew happened. I'm not caught by surprise anymore. —FILMMAKER/ACTOR KEVIN C O S T N E R ,

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y the mid-1990s the concept of the blockbuster picture had become ingrained in the minds of Hollywood filmmakers. Many savvy producers were devoting themselves full-time to nurturing 249

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mammoth big-screen projects through the perilous development/production maze of the studio system. The anticipated goal was to create the big event picture for a coming summer season. Although the average price of making a feature in 1995 had climbed to more than $35 million, many entries aiming for the blockbuster category already carried the baggage of financial outlays of more than $50 million. In 1995 these more expensive features included such entries as Casino, Nixon, Sabrina, Heat, The American President, and The Scarlet Letter. Then there were that year's "superspecial" Hollywood productions, such as Jumanji, Money Train, and GoldenEye — all filled with costly special effects —each of which cost more than $65 million to execute. Topping the list as 1995's most expensive American releases were Cutthroat Island, with a final price tag of more than $100 million, and Waterworld, a gigantic money sponge that passed the $200 million mark, making it the most costly movie ever made to that date. Also in this period, the marketing departments of film studios were fine-tuning their methodology on how to most effectively release such super-pricey movies. Through trial and error it had been determined that the safest bet for budget-heavy films was to undertake tremendous saturation promotion (including huge merchandising tie-ins) to super-launch the picture. The aim was to open the movie "wide" (in as many theaters simultaneously as possible) and gain maximum distribution revenue in the crucial first week(end) of exposure. Coming in number one at the box office in its initial week of release was considered essential for a picture's next promotional wave —enticing would-be ticket buyers to rush out to see a "hot" new picture to which so many moviegoers already had flocked. In this blockbuster release strategy, critics' positive reactions to a picture were useful to provide attention-grabbing review quotes for the film's promotional ads. However, negative reviews of a movie—when balanced against the blitz of a well-organized multimedia publicity (which now included the Internet) —generally had relatively little bottom-line effect on the key movie audience demographic (people under 25 who were driven by impulse and crowd mentality to buying tickets for the latest new blockbuster). In the accelerating frantic chase to open these excessively costly pictures on as many screens as possible, film exhibitors became victims of

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the process. During the 1990s theater chains overbuilt multiplexes in the shopping malls of North America, driven by the desire of distributors to have more cinemas available to showcase their latest major offerings. In the haste to construct the most up-to-date cineplexes with the greatest number of screens in each geographic area, little allowance was made for the number of existing cinemas (which in many cases were not being torn down to make way for the new venues). This led to a glut of movie theaters (the number rose from less than 28,000 in 1993 to more than 37,000 in 1998). The huge volume of available screens created fierce competition among the theater chains to grab a potentially hot blockbuster picture for its own outlets. Taking full advantage of the law of supply and demand, film distributors increasingly used the leverage of an enticing event picture to demand abnormally large percentages of the box-office take from theater owners. This was especially true regarding the all-crucial first and second weeks of release, for which powerful distributors were able to negotiate revenue splits that often gave them as much as 80% of the receipts in the first week and 75% in the second week. (This was in comparison to the old system, in which theaters typically shared the box-office proceeds 50-50 with picture suppliers.) Since most moviegoers rushed to a movie during its initial weeks, by the time the theater exhibitors' cut rose appreciably, in the fourth or later week, to its once-normal 50% level, the picture had already almost played out. In such a seller's climate, several theater chains filed for bankruptcy. While domestic distribution was a key ingredient in the overall income potential for a blockbuster (as well as run-of-the-mill pictures), the studios' financial wizards had long since incorporated other revenue streams into estimating a picture's likelihood of recouping its huge costs, as well as making significant profits. These included foreign distribution, payper-view TV, cable TV, DVD and VHS home rentals and sales, and other ancillary revenue derived from merchandising (video games, toys, fastfood-chain tie-ins, and so forth). If the picture in question had possibilities for sequels (such as the series featuring James Bond, Superman, or Batman, or the Star Wars property), the financial potential was almost boundless. Such was commerce in the new Hollywood.

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In 1986 fledgling moviemaker Peter Rader decided to try his hand at scriptwriting. He took up the challenge of Brad Krevoy, an executive at the New Horizons film factory run by Roger Corman, the veteran B-movie czar. Krevoy suggested Rader write a rip-off of Mod Max (1979), the Australian-made sci-fi action hit starring Mel Gibson. In relatively short order Rader returned to Corman's offices with a pitch for Waterworld, a postapocalypse tale in which much of Earth is submerged as a result of melting polar ice caps. The budget-squeezer Corman rejected the idea, scoffing, "Are you out of your mind? This movie would cost us $5 million!" Undeterred, Rader set about fleshing out his story idea as a big-scale study. It evolved into a saga of a seafaring loner (the mutant Mariner) who sails about the mostly water-covered planet. Sometimes this mysterious man has wary contact with the Drifters, who exist on floating atolls, or does battle with the sinister Smokers, who are hunting a map to Dryland. By late 1989 producer John Davis had optioned the property and, in a bidding war, the script was bought by Lawrence Gordon's production firm (The Gordon Company) for $350,000 (with an additional $150,000 to be paid if the film actually was made). Gordon was the former head of production of Twentieth Century-Fox and now had available a huge cash flow from Japanese sources who had invested in his successful production firm. Wanting to spread the risk for the pending Waterworld project, Gordon teamed with Universal Pictures (then owned by the Japanese electronics conglomerate Matsushita Electric Industrial Co.). At the time it was estimated that the ocean-set picture would cost about $30 million to make. At first Norwegian Nils Gaup (who had written and directed 1990's Shipwrecked for Walt Disney Pictures) was a hot contender to helm Waterworld. Then Kevin Reynolds let it be known that he was keen to direct the seafaring epic. A scripter/director from Texas, Reynolds previously had directed Fandango (1985) and The Beast of War (1988) and had been second-unit director on White Water Summer (1987), a wilderness tale that featured extended sequences on dangerous rapids. Most recently Reynolds had guided Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991), a $50 million costume adventure that went on to gross $390 million in worldwide distribution. When Reynolds joined the Waterworld lineup in February 1991, there was much discussion of who would play the all-important Mariner. The director and the money people considered such box-office magnets

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as Tom Cruise, Harrison Ford, Mel Gibson, and Bruce Willis. One likely candidate Reynolds was against was Kevin Costner. Actually, it was Reynolds who had given Costner his show business break by casting him in a lead on Fandango. The two men had become buddies. With Costner a major star by 1990, it was he who chose his pal Reynolds to direct him in Robin Hood. However, during the costume epic's torturous shoot in England and France, the two had feuded so severely and so publicly over artistic matters and power control that it snapped their professional and personal ties. Undaunted by this open enmity, Larry Gordon (and his producer brother Charles) pitched the script to Costner. The latter soon decided he wanted to star in Waterworld. (Costner liked the notion of redefining the action-film genre, which he believed had "gotten lazy," elaborating, "If you say you're dangerous you can't wink at the crowd and say you're not. We want it to be easy to watch. We want to know when to laugh, we want it to end the way we want it to.") The Gordons acted as peacemakers, helping to facilitate a rapprochement between the two Kevins. It was agreed that Costner would star as the half-man, half-fish (Mariner has small gills behind his ears and webbed feet) in Reynolds's high-seas yarn. However, Costner's prior acting commitments meant shooting would have to wait until the actor completed a trio of pictures in 1993 and 1994. Pending Costner's availability, Rader's original script was revamped many, many times by several writers, including David Twoby. Even before Costner came aboard Waterworld at a $14 million salary, the film's budget had jumped to more than $65 million. Meanwhile, having patched up their friendship, Costner and Reynolds coproduced the latter's dream project, Rapa Nui (1994), a tale of primitive life on Easter Island in Chile. The Warner Bros, entry was made for $20 million (going much over its initial budget) and only grossed $305,000 in domestic distribution. The clashes between the two Kevins on this box-office dud tattered their regained camaraderie. With a budget still officially in the $65 million range (but actually already estimated to be more than $100 million), Waterworld finally went into production on June 27, 1994. At this point more than $30 million had been paid out on above-the-line talent such as stars, director, and scripters. (By now the picture was at the stage where it was both too expensive and too embarrassing to call a halt to it or even to consider trimming back its planned scope.)

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Without one scene having been shot, Waterworld was in deep trouble. Since there was still no satisfactory script as shooting was about to commence, Joss Whedon was brought in at a sizable weekly fee to doctor the deficient screenplay. It was only belatedly that Dennis Hopper was secured to play the picture's chief villain, a crucial assignment. Then too, without taking into full account the true weather conditions of the sites, production designer Dennis Gassner had selected Kawaihae Harbor, on the big island of Hawaii, as the movie's primary filming location. (The harbor's waters were notoriously turbulent—the reason Hawaiians named the locale Kawaihae, which means "rough waters.") Very quickly the Waterworld squad discovered what past filmmakers had learned long ago —that shooting a movie on water is notoriously difficult, leaving everyone at the mercy of unpredictable weather and the myriad problems of shooting away from dry land. Soon many of the Waterworld cast and crew were suffering from recurrent severe seasickness and jellyfish bites, while assorted stuntpeople were incurring life-threatening injuries. The film's central set piece —a sprawling metal atoll about onequarter mile long and made of well over 1,000 tons of steel —ended up costing an unanticipated $5 million and, at one point in the lengthy shoot, actually sank and had to be retrieved. Among the other items that brought the ever-escalating Waterworld budget to $175 million and beyond were the star's land accommodations at $1,800 a night, the $800,000 yacht acquired to ferry Costner from the island to the set some 400 yards from shore, the $2.7 million lost to union penalties for staff food breaks that were nearly always late, the more than $400,000 to raise the man-made atoll after it sank in tumultuous weather, and the pricey delays caused when one of the two trimaran boats used by the Mariner was damaged. In August 1994, as tensions rose to the boiling point on this out-ofcontrol shoot (which the media were reporting on in full detail), several of the film's key staffers left and had to be replaced. Originally scheduled (unrealistically) for a 96-day shoot, the picture finally ended principal photography on February 15, 1995 —concluding 166 days of horrendous filming problems. (As a point of comparison, such intricate movies as 1986's Top Gun and 1995's Braveheart each took only 100 days to lens.) By now the two Kevins' feud was at a high pitch, and the world had been negatively brainwashed about Waterworld by the onslaught of highly unfavorable media coverage. It seemed everyone —inside and

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out of the film industry—believed that Waterworld was a disaster of mammoth proportions. In April 1995 Matsushita sold 80% of Universal Pictures and its parent company, MCA, to Seagram, the Canadian distillery. As part of the intricate international deal, the outgoing Japanese owner assumed the brunt of the astronomical production costs of Waterworld, while MCA/ Universal retained most of the film's profits —if any. Meanwhile Waterworld was undergoing a painful post-production phase. When Universal proved unhappy with Reynolds's edit of the behemoth film, which emphasized the tale's darker side, Costner stepped into the production's command post with the approval of Universal/Seagram. (To gain this position of power, the actor relinquished his contractual percentage of backend profits on the film.) Once at the helm, the star restored much of the material Reynolds had deleted but refused studio suggestions that the picture conclude on an upbeat note with him and his leading lady (Jeanne Tripplehorn) sharing blissful togetherness. While this reshaping was occurring, Reynolds, disgusted and embarrassed about having lost authority over his picture, officially quit the film. He remarked, "In future Costner should direct all his own movies. That way he can work with his favorite director and his favorite actor." The next month, May, Sidney Sheinberg, the outgoing president of MCA, cast an additional shadow on the much-troubled Waterworld when he announced, "I don't think anyone should make pictures that cost this much." (The game of passing the blame for this runaway production was now in full bloom.) Test screenings of Waterworld went badly, with audiences particularly put off by the ineffective computer-generated sharks, not to mention the slow-paced, meandering story line. At this juncture Costner reportedly ordered his thinning hairline be altered digitally on the work print, which added to the picture's already bloated budget. The monetary outlay went yet higher when the studio demanded that several of the underwater scenes be adjusted to deemphasize the fake minigills behind the Mariner's ears (which some studio executives likened to female sex organs). In early July, only weeks before the picture's North American distribution, additional footage was shot to shore up the floundering entry. Released on July 28, 1995, Waterworld was already drowning under the heavy burden of ongoing bad press. The picture's reviews did not help

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matters. For example, Janet Maslin of the New York Times wondered in print, "How can a made-up tale of rivalry and opportunism beat the backstage melodrama of bringing Waterworld to the screen?" She added, "Even more damaging than the blind trust in A-list movie stars to lead audiences anywhere —in this case, to a sinking slag heap in the Pacific — is the logic behind filming an aquatic adventure on such a huge, unmanageable scale. It seems to have been done mostly because it hadn't been done before, and for no better reason." Roger Ebert of Chicago's SunTimes observed, "In the old days in Hollywood, they used to brag about how much a movie cost. Now they apologize. There's been so much publicity about this movie's budget that a review of the story seems beside the point; I should just print the spreadsheets." Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times had mixed feelings about the overly hyped Waterworld: "Though Waterworld has some haunting underwater visual moments, the film's impact is weakened by flat dialogue, an overemphasis on jokeyness and a plot that, despite all those screenwriters, does not satisfactorily hold together at any number of points." While the Times lauded Costner for his "excellent job of making this cold, hostile character believable," the Associated Press called the star "totally humorless and as dreary as the landscape he travels." At a lengthy 136 minutes, the PG-13-rated Waterworld made only $88.2 million in domestic distribution. It seemed to fulfill the prophecy that this bloated piece of cinema —sarcastically referred to as Kevins Gate and Fishtar—would never earn back its sky-high costs. Already branded a gargantuan flop, the picture played overseas, where, if "official" tallies can be believed, it took in $167 million. Then there was the auxiliary income from pay-per-view TV, cable and broadcast TV, home entertainment versions, and toys, and the meager revenue from tie-ins with unenthusiastic fast-food chains (after all, Mariner was not a consumer-friendly "hero," as he was literally a cold fish who drank his recycled urine to keep hydrated). Adding together all these elements, the project (at well over $200 million, including the costs of its domestic and foreign marketing/ release) —at least according to Universal, which was desperate to save face —not only broke even but actually made a profit. Whatever the true final profit and loss figures for Waterworld, in the minds of the film industry and the public the picture was a colossal flop that made such fiasco predecessors as Cleopatra, Heavens Gate, Ishtar, and Last Action Hero pale by comparison. As for Costner, who had taken

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a career beating for his participation (as actor and quasi-director) in this misguided venture, the actor/producer decided to critically bark at what he believed to be the variety of sources responsible for the film's shortcomings. His targets ranged from the studio hiding from its responsibilities ("Universal never wanted to face the truth. This was always going to be a big, expensive movie") to irreversible problems caused by the departing director ("I got Kevin [Reynolds] through Fandango, Robin Hood, and Rapa Nui, and now Waterworld"). Summing up Waterworlds huge misadventure, Variety's Peter Bart tartly made several suggestions: (1) "Avoid postapocalyptic settings." (2) "Stay away from water." (3) "Never make an expensive movie that's dependent on a star's Vision.' . . . The problem is that a megapic is basically a product to be manufactured, not a Vision' to be realized. Megapics needs tough, disciplined producers and tight scripts, not visionary superstars." (4) "Never start an expensive film when the director and the star are joined at the hip. In order to control a film, the studio needs to have at least one ally it can manipulate." (5) "Never make an expensive movie when the star and the director end up as bitter enemies."

1=1 Given the extremely painful and profligate history of Waterworld and the failure of its leading man (and uncredited codirector and post-production overseer) to salvage the picture, why, one might ask, did Warner Bros, get ensnared in Costner's The Postman, yet another postapocalypse money gouger? In 1985 the prolific writer David Brin, who held a doctorate in astrophysics and had been a NASA consultant and a physics professor, authored The Postman. It was another global catastrophe tale of a survivor of a devastating war that has left the world in ruins. In the year 2013 anarchy reigns in the scattered outposts of civilization remaining in the United States. A wily loner wanders about America looking for a cause or a person in which to believe. To survive, he trades tales for food. By chance he comes upon the remains of a postal worker and takes the dead man's uniform to keep warm. Before long the con artist is passing himself off as a postal inspector of the "Restored United States." Traveling from one outpost to another delivering the mail, he is given shelter and sustenance. In the process he brings fresh hope to those he encounters (and

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even to himself). The momentum of goodwill engenders a rekindling of the American spirit. Eventually the Postman has a final showdown with fanatic survivalists (the Holnists), led by the tyrannical General Bethlehem. This cautionary tale received generally respectful reviews, praising it for its "mythic dimension." The Postman was published on October 1, 1985. It was quickly optioned by Steve Tisch (the producer of such pictures as 1977's Outlaw Blues, 1983's Risky Business and Deal of the Century, and such TV movies as 1984's Calendar Girl Murders and The Burning Bed). It was soon put into development at Warner Bros, by Tisch and his then coproducer, Wendy Finerman. The producers brought in Eric Roth to adapt Brin's book to the screen. (Roth was the credited writer on such movies as 1974's The Nickel Ride and 1979's The Concorde: Airport 79 and an uncredited scribe on such features as 1975's The Drowning Pool, 1979's The Onion Field, and 1981's Wolfen.) The picture went through several drafts as the script's tone went from serious to satirical and back, and the cause of the devastated landscape switched from ecological upheaval to mass devastation produced by nuclear warfare. A later scripter on the project was Brian Helgeland (1989's 976-EVIL, 1992's Highway to Hell, 1995's Assassins, and 1997's L.A. Confidential). In this period Roth was busy with other projects, in particular Forrest Gump (1994), which took nine years to reach the screen. Several stars expressed interest in starring in The Postman, including Tom Hanks, Michael Keaton, and Robin Williams; and such directors as Jan De Bont, Barry Levinson, Richard Donner, and Ron Howard were considered to helm this major project. What was unique in the slow gestation of The Postman was that throughout its slow incubus, it remained berthed at just one studio, Warner Bros. The lot's president, Terry Semel, had great faith in the project and nurtured his company's ongoing interest in the expansive vehicle. Then, as Costner was completing Warner Bros' The Bodyguard (1992), Semel, who had a long-standing working relationship with the actor, brought the project to Kevin's attention. Costner was intrigued by the script's premise, as was his longtime industry associate, Jim Wilson (who had directed Kevin in 1983's Stacy's Knights and had produced several of Costner's subsequent pictures). Kevin was attracted to the property, saying, "I like stories that raise the hairs on the back of your neck. I'm not at all afraid of those feelings." He found

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that the narrative's plot thrust of renewed optimism mirrored his own patriotic, conservative beliefs. ("In this country, the people with the most freedom are usually the ones who are the most cynical, who do the most complaining. We not only take our freedoms for granted, we often take for granted those little things [such as a mail carrier]." He pinpointed his thoughts about the plot's heroic mail deliverer with, "We don't think about the fact that we could be anywhere in the world, mail a letter, and three or four days later, it gets to its destination." Within The Postman he envisioned utilizing a large tapestry to depict "how life would be if those things were taken away." Costner and Wilson attached themselves to The Postman, and, in the process, Wendy Finerman became unattached from the production. In ensuing negotiations it was agreed that the box-office attraction Kevin would not only be the picture's star (at a $20 million salary), but he also would receive additional dollars to helm the venture. (This prompted the celebrity to boast, "I have the best deal in Hollywood, that's all I can say.") It would be his first directing assignment since his Oscar-winning Dances with Wolves (1990). Warner Bros, was "thrilled" to again be in business with Costner, who had nurtured The Bodyguard to major success for the studio. There was much celebration on the lot for the coup of obtaining such a major commitment from the Sexiest Man in America (according to People magazine in both 1990 and 1991). Soon it became official news that Kevin would serve in a triple capacity for The Postman: star, director, and producer (as part of his Tig Productions, which he had cofounded with Jim Wilson in 1988). The only problem in this dream package was that the highly soughtafter Costner had several pictures, including Waterworld, lined up for production before he could tackle The Postman. Warner Bros, agreed to wait.

1=1 Few industry observers could have predicted the dramatic turnaround that would occur in Costner's career and personal life between the high point of 1992's The Bodyguard and the nadir of 1995's Waterworld. Born in Lynwood, California, in 1955, Kevin was the third child of Bill and Sharon Costner (there was an older sibling, Dan, and a middle brother who died at birth). His dad was a ditch digger who moved his

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way up to being an electric line servicer. Because of the father's work the family moved frequently, which made the youngest son feel like an outsider. During his high school years Kevin wrote poetry, sang in the choir at his Baptist church, and took creative writing classes. Although short (five feet, two inches), he played on several school sports teams. By 1973 he had matriculated at California State University at Fullerton, where he was a business major. Having shot up to his full height of six feet, two inches, he became interested in theater and took many acting classes. In 1978 he graduated from college; married his campus sweetheart, Cindy Silva (with whom he would have three children); and took a marketing post in Orange County, California. Within weeks he quit his position and he and his wife relocated to Hollywood. While making the casting rounds he worked various odd jobs: tour guide, truck driver, deep-sea fisherman, and stagehand at the Raleigh Studios. By the early 1980s Costner was already appearing in films (including the earlier-made softcore entry Sizzle Beach, U.S.A.), although his roles were often deleted or chopped way down (as in 1982's Frances or 1983's The Big Chill). He had a sizable acting assignment in the 1985 Western Silverado and gained stardom playing crime fighter Eliot Ness in The Untouchables (1987). Kevin capitalized on this success in a string of popular movies, including No Way Out (1987), Bull Durham (1988), and Field of Dreams (1989). After backsliding with the poorly received Revenge (1990), Mr. Nice Guy (as he was regarded by the public) defied the odds—and Hollywood—by producing, directing, and starring in the proNative American saga Dances with Wolves, which captured seven Oscars (including Best Picture and Best Director). Made for $19 million, the risky Western grossed more than $424 million in worldwide distribution. It was all great "beginner's luck" for Costner. Kevin continued his run of substantial hits with Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, JFK (1991), and The Bodyguard. In his rise to fame, Costner gained an entertainment industry reputation as a strong-willed, selffocused individualist who was willing to use his impressive industry clout to buck the Hollywood system —at anyone's cost—to ensure that his "visions" were enforced on his movies. To the public, Kevin was a pleasing mix of good looks, American brashness, and an enviable laid-back California style. His ongoing screen image was that of the regular guy (sometimes a bit square and verging on the ponderous) who measured up to the demands of a tough situation.

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From this zenith Costner suffered three consecutive, increasingly severe career disappointments: 1993's A Perfect World and 1994's Wyatt Earp and The War. (Kevin claimed he was not bothered by this trio of flops, insisting defensively that these pictures "worked" for him. He added, "I have to make the movie for myself first. . . . If my movies go out of fashion —and they might—then I won't do it anymore. Because I won't do a movie just for you [i.e., the media and the public].") Also in 1994 Kevin produced two movie duds: Rapa Nui and China Moon. The adverse publicity he was receiving for being such a central figure in the much-maligned Waterworld was also having a negative impact on his industry standing. During the Hawaiian shoot on this besieged blockbuster, the tabloids reported that the 39-year-old Costner allegedly was having an affair with a local hula dancer. This fueled longtime rumors that the star was a confirmed womanizer. As a result of this latest claimed indiscretion, Costner and his wife of 16 years underwent a messy divorce, with his ex-spouse receiving a record $80 million settlement. (In 1996 the former Mr. Clean became the father of a son born to his then girlfriend, Bridget Rooney.) Further tarnishing Kevin's reputation was the public reaction to the bad press Costner received when he and his brother sought to expand their casino-restaurant in Deadwood, South Dakota, by—it was claimed—taking over sacred Lakota Sioux tribal grounds. It made his pro-Native American stance from the days of Dances with Wolves seem self-serving. After Waterworld accumulated such disappointing revenues in its North American distribution, Costner returned to the genre in which he seemed most at ease and did the best—sports movies. He played a fading golf champion in Warner Bros.' Tin Cup (1996), which was a modest success and finally broke Kevin's substantial losing streak at the box office. It was at this tenuous juncture in his once golden film career that Costner began pre-production on The Postman. (He may well have been hoping that the new genre saga would redeem him somehow after Waterworld.) By now Warner Bros, had good reason to be very concerned about Kevin's starring in this expensive entry. However, they were contractually committed to pushing onward. Besides which, as in the cases of the John Travolta-Dustin Hoffman Mad City (1997) and the Clint Eastwood directed/produced Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (1997)—both of which turned out to be flops —the studio's Terry Semel

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and chairman Robert Daly were partial to vehicles headlined by wellestablished major talents.

i=t When Costner took over control of the embittered Waterworld, he said, "Eventually someone has to make the tough decisions. If it's got to be me, I'll do it." After his soggy experiences on that picture, he was determined to be fully in command from the start on The Postman. With that in mind, it should not have been a surprise to anyone in the film community what the modus operandi would be on Costner's new celluloid extravaganza. According to one industry source at the time, "[Costner] has a way with the camera and a way of telling a story. In all honesty, he's a very smart man with good instincts. . . . This is a guy who appreciates any amount of passion over a project that is ultimately his. Does he have an ego? Yes." Jim Wilson, the film's producer and the star's longtime business associate, pointed out, "Warner's knows very well who they're getting into bed with [on The Postman]. Kevin doesn't look at a clock [when judging the length his picture should turn out]. He's epics. Epics 'R' Us." In fact Costner bragged about the sheer length of his past vehicles: "I've been in four movies that are over three hours. I don't know if anybody [else has] been in over three." (Ironically Warner Bros.' Terry Semel had turned down taking on Dances with Wolves, especially because it would run more than three hours.) Ron Mardigan, a retired William Morris agent who had formerly represented scripter Eric Roth, said at the time that originally the adaptation of the David Brin property was "a nice, two-hour movie. It was just good guys versus bad guys and the good guys win at the end. It wasn't that patriotic. It was about doing the right thing. It didn't have all the overblown rhetoric." Mardigan noted of the revamped, expanded screenplay that expressed Costner's take on the story, "He had a vision that didn't work, but nobody would tell him that." When it came time to hire the cast and crew for The Postman, Kevin remained very much his own man. He opted to use the unknown 28year-old British performer Olivia Williams (who physically resembled Kevin's Waterworld costar Jeanne Tripplehorn) to play the strong-willed heroine. The daughter of two lawyers, Olivia had graduated from the University of Cambridge in 1989 and later trained at the Royal Shake-

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speare Company. She was struggling to start her film career and signed on to Costner's production for a skimpy $135,000 salary. The Chicagoborn African American actor Larenz Tate (who had performed in such ethnic pictures as 1993's Menace II Society and 1995's Dead Presidents) was contracted to be the idealistic Ford Lincoln Mercury, the Postman's eventual second-in-command in their Pony Express-like militia. (There was never a question of Tate's usurping screen attention from Costner, as he was nearly five inches shorter than the epic's star. On the other hand, the nearly six-foot-three-inch Josh Hartnett, who was a bit taller than Kevin, was cut from consideration for a Postman role after three auditions. He was informed that the production was not casting tall.) The South Carolina-born Will Patton, a veteran supporting player who had appeared in Costner's No Way Out (1987), claimed the role of the vicious General Bethlehem, which paralleled the role of the brutal Deacon in Waterworld. (However, Patton's interpretation of the villain emerged as more functional than colorful and did not distract from the star, as had been the case with Hopper's dastardly character in Waterworld.) In a bit of nepotism, Costner hired his three children (Annie, Lily, and Joe) for tiny roles in The Postman. For corporate synergy, Tom Petty, a recording artist for Warner Bros.' record division, was cast as a town mayor. In hiring key talent for behind the camera, the star-director-producer relied on favored members of his past productions. Kevin utilized Stephen F. Windon, the cinematographer of the Costner-produced Rapa Nui. Peter Boyle, the film editor on both Rapa Nui and Waterworld, repeated his editing chores on The Postman. Ida Ransom, the production designer on Kevin's The Big Chill, Silverado, and Wyatt Earp, came aboard The Postman to create the required stark global war environment. Derek R. Hill, the art director on Kevin's JFK, did the same task on the new picture. John Newton Howard, who had composed the score for Waterworld, wrote original music for The Postman. John Bloomfield, a veteran of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Rapa Nui, and Waterworld, designed the worn-looking costumes needed for the new picture. Locations for The Postman—whose budget eventually reached a hefty $80 million —ranged from a few miles south of Canada to within 50 miles of the Mexican border. An opening sequence at a mining pit was filmed in early March 1997 in Green Valley, Arizona (about 30 miles from Tucson), where an earth cavity was expanded to an impressive two miles wide and 1,200 feet deep. In April and May the movie troupe went

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on location to Bend, Oregon, where, among other visually stunning set pieces, a long rope bridge was constructed 1,000 feet above the roaring waters below. Continuing with Costner's priority to capture beautiful vistas for "his" picture no matter what the cost, the cast and crew also shot in Oregon at Canyon Ranch by the Crooked River in Terrebone and filmed other sequences in the Beaver State at Redmond and Three Lynx. From June until mid-July the epic relocated to the northeast corner of Washington and then to Metaline Falls. Nearby to this small town was Boundary Dam, a working powerhouse that supplied half of Seattle's electricity. Against this powerful existing structure the film crew constructed the fictional Bridge City on the dam's massive face. The narrative's final scene, set in 2048 and featuring the unveiling of a statue to the late noble postman, with a speech by his daughter (played by Mary Stuart Masterson), was lensed in Anacortes, Washington. During the location shoot it was estimated that the production pumped $6 million into the local economy of Bend and spent $7 million while in Metaline Falls. There were also substantial sums expended on costly location delays due to constant inclement weather, a factor that should have been accounted for, given the notoriously rainy Northwest.

1=1 On the trouble-fraught Waterworld there had been a glut of publicity, which had backfired on the picture. In contrast, on The Postman every effort was made to minimize production information being shared with or leaked out to the media. (Helping to divert attention from Kevin's new entry was the fact that Hollywood and the press were singularly focused on the ongoing financial pitfalls of another in-the-works, massively budgeted feature, Titanic, which cost well over $200 million to produce.) However, as The Postman wrapped principal photography in July 1997, and the outlay on this saga continued to mount, Warner Bros, pressured its filmmaker to allow special promotion for the costly picture. One such gambit was a July 17, 1997, Webcast that aired live —a first for the Internet—full-motion glimpses of Costner directing an action shoot-'em-up scene from The Postman. The 20-minute free peek at on-set activity included the star talking to the Internet camera between shots. He assured monitor watchers that the slow pace of setting up shots and doing (re)takes

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was standard procedure for moviemaking. He added wryly, "Hopefully, by the time [movies] reach you, they're more exciting." As The Postman charged into post-production with nearly four and a half hours of rough-cut footage being considered for its final version, the studio was coping with two marketing problems facing its big picture. Back in 1994 there had been the French-produced II Postino (The Postman), a romantic drama about an Italian mailman who falls in love with a local beauty. The simple tale, made for $3 million, went on to gross more than $75 million worldwide, and it won an Oscar (Best Music), plus four other Academy Award nominations. Warner Bros, now strove hard to come up with publicity that would separate these two very different pictures in the public's mind. More crucial was a public-relations predicament that should have been more evident to the Costner production from its inception. David Brin's book (and especially the resultant final screenplay) extolled the virtues of a do-gooder postman who helps to restore order and faith to the fractured United States. However, in the mid-1990s the American public did not associate benevolence, courage, and human decency with mail carriers. Rather, the country connected postal employees with slow, inept service at post office facilities, delayed and wrong home deliveries, and, worst of all, the rash of such government workers who had gone ballistic on the job and embarked on deadly shooting sprees. Thus there was a wide gulf between Costner's heavy emphasis on an idealized postal hero (who is constantly riding to the rescue throughout the movie) and the public's perception of real-life mail carriers. (Ironically, the U.S. Postal Service was worried about the image the upcoming film would give its department. An amazed Costner said, "They're so stupid. It's like an $80 million commercial.") The problem of the hero's profession was a constant sore point for the studio's marketing department. When the film's trailer was rushed into theaters to promote the picture's planned December release (another bad choice, since action blockbusters traditionally fared far better in the summertime), audiences scoffed at the preview footage lauding postal workers as America's saviors. (Such dialogue lines as "I'm the postman" and "No, you're nothing but a drifter with a bag of mail" caused moviegoers to howl with laughter. Audiences hooted at other sound bites such as "I don't think we ever really understood what [letters] meant to us until they were gone" and "I want all mail carriers hunted down.") After suffering this

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tactical screening disaster, Warner Bros, hastily redid its promotional trailer for The Postman. Meanwhile, the original poster for The Postman—approved by all concerned—featured a bedraggled hero (a grizzled Costner) in the middistance, accompanied by a loaded-down mule. The tag line read, "The year is 2013. One man walked in off the horizon and hope came with him." Poor reaction to this lone-hero-on-the-pedestal theme led the studio to hastily abandon that approach and approve a new campaign. The new print ad again featured Kevin Costner's name in large type. Now, however, there was an image (smaller than the star's) of Kevin's leading lady, Olivia Williams, juxtaposed next to the leading man. The movie's tag line now read, "It is 2013. War has crippled the Earth. Technology has been erased. Our only hope is an unlikely hero." While the studio's promotional department was spending its multimillion-dollar budget to bring positive attention to the pending release, Costner had a new task. It was to persuade the Motion Picture Association of America to alter the R rating it had bestowed on his futuristic adventure. The aim was to get a more commercially workable PG-13 rating, which would allow more youngsters to attend the picture. On November 26, the star pleaded his case to the 14 members of the MPAA's appeal board. The decision was 14-0 against revising the rating. A determined Kevin returned to the editing lab, where he trimmed more of the violent footage and condensed a particularly revealing love scene, hoping to persuade the MPAA to reconsider its decision. Again, they said no. By December the studio had test-screened The Postman for several audiences and the word of mouth was not good. Already the media were lying in wait to topple the apparently all-knowing, seemingly arrogant actor (who not only produced, directed, and starred in his newest vehicle but dueted with singer Amy Grant over the closing titles) from his pedestal. Pundits were now suggesting that The Postman should be "returned to sender" and that the picture gave new meaning to the term "junk mail." Playing on the title of the famous 1946 film noir movie The Postman Always Rings Twice, media jokesters insisted that in the case of Costner's pending release, The Postman Never Rang was perhaps an appropriate name. Others sarcastically labeled the forthcoming picture Dances with Mailmen. After a studio-based premiere oí The Postman on December 12 (during which many in the audience made loud, rude remarks about the

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lofty patriotism unfolding onscreen), the overlong, 177-minute feature bowed on Christmas Day. It debuted amid the competition of the recently released Titanic, now a certified box-office smash hit. There was also the distraction of such other December 25 film openings as Jack Nicholson's As Good As It Gets, Pam Grier's Jackie Brown, and the Dustin HoffmanRobert De Niro political satire Wag the Dog. The reviews for The Postman were far from kind. Stephen Holden of the New York Times alerted readers, "If you have a low tolerance for mawkish jingoism, Kevin Costner's postapocalyptic Western, The Postman, offers a new opportunity for levity every few minutes after its first hour. . . . The Postman knows no restraint. Every scene is played to the hilt for its mythic, tear-jerking potential, and after a while . . . the accumulated sentiment begins to curdle. The dialogue, a numbing succession of western-movie clichés, is spoken with a cartoon-balloon emphasis that makes it seem all the more phony." Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times headlined his review "Aw Shucks, He's Just The Postman' and admitted that he thought the picture was going to be Dirtworld ("a landlocked version of Costner's most notorious film"). However, the critic decided that the new entry turned out to be "something much sillier than that," adding, "Goofy and gee whiz when it isn't being post-apocalyptic glum, [The Postman] is such an earnest hodgepodge that only by imagining Mad Max directed by [Hollywood golden age favorite] Frank Capra can you get even an inkling of what it's like." For Turan, the picture's most unintentionally mirthful line was the heroine telling the hero, "You give out hope like it was candy in your pocket. You have a gift, Postman." The Atlanta journal-Constitutions Steve Murray summed up his vast disappointment with the new release by stating, "Costner doesn't seem to have any embarrassment about creating a trumped-up mythology (yet again) that centers on himself. Even worse, his performance lacks the charm or conviction that would make us think he is the Postman, instead of the highly paid benefactor of a cast-of-thousands ego trip. The Postman is a great big Christmas present—for its star." Playing at 2,207 cinemas domestically, the clumsy Postman racked up a paltry $5.26 million during the four-day holiday weekend. (By comparison, Mr. Magoo, a sloppy live-action adaptation of the famed cartoon strip, earned $5.23 million at 1,857 theaters during the same time span.) By the time it vacated cinemas in mid-February, The Postman had only generated a meager $17.59 million. (This was a year in which 13 American

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pictures grossed between $75 million and $300 million and 56 pictures grossed between $25 million and $75 million.) Overseas, the results for The Postman were even sadder: the film brought in a mere $9.4 million. At the March 1998 Razzie Awards, The Postman claimed five prizes: Worst Picture, Worst Director, Worst Screenplay, Worst Actor (Costner), and Worst Song. Scriptwriter Brian Helgeland took the Golden Raspberry Awards with a sense of good humor and turned up at the festivities to receive his "dishonor." (Ironically, the same week, he and director Curtis Hanson won an Academy Award for their script for LA. Confidential.)

í=¡ The stigma of The Postman had a major impact on Warner Bros.' regime as well as on Costner's industry standing. Thanks to the bad bottom-line results of The Postman and other disappointing releases of the period (e.g., Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and Mad City), the studio's Terry Semel and Robert Daly both left their executive berths in 1999. As to Costner, of his next five features (which included 1999's For Love of the Game and 200 l's 3000 Miles to Graceland) only the romantic entry Message in a Bottle (1999) was not a commercial flop. It was not until the Western Open Range (2003) that Kevin again directed a picture—this time keeping the budget to a reasonable $26 million. The sturdy sagebrush tale grossed $56 million domestically. Despite the major, undeniable failure of The Postman, Kevin Costner resolutely refused to concede any glaring defects in his muchattacked star showcase. A few years ago he insisted solemnly, "I feel like it's a great modern fairy tale. I love it to this day. And I got incredibly passionate letters over that movie, I mean, I've had people come unsolicited, and really want to talk about it. So should we discount them? Is the measure of a movie in its box office? Clearly, it's not for me." More recently, the self-assured celebrity admitted, "That movie was a fairy tale. The mistake I made was not having a scene where somebody opens a book and says, 'Once upon a time . . . 30 years in the future.' I like The Postman. I'm not turning my back on it. I know what a bad movie is and it's not a bad movie." Waterworld demonstrated —and The Postman reconfirmed very dramatically—that when a major star/producer with a tremendous ego has

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far too much control over a large film project, a real-life disaster is frequently the final result for the movie studio and its backers. In such a potentially devastating industry situation, it becomes a requirement for the film company to have in place—before the fact—a strong set of checks and balances in order to rein in costs and any excessively indulgent artistic choices.

13 Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 (2000) Tell me if this sounds familiar: Despite all advice to the contrary, the big-time movie star uses his clout to get a film made that otherwise would be stashed deep in the catacombs of development hell. He's totally wrong for the part, he kicks in part of his salary when the film goes over budget, and when the film is released, the critics gleefully boot it around like a soccer ball. — L o s ANGELES TIMES C O L U M N I S T

T

PATRICK G O L D S T E I N ,

2000

he Hollywood studio system, which included placing talent under long-term contracts, radically declined in the 1950s. With most stars no longer tied to any one studio for a lengthy period, there was a scramble to claim the services of box-office magnets for upcoming productions. As a result of this Tinseltown transition, major luminaries found themselves with increasingly more leverage to demand astronomical salaries and munificent perks in exchange for headlining a big-budgeted movie. This changeover of power in the new Hollywood

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also gave many stars tremendous control over the screen projects they would or would not undertake. Using their expanded industry clout, notables were able to indulge their passions (and egos) in selecting big-screen vehicles to "best" showcase their abilities. Under the new Hollywood filmmaking system, powerful celebrities— sometimes—astutely nurtured commercially viable dream projects into reality: Kirk Douglas's Spartacus (1960), Sylvester Stallone's Rocky (1976), Barbra Streisand's Yentl (1983), Kevin Costner's Dances with Wolves (1990), Mel Gibson's Braveheart (1995), and Ben Affleck and Matt Damon's Good Will Hunting (1997) are good examples. However, it was far more often the case that these powerful film stars succumbed to vanity and/or poor professional perceptions in selecting movie properties to highlight their talents, as proved by Burt Lancaster's The Swimmer (1968), Steve McQueen's An Enemy of the People (1978), Jane Fonda's Old Gringo (1989), Bruce Willis's Hudson Hawk (1991), Warren Beatty's Love Affair (1994), Demi Moore's The Scarlet Letter (1995), Robin Williams's Jakob the Liar (1999), and Kevin Spacey's Beyond the Sea (2004). Ranking very high on the list of Hollywood box-office stinkers that obsessed film stars pursued to an embarrassing reality was John Travolta's Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000. Battlefield Earth was a movie project that almost everyone in Hollywood could (and/or did) predict would be a fiasco of dramatic proportions. But not the fixated Travolta. He envisioned the end product as a lasting tribute to L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the Church of Scientology and the author of the novel upon which the ill-advised screen production was based.

1=1 Over his lengthy show business career, film actor John Travolta proved to be a champion survivor in a business notorious for discarding high-priced talent who dared to do the unforgivable: headline a series of commercial duds. Since beginning his movie acting career in 1975, Travolta had risen to a professional pinnacle and then fallen into an abyss on more than one occasion. Somehow John always managed to bounce back with great success—that is, until his reckless desire to make the expensive Battlefield Earth almost did him in professionally. In this process of near career

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self-destruction, he was abetted by several individuals in his orbit who had their own agendas in seeing that the doomed Battlefield Earth became an actuality. John Joseph Travolta was born in Englewood, New Jersey, in 1954. He was the sixth and last child of Salvatore and Ellen Travolta. His father (the son of Sicilian-Neapolitan immigrants) was a retired semipro football player who coowned a tire shop. His mother (who was of Irish descent) was a former radio singer and actress who became a drama coach. As a youngster John took dance classes with the brother of movie musical star Gene Kelly. With Mrs. Travolta's encouragement, her youngest became enthralled with acting. (John especially admired movie legend James Cagney.) At age 16 the six-foot-two-inch Travolta —nicknamed Bones because he was rail thin —quit high school to embark on a show business career. He apprenticed in summer stock and did TV commercials. By 1972 he was performing guest roles on TV series and appearing on the New York stage. In 1974 he was in the cast of the Broadway musical Over Herel starring the Andrews Sisters. Travolta's first theatrical feature film was the low-budget horror picture The Devils Rain (1975). That fall he debuted on the TV sitcom Welcome Back, Kotter. The show and John became exceedingly popular, leading this new teen idol to expand his success into the recording field. After playing a villain in the chiller Carrie (1976), John received acclaim as the dancing star of Saturday Night Fever (1977), for which he received a Best Actor Oscar nomination. He solidified his star status with the musical Grease (1978) and the romantic drama Urban Cowboy (1980). Along the way the superstar suffered his first movie dud, Moment by Moment (1978). Unwisely, he rejected lead assignments in Days of Heaven (1978), American Gigolo (1980), and An Officer and a Gentleman (1982), starmaking roles all claimed by Richard Gere. After a string of box-office clunkers —including Two of a Kind (1983) and Perfect (1985)—John's film career nosedived. From this professional nadir Travolta —he of the dazzling smile, cleft chin, and twinkling blue eyes —regained movie popularity with the comedy Look Who's Talking (1989) and its two sequels. However, by 1994 John's box-office appeal again had slipped badly. He gratefully accepted a modest $150,000 salary to play hit man Vincent Vega in Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction (1994). This successful picture earned Travolta his second Academy Award nomination as Best Actor.

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Once again on the film industry's A-list, John negotiated well-paid lead assignments in a slew of pictures, including Get Shorty (1995), Broken Arrow (1996), Michael (1996), Mad City (1997), Primary Colors (1998), and The General's Daughter (1999). Some of these expensively mounted entries were hits, other were financial disappointments. His per-picture fee climbed to more than $20 million —plus an assortment of enviable fringe benefits. Travolta's hefty income allowed him to indulge his passions for elaborate homes (he had four around the United States), piloting/owning a small fleet of jet planes, and leading a remarkably posh lifestyle. In 1991 Travolta married screen performer Kelly Preston (with whom he costarred in the 1989 box-office dud The Experts). The couple had two children.

1=1 Back in 1974 when Travolta was on location in Durango, Mexico, making the trashy The Devil's Rain, he felt that both his life and his career were at an extremely low ebb. It was at this discouraging juncture that a fellow cast member, Joan Prather, introduced the struggling actor to the tenets of the Church of Scientology. This self-actuation philosophy was created by L. Ron Hubbard (19111986) and was set forth, among other places, in his 1954 book, Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health. Hubbard proselytized vigorously about his core conviction: "Know thyself. . . and the truth shall set you free." Hubbard's process of cleansing the spirit was wrapped in an elaborate system of "applied religious philosophy." Over the years his tenets attracted strong devotees around the world, as well as a horde of skeptics and critics. Disbelievers labeled L. Ron's movement nothing more than a money-grasping, mind-controlling cult that had a particular abhorrence of psychiatrists and psychotherapy. After reading many of Hubbard's voluminous teachings and doctrines, John, a Roman Catholic, became a devout Scientologist. He explained, "I was so impressed with these works that I suddenly had a sense that I wasn't just a body, that I was actually a spirit in the body, and my life changed from that moment." As Travolta's acting career zoomed ahead, he became one of the most prominent celebrity adherents of Scientology. (Other show business notables who became Scientologists included Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman,

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Juliette Lewis, Priscilla Presley, Lisa Marie Presley, Mimi Rogers, Isaac Hayes, Anne Archer, Leah Remini, Giovanni Ribisi, Jenna Elfman, Karen Black, Catherine Bell, and Kirstie Alley.) John, the outspoken advocate, was always quick to tell the media that Scientology was a great boon for creative talent: "There is a need for Scientology in helping artists. It is essential for actors to understand communication. The basic Scientology course of communication is very valuable. It's important for people to be able to communicate, and that's what Scientology is all about." (Neither the performer nor Scientologists found it inconsistent that actors who were members often played disreputable characters on screen. Said one of the church's spokespersons, "Scientology allows individuals to decide what they do rather than us dictating to them. John [Travolta] has his own choice of films. He may discuss his movies with a counselor. But again, it is his own self-determination—his choice alone.") Throughout the years, as John's professional life went through peaks and valleys and reached new crests, he remained a prominent follower of Hubbard's involved (and often costly to its members) strategy for success. Not only was the world-famous actor a prime endorser of Scientology, but he also held a special place in the heart and mind of the organization's founder, the enigmatic but strong-willed L. Ron Hubbard. Back in the 1930s and 1940s Hubbard had earned a tidy living by cranking out a prodigious amount of pulp fiction in various genres, including crime, adventure, Western, and science fiction. His mass of writings financed his research, which led to the formal establishment of the Church of Scientology in 1954. In 1977 the powerful and wealthy Hubbard decided it was time to reach a new audience with his writing gifts. He drafted a science-fiction screenplay (Revolt in the Stars) that explored several of Scientology's teachings, especially regarding unwanted aliens. In his account these outer-space inhabitants were brought to Earth millions of years ago at the direction of an intergalactic overlord and his henchmen. Later the newcomers were slaughtered in volcanoes with atomic bombs. Thereafter, over the centuries, the remaining essences of the massacred victims attached themselves to human spirits. As the Scientology philosophy—and the screenplay—details, these unearthly forces had to be detected (using an E-meter device) and cleansed from the infected individual. When Revolt in the Stars failed to impress any Hollywood film producer, the undaunted Hubbard turned again to writing novels. In map-

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ping out his new opus, Hubbard said, "I wanted to write pure science fiction. And not in the old tradition. Writing forms and styles have changed, so I had to bring myself up to date and modernize the styles and patterns. To show that science fiction is not science fiction because of a particular kind of plot, this novel contains practically every type of story there is — detective, spy adventure, Western, love, air war, you name it. All except fantasy; there is none ofthat. The term 'science' also includes economics and sociology and medicine where these are related to material things. So they're in here, too." Later he acknowledged of his daunting undertaking, "It is the only one I ever wrote just to amuse myself." Hubbard's ambitious new work—more than 420,000 words and more than 820 pages long—initially was called Man, the Endangered Species. Reti tied Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000, it was published in hardcover in 1982 by St. Martin's Press. The hefty pulp-fiction novel generated mixed reviews, with several critics unfavorably comparing L. Ron's old-fashioned writing style and particular visionary concepts to such inspired sci-fi writers as Arthur C. Clarke, Robert A. Heinlein, and Ray Bradbury. Nevertheless, Battlefield Earth soon became a national best seller. (Some critical sources insisted that Hubbard's adherents pursued a familiar publishing industry gambit of buying up—and then later returning or selling at remainder prices —a sufficiently large number of copies of the new book to ensure that it registered well on several best-seller lists, including that of the New York Times.) Not too long after the publication of Battlefield Earth, Hubbard had an autographed copy of his "highly successful" work delivered directly to John Travolta. The crusading writer anticipated that the famed movie actor would find some way to have the sci-fi novel turned into a major motion picture. L. Ron was convinced that with the tremendous success of such landmark genre films as 1977's Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Hollywood and moviegoers would be more than eager to have a screen adaptation of his genre tome. John promptly read the novel and was enthusiastic. He detailed, "As a kid, I loved reading [H. G. Wells's] The Time Machine, stuff like that. And I remember all the ones that everybody else liked, but I didn't really kick into it [the sci-fi genre] until I read this one. It was like a fine wine of the genre, and it seemed to be much different than everything that I had witnessed and read to that point." However, at the time, John's screen career was going into eclipse, and he did not feel he had the

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industry clout to launch the massive project properly. The resourceful, determined Hubbard turned to other contacts to peddle Battlefield Earth. In 1983 William J. Immerman, a Century City lawyer who had been a staff attorney for American International Pictures, acquired (for an undisclosed amount) the screen rights to Hubbard's sci-fi epic. (Previously a few of Hubbard's published pulp stories had been the basis of two 1938 movie serials, and another tale had been adapted into an episode of a late 1950s Western TV series.) Immerman announced plans to translate Battlefield Earth into two stupendous $15 million movies. By the next year British-born Ken Annakin (who had directed 1960's Swiss Family Robinson and codirected 1962's The Longest Day) was attached to the dual sci-fi projects. Immerman and Annakin insisted that their productions would not feature name stars (especially in the role of the young hero, Jonnie Goodboy Tyler) but would employ unknowns. (This was a sure indicator that the expansive vehicles had yet to find sufficient financial backing.) Next, in mid-1984, the same duo's Salem Productions signed production illustrator John Jensen to be part of the special-effects team for the pending venture(s), now budgeted at around $40 million. Casting auditions were held in Denver, but no actors were hired. By the time L. Ron Hubbard died in 1986 at the age of 74, Battlefield Earth had disappeared from the Hollywood production charts. Meanwhile, the original novel went through several different new editions turned out by publishing adjuncts of the Church of Scientology. As for Travolta, even as his career fortunes faded again in the early 1990s and then shot up once more during the middle of the decade, he never lost faith in his devout ambition to have Hubbard's novel translated to the screen. By 1996, as John became a major star all over again, Battlefield Earth became news again. With Author Services Inc. (an arm of the Scientology organization) representing Hubbard's novel, first MGM (which had produced the classic genre entry, 1968's 2001: A Space Odyssey) and then Twentieth Century-Fox (noted for its Star Wars and Aliens sci-fi series) considered turning the Battlefield Earth novel into a screen epic. It was touted by Immerman that Travolta, then 41 and quite bulky, would both star as the young, athletic hero and produce the challenging celluloid venture. J D Shapiro (whose credits included scripting the 1993 Mel Brooks swashbuckling satire Robin Hood: Men in Tights) was hired by Salem to adapt Hubbard's book into a screenplay.

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However, in the process of relaunching Battlefield Earth, the studios had to reestimate the cost of converting Hubbard's text into a realized film, taking into account the price of utilizing the latest computer-generated special-effects technology. Hollywood experts determined that the budget would have to be around the $100 million mark. Eventually each of the once interested studios decided that the enormous investment of money and resources was too risky, even with Travolta attached to the project. In making their determination the film lots focused on two key factors: (1) the original narrative was out of date and naive compared to the standards of current mainstream science-fiction writings and could not feasibly be retooled to make it acceptable to savvy contemporary audiences, and (2) there was great fear in the film community that because the project was so intertwined with Hubbard and his controversial Church of Scientology, it would meet with strong resistance from large numbers of potential ticket buyers who were highly skeptical of that organization. (From the 1970s onward the Church had been the defendant and/or plaintiff in several high-profile lawsuits, both in the United States and abroad, that called into question Scientology's goals and methods and the extent of the church's financial holdings —which had made a significant segment of the public cynical about Hubbard's overly tenacious organization.) By 1997 MGM and Twentieth Century-Fox were out of the running for Battlefield Earth. (The fate of the Hubbard-based movie was not helped when, that same year, the costly Touchstone Pictures sci-fi entry Starship Troopers failed at the box office. This big misfire further scared off Hollywood film lots from wanting to produce the pricey and problematic Battlefield Earth.) Nevertheless, Scientologists —and Travolta in particular—refused to abandon their long-cherished vision of having Battlefield Earth reach the big screen.

1=1 Back in 1985 when Travolta's Perfect flopped, Stanley Kauffman of the New Republic wrote in his review of that smug exposé of the Los Angeles health club scene that the picture's leading man was "still groping and hoping" to find worthy screen showcases. This latest film miscalculation prompted John to leave the powerful Creative Artists Management Agency. For new talent representation he turned to attorney Jonathan Krane (wed

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to screen talent Sally Kellerman), who had previously managed a production company with veteran filmmaker Blake Edwards. Since then Krane had formed Management Consultancy and Entertainment Group. John became one of Jonathan's actor clients. By 1989 Krane was being billed as one of the producers of Travolta's Look Who's Talking. Thereafter he was a producer on all of John's pictures, as well as on other movie entries such as Love Is a Gun (1994) and Movies Kill (1997). In 1998 John was generally pulling in more than $20 million per movie. Among his releases that year were Primary Colors and A Civil Action, neither of which met its commercial expectations. Nonetheless, the personable Travolta remained in high demand for top-flight Hollywood projects. He was next set to star in Paramount's drama/thriller The General's Daughter but wanted two additional vehicles on his picturemaking agenda for 1999 to maximize his income potential. Among the possibilities was an offer to star (with his wife, Kelly Preston) in an adaptation of E. Annie Proulx's The Shipping News at Columbia Pictures. (Eventually, because of production delays that conflicted with Travolta's busy schedule, he dropped out of that project and Kevin Spacey starred in the 2001 release.) Also in consideration for John were starring assignments in The Family Man, a comedy for Beacon Communications, and Paramount's Common Ground, about a special crime-fighting force coping with a killer at the Los Angeles airport. Even with all these highly lucrative screen assignments and potential assignments, the busy celebrity still yearned to star in Battlefield Earth. Therefore it remained a chief priority for John's longtime producer, Jonathan Krane, to help make this a reality. Wherever Travolta went on the Hollywood circuit or on media tours, he expressed tremendous enthusiasm for actuating this sci-fi project. Still there were no takers among the film studios. (This was especially true when it became known that John was not about to reduce his hefty acting fee even for this pet vehicle.) Then movie producer Elie Samaha entered John's life. Born in 1956, Elie Kheir Samaha grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. Having lost his father when he was young, the boy, a self-professed "little rascal," was constantly embroiled in minor scrapes with the law and with his teachers. To earn money, he became a concert promoter at age fourteen. Soon he dropped out of high school to help support his family. After the Lebanese civil war erupted in 1975, Samaha emigrated to the United States. During his stay in New York, he worked for a time as a bouncer

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at the Studio 54 disco club. By 1984 he was in Los Angeles, where he turned his sharp business acumen to operating Celebrity Cleaners. Some of his best clients were the movie studios, which thought nothing of paying excessive surcharges to have their clothing rushed through his plant. It taught Elie a great deal about the potential for making a financial killing in the wide-open movie industry, where money seemed to be no object. Next, he used his cleaning business profits to fund a new enterprise. In 1989 he opened the Roxbury Club on the Sunset Strip, which became a magnet for celebrities. His other businesses included real estate ventures and restaurants. With his spare capital, Samaha (who was wed to exotic screen performer Tia Carrere from 1992 to 2000) next turned to movie producing. His first efforts were low-budget, direct-to-video endeavors such as Immortal (1995) and The Last Days ofFrankie the Fly (1997). Crude, calculating, and ambitious, Elie pursued his new profession by learning on the job. He became a mini wheeler-dealer who ached to be recognized by the industry's big movers and shakers. By the late 1990s Samaha had moved up a few notches in movie production circles. He was operating under the aegis of Franchise Pictures, which he ran with the India-born former ace tennis player Ashok Amritraj. Elie was now turning out such higher-caliber screen offerings as 1999's The Big Kahuna with Kevin Spacey and the same year's Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her with Glenn Close and Cameron Diaz. (In 1999, the year Amritraj sold out his interest in Franchise to Samaha, Franchise absorbed Phoenician Films. That company's chief participant, former actor Andrew Stevens, became president of Franchise, with Samaha remaining as chairman. Also in 1999 the Munich, Germany-based Intertainment AG, a production and licensing group, signed a $125 million deal with Franchise Pictures. The investment gave Intertainment exclusive European marketing rights for pictures turned out by Franchise over the next few years.) Meanwhile in late 1998 Elie made a production deal with Morgan Creek Productions, a mini-film studio that was based at Warner Bros, and had a distribution arrangement with the big lot. Under the agreement, Morgan CreekAVarner Bros, would release domestically a string of Samaha productions for which they had no key initial investment, only supplying—for a healthy fee—promotional/marketing and distribution services. What attracted Morgan CreekAVarner Bros, to the business relationship was Samaha's large lineup of pictures that would feature several

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name stars he had corralled into firm moviemaking deals. These notables included Bruce Willis (The Whole Nine Yards, 2000), Sylvester Stallone (Get Carter, 2000, and Driven, 2001), Jack Nicholson (the Sean Penn-directed The Pledge, 2001), Jennifer Lopez (Angel Eyes, 2001), Kevin Costner (3000 Miles to Graceland, 2001), and Robert De Niro (City by the Sea, 2002). The key to Elie's success in doing business with these major screen players was that he shrewdly and boldly went after stars who were so eager to make particular vehicles that they would do so at reduced salaries. When such pet properties went into turnaround at major studios (due to prohibitive production costs or project problems), Elie jumped in to rescue the stars' favored projects from development hell. As one industry observer noted, "Elie gets actors to do the movie for the wholesale price, not retail." Samaha explained how he had become one of Tinseltown's busiest and most high-profile dealmakers of the late twentieth century: "I'd rather overpay for a turnaround project than develop something that will never mature into anything. The studios spend millions in development every year. We're not going to pay $500,000 for a rewrite and then not have the star do it. We pick the scripts the stars already want to make." In financing his pictures Samaha exploited the same business practices used successfully—for a time—a few years earlier by the likes of Mario Kassar and Andrew G. Vajna at Carolco Pictures and by dealmakers at Savoy Pictures and Vestron Pictures. He raised up to 75% of a film's budget by relying on the box-office worth of his big-name actors to auction off foreign rights to his upcoming pictures. The remainder of his financing came from bank loans. Elie smartly employed other economies for mass producing his production slate. He shot his pictures in Canada (which usually cut 30% from budgets), shuttling his regular film crews between location sites from one project to another. As part owner of a catering company, Samaha could provide food craft services for his movies at half the cost the studios would normally expend. Because of his volume of shoots, Elie bargained a strong discount on film stock from manufacturers. Another way Elie reduced costs was by going into business with the boxoffice magnets who headlined his productions. He boasted, "With my movies the movie stars are my partners. If you give them 25% of the

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profits [while reducing their upfront payments], they get out of the [sound stage/location] trailers faster."

1=1 In the fall of 1998, while Elie Samaha was pitching to Travolta about bringing the now adrift Battlefield Earth aboard the Franchise Pictures bandwagon, the screen star was in intense negotiations to take on yet another movie project. It was to be Standing Room Only, a musical based on the life of Jimmy Roselli, a Hoboken, New Jersey-based lounge singer with mob ties. Unlike that same city's Frank Sinatra, the charismatic Roselli never became a world-famous crooner because of his refusal to be controlled by the underworld. With a script by Corey Mandell, Gus Van Sant was considering directing the vehicle, which the Disney Studio might release. John's wife, Kelly Preston, was scheduled to play a featured role (as Roselli's wife) in this major movie, which was to be produced by Jonathan Krane, Van Sant, and others. If given the goahead, Standing Room Only would start production on location in Los Angeles and Atlantic City on March 15, 1999. Meanwhile Travolta now agreed to star in Battlefield Earth for Franchise Pictures. The deal required that John drop his $20 million asking price by several million, which would be paid to the star when the picture realized backend profits. As another incentive, John was to be a first-time producer on the sci-fi venture. Amazingly, the usually hardbargaining John acceded to Elie's cut-rate terms. To be made in conjunction with Morgan Creek Productions, Battlefield Earth would be another of Samaha's pictures to be released by Warner Bros. It was tentatively slated to begin production in Montreal on July 15, 1999. This start date left little to no time for Travolta between the scheduled wrap of Standing Room Only and the start of his cherished sci-fi epic. The March 1999 start date for Standing Room Only came and went. The iffy production was now slated to commence in early May. While this schedule shuffling was occurring, John Travolta was busily rehearsing his vocals for the picture with composer Marvin Hamlisch while also fine-tuning his dance moves for his on-screen hoofing. However, even at this late stage the screen musical's producers had not yet locked in all of the film's needed $64 million budget. To salvage the pending venture,

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Travolta was asked to defer $8 to $10 million of his Standing Room Only fee (beyond his already contracted $1 million deferred payment). Much as Travolta claimed he wanted to make a new song-and-dance picture and work with Van Sant, he refused to budge on the financial terms. (Previously, in 1996, Travolta had walked off the sound stages in France of Roman Polanski's about-to-shoot The Double when similar last-minute money issues arose.) Hoping somehow to still salvage Standing Room Only, the producers put it into temporary limbo that spring. There were tentative plans to reschedule the shoot for October 1999 once Battlefield Earth was completed. (As it turned out, John went on to different screen ventures, and Standing Room Only remained unmade.) There were other factors behind the postponement/abandonment of Standing Room Only besides John's salary not being met and needed financing not being found. Reportedly, Travolta, a passionate gourmet, had not had the time or the inclination to lose sufficient weight for his role as the New Jersey crooner and was a bit embarrassed to cavort on camera in such a bulky condition. Much more important, Warner Bros, already had locked in Battlefield Earth as its big May 2000 release. With this opening time frame, there was little leeway for the action film to be delayed by even weeks from its projected mid-July start if it was to be completed on schedule. This meant that there could be no extension of the planned 50-day shoot for Standing Room Only if problems should arise during its filming. This situation was further exacerbated when the lack of full funding kept delaying the musical's launch date. And John was determined to see Battlefield Earth become a reality— at almost any cost. He described the undertaking as the passion of his professional life. At this point nothing was more critical than finally getting the long-discussed venture off the ground. The superstar told his manager, "If we can't do the things now that we want to do, what good is the power? It's a waste, basically. Let's test it and try to get the things done that we believe in." He excitedly told reporters of his beloved venture, "Because Battlefield Earth is one of the biggest-selling science fiction novels of all time, we could be next summer's Star Wars." (Such unrealistic boasts made many seasoned Hollywood observers scoff.) With the star's mind set about his career priorities, the intriguing Standing Room Only was relegated to the back burner.

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As Battlefield Earth went into pre-production, Elie Samaha proudly pointed out that the film's budget had been cut in half from its once estimated $100 million cost. (This slashed budget would change in the coming months.) To knock down the price of the elaborate Battlefield Earth required more than the usual craftiness of Franchise Pictures' chief. Besides reducing Travolta's up-front salary, it meant skimping in several other areas. Corey Mandell (who had few onscreen credits in Hollywood and who had done the screenplay for the unproduced Standing Room Only) revamped J D Shapiro's earlier script of Battlefield Earth. This was a big gamble, since most Hollywood professionals had acknowledged that one of the great weaknesses of the Battlefield Earth project was L. Ron Hubbard's original plot, dialogue, and antiquated sci-fi concepts. Thus, a really experienced writer should have been brought in to revamp the screenplay. The next mistake was hiring Roger Christian, a Buddhist, to direct the project. He had begun in the film industry as the assistant art director on the British-made And Soon the Darkness (1970). Later he became affiliated with moviemaker George Lucas and served as set decorator on 1977's Star Wars. (Christian shared an Oscar for Best Art Director-Set Decorator on this box-office bonanza.) Roger had moved into directing with the 1979 short feature Black Angel. Later he directed the low-budget The Sender (1982) and Nostradamus (1994), as well as the more elaborate Underworld (1996). Continuing his long-time association with George Lucas, Roger was second-unit director on Star Wars: Episode I—The Phantom Menace (1999). Also among Christian's credentials was helming the British-made sci-fi entry Starship (1985), which one reviewer called "a lame Star Wars ripoff." In short, the chosen director of Battlefield Earth had not yet demonstrated that he was an industry heavy hitter, nor that he had particular directorial talents suited to the sci-fi genre. For several years during Travolta's involvement with Battlefield Earth it had been assumed that John would play the agile young hero in this project. However, he now acknowledged that time and good living had made it inappropriate for him to take on the athletic role. (He said, "I'm too old. . . . Imagine me, as fat as I am, running around with guns.") Instead John would take on the part of Terl, the powerful security chief on Earth for the Psychlos, giant humanoid aliens who, a millennium ago, subdued Earth in a nine-minute battle that nearly decimated humankind. Terl is in charge of utilizing the captured surviving man-animals

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(as the invaders call them) to harvest the Earth's remaining natural resources for use on the Psychlos' faraway home planet. In deciding to play the devious Terl, Travolta envisioned that with the proper bulky, dark costume his obvious girth could be minimized —to a degree. To handle the key role of the hero of Battlefield Earth, 29-year-old Barry Pepper was hired. Not only was he a relative newcomer who could be contracted at a "reasonable" fee, he was Canadian, which fit in with production plans to shoot in Canada using largely local talent in front of and behind the cameras. To Pepper's credit, the five-foot-ten-inch actor had performed well in Saving Private Ryan (1998) and since had appeared in such major Hollywood productions as The Green Mile (1999). However, from the start there was no question that Pepper's acting style and screen presence would ensure that he would be subordinate to Travolta, the villain of the screen piece. Other Canadian performers hired for Battlefield Earth included Sabine Karsenti as the hero's love interest and Kim Coates as the hero's cohort. (Coates had appeared in an earlier major Hollywood fiasco, Waterworld.) The only well-known name player beside Travolta to be lured aboard Battlefield Earth was Forest Whitaker. The 38-year-old African American, who divided his time between acting and directing assignments, had appeared in the successful sci-fi thriller Species (1995). More important, he had supported Travolta in the romantic fantasy Phenomenon (1996), and the two actors had gotten along well. Travolta's wife, Kelly Preston, was given a small role in Battlefield Earth as Ted's lizardtongued Psychlo secretary. Cinematographer Giles Nuttgen, who began in the industry on the 1992 TV series The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles, had been director of photography on the Roger Christian-directed second-unit work on Star Wars: Episode I—The Phantom Menace. Production designer Patrick Tatopoulos's credentials included being production designer/ supervisor of alien creature effects on Independence Day (1996) and special make-up effects designer/creature designer on Supernova (2000) — both sci-fi entries. For Battlefield Earth Tatopoulos was not only production designer but creature designer and costume designer (which included creating the high-platform boots the Psychlo characters strutted about in to give them the appearance of being more than nine feet tall, as described in the book). Veteran Czech composer Elia Cmiral (1998's

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Apartment Zero and Ronin and 1999's Stigmata) was contracted to write the film's score.

1=1 Shooting began on Battlefield Earth on July 5, 1999. Most of the location filming was accomplished in Montreal, with side excursions to Quebec's Saint-Vincent-de-Paul Prison and to the same province's Saint-Davidde-Falardeau and Saint-Hilaire. Other filming was undertaken in Los Angeles. Most everything on the shoot smacked of economy, from the bargain-basement costumes to the skimpy makeshift sets, the unconvincing alien makeup, and the severely constricted budget for the all-essential special effects. (This meant not only a limited use of sophisticated computergenerated special effects but also a minimum allowance for the use of spaceship models, and so on.) With everything being rushed to squeeze the most from each day's shooting, little pre-production time had been allotted for testing creature makeup, costumes, and so forth, especially for the lead characters. What resulted was last-minute expediency in substituting for the planned outfits and makeup effects to give Travolta's and Whitaker's characters a semblance of the menacing giants detailed in Hubbard's novel. Rather than use costly special effects to make the Psychlos really tower over the man-animal characters led by Pepper's Jonnie Goodboy Tyler, the director resorted to shooting the aliens at an upward angle to make them seem far taller than they were. This pennypinching mentality in shaping Battlefield Earth doomed the picture to look and sound laughably unconvincing and unsophisticated —making it a throwback to the sci-fi B pictures churned out by Hollywood in the 1950s. As production progressed, only amateurs on the set could have been unaware that this film was destined for ridicule. From the amateurish script to the hasty camera setups and the quickly executed few takes on each scene, Battlefield Earth in no way resembled a major filmmaking project of the late 1990s. Nevertheless, to all appearances, John Travolta remained enthralled with the filming. He enthused, "What I love about the movie is that everything is very identifiable, everything in it. Even though they're aliens, they've got these very realistic and identifiable behavior patterns. Also, my character is summoned to stay on a planet he

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hates, for basically the rest of his life. And that motivates all sorts of evil and further evil thinking, like he wasn't evil enough." Travolta, who bubbled that he was thriving on his extra duties as a producer, told the press that the production was moving along swimmingly on all levels. (This despite rumors that the film's trimmed-down budget had had to be expanded during filming to get the ambitious picture completed.) The star remained convinced that Battlefield Earth would receive a tremendous reception from filmgoers in May 2000. When the press sought to penetrate the sci-fi production to get less biased commentary on how the shoot was actually going, they were stymied constantly by a team of beefy security men who guarded the sets. When the persistent media did find ways to make contact with crew members on Battlefield Earth, they discovered that the squad had signed nondisclosure agreements and had no comments to make for publication. Undiscouraged, a determined reporter from the Washington Post told his readers, "But they [the production decision makers] can't hide everything, including props that look like they came from a '50s B-movie, old babybuggies, gas pumps, street lamps, a phone booth, rocket parts." When the film's producers were queried about why the movie set was under such tight security, their response was that they wanted to make sure that nobody stole their "high-tech look" —or their "[plotline] surprises."

1=1 By the time Battlefield Earth underwent its post-production phase in fall 1999 and early 2000, bad word of mouth was already spreading about the pending release. Volume 1, Issue 5 of Mean Magazine (SeptemberDecember 1999) featured an article called "John Travolta: The Star Who Ate Hollywood." The piece, by Mark Ebner, included details of an experiment the magazine had conducted recently. It had acquired a copy of Corey Mandell's screenplay to Battlefield Earth. Changing the title page to read "Dark Forces by Desmond Finch," Mean Magazine staffers had put the script into circulation to readers at several major Hollywood film production firms. The first reader reported back, "A thoroughly silly plotline is made all the more ludicrous by its hamfisted dialogue and ridiculously shallow characterizations." Noting that the property suffered from a "thoroughly confused climax," the reader's recommendation on the submission was "PASS." The second reader judged that the script was

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"a completely predictable story that just isn't written well enough to make up for its lack of originality." The reader labeled the work "as entertaining as watching a fly breathe." The reader's verdict on the submission: "PASS." Another growing concern about the film —especially on Internet chat groups—was that the upcoming Battlefield Earth would be nothing more than a proselytizing vehicle for the Church of Scientology, filled with all sorts of subliminal messages to convert viewers to L. Ron Hubbard's viewpoint on the better way of life. As the film's star and producer and a shining light of the Church of Scientology, Travolta now was forced constantly to defend the impartiality of the philosophy within his new movie. He argued, "The first distinction you should make is that probably [L. Ron] Hubbard is more famous for science fiction than philosophy. But I think that many of the values you'll find in this movie are just values that most good stories and decent people include in their scenarios. Good versus evil, and things like that. So I don't think you're going to find anything particularly unusual that would reflect necessarily on that philosophy or not, other than the human condition." John added that in making Battlefield Earth, "I only intended it to be a very entertaining popcorn movie." Referencing one of his recent, highly successful pictures, the actor/producer observed of his sci-fi epic, "If you like other things about it, like in Pulp Fiction, that's cool." On another of the countless occasions that the media queried the star regarding any tie-in between Battlefield Earth and the Scientology philosophy, he reasoned, "The truth of why I'm doing it is because it's a great piece of science fiction. This is not about him [L. Ron Hubbard]. . . . I'm very interested in Scientology, but that's personal. This is different. This has nothing to do with Scientology." To prove how much confidence he and the other decision makers had in their sci-fi cinema epic, John announced in early 2000 that there would definitely be a Battlefield Earth sequel and that it would use the story line from the untapped second half of Hubbard's book. According to the star, the follow-up would most likely go into production in 2001. Showing his faith in his teammates, Travolta intended to reunite with director Roger Christian on a future movie project, Quiller Solitaire, a James Bond-type of spy/action picture. To counteract the onslaught of anti-Battlefield Earth reportage and negative public opinion about the forthcoming screen saga, members of

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the Church of Scientology launched a determined campaign to foil the unenthusiastic word on the Hollywood grapevine, in the media, and on the Internet.

1=1 For a supposedly major Hollywood action blockbuster, Battlefield Earth had less than the normal amount of merchandising tie-ins, an indication of manufacturers' seeming lack of faith in the film's potential. However, Trendmaster agreed to produce a line of action figures tied into Battlefield Earth. (Reportedly, a few of the toys created for the picture were hastily recycled from leftovers from past movie tie-in campaigns that had had disappointing sales.) Still, Warner Bros, did its best to put on a good marketing show for the picture, allocating $20 million to the campaign. It kicked off the marketing on February 9, 2000, on the studio's Web site by unveiling its one-sheet ad to be used in promoting Battlefield Earth. (One of the film's most intriguing taglines was "Prepare to go Psychlo.") Meanwhile, Bridge Publications, which handled the publication of most of the Church of Scientology literature, released new editions of Hubbard's Battlefield Earth novel in paperback, as well as in audiocassette and eBook formats. Campaigning for Battlefield Earth to a degree he had not done on previous pictures, Travolta gave many media interviews. The outwardly jovial superstar even agreed to appear at a Starfest Convention in Denver in mid-April 2000. (Since the story line of Battlefield Earth took place in the Colorado environs, it was a good promotional ploy.) At the sci-fi conclave, an ebullient John told the 5,000 fans in attendance, "I play a pretty bad guy [in the film]. Today, I take you over in a good way. On May 12, I take Denver over in a bad way." (His words could not have been more prophetic.)

1=1 While Warner Bros, was counting down to the opening of Battlefield Earth on May 12, Travolta and many members of the film's cast appeared on the VH1 cable show The List. The one-hour program was carried in a special live version broadcast on the Internet. While such promotional events were occurring, Battlefield Earth was being screened

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to critics around the country, and to filmgoers in special test previews. The unspooling at a Century City theater in Los Angeles earned "guffaws and hoots from an audience of entertainment journalists, critics, and others." The film got the same reaction at an industry screening in Washington, D.C., where some attendees allegedly walked out. At a showing in Dundalk, Maryland, a blue-collar suburb of Baltimore, the audience reacted with "derisive laughter." Battlefield Earth's premiere, held at Mann's Chinese Theater in Hollywood, was a less-than-star-studded gathering—mostly cast members, plus celebrities such as Kirstie Alley who were Scientologists, and other notables (such as Sylvester Stallone) who had filmmaking deals with Elie Samaha's Franchise Pictures. (Reportedly, the premiere was filled with Scientologists who had been given free tickets by the studio to fill up the house.) As many in Hollywood had predicted for months, the official critical response to Battlefield Earth ran from bad to devastating. Daily Variety branded the picture "the Showgirls of sci-fi shoot-em-ups." Elvis Mitchell of the New York Times judged, "Battlefield Earth may well turn out to be the worst movie of this century." The Washington Post's Rita Kempley scoffed, "Ishtar, pishtar. . . . You haven't endured pain till you've seen Battlefield Earth." Roger Ebert reported that Battlefield Earth was "a film that for decades to come will be the punch line of jokes about bad movies!" Leah Rozen of People magazine rated this futuristic adventure "egregiously awful. . . . so incoherent, so ugly and so pointless that you have to wonder why Warner Bros, is even bothering to distribute this embarrassment." Opening on 3,307 screens domestically, the PG-13-rated picture grossed a flabby $11.54 million (an average of $3,492 per venue). In contrast, Russell Crowe's Gladiator, in only its second week of release at the time, took in $24.65 million at 2,943 theaters. The quick falloff of audience interest in Battlefield Earth was dramatic. On the second weekend the sci-fi entry generated only $3.92 million, and in its third weekend, an anemic $1.03 million. Soon a dismayed Warner Bros, had dropped the number of theaters showing Battlefield Earth to an embarrassing 641. The picture left domestic circulation in mid-July with an unimpressive gross of $21.47 million. Overseas, the returns on the picture's distribution that June were even more disastrous. Battlefield Earth earned only $8.23 million, making the worldwide gross for the film a mere $29.73 million. Despite Battlefield Earth's failing so badly with the public and sinking so quickly from distribution, Travolta still insisted he was pleased

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with his latest picture. ("I feel really good about it. Here I was taking big chances, breaking a new genre.") John continued to claim that there would be a sequel to his recent release. However, Hollywood observers knew full well that this misplaced optimism (and face-saving gesture) was not shared by Warner Bros., which wanted to forget the catastrophe as quickly as possible. Even Paramount Pictures, which had originally scheduled the star's next movie, Lucky Numbers, for a July 14 debut, now pushed its release date to October. They hoped that by then moviegoers would have long since forgotten that Travolta had starred in a recent boxoffice stinker. At the March 25, 2001, Razzies (given out by the Golden Raspberry Awards), Battlefield Earth received 11 nominations for "dishonors" and claimed seven awards, including Worst Picture, Worst Actor, Worst Script, and Worst Director. J D Shapiro, the perpetrator of the film's original screenplay, accepted his trophy in person. Receiving his "prize" on a live broadcast over the Comedy World Radio Network, the scripter mentioned that John Travolta had called the initial draft of the movie "the Schindlers List [1993] of science fiction."

1=1 The critical roasting and public rejection of the odiferous Battlefield Earth, once John Travolta's dream picture, had strange aftereffects on several participants. Amazingly, the picture's gross failure did not prevent its pivotal star from continuing his nonstop, high-paid moviemaking. However, the film's director, Roger Christian, did not helm another movie for four years (and then it was low-budget fare). As for producer Jonathan Krane, Travolta ended their business relationship in April 2002. The last of John's pictures to list Krane as producer was Basic (2003), another commercial/artistic misfire for the movie star. Meanwhile, in December 2000, the Germany-based Intertainment AG filed a $100 million lawsuit against Elie Samaha's Franchise Pictures. The European corporation alleged that Samaha's company had fraudulently inflated budgets on pictures that Intertainment had helped to finance. (Referenced in the suit were such Franchise Pictures projects as Battlefield Earth, 3000 Miles to Graceland, The Whole Nine Yards, Get Carter, Driven, and The Pledge.) According to the plaintiff, this manipulation caused Intertainment to pay excessively in order to provide the

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contractually agreed upon 47% financing for Franchise's film slate between 1998 and 2000. (This may well explain why the publicly stated budget of Battlefield Earth rose from $50 million to a hefty $73 million during its economy-class making.) After a protracted airing in a Los Angeles federal courtroom of Intertainment AG's allegations against Franchise Pictures, in June 2004 the court ruled in the plaintiff's favor. As a result Franchise Pictures was liable to pay Intertainment $121.7 million in damages. At about the same time, Franchise Pictures, reportedly $120 million in the red, filed for bankruptcy. (Elie Samaha claimed he personally had a negative net worth at the time of $10 million.) This turn of events would make it exceedingly difficult for Intertainment to recoup its recent judgment against the Los Angeles enterprise. Meanwhile, the resilient Elie Samaha announced his latest industry post. He was now cohead of Gibraltar International, a new foreign film sales organization. While the courtroom battles were under way, in 2003, Pine Com International prepared an animated cartoon series based on Battlefield Earth. Dan Haggerty provided the voice of archvillain Terl, with Tim Kearns as his henchman, Ker. Little has been heard of the series since.

1=1 In reviewing the misguided course of Battlefield Earth, John Travolta's ambitious vanity project that nearly everyone agrees should have been left unmade, one recalls a statement made by the star in the mid-1990s. At the time the media were questioning his propensity for appearing in box-office misadventures. The seemingly unflappable star shot back, "Disasters are earthquakes, airplane crashes, the Titanic. I'm sorry, but a bad movie is not a disaster." Of course, such a statement is easier said by a star who has already received a huge paycheck than by the unfortunate backers of financial disasters such as Battlefield Earth. On top of which, this particular star, John Travolta, is hardly an unbiased viewer of events that concern his ardent belief in Scientology and the works of its founder, L. Ron Hubbard.

14 Town & Country (2001 ) Doesn't Warren Beatty have any friends who are trustworthy? Can't they persuade him that he has passed the point where he was a sexual dynamo on the screen? That nowadays it is slightly embarrassing to see him play a hot lover? This is not to argue that men of his age . . . have no sexual vitality, but can film actors in their sixties play hyperactive studs? . . . Beatty surrounds himself here with beauties who are mad about him, and he makes sure that the script compliments him on his powers; so his contradictory fading verges on the risible. . . . What makes it very much worse is that his gallivanting is the absolute center of a comedy called Town and Country. — R E V I E W E R S T A N L E Y K A U F F M A N , The

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ver the course of their careers most actors suffer their share of film flops, especially if they have a lengthy stay in their craft. This has been true of even such distinctive Hollywood luminaries as Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy, Bette Davis, Gregory Peck, Elizabeth Taylor, Burt Lancaster, Audrey Hepburn, Marlon Brando, Faye Dunaway, Robert 292

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De Niro, Jane Fonda, Al Pacino, Diane Keaton, Johnny Depp, Julia Roberts, Will Smith, Sean Penn, Halle Berry, and Leonardo DiCaprio. What usually carries these celebrities through such professional downturns is their intriguing screen presence, which they often reshape to suit changing times and their maturing looks. Another Hollywood star who survived his share of box-office disappointments was Warren Beatty. Onscreen and off, the handsome, charismatic, and reclusive Warren traded successfully for a lengthy period on his striking looks, "enviable" reputation as a major Lothario, and appealing boyish charm. He too endured a film flop or two, as in the mid-1960s with such releases as Promise Her Anything (1965). However, this A-list Hollywood maverick pulled out of such career downswings with a major hit (like 1967's Bonnie and Clyde). Even when Beatty was the colead (and producer) of such a colossal cinema dud as ishtar (1987), he bounced back with Dick Tracy (1990). This commercially successful vehicle, which he produced, directed, and starred in for Touchstone Pictures, restored Warren's lofty Hollywood standing. Beatty made his big-screen debut in 1961 's Splendor in the Grass, for which he was paid a $15,000 salary. Immediately, he became a much sought-after actor and enjoyed decades of superstardom. By the late 1990s, when he was in his sixties, one might have assumed that even the vain Warren would have yielded to the impact of moviegoers' changing tastes in movie leading men and his own aging. Logically these things should have prompted him to finally redefine his long-frozen screen persona as a shallow woman chaser. But that was not the case, even when his personal life reflected growth and maturity: an intensified real-life interest in politics and liberal causes; marriage for the first time, in 1992 (to the cinema's Annette Bening); and fatherhood. Despite these significant changes in his off-camera existence that revised Beatty's reputation as a globetrotting, swinging bachelor, the actor continued on screen to play his stockin-trade: Hollywood's favorite world-class charmer. Beatty did not, and could not, perpetuate this increasingly inappropriate movie image on his own. As a veteran power player with tremendous clout within the film community, Beatty boasted strong industry contacts. These associations provided the aging star with opportunities to take on high-paying film assignments. These vehicles largely relied on his performing variations of the romantic-bad-boy screen image he had developed in the 1960s. This troubling situation might have been more

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understandable if it were merely Warren's friendship with his equally aging contemporaries —fellow members of Hollywood's old boys club —that led to his being continually handed such inept cinema showcases. However, it was the next generation—and even the one thereafter! — of Tinseltown movie executives who greenlighted such unsuitable Beatty vehicles as 1994's Love Affair. That ill-advised, expensive remake of two past Hollywood movie classics revealed that its star, at 57, was suffering from more than just a temporary box-office slump. (Made for approximately $60 million, Love Affair grossed only $18.27 million in domestic distribution and earned largely negative reviews.) This major miscalculation confirmed that most 1990s moviegoers were offended by this type of film, which displayed Warren's fading looks, increased lethargy, and growing inability to handle his old-style lady-killer movie parts in a believable manner. Four years later Warren had relatively better luck with the offbeat Bulworth (1998), an audacious comedy that played down, to a degree, the amorous interaction between Beatty's geeky Democratic senator and his newfound African American lady friend (played by the 29-yearsyounger Halle Berry). But even this carefully budgeted, well-crafted political satire didn't earn back its costs in worldwide distribution. At that point it might have been reasonable to assume that Warren Beatty's extended tenure as a major romantic movie leading man had come to an end. Not so! By the time ofthat Twentieth Century-Fox release, the 61year-old star was already making the film comedy Town Ó Country, in which he was cast as yet another woman-chasing playboy (albeit one who eventually regrets his sexual flings and seeks to reunite with his disillusioned wife). With Beatty's recent box-office record and his imminent senior citizen status, many industry observers were convinced that this unsuitable new venture was doomed from the start to be a gigantic blunder. As it turned out, the making of Town Ó Country would prove to be full of irresponsible budgetary excesses. The film would generate devastatingly bad word of mouth during its inordinately long shoot. Once in release it would be savaged by reviewers and roundly ignored by moviegoers. In short order the film vanished from distribution. By then it had been linked with Heavens Gate, Ishtar, and Waterworld as among Hollywood's most potent examples of profligate filmmaking.

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New Line Cinema was founded on a shoestring in 1967 by Robert Shaye, a Columbia University Law School graduate. The first release for this New York-based distributor firm was the reissue of Reefer Madness (1936), a cult classic about the evils of marijuana. The company soon developed a flourishing industry presence as the distributor (and later producer) of offbeat, low-budget features catering to young audiences. By 1981 the organization had had a major success with John Waters's Polyester. Three years later New Line established an impressive commercial franchise with Nightmare on Elm Street, a marketing formula it repeated with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990). In 1991, with Shaye as CEO and his longtime associate Michael Lynne as president/COO, the company spun off a new division, Fine Line Features, catering to upscale, adult audiences. The thriving bicoastal New Line enterprise turned out an average of 11 pictures a year. In 1993 it was acquired by media mogul Ted Turner and became part of Turner Broadcasting System Inc. A few years later the Time Warner conglomerate acquired the Turner empire, including New Line Cinema. In 1996 New Line, which had outlasted many of its contemporary hotshot mini-major Hollywood studios of the 1980s and early 1990s (e.g., Carolco, Savoy, and Vestron), had an especially bad year. It suffered such big-scale flops as Last Man Standing, The Island of Dr. Moreau, and The Long Kiss Goodnight. The company bounced back with Set It Off and Michael, 1997's Austin Powers: international Man of Mystery, and 1998's Rush Hour and The Wedding Singer. At the time New Line's average cost to produce a movie was around $29 million. This was in contrast to the major Hollywood film lots, where the price to make a typical project had climbed to more than $56 million. In 1998 the president of New Line was Michael De Luca. Born in 1965, he was a New York University film student when the company's head honcho, Shaye, hired him as a summer intern. (The teenager's only previous job was working at a bagel shop.) Later, De Luca dropped out of NYU but remained at the film company, where he became the founder's top protégé. In 1993 Shaye made Michael the company's production chief. In his new capacity, the outspoken, brash, no-frills De Luca turned around New Line's fortunes by smartly tapping into youth culture trends, as well as fostering the careers of young black filmmakers. With a great perception for emerging talent, the maverick executive greenlighted Jim Carrey's The Mask and Dumb and Dumber (both released in 1994),

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setting the studio on a lucrative path that fostered the screen careers of such emerging big-screen comedians as Mike Myers, Adam Sandler, and Chris Tucker. De Luca explained his box-office magic touch with, "We took a lot of risks because we came from a low-budget world where we were used to hiring people who hadn't established themes. It created a mind-set where you look for talent that was about to break and for material that didn't need a big movie star." With De Luca's growing moviemaking success, his artistic ambitions expanded. He wanted to make higher-caliber pictures that relied on quality scripts. His oft-repeated rationale was "Stars follow directors who follow material." With this idea in mind, Michael clashed more frequently with his mentor/boss, Shaye, who preferred the company's standard bread-and-butter entries: low-priced horror pictures and thrillers. As time passed, there was growing reluctance on the CEO's part to approve some of the higher-level projects De Luca campaigned hard for at the studio. In giving his thumbs-up or thumbs-down to these riskier film projects, Shaye rationalized, "I'd pay $9 to see a great film, but I wouldn't necessarily pay $19 million to make it." With the Time Warner hierarchy constantly reviewing the financial status of its subsidiary, the divergent pressures on Shaye and De Luca to meet the parent company's expectations accelerated. This led to more frequent and stronger disagreements between the two front-office executives. (De Luca explained the growing conflict with, "Bob [Shaye] believes that our personal tastes should take a backseat to what our customers want, and I could never do that. I had to make decisions based on my own gut feelings." For his part, the bottom-line-oriented Shaye insisted, "We're running a business, not a film school, and there's just so much tolerance that you can have for an organization that's not making money.") However, since De Luca was still bringing in a positive cash flow, the existing power structure at New Line remained intact, albeit frayed.

1=1 Michael S. Laughlin, a UCLA Law School graduate, had begun producing films with two British-made projects, 1967's The Whisperers and 1968's Joanna (which featured Genevieve Waite, one of Warren Beatty's former girlfriends). By 1971 Laughlin was producing such Hollywood features as Two-Lane Blacktop and Chandler. The latter, a private detec-

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tive drama from MGM, costarred Laughlin's then wife, Leslie Caron, the French-born dancer/actress who had made her mark in such MetroGoldwyn-Mayer musicals as An American in Paris (1951), Lili (1953), and Gigi (1958). Before Caron and Laughlin married in 1969, Leslie had been involved in an intense —at least on her part—affair with Warren Beatty, which strongly contributed to her messy divorce from British stage/film director Peter Hall, the father of her two children. By 1980 Laughlin and Caron were divorced. He had also embarked on a new facet of his moviemaking career. Now in midlife, he had become a screenwriter and a director. He turned out such modestly budgeted features as the offbeat mystery Strange Behavior (1981) and the drama Mesmerized (1986), both shot in New Zealand. In 1991 he scripted the little-seen —in the United States —action flick Once Upon a Time in Shanghai. By the mid-1990s he had homes in Manhattan, Los Angeles, and Kauai (an island of Hawaii northwest of Oahu) and was still writing new screenplays. One of these scripts involved a long-married man who philanders and then realizes that he was most happy with his long-term spouse. This comedy about reconciliation (a rather rare plot conceit in Hollywood's history) was meant to emulate the sophisticated, satirical, and often broadly funny work of ace scripter-director Preston Sturges (1942's The Palm Beach Story, 1948's Unfaithfully Yours). Laughlin's latest script, titled Town 6 Country, came to the attention of Michael De Luca at New Line Cinema. The breezy domestic comedy with its focus on middle-aged adults (which already made it a questionable bet at the box office) was optioned for future production, with a planned budget of around $19 million.

In the mid-1990s Warren Beatty was cooling his heels after the decided failure of Love Affair. In his usual meandering way he was slowly preparing a new film project, Bulworth, for which he had conceived the story and cowritten the screenplay. In typical Warren fashion, the production was anxiety-producing during the shoot and problematic during its arduous post-production phase. Meanwhile, his wife, Annette, continued to star in pictures when not giving birth to their children (born in 1992, 1994, 1997, and 2000). Settled into apparent domesticity, the multimillionaire Beatty focused most of his spare time on liberal causes and

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recurrent contemplation of running for major political office. Nevertheless, he was not ready to abandon his film career. Thus he maintained top-level industry associations and friendships, which guaranteed that he would be considered for major screen projects. It was because of this that Town ó Country was brought to the actor's attention. During 1996 Warren became attached to the New Line Cinema property with the understanding that his priority was the then-pending Bulworth. With Town Ö Country undergoing script rewrites to make it a more suitable Beatty vehicle, New Line went in search of a director for the project. (Warren had been offered the task but declined, insisting that this time he merely wished to be an actor.) Eventually, the studio chose Peter Chelsom, a director noted for making whimsical, small-budget comedies. Born in Liverpool, England, Chelsom studied at the London Central School of Drama, although he had previously trained as a photographer. After several years as an actor on stage, film, and TV, the Britisher turned to writing and directing. Peter made his debut as a feature-film director with the comedy Hear My Song (1991), a project he coscripted. Four years later he and his America-based producing partner, Simon Fields, turned out Funny Bones. It was a strange but sometimes endearing comedy featuring Oliver Piatt, Jerry Lewis, and Leslie Caron (the ex-wife of Town ó Country scripter Michael Laughlin). Next for Chelsom-Fields came The Mighty (1998), a weird but poetic tale of two young misfits, featuring Sharon Stone as the mother of one of the adolescents. Meanwhile the director and producer team had passed in and out of a production deal with Savoy Pictures and were negotiating with other Hollywood studios on assorted projects. Back in 1991 Simon Fields had been a producer on New Line Cinema's highly successful Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. (Made for less than $14 million, the action fantasy enjoyed a worldwide gross of $202 million.) With his ties to New Line, Fields became aware of the Town Ó Country project, while scripter Laughlin, who had spent years in England, was attuned to the show business background of Peter Chelsom. By November 1997 Chelsom had been hired to direct Town ó Country, his first large-scale movie venture. As of early 1998, with Bulworth in the can, Warren Beatty committed himself officially to headlining New Line's comedy. His coming on board at an $8 million salary had several ramifications. No longer could Town

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Ó Country conceivably be made for less than $20 million. The budget would have to expand to accommodate the star's fee, as well as those of a cast that would be in keeping—in prominence and professionalism — with such a high-profile figure as Warren. Then there was the matter of Warren's Town ó Country contract granting him script approval. Beatty's history of providing insistent input on many/all aspects of his film projects (even when he was not officially hired in a nonacting capacity) should have been a warning sign to New Line executives that the production could not, and would not, sail along smoothly or even within initial cost estimates. In the case of Town & Country, Warren was neither producing (there would be a total of seven actual producers on the movie), directing, nor scripting the upcoming comedy. However, none of the seasoned industry professionals involved in the imminent production seemed concerned that the frustratingly meticulous Beatty would make himself a prime force in (re)shaping the film's script, over which he had the final okay. Undoubtedly they reasoned that they would be lucky to have script advice from Warren, a several-time Oscar nominee for Best Screenplay. As could have been predicted, it was not long before Beatty let it be known that the Town Ó Country screenplay, already being overhauled to fit Warren's particular screen persona, needed more work. This pronouncement led to further revisions by Michael Laughlin. While the Town Ó Country script was being revamped, other performers joined the cast. Tricia Vessey, 25, and relative newcomer Josh Hartnett, 19, were hired to play the offspring of sixtysomething Beatty. Gérard Depardieu was signed to be the hero's longtime pal, while veteran thespian Charlton Heston agreed to do a comedie turn as an eccentric, gun-loving parent who shares a bizarre relationship with his beautiful but wacky daughter. Others contracted for the picture were Nastassja Kinski, Andie MacDowell, and Jenna Elfman. They were among the story line's contingent of women who succumb to the philandering New York City architect Porter Stoddard (to be played by Beatty). Of this pretty acting trio, the first two were more than 20 years younger than Warren. Elfman (the costar of the TV sitcom Dharma Ó Greg) was junior to Warren by 34 years. What proved to be the most unusual Town Ó Country casting decision was contracting Diane Keaton and Goldie Hawn, coleads of the surprise box-office hit The First Wives Club (1996). Keaton, 53, was to play

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the cheating hero's long-suffering wife. Hawn, 52, was to be Diane's good friend, who is wed to Depardieu, Beatty's understanding pal. The quirky, glamorous Keaton, an Oscar winner for Annie Hall (1977), was a former lover of her frequent costar/director Woody Allen. Following that 1970s relationship, she had become involved with Warren Beatty. Their love affair intensified when he directed her—and was her leading man —in Reds (1981). However, by the time that long, difficult shoot ended, they were no longer together. Nevertheless, later, there were times when Warren might have reinitiated the romance with Diane had she not been involved with someone else (such as Al Pacino). Goldie Hawn had gained fame on TV's Rowan and Martins LaughIn (1968-1970). She established her ditzy blond screen image with her Oscar-winning assignment in Cactus Flower (1969). While playing opposite Warren Beatty in $ (1971), Hawn shared intimate times off camera with her colead, but he then moved on to a succession of other love interests. As did so many of Beatty's former flames (whether single, married, or divorced), Goldie remained simpatico with the Tinseltown Casanova. In fact, she reteamed with Warren on his highly successful Shampoo (1975). By the time of Town Ö Country, Goldie was divorced from her second husband, actor/composer Bill Hudson (with whom she had two children) and had long since become the companion of actor Kurt Russell (with whom she had a son). As Beatty, Keaton, and Hawn prepared to start Town ó Country, industry onlookers and the public were intrigued that the cast and crew boasted so many tangled professional and/or personal links to Warren Beatty. The complex situation brought to mind a remark once made by Goldie's ex-mate Hudson: "Hollywood is this living orgy. . . . You can't even have a barbecue without somebody there that you slept with. It's really pathetic. It's a feeding frenzy of ego."

1=1 As 1998 moved forward, Town ó Country, whose budget had already swollen to more than $40 million, had yet to roll the cameras. Its constantly altered schedule would, eventually, include location work in New York City, downtown Los Angeles, East Hampton (Long Island), Sun Valley (Idaho), South Carolina, and the Greystone Park/Mansion (Beverly Hills). Initially set for the winter of 1998, the start date was moved to

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April, to May, and then to June. The chief holdup was the need to give Michael Laughlin more time to further revamp his script to accommodate the requirements of the big-name cast—with all text changes requiring Beatty's ultimate approval. A crucial guideline of filmmaking (especially of major projects) is never to begin filming—let alone green-light a project—without a completed script. Breaking this fundamental rule was a major error on the part of New Line Cinema. However, De Luca's team felt invincible, as they were riding the crest of substantial box-office profits from various studio hits of 1998. This convinced them they could safely flirt with danger and proceed onward with Town Ö Country despite its serious script problems. Besides, by this point, if the film should be indefinitely postponed or canceled, the picture's high-priced talent would have to be paid off to the tune of $20 million according to their pay-or-play contracts. As Town Ó Country continued to be delayed because of its unfinished script, colead Gérard Depardieu was involved in a motorcycle accident in which he broke a leg. His injury forced him to withdraw from the picture. Beatty suggested that his best friend, comedian Garry Shandling, could take on the role, and the comedian was given the part. Stand-up comic Shandling, 48, had a long career in the business, moving from comedy club tours to many appearances on TV talk shows and other small-screen fare. He gained his greatest professional acclaim for starring in (as well as writing, producing, and sometimes directing) the sophisticated cable TV sitcom The Larry Sanders Show (1992-1998), for which he won several industry awards. One of Garry's first screen efforts was playing Warren's pal in the poorly received Love Affair. After that unimpressive performance, Shandling had gone on to supporting roles in such box-office disappointments as Mixed Nuts (1994) and Hurlyburly (1998). With Garry now on board, the Town Ó Country script had to undergo further alterations to tailor the part of Beatty's chum to the special persona and particular talents of the wry comedian. Some of these screenplay adjustments were accomplished by Todd Alcott (who had written the 1995 TV series House ofBuggin and the 1998 animated feature Antz). By June 1998 New Line decided that Town Ó Country must go into production by the end of the month, even with its still unsatisfactory screenplay. This was because the contracts of several key cast members (including Keaton, Shandling, and Elfman) contained stop-date clauses,

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meaning there was a specific calendar day by which these performers' services on the picture had to end so they could honor their other performance commitments.

1=1 Filming on Town ó> Country did not begin with a burst of energy but with a pang of indecision. Even at this critical juncture, no one was happy with the retooled screenplay, which still contained an unrealistic ending (Beatty and Keaton's characters blithely remarrying). While secondary scenes were being shot, Paul Attanasio (the screenwriter of 1997's Donnie Brasco and 1998's Sphere) was brought in to retune the screenplay. Meanwhile, on the set, the cast and crew of 70 would arrive typically to find that filming was not about to begin at the planned 7:30 A.M. Everyone would wait around while one of the stars involved with the current scene tinkered with the dialogue. This indulgent, ongoing process pushed the production further and further behind schedule and added to its ever-escalating budget. The film's schedules and costs had other setbacks. Weeks into filming, 10 reels of footage (representing two days of shooting on Manhattan's East Side) disappeared from a delivery van left unattended in front of a New York City film lab. Thus, this material—featuring Beatty and Hawn—had to be reshot. Later, there would be other expensive production misadventures, including the Sun Valley, Idaho, location shoot. Because there happened to be no snow on the ground at the time, the crew was ordered to create man-made white flakes. After the outdoor sequences at the mountain resort locale were filmed, it actually did snow, so some of the footage was reshot to take advantage of the "natural" white stuff. By August, as filming still progressed at a snail's pace, Buck Henry was brought into the creative process. The actor-turned-scripter (and occasional director) had written the screenplays for Goldie Hawn's Protocol (1984) and Gus Van Sant's To Die For (1995), among others. The indemand script doctor had also consulted on past Warren Beatty projects, in particular Heaven Can Wait (1978). On Town Ö Country, Henry's priorities were to make Shandling's role more amusing and to fix the film's unsatisfying ending by restructuring it. (Buck was also cast in the picture in the small role of the smarmy divorce lawyer.) For his contributions,

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Henry reportedly received more than $1 million. While Henry's salvage efforts were in progress, the clock was ticking on the November deadline when Keaton, Shandling, and Elfman would depart for their prearranged other assignments. In the hope of hastening the script fixes, Beatty and Chelsom began conducting full-blown group scriptwriting sessions on the set. This left the cast (often now including 200 extras) and technicians standing around for hours at a stretch. As one on-set participant noted dryly, "At least everybody got fed very well." With the November stop-date looming, Gary Ross (who had scripted such New Line features as 1997's Trial and Error and 1998's Pleasantville) joined the writing squad in October to provide another polish to the already much-patched-together scenario. (Later, producer Simon Fields said that Ross's paid-for revisions were not used.) Before the writing contingent fulfilled its duties, the cost of scripting Town Ó Country mounted to just under $3 million. With the distractions and pressures caused by the constantly altered screenplay, the on-set tension grew. According to several sources, the problem was a battle of wills between director Peter Chelsom and the film's star, Warren Beatty, a man noted for being a control freak. The director was used to working on far smaller projects over which he was fully in command. Having to deal on a constant basis with the "suggestions" of his leading man (an ace manipulator who thought nothing of calling the director at home late at night to "discuss" the film's progress or, as rumored, having a near physical stand-off on the set) proved a tremendous strain on Chelsom and on the cast and crew. On one occasion the director would say of making Town & Country, "There is so much time dedicated to the catering, and assistants running around, and the faxing of maps, and the calling of agents because someone is not supposed to work that day." On another occasion the exasperated craftsman assessed the production to be "a mess," saying "I have never seen so much money wasted." (The director also referenced his annoyance with the "mind games" that the high-priced talent indulged in.) As the production problems continued unabated on Town Ó Country, executives at New Line Cinema wondered if they had made a big mistake in assigning Chelsom this major Hollywood undertaking. (Said one insider, "Peter's work is quirky and whimsical. This is not that.") The rumor that the director might be replaced only served to undermine the director's confidence and stir up conflicting loyalties among the film's

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participants. At one point during the turmoil on the set, Diane Keaton told Chelsom —for whatever consolation it provided —"You will never, ever have it so bad [on a shoot]." In November 1998 filming on Town Ö Country came to a halt after nearly five tedious months on a shoot initially planned to be completed in less than 18 weeks. Although enough of the current script had been shot to edit into a full continuity, Buck Henry's new ending for the picture was still in process. It would not be finished until late December— after the forced cut-off point. This led Andrew Karsch, one of the film's producers, to say, "We're at this point where we have to finish up. It's been a difficult juggling act." Another of the picture's producers, Simon Fields, remarked diplomatically of the protracted, troubled shoot, "The movie took time. It changed course. It's much funnier now and it's about more important things, deeper things." While key cast members of Town Ó Country went off to their other tasks, Peter Chelsom worked to provide New Line with a rough cut of the picture. Anxious to see whether this money-draining comedy could be released in its present form (with just a little more fine-tuning), in the summer of 1999 the studio arranged for focus groups to screen the assembled footage. A publicly upbeat Michael De Luca said, "We had test screenings . . . where three quarters of the movie played great and the ending was by far the weakest part." On the other hand, an undisclosed New Line Cinema source revealed, "At test screenings, moviegoers said they couldn't stand him [Warren Beatty's character] because he was only after one thing from women, and that was sex, and he didn't seem like the sort of guy who would be able to get much." (How times had changed from Beatty's heyday as a matinee idol!) The studio debated cutting their "losses" by releasing the already-shot picture. Eventually, however, they opted for the additional lensing to utilize Buck Henry's new finale, in which the lead couple splits up but contemplates a possible reconciliation. By now several premature release dates set for the movie had come and gone. These constant changes regarding the film's announced release negated the costly pre-release promotions undertaken by New Line to stir up exhibitor enthusiasm for their problematic film. Moreover, such missed distribution dates only supported the ongoing industry gossip and growing media references to the "Town Ó Country debacle."

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Meanwhile, in a November 1999 Los Angeles Times interview, New Line's plain-speaking chieftain, Bob Shaye, suggested that Warren Beatty had "seduced [Michael] De Luca into green-lighting the film before it had a finished script." This led the sensitive star to send the studio's honchos a cease-and-desist letter. If they did not comply, the next step was legal action. The thrust of Warren's argument over his innocence in the growing Town Ö Country snafu was put forth by Beatty's lawyer, Bert Fields: "There was no scene or part of a scene filmed, no individual hired or fired, no actor cast or not cast, no time spent or not spent, and no delay caused or prevented at Mr. Beatty's insistence. . . . On the contrary, Mr. Beatty advised New Line that it was an inadvisable risk to begin shooting without a finished script." This hassle triggered an ongoing and often intense media campaign between different Town & Country factions, which became increasingly anxious to disclaim any personal blame for the production mess while thrusting the responsibility for the chaos fully on others.

It was not until April 2000 that the needed cast members of Town Ö Country could juggle their commitments to reassemble to reshoot the picture's final act. (During this interim, the rumors that Beatty planned to run for U.S. president on the Democratic ticket did not materialize.) This restart added further to the already bloated budget in supplemental payments to most of those involved in the additional filming. In addition, there was a continuity problem because in the nearly two years since the picture first began shooting, the cast had aged and had adopted different hairstyles and looks. As long as the movie's finish was to be redone, the filmmakers now decided to include new scenes to make Beatty's philanderer a more appealing screen character. As Town Ó Country dragged on, the press could not resist reporting the latest reasons that this costly screen venture was so disaster-bound. One industry insider was quoted in the New York Post as saying, "You don't know who this picture is supposed to appeal to. [This was in reference to Town Ó Country's mature cast, which was bound to alienate the key youth market segment of filmgoers.] The studio heads know it's going to be DOA [dead on arrival], but no one wants to admit it. They are

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reshooting and reshooting, and I'll be surprised if it does appear this year." Another source, box-office analyst Paul Dergarabedian of Exhibitor Relations, told Entertainment Weekly, "Older-appeal romantic comedies are faltering badly. The New Line team does have the capability to make a hit out of this, but the quality of the film will have to be there." Such well-circulated items did nothing to enhance the public's perception of this picture, which was going through such a struggle to reach release. Despite all this turmoil, New Line executives insisted that Town Ó Country would definitely be released before the end of 2000. No one took them too seriously, since this same vow had been made regarding a 1999 release for this once-simple little screen comedy. Finally, on April 27, 2000, Town ó Country wrapped its principal photography.

While the restructured Town & Country was at long last being completed in 2000, AOL (America Online) negotiated a merger with the Time Warner giant. This resulted in the construction of the largest online information and entertainment conglomerate in the world. As part of this amalgamation, major cost-cutting efficiencies were enforced to remove duplication between the newly joined corporations. Among the budget cutbacks at the assorted AOL Time Warner divisions was a downsizing at New Line Cinema. In this streamlining Michael De Luca was let go from the studio in mid-January 2001, although he retained a healthy production deal with the studio. (De Luca was replaced by screenwriter/ executive Toby Emmerich, a longtime New Line employee.) Industry observers pointed out that the studio's poor financial showing in 2000 was a major contributor to De Luca's exit from New Line. The company had experienced a recent string of costlyflops,including Thirteen Days Which Shook the World, Lost Souls, Turn it Up, and especially Adam Sandler's Little Nicky. Added into this unfortunate mix was the still unreleased Town Ó Country—which De Luca had fostered and defended from its inception. By now this glossy albatross had cost more than $80 million —and expenses were still being incurred in the prepping of the movie for release. This discouraging track record made De Luca persona non grata with the AOL Time Warner combine, which preferred "more modest, risk-averse product."

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De Luca's departure left Town Ó Country without a studio champion. The film fumbled toward its anticlimactic April 27, 2001, bow— the thirteenth rescheduling of the film's release date. Meanwhile, a spicy R-rated trailer to the upcoming release was playing in theaters then showing an R-rated feature. However, the Motion Picture Association of America suddenly asked New Line to pull the promotional piece. (The industry association had realized belatedly the sexual connotations of such Town 6- Country lines as an aged woman calling another character a "muff diver.") The studio declined to comply with the MPAA's request, and the trailer ran for several months. (New Line hoped that the strong language spouted by the cast in the preview footage might help draw in young adult filmgoers when the film finally bowed.) During the winter 2001 warm-up to the much-delayed launching of Town Ó Country, new obstacles arose in getting the film "successfully" distributed. On January 11, Liz Smith reported in her syndicated column that the troubled movie's budget had soared to an estimated $120 million. She also quoted an unnamed industry source as saying, "Just send this bomb straight to video and forget it!" In response to this Liz Smith newspaper item, the Beatty camp requested that the columnist apologize in print for her allegedly untrue statements. Smith did so. Then Beatty's prestigious publicist, Pat Kingsley, dispatched a memo to many key journalists. It was a preemptive strike to emphasize, once again, Warren's position that, contrary to rumors, (1) he was not responsible for the many costly delays on the picture and (2) he had not overstepped his role as an actor on this project by interfering with matters of scripting, directing, and editing. (Some media sources, including Entertainment Weekly, disagreed with Kingsley's thesis. They noted, for example, that in late 2000 Warren took it upon himself to do his own edit of the picture—which included adding a voiceover for his character. Reportedly New Line chose to go with its own cut of the film.) Adding further fuel to the fire, Beatty stated in late February 2001 that the blame for Town ö Country's spiraling costs lay with the film's producers. He reasoned, "It is because of problems with their bizarre production schedule and a myriad of other problems." Nevertheless, he insisted of his long-in-the-works project, "I think it's funny."

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As Town Ó Country queued up for its late April 2001 release, the new regime at New Line used a policy of "controlled environment" to promote their white elephant picture. Besides the R-rated trailer that ran in theaters, the studio purchased expensive air time on TV (including commercial spots during NYPD Blue, Will Ó Grace, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire) to advertise the comedy. However, the studio declined to arrange the typical major media interviews that were usual for a bigbudget feature boasting such a prominent cast. Nor was there the customary weekend publicity junket for the press to meet with the film's main talent. (Instead, a select few journalists talked briefly with chosen cast members—but not Beatty—at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles.) Most notably, New Line sidestepped having a glitzy premiere for the movie, an event that usually costs between $200,000 and $250,000. Confirming that a box-office turkey was about to be unleashed, New Line declined to screen Town ó Country for reviewers until just two days before its opening. (This gave the critics little to no lead time to publish their critiques.) When questioned about why he was not promoting his new picture, Warren retorted that he had suggested a junket with his cast, but one was not arranged. He said, "If I had been asked specifically to do something by the company, I would have done it." (New Line responded with, "We're comfortable with the way talent is supporting the film." Company spokesman Steve Elzer further offered, "New Line is completely supporting the film, New Line fully believes in the film. It's a funny romantic comedy, and the talent is supporting the film. We're very hopeful for the weekend.") When, at last, Town Ó Country opened on Friday, April 27, Joe Morgenstern of the Wall Street Journal pointed out, "In a weird way this longdelayed romantic comedy, which cost at least $85 million, arrives pre-forgotten — no support from its studio; no publicity campaign by its stars, who have disavowed it." The Washington Post's Gary Arnold branded the new release "a Godforsaken farce." Entertainment Weekly described the entry as "expensive, coarse, and unfunny" and gave it a report card mark of "D." Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times argued that this film of husbands in midlife crisis "makes as many bad choices as its increasingly desperate characters. So many, in fact, you end up feeling more empathy for the actors trapped in it than the individuals they por-

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tray." Syndicated columnist Liz Smith complained that the bedroom farce was "one of the most chaotic and puerile movies ever made, full of tasteless adultery and some downright offensive vulgarity." On the other hand, some reviewers were less severe in their criticism of this thin tale of middle-aged infidelity. Bob Strauss of the Los Angeles Daily News assessed, "Town and Country turns out to be neither the disaster its long, tortured production schedule would indicate nor a film that really does the talent involved justice." The Boston Globe's Jay Carr wrote that the picture "stands as one of the season's few genuinely adult comedies" and that it "reminds us that there's a certain advantage to low expectations." Stephen Holden of the New York Times acknowledged, "For all its flailing lack of continuity, Town ó Country isn't dull. As its pace quickens, it changes from a comedy of manners with a 1970s sensibility into a more relaxed, free-for-all farce whose antic spirit recalls David O. Russell's far superior Flirting with Disaster [1996]." Town Ó Country debuted in competition with such other new releases as Sylvester Stallone's Driven, the Matt Dillon-Paul Reiser comedy One Night at McCooVs, and the low-budget horror thriller The Forsaken. Playing on 2,222 screens in North America, Town Ó Country drew in a paltry $3.03 million —less than $1,400 per venue —over its initial three-day weekend in distribution. By the end of May, when the film was showing in only 64 theaters, it left domestic distribution. By then the superexpensive outing had generated only a lame $6.7 million. Its release overseas added a mere $3.65 million to the take. This created a worldwide distribution total of an embarrassing $10.37 million. The net result was that the once simple Town ó Country emerged as one of the biggest runaway productions and film flops in Hollywood's history. Assessing the film's dismal theatrical showing, box office analyst Dan Marks stated, "This one seemed to have bad karma all the way around, years of shoots, and years of bad press." Marks made the point that just because the picture went through extensive problems and delays, it was not conclusively foredoomed to failure. "You can have things that get pushed back and delayed and still be successful; look at Titanic [1997]. But you can't have things that get delayed and aren't any good. I don't think they had very much to work with here." In its year-end roundup of 200 l's worst flops, Entertainment Weekly said of the much reviled Town Ó Country, "Neither the strenuous huffing and puffing of veteran

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stars Warren Beatty, Goldie Hawn and Diane Keaton, nor the time and money—three years and an $80-plus million cost—could goose life into this cheerless sex comedy." After the fact, several Town Ó Country participants weighed in with their thoughts on the feature's sad fate. While Warren Beatty remained publicly silent about his vehicle's derailing, his wife, Annette Bening, told reporters in spring 2001: "He's [Warren] not even thinking about it. . . . I'm sure Warren would have produced it differently, but he's proud of the way it turned out, and I'm proud of him. I loved it." (Since this fiasco, Beatty has not made another movie.) After leaving New Line Cinema, Michael De Luca became a DreamWorks studio executive before going into independent production. In retrospect, he admitted, "[Town Ó Country] . . . totally got away from me. The big mistake was starting without a finished script. It's the oldest and dumbest mistake in the business and I did it." As for Peter Chelsom, who went on to direct Serendipity (2001) and Shall We Dance? (2004), he defensively observed of his failed debut in big picture making, "I've never, ever gone over budget or schedule on any film I've made. . . . I'm a cheap filmmaker if asked to be, and I'm very fast. This film is a complete exception." He added, "There's no question it was a very difficult film." ff fl

In the wake of Town Ó Country's monumental failure, many individuals in and out of the film business wondered why such a picture was ever given the studio go-ahead—let alone allowed to continue on its expensive, protracted path to self-destruction. After all, people reasoned, the parties involved should have been forewarned by the many similar movie fiascoes in Hollywood's long history. The filmmakers should have benefited from the tough lessons that such milestone blunders as Heavens Gate (1980), ïshtar (1997), and Last Action Hero (1993) so sharply illustrated. Perhaps the best answer as to why a Town Ö Country could and did happen in present-day Hollywood was provided by Oscar-winning scripter and industry insider William Goldman. He said once that in the movie business, "No one knows anything." He also observed of moviemakers, "No one learns anything."

AFTERWORD

The whole industry is shot to hell now. The only thing that's kept it alive is the growth of population and the increase in ticket prices. We used to have the most inexpensive and accessible medium in the world and now they're doing everything in their power to tear it apart. —JOHN WAYNE, 1974

A

t the March 2005 ShoWest exhibition, the major annual film industry convention hosted by the National Association of Theatre Owners (held that year in Las Vegas), intriguing new statistics were announced regarding the (Hollywood) movie business. With just under 1.54 billion tickets sold in the domestic market in 2004, the number of annual film admission sales in the United States had dipped slightly for the second year in a row. However, with the average cost of a theater ticket rising to $6.21 in 2004 (a 3% increase over the year before), the total U.S. box-office gross was $9.54 billion. (This was in contrast to the constantly expanding international marketplace, where movie ticket sales were approximately $14.9 billion in 2004—and on a steady increase.) On the plus side, 28% of Americans went to the movies at least once a month in 2004 (up 3% from 2003). Moreover, the cost of making an average Hollywood picture, which had reached an industry peak of $102.8 million in 2003, dropped to $98 million in 2004. With the typical cost of making a picture remaining flat in recent years at $63.6 million, this decrease was due to cutbacks in marketing expenses for new releases. (The price tag for promoting a picture dropped 12% between 2004 and 2003, having skyrocketed to 59% in the period of 1993 to 2003.) 3I

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Although filmmakers and studios now were being a bit more cautious in budgeting their average productions, there was still an intense battle to get moviegoers interested in seeing the latest picture. Then too, Hollywood being a turf of excess that revered profit, greed, and one-upmanship, few industry observers believed that the blockbuster picture was not here to stay. In short, filmmakers would continue to be tempted into monumental follies on their big, important pictures—the ones that created tremendous industry/consumer buzz from the time the project was announced.

As has been illustrated repeatedly throughout this book, many Tinseltown titans have oversized egos that cause them to ignore their past industry fiascoes and the recurrent causes for such disasters. Often this rash lack of caution is fueled by the excitement of the highly competitive race to launch the next big Hollywood movie franchise before someone else promotes the same idea. Thus, these movers and shakers often lose their professional perspective in their striving to beat out the competition at the (international) box office, to amass the most industry awards for their blockbuster, to negotiate the most merchandising tie-ins for this event picture, and to spin off the most lucrative entertainment products to maximize the new film's profit. As a result, the decision makers frequently get drawn in to gargantuan misadventures that become the next generation of box-office fiascoes. It is these absurd entries that, one day, will prompt industry figures, the media, and the public to wonder, "How the hell did that happen . . . again!" On these extremely expensive dream projects, which hold high potential audience interest, there are always potential production land mines to be avoided. These include acts of enormous hubris ("this high concept can't miss"; "with me starring, it has to be a colossal hit"), needless filmmaking gaffes (e.g., starting production without a completed script or a fully signed cast; hiring a nonsinger to star in a screen musical), the probability that uncontrolled shoots will spawn calamities (e.g., in-fighting among perfectionistic stars, technical talent, and studio decision makers; ignoring the ramifications of predictable inclement weather, leading to costly delays during location shoots), and the likelihood of nasty twists of fate (e.g., the film's headlined star suddenly falling into public disfavor

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because of personal indiscretions). Dismissing any or all such potential pitfalls can, and usually does, lead to a box-office disaster. Without a doubt, if one follows show business news on a regular basis, one can soon learn to spot the next Waterworld, Gigli, or Town Ö Country. Objectively tracking the progress of these potential celluloid derailments, one can observe how, by ignoring the cardinal rules of sane filmmaking, a "simple" if costly prestige project can snowball into a financial/artistic nightmare. So, when one next reads that the costars of an upcoming bigbudget, high-status film are dating off the set, or that the production company is backing a lightweight but expensive picture that has not yet finalized its cast or crew even while going into marketing overdrive to attract foreign interest, a new entry can be posted on the ongoing list of Upcoming Box-Office Fiascoes. And if filmmakers should tout a forthcoming big entry as the picture that will reinvent a moribund movie genre (such as musicals or pirate yarns) and be a guaranteed tremendous crowd pleaser, immediately put said vehicle at the very top of the Pending Box-Office Dud chart. However, in fairness to the (mis)guided forces responsible in one way or another for shepherding major film flops, one does well to remember the words of veteran French filmmaker Claude Lelouch (A Man and a Woman, Long Live Life, and Happy New Year): "Film-making is like spermatozoa. Only one in a million makes it."

APPENDIX A

Filmography

Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 Warner Bros., 2000, color, I 17 minutes, rated P G - 1 3 Credits: Executive producers: Ashok Amritraj, Don Carmody, and Andrew Stevens; producers: Jonathan D. Krane, Elie Samaha, and John Travolta; coproducers: James A. Holt and Tracée Stanley; associate producers: Anson Downes and Linda Favilla; director: Roger Christian; based on the novel by L. Ron Hubbard; screenplay: Corey Mandell and J D Shapiro; production designer: Patrick Tatopoulos; art director: Oana Bogdan; set decorators: Louis Dandonneau and Anne Galea; costumes: Patrick Tatopoulos; original music: Elia Cmiral; second unit director: Richard Martin; assistant director: Auree Tommi Lepage; supervising sound editor: Christopher S. Aud; cosupervising sound editor: Bob Redpath; special effects supervisor: Louis Craig; camera: Giles Nuttgens; editor: Robin Russell Cast: John Travolta (Terl); Barry Pepper (Jonnie Goodboy Tyler); Forest Whitaker (Ker); Kim Coates (Carlo); Sabine Karsenti (Chrissy); Michael Byrne (Parson Staffer); Christian Tessier (Mickey); Sylvain Landry (Sammy); Richard Tyson (Robert the Fox); Christopher Freeman (processing clerk); John Topor (processing clerk/one-eyed guard/teleportation supervisor); Shaun Austin-Olsen (planetship); Tim Post (assistant planetship/Psychlo guard); Earl Pastko (bartender); Michel Perron (Rock); Michael MacRae (District Manager Zete); Todd McDougall (Psychlo wrangler); Derrick Damon Reeve (Psychlo hoser); Jason Cavalier (Floyd); Sean Hewitt (Heywood); Andrew Albert (labor supervisor); Alan Legros (heavyset guard); Andy Bradshaw (Mason); Jim Meskimen (Blythe); Robert Higden (supply clerk); Rejean Denoncourt (communication officer); Tait Ruppert (Rodman); Mulumba Tshikuka (human pilot); Kelly Preston (Chirk);

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Marie-Josée Croze (Mara); Nadine Corde (Psychlo babe); Russell Yuen (speaking bandit); Andrew Campbell (leering grin bandit); Noel Burton (Clinko); Craig Gauthier (alien)

The Chase Columbia, 1966, color, 133 minutes, no rating Credits: Producer: Sam Spiegel; director: Arthur Penn; based on the novel and play by Horton Foote; screenplay: Lillian Hellman; production designer: Richard Day; art director: Robert Luthardt; set decorator: Frank Tuttle; costumes: Donfeld; original music: John Barry; second unit director: Jim Havens; assistant directors: Russell Saunders, Bob Templeton, and C. M. Florance; sound supervisor: Charles J. Rice; special effects: David Koehler; camera: Joseph La Shelle and Robert Surtees (uncredited); editor: Gene Milford Cast: Marlon Brando (Sheriff Calder); Jane Fonda (Anna Reeves); Robert Redford (Charlie "Bubber" Reeves); E. G. Marshall (Val Rogers); Angie Dickinson (Ruby Calder); Janice Rule (Emily Stewart); Miriam Hopkins (Mrs. Reeves); Martha Hyer (Mary Fuller); Richard Bradford (Damon Fuller); Robert Duvall (Edwin Stewart); James Fox (Jason "]ake" Rogers); Diana Hyland (Elizabeth Rogers); Henry Hull (Briggs); Jocelyn Brando (Mrs. Briggs); Katherine Walsh (Verna Dee); Lori Martin (Cutie); Marc Seaton (Paul); Paul Williams (Seymour); Clifton James (Lem); Malcolm Atterbury (Mr. Reeves); Nydia Westman (Mrs. Henderson); Joel Fluellen (Lester Johnson); Steve Ihnat (Archie); Maurice Manson (Moore); Bruce Cabot (Sol); Steve Whittaker (Deputy Slim); Pamela Curran (Mrs. Sifftifieus); Ken Renard (Sam); Billy Bletcher (endowment announcer); Don Brodie (conventioneer); Eduardo Ciannelli (Mr. Sifftifieus); Monte Hale (man); Grady Sutton and Richard Collier (party guests)

Cleopatra Twentieth Century-Fox, 1963, color, 243 minutes, no rating Credits: Producer: Walter Wanger; directors: Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Rouben Mamoulian (uncredited), and Darryl F. Zanuck (uncredited); based on ancient sources and The Life and Times of Cleopatra by Charles Marie Franzero; screenplay: Sidney Buchman, Ranald MacDougall, and Joseph L. Mankiewicz; production designer: John DeCuir; art directors: Herman Blumenthal, Hilyard Brown, John DeCuir, Boris Juraga, Maurice Pelling, Jack Martin Smith, and Elven Webb; set decorators: Paul S. Fox, Ray Moyer, and Walter M. Scott; costumes: Vittorio Nino Novarese, Renié, and Irene Sharaff; original music: Alex

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North; choreographer: Hermes Pan; second unit directors: Ray Kellogg and Andrew Marton; assistant directors: Fred R. Simpson and Luciano Sacripanti; sound recording supervisors: James Corcoran and Fred Hynes; special camera effects: L. B. Abbott and Emil Kosa Jr.; camera: Leon Shamroy; editors: Dorothy Spencer and Elmo Williams (uncredited) Cast: Elizabeth Taylor (Cleopatra); Richard Burton (Mark Antony); Rex Harrison (Julius Caesar); Pamela Brown (high priestess); George Cole (Flavius); Hume Cronyn (Sosigenes); Cesare Danova (Apollodorus); Kenneth Haigh (Brutus); Andrew Keir (Agrippa); Martin Landau (Rufio); Roddy McDowall (Caesar Augustus [Octavian]); Robert Stephens (Germanicus); Francesca Annis (Eiras); Grégoire Asian (Pothinus); Martin Benson (Ramos); Herbert Berghof (Theodotos); John Cairney (Phoebus); Jacqui Chan (Lotos); Isabelle Cooley (Charmian); John Doucette (Achillas); Andrew Faulds (Canidius); Michael Gwynn (Cimber); Michael Hordern (Cicero); John Hoyt (Cassius); Marne Maitland (Euphranor); Carroll O'Connor (Casca); Richard O'Sullivan (Ptolemy); Gwen Watford (Calpurnia); Douglas Wilmer (Decimus)

The Cotton Club Paramount, 1984, color, 127 minutes, rated R Credits: Executive producer: Dyson Lovell; producer: Robert Evans; coproducers: Fred Roos and Sylvio Tabet; associate producer: Melissa Prophet; line producers: Joseph Cusumano and Barrie M. Osborne; director: Francis Coppola; story: William Kennedy & Francis Coppola and Mario Puzo; screenplay: William Kennedy & Francis Ford Coppola; production designer: Richard Sylbert; art directors: Gregory Bolton and David Chapman; set decorators: Les Bloom and George Gaines; costumes: Milena Cañonero; original music: John Barry; principal choreographer: Michael Smuin; choreographers: Claudia Asbury, George Faison, Henry LeTang, Michael Meacham, and Arthur Mitchell; second unit directors: Gian-Carlo Coppola and Henry Bronchtein; first assistant director: Robert V. Girolami; supervising re-recording mixer: Richard Beggs; supervising sound editor: Edward Beyer; special effects: Conrad Brink; camera: Stephen Goldblatt; editors: Robert Q. Lovett and Barry Malkin Cast: Richard Gere (Michael "Dixie" Dwyer); Gregory Hines (Sandman Williams); Diane Lane (Vera Cicero); Lonette McKee (Lila Rose Oliver); Bob Hoskins (Owney Madden); James Remar (Dutch Schultz); Nicolas Cage (Vincent Dwyer); Allen Garfield (Abbadabba Berman); Fred Gwynne (Frenchy Démange); Gwen Verdón (Tish Dwyer); Lisa Jane Persky (Frances Flegenheimer); Maurice Hines (Clay Williams); Julian Beck (Sol Weistein); Novella Nelson (Madame

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St. Clair); Larry Fishbume (Bumpy Rhodes); John P. Ryan (Joe Flynn); Tom Waits (Irving Stark); Ron Karabatsos (Mike Best); Glenn Withrow (Ed Popke); Jennifer Grey (Patsy Dwyer); Wynonna Smith (Winnie Williams); Thelma Carpenter (Norma Williams); Charles "Honi" Coles (Sugar Coates); Larry Marshall (Cab Calloway); Joe Dallesandro (Charles "Lucky" Luciano); Ed O'Ross (Monk); Diane Venora (Gloria Swanson); Tucker Smallwood (Kid Griffin); George Cantero, Brian Tarantina, Bruce MacVittie, and James Russo (Vince's hoods); Woody Strode (Holmes); Giancarlo Esposito and Bruce Hubbard (Bumpy's hoods); Bill Cobbs (Big Joe Ison); Marc Coppola (Ted Husing); Robert Earl Jones (Stage Door Joe); Vincent Jerosa (James Cagney); Rosalind Harris (Fanny Brice); Gregory Rozakis (Charlie Chaplin); Sofia Coppola (child in street)

Cutthroat Island Live Entertainment, 1995, color, I 19 minutes, rated PG-1 3 Credits: Executive producer: Mario Kassar; producers: James Gorman, Renny Harlin, Laurence Mark, and Joel B. Michaels; coproducers: John Baldecchi and Lynwood Spinks; associate producer: Jane Barteleme; director: Renny Harlin; story: Michael Frost Beckner & James Gorman and Bruce A. Evans & Raynold Gideon; screenplay: Robert King and Marc Norman; production designer: Norman Garwood; set decorator: Maggie Gray; costumes: Enrico Sabbatini; original music: John Debney; first assistant director: Kuki López Rodero; supervising sound editor: Michael Wilhoit; supervising foley editor: Kelly Oxford; ADR supervisor: Barney Cabrai; head of special effects: Mario Cassar; camera: Peter Levy; editors: Derek Brechin, Florent Retz, Frank J. Urioste, and Ralph E. Winters Cast: Geena Davis (Morgan Adams); Matthew Modine (William Shaw); Frank Langella (Dawg Brown); Maury Chaykin (John Reed); Patrick Malahide (Governor Ainslee); Stan Shaw (Glasspoole); Rex Linn (Mr. Blair); Paul Dillon (Snelgrave, Reapers first mate); Christopher Masterson (Bowen); Jimmie F. Skaggs (Tom Scully); Harris Yulin (Black Harry); Carl Chase (Bishop); Peter Geeves (fiddler pirate); Angus Wright (Captain Trotter); Ken Bones (Toussant); Mary Pegler (Mandy Rickets); Mary Peach and Lucinda Aurei (ladies); Thomas Lockyer (lieutenant); Roger Booth (auctioneer); George Murcell (Mordachai Fingers); Simon Atherton (bartender); Dickey Beer (executioner); Christopher Halliday (Hastings); Chris Johnston (helmsman); Richard Leaf (Snake the lookout); Rupert Vansittart (Captain Perkins); Tarn White (Fleming); Nick Bartlett, David Bailie, Christopher Adamson, Kwame Kwei-Armah, and Ramon Tikaram (Dawg's pirates); Renny Harlin (pirate with rifle); Shayna the monkey (King Charles); Thor (pirate dog)

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Ishtar Columbia, 1987, color, 107 minutes, rated P G - 1 3 Credits: Producer: Warren Beatty; associate producers: David L. MacLeod and Nigel Wooll; director/screenplay: Elaine May; production designer: Paul Sylbert; art directors: Bill Groom and Vicki Paul; set decorators: Jim Erickson, Alan Hicks, and Steve Jordan; costumes: Anthony Powell; original music: Bahjawa and Dave Grusin; songs: Elaine May and Paul Williams; second unit director: Michael Moore; first assistant director: Don French; supervising sound editor: Michael Kirchberger; sound coordinator: John Strauss; special effects supervisor: George Gibbs; camera: Vittorio Storaro; editors: Richard P. Cirincione, William Reynolds, and Stephen A. Rotter Cast: Warren Beatty (Lyle Rogers); Dustin Hoffman (Chuck Clarke); Isabelle Adjani (Shirra Assel); Charles Grodin (Jim Harrison); Jack Weston (Marty Freed); Tess Harper (Willa); Carol Kane (Carol); Aharon Ipalé (Emir Yousef); Fijad Hageb (Abdul); David Margulies (Mr. Clarke); Rose Arrick (Mrs. Clarke); Julie Garfield (Dorothy); Christine Rose (Siri Darma); Robert V. Girolami (bartender); Abe Kroll (Mr. Thomopoulos); Hannah Kroll (Mrs. Thomopoulos); Herb Gardner (Rabbi Pierce); Bill Moor (U.S. consul); Edgar Smith (Professor Barnes); J. C. Cutler (Omar); Bill Bailey (General Westlake); Ian Gray (manager, Chez Casablanca); Maati Zaari (porter); Bouhaddane Larbi (taxi driver); Fred Melamed (Caid of Assari); Ron Berglass, Neil Zevnik, Matt Frewer, and Alex Hyde-White (CIA agents); Stefan Gryff and Alexei Jawdokimov (KGB Agents); Warren Clarke (English gunrunner); Arthur Brauss (German gunrunner); Sumar Khan (Ishtari gunrunner); Haluk Belginer (guerilla leader)

Last Action Hero Columbia, 1993, color, I 30 minutes, rated P G - 1 3 Credits: Executive producer: Arnold Schwarzenegger; producers: John McTiernan and Stephen J. Roth; coproducers: Neal Nordlinger and Robert E. Relyea; associate producer: Robert H. Lemer; director: John McTiernan; story: Zak Penn & Adam Leff; screenplay: Shane Black & David Arnott; production designer: Eugenio Zanetti; art directors: Marek Dobrowolski and Jim Dultz; set decorator: Cindy Carr; costumes: Gloria Gresham; original music: Michael Kamen; second unit directors: Fred M. Waugh and Vic Armstrong (uncredited); first assistant director: Brian W. Cook; supervising sound editors: Jay Wilkinson and Jerry Ross; special effects coordinator: Thomas L. Fisher; visual effects supervisor: John E. Sullivan; digital effects supervisor: Stuart Robertson; camera: Dean Semler; editors: Richard A. Harris and John Wright

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Cast: Arnold Schwarzenegger (Jack Slater/himself); F. Murray Abraham (John Practice); Austin O'Brien (Danny Madigan); Art Carney (Frank); Charles Dance (Benedict); Frank McRae (Lieutenant Dekker); Tom Noonan (Ripper/ himself); Robert Prosky (Nick); Anthony Quinn (Tony Vivaldi); Mercedes Ruehl (Irene Madigan); Ian McKellen (Death); Professor Toru Tanaka (tough Asian man); Joan Plowright (English teacher); Jason Kelly (lieutenant governor); Noah Emmerich (rookie); Tina Turner (the mayor); Billy D. Lucas (SWAT cop); Ryan Todd (Andrew Slater); Apollo Dukakis (Polonius); Patrick Flanagan (punk); Donald C. Llorens (Monoghan); Michael Chieffo (Monroe); Mike Muscat, Paul Gonzales, and Anna Navarro (cops at L.A. precinct); John Finnegan (watch commander); Bobbie Brown and Angie Everhart (video babes); Bridgette Wilson (Whitney/Meredith); Jeffrey Braer (Skeezy); Sven-Ole Thorsen (gunman); Anthony Peck (cop at ex-wife's house); Dex Elliot Sanders (Mitchell); Nick Dimitri (funeral doctor); Rick Ducommun (Ripper's agent); Wendle Jospeher (candy girl); Michael V. Gazzo (Torelli); Lee Reherman (Krause); R. C. Bates (rabbi); Colleen Camp (Ratcliff); Donna Borghoff (Tammy, a Hell's Kitchen hooker); John McTiernan Sr. (cigar stand man); Tiffany Puhy (autograph seeker); Keith Barish, James Belushi, Chevy Chase, Karen Duffy, Larry Ferguson, Leeza Gibbons, Hammer, Little Richard, T-1000, Maria Shriver, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Melvin Van Peebles, and Damon Wayans (cameos); Sharon Stone (Catherine Tramell); Danny DeVito (voice of Whiskers); Kim Anderson, Chris Connelly, and Persia White (uncredited cameos)

Paint Your Wagon Paramount, 1969, color, 166 minutes, no rating Credits: Producer: Alan Jay Lerner; associate producer: Tom Shaw; director: Joshua Logan; based on the stage musical by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe; adaptor: Paddy Chayefsky; screenplay: Alan Jay Lerner; production designer: John Truscott; art director: Carl Braunger; set decorator: James L. Berkey; costumes: John Truscott; music: Frederick Loewe and Nelson Riddle; songs: Alan Jay Lerner; additional songs: Andre Previn; choreographer: Jack Baker; second unit directors: Fred Lemoine and Tom Shaw; assistant directors and second unit assistant directors: Jack Roe and Al Murphy; re-recording supervisor: Fred Hynes; special effects: Maurice Ayers, Larry Hampton, and Daniel Hays (uncredited); camera: William A. Fraker; editor: Robert C. Jones Cast: Lee Marvin (Ben Rumson); Clint Eastwood (Sylvester "Pardner" Newel); Jean Seberg (Elizabeth); Harve Presnell (Rotten Luck Willie); Ray Walston (Mad Jack Duncan); Tom Ligon (Horton Fenty); Alan Dexter (parson); William O'Connell (Horace Tabor); Ben Baker (Haywood Holbrook); Alan Baxter (Mr.

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Fenty); Paula Trueman (Mrs. Fenty); Robert Easton (Atwell); Geoffrey Norman (Foster); H. B. Haggerty (Steve Bull); Terry Jenkins (Joe Mooney); Karl Brück (Schermerhorn); John Mitchum (Jacob Woodling); Sue Casey (Sarah Woodling); Eddie Little Sky (Native American); Harvey Parry (Higgins); H. W. Gim (Wong); William Mims (frock-coated man); Roy Jenson (Hennessey); Pat Hawley (Clendennon); Nitty Gritty Dirt Band (themselves)

Popeye Paramount, 1980, color, I 14 minutes, rated PG Credits: Executive producer: C. O. Erickson; producer: Robert Evans; associate producer: Scott Bushneil; director: Robert Altman; based on the Popeye characters created by E. C. Segar; screenplay: Jules Feiffer; production designer: Wolf Kroeger; set decorator: Jack Stephens; costumes: Scott Bushneil; original music: Harry Nilsson; additional music: Tom Pierson; choreographers: Sharon Kinney, Hovey Burgess, and Lou Wills; first assistant directors: Bob Dahlin and Victor Tourjansky; supervising sound editor: Sam Gemette; supervising re-recording mixer: Michael Minkler; camera: Giuseppe Rotunno; editors: John W Holmes and David Alan Simmons Cast: Robin Williams (Popeye); Shelley Duvall (Olive Oyl); Ray Walston (Poopdeck Pappy); Paul Dooley (Wimpy); Paul L. Smith (Bluto); Richard Libertini (Geezil); Donald Moffat (the taxman); Maclntyre Dixon (Cole Oyl); Roberta Maxwell (Nana Oyl); Donovan Scott (Castor Oyl); Allan F. Nicholls (Rough House); Wesley Ivan Hurt (Swee'pea); Bill Irwin (Ham Gravy); Robert Fortier (Bill Barnacle); David McCharen (Harry Hotcash); Sharon Kinney (Cherry); Peter Bray (Oxblood Oxheart); Linda Hunt (Mrs. Oxheart); Geoff Hoyle (Scoop); Wayne Robson (Chizzelflint); Larry Pisoni (Chico); Carlo Pellegrini (Swifty); Susan Kingsley (La Verne); Michael Christiansen (Splatz); Ray Cooper (the preacher); Noel Parenti (Slick); Karen McCormick (Rosie); John E. Bristol (Bear); Julie Janney (Mena Walfleur); Patty Katz (Mina Walfleur); Diane Shaffer (Mona Walfleur); Nathalie Blossom (Blossom Walfleur); Dennis Franz (Spike); Carlos Brown (Slug); Ned Dowd (Butch); Hovey Burgess (Mort); Roberto Messina (Gozo); Pietro Torrisi (Bolo); Margery Bond (Daisy); Judy Burgess (Petunia); Peggy Pisoni (Pickelina); Saundra MacDonald (Violet); Eve Knoller (Min); Barbara Zegler (Daphne); Paul Zegler (Mayor Stonefeller); Pamela Burrell (Mrs. Stonefeller); David Arkin (the mailman/policeman); Klaus Voormann (Von Schnitzel); Doug Dillard (Clem); Van Dyke Parks (Hoagy); Stan Wilson (Oscar); Roberto Dell'Acqua (the chimneysweep); Valerie Velardi (Cindy); Jack Mercer (voice of Popeye in animated prologue)

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The Postman Warner Bros., 1997, color, 177 minutes, rated R Credits: Producers: Kevin Costner, Steve Tisch, and Jim Wilson; line producer: Lester Berman; director: Kevin Costner; based on the novel by David Brin; screenplay: Eric Roth and Brian Helgeland; production designer: Ida Random; art directors: Derek R. Hill and Scott Ritenour; set decorator: Ron Reiss; costumes: John Bloomfield; original music: James Newton Howard; second unit director: Alexander Witt; first assistant director: Dennis Maguire; supervising sound editor: Bruce Stambler; supervising music editor: Jim Weidman; visual effects supervisors: Jay Riddle and Stephen Rosenbaum; co-visual effects supervisor, SPI: Sheena Duggal; camera: Stephen Windon; editors: Peter Boyle and Regina Prosi-Bassman Cast: Kevin Costner (the Postman); Will Patton (General Bethlehem); Larenz Tate (Ford Lincoln Mercury); Olivia Williams (Abby); James Russo (Idaho); Daniel von Bargen (Pineview Sheriff Briscoe); Tom Petty (Bridge City mayor); Scott Bairstow (Luke); Giovanni Ribisi (Bandit 20); Roberta Maxwell (Irene March); Joe Santos (Colonel Getty); Ron McLarty (Old George); Peggy Lipton (Ellen March); Brian Anthony Wilson (Woody); Todd Allen (Gibbs); Rex Linn (Mercer); Shawn Hatosy (Billy); Ryan Hurst (Eddie March); Charles Esten (Michael, Abby's husband); Anne Costner (Ponytail); Ty O'Neal (Drew); Kirk Fox (gangly recruit); Ken Linhart (disappointed recruit); Korey Scott Pollard (thin recruit); Kayla Lambert (Shakespeare girl); Austin Howard Early (Shakespeare boy); Ellen Geer (Pineview woman); Rändle Meli (village mayor); Cooper Taylor (Tony); Dylan Haggerty (slow recruit); Michael Milgrom (Holnist projectionist); Keith C. Howell (Holnist scout); H. P. Evetts (Holnist soldier); Jeff Johnson and Jeff McGrail (rope bridge soldiers); Lily Costner (Lily March); Gregory Avellone (Pineview man); Susan Brightbill, Elisa Daniel, Jenny Buchanan, and Ann Manning (Pineview women); Andy Garrison (Pineview sentry); Rusty Hendrickson (Pineview minister); Marvin Winton (Pineview old man); Jono Manson, John J. Coinman, Vernon T. Williams, Mark Clark, Blair Forward, Robyn Pruitt-Hamm, and Michelle Ramminger (Pineview band); Tom Novak and Richard Joel (Benning gatekeepers); George Wyner (Benning mayor); Todd Lewis (Benning man); Brooke Becker and Eva Gayle Six (Benning women); Joe Costner (letter boy); Kathi Sheehan (mother of letter boy); Betty Moyer and Amy Weinstein (Elvis women); Joseph McKenna (Holnist captain); Neal Preston Coon (Bridge City boy); Rick Wadkins (Bridge City man); Shiree Porter (Bridge City woman); Anthony Guidera (Bridge City guard); Judy Herrera (carrier); Greg Serano (California carrier); Derek Cheetwood (carrier 12); Mark Thomason (adult letter boy)

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Shanghai Surprise Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1986, color, 97 minutes, rated P G - 1 3 Credits: Executive producers: George Harrison and Denis O'Brien; producer: John Kohn; coproducer: Robin Douet; associate producer: Sara Romilly; director: Jim Goddard; based on the novel Faraday's Flowers by Tony Kenrick; screenplay: John Kohn & Robert Bentley; production designer: Peter Mullins; art directors: David Minty and John Siddall; costumes: Judy Moorcroft; original music: George Harrison and Michael Kamen; original songs: George Harrison; assistant director: Gino Marotta; sound editor: John Poyner; sound effects editor: Graham Harris; foley editor: Rodney Glenn; special effects supervisor: David H. Watkins; camera: Ernie Vincze; editor: Ralph Sheldon Cast: Sean Penn (Glendon Wasey); Madonna (Gloria Tatlock); Paul Freeman (Walter Faraday); Richard Griffiths (Willie Turtle); Philip Sayer (Justin Kronk); Clyde Kusatsu (Joe Go); Kay Tong Lim (Mei Gan); Sonserai Lee (China Doll); Victor Wong (Ho Chong); Professor Toru Tanaka (Yamagani San); Michael Aldridge (Mr. Burns); Sarah Lam (China Doll's maid); George She (Wu Ch'En She); Won Gam Bor (rickshaw king); To Chee Kan (China Doll's boatman); David Li (doorman at Zig-Zag club); Keith Bonnard (maitre d' at Zig-Zag club); Claire Lutter and Pamela Yang (prostitutes); Michael Chow and Samuel Tsao (street barkers); Philip Tan (ship's officer); George Harrison (nightclub singer)

Showgirls Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1995, color, 131 minutes, rated N C - 1 7 Credits: Executive producer: Mario Kassar; producers: Charles Evans and Alan Marshall; coproducer: Ben Myron; associate producer: Lynn Ehrensperger; director: Paul Verhoeven; screenplay: Joe Eszterhas; production designer: Allan Cameron; art director: William F. O'Brien; set decorator: Richard C. Goddard; costumes: Ellen Mirojnick and Gianni Versace; original music: Rena Riffel and David A. Stewart; choreographer: Marguerite Pomerhn-Derricks; first assistant director: Ellen Schwartz; sound effects supervisor: Stephen Hunter Flick; supervising ADR editor: Susan Dudeck; special effects coordinator: Burt Dalton; camera: Jost Vacano; editors: Mark Goldblatt and Mark Helfrich Cast: Elizabeth Berkley (Nomi Malone); Kyle MacLachlan (Zack Carey); Gina Gershon (Cristal Connors); Glenn Plummer (James Smith); Robert Davi (Al Torres); Alan Rachins (Tony Moss); Gina Ravera (Molly Ab rams); Lin Tucci (Henrietta "Mama" Bazoom); Greg Travis (Phil Newkirk); Al Ruscio (Mr. Karlman); Patrick Bristow (Marty Jacobsen); William Shockley (Andrew Carver);

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Michelle Johnston (Gay Carpenter); Dewey Weber (Jeff); Rena Riffel (Penny/ Hope); Melissa Williams (Julie); Úngela Brockman (Annie); Melinda Songer (Nicky); Lance Davis (bell captain); Jack McGee (Jack the stagehand); Jim Ishida (Mr. Okida); Bobbie Phillips (Dee); Dante McCarthy (Carmi); Caroline Key Johnson (Nadia); Joan Foley (jail matron); Terry Beeman (Felix); Kevin Stea (Daryl); Lisa Boyle (Sonny); Alexander Folk (booking sergeant); Matt Battaglia and Teo (Andrew Carver's bodyguards); Alexander Zale (physician); Irene Olga Lopez (personnel woman); Melanie Van Betten (Versace salesperson); Pamela Anderson (party singer); Julie Pop (Nurse); Jacob Witkin (Caesar); Jana Walker (secretary); Christina Robinette (receptionist); Jim Wise (loudmouth at Cheetah Club); Michael Shure and Geoff Callan (drunks at Cheetah Club); Jean Barrett (change girl); Rick Maratta (long-haired drunk); Paul Bates (bouncer at Cheetah Club); Michael Cooke (casino lecher); Gary Devaney and Gene Ellison-Jones (Texans at Spago); Ashley Nation and Cory Melander (Julie's children); Fernando Celis (Hector); Elizabeth Kennedy (photographer); Sean Breen and Katherine Manning (reporters); Warren Reno (Crave Club bouncer); Y. Hero Abe, Ken Enomoto, and Rodney Veno (Cheetah Club customers); Kathleen McTeague and Kristen Knittle (Al Torres's girls); Sage Pearl (paramedic); Michael Washington (Crave Club heckler); Buggsy Pearce (singing voice of Andrew Carver); Sebastian La Cause, Debbie Abies, Lindsley Allen, Bryan Anthony, Christopher Childers, Keith Diorio, Eric Ellis, Carrie Ann Inaba, Deena Grasia, John Jacquet, Laurie Kanyok, Caitlin McLean, Suzi McDonald, Lisa Ratzin, Sal Vassallo, Kim Wolfe, Jamy Woodbury, Jason Yribarn, and Judette Warren ("Goddess" sequence dancers); Chris Tedesco, Larry Washington, Patrick Seymour, and Robb Vallier (Jazz combo); Michelle Elkin, Neisha Folkes-LeMelle, Andrea Moen, Nancy O'Meara, Sandra Plazinic, Laurie Sposit, Tonya Tovias, and Michelle Zeitlan (other audition dancers); Danielle Burgio (ear and nose dancer); Bethany Chesser (finalist dancer); Maria Diaz (Yoga dancer); Madison Clark (classes dancer); Lonetta Pugh (baby fat dancer); Kelly St. Romaine (melon dancer)

Town & Country New Line Cinema, 2001, color, 104 minutes, rated R Credits: Executive producers: Michael De Luca, Lynn Harris, and Sidney Kimmel; producers: Simon Fields, Andrew S. Karsch, and Fred Roos; coproducer: Cyrus I. Yavneh; line producer: Mike Nelson; director: Peter Chelsom; screenplay: Michael Laughlin and Buck Henry; production designer: Caroline Hanania; art director: Mark Worthington; set decorator: Lisa Fischer; costumes: Molly Maginnis; original music: Rolfe Kent; additional music: John Altman; choreog-

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rapher: Lynne Hockney; second unit directors: William A. Fraker and David R. Stoecklein; first assistant director: Vincent Lascoumes; supervising sound editors: Karen M. Baker and Per Hallberg; sound effects supervisor: Paul Timothy Carden; sound effects cosupervisor: Glenn T. Morgan; ADR supervisor: Kerry Dean Williams; sound effects editors: Nancy MacLeod and Joe Milner; special effects supervisor: Paul Lombardi; camera: William A. Fraker; additional camera: Michel "Mishka" Cheyko, Michael Moore, Michael Risoli, and Marguerite "Madge" Martins; editors: David Moritz and Claire Simpson Cast: Warren Beatty (Porter Stoddard); Diane Keaton (Ellie Stoddard); Andie MacDowell (Eugenie Claybourne); Garry Shandling (Griffin Miller); Jenna Elfman (Auburn); Nastassja Kinski (Alex); Goldie Hawn (Mona Miller); Charlton Heston (Mr. Claybourne); Marian Seldes (Mrs. Claybourne); Josh Hartnett (Tom Stoddard); Tricia Vessey (Alice Stoddard); Vincent Lascoumes (waiter); Bill Hootkins (Barney); Terri Hoyos (Yolanda); Marc Casabani (Omar); Del Zamora (Alejandro); Katharine Towne (Holly); Tony Abatemarco (McKlellan); Eve Crawford (Margaret); Faith Geer (Mrs. Hadley); Stephen Fischer (tour guide); Ken Kensei (translator); Masayasu Nakanishi and Akira Takayama (Japanese guests); Morag Dickson (Griffin's redhead); Carlos K. McAfee (golf caddy); Stephen Singer, Lois Robbins, and David Lindstedt (party guests); Ian McNeice (Peter Principal); Buck Henry (Suttler); Lisa Ekdahl (herseif); Johnny Brown (chauffeur); Mark Matheisen (juke joint guy); Harry Boykoff (Henry); Azura Skye (Spider); Chris Turtle (Quasimodo); Christopher Kubasik (dinnerware man); Holland Taylor (mistress of ceremonies); Scott Adsit (cab driver); Angelo Tiffe (man at table); Tom Billett and Michael Bailey Smith (guards); Bonnie Ellen Miller (lady on stairs)

Waterworld Universal, 1995, color, 136 minutes, rated P G - 1 3 Credits: Executive producers: Ilona Herzberg, Andrew Licht, and Jeffrey A. Mueller; producers: Kevin Costner, John Davis, Charles Gordon, and Lawrence Gordon; associate producer: David Fulton; line producer: Gene Levy; directors: Kevin Reynolds and Kevin Costner (uncredited); screenplay, Peter Rader and David Twohy; production designer: Dennis Gassner; art director: David F. Klassen; set decorator: Nancy Haigh; costumes: John Bloomfield; original music: James Newton Howard and Artie Kane; second unit directors: David R. Ellis and Mickey Gilbert; assistant directors: Alan B. Curtiss, Melanie Grefe, David Hallinan, Robert Huberman, David Sardi, and L. David Silva; supervising sound editor: Jay Wilkinson (uncredited); sound effects editor: Richard King; special

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A

effects coordinator: Martin Bresin; special effects co-coordinators: Peter Chesney and Dale Ettema; special effects coordinator for reshoots: Tony Vandenecker; visual effects director: Michael J. McAlister; supervising ADR editor: Lauren Palmer; camera: Scott Fuller and Dean Semler; additional camera: Richard Merryman; editor: Peter Boyle Cast: Kevin Costner (Mariner); Chaim Jeraffi (drifter); Rick Aviles (gatesman); R. D. Call (enforcer); Zitto Kazann (elder/survivor); Leonardo Cimino (elder); Zakes Mokae (Priam); Lule Ka'ili Jr., Anthony DeMasters, and Willy Petrovic (boys); Jack Kheler (banker); Jeanne Tripplehorn (Helen); Lanny Flaherty (trader); Robert A. Silverman (hydroholic); Gerard Murphy (Nord); Tina Majorino (Enoia); Sab Shimona (second elder); Rita Zohar (atoller); Henry Kapono Ka'aihue (second gatesman); Michael Jeter (Old Gregor); August Neves (old atoller); Tracy Anderson (third gatesman); Dennis Hopper (Deacon); Neil Giuntoli (Hellfire gunner); Robert Joy (ledger guy); John Fleck (doctor); David Finnegan (Toby); Gregory B. Goossen (Sawzall smoker); William Preston (depth gauge); Jack Black (pilot); John Toles-Bey (plane gunner); Kim Coates (another drifter); Ari Barak, Chris Douridas, and Alexa Jago (other atollers); Sean Whalen (Bone); Robert LaSardo (Smitty); Lee Arenberg (Djeng); Doug Spinuzza (Truan); Victor Sánchez (citizen); Hal Douglas (uncredited narrator)

The Wild Party American International, 1975, color, 95 minutes, rated R Credits: Executive producers: Samuel Z. Arkoff, Joseph Beruh, and Edgar Lansbury; producer: Ismail Merchant; associate producer: George Manasse; director: James Ivory; based on the poem by Joseph Moncure March; screenplay: Walter Marks; art director: David Nichols; set decorator: David Bruce Weintraub; costumes: Ronald Kolodzie, Ralph Lauren, and Ron Talsky; original music: Walter Marks and Louis St. Louis; music sequences stager: Patricia Birch; first assistant director: Edward Folger; sound editor: Mary Brown; camera: Walter Lassally; editor: Kent McKinney Cast: James Coco (Jolly Grimm); Raquel Welch (Queenie); Perry King (Dale Sword); Tiffany Boiling (Kate); Royal Dano (Tex); David Dukes (James Morrison); Annette Ferra (Nadine); Eddie Laurence (Kreutzer); Bobo Lewis (Wilma); Don De Natale (Jackie); Dena Dietrich (Mrs. Murchison); Regis J. Cordic (Mr. Murchison); Jennifer Lee (Madeline True); Marya Small (Bertha); Baruch Lumet (tailor); Fredric Franklyn (Sam); J. S. Johnson (Morris); Tom Reese (Eddy); Géraldine Baron (Grace); Michael Grant Hall (Oscar D'Armano); Skipper (Phil

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D'Armano); Ralph Manza (fruit dealer); Lark Geib (Rosa); Jill Giraldi (crippled girl); Martin Kove (editor); Barbara Quinn (Mildred); Gloria Gadhoke (redhead); Nina Faso (lady in black); Clea Ariell, Susan Arnold, Joe Arrowsmith, Jonathan Becker, Waldo K. Berns, Bob Buckingham, Jennifer Chessman, Chuck Comisky, Bill Dance, Rick Dano, Kathleen Dimmick, Mark David Jacobson, Rick Kantor, Kevin Matthews, Luke Matthiessen, Gordon Maus, Bill Merickel, Tommie Merickel, Tony Paxton, Anthony Pecoraro, Jack Sachs, Carmen Saveiros, Mark Swope, Ayehsa Taft, and Whitney Tower Jr. (party guests)

APPENDIX B

Hollywood Feature Films That Were Box-Office Disappointments in Domestic Theatrical Release (1960-2004)

These films did not earn back their production (and domestic marketing) costs during their original North American theatrical distribution.

1960: The Alamo; All the Fine Young Cannibals; Cimarron; The Scent of Mystery; Song Without End; Surprise Package 1961: Bridge to the Sun; Francis of Assisi; One-Eyed Jacks; Romanoff and Juliet; Sanctuary 1962: Billy Rose's Jumbo; Five Finger Exercise; Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse; Gigot; Hemingway's Adventures of a Young Man; Mutiny on the Bounty; The Notorious Landlady; Satan Never Sleeps; Tender Is the Night 1963: Act One; All the Way Home; Cleopatra; 55 Days at Peking; Kings of the Sun; The List of Adrian Messenger; Love Is a Ball; Of Love and Desire; The Ugly American 1964: Behold a Pale Horse; Cheyenne Autumn; Circus World; Ensign Pulver; The Fall of the Roman Empire; Goodbye Charlie; Kiss Me, Stupid; Lilith; Paris—When It Sizzles; Youngblood Hawke 1965: The Agony and the Ecstasy; Baby the Rain Must Fall; Bus Riley's Back in Town; The Greatest Story Ever Told; The Hallelujah Trail; Harlow; Inside Daisy Clover; John Goldfarb, Please Come Home; Love H Many Faces; The Loved One; Major Dundee; Mickey One; Morituri; Red Line 7000; Return from the Ashes 1966: An American Dream; The Appaloosa; The Bible; The Chase; Mister Buddwing; The Oscar; Penelope; Promise Her Anything The Sand Pebbles; Seconds; 7 Women; This Property Is Condemned; Way . . . Wa Out 1967: Camelot; Doctor Dolittle; Good Times; The Happening; The Honey Pot; Luv; Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mamma's Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feeling

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So Sad; Reflections in a Golden Eye; Rosiel; The Tiger Makes Out; A Time for Killing 1968: The Brotherhood; Counterpoint; The Devil's Brigade; Finian's Rainbow; For Love of Ivy; Head; The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter; Hell in the Pacific; How Sweet It Is!; The Legend ofLylah Clare; The Night of the Following Day; The Night They Raided Minsky's; Vetulia; The Power; The Secret War of Harry Frigg; The Sergeant; The Shoes of the Fisherman; Skidoo; Star!; Stay Away, Joe; The Swimmer; Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?; 1969: Angel, Angel, Down We Go; The April Fools; The Arrangement; The Big Bounce; Castle Keep; The Chairman; Change of Habit; Che!; The Extraordinary Seaman; Gaily, Gaily; The Great Bank Robbery; The Gypsy Moths; Hello, Dolly!; Hello Down There; The illustrated Man; Justine; The Learning Tree; The Madwoman of Chaillot; Marooned; MacKennas Gold; Medium Cool; Paint Your Wagon; The Reivers; Some Kind of a Nut; The Stalking Moon; Sweet Charity; Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here; Winning 1970: Adam at 6 AM.; The Adventurers; Alex in Wonderland; The Ballad of Cable Hogue; Brewster McCloud; Catch-22; Darling Lili; Dirty Dingus Magee; Flap; The Forbin Project; The Games; The Great White Hope; I Never Sang for My Father; I Walk the Line; The Liberation of L. B. Jones; Little Fauss and Big Halsy; The Molly Maguires; Monte Walsh; Myra Breckinridge; On a Clear Day You Can See Forever; The Only Game in Town; Puzzle of a Downfall Child; R.P.M.; Song of Norway; There Was a Crooked Man; tick. . . tick. . . tick. . . ; Tora! Tora! Tora!; The Traveling Executioner; Tropic of Cancer; Viva Max; Which Way to the Front?; WUSA; Zabriskie Point 1971: Bedknobs and Broomsticks; The Beguiled; Born to Win; Desperate Characters; Doctors' Wives; Fools' Parade; Johnny Got His Gun; Kotch; The Love Machine; McCabe Ó Mrs. Miller; The Mephisto Waltz; Mrs. Pollifax—Spy; A New Leaf; The Pursuit of Happiness; Red Sky at Morning; The Seven Minutes; Sometimes a Great Notion; Taking Off; They Might Be Giants; Who Is Harry Kellerman and Why Is He Saying Those Terrible Things About Me?; Wild Rovers 1972: Cancel My Reservation; Child's Play; Drive, He Said; The Great Waltz; Hammersmith Is Out; Hickey & Boggs; The Honkers; J. W. Coop; Junior Bonner; Play It As It Lays; The Possession of Joel Delaney; 1776; Silent Running; Skyjacked; SlaughterhouseFive; The War Between Men and Women; When the Legend Dies 1973: Ace Eli and Rodger of the Skies; Ash Wednesday; The Day of the Dolphin; Emperor of the North Pole; Executive Action; Kid Blue; Lolly-Madonna XXX; Lost Horizon; The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing; Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid; Scarecrow; Slither; S*P*Y*S; Steelyard Blues; Superdad; The Thief Who Came to Dinner 1974: Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia; California Split; Daisy Miller; The Dove; The Gambler; The Great Gatsby; The Klansman; Lenny; The Little Prince; The Lords of Flatbush; Mame; Man on a Swing; The Parallax View; The Sugarland Express; The Terminal Man; The White Dawn; Zandy's Bride 1975: Ai Long Last Love; Bite the Bullet; The Black Bird; The Day of the Locust; The Fortune;

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The Hindenburg; Hustle; Love and Death; Lucky Lady; Mahogany; Mandingo; The Master Gunfighter; Peeper; Rosebud; Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York; The Wild Party; The Wind and the Lion 1976: The Big Bus; The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars ó Motor Kings; The Blue Bird; Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull's History Lesson; The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox; The Front; Gable and Lombard; Harry and Walter Go to New York; The Last Tycoon; Leadbelly; Lifeguard; Lipstick; A Matter of Time; Mikey and Nicky; Th Missouri Breaks; Mother, Jugs ó Speed; The Next Man; Nickelodeon; The Ritz; Swashbuckler; W. C. Fields and Me; Won Ton Ton, the Dog Who Saved Hollywood 1977: Audrey Rose; Billy Jack Goes to Washington; Bobby Deerfield; A Bridge Too Far; The Car; Damnation Alley; Demon Seed; The Domino Principle; Equus; Exorcist II: The Heretic; Greased Lightning; The Island of Dr. Moreau; Islands in the Stream; The Last Remake of Beau Geste; New York, New York; Opening Night; Orca; Rollercoaster; Roseland; The Sentinel; Sorcerer; Twilight's Last Gleaming; The White Buffalo 1978: Avalanche; Battlestar Galáctica; The Betsy; The Big Fix; Big Wednesday; Blue Collar; The Brink's Job; Capricorn One; Caravans; Casey's Shadow; The Choirboys; Comes a Horseman; A Different Story; The Driver; The End; F.Ì.S.T; FM; Girlfriends; Go Tell the Spartans; Goin South; The Greek Tycoon; Hooper; Interiors; King of the Gypsies; Magic; The Manitou; Matilda; Moment by Moment; Movie Movie; Oily, Oily, Oxen Free; Paradise Alley; Pretty Baby; Rabbit Test; September 30, 1955; Sgl Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band; Sextette; Somebody Killed Her Husband; Straight Time; The Swarm; A Wedding; Who'll Stop the Rain; The Wiz 1979: Ashanti; The Black Hole; Bloodline; Brass Target; Buck Rogers in the 25th Century; Cuba; Dracula; Fast Break; The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh; Hair; Hardcore; Hurricane; Just You and Me, Kid; Meteor; 1941; Old Boyfriends; Players; The Prisoner of Zenda; Quintet; Running; Saint Jack; The Seduction of Joe Tynan; Walk Proud; Yanks 1980: The Baltimore Bullet; The Big Red One; The Black Marble; Cant Stop the Music; A Change of Seasons; Cruising; The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu; The Final Countdown; The First Deadly Sin; Flash Gordon; The Formula; Hardly Working; Heart Beat; Heavens Gate; Honeysuckle Rose; Inside Moves; The Island; It's My Turn; The Jazz Singer; Just Tell Me What You Want; The Last Married Couple in America; The Long Riders; Loving Couples; One-Trick Pony; Popeye; Raise the Titanic; Resurrection; Rough Cut; Stardust Memories; The Stunt Man; Those Lips, Those Eyes; Tom Horn; Virus; The Watcher in the Woods; When Time Ran Out... ; Willie and Phil; Wholly Moses; Xanadu 1981: All Night Long;. . .All the Marbles; Back Roads; Blow Out; Buddy Buddy; Charlie Chan and the Curse of the Dragon Queen; Chu Chu and the Philly Flash; Continental Divide; Cutter's Way; Dragonslayer; Eyewitness; The Fan; First Monda in October; Four Friends; Green Ice; Heartbeeps; Honky Tonk Freeway; Inchon; The Legend of the Lone Ranger; Looker; Mommie Dearest; Pennies from Heaven;

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Raggedy Man; Ragtime; Reds; Roar; Rollover; Sphinx; Tarzan, the Ape Man; They All Laughed; True Confessions; Under the Rainbow 1982: Annie; The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; Cannery Row; The Escape Artist; Five Days One Summer; Hanky Panky; Hammett; Health; Ym Dancing as Fast as I Can; Jinxed Lookin to Get Out; One from the Heart; Partners; Personal Best; Slapstick (Of Another Kind); Still of the Night; Tempest; The World According to Garp; Wrong Is Right; Yes, Giorgio 1983: Baby It's You; Brainstorm; Cracking Up; Eddie Macon's Run; Gorky Park; High Road to China; The King of Comedy; The Lonely Lady; The Lords of Discipline; Man, Woman and Child; The Right Stuff; Romantic Comedy; Rumble Fish; The Star Chamber; Star 80; Staying Alive; Streamers; Under Fire; Without a Trace 1984: The Ambassador; Body Double; The Buddy System; The Cotton Club; Dune; iceman; Johnny Dangerously; Lassiter; The Little Drummer Girl; The Lonely Guy; Love Letters; Maria's Lovers; Mrs. Soffel; Racing with the Moon; The Razor's Edge; Rhinestone; Starman; Streets of Fire; Supergirl; Swing Shift; Tank; 2010; The Ultimate Solution of Grace Quigley; Unfaithfully Yours 1985: Agnes of God; The Aviator; A Chorus Line; Enemy Mine; The Falcon and the Snowman; Fever Pitch; Fool for Love; Legend; The Man with One Red Shoe; Marie; Movers Ó Shakers; Once Bitten; Perfect; Plenty; Return to Oz; Rustlers' Rhapsody; Santa Claus: The Movie; The Slugger's Wife; Stick; Target; Trouble in Mind; Turk 182!; Twice in a Lifetime; White Nights; Young Sherlock Holmes 1986: The Best of Times; Black Moon Rising; Crimes of the Heart; 8 Million Ways to Die; 52 Pick-Up; Haunted Honeymoon; Howard the Duck; King Kong Lives; The Manhattan Project; The Men's Club; No Mercy; Nobody's Fool; Nothing in Common; Power; Salvador; Shanghai Surprise; Solarbabies; Sweet Liberty; Tai-Pan; That's Life!; Touch and Go; Where the River Runs Black 1987: Amazing Grace and Chuck; Angel Heart; Barfly; "batteries not included; The Bedroom Window; The Big Town; Cross My Heart; Empire of the Sun; Gardens of Stone; Happy New Year; Hello Again; In the Mood; Innerspace; Ironweed; Ishtar; Leonard Part 6; Less Than Zero; Made in Heaven; Making Mr. Right; Matewan; Nadine; No Man's Land; The Pick-up Artist; A Prayer for the Dying; September; Shy People; Someone to Watch Over Me; Square Dance; The Squeeze; Steel Dawn; Street Smart; Surrender; Tough Guys Don't Dance; Walk Like a Man; Weeds; White Water Summer; Who's That Girl; 1988: Alien Nation; Arthur 2: On the Rocks; Bat*21; Betrayed; Bird; Bright Lights, Big City; Clara's Heart; Clean and Sober; The Couch Trip; Criminal Law; Dominick and Eugene; Earth Girls Are Easy; 18 Again!; Everybody's AllAmerican; Five Comers; Frantic; Fresh Horses; Full Moon in Blue Water; The Good Mother; The House on Carroll Street; illegally Yours; Little Nikita; Memoríes of Me; Midnight Crossing; The Milagro Beanfield War; Miles from Home; Mr. North; The Modems; Moon Over Parador; Patty Hearst; Sunset; Stealing Home; Sweet Hearts Dance; Switching Channels; Talk Radio; The Telephone; Things

BOX-OFFICE DISAPPOINTMENTS / 333

Change; A Time of Destiny; Torch Song Trilogy; Tucker: The Man and His Dream 1989: Always; Bert Rigby, You're a Fool; The Big Picture; Blaze; Brenda Starr; Casualties of War; Chances Are; Cookie; Criminal Law; Dad; Dead-Ba A Dry White Season; Family Business; Far From Home; Farewell to the King; Fa Man and Little Boy; Great Balls of Fire!; Gross Anatomy; Her Alibi; Homer Ó Eddie; Immediate Family; In Country; An Innocent Man; Jacknife; The January Man; Johnny Handsome; Kill Me Again; Kinjite: Forbidden Subjects; Leviathan Lock Up; Loverboy; The Mighty Quinn; Miss Firecracker; Music Box; New York Stories; Next of Kin; Old Gringo; The Package; Physical Evidence; Pink Cadilla Rude Awakening; Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills; See No Evil, Hear No Evil; She-Devil; Slaves of New York; Troop Beverly Hills; True Believe True Love; We're No Angels 1990: After Dark, My Sweet; Air America; Alice; Avalon; The Bonfire of the Vanities; Chattahoochee; Come See the Paradise; The Comfort of Strangers; Coupe de Ville; Crazy People; Desperate Hours; Everybody Wins; The First Power; Flashback; Funny About Love; Ghost Dad; The Handmaid's Tale; Havana; I Love You to Death; In the Spirit; Joe Versus the Volcano The Lemon Sisters; The Long Walk Home; Lord of the Flies; Love at Large; Men Don't Leave; Miller's Crossing; Mountains of the Moon; Narrow Margin; Pump Up the Volume; Q ó A; Quick Change; The Return of Superfly; Revenge; Reversal of Fortune; The Russia House; A Shock to the System; A Show of Force; State of Grace; Texasville; To Sleep with Anger; Stanley ö> Iris; Stella; Tune in Tom row; The Two Jakes; Waiting for the Light; Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael; Where the Heart Is; White Hunter, Black Heart; White Palace; The Witches 1991: Another You; At Play in the Fields of the Lord; The Ballad of the Sad Café; Billy Bathgate; The Butcher's Wife; Deceived; Defending Your Life; Defenseless; Delirious; Dogfight; Flight of the intruder; Flirting; For the Boys; Guilty by Suspicion; Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man; He Said, She Said; Hudson Hawk; The Indian Runner; A Kiss Before Dying; Life Stinks; The Marrying Man Meet the Applegates; Mobsters; Mortal Thoughts; Mystery Date; Necessary Rough ness; Nothing But Trouble; Once Around; One Good Cop; Oscar; Other People's Money; Paradise; Queens Logic; Rush; Scenes from a Mall; Shattered; Shout; Stepping Out; Stone Cold; The Super; Switch; Toy Soldiers; True Colors; True Id tity; V I. Warshawski; Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken; Year of the Gun 1992: Art cle 99; The Babe; Bad Lieutenant; Blame It on the Bellboy; Bob Roberts; City of Joy; Consenting Adults; CrissCross; Falling from Grace; Folks!; Freejack; Gladia Hero; Hoffa; Hollywood Mistress; Husbands and Wives; Kuffs; Ladybugs; Leavi Normal; Light Sleeper; Love Field; Love Potion No. 9; Man Trouble; Memoirs of an invisible Man; Mr. Saturday Night; Newsies; Night and the City; Of Mice and Men; Out on a Limb; Passed Away; The Public Eye; Radio Flyer; Red Rock West; Sarafina!; Shadows and Fog; Stay Tuned; Stop! or My Mom Will Shoot; Storyville; Straight Talk; A Stranger Among Us; This Is My Life; Thunderheart;

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APPENDIX B

Toys; Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me; Used People; The Waterdance; White Sand Wind; Year of the Comet 1993: American Heart; Amos Ó Andrew; Another Stakeout; Arizona Dream; Being Human; Body of Evidence; Bophal; Born Yesterday; A Bronx Tale; Calendar Girl; The Cemetery Club; Cop Ó 1/2; Dangerous Game; A Dangerous Woman; A Far Off Place; Fatal Instinct; Father Hood; Fearless; Flesh and Bone; For Love or Money; Geronimo: An American Legend; Guilty as Sin; Hear No Evil; Heaven Ó Earth; A Home of Our Own; House of Cards; Household Saints; Indian Summer; Jack the Bear; Judgment Night; Last Action Hero; Life with Mikey; Lost in Yonkers; M. Butterfly; Mad Dog and Glory; Married to It; Mr. Jones; Mr. Wonderful; My Life; Naked in New York; The Night We Never Met; No Place to Hide; The Real McCoy; Ruby in Paradise; The Saint of Fort Washington; Searching for Bobby Fischer; Sliver; So I Married an Axe Murderer; Striking Distance; Super Mario Bros.; Swing Kids; The Temp; The Thing Called Love; This Boy's Life; Undercover Blues; The Vanishing; Wrestling Ernest Hemingway 1994: Airheads; Angie; Bad Girls; Beverly Hills Cop III; Blink; Blue Sky; Bullets Over Broadway; Cabin Boy; China Moon; Clean Slate; Color of Night; Cops and Robbersons; Death Wish V: The Face of Death; Dream Lover; Drop Zone; Even Cowgirls Get the Blues; Exit to Eden; The Favor; The Getaway; Getting Even with Dad; Golden Gate; A Good Man in Africa; Greedy; I Love Trouble; I'll Do Anything; The inkwell; Intersection; I.Q.; Jimmy Hollywood; The Last Good Time; Love Affair; Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; Mi Vida Loca (My Crazy Life); Milk Money; Miracle on 34th Street; Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle; Mixed Nuts; No Escape; North; Only You; The Pagemaster; Ready to Wear (Prêt-à-Porter); Princess Caraboo; Radioland Murders; Renaissance Man; The Road to Wellville; Romeo Is Bleeding; The Scout; Señal Mom; The Shadow; Silent Tongue; A Simple Twist of Fate; Speechless; Terminal Velocity; Trapped in Paradise; Wagons East; The War; Wyatt Earp 1995: The Addiction; The BabySitters Club; Bad Company; The Basketball Diaries; Bye, Bye Love; Canadian Bacon; Clockers; The Crossing Guard; Cutthroat Island; Dead Man; Dracula: Dead and Loving It; Fair Game; First Knight; Home for the Holidays; In the Mouth of Madness; The Indian in the Cupboard; Jade; Jefferson in Paris; Jeffrey; The Journey of August King; Kiss of Death; Lord of illusions; Losing Isaiah; Mad Love; Mighty Aphrodite; Moonlight and Valentino; Nick of Time; Nixon; Operation Dumbo Drop; Panther; The Perez Family; The Quick and the Dead; Restoration; Roommates; The Scarlet Letter; Search and Destroy; The Secret of Roan Inish; Showgirls; Strange Days; Tall Tale; Tank Girl; Theodore Rex; Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead; Three Wishes; Two Bits; Unstrung Heroes; Virtuosity; Wild Bill 1996: Alaska; American Buffalo; The Associate; Barb Wire; Before and After; Blood and Wine; Bogus; Boys; Carried Away; The Chamber; City Hall; The Crucible; Daylight; The Evening Star; Everyone Says I Love You; Extreme Measures; Faithful; The Fan; Feeling Minnesota; First Kid; Fled; The Funeral;

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Getting Away with Murder; Ghosts of Mississippi; Girl 6; Grace of My Heart; Th Grass Harp; The Great White Hype; Heavens Prisoners; I Shot Andy Warhol; I'm Not Rappaport; In Love and War; Infinity; The island of Dr. Moreau; It's My Party; Joe's Apartment; Kansas City; Larger than Life; Last Dance; Last Man Standing; The Long Kiss Goodnight; Marvin's Room; Mary Reilly; The Mirror Has Two Faces; Mr. Wrong; Mrs. Winterbourne; Mother Night; Mulholland Falls; Multiplicity; The Pallbearer; The Phantom; Race the Sun; Sgt. Bilko; Striptease; Sydney; The Trigger Effect; Two If by Sea; Unforgettable; White Squall 1997: Afterglow; Albino Alligator; An Alan Smithee Film: Burn Hollywood Bum; The Assignment; B*A*P*S; The Beautician and the Beast; Box of Moonlight; Buddy; City of industry; The Devil's Own; Deconstructing Harry; The Edge; 8 Heads in a Duffel Bag; Event Horizon; Fathers Day; Gattaca; Gone Fishin; Kundun; Leave It to Beaver; The Locusts; Lolita; Lost Highway; Mad City; Mr. Jealousy; The Myth of Fingerprints; Night Falls on Manhattan; Nightwatch; Nowhere; One Night Stand; The Only Thrill; The Pest; The Postman; Prefontaine; Shadow Conspiracy; She's So Lovely; A Simple Wish; Speed 2: Cruise Control; Starship Troopers; Switchback; Telling Lies in America; That Old Feeling; 'Til There Was You; Touch; Traveller; Trial and Error; Turbulence; U Turn; Volcan Washington Square 1998: American History X; Another Day in Paradise; Apt Pupil; The Avengers; Beloved; Blues Brothers 2000; Bulworth; Celebrity; Deep Rising; Desperate Measures; Digging to China; Fallen; Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; The Gingerbread Man; The Hi-Lo Country; Holy Man; Hurlyburly; I'll Be Home for Christmas; The Impostors; Jack Frost; Kissing a Fool; Knock Off; Krippendorfs Tribe; The Last Days of Disco; Meet Joe Black; The Mighty; Monument Ave.; My Giant; The Newton Boys; The Odd Couple II; One True Thing; Palmetto; Pecker; Permanent Midnight; Playing by Heart; Primary Colors; The Propo sition; Psycho; Restaurant; Return to Paradise; Senseless; The Siege; Snake Eyes; Soldier; A Soldier's Daughter Never Cries; Sphere; Suicide Kings; The Thin Red Line; Twilight; What Dreams May Come; Why Do Fools Fall in Love; Without Limits; Zero Effect 1999: The Adventures of Elmo in Grouchland; The Adventures of Sebastian Cole; Angela's Ashes; Anywhere But Here; At First Sight; Bicentennial Man; Blast from the Past; Breakfast of Champions; Bringing Out the Dead; Brokedown Palace; Cookie's Fortune; Cradle Will Rock; Crazy in Alabama Diamonds; Dick; Dudley Do-Right; For Love of the Game; Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai; The insider; Instinct; The Iron Giant; Joe the King; The King and I; Liberty Heights; Limbo; The Love Letter; Man on the Moon; A Map of the World; Mumford; Muppets from Space; The Muse; Music of the Heart; Mystery, Alaska; Mystery Men; The Out-of-Towners; Play It to the Bone; Pushing Tin; Random Hearts; Ride with the Devil; Simpatico; Snow Falling on Cedars; The Story of Us; The Straight Story; The Suburbans; Summer of Sam; Sweet and Lowdown; The Third Miracle; The 13th Warrior; Three to Tango; True Crime; Virus

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APPENDIX B

A Walk on the Moon; Wild Wild West 2000: The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle; All the Pretty Horses; Almost Famous; Animal Factory; The Art of War; Autumn in New York; Bait; Bamboozled; Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000; Beautiful; Before Night Falls; Black and White; Bless the Child; But I'm a Cheerleader; Cecil B. DeMented; Company Man; The Crew; Drowning Mona; Duets; The Fantasticks; The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas; Get Carter; Girlfight The Golden Bowl; Gun Shy; Here on Earth; Hollow Man; I Dreamed of Africa; Isn't She Great; The House of Mirth; Judy Berlin; The Legend of Bagger Vance; Loser; Lost Souls; Lucky Numbers; The Next Best Thing; Once in the Life; The Opportunists; Passion of Mind; Pay It Forward; Picking Up the Pieces; Price of Glory; Proof of Life; Quills; Red Planet; Reindeer Games; The Replacements; Requiem for a Dream; The Road to El Dorado; State and Main; Steal This Movie; Supernova; Thirteen Days; Tigerland; Timecode; Titan A.E.; Trixie; 28 Days; Under Suspicion; The Virgin Suicides; Waking the Dead; The Watcher; Th Way of the Gun; What Planet Are You From?; Where the Money Is; Wonder Boys; The Yards 2001: The Affair of the Necklace; AH; American Outlaws; An American Rhapsody; Antitrust; Bandits; Black Knight; The Body; Bones; Bubble Boy; The Business of Strangers; Captain Corelli's Mandolin; The Caveman's Valentine; The Center of the World; The Curse of the Jade Scorpion; Diamond Men; Domestic Disturbance; Donnie Darko; Driven; Evolution; Fever; 15 Minutes; Focus; Formula 51; Freddy Got Fingered; Ghost World; Ghosts of Mars; The Glass House; Glitter; Green Dragon; Head Over Heels; Hearts in Atlantis; Hedwig and the Angry Inch; Heist; Joe Somebody; Josie and the Pussycats; K-PAX; The Last Castle; L.I.E.; Life as a House; Little Secrets; The Majestic; The Man Who Wasn't There; MonkeyBone; My First Mister; Novocaine; The One; One Night at McCool's; Original Sin; Osmosis Jones; Pinero; The Pledge; Riding in Cars With Boys; Rock Star; Saving Silverman; Say It Isn't So; The Shipping News; Sidewalks of New York; The Sleepy Time Gal; Spy Game; Sweet November; The Tailor of Panama; Tape; 3000 Miles to Graceland; Town Ó Country; Two Ninas; Waking Life; We Hot American Summer; What's the Worst That Could Happen?; Who Is Cletis Tout? 2002: The Adventures of Pluto Nash; Ash Wednesday; Auto Focus; Bad Company; Bartleby; The Believer; Below; Big Bad Love; Big Trouble; Blood Work; The Château; Chelsea Walls; Cherish; City by the Sea; Confessions of a Dangerous Mind; The Country Bears; Crazy as Hell; The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys; Death to Smoochy; Deuces Wild; Dragonfly; Eight Legged Freaks; The First $20 Million Is Always the Hardest; The Four Feathers; The Fourth Tenor; The Grey Zone; Half Past Dead; Hart's War; Harvard Man; Hollywood Ending; Igby Goes Down; Impostor; Joshua; Just a Kiss; K-19 The Widowmaker; Life or Something Like It; Love in the Time of Money; Love Liza; The Man from Elysian Fields; Moonlight Mile; Murder by Numbers; New Best Friend; The New Guy; Nicholas Nickleby; Personal Velocity; Possession; Punch-Drunk Love; The Quiet American;

BOX-OFFICE DISAPPOINTMENTS / 337

Roger Dodger; Rollerball; The Rules of Attraction; The Saltón Sea; Scotland, Pa. The Secret Lives of Dentists; Serving Sara; Showtime; The Singing Detective; Slackers; SlmOne; Solaris; Sonny; Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron; Star Trek: Nemesis; Stealing Harvard; Stolen Summer; Sunshine State; The Sweetest Thing; Swept Away; Teddy Bears' Picnic; The Time Machine; Trapped; Treasure Plan The Truth About Charlie; Tully; The Tuxedo; 25th Hour; Undisputed; The Wei of Water; Welcome to Collinwood; Windtalkers; ZigZag 2003: Alex and Emma Anything Else; Basic; Beyond Borders; Biker Boyz; Bulletproof Monk; City of Ghosts; Cold Creek Manor; The Company; The Core; Cradle 2 the Grave; Dark Blue; Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star; Le Divorce; Dreamcatcher; Dumb and Dumberer; When Harry Met Lloyd; Duplex; The Fighting Temptations; From Justin to Kelly; Gerry; Gigli; The Good Thief; Gothika; Grind; The Guys; Hea State; Hollywood Homicide; Hulk; The Human Stain; The Hunted; In the Cut; The In-Laws; It Runs in the Family; Johnny English; Laurel Canyon; The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen; The Life of David Gale; Looney Tunes: Back in Action; A Man Apart; Marci X; Masked and Anonymous; Matchstick Men; The Missing; My Boss's Daughter; National Security; Out of Time; People I Know; Peter Pan; The Rundown; Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas; The Singing Detective; The Statement; Stuck on You; Tears of the Sun; Timeline; 21 Grams; What Girl Wants; Willard, Wonderland 2004: Against the Ropes; Alfie; The Alamo; Alexander; Around the World in 80 Days; Beyond the Sea; Birth; Bobby Jones, Stroke of Genius; Catwoman; Chasing Liberty; The Chronicles of Riddick; Connie and Carla; De-Lovely; Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights; Ed Gein: The Ghou of Plainfield; Ella Enchanted; Envy; First Daughter; Flight of the Phoenix; Godsend; Hidalgo; A Home at the End of the World; Home on the Range; Jersey Girl; Laws of Attraction; Little Black Book; The Merchant of Venice; New York Minute Raise Your Voice; Raising Helen; Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow; Sleep over; Soul Plane; The Stepford Wives; Stateside; SuperBabies: Baby Geniuses 2 Surviving Christmas; Teacher's Pet; Thunderbirds; Troy; Twisted; Welcome Mooseport; When Will I Be Loved; The Whole Ten Yards; Wicker Park; Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!

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Periodicals Among those utilized were: Backstage West, Biography, Boxoffice, the Chicago Sun-Times, the Chicago Tribune, Classic Film Collector, Classic Image, Current Biography, Daily Variety, Drama-Logue, Ebony, Empire, Entertainment Today, Entertainment Weekly, Film Threat, Filmfax, Films in Review, Films of the Golden Age, Globe, The Hollywood Reporter, InStyle, interview, Jet, LA Weekly, Daily Telegraph (London), Guardian (London), Sunday Telegraph (London),

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the Times (London), the Los Angeles Daily News, the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, the Los Angeles Times, Monthly Film Bulletin, Movie Collector's World, Movieline, the National Enquirer, New York, the New York Daily News, the New York Observer, the New York Post, the New York Times, The New Yorker, News week, Parade, People, Playboy, Premiere, Rolling Stone, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch the San Francisco Chronicle, Saturday Review, Sight Ó Sound, Star, Time, Time Out London, Total Film, Us Weekly, USA Today, Valley Vantage, Vanity Fair the Village Voice, the Virginian-Pilot, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post.

Web Sites Box Office Mojo www.boxofficemojo.com

The Internet Movie Database www.imdb.com

Box Office Report www.boxofficereport.com

Movieweb www.movieweb.com

CountingDown www.countingdown.com

People Online www.people.aol.com

ElOnline www.eonline.com

The Smoking Gun www.thesmokinggun.com

Index

Abraham, F. Murray, 200 Accidental Tourist, The (film), 217 Adjani, Isabelle, 177, 179 Adler, Buddy, 17, 19-20, 22-23, 26 Adventures of Ford Fairlane, The (film), 218 Affleck, Ben, 8, 271 African Queen, The (film), 41-42, 155 Agatha (film), 177, 183 Air America (film), 214 Alan Smithee Film: Burn Hollywood Bum, An (film), 247 Alcott, Todd, 301 Alegria, José, 135 Alexander (film), 7 Aliens (film), 276 All About Eve (film), 31,231 Allen, Woody, 81, 193,300 Alley, Kirstie, 274, 289 All I Want for Christmas (film), 241 All-New Popeye Hour (TV series), 104 All the Way Home (play), 51 Alonzo, John, 137 Altman, Robert, 80, 109-17, 119-21 Always (film), 153 Amadeus (film), 200 American Flyers (film), 153 American Gigolo (film), 130, 272 American in Paris, An (film), 64-65, 297 American President, The (film), 250

Anastasia (film), 18 And Soon the Darkness (film), 283 Angel Eyes (film), 280 Angie (film), 217 Annakin, Ken, 276 Annie (film), 102-3, 122 Annie (play), 101-2 Annie Get Your Gun (play), 68 Annie Hall (film), 300 Ann Sothern Show, The (TV series), 152 Antony and Cleopatra (play), 31 Ante (film), 301 Apocalypse Always: Tales of The Cotton Club (film), 147 Apocalypse Now (film), 60, 132 Apollo 13 (film), 212 Arbuckle, Roscoe "Fatty," 85-86 Archer, Anne, 274 Arch of Triumph (film), 2 Arkoff, Samuel Z., 81-82, 88-89, 93, 95-97 Arnott, David, 196, 198 Arquette, Rosanna, 150 As Good As It Gets (film), 267 Ashby, Hal, 108 Assassins (film), 258 Ai Close Range (film), 151, 160-61 Attanasio, Paul, 302 Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (film), 295 Autobiography of a Princess (film), 83,91,95-96

349

Avalon, Frankie, 81 Bacali, Lauren, 149 Bachelor Father (TV series), 152 Bach, Steven, 10 Bad Boys (film), 154 Bad Lieutenant (film), 237 Baker, Jack, 78 Baldwin, Alec, 149 Barbarian and the Geisha, The (film), 3, 18 Barefoot in the Park (film), 60 Barry, John, 57-58 Barry Lyndon (film), 80 Barrymore, Drew, 239 Basic (film), 290 Basic Instinct (film), 214-16, 229,231,233-37 Basinger, Kim, 149 Batman (film), 102, 114, 193, 212,251 Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 (book), 275-76 Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 (film), 7, 12, 270-91 casting of, 281-84 financial costs of, 281, 283, 288-89, 291 legacy of, 290-291 reviews, 286-87, 289 Beach Party (ñ\m), 81 Beast of War, The (film), 252 Beatlemania (film), 240 Beatty, Warren, 11-12, 51, 104, 149, 171-89, 271, 293-94, 296-305, 307-8, 310

350 Beckner, Michael Frost, 217 Bedtime Story (film), 47 Bell, Catherine, 274 Beloved Infidel (film), 18 Belushi, James, 200 Ben-Hur (film) (1925), 19 Ben-Hur (film) (1959), 19,27, 52 Bening, Annette, 149, 293, 297, 310 Benjamin, Richard, 78, 88, 155 Bennett, Joan, 18 Benson, Betty, 42 Bentley, Robert, 153 Bergen, Candice, 48 Bergman, Ingrid, 18 Berkley, Elizabeth, 240, 242-43, 246-48 Berle, Milton, 134 Berlin, Elaine. See May, Elaine Berlin, Jack, 169 Berlin, Jeannie, 169, 188 Berry, Halle, 293-94 Beruh, Joseph, 83, 85, 93, 95 Best of Everything, The (film), 18,61 Beverly Hills Cop (film), 146, 187 Beverly Hills Cop II (film), 188 Beyond the Forest (film), 2, 231 Beyond the Sea (film), 271 Big Chill, The (film), 260, 263 Big Kahuna, The (film), 279 Big Trouble (film), 182 Birdcage, The (film), 188 Birdy (film), 219 Birth of a Nation, The (film), 1 Bishop, Joey, 134 Black Angel (film), 283 Black, Karen, 274 Black Mama, White Mama (film), 82 Black, Shane, 196, 198 Black Sunday (film), 101, 126 Blade (film), 102 Blind Camel (film). See Ishtar (film) Bloomfield, John, 263 Blue Bird, The (film), 2 Blue Velvet (film), 240 Bluhdorn, Charles, 63, 66, 102 Bodyguard, The (film), 158, 259-60 Body of Evidence (film), 165 Bogart, Humphrey, 149

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INDEX

Bombay Talkie (film), 83 Bones (film), 153 Bonfire of the Vanities, The (book), 11 Bonfire of the Vanities, The (film), 123, 191, 193-94, 200,212 Bonjour Tristesse (film), 70 Bonnie and Clyde (film), 60, 173,293 Bom American (film), 218 Boxcar Bertha (film), 82 Boyd, Stephen, 27, 30 Bradbury, Ray, 275 Bradford, Robert, 49-50 Brando, Jocelyn, 49 Brando, Marlon, 9, 47-48, 50-57, 60, 292 Braveheart {ñ\m), 254, 271 Breathless (film), 70 Brewster McCloud (film), 111 Bridge on the River Kwai, The (film), 41-44 Brigadoon (film), 64 Brigadoon (play), 64 Brin, David, 257-58, 262, 265 Broken Arrow (film), 273 Bronson, Charles, 81 Bronston, Samuel, 41 Brooks, Mel, 276 Brooks, Richard, 72, 75 Brown, G.Mac, 180 Brynner,Yul, 19 Buffalo Bill (TV series), 217 Bugsy Malone (film), 183 Bull Durham (film), 260 Bulworth (film), 294, 297-98 Burning Bed, The (TV film), 258 Burroughs, William, 84 Burton, Richard, 9, 23, 30-31, 33-36, 38-39, 149 Burton, Sybil, 24, 33 Bushnell, Scott, 113-14 Bus Stop (film), 68 Butterfield 8 (ïi\m), 25, 29 Buttons, Red, 134, 136 Bye Bye, Love (film), 220 Cabot, Bruce, 49 Cactus Flower (film), 300 Cage, Nicolas, 138, 140-41, 154 Cagney, James, 68, 272 Calendar Girl Murders (TV film), 258 Calloway, Cab, 125 Camelot (film), 64-65, 68, 71

Camelot (play), 30, 64 Cameron, Allan, 241 Can IDoIt... Till I Need Glasses (film), 107-8 Cannon, Dyan, 88 Cañonero, Milena, 133 Canton, Mark, 192-93, 195, 197-98, 200-201, 204-5, 208-10 Capp,Al, 103 Capra, Frank, 267 Captain Blood (film), 215 Carnal Knowledge (film), 106 Carney, Art, 200 Caron, Leslie, 297-98 Carr, Allan, 102 Carrey, Jim, 295 Carrie (film), 272 Casablanca (film), 155 Casino (film), 250 Cassavetes, John, 170 Cat Ballow{ñ\m), 48, 69 Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (play), 22 Certain Sacrifice, A (film), 150 Chandler (film), 296 Chaplin (film), 242 Chaplin, Charlie, 125 Chariots of Fire (film), 183-84 Charlie Simpson's Apocalypse (book), 231 Chase, Chevy, 200 Chase, The (film), 9, 40-60 casting of, 47-50 financial costs of, 47, 59 legacy of, 60 reviews, 50, 59 Chase, The (play), 44 Chasman, David, 187-88 Chayefsky, Paddy, 67, 71, 78 Chaykin, Maury, 223 Cheaper by the Dozen (film), 17 Checking Out (film), 233 Chelsom, Peter, 298, 303-4, 310 Children's Hour, The (film) (1936), 49 Children's Hour, The (film) (1961), 49 Children's Hour, The (play), 45 China Moon (film), 261 Chinatown (film), 101, 126, 136, 146 Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (film), 67 Chorus Line, A (film), 182

N D EX Christian, Roger, 283-84, 287, 290 Ciccone, Christopher, 157 Ciccone, Madonna Louise Veronica. See Madonna Cimino, Michael, 10 Circle of Love (film), 48 Citizen Kane (film), 99 City by the Sea (film), 280 City of Hope (film), 240 Civil Action, A (ñ\m), 278 Clarke, Arthur C, 275 Clay, Andrew Dice, 218 Cleopatra (film) (1917), 19, 22,37 Cleopatra {ñ\m) (1961), 4, 9, 15-39, 123,256 casting of, 21-24, 26-27, 30-31 financial costs of, 15, 20-21, 24, 26, 29-32, 38 legacy of, 16,35,37-39 reviews, 37 Cleopatra (Italian film) (1960), 26 Cleopatra Papers, The (book), 36 Cliffhanger (film), 214-15 Clift, Montgomery, 43 Close Encounters of the Third Kind (film), 275 Close, Glenn, 279 Cmiral, Elia, 284-85 Coates, Kim, 284 Coburn, James, 88 Cocktail (film), 240 Coco (play), 65, 79 Coco, James, 86, 91-92, 95, 98 Cohen, Leonard, 111 Colbert, Claudette, 37, 292 Collector, The (film), 152 Collins, Joan, 21, 23 Coming Home (film), 60, 108 Common Ground (film), 278 Compulsion (film), 18 Concorde: Airport 79, The (film), 258 Connery, Sean, 196 Coogcm s B/u/f (film), 69 Cooper, Gary, 66 Coppola, Francis Ford, 10, 41, 81, 110, 124, 131-33, 136-47,200 Corman, Roger, 81, 252 Cosby, Bill, 182 Costner, Annie, 263 Costner, Joe, 263

/

35 I

Costner, Kevin, 11-12, 153, 226, 253-68, 271, 280 Costner, Lily, 263 Cotton Club, The (film), 10, 121,123-47, 191 casting of, 129-30,138-39 financial costs of, 124, 127, 129-30, 132-33, 137-40, 143, 191 legacy of, 124, 126,136, 146-47 reviews, 145 Crosby, Bing, 65, 173, 175 Crossing Guard, The (film), 165 Crowe, Russell, 289 Crow, The (film), 102 Cruise, Tom, 149,219-20, 253,273 Crusade (projected film), 196, 216,232,235 Crystal, Billy, 149 Cukor, George, 86, 90 Curtis, Tony, 149 Cusamano, Joey, 142 Cutthroat Island (film), 11, 211-29,232,250 casting of, 215-20, 222-23 financial costs of, 217, 220, 222-23, 225, 227 legacy of, 227-29 reviews, 227-28

De Bont, Jan, 258 DeCuir, John, 22 Deep Blue Sea (film), 229 Deer Hunter, The (film), 10 De Laurentiis, Dino, 41 Delinquents, The (film), 109 Delon, Alain, 129 De Luca, Michael, 295-97, 301, 304-7, 310 de Mille, Agnes, 78 DeMille, Cecil B., 37 Deneuve, Catherine, 129 De Niro, Robert, 81, 267, 280, 292-93 Depardieu, Gérard, 299, 301 Depp, Johnny, 219, 293 Desert Bloom (film), 182 Desire Me (film), 2 Desperately Seeking Susan (film), 150 Devil Is a Woman, The (film), 2 Devil's Candy: The Bonfire of the Vanities Goes to Hollywood, The (book), 11 Devil's Rain, The (film), 272-73 De Vito, Danny, 200 Dharma 6- Greg (TV series), 299 Diamond, Legs, 125, 138 Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health (book), Dale, Esther. See May, Elaine 273 Daly, Robert, 262, 268 Diary of Anne Frank, The Damon, Matt, 271 (film), 18 Dance, Charles, 200 Diaz, Cameron, 279 Dances with Wolves (film), DiCaprio, Leonardo, 293 215,259-62,271 Dickinson, Angie, 49, 57 Dangerous Game (film), 165 Dick Tracy (film), 188,293 Darling Lili (film), 68, 102 Die Hard (film), 193, 196, Davis, Bette, 292 212 Davis, Geena, 11,215, Die Hard 2 (film), 215, 218, 217-19,221-26,228-29 224 Davis, John, 252 Die Hard: With a Vengeance Day, Doris, 65 (film), 210 Day-Lewis, Daniel, 219 Dietrich, Marlene, 154 Day of the Locust, The (film), Diller, Barry, 100-102, 143 88,94 Dillon, Matt, 139,309 Day, Richard, 52 Disclosure (film), 218 Days of Heaven (film), 272 Doctor Dolittle (film), 4, 39, Days of Wine and Roses (film), 66 68 Doctor Zhivago (film), 49 Deadly China Doll (film), Dog Day Afternoon (film), 80 213 $ (film), 300 Dead Presidents (film), 263 Donner, Richard, 258 Deal of the Century (film), Donnie Brasco (film), 302 258 Dooley, Paul, 111 Death Spa (film), 241 Double, The (film), 282

352 Douglas, Kirk, 19, 50, 271 Douglas, Michael, 214, 216-19,221,223,225, 232 Doumani, Edward, 129, 133, 137, 139, 141-42, 144-45, 147 Doumani, Fred, 129, 133, 137, 141-42, 144-45, 147 Doumani, Lorenzo, 147 Downey, Robert, Jr., 171 Dream Lover (film), 149 Driven (film), 229, 280, 290, 309 Drowning Pool, The (film), 258 Dukes, David, 89 Dumb and Dumber (film), 295 Dunaway, Faye, 292 Dune (film), 240 Dunne, Griffin, 165 Durante, Jimmy, 125 Durning, Charles, 149 Duvall, Robert, 49 Duvall, Shelley, 110-11, 118-20 Eagle, S. R See Spiegel, Sam Earthquake (film), 127 Eastwood, Clint, 69-71, 73-79,81, 194,261 Eastwood, Maggie, 73, 76 Edwards, Blake, 68, 278 Eggenweiler, Robert "Egg," 113-14 Eisner, Michael D., 101 Electric Horseman, The (film), 60 Elephant Walk (film), 26 Elfman, Jenna, 274, 299, 301, 303 Ellington, Duke, 125 Emmerich, Toby, 306 Enemy of the People, An (film), 271 Ensign Pulver (film), 68 Enter Laughing (film), 170 Equinox (film), 220 Eszterhas, Joe, 231-39, 242, 245-47 Evans, Bruce A., 217 Evans, Charles, 233-34, 239 Evans, Robert, 10, 61, 63-64, 66-67, 69, 75, 101-8, 110, 114, 117-19, 121-22, 124-41, 143-47, 233-34

/

INDEX

Evening with Mike Nichols and Elaine May, An (play), 169 Evita (film), 165 Exodus (film), 4 Experts, The (film), 273 Extremely Violent (film). See Last Action Hero (film)

Fonda, Jane, 48, 53-54, 57, 60,271,293 Fonda, Peter, 56, 81 Foote, Horton, 44, 50 Ford, Harrison, 153,216,253 Foreign Correspondent (film), 25 Forever Amber (film), 123 For Love of the Game (film), 268 Fairbanks, Douglas, Sr., 149 Falk, Peter, 170 Forrest Gump (film), 258 Fame (TV series), 241 Forsaken, The (film), 309 Family Man, The (film), 278 Fortune, The (film), 173 Fandango (film), 252-53, 257 48 Hrs. (film), 196 Fanny (film), 68 42nd Street (film), 231 Fanny (play), 68 Fourth Man, The (film), 235 Far and Away (film), 241 Fox (TV series), 153 Farraday's Flowers (book), Fox, James, 49, 57 Fox, William, 17 152-53 Farewell to Arms, A (film), 18 Fraker, William A., 74 Fast Times at Ridgemont High Frances (film), 260 Francis in the Navy (film), 69 (film), 150 Franzero, Charles Marie, Fatal Attraction (film), 242 Fathom (film), 156 20,22 Feibleman, Peter, 174 Freed, Arthur, 65 Feiffer, Jules, 105-6, 110, Freeman, Morgan, 245 Freeman, Paul, 160-61 115-16 Friedkin, William, 41 Fellini, Federico, 120, 177, Frogs (film), 240 238 Full Metal Jacket (film), 220 Ferguson, Larry, 198 Funicello, Annette, 81 Ferrer, José, 44 Funny Bones (film), 298 Field of Dreams (film), 260 Funny Girl (film), 63, 66 Fields, Burt, 305 Fields, Simon, 298, 303-4 Fiennes, Ralph, 219 Gable, Clark, 292 Final Cut: Dreams and Ganis, Sid, 199 Disaster in the Making of Garbo, Greta, 25 Gardner, Herb, 174 Heaven's Gate (book), 10 Garfield, Allen, 143 Finch, Peter, 26-27, 30 Gary, Romain, 70, 76 Finerman, Wendy, 258 First Blood (film), 128,212-13 Gassner, Dennis, 254 First Traveling Saleslady, The Gaup, Nils, 252 General's Daughter, The (film), 3 (film), 273, 278 First Wives Club, The (film), Gere, Richard, 10, 124, 299 Fishburne, Laurence, 138 130-32, 137-39, 141-42, Fisher, Eddie, 22-24, 27-29, 272 32-34, 66 Gershon, Gina, 240, 243-44, Fisher King, The (film), 200 247 F.l.S.T. (film), 233 Get Carter (film), 280, 290 Flashdance (film), 231,233 Get Shorty (film), 273 Fleiss, Heidi, 209-10 Giant (film), 50 Flesh + Blood (film), 235 Gibson, Mel, 194, 214, Flintstones, The (film), 241 252-53,271 Floris (TV series), 234 Gideon, Raynold, 217 Flynn, Errol, 215 Gigi (film), 64, 297 Fly, The (film), 218 Gigli (film), 8 Foley, Jim, 160 Gimme a Break (TV series), Fonda, Henry, 56 240

INDEX Gladiator (film), 289 Goddardjim, 153,155-58, 160 Godfather, The (film), 10, 60, 110, 123-29, 131, 147 Godspell (play), 83 Goldblum jeff, 218 Golden Boy (play), 51 GoldenEye (film), 250 Goldman, William, 197-98 Goldstein, Bob, 26-27 Goldwyn, Samuel, 45 Gone With the Wind (film), 37,99, 123, 128 Goodbye, Columbus (film), 78 Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, The (film), 69 Good Will Hunting (film), 271 Gordon, Charles, 253 Gordon, Lawrence, 252-53 Gorman, James, 217 Gosford Park (film), 121 Graduate, The (film), 170 Grant, Cary, 23, 292 Gray, Harold, 101 Grayson, Kathryn, 65 Grease (film), 102, 272 Great Gatsby, The (film), 90 Greed (film), 2 Green Mile, The (film), 284 Grier, Pam, 267 Griffith, D. W., 1-2 Grodin, Charles, 170, 174, 177 Grosbard, Ulu, 175 Guber, Peter, 192-93, 195, 197-98,210 Guilaroff, Sydney, 17 Gunderson, Karen, 64 Guru, The (film), 83 Gwynne, Fred, 138 Hackett, Buddy, 111 Hackman, Gene, 81,214 Haifa Sixpence (film), 66, 102 Haller, Melanie, 135 Hamilton, Murray, 44 Hamlisch, Marvin, 281 Hämmert, Dashiell, 45, 50 Hang 'Em High (film), 69 Hanks, Tom, 155,258 Hanson, Curtis, 268 Happening, The (film), 60 Happiest Millionaire, The (film), 70 Harlin, Renny, 215-26, 228-29, 232 Harold and Maude (film), 108

/

353

Harrison, George, 153, 155, 159, 161-62,164-65 Harrison, Rex, 30, 32, 35, 38 Hartnett, Josh, 263, 299 Harvey Finkelstein's Sock Puppet "Showgirl" (play), 247 Haskins, James, 125 Hawn, Goldie, 299-300, 302, 310 Hayes, Isaac, 274 Hayward, Susan, 19, 23-24 Health (film), 109, 113 Hear My Song (film), 298 Heartbreak Kid, The (film), 170, 174 Heartland (play), 150 Heat (film), 250 Heaven Can Wait (film), 171, 173-74, 302 Heavens Gate (film), 8, 10-11, 121, 123, 168, 188, 191, 212,256,294,310 Heinlein, Robert A., 275 Helgeland, Brian, 258, 268 Hellman, Lillian, 45-46, 48-52, 58, 60 Hello, Dolly! (film), 39, 79 He//s Ange/s (film), 85 Hell Up in Harlem (film), 82 Henry 6 June (film), 237, 245 Henry, Buck, 302-4 Hepburn, Audrey, 24, 292 Hepburn, Katharine, 43, 65, 79, 292 Hero (film), 217 Heroes of Telemark, The (film), 50 Heston, Charlton, 299 High Noon (film), 50 Highway to Hell (film), 258 Hill, Bernard, 156, 160 Hill, Derek R., 263 Hilyard, Jack, 30 Hines, Gregory, 129, 137-39, 149 Hines, Maurice, 138 History of the American Cinema —Volume 8: The Sixties: 1960-1969 (book), 39 Hitchcock, Alfred, 25 Hodiak, John, 44 Hoffman, Dustin, 11, 104, 106-7, 170-79, 181, 183-84, 186, 188, 261, 267 Hoffman, Peter, 214

Holden, William, 24 Holiday for Lovers (film), 18 Holliday, Judy, 156 Hollow Man (film), 247 Hook (film), 215 Hope, Bob, 173, 175 Hopkins, Miriam, 49, 55 Hopper, Dennis, 156, 254 Home, Lena, 125 Hoskins, Bob, 138, 140 Hound-Dog Man (film), 18 Householder, The (film), 83 House ofBuggin (TV series), 301 House of Usher, The (film), 81 House Un-American Activities Committee, 16, 44-45 Howard, John Newton, 263 Howard, Ron, 258 Howard the Duck (film), 212 Howes, Sally Ann, 70 Hubbard, L. Ron, 12,271, 273-77, 287, 291 Hudson Hawk (film), 7, 191, 194,207,212,271 Hunter, Kim, 44 Hunt for Red October, The (film), 196, 198 Hurlyburly (film), 165, 301 Hurt, Wesley Ivan, 111, 120 Huston, John, 42 Hyams, Joe, 35 Hyer, Martha, 49 Hyland, Diana, 49 Immerman, William J., 276 Immortal (film), 279 In Cold Blood (film), 72 In the Cool of the Day (film), 48 In the French Style (film), 70 Inn of the Sixth Happiness, The (film), 18 In the Spirit (film), 188 Intolerance (film), 1 Ishtar (film), 8, 11, 123, 167-89, 256, 289, 293-94, 310 casting of, 172, 174-77 financial costs of, 174-75, 178, 180, 187, 189, 191 legacy of, 187-89 reviews, 186-87 Island of Dr. Moreau, The (film), 295 Island in the Sun (film), 18 Ivory, James, 10, 82-83, 85-86, 88-99 I Want to Live! (film), 19

354 Jackie Brown (film), 267 Jackson, Samuel L., 229 Jacobs, Elaine "Lanie," 134-36, 146 Jacobson, Dr. Max, 66 jade (film), 234 Jaffe, Leo, 43 Jagged Edge (film), 231, 234 Jakob the Liar (film), 271 Jaws (film), 4, 80-81,211 Jensen, John, 276 Jersey Girl (film), 8 JFK (film), 260, 263 Joan of Arc (film), 18 Joanna (film), 296 John Loves Mary (play), 68 Jones, Jennifer, 23 Josephson, Barry, 197, 199, 209 Journey's End (film), 85 Journey to the Center of the Earth (film), 18 Joy House (film), 48 Judgment at Nuremberg (film), 4 Julia (film), 60 Julius Caesar (film), 31 Jumanji (film), 250 Jungle Book, The (film), 241 Jurassic Park (film), 199, 201, 207 Kansas City (film), 113 Karsch, Andrew, 304 Karsenti, Sabine, 284 Kassar, Mario, 213-17, 219, 224-27, 229, 232-33, 235-36, 280 Katzenberg, Jeffrey, 191 Kazan, Elia, 42, 51 Keaton, Buster, 193 Keaton, Diane, 150,293, 299-304,310 Keaton, Michael, 219, 258 Keel, Howard, 73 Keitel, Harvey, 237 Kellerman, Sally, 278 Kennedy (TV series), 153 Kennedy, William, 138, 140, 144 Kenrik, Tony, 152 Kerkorian, Kirk, 149 Khashoggi, Adnan, 127-28, 130 Kidd, Michael, 78 Kidman, Nicole, 149, 273 Kid Stays in the Picture, The (book), 119, 147 Killing Fields, The (film), 183-84

/

I N D E X

Lauren, Ralph, 90 Law Man (film), 69 Lawrence of Arabia (film), 41, 43-44, 49, 52 Lawson, Jonathan, 135 League of Their Own, A (film), 217 Lean, David, 42, 51 Leff, Adam, 193-94, 198 Left-Handed Gun, The (film), 51 Leigh, Janet, 149 Lennon, John, 111 Leonard Part 6 (film), 182-83 Leone, Sergio, 69 Lerner, Alan Jay, 64-72, 74-75, 77-79 L.A. Confidential (film), 258, Lerner, Max, 29 Lethal Weapon (film), 193-94, 268 196,212 Ladd, Alan, Jr., 149,153 LethalWeapon 3 {film), 212 Lady Jane (film), 241 Letter to Three Wives, A (film), Lamas, Fernando, 65 Lamour, Dorothy, 173 31 Lancaster, Burt, 23, 51,271, Levathes, Peter G., 35 292 Levine, Joseph E., 41 Landau, Ely, 41 Levinson, Barry, 258 Land of the Pharaohs (film), 21 Levy, Peter, 222 Lewis, Jerry, 298 Land That Time Forgot, The Lewis, Juliette, 274 (film), 82 Life and Times of Cleopatra, Lane, Burton, 64 Lane, Diane, 138, 141 The (book), 20, 22 Lang, Jennings, 18 L'z7AZ>ner(film), 103 Langella, Frank, 220, 224 Lili (film), 297 Lansbury, Edgar, 83, 85, Lilies of the Field (ñ\m), 18 Lilith (film), 70 93-95 Larry Sanders Show, The (TV List, The (TV show), 288 Lisztomania (film), 183 series), 301 Little Foxes, The (play), 45 LaShelle, Joseph, 52 Little Murders (play), 106 Lassally, Walter, 90, 93 Last Action Hero (film), 6, 11, Little Orphan Annie (cartoon strip), 101 123,190-210,212,256, Little Prince, The (film), 79, 102 310 Little Richard, 200 casting of, 194-97, 200 Local Hero (film), 183 financial costs of, 194-96, LockUp (film), 213 198, 200, 202, 206, 208 Loewe, Frederick, 64, 67, 69, legacy of, 206, 208-10 reviews, 205-7 79 Last Boy Scout, The (film), Logan, Joshua, 68-79 196 Lo/ita (film), 216, 233 Last Days ofFrankie the Fly, Lollobrigida, Gina, 24 Longest Day, The (film), 26, The (film), 279 Last Man Standing (film), 295 36, 276 Last of the Red Hot Lovers, Long Kiss Goodnight, The The (play), 86 (film), 228, 295 Long, Shelley, 15 5 Last of Sheila, The (film), 88, Looking for Mr. Goodbar 91 Last Tango in Paris (film), 177 (film), 130 Laughlin, Michael S., 296, Look Who's Talking (film), 272,278 298-99, 301 Kindergarten Cop (film), 195 King David (film), 130 King and I, The (film), 18 King, Perry, 89, 94, 98 King Rat (film), 49 King, Robert, 221 Kingsley, Pat, 307 Kinski, Nastassja, 299 Klute (film), 60 Kober, Arthur, 45 Kohn,John, 152-57, 160 Krane, Jonathan D., 277-78, 281, 290 Krevoy, Brad, 252 Kroeger, Wolf, 113-14,222 Kubrick, Stanley, 80, 111

INDEX Lopez, Jennifer, 8, 280 Loren, Sophia, 24 Love Affair (film), 271,294, 297, 301

/

355

Matthews, Marilyn, 137 Max, Peter, 77 May, Elaine, 11, 169-82, 186-89 LOVÉ? IS a Gun (film), 278 Mayer, Louis B., 3, 65-66, 127 Lovell, Dyson, 133, 141 May, Jeannie, 170 Love Me Tender (film), 18 May, Marvin, 169 Love Story (film), 125 McCabe and Mrs. Miller Lucas, George, 41, 283 (film), 109, 173 McCartney, Paul, 111 Luciano, Lucky, 125 Lucky Numbers (film), 290 McDowall, Roddy, 31 Lumet, Sidney, 80 McElwaine, Guy, 173-74, Luv (film), 170 176, 182 McGillis, Kelly, 153 Lynch, David, 240 McGovern, Elizabeth, 150, Lynne, Michael, 295 154 McKee, Lonette, 138 MacDowell, Andie, 299 McKellen, Sir Ian, 200 MacGraw, Ali, 78 McNichol, Kristy, 149 MacLachlan, Kyle, 240-43, McQueen, Steve, 81, 271 247 McTiernan, John, 196-99, MacLaine, Shirley, 30 203-4, 208, 210 MacLeod, David, 174 Mad City (fi\m), 261,268, 273 Meat Market (film), 248 Mad Max (film), 252, 267 Medavoy, Mike, 192 Madonna, 149-52,154-66, Melba (film), 42 Melody (film), 182 239 Menace II Society (film), 263 Magus, The (film), 152 Merchant, Ismail, 10, 83, 92, Mahler (film), 182 Mamoulian, Rouben, 25-26, 94-95 Mesmerized (film), 297 28-29 Message in a Bottle (film), 268 Mancuso, Frank, 188, 236 Michael (film), 273, 295 Mandell, Corey, 281, 283, 286 Mickey One (ñ\m), 51, 58 Mankiewicz, Joseph L., 22, Midnight Cowboy (film), 112 28-31,33-37,39,42,51 Midnight Express (film), 183 Mann, Stanley, 152 Midnight in the Garden of Man of a Thousand Faces Good and Evil (film), (film), 61 Man of La Mancha (film), 86 261, 268 Many Loves ofDobie Gillis, Mighty, The (film), 298 Mikey and Nicky (film), The (TV series), 152 Marathon Man (film), 101, 170-71 104, 126 Milford, Gene, 57 March, Joseph Moncure, Miller, Henry, 237 Miracle Worker, The (film), 51 83-85, 99 Miracle Worker, The (play), 51 Marcus, Michael, 236 Mirisch, Harold, 41 Mardigan, Ron, 262 Mirisch, Marvin, 41 Marks, Walter, 83, 85, 92, 95 Married to the Mob (film), 220 Mirisch, Walter, 41 Mirojnick, Ellen, 242 Marshall, E. G., 49 Marvin, Lee, 68-70, 73, 75-79 Mister Roberts (play), 68 Mistress of the Seas (projected Mczry Poppins (film), 62 M*A*S*H (film), 109 film), 215, 219, 235 Mask, The (film), 295 Mixed Nuts (film), 301 Mason, James, 88, 91 Modine, Matthew, 219-21, Masters, George, 87 223-24, 228 Masterson, Mary Stuart, 264 Moffat, Ivan, 50 Matter of Position, A (play), Mo//y 6 Gina (film), 240 Moment by Moment (film), 169 Matthau, Walter, 170 272

Monaco, Paul, 39 Money Pit, The (film), 155 Money Train (film), 250 Monkey Shines (film), 233 Monroe, Marilyn, 23 Moore, Chris, 194 Moore, Demi, 242, 271 Mork ó Mindy (TV series), 107, 117 Moskowitz, Joseph, 21 Movies Kill (film), 278 Movie stars, real people, and me (book), 79 Murphy, Eddie, 187-88 Music Box (film), 231 Mutiny on the Bounty (film), 4,47 Myers, Mike, 296 My Fair Lady (film), 62, 64, 69,86 My Fair Lady (play), 64, 70 My Life with Cleopatra (book), 36 Myra Breckinridge (film), 87, 231 Myron, Ben, 233-35 Mystic River (film), 165 Naked Gun (film), 196 Nana (film), 2 Narrow Margin (film), 214, 242 Nashville (film), 80, 109 Nathanson, Michael, 197, 209-10 Neeson, Liam, 219 New Kids, The (film), 182 New Leaf, A (film), 170, 177 Newman, Paul, 51,81, 149 Newman, Randy, 111 Newton-John, Olivia, 102 Nicholas and Alexandra (film), 41,60 Nichols, David, 222 Nichols, Mike, 109, 169-70, 188 Nicholson, Jack, 81, 104,111, 146, 267, 280 Nicholson, James H., 22, 24-36, 81-82 Nickel Ride, The (film), 258 Nightmare on Elm Street, A (film), 295 Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master, A (film), 218 Night of the Generals, The (film), 60 Nilsson, Harry, 111-12, 116

356 976-EVÍL (film), 258 Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, 77 Nixon (film), 250 Nixon, Chris, 159 Norman, Marc, 222 North, Alex, 37 Nostradamus (film), 283 Novak, Kim, 23, 30, 66 Novarese, Vittorio Nino, 29 No Way Out (film), 260, 263 Nuttgen, Giles, 284

/

INDEX

Parks, Van Dyke, 116 Parnell (film), 2 Patton, Will, 263 Peck, Gregory, 292 Pecorini, Nicola, 222 Penn, Arthur, 51-55, 57-60, 109, 198 Penn, Eileen (Ryan), 150 Penn, Sean, 150-52,154-65, 280, 293 Penn, Zak, 193-94 Pepper, Barry, 284-85 O'Brien, Austin, 200 Perfect (film), 272, 277 O'Brien, Denis, 153 Perfect Couple, A (film), 109 Perfect World, A (film), 261 Odd Couple, The (film), 125 Officer and a Gentleman, An Peter Pan (film), 215 Peters, Jon, 192-193,215-16, (film), 130,272 Old Dracula (film), 82 235 Old Gringo (film), 271 Petty, Tom, 263 Oliver! (film), 66 Peyton Place (film), 17-18, 50 Olivier, Sir Laurence, 23, 200 Pfeiffer, Michelle, 216 Once Upon a Time in Phenomenon (film), 284 Picker, David, 186 Shanghai (film), 297 Pickford, Mary, 149 On a Clear Day You Can See Pick-Up Artist, The (film), 171 Forever (film), 79, 102 Picnic (film), 68 On a Clear Day You Can See Pied Piper, The (film), 182 Forever (play), 64-66 Pierson, Tom, 116 One Day at McCool's (film), Pirates (film), 215 309 Pirates of the Caribbean: The One from the Heart (film), 132 Curse of the Black Pearl One Million Years B.C. (film), (film), 229 87 Pitt, Brad, 245 Onion Field, The (film), 258 Place in the Sun, A (film), 44 Only Game in Town, The Piatt, Oliver, 298 (film), 173 Player, The (film), 121,240 On the Waterfront (film), Players (film), 101, 126-27 Pleasantville (film), 303 41-43,47,55,57 Pledge, The (film), 280, 290 Open Range (film), 268 Plowright, Joan, 200 Ordinary People (film), 60 Poitier, Sidney, 38 O'Toole, Peter, 42, 48-49 Polanski, Roman, 215, 282 Outlaw Blues (film), 258 Poltergeist II: The Other Side Out of Bounds (film), 182 Outsiders, The (film), 132 (film), 149 Over Here! (play), 272 Polyester (film), 295 Pomerhn-Derricks, Pacino, Al, 81, 128,293,300 Marguerite, 241 Paint Your Wagon (film), 9, Ponti, Carlo, 41 61-79, 102 Popeye (film), 10, 100-22, casting of, 68-71,73-74 12CÌ40 financial costs of, 67, casting of, 104-8, 110-11 69-70, 73, 76, 78 financial costs of, 113-14, legacy of, 79 118-19, 121 reviews, 77-79 legacy of, 107, 121-22 Paint Your Wagon (play), reviews, 119-21 64-65, 78 Popeye (TV series), 104 Palm Beach Story, The (film), Popeye, the Sailor Man 297 (animated cartoon), 104 Parker, Suzy, 22 Porgy and Bess (film), 25

Postino, Il (film), 265 Postman, The (film), 112, 249-69 casting of, 258-59, 262-64 financial costs of, 259, 264, 267-68 legacy of, 268-69 reviews, 267-68 Postman Always Rings Twice, The (film), 266 Power, Tyrone, 19 Prather, Joan, 273 Predator (film), 196 Preminger, Otto, 70, 170 Presley, Elvis, 87 Presley, Lisa Marie, 274 Presley, Priscilla, 274 Presnell, Harve, 73 Preston, Kelly, 273, 278, 281, 284 Pretty in Pink (film), 240 Previn, André, 65, 67 Price, Vincent, 81 Primary Colors (film), 188, 273,278 Prince, 151,241 Professionals, The (film), 72, 75 Promise Her Anything (film), 293 Prophet, Melissa, 127, 129, 139 Prosky, Robert, 200 Protocol (film), 302 Pryor, Richard, 129 Pulp Fiction (film), 272, 287 Purple Rose of Cairo, The (film), 193 Puttnam, David, 182-86, 188-89 Puzo, Mario, 127-28, 131, 140 Queen Christina (film), 25 Quicksilver (film), 182 Quinn, Anthony, 200 Quinn, Pat, 49 Quintet (film), 109, 113 Racing with the Moon (film), 150,152, 154 Rader, Peter, 252-53 Radin, Roy, 123, 134-36, 146 Radner, Gilda, 108, 110 Rain Man (film), 188 Rambling Rose (film), 218 Rambo III (film), 213 Ransohoff, Martin, 41

INDEX Ransom, Ida, 263 Rapa Nui (film), 253, 257, 261,263 Rawhide (TV series), 69 Red Badge of Courage, The (film), 3 Redford, Robert, 48-49, 55, 60,81 Redgrave, Vanessa, 183 Red Heat (film), 194 Reds (film), 171, 173-74, 176-77, 184, 300 Reed, Oliver, 222-23 Reefer Madness (film), 295 Reeves, Keanu, 219 Reilly. Ace of Spies (TV series), 153 Reiser, Paul, 309 Remarkable Mr. Pennypacker, The (film), 18 Remini, Leah, 274 Repossessed (film), 213 Return of the Fly (film), 18 Return to Macon County (film), 82 Revenge (film), 260 Reynolds, Burt, 81 Reynolds, Debbie, 22-23 Reynolds, Kevin, 215, 252-55, 257 Ribisi, Giovanni, 274 Riddle, Nelson, 77 Riffel, Rene, 241 Ringwald, Molly, 171 Rz'of on Sunset Strip (film), 82 Risky Business (film), 258 Ritchie, Guy, 165-66 Robe, The (film), 17, 19, 30 Roberts, Julia, 293 Robin Hood: Men in Tights (film), 276 Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (film), 215,252-53, 257, 260, 263 RoboCop (film), 231, 235 Rocky (film), 128,212,271 Rocky Horror Picture Show, The (film), 231 Rogell, Sid, 27 Rogers, Mimi, 274 Romancing the Stone (film), 217 Rooney, Bridget, 261 Rooney, Mickey, 66 Roots of Heaven, The (film), 18 Rosemary's Baby (film), 125 Ross, Gary, 303

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357

Roth, Eric, 258, 262 Roth, Steve, 194-95, 209-10 Rotunno, Giuseppe, 120, 177 Roustabout (film), 87 Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In (TV series), 300 Royal Wedding (film), 64 Ruehl, Mercedes, 200, 216 Rule, Janice, 49 Rumble Fish (film), 132 Rumpole of the Bailey (TV series), 153 Running Scared (film), 149 Rush Hour (film), 295 Russell, Ken, 182 Russell, Kurt, 219, 300 Ruthless People (film), 155 Sabrina (film), 250 Saint Joan (film), 3, 70 Salamon, Julie, 11 Salome, Where She Danced (film), 18 Samaha, Elie, 278-81, 283, 289-91 Samson and Delilah (film), 17 Sandler, Adam, 296 Santi, Lionello, 26 Sara (TV series), 217 Saturday Night Fever (film), 272 Savages (film), 26, 83 Saved by the Bell (TV series), 240 Saving Private Ryan (film), 284 Sayonara (film), 68 Sayyah, Victor, 129, 133, 137, 139 Scandal at Scourie (film), 3 Scapegoat, The (film), 3 Scarlet Letter, The (film), 247, 250,271 Schmader, David, 247 Schulberg, Budd, 43 Schwarzenegger, Arnold, 6, 11, 194-204,208-10, 213-14,216,229,232, 235 Scientology, 12, 271, 273-74, 276-77, 287-88, 291 Scorsese, Martin, 41 Sea Hawk, The (film), 215 Seberg, Jean, 70-71,73, 76-79 Segar, E. C. "Elzie," 103, 106 Selleck, Tom, 153 Selznick, David O., 128

Semel, Terry, 258, 261-62, 268 Sender, The (film), 283 Serendipity (film), 310 Servant, The (film), 49 Ser It Off (film), 295 "Set-Up, The" (poem), 85 Seven (film), 245 Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (film), 78 Sex and the City (TV series), 247 Shakespeare Wallah (film), 83 Shall We Dance? (film), 310 Shampoo (film), 108, 173, 300 Shamroy, Leon, 30 Shandling, Garry, 301,303 Shanghai Express (film), 154 Shanghai Surprise (film), 10, 148-66 casting of, 152-57, 160 financial costs of, 155, 160, 164 legacy of, 164-66 reviews, 163-64 Shapiro, J D, 276, 283, 290 Sharaff, Irene, 29 Sharif, Omar, 42 Shaw, Tom, 72, 74, 76 Shaye, Robert, 295-96 Sheba Baby (film), 82 Sheen, Charlie, 219 Sheinberg, Sidney, 255 Sherlock, Jr. (film), 193 Shilliday, Susan, 218 Shining, The (film), 111 Ship of Fools (film), 73 Shipment, The (film), 248 Shipping News, The (film), 278 Showgirls (film), 11,216, 230-48 casting of, 239-41 financial costs of, 234, 238, 246 legacy of, 246-48 reviews, 231, 246 Shriver, Maria, 200 Sick, Sick, Sick: A Guide to Non-Confident Munro (cartoon), 105 Siegel, Don, 67 Signal Seven (film), 233 Silk Stockings (film), 25 Silva, Cindy, 260 Silverado (film), 153,260,263 Silver, Joel, 199 Silver Spoons (TV series), 240 Simon, Neil, 170

358 Sisman, Ron, 135 Sizzle Beach, U.S.A. (film), 260 Skidoo (film), 112 Skouras, Spyros P., 17-30, 35-36, 38 Sly Fox (play), 248 Smith, Paul L., I l l Smith, Will, 293 Smuggler (TV series), 153 Soldier of Orange (film), 235 Solomon and Sheba (film), 19 Sound and the Fury, The (film), 18 Sound of Music, The (film), 4, 9, 38, 62 South Pacific (film), 18,68, 74 South Pacific (play), 68 Spacey, Kevin, 271,278-79 Spartacus (film), 19, 271 Species (film), 284 Speechless (film), 217 Speed {fi\m), 212, 242 Speeters (film), 231 Spencer, Norman, 43 Sphere (film), 302 Spider-Man (film), 102 Spiegel, Sam, 41-60 Spielberg, Steven, 41, 80, 153, 199,201,211 Spilotro, Anthony, 142 Spirit of St. Louis, The (film), 3 Splendor in the Grass (film), 293 Stacy's Knights (film), 258 Stallone, Sylvester, 128-29, 131, 194,213,232-33, 271,280,289,309 Standing Room Only (planned film), 281-83 Stanley, Kim, 44 Star! (film), 67 Stargate (film), 233 Stark, Ray, 41 Starship (film), 283 Starship Troopers (film), 247, 277 Star Wars (film), 212, 251, 275-76, 283 State of Grace (film), 165 Steel, Dawn, 189 Stevens, Andrew, 279 Stevens, George, 28 Stewart, David A., 241 Stone, Oliver, 7 Stone, Sharon, 200, 214, 216, 298 Storaro, Vittorio, 177, 179

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INDEX

Strange Behavior (film), 297 Strange One, The (film), 42 Stranger, The (film), 41 Streamers (film), 219 Streisand, Barbra, 63, 66, 81, 271 Striptease (film), 242 Stuart Little (film), 229 Sturges, Preston, 297 Such Good Friends (film), 170 Suddenly Last Summer (film),

Thimble Theater (cartoon strip), 103-4 Thimble Theater, Starring Popeye (cartoon strip), 104 Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her (film), 279 Thomas, Mario, 174 Thompson, Tommy, 113-14 Thoroughly Modem Millie (film), 62-63 22-23,41,43 Three Faces of Eve, The (film), Summer Holiday (film), 25 21 Sun Also Rises, The (film), 18 Three Musketeers, The (film), Sunday in New York (film), 48 87 Supergirl (film), 212 3000 Miles to Graceland Superman (cartoon strip), 102 (film), 268, 280, 290 Superman (film), 102, 114, Three Women (film), 109, 111 Time Machine, The (book), 122, 127,212,251 Surtees, Robert, 52 275 Sutter's Gold (film), 2 Tin Cup (film), 261 Swanson, Gloria, 125 Tisch, Steve, 258 Swashbuckler (film), 215 Titanic (film), 264, 267, 309 Sweet Charity (film), 67 Todd, Mike, 20, 22, 24, 33 Swimmer, The (film), 271 To Die For (film), 302 Swiss Family Robinson (film), To Kill a Mockingbird (film), 276 50 Sword and the Flute, The Tom Jones (film), 38 Tomlin, Lily, 108 (film), 83 Tootsie (film), 171-72,217, Sylbert, Paul, 177-79 Sylbert, Richard, 101, 105, 233 Top Gun (film), 153,220,254 133,177 Tora! Tora! Tora! (film), 39 Total Recall (film), 194, 196, Tabet, Sylvio, 140, 142 208,213-15,231,235 Tail Lights Fade (film), 248 Tales of Manhattan (film), 41 Touch of Evil (film), 238 Town ó Country (film), 12, Taps (film), 150 Tarantino, Quentin, 272 123,292-310 Tate, Larenz, 263 casting of, 298-302 Tatopoulos, Patrick, 284 financial costs of, 298-99, Taylor, Elizabeth, 9, 15, 303, 306-9 legacy of, 309-10 20-39, 43, 66, 149, 292 reviews, 304, 308-9 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Toys in the Attic (play), 45, 51 (film), 295, 298 Tracy, Spencer, 65, 292 Tejada, Raquel. See Welch, Train, The (film), 51 Raquel Travolta, Ellen, 272 Ten Commandments, The Travolta, John, 7, 12, 101-2, (film), 19 Terminator (film), 212 111,261,271-78, Terminator 2: judgment Day 281-91 (film), 194-95,214 Travolta, Salvatore, 272 Terminator 3: Rise of the Trial and Error (film), 303 Machines (film), 229 Trióla, Michelle, 73 Theater of Blood (film), 152 Tripplehorn, Jeanne, 255, 262 Thelma Ó Louise (film), 217 True Lies (film), 210 Theron, Charlize, 240 Truscott, John, 71, 72 Thieves Like Us (film), 109, Tucker, Chris, 296 Turih'sn Delight (film), 235 113

INDEX Turner, Ted, 149, 295 Turner, Tina, 200 Twin Peaks (TV series), 240 Twins (film), 195, 197 Twoby, David, 253 Two for the Seesaw (play), 51 Two Jakes, The (film), 146 Two-Lane Blacktop (film), 296 Two of a Kind (film), 272 2001: A Space Odyssey (film), 276

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359

Warren, Lesley Ann, 70 Watch on the River Rhine (play), 45 Watchers (film), 213 Waters, Ethel, 125 Waters, John, 295 Waterston, Sam, 184 Waterworld (film), 8, 11,220, 226-27, 249-69, 284, 294 casting of, 252-53, 255 financial costs of, 226, 250, 252-54, 256 Ugly American, The (film) legacy of, 250, 256-57 (1963), 47 reviews, 255-56 Underworld (film), 283 Unfaithfully Yours (film), 297 Wayans, Damon, 200 Untouchables, The (film), 260 Wayne, John, 195 Webb, Clifton, 18 Urban Cowboy (film), 101, Wedding, A (film), 109 111,114,126,272 Wedding Singer (film), 295 Welch, Raquel, 9, 82, 86-89, Vadim, Roger, 48, 53, 57 Vagabond King, The (film), 3 91-96,98,156 Vajna, Andrew G., 213-14, Welcome Back, Kotter (TV 229,280 series), 272 Valenti, Jack, 245 Welles, Orson, 42, 238 Valley of the Dolls (film), 231 Wells, H. G., 275 Van Damme, Jean-Claude, 200 Weston, Jack, 177 Van Sant, Gus, 281, 302 Wexler, Jerry, 133, 137 Velardi, Valerie, 115 What's Up? (play), 64 Verhoeven, Paul, 196,215-16, Whedon, Joss, 254 Where Eagles Dare (film), 231-32,234-40,242, 69-71 245-48 Where the River Runs Black Verne, Jules, 18 (film), 149 Vessey, Tricia, 299 Whisperers, The (film), 296 Vincent, Francis "Fay," 174, Whitaker, Forest, 284 182,185 White Water Summer (film), Vision Quest (film), 150 252 Who Framed Roger Rabbit Wagner, Robert, 149 Wag the Dog (film), 267 (film), 193 Waite, Genevieve, 296 Whole Nine Yards, The (film), Wait Until Dark (play), 57 280, 290 Wald, Jerry, 17-18 Who's Afraid of Virginia Walking Tall, Part 2 (film), 82 Woolf! (film), 39, 170 Walston, Ray, 74, 111, 120 Who's That Girl? (film), 165 Wanger, Walter, 18-27, Wild Angels, The (film), 82 30-31, 35-36, 39 Wild Party, The (film), 9, War, The (film), 261 80-99 Warner, Jack L., 3, 127 casting of, 86-89

financial costs of, 88 legacy of, 97-99 reviews, 94-98 "Wild Party, The" (poem), 83-85, 99 Wild in the Streets (film), 82 Williams, Elmo, 36 Williams, Olivia, 262, 266 Williams, Paul, 49, 181 Williams, Robin, 107-8, 110, 112,115-18,120,122, 258,271 Williams, Tennessee, 22, 43 Willis, Bruce, 7, 194-95, 210, 218,253,271,280 Willow (film), 241 Wilson (film), 2 Wilson, Demond, 136 Wilson, Jim, 258-59, 262 Wilson, Michael, 44-46 Wind (film), 220 Wind, The (film), 2 Windon, Stephen F., 263 Wiz, The (film), 127 Wizard of Oz, T/ie (film), 196 Wolfen (film), 258 Wolfe, Tom, 11, 191 Wolinski, David, 162 Wood, Natalie, 149 Wood, Oliver, 222 Woodward, Joanne, 21-23, 149 Wright, Robin, 165 WyattEarp (film), 261,263 Wyler, William, 51 X-Men (film), 102 Yellowbeard (film), 215 Yentl (film), 271 Young Swingers, The (film), 64 Zanuck, Darryl F., 3, 17-18, 26, 35-36, 38-39, 127 Zanuck, Richard, 35, 38 Zinnemann, Fred, 51 Zorba the Greek (film), 90

About the Author

James Robert Parish, a former entertainment reporter, publicist, and book series editor, is the author of many published major biographies and reference books on the entertainment industry, including Katharine Hepburn: The Untold Story, The Hollywood Book of Scandals, Whitney Houston, The Hollywood Book of Love, Hollywood Divas, Hollywood Bad Boys, The Encyclopedia of Ethnic Groups in Hollywood, Jet Li, The Hollywood Book of Death, Gus Van Sant, Jason Biggs, Whoopi Goldberg, Rosie O'Donnell's Story, The Unofficial "Murder, She Wrote" Casebook, Let's Talk! America's Favorite TV Talk Show Hosts, Gays and Lesbians in Mainstream Cinema, The Great Cop Pictures, Ghosts and Angels in Hollywood Films, Prison Pictures from Hollywood, The Hollywood Reliables, The RKO Gals, and Hollywood's Great Love Teams. Mr. Parish is a frequent on-camera interviewee on cable and network TV for documentaries on the performing arts in both the United States and the United Kingdom. He resides in Studio City, California. His Web site is www.jamesrobertparish.com.