Hooray for Hollywood

Whenever someone in Hollywood tells you “Hello,” their true meaning is “Goodbye.” If they come up to you and plant a kiss on your cheek and tell you how much they love you, it’s really similar to a kiss from a particularly odious cosa nostra Don who, after ordering your death contract, arranges your funeral with tears of remorse streaming down both of his swarthy cheeks. I have been in many negotiations where I knew the other side was trying their level best to screw me, but in H-wood, one never knows where they stand, even after a deal is consummated. The one thing you find out in short order is, they are going to screw you, and the only suspense is how they are going to do it.

            This particular saga begins in Paris in the early summer of 1975. Strolling around the Left Bank, hopping from one sidewalk café to another, I appeared on the surface to be a resolute, and possibly a secure man. But I was merely your pathetic hero, just waiting for the hunter to spring his trap. And spring he did.

            A friend of mine from college, Laurence Snelling, was a writer-in-residence in Paris. He lived in a pied a terre in the 14^th arrondissement where he plied his scribbling trade.

            Larry is a tortured human being. My guess is his father’s suicide contributed greatly to his psychological disorders. His academic brilliance was always offset by his laziness and reluctance to face head on, anything out of his structured world. His widowed mother forced him to attend Sewanee instead of Princeton, where he envisioned he would be aligned with the F. Scott Fitzgerald branch of that vaunted institution, and he resented this missed opportunity, greatly. As far as I know, he still writes his novels, in bed, with a fountain pen, and eschews the computer as if it were a pariah, most vicious. His sexual appetite is legion, and no prey is off limits to him.

            He attended Harvard Law School for one year and quit. His stated reason being, “The law was not for him.” I figured, once Larry realized he would be eaten up in a competitive world, he chose to write instead. He has had about six fictional novels published in his name, along with two mystery type books under the pseudonym of Peter Mallory. Most of his adult life was spent in Europe, primarily in France and Italy, and presently, he lives in New Orleans with his five cats. For all the time he lived in Europe, he was married to a lovely, intelligent, and long suffering wife, Virginia, whose saving grace was, she was rich as Croesus. Her wealth permitted Larry to live in a style far in excess of his means.

            Snelling was fairly successful with his first three novels in the early to late sixties, but since then, had found it more difficult to sell his works, particularly since he fired his agent, Sterling Lord. His way out of this declining slump was to have one of his first books made into a movie. He assumed once a movie was made, he could sweep out his closet and republish those books that formerly did not sell particularly well or those he had not yet succeeded in getting published. All I knew at that time about a movie was, you walk up to a little kiosk, plunk down a few dollars, they sell you a ticket, and you gain entrance to a theater where someone shows you a flick. That’s seeing a movie; making one is something vastly different. In my naiveté, I actually didn’t fathom the difference.

            Larry introduced me to a friend of his, Robert (Bob) Swaim, a movie director, who also lived in Paris. Bob Swaim was young and charming, with a beautiful French wife, and several children. He lived in a lovely apartment, spoke perfect French, and thoroughly enjoyed being recognized as someone involved in the movie industry.

            However, what I eventually found out is, everyone in that phony trade is constantly trying to be someone or something else. In Swaim’s case, he wanted to direct a major movie. Up until this point he had only done commercials and minor movies, all in French. He convinced Snelling he could write the screenplay and direct the movie made from one of Larry’s books, namely, The Heresy. This was a plot set in the south of France in the early 1200’s, about the time of the sixth crusade. It involved an obscure group of gnostics, the Cathars, whom the Pope, through his Holy Inquisition, eliminated at their fortress town of Monsegur, by stoking up a few stake fires and throwing the harmless Cathars in, feet first.

            The explanation and transition from Larry’s novel to movie was so convoluted, even I didn't think such an esoteric theme would translate well to the golden screen. However, Snelling was persistent, so we made a deal with Swaim to write a treatment for me to peddle to some naive investor. Swaim, being inherently lazy, began dragging his writing hand, and consequently I was still begging him in September to finish it. He never finished the treatment, although I believe Larry ultimately did finish one, which was horrible. It made no difference, for the hook was set. This boy wanted to be in the movie business.  

            When I returned to the States, I received Paris calls from Larry who told me I should go to California to meet one John Oldman, a mover and shaker in the movie trade, to see if a movie could be made from another of his books, The Temptation of Archer Watson. He indicated Oldman had read the work and was definitely interested in doing something with it. I felt this work was much better suited for the movies than Heresy was, and this revived my interest in doing a movie. Archer had everything; witty dialogue, sex, and tennis, which was served on every yuppie’s platter during that time.

            Oldman had apparently snookered poor Snelling into believing he was the reincarnation of Louis B. Meyer. Larry, being the only person in the world who is more gullible than I, convinced me to travel to Los Angeles to meet this captain of industry; John Oldman.

            How wrong first impressions can be. John Oldman dressed impeccably, drove a Mercedes, and sported a wad of cash. Later on I realized the clothing outfit was one of the few he owned, the Mercedes was leased, and the wad of cash he was sporting was borrowed from the absolute last person John could hit up. John was very reticent on first blush, and warmed to conversation, only after some verbal prompting. I saw him make several “pitches” to persons expressing interest in one of our projects, and every time, his voice never rose above an ear-straining level. I finally took over John’s duties as pitchman, seeing how everyone on the receiving end of his pitches, had to move so close to him, I thought they were kissing.

            My last contact with John probably best exhibits his personality. I got a call from him late one night telling me he was about to be evicted from his apartment and needed $400 to placate his landlord until his check arrived, from wherever he was working at that time. I sent him the check. Of course, several months went by and no Oldman call was forthcoming. Through a mutual acquaintance, I obtained his new number, found out where he worked, and finally got him to answer my call. “I was just getting ready to mail you a check,” he said, after the usual banalities were completed. True to his word, several days later, I received his check for $400. The check bounced.

            We formed a corporation known as Oldie, Inc., we opened an office in L.A. (the only way those people refer to Los Angeles), and we “took meetings.”  Everyone on the business side of the movie industry takes meetings in H-wood. I was loving it. I just couldn’t take enough meetings.

            Oldman convinced me he was a close tennis-playing friend of Jack Gilardi, a theatrical agent at International Creative Management (ICM) and reported Gilardi was poised to help us succeed. Oldman actually had a business card giving his address as c/o Jack Gilardi at his ICM address, so what more proof does a foolish lawyer need? I merely assumed my good buddy Jack was in on the deal.

            Gilardi was punctilious. A façade masked the hard, crafty underbelly of a theatrical agent involved in the promotion of a few of the piles of human detritus that orbit Planet Hollywood. He knew all the right people, dressed perfectly, spoke with an educated twang and, as best I could tell, really enjoyed what he was doing. Like everyone else in the town, he could lie convincingly, which is the only attribute I found permeated the entire society.

            Gilardi, at the time, was married to the ex-mouse, Annette Funicello. He lived in the appropriate H-wood mansion, drove the obligatory Mercedes, and was California charming. He convinced Oldman, and later me, he had under contract a budding young writer, Jonathan Axelrod, who was described to me as the next Raymond Chandler.

            Sitting in Gilardi’s office at ICM, anticipating the arrival of a young writer, who was allegedly on the cusp of greatness, my little heart was all aflutter. Once the door opened, I was confronted with this braggadocios, name-dropping, talentless kid, who would have been a permanent embarrassment to the founders of the Screen Writers Guild. My fears persisted, even as Gilardi and Oldman attempted to assuage them, after Jonathan left the office. Those suspicions were confirmed absolutely when I received the first draft of his screenplay.

            I remember a confrontation with Axelrod after he delivered the first draft of Archer, where I yelled, “this thing is supposed to be funny and there are absolutely no yuks in this crap you wrote.”

            “I can make it funny,” he pled, almost in tears. It certainly didn’t appear to me he could make it funny.

            Gilardi had told us we were getting a huge break catching this writing genius before he became a household word and Axelrod would do the screen version for $25,000. If we agreed, we had to post one-half of the total sum immediately. This I did, not wanting to lose another golden opportunity. We were told Axelrod had written the last Barbara Streisand movie and had worked on several other H-wood luminaries’ movies. "Worked on," as used in the movie industry, means anything from he wrote the entire script without help, or it could also mean he once fondled the front cover of an unsuccessful screenplay.

            In either case, the meaning is the same; you had no earthly idea what the guy did on any movie, ever. To hear any of these shameless people talk about their credits is an experience all by itself.  Everyone in H-wood has a meticulously prepared five-minute speech laboriously outlining their numerous talents, credits, and exploits. I’m not talking about the recognized stars; I’m talking about the lowly office clerk who is just waiting for Mr. & Mrs. Opportunity to come a-knockin’.

Ultimately, we got the first draft of this screenplay and I went into apoplectic shock. You think Franz Liebkind, writer of “Springtime for Hitler,” wrote a bad script; this was ten times worse. Had Mel Brooks known, he would have used the Axelrod masterpiece as a model for the world's worst script, in his movie “The Producers.” What was to be a script based on Archer Watson, a novel full of comic characters and situations, and funny, ironic, witty dialogue, was transformed into a juvenile piece of pap, which was tedious and ungrammatical. It was little more than a trite, heavy-handed, cliché-ridden message flick featuring a sixties atmosphere that was long gone, and never existed in New Orleans in the first place.  

In retrospect, there was no way Gilardi read the manuscript.  His interests were in the ten-percent commission and getting Oldman, his tennis-playing buddy, out of his hair, in that order. 

            As soon as I refused to tender the additional $12,500, the inevitable lawsuit ensued. Oldie, Inc., Oldman, and Abadie were all made defendants in a State Court in California. We hired our California lawyers and counter-sued ICM, Gilardi, ICM’s lawyer, Michael Black, and Axelrod, alleging fraud, misrepresentation, etc. After attorney fees, court costs, and a cost of defense settlement, I was out plenty. This coupled with the L.A. office lease, keeping Oldman alive, my flights to L.A., and my bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, it felt as if someone had vacuumed my wallet clean of all its dead Presidents.

            Later, Larry rewrote the Axelrod masterpiece and we then had a screenplay to peddle. For some inexplicable reason, I assumed once we had a product we all felt had commercial value, the rest of the puzzle would easily fall into place and then, we would make a movie. What I didn't count on was I, along with every other man, woman, and child in H-wood, had a screenplay to peddle. They walked down every street with it neatly tucked under their armpits and breathlessly anticipated taking a meeting with any producer or producer want-to-be, so they could flog their product. 

            For the next several months, I attempted to peddle the script, but each time was faced with more calculated resistance. I met numerous celebrities, quasi-celebrities, and others calling themselves celebrities, all of whom told me how much interest they had in doing this film, if only I had come two days earlier. If I hadn’t run out of cash, I might still be there, getting the door slammed in my face, and loving it.

            One of the people I met was a very funny man, a theatrical agent named Roy Silver. Roy was quick witted, intelligent, and exacting. You could tell he had negotiated many deals for his former clients, Bill Cosby and Tiny Tim, among them. His interests were eclectic as evidenced by his love of Oriental cooking. He regaled me with stories about the people he represented, and the best was one about his client, Herbert Khaury, a/k/a Tiny Tim. Right after the marriage on the Carson show to Miss Vicky, Roy booked the ukulele-playing songster into a Las Vegas hotel.

            One night, several white-on-white, dark suited behemoths forced their way into Roy’s more modest accommodations and announced to him they were the new managers of Tiny Tim and were taking over his contract. I asked Roy what he said to them. He replied, “Nothing. I packed my bags, left the hotel, and never saw of, or spoke to, Tiny Tim again.” Roy understood the business better than most.

            Presumably, Oldman wanted to deflect me away from the fact he could not get the movie sold, so he took a different direction. He came up with the brilliant idea of putting together a television tennis tournament, with the top four female tennis players in the world making up the field.  Up to this time, women’s tennis was almost unknown. They were just beginning to get a smattering of television coverage. It took a farcical match between Bobby Riggs and Billy Jean King to vault women's tennis into the limelight.

            A lawyer friend of Oldman’s, Dennis Bond, said his client, Paul Williams was performing in Tucson, Arizona as the opening act for Olivia Newton-John. He convinced us to travel with him to Tucson to the Margaret Court Racket Club Ranch. At that time, Margaret Court, Billy Jean King, Rosy Cassales, and a young neophyte, Chris Everet were the four best women players in the world.             Off to Tucson, on my nickel, to convince the manager of this beautiful club he really wanted to host this TV extravaganza. Oldman swore to me he had an in with an advertising executive at Coca-Cola who would jump at the chance of putting up seed money and would sponsor this unusual event. The Margaret Court club manager was naturally receptive; he got a television first at his club at minimal cost to him.  

Several weeks later, a friend I met in California, Paul Schulman, set up a meeting with the head of sports at several major networks in New York, who unbelievably expressed interest in our project, providing Oldman produced Coke as a sponsor. Of course, the closest Oldman had ever come to a Coke executive was his putting a dollar into the slot of an airport vending machine to purchase this delectable potable.

I just couldn’t keep up with Oldman, because occasionally, I had to return home and practice law in order to replenish my rapidly evaporating resources. Only God knows what he was doing in my absence. Every time I saw or talked to him on the phone he always had some fantastic scheme that was going to break the bank.

It did; it broke my bank account. In October 1977, I was still passing out scripts to alleged interested persons, who either knew someone to whom they could create interest in the script, or they swore to finance it themselves–all a pack of lies. At the end of 1977, I had enough of the movie, TV, and entertainment industry to last a lifetime. I had taken my last meeting in Southern California.

“California is a fine place to live – if you happen to be an orange,” said Fred Allen

In spite of everything, I will always have the memory of Gilardi, a gorgeous Jill St. John, and me, lunching in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, with this pathetic drool cascading off the end of my chin and clinging to their every wink.

Eat your heart out, boys.