Moguls, Monsters and Madmen, page 22
When Wasserman flew to Osaka to speak to his new owners, he was kept waiting hours before they would see him, and when the Japanese sold the company, he was not the first to be informed. “I received a call from Japan asking me to come to Osaka immediately,” continued Ovitz. “Everything the Japanese said about selling was put in the conditional. ‘If we should do this, if we should do that . . .’ They never knew how to deal with Lew. He embarrassed them, and they left him waiting because they didn’t want to get into a confrontation.”
Michael Ovitz was a dealmaker, just like Wasserman, and if their roles had been reversed, Lew Wasserman would probably have done the same to Ovitz. However, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that the student had destroyed his teacher. Anytime I questioned Ovitz about his motives and if he was potentially hurting his mentor, he would change the topic or ask me to move on.
Though stripped of his power, Wasserman continued to turn up every day at his office, with no one to talk to but his secretary, and then to eat his tuna sandwich in the commissary. As Jack Valenti observed, “After Lyndon Johnson, the thirty-sixth president of the United States, went back to his ranch, he was dead in four years at age sixty-four. I saw Lew as this great lion in winter and it wasn’t a pleasant sight.”
Given the mob connections so often associated with Lew Wasserman, I wanted to see if I could get at least one of these tough guys to talk. A name I uncovered was Salvatore Pisello, a reputed NY mafioso, whose high living was partly financed by a six-figure executive’s salary from MCA. As a record distributor, Pisello was rumoured to have forced retailers to buy records no one wanted in order to purchase the ones they did want. Sal Pisello—also known as Big Sal—did not take no for an answer. He was jailed for two years in the mid-’80s for evading tax on his mostly unreported $600,000 MCA income.
When I asked a friend, with New York connections, for Pisello’s phone number, he exclaimed, “Barry, stay away from that.”
I said, “No, I want to speak to him. I’m a documentary filmmaker.”
My friend insisted, “I’m telling you, don’t get mixed up in that.” Then he gave me the number.
When I dialed the number from a pay phone, a woman with a harsh New York accent replied, “Hello.”
“Hi, this is Barry Avrich . . .”
“Who? What do you want?”
“I’m making a film about Lew Wasserman.”
“Well, what the fuck do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to get a hold of Sal Pisello.”
“I’m his wife. He has the cancer. He’s in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but is there any way I can visit him for an interview for . . . ”
“Yeah, and you can go fuck yourself!”
I figured, if the wife was this tough, how about Big Sal and his friends? I was a father. I was a husband. I liked my life. I let Sal Pisello—Big Sal—go.
Despite all the ups and downs, I knew The Last Mogul was good. I think I captured a great era in Hollywood. I commissioned Jim McGrath, a wonderful composer, to score the music with a huge orchestra. To my knowledge, this had never been done before for a documentary, but Lew’s story was about six decades of music, from Kay Kyser’s 1940s swing band through to the ’90s. I watched the session go down. It was thrilling.
When I tried to enter Mogul into the Sundance Film Festival, Darryl Macdonald, who ran Sundance, told me, “The film is fantastic but you should take it to the Palm Springs Festival.”
“Palm Springs—what’s that?”
Macdonald persisted, “You’re a Canadian filmmaker, which means you’ll be put into a different category and your doc will get lost. Trust me, you’ll do well with this at Palm Springs.”
I became arrogant. “No, I want this at Sundance.”
“Okay, but I’m telling you that everyone from Hollywood goes to Palm Springs. Let me call them and they should take it.”
I agreed reluctantly. I was not yet aware that Palm Springs was a great festival and exactly right for a Hollywood 101 film. Palm Springs took it automatically, and this turned out to be life-changing for me. The New York Times gave me a rave review, then sent a reporter and a photographer to Toronto to interview me. I had my picture taken holding up a caricature of Lew Wasserman as I sat in movie theatre seats.
After the NY Times story appeared, my assistant told me, “I have Ron Meyer on the line for you.”
Ron Meyer? The cofounder with Michael Ovitz of Creative Artists Agency, then president of Universal Studios? That Ron Meyer?
He said, “Barry, I’ve read a review of The Last Mogul and I just have to see your film.”
I replied, “Mr. Meyer, when I was researching the Universal archives for material on Lew, an old-time archivist informed Edie Wasserman, and she had me thrown off the lot. Why would I show you the film if you’re going to prevent it from being distributed?”
He replied, “I’m a good guy, Barry. Let me show you that. I’ll fly you to L.A., we’ll screen the film and we will discuss it.”
By then, I was so nervous from all I’d gone through that I replied, “I’ll fly to L.A. on my own nickel. I’ll book a screening room, and you and I can watch the film together. Alone.”
He agreed. “But on one condition. That you let me take you to dinner afterwards.”
Wow! Now I was really impressed with myself! I, the schmuck from Toronto, was laying down terms to the chair of Universal Studios.
I did fly to L.A., and Ron and I—first names now—watched the film, then went to the Palm steakhouse for dinner. He said, “Let’s turn off our phones and have a great dinner.”
Ron Meyer told me some great Hollywood stories over that dinner. And then he asked me, “What can I do for you? Though I run a studio, it’s not my role to green-light movies, so don’t pitch me those or bring me scripts. Anything else?”
“I need an agent.”
“Fine.”
He arranged for me to meet with the five most powerful agents in Hollywood, and I ended up with one at William Morris. Ron then said to me, “Next time you’re in L.A., let me know, and I’ll show you Lew Wasserman’s office, which we haven’t touched. You can stand in it, and then we’ll have lunch at Lew’s table at the commissary.” And that’s what Ron Meyer did for me. I drove into Universal one day, and I was given a private parking spot. I was shown Lew’s office and the desk that never had any papers on it. I had lunch at Lew’s table, where he ate tuna loaf until he died. Even now, any time I make a film, I send it to Ron. Though I consider him a friend, I’ve never asked him for anything more than for the agent, which he delivered.
When Mogul opened in Los Angeles, Vanity Fair threw an opening night party at The Silent Movie Theater on Fairfax, with its marquee announcing, “Vanity Fair presents The Last Mogul.” This would be the big time for me—the red carpet of all red carpets.
We had unbelievable RSVPs—the crème de la crème of Hollywood—until suddenly the cancellations began pouring in. The incompetent publicist hired by ThinkFilm, our distributor, had sent one of our beautifully designed invitations to Edie Wasserman. Still sharp at ninety, this behind-the-scene power broker took out her little black book and started calling anybody she guessed had been invited, and issued the order: “Don’t go.”
Edie, working on dead power, had snatched my Vanity Fair moment. The people who showed up for the most part were not people who had been close to Wasserman, but it didn’t matter. We had a full house, a big party and Mogul had fantastic box office on its first weekend.
If the Ron Meyer story was about the making of a friendship, this next story is about the dismantling of one.
The lead financier of Mogul was a U.S.–Canadian distributor called ThinkFilm, controlled by Jeff Sackman. Jeff and I were close boyhood friends. I had named his company and created his branding. Though the publicists had told me my film had Oscar buzz for best documentary, and Hollywood Reporter called it Oscar-worthy, Jeff told me, “We’re going with Murderball for the Oscar.”
I was upset. “I have a Hollywood film everybody says is Oscar-worthy and you’re not going to submit it?”
“That’s right. We’re pushing Murderball.”
“Can’t you support both?”
“Nope. Our Academy strategist says it’s best to go with one.”
Complete bullshit, as Harvey Weinstein had invented the multi-Oscar campaign. Jeff knew this well, given that he worked for Harvey.
Now I was furious. “Okay, but I want to buy back my movie.”
Though Mogul’s budget was modest, ThinkFilm came back with an astronomical price that, typical of Hollywood, included hidden and inflated costs, including trips to Cannes and marketing costs. This was truly Hollywood accounting, but who cares when you are friends? Even Robert Lantos tried to convince Jeff to give the film back. Eddie Greenspan and his partner, Todd White, succeeded in negotiating better terms and purchasing the film, but not in time for the Oscars.
Murderball, a documentary about wheelchair rugby, was nominated but didn’t win, which, I have to admit, gave me momentary satisfaction. I didn’t speak to Jeff for eight years. Though ThinkFilm was eventually dissolved, Jeff’s hardball taught me a lesson I would not forget. We have since buried the hatchet but I will not soon forget the nasty treatment from his team of lawyers and an episode that could have been avoided.
I subsequently released the film myself, believing it was a strong insider show-business doc. I booked it into art houses with a finite audience in New York, Chicago and various other cities, where it received strong reviews, including one in the New York Times. I felt vindicated after the nasty episode with ThinkFilm, but more than that, I was proud of the film.
About five years after Mogul’s debut, friends of mine were at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills when they found themselves sitting next to an elderly woman. She asked them, “Where are you from?”
They replied, “Toronto.”
She told them, “A fine young man from Toronto made a wonderful film about my late husband.”
Could this have been Edie Wasserman? Could this even be true?
Another example of the influence of Wasserman and my film was on fashion. Designer Michael Bastian told the Los Angeles Times that his Menswear 2016 summer collection was influenced by The Last Mogul. He told the reporter, “The seed for the collection was planted after I watched the 2005 film biography of Hollywood agent and executive Lew Wasserman titled The Last Mogul. Edie and Lew Wasserman were chic as hell. He was the first agent to dress like a businessman in a black suit and a black tie every day . . . and that movie got me going about this kind of Los Angeles glamour.” I love that. Now, send me a few suits please.
Chapter Eighteen
A CRIMINAL MIND:
THE LIFE AND TIMES OF EDDIE GREENSPAN
One day in 1990, Dusty Cohl phoned to ask, “Do you know who Eddie Greenspan is?”
“Sure. The legendary criminal lawyer.”
“Eddie is trying to find a copy of a rare film—The Leopard by Luchino Visconti. If you could help him that would be great.”
I found the film, then I asked Dusty, “Do you want me to send it?”
“No, kid, you take the film to Eddie.”
That was Dusty’s way with me, and anyone else he could commandeer as his concierge.
When I walked into Greenspan’s downtown office, all leather and dark polished wood, the air was thick with cigar smoke, with both Dusty and Eddie on couches happily puffing away. I gave Eddie the film and he began his cross-examination: Who are you? What do you do? Where do you come from?
As we settled down into a three-sided conversation, I experienced Eddie’s warmth, his powerful intelligence, his incredible sense of humour. He could talk about art and literature, the finest Parisian restaurants and Jean-Paul Sartre, but he also liked to discuss pastrami. I thought of the Bob Dylan song about dining with kings and being offered wings, and being unimpressed by both.
Eddie was that guy.
So, Eddie and I became friends through Dusty, but it wasn’t until after Dusty died in 2008 that our friendship deepened. We gravitated toward each other because we both missed Dusty. Now, all that remained of Dusty in Eddie’s office was an indentation in Eddie’s leather couch. Dusty had used Eddie’s office as his own, and if Eddie wasn’t at his desk, Dusty would usurp it to take calls. Eddie paid Dusty a dollar as a retainer, should he happen to refer a case. He did the same with me. It was Eddie’s joke. “If you’re going to sit in here, you’re going to be part of the firm. Otherwise, you’re not allowed to hear what goes on.”
After Eddie and I coproduced Dusty’s memorial, we became inseparable. We had lunch every Saturday, either at a restaurant before returning to Eddie’s office, or I’d bring food to the office and we’d eat there. The office always meant cigars and good talk about life, our families, films and theatre, politics—everything. Eddie was my version of Tuesdays with Morrie. Ever since I started reading Variety when I was eight, I had been on a tear to make myself successful. Eddie said to me, “You’re on the path, just take your time and make it great.”
Eddie became my third father, after Dusty, and in fact, he reminded me of my biological father. Just as Irving Avrich could appreciate the niceties of sportswear design with cookie crumbs dribbled down his sweater, so Eddie could admire the beauty of a Lalique vase with mustard drippings on his Charvet tie.
In 2006, Eddie was the host of a TV show called Reel Justice, in which he and a guest would watch a film involving the law, then debate its merits in terms of real justice. During its single season, Eddie invited many famous guests, including Canadian Lieutenant-General Roméo Dallaire and movie director Norman Jewison. Then he invited me.
Our film was The Star Chamber, a 1983 thriller with Michael Douglas and Hal Holbrook. Frustrated by a legal system that allowed violent criminals to escape justice on technicalities, they were part of a group of judges who secretly hired assassins to do the job the courts were unwilling or unable to do.
I loved the film. Eddie saw it as a vigilante movie like Death Wish with Charles Bronson. What Eddie hadn’t counted on was that I would spend a week at the University of Toronto and Osgoode Hall doing research. I had all these statistics on how the death penalty affected the crime rate, where it worked and where it hadn’t. Eddie was expecting an amiable push-and-shove exchange of opinion. Instead, I started hitting him with my data for which he was uncharacteristically unprepared. He grew so angry that when the director called for a commercial, Eddie announced, “We’ll take a break, then we’ll come back with my former friend Barry Avrich.”
While the lights were off, Eddie lit into me, “What the fuck are you doing? Your statistics are bullshit!”
“No, they aren’t. I have research papers from Harvard, Yale and Brown.”
Eddie remained in a state of shock for the rest of the show. With good reason. In 1987, Eddie had closed his law practice for six months to tour the country in a one-man crusade against the reinstatement of the death penalty. He had fought the Mulroney government, and he had won, but that was almost ten years earlier, and he was no longer up to date. After he finished the show in a rage, he gave my notes to his students to check. Typically, he then calmed down sufficiently to invite me on a lecture circuit to universities and related venues to continue the debate.
Eddie and I also fought when he crossed into my territory. He was excited that I was making a film about Garth Drabinsky, but he was torn as to whether he should appear in it. American lawyers often go public about their cases, but in Canada it’s not done. Because Eddie was a criminal rather than an appellate lawyer, he had worked for Garth only until Garth went to prison. He told me, “I’ll do this because we’re friends, but some things I won’t talk about.”
Eddie also drew the line at attending the 2012 premiere of my documentary, Show Stopper: The Theatrical Life of Garth Drabinsky, at the Toronto International Film Festival because he didn’t want viewers and the media asking him uncomfortable questions. Instead, I screened a rough cut for him in his office. After the first eight minutes, he said, “This is your best film ever. I love this. It’s fantastic.”
I appreciated the praise, but I knew there could be turbulent waters ahead. As a metaphor for Garth’s troubles, I inserted clips from Mel Brooks’s The Producers, a 1968 cult classic, in which a failed theatre producer, played by Zero Mostel, persuades his guileless accountant to cook the books to cover up his investor fraud. When Eddie saw the cut, he went ballistic. While I was partially prepared for his wrath, I was taken aback by his argument, “You know this is anti-Semitism, don’t you?”
I was dumbfounded.
He would not back down.
A couple of days went by without my hearing from him. Knowing Eddie, I figured the only way to mollify him was by presenting research that supported my position. I read every review of the original 1968 movie that I could find. I read every review of the 2001 Broadway musical, the revival of the Broadway production and the 2005 film based on the musical. No critic ever suggested that The Producers was anti-Semitic. I bound these reviews together in a thick file, which I delivered to Eddie at his office. “Here’s everything on The Producers from the Wall Street Journal to Film Comment to the Film Society of Lincoln Center. Nobody said it was anti-Semitic, so fuck you.”
Eddie laughed, and that ended our dispute.
Eddie and I shared the same sense of humour. While Eddie was a passionate and brilliant orator, especially about the law, he sometimes asked me to help add humour to his speeches. He provided the wit. I added the zaniness.
When Eddie agreed to host a benefit for a Jewish theatre company, he said, “Find out whom they’re honouring.”
