Craviotto Agoraphobic's Guide to Hollywood

How Michael Jackson Got Me Out of the House
1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-0-9846711-0-6
Verlag: Front Door Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 264 Seiten

AN AGORAPHOBIC'S GUIDE TO HOLLYWOOD: HOW MICHAEL JACKSON GOT ME OUT OF THE HOUSE is an irreverent, behind-the-scenes look at show business. It tells the true story of how an agoraphobic screenwriter learns to overcome her fear of stepping outside of the house, and starts to live her life again-thanks to a top secret project, an eccentric superstar, and the most important assignment of her career.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Craviotto, Darlene

Leseproben

2
Back Story
Hemingway’s advice about writing is to write one true sentence. My advice is to just write anything. It doesn’t matter if it’s true, false, good, or bad. If you write it, it can be re-written. And in Hollywood chances are it’ll be re-written by someone else. Just get anything down on paper because someone somewhere is going to find fault with it, think they can do better, or simply change it because it’s their job. Knowing this not only helps you finish writing your scripts, but it should also help you say goodbye to them when they move on or end up gathering dust on a studio shelf somewhere. You don’t think about these realities when you’re first hired. Anything seems possible when you’re having celebratory dinners with agents, managers, parents, or lovers you want to impress. You consider yourself the most brilliant of screenwriters, certain that this project will either bring you the Oscar or at least permanent health benefits for the rest of your life. There’s no better high than when the phone rings and your agent on the other end says, “They want you.” It’s the closest to sex you’ll ever have with your clothes on.  In fact, writing a Hollywood screenplay is very much like dating. You meet. You fall in love. Everything about each other is magic. But pretty soon the criticisms begin:  I don’t like this about you; I don’t like that. Change is expected, but of course it’s never enough. And before you know it, you’re out the door, shaking your head, “What the hell did I see in that person?” Of course, sometimes you luck out, and the relationship is productive:  a film is born. But most times projects are like old soldiers (or the most painful of scars): they just fade away. You don’t think about any of this when you’re newly hired or when that first meeting comes around. All you know is that you’re in love, and it will last forever. Life is good. “Are you sitting down?” Depending on who asks you this will also depend if it’s good news or bad. On this particular morning, the voice at the other end of the phone was my agent, Raymond.  In his case, it could go either way. “Disney wants you for a huge project,” he announces after an obligatory dramatic pause. “Youwontevenbelievethis!” he squeals. “I won’t do animation,” I tell him.  I had a good, solid movie of the week career, and my last script won an Emmy for outstanding television film. The last thing I wanted to do was to start writing cartoons.  Not that I’m a snob (I love animation), but I just can’t relate to characters that don’t eat, pay bills, or go to the bathroom. Disney started buzzing around me when I was nominated for the Emmy; the film I wrote went on to win, and the courtship heated up. The studio sent me a book they were considering, something they wanted to adapt as a feature film for Steven Spielberg to direct.  It was to be a co-venture between Disney and Amblin at Universal. I liked the story a lot, but the studio was hesitant because it took place in Vietnam, and Disney felt Vietnam was too political.   “We’re thinking it might work if we change it to the Korean Conflict,” suggested one of the Disney executives, emphasizing “conflict” as clearly the more acceptable term when describing battles involving bloodshed. “The locale is still Asian, but people won’t be put off by it.” Heads nodded all around the room. “Steven’s never done the Korean Conflict,” one of the Amblin executives added hopefully.  More nods.  I saw a trend and decided to join it. “I could change the story to the Korean Conflict,” I suggested. Of course I wasn’t certain of this, but why buck the momentum especially when you don’t have the job? I decided to dive in with full force, pitched them an opening, and sketched in some characters, conflict, and resolution. By the end of the day, my agent called and told me I had the job.  The final script on the project eventually was shelved; the official word was that Steven (who I never even had a chance to meet) had already done one war film with a boy in it, so this one was too similar. Why they never figured that out until paying my salary to write it, when all they had to do was read the novel it was based upon, I will never understand. Nor did I point it out to them, by the way, when they negotiated my deal. But the good news was they loved, loved, loved my script. Jeffrey Katzenberg, who was head of Disney at the time, said it was the best script he had read in three years.  Now we all know that Hollywood has been built on mounds of bullshit such as this. But I’m guessing he must have meant it, and Amblin’s enthusiasm must have been genuine because here was my agent now on the phone telling me they wanted me for a huge project. “It’s not exactly animation,” Raymond says, baiting me. “I don’t want to write Beauty and the Beast.” (AUTHOR’S NOTE: That was probably a mistake). “No, no, no, no, no! This is big! Big time! This will change your life!” The suspense was killing me but my other phone line started to ring. With two young children, one in pre-school and the other in kindergarten, I had to pick it up. “I’m putting you on hold, Raymond,” I tell him quickly as I punched the other line. “Wha…” And he was gone. “This is Howard Fein’s office,” a secretary announces at the other end.   “Will you hold for Howard?”  I never have a chance to answer because Howard picks up. “Are you sitting down?” Howard was the creative executive at Disney that I had been working with for the last year. “Seriously, are you sitting?” The light of my other line blinked as Raymond continued to hold. “What do you love more than anything in the world?” “My children,” I tell him. “My husband,” I quickly add. It was definitely a package deal. “What story?” he emphasizes, forcing me to play this little game. There were a lot of stories I loved. I was a big Katzankazis fan: The Last Temptation of Christ.  Zorba the Greek. Not exactly Disney material. I could hear Howard sighing deeply at the other end of the phone while he waited for me to answer.  He did this to me often when I was being slow to follow his lead. “What property that will soon become public domain was made into a Broadway musical, a Disney animated classic, and a yearly Hallmark Special? Clap three times if you know the answer.” “Oh my God,” I whisper.   Could it possibly be? Could it be the one kid’s story that I was totally in love with? While waiting for a meeting to begin recently, I had confessed to Howard that there was one children’s tale that had captivated my imagination from the very first time I had seen it when I was seven. I remember that he laughed at me as my eyes welled up with tears while talking about how special it was to me. “Are you serious?” he’d asked. “Very,” I’d told him, reaching for the tissues on his desk. I was known for tearing up at anything that reminded me of being a child.  I used to choke up when pointing out the “Leave It to Beaver” house on the Universal tour. “I wouldn’t tell that to too many people,” Howard had advised.  “At least not in Hollywood.” “I don’t,” I’d admitted. “You brought it up, not me.” I had wondered at the time why was he bringing it up. “I’m glad you told me,” he had said, in his own cryptic kind of way. Replaying that scene now it all suddenly started to make sense. “Peter Pan?”  I ask, incredulously. “It’s not just Peter Pan. There’s more.” Peter Pan was more than enough.  How could there be more? “Do you know who wants desperately to play Peter?” I can hardly hear what he’s saying as my ears start ringing in excitement. “Who’s the biggest star you can think of?” A woman had always played the role onstage; Mary Martin had starred as Peter on Broadway and later Sandy Duncan and Cathy Rigby. I searched through a mental list of actresses that were currently big film stars. “Meg Ryan?” I ask. “Don’t insult me!” “Meryl Streep, Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Sally Field…” He stops me with one name. “Michael Jackson.” I can’t speak. My mouth refuses to form words. “Hello?” Howard says, raising his voice. It was 1990, and...