Adventures in the Screen Trade by William Goldman Page A

the wisdom behind it.
    Let's begin with some agent jokes; there are always agent jokes in Hollywood and the most recent ones I've heard are these: A patient goes to see a surgeon about having a heart transplant. The surgeon says, "I'll give you a choice: You can either have the heart of a twenty-five-year-old marathon runner or a sixty-year-old agent, which do you want?" And the patient answers, "Easy-let me have the agent's." And the surgeon, dumbfounded, says, "Why would you pick the heart of a sixty- year-old agent over a twenty-five-year-old marathon runner?" And the patient replies, "I want one that's never been used."
    Or this one: An agent and a bunch of other passengers are on a boat in dangerous waters and the agent falls overboard, and before anyone can do anything this giant shark comes swimming up, and when the shark is six feet away he veers off and swims in another direction, and one of the passengers says, "Did you see that, did you see what just happened, it's an act of God," and another passenger answers, "That wasn't an act of God, it was professional courtesy."
    All agent jokes are based on that same premise: Agents are not noted for human kindness. Now, in point of fact, this is not true. (I'm serious.) Most of the major agents I've come in con- tact with are decent human beings.
    But probably one can make a certain valid generalization about agents, and it's this: Their primary interest is not in the art object but in the deal. That's not criticism, that's basic logic--if a man makes his living, offten percent of his client's earnings, the more those earnings, the more meaningful his percentage. That's his job. As an agent. But it's not his job when he changes hats. Agents become studio heads primarily for one reason: No one else will undertake the occupation. It's terrible work. It's seven days a week, it's mornings and evenings, it's getting killed by agents who are still agents. It's escalating costs, it's getting killed by their boards of directors, who are screaming that costs are too high,
    So why do agents accept the responsibility? Because, in many ways, it's better than being an agent. There's more power and generally there's more money.
    So we've got an ex-agent running our studio. What can we say about him? A lot of good things. He's hardworking. He's
    shrewd as hell. He's got a lot of contacts in the business. He understands a great deal about how the business operates. What he doesn't understand, generally speaking, is passion. Just as in the old days, when he didn't care about the film as much as the deal, the same holds true now. He never, most likely, has worked on a film, never written one or produced one, most certainly never directed one. People are coming at him day and night with projects-"I must make this. You must give me my chance." The agent, being unused to working this side of the street, seeks help from two sources: (1) stars, be- cause he understands them from his earlier life, and (2) the business end of the studio, the people who handle the selling of films. Because they never cared about passion, and because they, at least in theory, know what will sell and what won't. (We know that's not true, and the business people do, too, but obviously if they admit it, they get drummed from the corps; my God, what are business people/or if they don't know.)
    Business people do know one thing: what they can book into theatres in advance. Theatre owners often don't sec the prod- uct they're buying until it's too late, so if they are given a choice between a Steve Martin musical and a movie about two English guys running in the 1924 Olympics, logic dictates which way they swing.
    I think it's safe to say that today, more than ever in Holly- wood history, the business types hold sway. They are kept in close touch on every conceivable project that the studio may contemplate. And what they say matters. Matters crucially. In the old days, a studio head might have said, "Let's make the goddam