turned a delicate shade of purple. He said, “You staying around, sir, I’d be a bit careful. Already, these couple accidents. Maybe you’re kind of a bad luck fellow.”
Pellam said he’d be careful, but he was thinking there was a good chance the deputy was right.
Chapter 5
ALAN LEFKOWITZ SAT in his huge, completely immaculate office, rocking back and forth in a leather desk chair, and looked out the windows, which were also huge and completely immaculate. Beneath him the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard flowed past Century City. His eyes were on this wide road, full of nice cars, but his thoughts were solely focused on upstate New York.
President and principal shareholder of Big Mountain Studios, Lefkowitz, 52, put in at least ten sweaty hours a day working on his film projects. A law school graduate, a successful former agent, he took continuing education classes at UCLA and USC in accounting and finance—at an age when many of his friends (well, this was Hollywood; call them colleagues ), also producers, were delegating the hard work to underlings and spending mucho time engaged in the “Development” work (that is: thinking in Palm Springs and drinking at the Beverly Hills Hotel).
Also on the asset side of the balance sheet: Lefkowitz had integrity. He’d pretty much resisted Hollywood’s strongest gravity, which pulled producers toward teenage comedies, buddy cop movies, specialeffects–fat science fiction and horror films. His own orbit wasn’t as lofty as his favorite directors, Bergman, Fassbinder, Kurosawa and Truffaut, but in his heart he wanted to make quality films.
With film schools pumping out students who learned cinema (not, no, never movies ), there was no lack of independent directors in the U.S. making wonderful, small, serious flicks. But Lefkowitz’s particular talent was that he worked within the system. His films were mostly financed, and wholly distributed, by major studios, one of which he presently had a five-movie housekeeping deal with (this being one of the better gold rings in contemporary movieland). Balls, a temper and an ability to convince people that he had vision had managed to get him into bed with this huge entertainment conglomerate, which was putting up 80 percent of the money for any five pictures he wished to produce.
Good muscle tone, a beach permit for his Mercedes, and a housekeeping deal for five flicks. It didn’t get much better than this. But, although he could legitimately be spending this lunch hour reflecting on his good fortune, what Lefkowitz was in fact obsessing about was New York, the Empire State, while he swung back and forth in a three-thousand-dollar leather chair.
The reason for this meditation sat in front of him on his desk (which was huge but not at all immaculate): a battered, red-covered script, marred with doodles and numbers and words. It was the first flick in the five-movie deal. A dark and lyrical film called To Sleep in a Shallow Grave. A picture that had no buddies, no car chases, no wisecracking teenagers, nokarate fights, and not a single actor magically turned into a dog, baby or person of the opposite sex.
The property had had a strange history. The film was in turn-around—another studio had bought the script and started production. A month later, though, it had been canceled. Lefkowitz, who’d lusted to do the film ever since he’d read the book it was based on years before, immediately snatched up the rights. But buying a turn-around property meant paying a premium; he had not only to pay for the script itself but he also had to reimburse the first studio for its production expenses. So what should have been a small art film became overnight a big-budget monster.
Then a famous rule in Hollywood proved true: If anybody wants it, everybody wants it. Last week, two other studios started bidding for the film.
Loyalty in Hollywood is a moving target and Lefkowitz’s studio would have sold the property out from underneath
Pellam said he’d be careful, but he was thinking there was a good chance the deputy was right.
Chapter 5
ALAN LEFKOWITZ SAT in his huge, completely immaculate office, rocking back and forth in a leather desk chair, and looked out the windows, which were also huge and completely immaculate. Beneath him the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard flowed past Century City. His eyes were on this wide road, full of nice cars, but his thoughts were solely focused on upstate New York.
President and principal shareholder of Big Mountain Studios, Lefkowitz, 52, put in at least ten sweaty hours a day working on his film projects. A law school graduate, a successful former agent, he took continuing education classes at UCLA and USC in accounting and finance—at an age when many of his friends (well, this was Hollywood; call them colleagues ), also producers, were delegating the hard work to underlings and spending mucho time engaged in the “Development” work (that is: thinking in Palm Springs and drinking at the Beverly Hills Hotel).
Also on the asset side of the balance sheet: Lefkowitz had integrity. He’d pretty much resisted Hollywood’s strongest gravity, which pulled producers toward teenage comedies, buddy cop movies, specialeffects–fat science fiction and horror films. His own orbit wasn’t as lofty as his favorite directors, Bergman, Fassbinder, Kurosawa and Truffaut, but in his heart he wanted to make quality films.
With film schools pumping out students who learned cinema (not, no, never movies ), there was no lack of independent directors in the U.S. making wonderful, small, serious flicks. But Lefkowitz’s particular talent was that he worked within the system. His films were mostly financed, and wholly distributed, by major studios, one of which he presently had a five-movie housekeeping deal with (this being one of the better gold rings in contemporary movieland). Balls, a temper and an ability to convince people that he had vision had managed to get him into bed with this huge entertainment conglomerate, which was putting up 80 percent of the money for any five pictures he wished to produce.
Good muscle tone, a beach permit for his Mercedes, and a housekeeping deal for five flicks. It didn’t get much better than this. But, although he could legitimately be spending this lunch hour reflecting on his good fortune, what Lefkowitz was in fact obsessing about was New York, the Empire State, while he swung back and forth in a three-thousand-dollar leather chair.
The reason for this meditation sat in front of him on his desk (which was huge but not at all immaculate): a battered, red-covered script, marred with doodles and numbers and words. It was the first flick in the five-movie deal. A dark and lyrical film called To Sleep in a Shallow Grave. A picture that had no buddies, no car chases, no wisecracking teenagers, nokarate fights, and not a single actor magically turned into a dog, baby or person of the opposite sex.
The property had had a strange history. The film was in turn-around—another studio had bought the script and started production. A month later, though, it had been canceled. Lefkowitz, who’d lusted to do the film ever since he’d read the book it was based on years before, immediately snatched up the rights. But buying a turn-around property meant paying a premium; he had not only to pay for the script itself but he also had to reimburse the first studio for its production expenses. So what should have been a small art film became overnight a big-budget monster.
Then a famous rule in Hollywood proved true: If anybody wants it, everybody wants it. Last week, two other studios started bidding for the film.
Loyalty in Hollywood is a moving target and Lefkowitz’s studio would have sold the property out from underneath
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