unblinkingly at Koster.
“Here is the crux of our story, Dick,” Koster said. “Will our conductor use the youth symphony, or will he use his own orchestra, thus destroying by his lack of faith this beautiful instrument”—Koster’s hands moved up and down slowly—“he has created in just five days?”
Koster sighed and leaned back, gripping both the arms on his chair. There was silence in the office. Zanuck cleared his throat.
“Very nicely worked out,” he said carefully. “Very nicely.” His jaw muscles began to work as he considered his thoughts. “But I’m afraid it’s not for us at the moment.” He squared the bronzed baby shoe against the edge of his desk. “We’ve got a lot of musical thingson the schedule right now—
The Sound of Music
is still doing great business, just great, we’ve got
Dr. Dolittle
and we’re working on
Hello, Dolly!
—and I don’t think we should take on another.” He paused, seeking the right words. “And quite frankly, I’m just a little afraid of this kind of music. “You’ll get the music lovers, no doubt about that, none at all. But how about the Beatle fans?”
Koster made a perfunctory objection, but the meeting was over. As if on cue, the dozing agent awoke, and after an exchange of small talk, agents and clients departed Zanuck’s office, hurling pleasantries over their shoulders. For a long time, Zanuck sat chewing on a fingernail, saying nothing.
“Jesus,” he said finally.
“You’ve got to be careful about musicals,” David Brown said. “They’re very soft in the foreign market. In the old days, you didn’t have to consider that much. But you do now. We get over fifty per cent of our rentals abroad. You take a massive hit like
Sound of Music
. Even there two-thirds to three-quarters of the rentals have come from the English-speaking world. In some foreign markets, they take a musical and want to cut the music. That’s why we didn’t bid on
Fiddler on the Roof
. It’s a lovely show, we were all agreed on that. But we thought it would be very soft in the provinces.”
Brown ran a pipe cleaner through the stem of his pipe. On his desk was a script from Ruth Gordon, the actress-playwright wife of playwright Garson Kanin. The script was scheduled for a Broadway production and had been submitted to the Studio for a possible preproductionfilm deal. Brown fingered the script delicately and then asked his secretary to get Kanin on the telephone.
“How are you, Gar?… Fine … And Ruth?… Fine … Gar, I read Ruth’s play and I think it’s delightful and fabulous as a play. But it worries me as a picture, Gar. You know fifty-five per cent of our revenues come from abroad and I’m just not sure how something delightful and delicate as this will go over outside this country. It’s absurd and it kills us, but that’s how it is. But many thanks, Gar, for letting us see it and I’m sure Ruth’s going to have a big hit in New York.”
Brown hung up the phone and dabbed at his chin. He had cut himself shaving that morning and the tiny piece of toilet paper on his chin was not stanching the blood. He rang for his secretary.
“Could you call the dispensary and have a messenger send me over a Band-aid?” Brown said. He touched his chin again. “On second thought, make it two Band-aids.”
Our town’s most written-about “A” hostess had better realize that there are not only “A” and “B” parties, but “A” and “B” members of the press. She’s been associating indiscriminately with members of the media. And she may just blow her international status
.
Joyce Haber
, The Los Angeles Times
One morning during the second week of July, when the temperature stood at 97 degrees and the Los Angeles basin lay somnolent in the yellow haze, the Studiolandscaping department began stripping the trees in Peyton Place Square, outside the commissary, of their autumn foliage. Late that morning, just before the various offices broke for
“Here is the crux of our story, Dick,” Koster said. “Will our conductor use the youth symphony, or will he use his own orchestra, thus destroying by his lack of faith this beautiful instrument”—Koster’s hands moved up and down slowly—“he has created in just five days?”
Koster sighed and leaned back, gripping both the arms on his chair. There was silence in the office. Zanuck cleared his throat.
“Very nicely worked out,” he said carefully. “Very nicely.” His jaw muscles began to work as he considered his thoughts. “But I’m afraid it’s not for us at the moment.” He squared the bronzed baby shoe against the edge of his desk. “We’ve got a lot of musical thingson the schedule right now—
The Sound of Music
is still doing great business, just great, we’ve got
Dr. Dolittle
and we’re working on
Hello, Dolly!
—and I don’t think we should take on another.” He paused, seeking the right words. “And quite frankly, I’m just a little afraid of this kind of music. “You’ll get the music lovers, no doubt about that, none at all. But how about the Beatle fans?”
Koster made a perfunctory objection, but the meeting was over. As if on cue, the dozing agent awoke, and after an exchange of small talk, agents and clients departed Zanuck’s office, hurling pleasantries over their shoulders. For a long time, Zanuck sat chewing on a fingernail, saying nothing.
“Jesus,” he said finally.
“You’ve got to be careful about musicals,” David Brown said. “They’re very soft in the foreign market. In the old days, you didn’t have to consider that much. But you do now. We get over fifty per cent of our rentals abroad. You take a massive hit like
Sound of Music
. Even there two-thirds to three-quarters of the rentals have come from the English-speaking world. In some foreign markets, they take a musical and want to cut the music. That’s why we didn’t bid on
Fiddler on the Roof
. It’s a lovely show, we were all agreed on that. But we thought it would be very soft in the provinces.”
Brown ran a pipe cleaner through the stem of his pipe. On his desk was a script from Ruth Gordon, the actress-playwright wife of playwright Garson Kanin. The script was scheduled for a Broadway production and had been submitted to the Studio for a possible preproductionfilm deal. Brown fingered the script delicately and then asked his secretary to get Kanin on the telephone.
“How are you, Gar?… Fine … And Ruth?… Fine … Gar, I read Ruth’s play and I think it’s delightful and fabulous as a play. But it worries me as a picture, Gar. You know fifty-five per cent of our revenues come from abroad and I’m just not sure how something delightful and delicate as this will go over outside this country. It’s absurd and it kills us, but that’s how it is. But many thanks, Gar, for letting us see it and I’m sure Ruth’s going to have a big hit in New York.”
Brown hung up the phone and dabbed at his chin. He had cut himself shaving that morning and the tiny piece of toilet paper on his chin was not stanching the blood. He rang for his secretary.
“Could you call the dispensary and have a messenger send me over a Band-aid?” Brown said. He touched his chin again. “On second thought, make it two Band-aids.”
Our town’s most written-about “A” hostess had better realize that there are not only “A” and “B” parties, but “A” and “B” members of the press. She’s been associating indiscriminately with members of the media. And she may just blow her international status
.
Joyce Haber
, The Los Angeles Times
One morning during the second week of July, when the temperature stood at 97 degrees and the Los Angeles basin lay somnolent in the yellow haze, the Studiolandscaping department began stripping the trees in Peyton Place Square, outside the commissary, of their autumn foliage. Late that morning, just before the various offices broke for
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