though he would score as big or bigger in films than he had on the small screen. Eventually, more because of the vicissitudes of the film business than because of any wrong choices on Don’s part, things didn’t work out that way. But when I slipped him the script of The Bad Place, people in Hollywood were so eager to work with him that his attachment to the project would ordinarily have gotten it made even if everyone hated the screenplay.
As a beautiful bonus, Don and his wife at that time—Melanie Griffith—were looking for a movie to do together. Melanie was arguably at the peak of her fame, and the roles of Bobby and Julie Dakota seemed ideal for her and Don. They loved the script. They wanted to do it. My long sojourn in the darkest, smelliest alleys of the film world seemed at an end; the glorious spangled avenues of the mainstream glittered ahead of me. No more would I suffer the base indignity of having my novels strained through the pustulant sensibilities of the likes of Roger Corman; no, no—henceforth, respectability.
Well, not quite.
After getting my permission, Don went to the next-to-the-top executive at Warner Bros., a personal friend of his, and revealed that I had slipped the script to him (technically a violation of my screenwriting contract with Warner Bros.), and suggested that he and Melanie were enthusiastic about taking the two lead roles if a deal could be made. Don reported back to me that he had been told that my script for The Bad Place, one of 290 scripts then in development at Warner Bros., was suddenly the hottest property at the studio, that everyone thought it was exciting, fabulous, stunning, awe-inspiring, and a sure thing for fast-track production.
That was a Wednesday.
By Tuesday of the following week, all those high-powered studio executives who loved the script now found it “confusing,” “unclear as to genre,” “not commercial,” and “highly quirky.” The project quickly spiraled into oblivion.
What could have happened to turn everyone’s exuberant enthusiasm into bleak pessimism in such a short time? Well, gentle reader, you have to understand that fear drives the movie business.
A major Hollywood production costs a great deal of money, tens upon tens of millions of dollars, and most films never recoup their costs. Only a relative handful make a profit, and those must carry the failures. Occasionally a single film with a runaway budget has been such a megaHop that it brought down the entire studio. In such a volatile business, where the risks are so enormous, even the most arrogant, swaggering executives are driven by fear. By the standards of any other industry, film executives are paid extravagant salaries, and they know that if they ever slip down and—horrors!—completely off the Hollywood ladder, they will never land another job half as financially rewarding. Besides, no other business is as glamorous, as sexy, as tolerant of empty-headed fools as is the film industry. Holding on, avoiding risk, covering one’s ass-that’s more important than making worthwhile or even interesting movies. Everyone has known enormously powerful studio executives, producers, and other top-tier players whose names were on the front page of Variety almost weekly—but who two years later were gone, out in the cold, no longer able to secure a table of high visibility in the trendiest restaurants, all because they were closely associated with a remake of A Christmas Carol as a violent action film starring Anthony Hopkins as Scrooge Lecter, a serial killer and miserly moneylender, Bruce Willis as Bob Cratchet, a kick-ass accountant, and Haley Joel Osment’s younger cousin as Tiny Tim, a crippled boy with supernatural gifts, who has the power to transform this heartless world into a place perpetually in a buoyant Christmas spirit—but who may be possessed by a demon. Consequently, no executive wants to champion a film and guide it through production unless he can share the blame for a possible failure, which he can do only if the executives above and below him on the food chain are on record as sharing his enthusiasm for the project.
Here’s what happened to The Bad Place. The numero uno at the studio, after hearing all the buzz about the script, wanted to read it. He was not fundamentally a creative executive; he didn’t really understand how to put together a story; he was the guy who understood the financials of deal-making and studio budgets. Nevertheless, he took the script home with him that weekend. Monday morning, he came to the office in a state of bewilderment. “What is this story? It’s not in any single genre. It’s suspense, it’s science fiction, it’s horror, it’s a love story, it’s a little bit country and a little bit rock ’n’ roll. How can we make a movie that’s in more than one genre? Aren’t critics going to be confused? Aren’t audiences going to be confused. I’m completely, profoundly confused. Aren’t you confused?” Shifting at once into survival gear, every executive under the über-boss immediately confessed to being every bit as confused as he was. As if coming out of a waking dream, as if they had been hoodooed by that old devil Koontz, all these people who had been passionate about the project were, one week later, handling the script with meat tongs just long enough to drop it into whatever vat of acid, pit of fire, or nuclear-waste dump was handy, terrified of being recontaminated by its mind-bending evil mojo.
This ordeal might have had a happy ending if I could have taken the screenplay elsewhere. Of the three other studios that had seen copies of it, two were eager to make a deal for it. After Warner Bros. had tried to develop the project with another writer and with a then-hot director, after this new route had led them to a dead end, and even after deciding never to film The Bad Place, the studio would not sell my script back to me. The reason? If another studio bought it, made it, and had a great hit, the über-boss at Warner Bros. would look foolish for having let it slip away. This same thing had happened to them with John Hughes’s Home Alone, which they had not understood and which had become a monster hit at a rival studio, and they were not going to risk such humiliation ever again.
The über-boss who was confused by The Bad Place is no longer in the film business. All the executives who did an about-face when told of his confusion are either out of the film business altogether or, though still working in that sucking slough of glamour, hold positions of much-diminished power.
I’m still here, eating my mush every morning, my lukewarm gruel for lunch, keeping my head down, writing my cockamamie, confusing books, which you, dear readers, have continued to make bestsellers for all these years. As for Fate—she has not yet hurled at me either the rhino or the runaway train, or the goldfish-rights activist with the machine gun, but I now realize that she works in more subtle ways to administer her cruelties and to have her fun. Thus far, I’ve written twenty novels since The Bad Place; I have moved on. Yet some nights in my dreams, I live an alternate life in which I wrote a novel titled One O’Clock Jump, wrote a screenplay based on it, directed the screenplay myself—and, in my Oscar acceptance speech, thanked God, my wife, my dog, and the über-boss of the studio whose passion for the project inspired all of us to achieve our very best.
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