Sundance, 1995, with Safe and Kids
Long flight. Todd Haynes is very tired. Picked up at the airport by a cheerful Utahan and head for the Kim-ball Art Center. Everyone wants to see Safe. I see James Schamus at the Fox party. He is very flu-y and semihysterical. I let him use my cellular phone to find out whether or not Sense and Sensibility has been green-lighted. It has. I also let him call Ang Lee to tell him the good news. I am happy for James and a little jealous. We meet Todd and go to the Egyptian Theater—crowded, and with many people looking for tickets. Todd McCarthy, the Variety critic, asks if he can call me in the morning to get the technical credits for his review. I’m a little nervous because he wrote a stinging pan of Postcards from America.
During the movie I go across the street with James and Tom Bernard and Michael Barker. James is high about Sense and Sensibility and the three of them talk business. I feel a little ignored. I am very nervous about the screening,
The reception to Safe seems to have been good. We slip and slide down Main Street to the Depot and have dinner with about thirty guests, courtesy of Sony. Todd’s parents are there, looking very very proud. A little before midnight there’s a mass exodus to the screening of Kids. I decide it is Safe’s night, so I stay at the Depot and have a last drink with Todd. When we leave, I walk up to the theater and poke my nose in—very quiet and packed. No sign of Cary Woods or Harmony Korine or Larry Clark. I am tired, and after twenty minutes or so I go home.
I ask around about the reception to Kids. James didn’t go, but I know Ted Hope did, so I ask James what Ted said. James sucks in his breath. “Sorry, but Ted said it didn’t go well at all,” he says. I am dismayed and disappointed. But then, I showed Ted the script last year and he told me it “lacked character development,” so maybe it just isn’t his cup of tea. Still, I brace myself for the worst.
At the Claim Jumper I am besieged with people declaring Kids a masterpiece. Many think it loathsome, many more tell me it “changes the face of cinema.”
Safe is a little tougher sell. The Variety review, I’m told, will be bad. The rest of the critics seem to be coming out in favor. All day people come up to me and say, “It’s brilliant!” but sometimes they mean Kids.
Dinner with Todd and his parents at the Depot again. We drop them off at the Postcards screening and then try to go to the Party Girl party. But we don’t have the right invitations and they won’t let us in, so we stand outside in zero degrees, smoking. One of the makers of Hoop Dreams tells Todd he loves Safe. A bit of warmth in the cold.
Coffee with the French distributor of Safe, who hates the last twenty minutes. I try to placate him. Then I have lunch with Ronna Wallace of Goldwyn: I pitch Savage Grace and hog all the sushi. After lunch, we run into Lindsay Law. I try to talk about I Shot Andy Warhol with him, but he is in a big hurry. I am worried about its imminent start date.
At our publicist Jeff Hill’s condo I read the Variety review. It couldn’t be much worse. It says Safe is preachy and pretentious. I wish there was some way I could prevent Todd from reading it.
I go to the Brian Wilson party but leave before he plays. Outside, I call Pam from my cell-phone. She confirms a midnight flight to London for a screening of Stonewall with a one-hour 5 A.M. stopover in Atlanta. I am out of here.
Cannes, 1995, with Safe, Kids, and Stonewall
I have a little studio in the Residence du Grand Hotel, right in back of the Petit Majestic. Am nervous about everything. I join all the Kids people in the lobby of the Majestic half an hour before the screening. Bedlam: Too many people clamoring for tickets and the publicist looks as if she’s going to throw up. Still, I get my ticket and join the official party and march up the red carpet.
Kids looks great. Mixed yays and boos. Afterwards we go to the Miramax yacht. Take off your shoes first. Veuve Cliquot only, pasty little hors d’oeuvres. I sit on the bow with the set designer, Kevin Thompson, and my lawyer, John Sloss, getting drunk, feeling content, gazing at the Riviera. Then Harvey Weinstein asks everyone to leave—he has to talk to Larry and Harmony, the screenwriter. We go to an awkward dinner. I sit next to Gus Van Sant, who is in an amiable mood. We chat until Larry and Harmony arrive. Harvey, they say, was lecturing them about their press conference. “He said we were punk rock and we should have been classical,” says Harmony. What a great way to put it! I leave before dinner and walk to the Independent Feature Project party, then go home too early (for my taste) but still feel awful the next day.
Stonewall was not chosen for the festival, but is being screened in the market. I am disappointed, but the sales company seems to feel it’ll do fine anyway. Anthony, the BBC rep, keeps asking me what he’s supposed to say to “salve the wounded hearts of Nigel’s [the late director’s] friends.” Fuck if I know.
We gather for the Safe screening. Todd Haynes’ whole family was supposed to be here but are nowhere to be found. We finally head for the theater and hope we’ll run into them. Word from the lobby that a hysterical American family is insisting they be let in and security is being called. Alison from the Sales Company dashes off to rescue the Hayneses. We enter the theater through the parking lot and go into a room with a lot of champagne. Todd huddles with Olivier to compose his speech. I hover and Todd tells me to get lost. I drink more champagne than I want and smoke and bounce around with James Schamus.
We are called onto the stage one by one—I’m a little slow. Full auditorium. Todd thanks everyone and then makes a speech saying Safe could not have been made without me. I’m moved and embarrassed. We dismount, Todd on one side of the theater, me on the other. The opening looks good, then we dash out, hugging each other and crying. We go to the Grand Hotel and drink through the screening.
Back in the theater the audience is still there. Slightly more than polite applause. Everyone keeps saying, “It went great—this is a great reaction!” What do I know? We go to the El Morocco for dinner, stiflingly hot, then to a succession of hotel bars until 3 A.M.
Sundance, 1996, with I Shot Andy Warhol
Packed, sold-out Saturday-night screening. Brooke Shields is there, the cast of Friends. Hard to tell how it goes down. We go to the Riverhorse afterwards, where Michael Stremmel gives David Schwimmer a copy of Valerie Solanas’s S.C.U.M. Manifesto.
Monday, Sandra Schulberg—who has been attempting to run American Playhouse since Lindsay Law decamped for Fox Searchlight—summons Anthony Wall, the executive producer, and me to her hotel room. She tells us that Playhouse has just filed suit against Goldwyn, which was supposed to be distributing its movies. This means that I Shot Andy Warhol might no longer have a distributor; worse, it could fall into some kind of legal limbo. Sandra speaks in circles and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I’m close to tears—so I leave, and walk down the hill to John Pierson’s book signing. I’d asked Sandra if I could tell John Sloss, my lawyer, about the lawsuit, and she said, “NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT,” but when I see him at the bookstore I tell him everything—I mean, I have to. He asks me a lot of questions I can’t answer, then I go home and sit alone in the condo.
Mary calls and we meet for dinner at Grappa. She asks what the meeting with Sandra was about and I think for a second and say, “Video rights.” I just can’t tell her. She’s in the midst of all these wonderful things—interviews, screenings, meetings with other filmmakers. She’d panic if she knew what was really going on, and it would be a crime to spoil her festival.
I meet Tony Safford for breakfast. He says that Miramax can’t buy Warhol because it would steal the thunder from Basquiat, which is their Warhol movie. I had figured as much, but when I call Sandra she responds as if it’s a shock. Her voice is full of doom; she says things that drive me crazy like, “The applause at the screening was not good applause.”
Sloss and I go over to Jon Taplin’s condo to discuss an overall deal for him to represent our movies, but it’s an exercise in futility—Taplin represents Shine, the screening was yesterday, and the phone won’t stop ringing. Jon is very apologetic but…Suddenly there is a bang on the door: Ruth Vitale and Jonathan Weisgal from Fine Line. They say they won’t leave until they get a deal for the picture. I do not want to discuss my movie or a deal in front of them and so I go and meet Lindsay Law at the Wasatch Pub. He tells me he’s enjoying his new job. I’m torn between happiness for him and misery over the position that my movie is in now that American Playhouse is foundering. Lindsay is very sympathetic but…no lifeboat here, either. Then I mention Dan Minahan’s idea for a picture about Halston and Lindsay perks up. “I’m interested,” he says. “So is everyone,” I say. He asks if he can have until noon tomorrow to think it over and I say OK.
A showing of Chris Munch’s film Color of a Brisk and Leaping Day, which I like a lot although I think I’m in the minority. Michael Stipe, who’s in the movie, is at the screening and gives me an invitation to a party at his condo at midnight.
A half hour before noon I call Lindsay. He says he’s on the other line but: “Yes! Let’s do it!” I say, “I’m shaking your hand over the phone.”
The Variety review for Warhol comes out: incredible, a genuine rave. I start to feel a little better about the movie’s chances.
At the Trimark dinner, Fiona Mitchell suggests that we don’t send Warhol to Berlin but hold a few more months for Cannes. Given what’s happening now between Playhouse and Goldwyn, that sounds like a good idea.
Midnight, and Mary, Gideon (Warhol’s set-dresser), Dan Minahan, and I go to Stipe’s party. We’re the first to arrive—in fact, Stipe isn’t even there. We are too embarrassed to be in front of the door when he comes in, so we go sit by the jacuzzi downstairs and wait.
After what seems a sufficient amount of time, we creep back up, open the exit door, and—“Oh no,” says Gideon, “they’re coming in now!” So we duck back into the staircase and wait another five minutes. What a lot of trouble just so we won’t look like losers.
No headway with Goldwyn, so Warhol’s future seems uncertain. There’s a chance it won’t get out in time for spring. I feel as if I’m letting Mary down.
Breakfast at the Eating Establishment with Julie Golden of Lakeshore Entertainment. The place is teeming with Miramaxers. Harvey Weinstein walks in with Anne Thompson of Entertainment Weekly. I’m trying to get my energy up for Julie—but it’s flagging.
I get up to leave and signal to Mark Tusk of Miramax. “I’m going to do Halston with Fox Searchlight unless you tell me there is a reason not to,” I say. Looking pained, he says he tried to talk to Harvey about it but Harvey didn’t seem interested. I say “Fine” and walk outside, where who do I bump into but Harvey and Trea Hoving. She says, “You know Christine, don’t you?” and Harvey says, “YOU, CHRISTINE?” I nod. “YOU ARE A MIRACLE WORKER! I AM YOUR BIGGEST FAN!”—on and on and on. I say, “Thank you. That means a lot.” We shake hands and he asks me to call him. Trea says to me later: “Sometimes Harvey gets it right.” I’m thinking: kudos from moguls; rave reviews; but I Shot Andy Warhol could still sink like a stone and there’s nothing I can do.
Cannes, 1996 with I Shot Andy Warhol
Dan Minahan, Warhol’s co-writer, and I go to the airport together. There is a bevy of blondes on the flight that turn out to be the Hawaiian Tropics tanning team. My eye is infected and I am wearing glasses and feeling miserable. At least Warhol is being released—next week, courtesy the Samuel Goldwyn Company and its new owner, Orion Pictures.
We arrive and are taxied with Sandra Schulberg. No one is here from our team yet.
Mary and Lili arrive and are whisked off to do press. There is a fancy, fancy sitdown dinner scheduled for tonight. Tom Kalin and I give Dan and Diane our tickets. They are thrilled. It ends up going to about 3 A.M. and everyone gets to keep their plates.
I see Godfrey Cheshire at the Petite Majestic. I am polite but am upset at his review of I Shot Andy Warhol—unnecessarily snide and a tad malicious. I decide not to invite him to the party, thinking, “Humph. Bad review, no party.” But Jeff Hill, our publicist, invites him anyway. Oh, well.
Dinner with Zenith executive Scott Meek and his friend Ash. Little tour of the Petite Majestic, then bed.
Screening at 2:30. We gather at Gray D’Albion all in nice duds. Our publicist, Ginger Corbett, is nowhere to be found. We leave without her. It turns out later that she was dealing with a crisis: the director Lars von Trier had suffered extreme travel phobia and had turned back halfway to Cannes, so would not be there to present his film.
We go to the Palais and are shuffled around. Anthony, the BBC producer, wants to be presented on stage with us. The French ignore him. Three guys give speeches. The last is Gilles Jacob, who waxes eloquent about how fabulous Lili Taylor is. Lili stands there smiling blankly. She clearly does not have a clue what is being said. I watch the movie—the subtitles are fun and reasonably accurate.
Flowers are presented to us ladies on stage. I hand mine to Jared Harris. He waves them away with a smile and says, “I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”
Afterwards, press conference. Anthony, the BBC producer, wants to be up on stage with us. The French ignore him. No scintillating questions and it seems a bit anticlimactic.
Goldwyn dinner at 8:30 at the Majestic. Sort of dull and stodgy and I wish they’d picked somewhere livelier. Oh, well. We go across the street to our party at midnight. Now we get lively. What the hell is this? There is a guy lying on the stairs, facedown in a Warhol wig. Lili whispers, “Is he getting paid?” Yes, it turns out, five hundred dollars. There are go-go dancers covered with body paint and little else, a Candy Darling impersonator who smears glitter on your face as you walk in, a hippie sitting in the corner sorting M&Ms by color, and blasting seventies music. Could this be tackier? Mary looks aghast.
But everyone is having a good time! TV crews everywhere! Sofia Coppola, Kris Kristofferson, Leonardo DiCaprio…
I find refuge outside and sit with Tom, Scott, and the producer Ed Pressman. He is very soft spoken and I do not know what to say to him. At 2 A.M., I stumble home.
In the Hollywood Reporter, our party is rated 3.5 martinis out of a possible five. I had planned to take our crew out tonight, but we’ve been invited to an official festival dinner, which seems to be an “honor.” Oh, well. We take Anthony and Kim Evans for a drink at 8 P.M. at the Petite Majestic. I see an Israeli distributor march out of the Grand Hotel with two pillows.
I am so tired I can barely move. But off we go to dinner at the Carlton. I say hello to director Mike Leigh, whom I met in Australia six or seven years ago; he very graciously pretends that he remembers me. I introduce him to Jared, who is delighted.
After dinner, Jeff Hill wants to go to Zanzibar, a Cannes gay bar. I don’t want to—it’s filled with prostitutes and is vaguely tragic. Also, they practically throw you out if you’re female. I mention this last salient fact to Jeff, and he says, “Yeah, well—they have tables outside!” I am too stunned to reply. Cannes is making me homophobic.
Tom Kalin and I are invited by Tom Rosenberg of Lakeshore Entertainment to lunch at the Hotel Du Cap. I have been coming to Cannes for five years, and this is my first invitation to this legendary establishment. I try to make sure Tom realizes how fortunate he is, and borrow money from Scott for the cab fare. Poor Tom has been so drilled on how to behave with T.R. (don’t talk too much, don’t talk about the rewrite, etc.) that he can barely speak, and we journey to Antibes in silence.
Of course, we are too early. A forty-five minute ride we were told, and it took maybe fifteen. We walk along the grounds of the hotel and listen to the thwaap of tennis balls. We enter the restaurant on the dot of one and are promptly surrounded by waiters—“Yes?” “Yes?” “Yes?” We perch on chairs and wait for T.R. “Are you sure he’s coming or should we call his room?” says Tom.
“He’s coming!” I snap. We are both thoroughly intimidated. T.R. arrives with some hairy business partner I’ve never heard of. Tom proves thoroughly charming. We sit by the sea on an impossibly beautiful terrace. Dustin Hoffman is behind us, George Clooney to our right. Chen Kaige. Atom Egoyan.
We open menus with entrees that cost 200, 300, 400 F. Oh, well—it’s the Hotel Du Cap, let’s live it up! I choose a bouillabaisse with saffron and fresh tiger shrimp, but T.R. orders first and asks for an omelet. An omelet! So I quickly shift gears and order a green salad and pasta.
Tom has risotto.
Tonight we plan to take everyone out to dinner. We select a cheap (for Cannes), cheerful place called Oscar’s. Dinner takes about three and a half hours. I sit at the end of the table with Jeff Hill and John Sloss and talk business the whole time. Jared and his friend get drunk and merry, as do Mary and Diane. Lili is talking very somberly in the corner to Tom.
We finally get to the Petite Majestic, where I secure tickets to the Van party for Mary and Diane. Off they go. Dan and Tom decide they simply must go to the Zanzibar. I am happily abandoned. I find some old friends and—freedom finally!—relax.
Tom, Lili, Dan and Diane, and Jared are all leaving in the morning. Tom announces that he will of course stay up all night (his car leaves at the ungodly hour of 5 A.M.) which translates into crash bang at 3:30 or so, frantic wakeup call (“Your car is here, monsieur Kalin!”), Tom rummaging hysterically in the room, all the lights blazing. I pretend to be asleep. The door slams shut—finally! I get up, cautiously. Tom has left at least half his clothes in the wardrobe—including a very pricey Comme Des Garçons jacket. I contemplate leaving it here.
The last day. Only Mary is left. A few meetings and dinner plans with Marcus Hu. We decide to meet at the Independent Feature Project party, which turns out to be a dull affair. Only wine is served, and I don’t see anyone I know. Marcus and I sit in the corner and drink bad white wine. Finally, we take off for a British Film Institute rooftop party for the surviving members of Queen, under the mistaken impression that there’ll be food there. No dice: just some dry, teeny weenie sandwiches. I fill up on beer and contemplate the glamorous, jet-setting life of an independent film producer.