A high school dropout knows what an actor, a writer, or a director is, yet a Rhodes scholar has no idea what a producer is.
Generalizing a producer as a fat, bald guy who sits in a back room, smokes a cigar, hustles, extorts—name it, he’ll do it, anything, to get his flick made.
Really? Then why is it that David O. Selznick, Sam Goldwyn, Darryl Zanuck—producers all—are chronicled in greater depth than any actor, director, or writer?
I’ll tell you why. It’s the producer whose vision (which he then shares with others) eventually ends up on the screen. He’s the one who hires the writer and director. When a director hires a producer, you’re in deep shit. A director needs a boss, not a yes man.
As Paramount’s production chief, my biggest financial loss was creating the Directors Company. The industry’s top three helmsmen—Coppola, William Friedkin, and Peter Bogdanovich—shared ownership with Paramount, with total autonomy. The result? Total disaster!
Contrary to popular belief, legit producers never have to raise a dime. The major studios are hungry to write a check for exciting new material. None want financial partners. If they roll the dice, they want to cover the bet themselves.
Legit producers are few, a dying breed. There are many “cocktail party” producers. (By a recent census, they outnumber the police.) Dilettante, agent, photographer, lawyer, hustler, deal maker, playboy, financier, starlet’s husband—all fraudulently carry the moniker “producer.” None of these guys have the vaguest notion of budget, casting, pre-production, production, post-production, final edit, final theater selection, advertising, marketing, and collecting the “dough-re-mi.” Those are just a few of the many facets a legit producer is responsible for.
Speaking to the ladies: If you’re ever approached with the line “You ought to be in pictures, I’m a producer,” tell the guy to fuck off. He’s a fraud, and the pictures he wants to put you in don’t play in theaters. “You ought to be in pictures” just ain’t the M.O. of a legit producer. Quote me if you want.
An actor gives twelve weeks to a flick; a director, at most a year; a producer, rarely less than three to five. If the flick’s a hit, the dance card of both director and actor is filled for years. Not so for the producer. “What can you do for me today?” is his life. Damnit! Rodney Dangerfield’s right again: I don’t get no respect.
Each film has its own life, though all share a connective tissue. Success has many fathers, while failure is quickly orphaned.
The guilds, both directors and writers, both have a single purpose: to protect their membership and to offer it a podium. They are counterproductive at times and care little who pays the tab. On the other hand, the Producers Guild has no purpose. Reminiscent of the eight Arab nations—never united.
The arrogance of possessive credit, a Directors Guild dictate, is repugnant in its posture. Politically, bleeding liberals all, yet shamefully autocratic when it comes to sharing a collaborative effort.
“Sam Schwartz,” a fledgling director, gets his big break in the big time—the big screen. Ray Stark, a prolific, professional producer, takes the gamble. Throughout production, his vast experience umbrellas the new kid on the block’s inexperience. Yet, by Guild dictate, it’s “A Sam Schwartz Film.” . . . Ray Stark who?
Success or failure, each film carries its own drama, villains, heroes, contributors. More often than not, the intrigue behind the camera is far more textured than what’s on the screen.
The Godfather is a telling example. Principal photography had been completed. There was one problem, we didn’t have an ending: it was never written, shot, or structured. Mayhem plenty—many of the principal characters were knifed, shot, or strangled, but that ain’t an ending. Peter Zinner, one of the film’s two editors, took the task upon himself. He choreographed mayhem with religion, intercut murder with the baptism of Michael Corleone’s newborn child. He saved the day—he saved our ass!
Now, decades later, it’s still up there with the most memorable climaxes in cinema. Not godfathered by its director or producer, but by a faceless wonder. Coppola went on to become the decade’s maestro, Evans its boy genius . . . but Peter Zinner—who? Oh! He silently disappeared, looking for a new gig—saving another producer’s or director’s ass.
Is it the director’s picture? Damn right! But it’s also the actors’, writer’s, editor’s, cinematographer’s, composer’s, and producer’s. Filmmaking is a collaborative effort.
Is it not worthy of investigation by the legitimate critic to uncover the contributions before writing their critique in granite? It’s called doing your homework.
The Directors and Writers Guilds annually throw a bash honoring their own, singling out one as the best. But not the Producers Guild. What’s wrong with us? We’ve got tuxedos, we wanna show off and be named “best,” win The Willy Loman Award.