Nicholson and I were lying on my bed one Friday night, watching the closed-circuit Hagler-Leonard fight. That day, Frank Yablans, then president of MGM, offered me $2 million to produce Roman Polanski’s The Pirate. Was $2 million an inflated price? Times five it was. But it was also conditional. I was the key he needed to get Nicholson to commit to the picture. Did I need the $2 million? After Cotton Club, twenty bucks would help.
Come the eighth round, Nicholson was finally bending toward going to sea with Polanski. Not that he wanted to, but he knew how much the two mil meant to his “notorious” pal. By the twelfth round, we both came to the same conclusion. Fuck it. Who wants to spend a year in Tunisia? Instead, let’s make the sequel to Chinatown: The Two Jakes. The fight now over, we called Towne at home, asked him to meet us at three the next afternoon in my projection room.
For six years, Towne had structured in his mind the second part of a trilogy in the growth of Los Angeles, so he was euphoric when Jack and I said, “Let’s put it on go.” While the core of Chinatown was water (the dearth of it) and the discovery that old money was holding back its usage, The Two Jakes was boomtown. It would be set postwar, 1947, when real estate and oil were competing like two fighters in the ring for the control of the city’s future. It was really Christian vs. Jew—oil being the Christian, real estate being the Jew.
Like Chinatown, The Two Jakes was half drama, half reality. The story of the two Jakes takes us into the late forties, with Jake Gittes looking for Evelyn Mulwray’s lost, incest-conceived daughter. Jake’s search would involve him in a double murder and pit him against the older man she was now married to—the heavy of the piece. His name, too, was Jake. The character was a combination of Lou Towne, Mark Taper, and every other entrepreneurial Jew responsible for changing the face of the City of Angeles to that of a thriving metropolis.
Nicholson and Towne pulled the rug out from under me that day in the projection room. The only way they’d go forward on the project was if I played the other Jake.
“Lookin’ to put in the last nail, huh? I’m fighting for my life . . . and you guys want me to go back into makeup. That’ll go over real big, now they’ll know I’m nuts. Both of ya: Go fuck yourself!”
A wicked smile, “Trust the Irishman, Keed.” Eyebrow on crocked, “You’ll cop the fuckin’ Oscar. You don’t need no words. Our noses, you and me—profile, eyein’ each other, it’ll knock ’em on their ass. You’ll be a fuckin’ movie star again!”
Picking up the phone, Irish dialed Barry Diller.
“It’s Jake, here with the Beener and the Keed. The three of us wanna give you The Two Jakes on a platinum platter. We’ll work for scale, make the flick for ten mil, keep the budget down. You can’t afford payin’ us, we’re worth too much, we’ll be partners, huh? No lawyer-agent bullshit. Just us and you—a one-page memo. You know why I wanna do it? Nose to nose on the screen, the Irishman and the Keed don’t need no dialogue.” Barry couldn’t be taking the call seriously. “One thing the Irishman ain’t, Barry, is dumb. Evans and Nicholson’s noses touchin’—it’s ‘fuck you’ money time. That’s why you’ve got my smile for nothing.”
The phone went down, his eyebrow up. “We’re in makeup, Keed, we’re goin’ eye to eye.”
The executive suite’s game of musical chairs, indigenous to the “new” Hollywood, soon propelled Diller to the chairmanship of Fox; Eisner became the chairman of Disney. Replacing Diller at Paramount was Frank Mancuso, who was previously head of marketing and distribution. Frank was, and to this day remains, family. Our careers span back several decades, and I was thrilled that my pal was now head honcho of “the mountain.” Ned Tanen, a top producer and extraordinarily bright studio executive, took over for Eisner. To celebrate his elevated position, Mancuso toasted The Two Jakes as his big flick for Christmas 1986. Martin Davis—the numero uno cheese of Gulf + Western, who controlled Paramount—made a rare appearance at the studio. A luncheon was given in his honor. Surprisingly, I was seated by his side. Beatty, Nicholson, and Harrison Ford were also at our table.
I’m thinking to myself, What am I doing here?
Marty gave me the answer: “You’ve always been an actor, Evans. How else could you have gotten away with being such a fraud?”
Did he say it in jest? I was afraid to ask. I still don’t know.
“Make this work, Evans, and you’ll be a hero,” said Davis. “When you get the above the line working for scale and are really partners with the studio, that’s where the future lies. If the picture works, everyone gets rich. The above the line get real rich. If it flops, none of us go to the poorhouse. It gives us a chance then to make double the amount of films. More people will be working. I’m proud of ya.”
Wow, did I feel good that day. Call it “welcome back to the fold.”
Getting a script from Robert Towne is akin to closing a deal with the Japanese (it took him eight years to finish writing Shampoo). To have the picture ready for the following Christmas, we had to start shooting that spring, which meant I needed Shakespeare to turn over his script in two months. He was madly in love and engaged to marry a ravishing Italian beauty, and she wanted the wedding of the year.
“Dear Robert,” I said, “finish the script, and I’ll throw the wedding of her dreams.”
In October 1985, 180 people sat under the shade of the old sycamore. Robert and Louisa had declared their vows. Towne’s best man was Pat Riley.
His present to me was the script of The Two Jakes. Great businessman I am, the wedding was not in the budget. Dom Pérignon or Cristal was not good enough; a special Italian champagne was imported. At $200 a bottle, it set the tone for the party.
Robert didn’t quite keep up to his end of the bargain, because the script was 80 percent complete. (Now, almost a decade later, it remains 80 percent complete!) A month later, I heard Bob was pissed that I didn’t give him a wedding gift. Maybe I skimped on the party; it only cost me over 100 Gs.
Towne was writing and directing, Nicholson and myself starring and producing. “We get equal billing, Keed. I’ll take first billing in my racket, you take first in yours. Okay with you, Keed?”
What other guy would insist on giving equal billing above the title to an actor who hadn’t made a picture in twenty-five years?
The film was to commence principal photography Tuesday, May 6, 1986. The Sunday before, Frank Mancuso was throwing a party for the cast, crew, and studio honchos, toasting the launching of his first production as chief. By now, Chinatown was cinema folklore; everyone in distribution was panting for its sequel. Maybe the black cloud hovering over me for five years will open, and I’ll see a bit of sunshine again.
Friday afternoon, four days before shooting, Bob Towne—who just six months earlier had referred to me in the preface to his leatherbound, limited-edition Chinatown screenplay as “one who in memory and in life remains a standard for every kind of human generosity and one I have yet to see matched in this town”—paid me a visit.
Silently, he sat in a chair, his eyes to the floor, rabbinical in thought. With a verbal baseball bat, he gave me a full swing to the balls. “Bob, you should drop out of the cast. I haven’t had enough time to rehearse you.”
I know the feeling of being shocked. I’m a pro at it. But Towne’s words were a new sensation . . . an electric shock.
“Robert, the picture starts in four days. Are you crazy? Forget Evans the actor. Evans the producer won’t accept it. Who the fuck are we goin’ to use in my place?”
“I don’t know.”
The wounds of The Cotton Club were still open; I couldn’t afford another catastrophe.
“What about Nicholson? Did you tell him?”
“I just left him.”
“What did he say?”
Not looking at me, “It’s okay with him.”
Quickly I reached for the phone and seven-digited my co-star.
“Jack, I’m here with Towne. What the fuck’s going on?”
“You tell me.”
“Uh-uh . . . you tell me.”
“Is Towne there with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Get your ass up here . . . now! Alone!”
“What about—”
He cut me off. “Fuck him. Just get up here.”
Without a look at Towne, I raced out of the house, up to Mulholland. There stood Jack.
“I’ve got some pain in the ass . . . hemorrhoids. Don’t need another one. Why ya backin’ out?”
“Backin’ out? Towne tells me he doesn’t want me in it and that you said fine.”
“You’re makin’ my head hurt as much as my ass! Get him on the horn. . . . Listen, Beener, Evans is playin’ Berman or I ain’t playin’ Gittes. You left your game in the locker room, huh?”
Slamming the phone down, he looked up. “Towne tells me you don’t want to play a Jew?” Both of us burst out laughing. Jack had to stop—his ass hurt too much.
“What about Shakespeare?”
“Fuck ’im.”
The next day Jack was rushed to the hospital with severe hemorrhoid problems. Though his pain was excruciating, his resolve on the Keed remained adamant.
That night, an altercation ensued between Shakespeare, the Irishman, and the Keed that lasted till 4:00 A.M. Monday morning. Poor Irish: his pain was such that he couldn’t sit, lie, or stand, but his resolve was intransigent. Meanwhile, Towne ranted on how I would ruin his prose.
“Hey, Bob, I didn’t ask you to do it, you insisted.”
Nicholson hit it on the nose. Towne left his game in the locker room. Who better to blame it on than me? A guy who hadn’t been in front of the camera for more than a quarter of a century.
Being the victim, I had the least to say of the three. Watching them, I couldn’t help but think the difference between loyalty and loyalty. At three in the morning, I awakened my new counsel, Alan Schwartz. Poor Alan had been my lawyer for a year now, and we hadn’t been able to put two weeks together without a problem. This was a big one. The picture was to start in thirty-six hours or be canceled.
Driving me from Mulholland back to my home, Alan begged: “Please, Bob, you can’t afford it, back away.”
Neither of us slept that night. Till the sun came up in the morning we discussed our options; there weren’t any. Again my back was to the wall.
The phone rang—it was the Irishman.
“The Beener’s goin’ down to see the honchos at Paramount, tell ’em he don’t want cha. Sure you haven’t slept, but stand strong. My asshole’s killin’ me. Don’t know how, but I’ll get down there, be with you. The Keed’s gonna be in the picture, got it?”
The bombardment started. Mancuso had his ass on the line, The Two Jakes being his first gig as head honcho. He left the studio and rushed up to my home, Ned Tanen right behind.
“Bob,” said Frank. “You’re family. We’re like brothers. I beg you to drop out. You can’t afford to throw snake eyes. Not again.”
Tanen and Alan Schwartz quickly agreed. Nicholson’s plea rung in my head.
“If it’s okay with Jack, it’s okay with me, gentlemen.”
“What’s his number?” asked Frank. His face was pale as Jack gave him the score.
“He’s coming down,” said Frank. “Says he can’t put his pants on, he’s got such pain in his ass. But he’s coming down and he’s fighting mad. Ned, you know what he told me? ‘Without the Keed, you ain’t got the Irishman.’ ” Mancuso was stunned! “What the fuck did you get us into here, Evans?”
Tanen, Mancuso, Schwartz, and I stood there. The four of us thought the same thing at the same time: the guy’s jinxed (meaning me). I have to be—wherever I park my hat, there’s a snake under it.
“We need this picture real bad,” said Frank. “Please, I beg of you, don’t blow it.”
“What have I done?”
Both Tanen and Mancuso shook their heads and took a walk outside around the tree, leaving Schwartz and myself alone in the projection room.
Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I never thought I’d have a client too hot to handle—I was wrong.”
Like Hopalong Cassidy, in limped Nicholson. Within half an hour, it was resolved. Tanen and Mancuso embraced me. I was the second Jake. By dictate, not necessarily by desire. Ahhh . . . act three had yet to begin.
Three hours later, around my circular oak table sat Ned Tanen; Frank Mancuso; Robert Towne with his attorney, Bert Fields; Jack Nicholson with his attorney, Ken Kleinberg; and Alan Schwartz and me. Heated? No, on fire.
The phone rang. It was for Ned Tanen. Urgent. Quickly, Tanen picked it up. His hands began to shake. His lips quivered. His ex-wife had just committed suicide. His two little daughters had just discovered their mommy’s body. A nightmare? Worse. Quickly he left.
Mancuso wanted to reconvene the next day. Towne refused. Three hours later, with every insult imaginable thrown at me by my dear friend, Robert, Jack stood up.
“Listen, Beener. With Evans, I take nothin’. Is that clear? Without him, I want my six mil against fifteen percent of the gross. Is that clear?”
Picking up a piece of paper from the table, he grabbed a red Magic Marker, he filled the 8-x-10 white sheet with a big 2, then next to it, he then spelled out seven letters, M-I-L-L-I-O-N.
“From me to you, for your cockamamie script, I’m payin’ you two big ones for an eighty-percent job. I’ll get it back from first proceeds. If you wanna direct, I ain’t gonna stand in your way. We’re supposed to start tomorrow. Too many guys here have their ass on the line. Hey! The kid stays in the picture. Clear?”
It wasn’t.
Needing the $2 million more than Mike Tyson needed a good lawyer, Towne couldn’t take being out-machoed by Irish. The Two Jakes circa 1985 never got made.
That ended the first half of the eighties. The good half.