Amazon.com
Reading David Thomson's new book, The Whole Equation: A History of Hollywood is like listening to a favorite older uncle reminisce about his Hollywood career; it's full of interesting stories of yesteryear, lots of valuable insights, and probably good for you--even if some sections go faster than others. Thomson is an accomplished critic who has written for The New York Times and Salon (among others), and is also the author of several books on the subject of show biz, including The New Biographical Dictionary of Film. In The Whole Equation (a reference to F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel about Hollywood, The Last Tycoon), he attempts to cover "the history of American movies," and "the history of America in the time of movies." To do so, he brings in finance, film theory, and just plain gossip. (For those who haven't heard how Jean Harlow died, prepare to watch the facade of glamour crumble as never before.)
It's an ambitious project to say the least, and the movie business is probably too complex a subject to sum up in 350-plus pages. Often a reader can start a chapter, purportedly on one topic, and find themselves completely off the grid--or at least buried under a lot of words--a few pages later. Like that favorite uncle, Thomson isn't necessarily quick to make his point, nor afraid of straying from his main subject. Nevertheless, many parts of the book are enjoyable and valuable--particularly for those who really want to learn about the history of American filmmaking, and wouldn't mind finding out what Brando got paid for Last Tango in Paris in the process. --Leah Weathersby
From Publishers Weekly
The "whole equation," a phrase borrowed from F. Scott Fitzgerald's unfinished Hollywood novel, The Last Tycoon, refers to the balancing of financial acumen, artistic aspiration and sociological savvy that movie moguls needed to keep Hollywood flourishing during the Depression. It's also what Thomson (The New Biographical Dictionary of Film) aims to achieve in his idiosyncratic chronicle of American filmmaking. He explores personalities (Louis B. Mayer, David O. Selznick) and specific films (von Stroheim's Greed, Spielberg's Jaws) to explain the 20th century's shifting sensibilities. Thomson addresses seminal effects from the last 100 years—from the ramifications of sound and color to the chilling consequences of the McCarthy hearings—to explain the culture of moviemaking. His writing is lyrical, but his pronouncements hyperbolic. (His ire against psychiatry, manifested in a dislike of Method acting, is particularly pronounced; its influence on an acting style, claims Thomson, "could yet destroy a society.") Thomson is considerably frustrated with current films and what he sees as moviegoers' lowered expectations. His melancholy metaphor for survival in Hollywood is the 1974 film Chinatown, where "the lone seeker of truth is told to shut up at the end." This fascinating, sometimes frustrating love letter to Hollywood doesn't shirk from exposing the blemishes on Thomson's inamorata. 23 photos. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From The Washington Post's Book World/washingtonpost.com
History, it is too often said, is written by the winners -- which is true, except in Hollywood. If there were no losers there, there would be no history. Since those who make films and those who watch them all seem to be losers in the eyes of David Thomson, he's got an awful lot of history to cover. The author of the daunting, exhaustive New Biographical Dictionary of Film and an itinerant critical gun-for-hire at some of the nation's loftier publications, he virtually pleads for an argument in titling his latest tome The Whole Equation. Then again, histories of entire nations have been condensed into single volumes, so why not the merely century-or-so-old cinema? Thomson, writing history the way he wrote biography in Rosebud (his 1996 biography-as-conversation with Orson Welles), covers the Important Men (Edison, Chaplin, Arbuckle, Cagney, Selznick, Welles, Brando, Reagan and Wasserman), the Important Movies ("Greed," "Gone With the Wind," "Red River," "Night of the Hunter," "Cleopatra," "Easy Rider," "The Godfather," "Jaws," "Star Wars," "Mulholland Drive" and "The Passion of the Christ") and the Phenomena (silents, sound, musicals, noir, the Red Scare, independents and Miramax). He sees not a hopeful trajectory in the lot. Which raises the question of why the author bothers with a medium he holds in such seething contempt. "Why take Hollywood seriously any longer?" he asks toward the end of the book (wisely: it isn't the kind of thing you'd ask at the beginning of nearly 400 pages of text). "Why waste time on event-ized nonsense aimed at teenagers? Why cling to any hope that a zoo for dinosaurs is going to produce anything worth discussing?" He answers his own question sometime earlier, by quoting the once-blacklisted writer and director Abraham Polonsky: "Filmmaking in the major studios is the prime way that film art exists. . . . the fact of the matter is, that's the only choice." Polonsky said this only a few years before his death in 1999, and it remains true that Hollywood, by virtue of having the most money, also has the best sound people, cinematographers, set designers, special-effects technicians -- in other words, the resources. What it does with those resources is akin to Michelangelo cornering the market on Carerra marble and then spending his life making bobble-head hood ornaments for SUVs. It's criminal, but people buy the hood ornaments. Whether Thomson likes it or not, the movies are market-driven. Actually, it's not clear whether he does like it, or know it. Much of what passes for critical thinking in The Whole Equation is at best contradictory or at worst crackpot. "Greed," Erich von Stroheim' s largely lost masterpiece -- lost because producer Irving Thalberg, a Thomson favorite, cut it in 1925 from eight or nine hours to two and a third -- isn't such a loss, Thomson says. Why should a director be permitted such indulgence as to make a 24-reel movie? On the other hand, Thomson is still whining (flashback to Beneath Mulholland, his 1997 collection of essays) about Robert Towne, screenwriter and apparent close personal friend, who sold his "Chinatown" screenplay to Paramount, where producer Robert Evans let Roman Polanski change the ending. Anyone who's seen "Chinatown" -- if you haven't, you really should -- knows well enough that it's a near-perfect picture. Still, Towne was violated, though paid well for it, and Thomson can't forget this. He decries the unerring ability of the Oscars to recognize the wrong movies, adding, "Of course, it doesn't matter too much as long as all the films last so that new viewers can reach their own decisions." "Greed" at its full length will never be seen. So you want to ask Thomson what he wants: preservation or pragmatism? Thomson wants to burst critical bubbles and goes about with his hatpin like a crazed matador. Is D.W. Griffith cinema's first auteur, the man who invented many of the techniques that have become common film language? There are certainly reasons to hate his "Birth of a Nation" (1915), but Thomson considers it rational critical analysis to compare Mahler's Ninth Symphony, which was first performed in 1912, with the early shorts Griffith was making for Biograph at the same time. "Listen to that music," he writes of Mahler, "and you cannot ignore the naiveté, the coarseness, in Griffith." No, and if you look at a Vermeer, you can't help noticing that bluesman Robert Johnson scratches the strings while playing his guitar. What are we talking about? Well, how about why people go to the movies? "The appeal of movies is beyond the sensible the rational or the hard-working," Thomson writes. " Going into the dark, after centuries of progress in which mankind has staggered toward artificial light, smacks of delicious perversity." Sure. Unless, of course, audiences are not going into the dark for the dark but for the artificial light bouncing off the screen. Or simply because movies are easier to see in an unlit room.Reviewed by John Anderson Copyright 2005, The Washington Post Co. All Rights Reserved.
From Bookmarks Magazine
Thomson (The New Biographical Dictionary of Film **** Jan/Feb 2003) claims that the strange bedfellows art and money created American film, but that full understanding of this union "is too hard" to grasp. Critics agree: Thomson may have bitten off more than he can chew. His range is amazing, and so are his digressions. Known for his incisive, biting insight into film, Thomson doesn’t disappoint here. His beautiful prose, impressive knowledge, and passion for film float the book. But distracting details, a perpetual crankiness, and highly subjective claims (about the advantages of the old studio system or the lack of art in silent films, for example) may stop a reader cold. For many, it may be better to pass on Whole Equation and go to the movies instead. Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc.
From Booklist
*Starred Review* Thomson definitely does not belong to the thumbs-up, thumbs-down school of film criticism. While others frantically push and pan the week's overhyped, soon-to-be-forgotten product, Thomson takes a longer view, peeling back the layers of reality, goring sacred cows, correcting misconceptions, and taking pains to reveal those moments when others, following John Ford's Liberty Valance dictum, have preferred to print the legend. Hence this book, characterized as a history of Hollywood but really a philosophical meditation on the myriad ways the movie industry has inspired and influenced L.A and America, and vice versa. Without resorting to the obscurantist rhetoric of postmodern academics, Thomson deconstructs this complicated, symbiotic relationship. In one chapter, for example, he explodes the long-held belief that Hollywood made L.A. into a boomtown. It was booming, and attracting Hollywood-style hucksters, before the film industry took root in the years preceding World War I. Another chapter begins with an examination of Chinatown that opens out into a discussion of lost water rights, corrupt business practices in early L.A., and how screenwriter Robert Towne lost and struggled to regain the rights to his story and characters. This is history seen through the lens of the movies and movie criticism undergirded with thoughtful research and scholarly reflection. Jack Helbig
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
“You are not likely to find a more affecting and intellectually absorbing book on film...”
—Louis Menand, The New Yorker
“I’ve always wanted to read a history of the movies that dealt with their whole ecology—what they were, why they were, who made them, who watched them, how they were paid for, and where the money went. This is it. It’s engaged, passionate, tender, informative, critical, mournful, funny, and unsentimental.”
—Richard Eyre
“Once again, with his intelligent eye and sharp wit, David Thomson has managed to bring the reader inside and underneath the world of cinema, this time creating a remarkable one-volume compendium of the history and the magic that we call Hollywood.”
—Harvey Weinstein
“Thomson traces an arc as sure and elegant as the best of Tinseltown’s movies in his totally absorbing book, hitting all the right bases along the way—risk, fantasy, ruthlessness, joy, horror and money, always money. A remarkable summing up from perhaps the only observer with the right balance of passion and perspective to pull it off.”
—Kate Buford
“From the opening chapter on writer Robert Towne and his struggles with Chinatown to the cloudy denouement–the future of cinema–this is a must-read for anybody who loves film and is fascinated with the less-than romantic machinery behind the glitter...For its candid good taste alone, the book goes on my shelf.”
–Liz Smith, New York Newsday
“The excitement of Mr. Thomson’s wild ride is infectious. . . the author’s penchant for outrageous bons mots never fails to hit the bull’s eye…Thomson’s “mathematics” of myth-building–both Hollywood’s and his own–is so compulsively readable…you still can’t turn the pages fast enough.”
–David Fear, Time Out New York
“On one end the problematic creative folk like Charlie Chaplin, Erich von Stroheim, Marlon Brando, on the opposite end of the equation are the businessmen and studio heads whose interest was, and always will be, the bottom line. As Mr. Thomson unreels the history of film in a series of flashbacks forward and back, budgets are broken down, boardrooms are spied upon, scripts and personalities pass before us in fascinating and unprecedented review.”
–Stefan Kanfer, The Wall Street Journal
“ . . . With strong opinions and acerbic prose Thomson puts a contemporary spin on Hollywood’s origins by crunching the numbers in Greta Garbo’s contract, dissecting the budget of Gone with the Wind, and psychoanalyzing pioneering producers Thalberg and David O. Selznick… A meditation on [the American film industry’s] significance, Thomson’s engrossing book blows the dust off forgotten scandals and offers vivid examples of money’s toxifying power.”
–Andrew Johnston, Entertainment Weekly
“ A deliciously opinionated, wise and witty work…A profound and often humorous and poignant [book] that examines Hollywood movies with a wide lens.”
“Compelling are [his] musings on stars and directors, from Charlie Chaplin to Steven Spielberg… He offers arguments powerful enough to make the reader view the movies in a new light…Most important is the intersection of art and business, the center of The Whole Equation.”
–John McMurtrie, San Francisco Chronicle
From the Inside Flap
A magnificent history of Hollywood from the invention of film to the present day, by the everywhere acclaimed David Thomson, who has established himself as the “greatest living film critic and historian” (The Atlantic Monthly), “irreplaceable” (The New York Times), and simply “the best writer about the movies” (San Francisco Chronicle).
Now we have his master work, The Whole Equation, which, in his own words, embraces “the murder and the majesty, the business statistics and millions of us being moved, the art and the awfulness.” It accommodates “the artistic careers, the lives of the pirates, the ebb and flow if business, the sociological impact–in short, the wonder in the dark, the calculation in the offices, and the staggering impact on America of moving pictures. Which is also the thunderous artillery of America unleashed on the world.”
Thomson tells us how D. W. Griffith and Charlie Chaplin created the first movies of mass appeal. He writes about Louis B. Mayer, who understood the whole equation and reaped the profits. He shows us how David O. Selznick exemplified the vanity and passion that gets memorable movies made; how the movies, offering a sense of common experience, helped Americans through the difficult years of the 1930s and ’40s; how and why the quest for the blockbuster changed the industry.
He examines the films of Capra, Wilder, Hitchcock, Spielberg; of Gable, Cagney, Monroe, Crawford, Brando, Bogart, Nicholson, Kidman; of Irving Thalberg, Lew Wasserman, Harvey Weinstein–and scores more. He considers noir films, the blacklist, agents, method acting. He tells us the stories behind The Godfather, Chinatown, and Jaws. And he follows the money–a trip essential to understanding Hollywood at its most thrilling and most disappointing.
David Thomson has given us a one-volume history of Hollywood that is as well one of the most brilliant, most insightful, entertaining, and illuminating books ever written on American film.
About the Author
David Thomson taught film studies at Dartmouth College and served on the selection committee for the New York Film Festival. He is a regular contributor to The New York Times, Film Comment, Movieline, The New Republic, and Salon. He was the screenwriter on the award-winning documentary The Making of a Legend: Gone With the Wind. His other books include Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick, Beneath Mulholland: Thoughts on Hollywood and Its Ghosts, and three works of fiction. Born in London, he lives in San Francisco with his wife and their two sons.
David Thomson’s The New Biographical Dictionary of Film is available from Knopf in hardcover and paperback, and Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles is available in Vintage paperback.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Gamble and the Lost Rights
On a brilliant Saturday morning in late March 2003, warm yet fresh
enough to keep many Californians out in the bliss of the air itself, I
was invited by the Los Angeles Institute for the Humanities to have a
public conversation with Robert Towne, the screenwriter, as part of a
weekend conference entitled “From Sunset Blvd. to Mulholland Dr.: Los
Angeles in the Cinematic Imagination.”
We were in a large basement hall at the Davidson Conference Center at
the University of Southern California, but it was fun, relaxed, and
instructive to a degree. I have known Towne for twenty years. We have
talked a good deal, and enjoyed it. We are friends, or friendly. We did
our best to be serious about the beguiling gloom of noir Los Angeles,
and the foreboding of Towne’s best-known movie, Chinatown.
We did a decent job, I hope, yet nothing matched the burnished day
outside where, in an urban sprawl far beyond Nathanael West’s worst
nightmares (to say nothing of the invasion of Iraq that had begun),
some people seemed to be having a good time, or as good a time as
people have had in human history; that is not to flatter L.A. or the
U.S.A., and I hope it’s not being silly or sentimental about all the
wretchedness there must have been in L.A. that day and others. Still,
free people took their leisure–on the beaches, on playing fields, in
the shops and open-air restaurants (at the movie theatres even?). Some
read books, or wrote them. Some must have married, or been in love.
In the period allowed for questions, a young woman asked Towne whether
there was any chance for the completion of the “trilogy” that had been
begun with Chinatown. For in his mind, at least, there had been a time
when Towne had hoped to follow his private eye, Jake Gittes, through
the decades–1937, 1947, 1957–tracing the story of water rights, of oil,
and of the killing of public transport to let the automobile own Los
Angeles. There had been a second movie, The Two Jakes–much troubled and
not satisfactory, and plainly removed from Towne’s control or
authorship–but nothing of a third film.
Towne is a successful man as screenwriters go. He has an Oscar and a
fine house in Pacific Palisades. He has been involved with the two
Mission: Impossible pictures (and even a third?) at a very high salary.
He has a great dream, to film John Fante’s Ask the Dust, one of the
best novels about Los Angeles in the thirties–and that film has come to
pass. Yet I think I know him well enough as a man who would count his
losses first if you asked him to describe himself. And he lost Jake
Gittes–long ago. “No,” he told the questioner. “No chance.”
That’s what I want to talk about–for if he meant what he said, we are
all the losers for it.
Robert Towne is an Angeleno; he has lived there most of his life, and
he wears the badge of the city on his sleeve, as it were. In the
Preface to a published version of the Chinatown screenplay (and very
few screenplays get published), he wrote about his memory of the
childhood scents of Los Angeles, of a quality in the air now gone in
the toxic rush of urbanization. He wrote about it with such warmth and
feeling and nostalgia–like a true writer would:
Chinatown is a sort of eulogy for me. It is a eulogy I’m afraid for
things lost that would concern others about as much as a missing button
or a dead mouse. Easterners, for example, have often tended to be a
little snide about the tepid weather and negligible change in
seasons–things I have loved perhaps the most about L.A. I’ve loved the
first hint of October nipping thru the sunlight after school, New
Year’s Day, chilly and clear as crystal as tho someone put the sun in
the freezer overnight, the February rains that came with Valentines and
would flood intersections with muddy waters rushing around stalled
cars, vacant lots in March that overnight sprouted thousands of sharp
green spears you could pull and send with a clod of dark earth hurtling
at another kid, little ponds of black polliwogs squiggling like
animated commas–and then spring and summer with the smell of pepper
trees mentholated more and more by eucalyptus, the green lots turning
to straw leaving foxtails in your socks and smelling like hay in the
morning, the Santa Anas progressively drying the city into sand and
summer smells.
The boy noticed; the man learned to write.* Towne’s parents were well
off, but he attended Pepperdine College, up on the way to Malibu. And
he drifted into screenwriting, by way of acting classes–the place where
he first met Jack Nicholson. He still likes acting and actors, and even
in private talk he has a way of being that is casual but intimate, like
the best sort of naturalistic acting. I like this quality in him, and
others, but I know some who feel it is just a touch too calculated, too
stylish, too unreliable. Make up your own mind. But still its ease and
attractiveness, and its worldliness, are deep at the heart of this
book’s subject.
Towne worked for Roger Corman. He did a few scripts for exploitation
films. And then he began to demonstrate, or act out, one of his most
vital traits: he made friendships in which his discreet touch, or
treatment, was highly esteemed. He had met Warren Beatty–some have said
that he and Beatty learned their stylishness in the course of long
telephone conversations, absorbing it from each other. Whatever, when
Beatty came to make his first movie as a producer, Bonnie and Clyde, no
matter that he had a highly original script (by Robert Benton and David
Newman), and a very good director (Arthur Penn), still Beatty hired
Towne to go on location with the film to Texas to work on the script,
to touch it up, to give it what Beatty wanted, to doctor it. To make
sure Warren was in charge.
When that film opened, and eventually enjoyed its outstanding success,
Towne had a most unusual credit on it: Special Consultant. I’m not sure
that a writer had ever had so secret yet so public a credit, though
very often in Hollywood history, writers had done uncredited work
doctoring or rewriting scripts. Towne’s insider status was confirmed
when it became known–and somehow it did slip out–that he had joined The
Godfather at short notice to “help” with the final scenes of Vito
Corleone’s life.
It’s worth stressing (with what I have in mind) that up to this moment
(1972), Towne was most illustrious for his imprecise intervention,
doctoring, or help on other writers’ scripts. Which would not always
have left those other writers feeling better, happy or well treated.
But it was Towne’s way to success, and I do not doubt the value of what
he brought to those two films. Still, I want to underline his ghostly
presence, for it is close to the odd avoidance of responsibility in
Hollywood.
By the early seventies, therefore, he was in a position where he could
expect to get assignments to write whole films, big pictures,
worthwhile ventures. In fact, he wrote three scripts in a row–The Last
Detail, Chinatown, and Shampoo–that all received Oscar nominations. It
was the peak of his career, with the Oscar going to Chinatown, and to
him as the sole writer of an original script.
No one has ever argued but that Chinatown was his idea. Towne has said
that in April 1971 his wife brought him a copy of Carey McWilliams’s
book, Southern California Country, which held the germ of the story of
how William Mulholland* had secured water for a growing Los Angeles
from the Owens Valley, 250 miles to the north. Around the same time, he
saw a magazine article in which a photographer had re-created the
late-1930s mood and look of the Raymond Chandler novels.
He had begun work (on spec), or he looked forward to beginning it, when
he had dinner with Robert Evans, a key figure at Paramount, and the
executive who had had The Godfather made. Evans had come to the table
to ask Towne to take over the script for The Great Gatsby, but all
Towne wanted to talk about was Chinatown. It’s about how Los Angeles
became a boomtown, he said–incest and water. It’s set in the thirties.
A second-rate shamus gets eighty-sixed by a mysterious broad. Instead
of solving a case for her, he’s the pigeon. I’m writing it for
Nicholson.
This was more or less so. Nicholson and Towne had talked about
Chinatown. But Nicholson had not purchased the idea or the script, or
Towne’s time. I know, that sounds crass when a person is gently nursing
a great story and his fondness for a lost city into being. But writers
have to eat.
Evans, acting for Paramount, offered Towne $25,000 to do Chinatown; he
had been ready to pay him $175,000 to doctor Truman Capote’s wretched
Gatsby script.
Towne created it–but Paramount owned it. Yes, such formulae operate all
the time in Hollywood, so let me explain the setup carefully. Suppose
Chinatown was a first novel. That is a little far-fetched, because
Towne had done several things already. Nevertheless, in terms of how
far the material was autobiographical in feeling, Chinatown was like a
first novel, in which case he might well have written the book in
private, on his own time, and only then offered it to a publisher. Or
he might have secured a modest advance on account of promise.
In which case, the deal would have gone thus: for an advance of, say,
$5,000 (generous for 1972), Towne would have delivered a novel. When it
was published, he would get a royalty of, say, 10 percent of the
selling price on the first 5,000 copies; 121⁄2 percent on the next
5,000; and 15 percent after that. There would be provisions in the
contract for sales of paperback and other subsidiary rights–including,
perhaps, a sale to the movies. Towne would have retained the copyright.
That means the author owns the work and is simply licensing the
publisher to sell it. His editor at the publishing house might fight
tooth-and-nail for a year or more trying to get Towne to rewrite the
book, to make it clearer, to make it more saleable. (In fact, on a
$5,000 advance, that kind of striving is unlikely–it’s not practical or
rewarding. An editor works hardest on a book he expects could be a
bestseller. If you can’t understand a first novel when you read it that
first time, why publish it?)
Still, there could be editorial work, and rewriting, and fights before
a novel is printed. But they get settled because, once the contract is
signed, it is acknowledged that the book belongs to the author. If it
goes out of print, and stays out, the author can regain the rights he
licensed. He can try to get a new publisher. When he is dead, for at
least seventy years, the copyright and any income the book earns go to
his heirs or estate. Only after that does a book enter what is called
public domain.
The script of Chinatown that Towne delivered perplexed its best
supporters. Evans and Nicholson joked together how they couldn’t follow
its twists and turns. Roman Polanski, the director Evans had hired to
make the film, was equally at a loss, and sure that he had to take
drastic measures to make it “work.” Rewrites from Towne didn’t clarify
enough. Executives at Paramount were advising Evans not to make the
picture, or not to attach himself to it so personally. And, of course,
Paramount could have elected not to make the movie–they owned it, and
thus they had the right of refusal. Evans stuck by it: “I knew I had
Nicholson locked, and, even though I didn’t understand the script, I
knew Towne was a great writer. I felt like a blind gambler wanting to
throw back-to-back sevens.”
Several important points come from this. Scripts are not easily read,
and possibly the richer a film, the harder it is for “outsiders” to
detect its quality. It’s not going too far to say that in the history
of the movies, many semiliterate people (or disadvantaged readers) have
had to make a judgment on a hundred or so pages of single-spaced
typing, laid out in a strange and inaccessible way. That is one reason
why some of those men, the executives, have thrown away scripts in
despair and told someone to just tell them the damn story. To this day,
“the pitch”–telling a movie story in a few persuasive minutes–is vital
to getting projects made. It follows therefore that many scripts are
never actually read. In turn, this encourages everyone’s assumption, or
hope, that they can exist in a state of continual rewrite.
But note Evans’s attitude. “I knew I had Nicholson locked. . . .” He
saw himself as if not the film’s proprietor, then its skipper,
assembling units of talent and identifying the picture with his ego and
status at the studio. Chinatown would not have existed without Robert
Towne. Roman Polanski became the project’s director, and perhaps the
best-known theory of film production is that everything depends on the
director, the auteur. When the general public says Chinatown to itself,
it sees the sour smile on Jack Nicholson’s face; not to mention Faye
Dunaway or John Huston (hefty presences in its story and mood), Richard
Sylbert (its production designer), John A. Alonzo (the
cinematographer), or Jerry Goldsmith (who wrote the memorable theme
music at the last moment, in just ten days, after another score had
been dropped). Still, Evans felt sure and safe in thinking the picture
was his because his peers–the powerbrokers of Hollywood–would expect it
of him. Studios own movies. Producers make them.
And then there was the longing in Evans to see the whole enterprise as
a gamble: not just in terms of winning big as opposed to losing; but
because to gamble is to defy all those sacred American codes of hard
work and just reward; it is believing in magic. Nearly everyone
important in the old Hollywood gambled several nights a week, as if
they dared not lose touch with magic.
Towne and Polanski sat down together to convert the script into a
shooting script–the one is a dream, the other is a precise plan of
action to determine which sets are built and costumes ordered, and how
time and money are scheduled. The two men got on very badly. Towne was
hesitant, Polanski aggressive. In a story that had so many hints of
rape, Towne felt he was being robbed, or got at. Polanski was intent on
the bare practicalities, and he felt Towne was clinging to obscurity
and doubt. Writers and directors are not always alike, which is one
reason they envy each other.
The decisive battle concerned the ending of the film. Towne’s initial
concept and the story he had sustained throughout his writing process
was gentler than the film we know. Evelyn Mulwray (Dunaway) and her
daughter were to get away. Noah Cross (Huston) was to be killed. Jake
Gittes was left as the patsy.
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