Adventures in the Screen Trade by William Goldman Page B
Authors: William Goldman
Tags: United States, General, History, Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Performing Arts, State & Local, Film & Video, cinema, Films, Calif.), Hollywood (Los Angeles, West, Cinema and Television, Motion picture authorship, Motion picture industry, Screenwriting
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it wouldn't surprise me if we weren't all looking back on the good old days of a decade before, when Heaven's Gate was a cheapie. . . -
CHAPTER TWO
Elements
There is no particular order to what follows. And none of it is meant to be factual, but everything, at least in my experience, is
true...
L.A.
I find Los Angeles a very difficult and potentially dangerous place to work in, and I think anyone seriously contemplating a career as a screenwriter ought to move there as soon as it's humanly or financially possible.
As to its being difficult and dangerous, that's entirely a personal reaction. I am aware of the number of brilliant writers, painters, and musicians who have thrived in the sunshine. I can't help it that from the very beginning the place has terrified me. Part of it has to do with money. For the hardcover publication of my first novel, I was paid five thousand dollars. Such was the glory of its reception that, for my second novel, I was paid twenty-five hundred dollars. For Harper, my first Holly wood film, I received eighty thousand dollars. So what's so terrible?
Obviously nothing in a monetary way. It was a fantastic windfall. But-and, remember, we are dealing with my neuroses here-there was something unsettling about the discrepancy. It you write a novel, and you get X for your labors, that sets up a value system: You put in a certain amount of effort, you receive a certain amount of reimbursement, just like any other worker However, if you are lucky or talented enough to become in demand as a screenwriter, the amounts you are paid are so staggering, compared to real writing, that it's bound to make you uneasy.
It was on Harper that I first (not counting funerals) rode in a limousine.
Late afternoon. I got off the plane at LAX and started for the baggage claim area. Then I stopped. Dead. A uniformed man was standing by the gate exit, holding a cardboard sign with the name GOLDMAN written on it. It was a paranoid moment for me, because my last name isn't all that uncommon, and I stared at him, wondering what the hell to do. Should I approach him or not? No one had told me I would be met at the airport. What if I pissed him off? The scene might have played like this:
ME
(perspiring lightly) Pardon me, sir, but are you, by any chance, waiting for William Goldman?
HIM (affronted)
No, you fool, who's William Gold- man? I'm here to pick up Max Goldman, now get away.
Finally, I went up to him and said, "Pardon me, sir) but are you, by any chance, waiting for William Goldman?" and he smiled and said, "Yes sir, Mr. Goldman," and then he took my under-the-seat bag and led me to where the luggage would come belching down the chute. (I know everybody thinks their bags always come toward the end. Well, mine do. I sometimes am convinced that there is this insidious worldwide plot. All those bag-smashers have some kind of code, and one of their pleasures is to sneak my stuff out of line, hold it, chuckling all the while, before reluctantly letting go, never last but, say, fourth from last. I travel solely with an under-the-seat bag now, if it's at all possible. It's not a really soul-satisfying revenge, but it's the best I can do.)
Eventually, fourth from the end or so, my suitcase came clumping down and he bent for it, my driver did, easily beating me to the task, and then he said, "Just follow me) Mr. Goldman," and I did, hoping nobody I knew would see me.
We trooped out to the sidewalk. He put my stuff down, smiled, and said, "I'm just parked over there, 'sir, wait right here, I won't be a minute."
I waited until this giant Cadillac appeared. Before I could make a move, he bounded out from the driver's seat, raced around, opened the back door for me. "Watch your head, Mr. Goldman," he advised,
I got in. I sat back. He put my luggage in the trunk. Then he hurried around to the front, gave roe a little kind of salute, moved in behind the wheel. (It's crazy the things you remember, but believe me, I remember
CHAPTER TWO
Elements
There is no particular order to what follows. And none of it is meant to be factual, but everything, at least in my experience, is
true...
L.A.
I find Los Angeles a very difficult and potentially dangerous place to work in, and I think anyone seriously contemplating a career as a screenwriter ought to move there as soon as it's humanly or financially possible.
As to its being difficult and dangerous, that's entirely a personal reaction. I am aware of the number of brilliant writers, painters, and musicians who have thrived in the sunshine. I can't help it that from the very beginning the place has terrified me. Part of it has to do with money. For the hardcover publication of my first novel, I was paid five thousand dollars. Such was the glory of its reception that, for my second novel, I was paid twenty-five hundred dollars. For Harper, my first Holly wood film, I received eighty thousand dollars. So what's so terrible?
Obviously nothing in a monetary way. It was a fantastic windfall. But-and, remember, we are dealing with my neuroses here-there was something unsettling about the discrepancy. It you write a novel, and you get X for your labors, that sets up a value system: You put in a certain amount of effort, you receive a certain amount of reimbursement, just like any other worker However, if you are lucky or talented enough to become in demand as a screenwriter, the amounts you are paid are so staggering, compared to real writing, that it's bound to make you uneasy.
It was on Harper that I first (not counting funerals) rode in a limousine.
Late afternoon. I got off the plane at LAX and started for the baggage claim area. Then I stopped. Dead. A uniformed man was standing by the gate exit, holding a cardboard sign with the name GOLDMAN written on it. It was a paranoid moment for me, because my last name isn't all that uncommon, and I stared at him, wondering what the hell to do. Should I approach him or not? No one had told me I would be met at the airport. What if I pissed him off? The scene might have played like this:
ME
(perspiring lightly) Pardon me, sir, but are you, by any chance, waiting for William Goldman?
HIM (affronted)
No, you fool, who's William Gold- man? I'm here to pick up Max Goldman, now get away.
Finally, I went up to him and said, "Pardon me, sir) but are you, by any chance, waiting for William Goldman?" and he smiled and said, "Yes sir, Mr. Goldman," and then he took my under-the-seat bag and led me to where the luggage would come belching down the chute. (I know everybody thinks their bags always come toward the end. Well, mine do. I sometimes am convinced that there is this insidious worldwide plot. All those bag-smashers have some kind of code, and one of their pleasures is to sneak my stuff out of line, hold it, chuckling all the while, before reluctantly letting go, never last but, say, fourth from last. I travel solely with an under-the-seat bag now, if it's at all possible. It's not a really soul-satisfying revenge, but it's the best I can do.)
Eventually, fourth from the end or so, my suitcase came clumping down and he bent for it, my driver did, easily beating me to the task, and then he said, "Just follow me) Mr. Goldman," and I did, hoping nobody I knew would see me.
We trooped out to the sidewalk. He put my stuff down, smiled, and said, "I'm just parked over there, 'sir, wait right here, I won't be a minute."
I waited until this giant Cadillac appeared. Before I could make a move, he bounded out from the driver's seat, raced around, opened the back door for me. "Watch your head, Mr. Goldman," he advised,
I got in. I sat back. He put my luggage in the trunk. Then he hurried around to the front, gave roe a little kind of salute, moved in behind the wheel. (It's crazy the things you remember, but believe me, I remember
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