When I Stop Talking, You'll Know I'm Dead Part 11

I spoke to Roone Arledge, tried to work something out. Then I came back to Bobby, and said, "Look, Bobby, if you got paid, if there was money on the table, do you think the whirring might go away?"

He stopped pacing and looked at me. At such times, the nuttiness and confusion went out of his eyes, and, for a moment, he was sober and shrewd.

"Sure," he said, "it might go away."

"Okay," I said, "let me see what I can do."

I spoke to producers at ABC, gave them the rundown, then came back to Fischer with twenty-five thousand dollars. After that, he did not hear the whirring. He won the tournament, but the incident was a prelude, a glimpse into his soul, which was a mora.s.s, brilliance knotted with neurosis, paranoia, and fear. The guy was really something.

He moved to LA. He was brilliant at chess, but lost in the world. He bailed out of the record deal and everything else. He did not trust the businessmen, he did not trust me, he did not trust anyone. There were voices in his head. He wandered, tortured by the whirring of imaginary machines. He let himself go, typical crazy man stuff. He was a target for charismatics, a question mark in search of an easy answer. He got hooked up with a cult in the Valley, the a.s.sembly Church of G.o.d. He fell under the sway of a high-ranking member, Dr. Stanley Rader, a total con man. Rader was an accountant from New York who had seen the light. He had been Jewish before he was baptized into the sect--in a bathtub in the Mandarin Hotel in Hong Kong--by the church's founder, Herbert Armstrong. This is the craziness Fischer fell into after Iceland. In this way, everything we planned, everything he could have been and done, went away. He ended up living in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the church and became utterly, totally, and completely insane.

The Death of the King.

Elvis is dead."

I was in Malibu, the morning of August 16, 1977, when the call came. It was Roone Arledge, who had just become the head of ABC News. His people had picked up the 911 call on a police scanner. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

"We just got the news," he said. "Elvis Presley is dead."

I was supposed to meet Elvis in Portland, Maine, the next day. We were going on tour. He had been at home, in Graceland, getting in shape for the road. He had played racquetball on his private court, sat at his piano, sung "Unchained Melody," gone upstairs, and died--they found him several hours later on the floor of his bathroom.

My second line rang. It was Joe Esposito, Elvis's right hand. He was calling from the bathroom in Graceland. He was standing next to Elvis's body, waiting for the police to arrive. He said, "Jerry, we need you here right away."

I got the next plane to Memphis. I stared out the window. The sun hung over the clouds like a fiery eye. Celebrity--that's what killed Elvis. Fame had shut him out of the world. He couldn't go to dinner. He couldn't take his kid to the park. He was always inside. He went to bed at 3:00 A.M. A.M. and woke up at noon. His life was abnormal. He dressed different and looked different. He was the first real rock star, a freak in this regard. There was no one like him. Sinatra had New York, Los Angeles, Chicago. Presley had all that plus Lafayette, Louisiana, and Knoxville, Tennessee. He could draw a hundred thousand people to a field in Macon, Georgia. His stardom was unprecedented. It isolated him until his isolation became intolerable. The very talent that connected him to millions kept him sequestered. Yes, he had friends, the Memphis mafia, guys he grew up with, but it wasn't enough. He treated his condition with drugs. When you're a celebrity, if you want a pill, you will have it. He was really a tragic figure. and woke up at noon. His life was abnormal. He dressed different and looked different. He was the first real rock star, a freak in this regard. There was no one like him. Sinatra had New York, Los Angeles, Chicago. Presley had all that plus Lafayette, Louisiana, and Knoxville, Tennessee. He could draw a hundred thousand people to a field in Macon, Georgia. His stardom was unprecedented. It isolated him until his isolation became intolerable. The very talent that connected him to millions kept him sequestered. Yes, he had friends, the Memphis mafia, guys he grew up with, but it wasn't enough. He treated his condition with drugs. When you're a celebrity, if you want a pill, you will have it. He was really a tragic figure.

I took a car to Graceland. What a scene. The news had hit the streets before it was broadcast. People poured out of houses and stood on the gra.s.s median strips with tears streaming down their faces. The city was mourning. My car slowed as it approached the mansion. Thousands of people had gathered in front of the gates, their faces reflecting the strobe of police lights. I saw children waving American flags, babies held aloft by mothers, Teamsters weeping without shame, hawkers selling T-s.h.i.+rts and locks of hair. I went into the house, a simple suburban home that Elvis had done up. The Stamps Quartet was singing in the living room, shouting and praising the Lord. Gospel was the soundtrack of the day. The house was packed with hangers-on and celebrities. I saw Ann-Margret, in a bodysuit, her face streaked with mascara. I saw the preacher Rex Humbard waving his arms and talking about the short-term occupancy of man, who rents on this earth and does not own.

Thinking back, I realize I've probably combined a few days in my mind, but it was an irrational moment, a whirlwind, a picture drawn by a kid who cannot stay within the lines.

I looked in the coffin. There was Elvis, done up in his finery, his hair slicked back and his face just as white as porcelain. He was a saint now, a martyr to the pop G.o.ds, headed straight for the seventh heaven.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder, whispered in my ear: "Vernon and Colonel Tom are in the back. They want to see you right away." Vernon was Elvis's father. I went through the kitchen into the maid's room, where the men were huddled. The bed was covered with telegrams, thousands of condolences that had been pouring in--from the queen of England, from the president of the United States, from the most important people in the world. The men were arguing--well, if not arguing, then having a heated discussion about whether it was appropriate to sell souvenirs to the mourners in the street. Hawkers were already out there pus.h.i.+ng memorabilia, and the att.i.tude was, well, why should we let them take our money? I got between them and said something like, "What's wrong with you guys? The body's in the next room. We're about to leave for the funeral. Have some respect." I'm not putting them down. I think they were in shock, had not quite realized what happened, that Elvis was never coming back. What a bizarre moment, the entire world gathered around this house in tears, and, in a room in the house, the old man and the Colonel arguing about T-s.h.i.+rts.

We went to the funeral in a long line of white Cadillacs. These had been brought from all over the South for the occasion. I was in the car behind the hea.r.s.e. Now and then, when I see newsreels shot that day, I know I am in that second Cadillac. The ride was unbelievable. It was as if the president had died. The streets were lined with people, black people and white people and children and babies. In a crazy way, it was very much the ideal of America, what our country should be about. When I had been in the South as a kid, it was segregated. I told you. On the white side, we were shooed away like rats. On the black side, we were given plates piled with food. Of course, I did not understand the meaning of that, all the oppression and suffering and misery that implied. But riding in that car in Memphis, I saw a new America. There was no hatred, no segregation, no bigotry. None of that s.h.i.+t. Everyone in the crowd was connected by a shared love and a shared grief. The death of Elvis marked the end of an era, but it also marked the birth of something new.

Making Movies In 1974, George Bush, who was U.S. amba.s.sador to the United Nations, asked me to help him throw a party for his fellow amba.s.sadors from around the globe. The party started with a concert by John Denver in Carnegie Hall. It was good for Bush, but it was also good for John, singing for all these men and women who would go back to their countries and talk him up, and maybe even invite him to perform. It's a twofer. In helping George Bush, I was helping John Denver, and in helping John Denver, I was helping Jerry Weintraub.

The show was followed by a party in the apartment I owned on West Fifty-fourth Street in Manhattan. All the New York big shots were there. Jane had helped me put together the list. At some point, after the second c.o.c.ktail, say, she brought the director Robert Altman over to meet me. Altman had already directed some of his greatest films, M*A*S*H, Brewster McCloud, McCabe and Mrs. Miller. M*A*S*H, Brewster McCloud, McCabe and Mrs. Miller. He had a reputation for being difficult, a brilliant pain in the a.s.s. He did not like producers, studio executives, money men, or anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was given He had a reputation for being difficult, a brilliant pain in the a.s.s. He did not like producers, studio executives, money men, or anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was given M*A*S*H M*A*S*H--the movie that made his name--only after it had been turned down by a half dozen other directors.

The room was packed with amba.s.sadors and dignitaries, but when we talked, it was just him and me. We connected right away. He asked if I had ever produced films. I told him I had not. "Well, you should consider it," he said. "You would make a great producer. You have just the right personality."

"What kind of personality does it take?"

I was trying to figure out if I was being complimented or put down.

"It's temperament," he told me. "Smarts and all that, but also the ability to sell an idea, attract talent to that idea, bring out the best in the players, while, at the same time keeping everything in line. If you can talk to people, get them to do things because they think it's their own idea, you will be a great producer."

He talked a little more, then said, "You know, I have a script, it's gonna be a great movie, it's in a drawer at home, maybe you want to take a look at it. Maybe you'll want to produce it."

The script came by messenger the next day. Nashville, Nashville, by Joan Tewkesbury. I sit. I read. And the more I read, the less I get it as a movie. There are a million characters spinning through a million plots. I don't get it. I call Altman, set a meeting. We go to a restaurant in LA. "Look, I'm going to be very honest with you," I told him. "I do not understand it. I was totally lost. But I want to produce it." by Joan Tewkesbury. I sit. I read. And the more I read, the less I get it as a movie. There are a million characters spinning through a million plots. I don't get it. I call Altman, set a meeting. We go to a restaurant in LA. "Look, I'm going to be very honest with you," I told him. "I do not understand it. I was totally lost. But I want to produce it."

"You don't get it, but you want to produce it?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you get it, and I get you."

Here's the lesson: Know what you're buying. Was I buying Nashville Nashville? No, I was buying Robert Altman. I did not understand the script, but Altman did, and it was Altman who was going to make the movie. This is the dynamic you see when you read in the newspaper that a corporation has overpaid for a tiny upstart. You scratch your head and wonder: why? Well, maybe it's not the company that they are buying but an executive who works at the company, or a patent, or an idea still in the pipeline. I did not understand the script, but I was totally sold on the director.

Altman then explained the movie to me, each scene and beat, how the things I had seen in the script would be brought to life, how all the strands would converge in a rush at the end. I walked out of there convinced I had made the right deal.

Altman had not told me he had already shopped the script all over town, had pitched to and been turned away from every major studio. When I showed up, many of the executives seemed pained. The fact is, these guys had been asking me to work with them for years. Because they had seen me work with Presley, because they had seen me work with Sinatra, because they thought I could perform. Now, when I finally showed up, it was with a script they had already rejected and a director, who, while being a genius, was considered a giant pain in the a.s.s.

Here's what they would say: "Jeez, Jerry, we would love to work with you, as you know, love to have you in the business, but this is just not the right project. If it were anything else, blah, blah, blah."

After I had been all over town, I went back to Altman and said, "Look, I can't get the money, I can't sell it, so here's what I decided: I am going to put my own money into it, a million-nine, just to get us going."

Altman looked horrified. "No, Jerry. Don't put up your own money. That's not how it works. You get them to put up their money."

"We're beyond that," I told him. "We're into the contingencies here."

"Well, it makes me feel funny," he said.

He probably did not want someone with money in the picture so close to him--it's a comfort to think of the money people, those who lose if you fail, as a far-off "them," the boys in suits.

"It's just how we're going to get it going," I said. "We'll figure the rest of it on the fly."

I'll tell you my biggest talent. When I believe in something, it's going to get done. When people say, "No," I don't hear it. When people say, "That's a bad idea," I don't believe them. When people say, "It won't happen," I pretend they're joking.

In the case of Nashville, Nashville, everything worked out very well and very quickly. Soon after I fronted the money, I sold the TV rights to one of the networks. This was unheard of, selling broadcast rights before the film has been made, but as I told Altman, we were in the world of contingencies. everything worked out very well and very quickly. Soon after I fronted the money, I sold the TV rights to one of the networks. This was unheard of, selling broadcast rights before the film has been made, but as I told Altman, we were in the world of contingencies.

Marty Starger, who ran ABC Entertainment, and Leonard Goldenson, president of ABC--they made it happen. Goldenson, who started the network, had been in the movie business for years. When I told him about Nashville, Nashville, he said, "I want in on that." He put up the money--recouping my investment--then brought Paramount in as the distributor. Paramount was being run by Frank Yablans and Robert Evans. By the time the movie was released, Barry Diller and Michael Eisner, who had worked with me at ABC, and become great friends of mine, had taken over. he said, "I want in on that." He put up the money--recouping my investment--then brought Paramount in as the distributor. Paramount was being run by Frank Yablans and Robert Evans. By the time the movie was released, Barry Diller and Michael Eisner, who had worked with me at ABC, and become great friends of mine, had taken over.

Well, you probably know the rest. Nashville Nashville was a phenomenon, one of those projects that launches a career, the low-budget long-shot that turns into a masterpiece. Pauline Kael called it a new was a phenomenon, one of those projects that launches a career, the low-budget long-shot that turns into a masterpiece. Pauline Kael called it a new Citizen Kane Citizen Kane in the in the New Yorker New Yorker. That was my first review, my debut in the business. Everything I did later was built on the success of Nashville, Nashville, from saying yes when everyone else said no. The experience taught an important lesson: Work with the best people. If you have the best writers, the best actors, and the best director and fail, okay, fine, there is even something n.o.ble in it; but if you fail with garbage, then you are left with nothing to hang your spirits on. from saying yes when everyone else said no. The experience taught an important lesson: Work with the best people. If you have the best writers, the best actors, and the best director and fail, okay, fine, there is even something n.o.ble in it; but if you fail with garbage, then you are left with nothing to hang your spirits on.

Besides, life is too short to be spent in the company of morons.

It was an amazing time for me. In those years, I haunted the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times. New York Times. The first page of the section was, say, Theater. You open it up, I had a play. You turn the page, I had a movie. Turn it again, I had an alb.u.m. Next page, I had a TV special. All at the same time. That's when I knew I was really making it, when I opened the Arts pages of the The first page of the section was, say, Theater. You open it up, I had a play. You turn the page, I had a movie. Turn it again, I had an alb.u.m. Next page, I had a TV special. All at the same time. That's when I knew I was really making it, when I opened the Arts pages of the Times Times and was represented as a presents or a producer in every part of the section. And it was not a one-time thing. It happened a number of times. I mean, if something is fun, if you like it, well, you would like to like it again and again. and was represented as a presents or a producer in every part of the section. And it was not a one-time thing. It happened a number of times. I mean, if something is fun, if you like it, well, you would like to like it again and again.

In those years, things just sort of happened. Around this time, I bought this stunningly beautiful Rolls-Royce limo, and a hired driver. No one else had a car like that. It popped. One day, I had a meeting at CBS with Clive Davis. My car was parked in front. It started to rain. William Paley, who owned CBS and was one of the legendary power media guys--he could make or break careers--came down in the elevator, stepped outside, and couldn't get a car. You know how it is in New York when the rain is coming down. So one of Paley's guys spotted my car and said, "Hey, that's Jerry Weintraub's Rolls. He's upstairs in a meeting. Take it. It will drop you off and be back before Jerry is finished."

Paley said, "I can't take someone else's car."

"Don't be silly. Jerry would want you to take it. He would he honored."

So they convinced Paley, then convinced my driver, who at first objected--No, I work for Mr. Weintraub--then was talked into it. He dropped off Paley and was waiting for me when I got out.

On the way to my apartment, he said, "You know, Mr. Weintraub, when you were upstairs, I took another man home in the car."

Like he was confessing an infidelity, a love affair.

"You can't do that," I said. "You're my driver."

"I know, I told them, but they insisted," said the driver. "The guy was some big deal."

"Who was it?"

He had no idea.

The next day, I was sitting in my office, and my secretary rang in. William Paley was calling.

No. I couldn't believe it.

I picked up.

"Yes, Mr. Paley?"

"Are you Jerry Weintraub?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mr. Weintraub, I want to thank you for use of your car yesterday. Very generous of you."

"Oh, sure, no problem, don't mention it."

He asked me to come to his office so he could thank me in person. I went over, we sat, hit it off. He asked why I wasn't producing for television. I said something like, "Well, because no one asked." He called in two of his key guys and said, "Give Jerry a couple of our summer slots. He's going to put together some shows for us." See how life works? A low-pressure system looms over the Atlantic, and I wind up making TV shows for CBS.

Every ten years, I have built a new career without quite meaning to or even knowing it. (The pattern is apparent only when I look back.) I had already been an agent, a promoter, a manager, and a creator of shows. I now became a film producer. G.o.d, it was fun. The movies had always loomed large in my imagination--and now I was part of that world. I remember the early days, when I would drive onto the studio lots to meet executives and pitch my ideas. It was exactly like what Hollywood should be. There were crowds of extras dressed as cowboys, conquistadors, whatever, rus.h.i.+ng set to set, shouting, alive. It was like being a kid again, reliving the thrill of driving into movie land. Just because you get older, make money and lose money, does not mean you should forget how exciting it all is.

This was the midseventies. It was an interregnum, a moment between eras. The new Hollywood of auteurs and independent producers was just coming into view, while the old Hollywood of bosses was just fading away. Most of the studio heads today are not bosses in that cla.s.sic sense. They do not own the studios. They work for a board of directors and can be fired in five minutes. The old moguls, the guys who came from the garment trade, worked only for themselves. They owned the industry as you might own a house or a car. It was theirs. Harry Cohn. Joseph Schenk. Louis B. Mayer. Jack Warner. These men have since been vilified and condemned by the people who replaced them--that's what always happens--but they were in fact terrific pioneers. There is a lot to be learned from their sense of owners.h.i.+p and pride, and how they took responsibility for everything, from the first draft to the final cut.

Soon after I got into the business, Lew Wa.s.serman asked me to come work for him at MCA. "Jerry, we're friends, we go back," he said. "It's only right that you should make pictures with us."

"I already have a deal," I told him. "It's a big deal. You don't want my deal."

"Don't tell me what I want," he said.

"Okay, you want to make a deal? Fine. Good. Bring your lawyer over to my house and we'll make a deal."

I went back to MCA with Lenny Goldberg, my partner in those years. It was coming full circle. I started as an a.s.sistant at MCA and returned with the big contract. My first day, I went to eat at the commissary. I was sitting with my corned beef and cream soda, and here came Lew, smiling. He sat at my table. He said, "Jerry, I can't tell you how happy it makes me that you're back." We talked about this and that, then, as he got up, he turned and said, "Oh, and Jerry. Do me one favor. Stay off the WATS line!"

Family.

The seventies were crazy everywhere, but crazier in Los Angeles. It was the era of freewheeling drugs and s.e.x, the rag end of the sixties. I refer to sprees, to strange couplings and triplings, to nights that started with beer and wine and ended with cocaine and capsules, to debaucheries too various to chronicle. In a sense, we were all Robert Mitchum, smoking rope in bed with two girls while the sun was still noon high. We thought it was normal. You would walk into a house for a pool party, and there, on the c.o.c.ktail table in the center of the living room, as if it were nuts or cooked shrimp, would be a platter of cocaine. We did it because we were stupid, because we did not know the danger.

When I talk about my drug years, I am talking about twenty-four months in the middle of the seventies. I was in the rock and roll world, which meant I was around the stuff all the time. Of course, it was more than mere proximity. I was fun when I was high, talkative and all-encompa.s.sing. I could go forever, never be done talking. To some extent, I was really self-medicating, using the drugs to skate over issues in my own life. The fact is, money and success had come so fast, while I was away doing something else, not paying attention, that, when I finally realized where I was and just what I had, I could not understand it. There was this voice in my head, saying, Who do you think you are? What do you think you did? You are a fraud! You don't deserve any of this! Who do you think you are? What do you think you did? You are a fraud! You don't deserve any of this!

I tortured myself, and let the anxiety well up, then beat back the anxiety with the drugs, on and on, until one day, I stood up and said, "Screw it. That's over. I'm done."

No rehab, no counseling, nothing like that. Just a moment of clarity, in which I saw myself from the outside, the mess I was making, the waste. I was slipping, not working as hard as I used to. I started leaving the office early on Fridays, then skipping Fridays altogether. Then I started leaving early on Thursdays, then arriving late on Mondays. I was letting myself go. Then one day, I just decided, It has to stop. It has to stop. I threw away the pills and bottles, took a cold shower, had a barbershop shave, and stepped into the cool of Sunset Boulevard, and began fresh. I threw away the pills and bottles, took a cold shower, had a barbershop shave, and stepped into the cool of Sunset Boulevard, and began fresh.

Maybe it had to do with my family situation. I was a father again. I already had my son, Michael, but Jane wanted a baby. As we could not have a child of our own, for reasons I won't go into, we decided to adopt. By this time, Jane's career had taken a backseat to my own. It seems as if she planned it this way all along, though she calls it a natural progression. Jane brought me to LA, introduced me to the key people, made her world my world, set me up, mentored and loved me. Then, when my career took off, she let herself drift from the public eye, did fewer shows, made fewer records, and so forth, and not because she was forced to--there were plenty of offers and opportunities. Though she was, in fact, as beautiful and talented and in demand as she had ever been, she was simply tired of that life. She had become a star at such a young age, had been famous for so long, that she was over it. She wanted another life. She wanted to be a mother.

We pursued a standard adoption, wrote letters, filled out forms. We did not care if it was a boy or a girl. We just wanted a baby. It was many months before we found her in Florida. We learned all about the birth mother, her background, her history, her due date. We tracked it so carefully it felt, at times, as if Jane herself were expecting. Then, when the mother was about seven months pregnant, we got a phone call in the middle of the night--it's over, you will not be getting the baby. It's impossible to explain how hard this. .h.i.t us. It felt as if there had been a miscarriage, as if we had lost the baby. It was terrible. Jane went into a deep funk. I remember going to see the lawyers and losing it, throwing a stack of papers in the air and shouting, "You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, you can't do this to a person! You're killing Jane."

Then, late one night, while we were sitting in the house, moping, wondering what to do next, the phone rang. It was the lawyer. Something had changed. We had the baby. Incredible. She was three days old and would arrive by plane in the morning. I called the manager of Saks Fifth Avenue. He opened the store for us in the middle of the night. (I must have promised him something.) I remember wandering the empty rooms, filling a basket with tiny clothes, Beverly Hills bathed in moonlight out the windows.

We went to LAX at 7.00 A.M. A.M. My doctor insisted on coming with us. He wanted to examine the baby before we took possession, "Just to make sure she's healthy, Jerry." My doctor insisted on coming with us. He wanted to examine the baby before we took possession, "Just to make sure she's healthy, Jerry."

"There really is no point," I told him. "I'm taking this baby no matter what. This is my baby."

"Just hang back," he said. "I don't want you near that baby till I've had a look."

A nurse came off the plane with the bundle. I took the baby from her before the doctor could get close. As I reached for the baby--this was Julie, my oldest daughter, who is wonderful, beautiful, and now thirty-five--my back went out, which is one of the reasons I remember the day so vividly. (My life can be divided into segments: days when I am standing straight, and days when my back has gone out.) The doctor hurried over. "Come on," he said. "Let me just have a look before you go home with that baby."

"This is my baby," I told him.

"Fine," he said, "let me look at your baby."

Luckily, the baby had ten fingers and ten toes and was perfect in every other respect, as I was keeping her no matter what the doctor had to say.

Then we went home. Jane was happy, and I was happy. It was a good time.

A few years later, Jane decided she wanted another baby.

I was against this at first. Not because I did not want another baby, but because I did not want to go through that again, the lawyers and papers and chance of losing the kid at the end, reliving the tumult and heartbreak.

"I'm sorry," I told Jane. "I just can't do it."

Around this time, I hosted a fund-raiser in Las Vegas for the Catholic Charities of Nevada. This was in honor of Frank Sinatra's mother, who, not long before, had been killed in a plane crash while traveling to see Frank perform. A dozen top artists sang at this benefit, including Sinatra himself. There must have been a thousand people in the room. I was seated with an innocuous little guy named Tom Miller, the director of the charities. We started talking.

He said, "I understand you have an adopted child."

"That's true," I told him.

"How old is your child?" he asked.

"She's going to be two," I said.

"Wouldn't you like to adopt another child?" he asked.