(for Peter Dekom)


¡°Never start anything which you can¡¯t finish.¡±

At least that¡¯s my friend Dave¡¯s advice. Of course, that¡¯s easy for him to say. After all he¡¯s just some hot-shot researcher, with big contracts from the Department of Defense and an endowed chair at the University. No shortage of funding for Dave¡¯s projects. He doesn¡¯t have to cozy up to everyone at endless butch Hollywood parties and then find out that some closet queen studio VP has killed your next six projects because he didn¡¯t like your response to his wardrobe.

On the other hand, just because you have a project green-lighted by the Studio, doesn¡¯t mean your life is a piece of cake. Even after you¡¯ve got the talent lined up, and I¡¯m talking big stars, not just some aspiring wannabees, and big commitments for print and ad, that just puts you under more pressure to produce. Hell, if I¡¯d known what kind of nightmare we were going to be in for when they greenlighted ¡°Shaman¡±, I¡¯d have retired to my ranch in Montana, or cashed out and spent the rest of my days surfing in Santa Barbara.
As it was though, I thought I¡¯d latched onto a perfect formula high budget, high grossing (well it should have been high grossing) film. We¡¯d started with Jean Cambrai, the Franco-Scot spycatcher heart-throb of yesteryear, who was just about the only actor in his generation still able to get leading roles, as the Shaman who goes into the jungle to find a cure for Tourette¡¯s Syndrome. Then we¡¯d latched onto Alsace Asparagus, who despite her outlandish stage name, had been Brooklyn¡¯s own heartthrob as the mob moll who had it all and then gave it up to live on the run. She¡¯d made a ton of money simply playing herself, and she looked like she¡¯d turn ¡°Shaman¡± into a red-hot jungle romance. The chemistry looked right, the script looked right, hell, even the contracts looked right, at least until I read the fine print nine months later.
I figured we¡¯d go back to the same location in Mexico where I¡¯d shot my last action film. The place was absolutely perfect, if a little remote. I¡¯d gone location scouting with Martina, my ex-wife (and at that time, my producer) down the coast of Mexico, and one of the locals had told us about a remote mountain area which he said was probably the most scenic spot of untouched wilderness in the Western hemisphere. Last time around, of course, we¡¯d had a much bigger budget and a more experienced support crew. Still we¡¯d have a studio chopper, digs in the local village twenty miles away, our own techs, some of whom were real wizards, plus the bonus of knowing the locale from the last shoot. What could go wrong?
Well in the event, it seemed like everything. To this day, I¡¯m not sure that we weren¡¯t operating under a curse from one of those old-time shamans, like the guy in that movie, ¡°The Sapphire Jungle¡±, who belonged to some invisible tribe whose territory we had invaded. It was as if our return, instead of producing a triumphant work of art, was their opportunity for revenge for our despoiling their picture perfect jungle environment. Honestly, I don¡¯t know, even to this day, how or why it happened, but everything and anything that could go wrong did. Hell, there were times I felt like we were doing a remake of ¡°Cataclysm Today¡±.
First of Cambrai gets sick. I can¡¯t believe it. Jungle fever or something. I mean here¡¯s the guy who did his own stunts jumping off mountains, running one man submarines and even stuffing the djinni back in the bottle, and suddenly he¡¯s down with a hundred and two fever which nobody can get a handle on. The local witch doctor is for shit, and nearest real hospital is like seven hundred miles away. Well it always pays to do favors, because you never know when you¡¯re going to need one in return. So, I get on the com to the Colonel in Southcom who I¡¯d hired as a technical advisor for the action flick we did down here and persuade him to send down a medical team for Cambrai. So two weeks behind production schedule and fifty thousand dollars later, we seem to be up and running.
Well, the next thing I find out is that Cambrai didn¡¯t actually do all those superspy stunts himself after all. Not only did he not do the human jet thing, but he can¡¯t levitate, and he¡¯s afraid of heights. This is our third film together and I just can¡¯t believe it. Of course, the first one didn¡¯t really involve any special magic as far as the effects were concerned and the second one was mostly done in a submarine (well at least I know he isn¡¯t claustrophobic). But, I mean, we¡¯ve known each other for a while now, we work well together, and I know he read the script before he signed. The least he could have done was tell me we¡¯d have to either bring in a stunt double or rig up something special for all those scenes where he¡¯s climbing down the canyon walls in search of his magical herbs. So now I have to get two special effects wizards just to rig up something to keep him in place while we shoot the foliage scenes and I have to find a real shaman to treat him for the goddamned acrophobia. And of course, Cambrai doesn¡¯t want some local, who he keeps pissing off by calling him a ¡°witch doctor¡±, he has to have some specialist flown in from England. England? The last time they had a technological innovation was when Boadiccea led the Druids against the Romans. But sure enough, it¡¯s I his contract, he gets the physician and services of his choice, so here we are, out another couple of weeks while we try to work our way around what¡¯s supposed to be one of the central features of the film.
Not that I blame Jean for wanting the best, but this kind of thing is really starting to put a strain on our relationship. But that¡¯s not the only thing that¡¯s happening. We¡¯ve come down here a couple of months later in the year, and with all the shooting delays, we¡¯re starting to run into the rainy season. Rainy season? When Martina and I first came down here, all we heard was how wonderful the weather was. Sure, there¡¯d be a light rain from time to time but after all, it is the jungle and you expect these things. Even on the shoot, maybe we¡¯d have to delay an hour or two, but then the evaporation would add an almost mystical quality to the shot, as the jungle steamed around us, so who cared? After all everyone has to make tradeoffs in this business. But a rainy season? Nobody had ever told us there was a fucking rainy season here. Now we¡¯d be delayed another two months at least. Sure, I could pack up Cambrai and Asparagus and go back to Hollywood for the duration, or even move the shoot, but if I did that, ¡°Shaman¡± would most likely turn out to be one of those films that simply died during production. Or even worse, we¡¯d all wind up in litigation, still under contractual obligation, and end up finishing the film fifteen years later, like what happened in the Three Elvises. I also remembered, rather uncomfortably, that when they finally did make that film, which had been touted for a decade as ¡°the hottest unfinished property in Hollywood¡±, that they¡¯d rotated the director right out of the project altogether which was not an outcome I was about to contemplate. So we would bite the bullet, and use a little rocket-sorcery of our own to get at least temporary weather control, and shoot when we could.
Predictably, this left nobody happy. Cambrai, even though he was earning an overtime bonus (his contracts always run that way) was still miserable in the jungle, and by this point wanted nothing so much as to get back to his golf game in Marbella. But that was the least of my problems. Even in the midst of our deteriorating personal relationship, and his uncontrollable fear of heights, Cambrai was a seasoned professional, and you didn¡¯t need to like him, or him to like you to get first class, quality work out of him.
Alsace Asparagus, on the other hand, was a whole different thing. First off, it turned out that the homey Brooklyn accent which she¡¯d adopted for her rise to stardom wasn¡¯t adopted at all. She didn¡¯t just play a dumb broad, she was a dumb broad. Add to that an ego as big as all outdoors, and we were in for deep problems. I guess that when your star is on the rise, you¡¯ll do anything for a major part, including taking parts that you can¡¯t possibly play. If I had the chance, I was going to load the casting director with so many layers of curses, that she¡¯d need tana leaves by the bushel just to get out of bed in the morning (three bales to give her live, nine to give her movement!)
I mean how could you cast a high school dropout bimbo as a convincing research scientist when accent or no accent, she had trouble conjugating the verb ¡°to be¡±? Even Cambrai, with all his professional experience, soon found himself pushed beyond any reasonable limits. I mean he hadn¡¯t been expecting to work with any rocket sorceress, but when she was still on book, four weeks into production, his nerves began to get just a little frayed. At first, he simply took to poking fun at her by reciting her lines sotto voce during those pained silences when she was attempting to remember what she was supposed to say. But eventually, even his legendary composure began to crack, and the funniest moment, I suppose was when he came out during the ¡°found it/lost it¡± scene screaming just as if he was a Tourette¡¯s syndrome patient and not a doctor.
¡°Dammit, you goddamned fucking, cunt bitch whore asshole, I¡¯ve just found the motherfucking cure for that prick, Tourette¡¯s Syndrome and because of your little shithead antics, now I¡¯ve fucking lost it!¡±
Of course, it isn¡¯t Cambrai who¡¯s lost it, he¡¯s just acting, but this display of unrestrained masculine emotion sends Asparagus flying off the set in tears, and she refuses to come out of her tent unless we send for her acting coach from Brooklyn. We¡¯re already months behind on the production, but scrape my barnacles if the little minx doesn¡¯t have it written into her contract that she can bring in her acting coach in for ¡°technical services¡± (I¡¯m going to fry my lawyer in boiling oil when I get back to Hollywood for allowing her to foist a clause like this onto us). So we lose another week and a half of production, waiting for this greasy little hedgehog of a Frenchman to show up and provide his technical services. Of course, the guy is worse than useless. If he could cast thespiatric spells worth a damn, he would have fixed Asparagus¡¯ accent long ago. Even without the spells, he could at least have sent her for some cosmetic sorcery to fix that damned crooked nose of hers and a little psychoanalysis to shore up the personality problems. Of course, nobody wants to get sued over this stuff, but in private, even Cambrai, normally very professionally reserved, referred to her as ¡°an identity crisis waiting to happen.¡±
And it was probably just that insecurity which Jean-Pierre played upon to insure his centrality to Asparagus¡¯ career. From the beginning, the guy was nothing but pure headache. First off, he didn¡¯t want to be called Jean-Pierre, but just plain ¡°Jean¡± which drove everybody nuts since we had constant confusion over having two ¡°Jeans¡± on the set.
Then, Asparagus springs the next surprise on us by having Jean-Pierre announce that since we can¡¯t respect the professionalism of her position, anything which either I or Cambrai or anyone else among the ¡°technical¡± staff has to say to her can be addressed to Jean-Pierre, since her contract does not require her to communicate with us directly.
I can see the delays piling up without end now. I want Asparagus to move to the left when we do a retake, I have to tell Jean-Pierre. Cambrai can¡¯t hear her lines (all supposing, of course that she can remember them, and that is, in fact, what she is mumbling), he has to tell me and then I have to tell Jean-Pierre, who, in turn tells it to Asparagus, who may or may not have an answer (like, ¡°I¡¯m saying the lines just fine, why don¡¯t you tell him to have his ears checked,¡± or something equally useful) and then we go all the way up the line again.
Well it doesn¡¯t take more than a week of this and I can see the whole thing being a repeat of ¡°Cataclysm Today¡±, only I¡¯m not planning to hock everything I own, pus borrow several million dollars on credit all because some bimbo from Brooklyn can¡¯t remember her lines. So finally, I give in to common sense, humble my pride, and get one of the communications sorcerors to run me a link up to Napa Valley.
¡°Francis?¡± I say trying to sound confident, but even I can hear the desperation in my voice, ¡°this is Rick Baker calling you from a location shoot in Mexico.¡±
¡°Yes, Francis, I loved it and I thought it was terrible what the critics did to you. In fact, I was panning on mentioning it in my next interview in the Hollywood Reporter.¡±
¡°Certainly, I¡¯d be glad to...But listen, Francis, I¡¯ve got a little problem here, and I don¡¯t think anyone else in the business except you can tell me how to solve it.¡±
¡°No, I don¡¯t need money Francis, I just need a little directorial advice, after all you are the Godfather of independent film production.¡±
¡°Well, it¡¯s this actress, Alsace Asparagus. Not only has she fucked up this production beyond all belief, but I cant fire her, hell I can¡¯t even communicate with her, unless I address her through her acting coach.¡±
¡°Yes Francis, I know, but she¡¯s a hot property right now, and somehow she got it written into the contract.¡±
¡°No, Francis, I can¡¯t make her an offer she can¡¯t refuse. Really. I wish I could.¡±
¡°Yes, that¡¯s what I thought, it¡¯s so much like Cataclysm Today, that only you would know how to get out of this mess.¡±
¡°A Brujo? You mean like those local guys we hire to keep the insects and snakes away while were filming? A thaumaturgical exterminator? I already told you, I can¡¯t make her an offer she can¡¯t refuse, we¡¯re too deep into production to change our leading lady.¡±
¡°Magic Mushrooms? Francis, you know I don¡¯t allow any drugs on my set, legal or otherwise.¡±
¡°Yes, I know, that¡¯s been a sore point with her all along, and probably one of the reasons she insisted on this crazy Frenchman coming down. But no, I haven¡¯t been able to figure out yet where they¡¯re keeping her stash.¡±
¡°Oaxaca you say. And I can reach her from here?¡±
¡°I thought they only did that stuff in Haiti? Really? And it actually works? And it wears off in a year or two? Really? And it got you through the shooting schedule? Terrific. OK, I really owe you one, pal. I¡¯ll get back to you if we have any problems, and thanks again.¡±
Well, I followed Francis¡¯ advice, strange as it was, and you wouldn¡¯t believe the miraculous turnaround of events which followed. Within a week we had sent Jean-Pierre packing, and by working sixteen hour days, we managed to get everything in the can before the rainy season washed us all away. Of course, I was in for some additional disappointment when I returned to L.A. with the intention of wrapping up a few things before taking a long vacation.
As soon as I got back, I discovered that the studio had been calling every hour, demanding an immediate meeting with me. I tried to reschedule for after I got back from Montana, but they weren¡¯t buying it for a minute. And then I find out, they want me to spend the next six weeks in a goddamned closet re-editing the entire film.
f course, the contract says I have to do it, so instead of lowering my blood pressure and regaining my health in Montana, I spend the bulk of the hot, smoggy summer in L.A., trying like mad to retrieve Shaman¡¯s plot from the cutting room floor In the end, I suppose we produced a decent cut, although I was pissed about not getting the usual credit for ¡°the Director¡¯s cut¡±, and just generally frustrated about how this business never seemed to wrap up its loose ends. Still, the film managed to hit break-even, and although I never got the dollar-one profit participation I was promised, it paved the way for three more studio greenlights on projects that I¡¯d been lining up for years.
I was on my way out of town, just wrapping up a few loose ends before catching the last of the fishing season when I ran into Jerry Semper (¡°Semper Fi¡± we called him), one of the executive VP¡¯s, at the studio, in the bar of the Bel Aire Hotel, where I was waiting to meet a friend who¡¯d be watching the house while we were in Montana. I bought him a round, and then asked conversationally, ¡°Jerry, why the hell did you guys insist that I do all the editing on ¡®Shaman¡¯ myself? I mean, I never even realized it was in the contract, but even if it¡¯s standard, nobody except Francis and Woody ever does this kind of stuff,¡± I exclaimed.
¡°Look, Rick,¡± he replied, ¡°it¡¯s not just that you¡¯re the best in the business. Hell we all know that most directors hate to edit, but did you see how Alsace looked in the daily rushes?¡±
I nodded vaguely, not wanting to say anything one way or another.
Jerry continued, ¡°the reason we needed you to rescue the goddamned film was that by the end of the shoot she was so worn out she looked like a fuckin¡¯ zombie!¡±
I threw a twenty on the bar and told Jerry I¡¯d see him in a few weeks when I got back from Montana. ¡°What the hell, I thought, every business has its headaches.¡±