Los Angeles, October, 1991
Lightmotive Entertainment was the production company founded by Roland Joffé, the London-born director of The Killing Fields and The Mission, and his producing partner Ben Myron. They were teaming with Jake Eberts, the Canadian producer who had founded Goldcrest Film and produced Roland’s previous prestige projects. Jake had won Oscars for Chariots of Fire and Ghandi and Dances with Wolves.
What on earth were these guys doing producing “Super Mario Bros.”?
We arrived at their offices, 662 N. Robertson Blvd. just south of Santa Monica Blvd. in West Hollywood. The two-story colonial was discretely tucked away in the heart of Historic Boys’ Town. Terry and I took note of The Abbey, a bustling coffee shop that had just opened on the corner. The outdoor patio looked like a good place to work.
The requisite movie posters from Roland’s oeuvre adorned the entryway, including Paul Newman in Shadowmakers, the much cooler UK title for Fat Man and Little Boy. We were greeted by Lenny Young, our office liaison and travel arranger, who was Jake’s assistant. He was a few years younger than us, boyish but anxious, somehow exuding both exuberance and exhaustion as he showed us around.
The remnants of the previous director’s vision were still scattered about: brightly colored storyboards and character designs, talking rocks sculpted out of big blocks of modeling clay. It looked like a Technicolor fairytale version of the Nintendo game: The Wizard of Oz with a checkered brick road, tribes of mushroom people, and a dragon-like king.
Ben Myron rushed over for a quick hello. He seemed to be copping Coppola with his thick beard and eyeglass frames. A proper producer, he looked perpetually perturbed.
“Lenny, get these guys situated. Whatever they need. And get them copies of the script,” Ben instructed.
“All the scripts?” Lenny asked.
“No. I mean… not the Barry Morrow draft. Just the most recent.” Ben turned to us. “We think you can use the first act pretty much as is.”
I looked at Terry. There was no way we could use the set up for a completely different story and make it work for Rocky and Annabel’s concept.
Ben read our not-very-neutral expressions. “Take a look, anyway,” he said. “We’re 10 million dollars in the hole and starting over again. Anything that can help us save some time.”
As Ben hurried off, we turned to Lenny.
“Barry Morrow script?” Terry grinned.
“We’ll need to see that,” I insisted.
“Really not,” replied Lenny.
Lenny wasn’t sure how Roland had convinced Nintendo to hand over the rights to Super Mario Bros., but soon afterward, they’d hired the Oscar-winning co-writer of Rain Man to write the first draft for a cool million dollars.
“It made a big splash in the trades, which I guess was the point,” Lenny continued. “But the draft… it barely referenced the game. It was about two brothers on an existential cross-country road trip. One brother is a cynical hustler, grumbly and self-centered, and the other is an idiot savant.”
Our eyes widened. Lenny nodded and continued.
“It was like he took the script for Rain Man and did a search and replace with Mario and Luigi. Around the office, we jokingly called it, ‘Drain Man.’”
Lenny led us past an open office door and Jake Eberts beckoned us in with avuncular ease. Jake was lean and dashing, with a head of salt and pepper curls and a trim mustache. He pushed gold-rimmed specs up his longish features as he stood and shook our hands.
He squinted at me. “You know, you remind me of someone” he said. “Donald Petrie.”
I straightened. “The guy who wrote Beverly Hills Cop?”
“That’s his brother. But they do look alike so, yes, him too.”
If this was his tactic for warming up writers, it was 100-percent working on me.
Terry was growing out his hair at the time, channeling Brad Pitt from Thelma & Louise, but Jake failed to note any resemblance. As we chatted, I glanced over at Jake’s bookshelf. One row was filled with identical three-inch thick books.
“Ah,” Jake smiled as he moved to the shelf. “My own foray into writing. About as successful as its topic, I’m afraid.” He handed me a copy: My Indecision Is Final: The Rise and Fall of Goldcrest Films.
“It’s more a case study than autobiography,” Jake continued. “Take one. If you’re interested in film finance.” I thanked him, then Lenny led us out.
I noticed some concept art that looked radically different, along with a pile of children’s books.
“Wait a minute. You were going to make the Mushroom Kingdom look like Dr. Seuss?” I asked.
“No, no, that’s another project” Lenny explained. “Roland just signed a deal with the Geisel estate. He’s going to adapt Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”
“Oh,” was all I could manage. I thought of all the places Roland had gone: the Killing Fields of Cambodia, a jungle waterfall in South America… And now, Whoville?
“Roland can be very persuasive,” Lenny noted.
In his one-man show Swimming to Cambodia, Spaulding Gray described Roland Joffé as “very intense — a combination of Zorro, Jesus and Rasputin — body of Zorro, heart of Jesus and eyes of Rasputin.” He was not hard to spot as Lenny ushered us past.
“Looks like Roland’s busy,” Lenny gestured. “I’ll introduce you later.”
Roland was about Terry’s height, tanned and trim, with a close-cropped beard and piercing eyes that glinted like seawater. He wore expensive slacks, a light cashmere sweater, and Prada loafers, the soles of which were getting worn as he paced. Roland gripped a cordless handset and spoke very deliberately in a resonant, resolutely English accent:
“No. That’s not… Maestro, no — I just… I’m not suggesting you add sitars. But perhaps some hint. A bit of flavor… Yes, it’s very moving. Ennio. Did I say anything about sitars? No.”
Lenny hurried us past. “Roland just finished a Patrick Swayze movie,” he explained. “It’s set in Calcutta.” Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
“Was he just arguing with Ennio Morricone?” Terry asked.
“Of course not,” said Lenny. “There’s no arguing with Ennio Morricone.”
Lenny took us to a small room in the back with no windows and two desks. There was an overhang where the stairs cut in. I’d have to watch my head. The room was very spare and white.
“This will be your office,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sunlight comes to mind,” remarked Terry.
“This will be great,” I said. “Very… distraction-free.”
“Is there a coffee maker?” asked Terry.
“There’s a little kitchen,” Lenny confirmed. ”I can show you on the way. Rocky and Annabel are waiting for you upstairs.”
The upstairs was a single giant loft space with several desks, a couch and chairs, and chaotic piles of creative clutter. In the corner was a TV hooked to a Panasonic VCR, as well as the light grey and purple game console that was the source of all this activity: the Super NES.
A soft-eyed, square-jawed guy about our age was stretched out on a beanbag chair, dressed all in black. He was playing Super Mario World on the Nintendo. He squinted up through wire frames and gave us a nod, never taking off his headphones.
Rocky greeted us brightly. “Good, you’re here! Don’t mind Radames. He’s helping us with some video concepts.”
It sounded like he said Rat-a-mouse. Rocky leaned in with a twinkle. “Brilliant conceptual artist. Super experimental,” he said. I thought of Terry’s UW film class and fruit hanging on strings. “And,” Rocky lowered his voice. “He was on Kung Fu. He played the young Grasshopper.”
I nodded appreciatively, wondering if Terry would bring up Wing Chun.
“We just met Bill Mumy,” I mentioned, on the off-chance we were playing child actor bingo.
Rocky and Annabel stared blankly.
“From Lost in Space.” I was ready to do my Robot impression when Terry stepped in.
“We know Miguel Ferrer, They’re in a band together,” Terry explained.
“Ah,” Rocky nodded curtly, then moved to the two large desks that were pushed together below a fabric-covered wall. It was dotted with index cards. Annabel gestured to the couch and we settled in.
“Now, I’m sure the producers have brought you up to speed,” Annabel said.
“Not really,” Terry replied.
“Good,” smiled Rocky. “Whatever they’ve told you, you should just ignore.”
“Ben Myron told us we should just use the first act from the last script and go from there,” Terry frowned.
“Yes, well, ignore that. Obviously,” said Annabel.
“Right now, we’re just generating ideas,” explained Rocky. “This is our idea wall. You see all those little cards? We want lots and lots of cards on the wall.
Annabel gestured to a stack of multi-colored index cards and some Sharpies. “Any idea you have, just jot it down and we’ll get it up on the wall,” she said.
“We want this wall filled with new ideas,” Rocky added.
“Now, we’ve signed you both up for a seminar. Bob McKee,” smiled Annabel.
“We went last week. You’ll love it,” Rocky enthused. “He does this whole break down of Casablanca. It’s brilliant.”
“It’s this weekend,” Annabel added.
Terry cocked an eyebrow.
“Cool,” I cut in. I was our resident structure geek, ever since mispronouncing “paradigm” in college.
Terry stood up and scanned the cards. “What about the story beats from our pitch?” he asked. “Shouldn’t we add those to the wall?”
“Oh. Right. No,” Rocky said.
“We don’t want to tie ourselves down on the story just yet,” Annabel explained.
“We’re still building the world,” Rocky continued. “Seeing where the story wants to take us.”
“The seminar,” Annabel reminded us. “We can talk more on Monday.”
I squinted at the cards. “There doesn’t seem to be anything about the video game,” I noted.
“Have you played it?” Annabel asked.
“Not yet,” Terry admitted.
“Good,” Rocky nodded.
“You should have a go, be familiar,” clarified Annabel. “But the plan is to ignore it.”
“Subvert expectations,” Rocky added.
Maybe they should just go back to the Drain Man draft, I thought. I glanced over at Radames, who was still engrossed in the game.
“We should at least reference the game,” I ventured. “I mean, not talking rocks, but… We don’t want the audience to be confused.”
“Right. Reference. Of course,” Rocky nodded.
“Oblique references,” Annabel agreed. “Sly.”
“So… I’m confused,” Terry frowned. “The outline we sent you, was there nothing in there that you liked? I mean, why did we even got this job?”
“Oh, I thought you knew,” said Annabel.
“It was the poster,” Rocky grinned and pointed. It was tacked to the wall.
As we headed back to our Kubrickian office, I impulsively grabbed one of the sculpted clay maquettes that had been dumped in the garbage, a remnant of Greg Beeman’s abandoned fantasy version. The cartoonish-looking Thwomp was about 16 inches square, mounted on plywood, and much heavier than it looked. For a while, it was our sole office decoration — our monolith.
Saturday, we drove to a Westside Sheraton, where we joined the throng milling outside a large presentation room. A sign told us we were in the right place, Robert McKee’s Story Seminar. There were 40 or so earnest, bespectacled young men and two dozen women who looked anxious, being outnumbered by nerds. Terry steered us toward someone he thought he recognized. Her round glasses, red curls and freckles looked familiar.
“Linda Barry,” Terry smiled.
She turned. “Oh, hey! Sorry…”
“Terry,” he supplied.
I sputtered my name. “Big fan. I, um… also cartoonist… National Lampoon.”
She smiled politely and turned back to Terry. “How’s Jan?” she asked.
“She’s great, thanks.”
Right. Jan had been cast in the Chicago workshop of the staged version of Linda’s book.
“The Good Times Are Killing Me,” I glubbered. “I loved that book, and the stage show.” It had recently opened Off-Broadway.
“I’m writing the screenplay now,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
We stuck with Linda and found seats. There was another redhead a row ahead of us. In her conservative suit and buttoned up collar, I thought she might be a studio exec. Chatting later, she introduced herself as Cassandra Peterson. It was Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.
The guru took the stage and glared out intensely. His head swiveled, owl-like, as he surveyed the room. He seemed unhappy.
Terry leaned over and whispered to me, “He’s scoping out the women.”
“You think?”
Terry feigned offense that I would question his expertise.
“I bet he’s looking for groupies,” Terry affirmed. “Or women with daddy issues.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like the turnout,” I replied, but the room was mostly full.
Sure enough, at break time, Terry and I watched as McKee handled the hangers on, grumpily dismissing questions from men while turning on the father-figure charm as he engaged the women.
“No,” Terry declared. “This cannot stand.” He strode over to the group and started methodically chatting up women, peeling off the most attractive ones and steering them away.
“Excuse me,” McKee called to Terry. “Did you have a question?”
“No,” Terry smiled.
So, while I took copious notes and used the break time to organize them, Terry diligently cock-blocked Robert McKee.
Still, his break down of Casablanca was indeed brilliant.
McKee’s central idea was that there is a “gap” that opens up as the protagonist tries to achieve their goals following a path of least resistance — the gap between their expectations of what will happen and the resistance of reality. Now, they need to take a different action, one that requires more effort and more risk, which is met with proportionally more resistance. So, rather than two big external “plot points” that spin the action around as in Syd Field’s Screenplay paradigm, there are numerous points where these ever-widening gaps add tension and surprise, driven by character.
Several weeks into sitting with Rocky and Annabel in their loft space, amiably tossing out ideas and trying to find a through line for the story, a gap had opened up.
The producers were applying pressure now and, while there was a wall full of ideas, Terry and I could not get the directors to commit to anything related to the plot. Whatever we thought Rocky and Annabel had agreed upon the day before was dismissed the following day in search of something new.
“But… I thought…” I stammered. “Didn’t we agree…”
“No, no,” assured Rocky. “We want something new.”
“This was new yesterday,” Terry observed.
“We want the new new!” boomed Rocky. “The new new!”
Terry darted me a look. We were in trouble.