The Hollywood Economist (4 page)

If a movie contains less explicit nudity, it earns an R rating, which merely prohibits youth unaccompanied by an adult. Even though this option means that some number of multiplex employees—who might otherwise be selling popcorn—are required to check the identity documents of the teenage audience, theaters accept R-rated films, as was the case with
Troy
, if the R is for graphic violence because movie violence is a huge attraction for the teen audience. An R rating for nudity has a further problem in the popcorn economy: it greatly complicates the movie’s all-important marketing drive. When a film receives an R rating for nudity, many television stations and cable networks, particularly teenage-oriented ones, will not accept TV ads for the movies. In addition, an R rating for nudity will preclude any of the fast-food chains, beverage companies, or toy manufacturers that act as the studios’ merchandise tie-in partners from backing the movie with tens of millions of dollars in free advertising. As a result, it becomes much more expensive to alert and herd audiences to theaters for R-rated films.

Second, there is the Wal-Mart consideration. In 2007, the six studios took in $17.9 billion from DVD sales, according to the studios’ own internal numbers. Wal-Mart, including its Sam’s Club stores, accounted for nearly one-quarter of those
sales, which means that Wal-Mart wrote more than $4 billion in checks to the studios in 2007. Such enormous buying power comes dangerously close to constituting what the Justice Department calls a monopsony—control of a market by a single buyer—and it allows the giant retailer to effectively dictate the terms of trade. While Wal-Mart may not use its clout to advance any political agenda or social engineering objective, Wal-Mart does use DVDs to lure in customers who, while they pass through the store, may buy more profitable items, such as toys, clothing, or electronics. For this task, Wal-Mart’s concern with the content of DVDs is that they not offend important customers—especially mothers—by containing material that may be inappropriate for children. Hence its “decency policy” that consigns DVDs containing sexually related nudity to “adult sections” of the store, which greatly reduces their sales. (Wal-Mart is less concerned with vulgar behavior and language.) These guidelines, in turn, put studios under tremendous pressure to sanitize their films of nudity.

Finally, movies with nudity are a problem for the studios’ other main moneymaker: television. As became abundantly clear in the controversy surrounding Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction at Super Bowl XXXVIII, broadcast television is a government-regulated enterprise. When the government
grants a free license to a station to broadcast over the public airwaves, it does so under the condition that it conform to the rules enforced by the Federal Communications Commission. Among those rules is the standard of “public decency,” which among other things specifically prohibits salacious nudity, which is why CBS had to pay a fine for Ms. Jackson’s brief exposure. Because the FCC regulates broadcast television (though not cable television), television stations run similar risks and embarrassments—if they show movies that include even partially nudity.

So, before a studio can license such a movie to a broadcast network, it first has to cut out all the nudity and other scenes that run afoul of the decency standard. Aside from the expense involved, it requires the hassle of obtaining the director’s permission, which is contractually required by the Directors Guild of America. The same is true in studio sales to foreign television companies, which have their own government censorship.

Since graphic sex in movies is a triple liability, the studios can be expected to increasingly find that the artistic gain that comes from including it does not compensate for the financial pain and green-light fewer and fewer movies that present this problem. We may live in an anything-goes age, but if a studio wants to make money, it has to
limit how much of “anything”—at least anything sexually explicit—it shows on the big screen. As one studio executive with an MBA lamented, “We may have to leave sex to the independents.” In the New Hollywood, as far as studios are concerned, no nudes is good news.

The regular movie audience has been so decimated over the past six decades that the habitual weekly adult moviegoer will soon qualify, if not as an endangered species, as a niche group. In 1948, 65 percent of the population went to a movie house in an average week; in 2008, under 6 percent of the population went to see a movie in an average week. What changed in the interval was that virtually every American family bought a TV set. In 1948, when home TV was still a rarity, theaters sold 4.6 billion tickets. By 1958, TV had penetrated most American homes, and theaters sold only 2 billion tickets. The Hollywood studios tried to counter television with technology dazzle, including wider screens (CinemaScope), noisier speakers (surround sound), and more visually exciting special effects, but technology did nothing to stem the mass defections. They also tried epic, three-hour
movies, such as
Ben Hur, Lawrence of Arabia
, and
Dr. Zhivago
, that, although they succeeded individually, had little effect on the weekly movie audience. Even the much-heralded fantasy bonanzas of Spielberg and Lucas could not halt the decline. By 1988, ticket sales hovered at 1 billion. The studios, realizing that they could no longer count on habitual moviegoers to fill theaters, devised a new strategy: creating audiences de novo for each movie via paid advertising.

Audience-creation is a very expensive enter-prise—in 2007 the studios’ average cost for advertising a film was $35.9 million. Studios justified this expenditure on the grounds that huge opening-weekend audiences would help turn a movie into an “event,” generating word-of-mouth and other free advertising that would continue to bring moviegoers into theaters, and, later, into video stores.
Titanic
, for example, took in only a modest $28 million over its opening weekend. Two weeks later, after it had become a word-of-mouth event, the movie had earned $149 million. It wound up grossing a phenomenal $600 million at American theaters. While no other film has equaled the success of
Titanic
, such “event” films are what studios depend upon to pay the bills.

What terrifies top studio executives now is the dearth of word-of-mouth event movies. “Word of mouth is no longer a factor,” Thomas McGrath, a former Paramount vice president explained. Instead, studio marketing chiefs try for big opening numbers by driving with a drumbeat of TV ads the one audience they can rely on: male teens. While with $36 million of ads they can still manufacture weekend teen audiences, they can no longer create the event movies that the studios need. Meanwhile, a quantum leap in quality in high-definition DVDs, television sets, and digital recorders threatens to further erode the edge movie theaters have over home entertainment. Studio executives are coming to grip with the reality that they have as much chance of reversing the secular shift of audiences from the theater to the home as King Canute had in commanding the tide to recede.

But what alternative do they have? The skill that movie executives have honed over the years is audience-creation. Even if it takes $30 to 50 million to herd teens to the multiplexes, and the movie fails to earn back that outlay, they hope it will lead to a future franchise. To abandon that hope means the end of Hollywood, as they know it.

The public most often sees Hollywood through the lens of paparazzi cameras and the PR wires of publicists as a wildly extravagant, if not recklessly wasteful, place from which stars, accompanied by personal entourages, fly to lavish parties in private jets. But there is a less profligate side to Hollywood: the culture of the suits, in which the tight-fisted executives who run the studios pride themselves on their ability to pinch pennies out of movie budgets and wring profits out of unlikely places. Consider, for example, the profits studios found in their graveyards of dead prints. Up until the mid-1980s the initial opening of a movie required only several hundred prints—
Star Wars
, for example, opened in 1977 on only thirty-two screens. Nowadays, with simultaneous global openings, it takes 5,000 to 10,000 prints to open major movies. The 2009 sequel in Warner Bros.’ Batman franchise,
The Dark Knight
, for example, which played on over 9,000 screens in the US alone, required 12,000 prints for its worldwide distribution, each costing about $1,500. Studios order the prints for these immense runs from film labs and then deduct their cost from the first revenues that flow in from the theaters. So the film production company, which is almost always set up as a separate business entity, absorbs the cost on its
books. Then after a brief shelf life of a few weeks in the multiplexes, almost all the prints—except for a few hundred sent to theaters on military bases—are scrapped.

But studios found in this mounting scrap heap a literal silver lining. Each shredded print contains a small quantity of silver, which the studios can “mine” via a recovery process and sell. Silver mining, to be sure, is not a new pursuit in Hollywood. Much of the studios’ pre-1950s libraries, including many of the irreplaceable negatives of its classics, were destroyed to recover the silver. But with rising precious metal prices—silver exceeded $18 an ounce on the commodity market in November 2009—and hundreds of thousands of dead prints to mine, it provides a rich vein of extra income for the studios (which is not returned to the film production companies charged for the prints). Of course, this mine will peter out as more and more multiplexes convert from analog to digital projection, and prints themselves are no longer necessary.

Even though the proceeds studios recover from prints may amount to little more than “pocket money,” as a Paramount executive described it, it fulfills a vital requisite for the suit culture: finding new sources of income.

The nonstop anecdotes that stars give in celebrity interviews about the stunts they supposedly performed, their favorite hobbies, and how much they enjoyed working with other stars may serve to hype their latest project—a job they are contractually required to do—but they evade a central
issue: the art of the deal has come to replace the art of movies. To understand how the new Hollywood really works, one need only read stars’ contracts. Consider, for example, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger’s agreement for
Terminator 3: The Rise of the Machines
. It’s a state-of-the-art exercise in deal-making.

The contract was brilliantly put together by the Hollywood super-lawyer Jacob Bloom between June 2000 and December 2001, requiring no fewer than twenty-one drafts, and runs thirty-three pages (including appendices). For starters, Schwarzenegger got a $29.25 million “pay or play” fee, meaning he would be paid whether or not the movie was made. (At the time, that figure was a record for guaranteed compensation.) The first $3 million would be delivered on signing and the balance during the course of nineteen weeks of “principal photography,” which is the part of a production during which the actors are in front of the camera. For every week the shooting ran over its nineteen-week schedule, Schwarzenegger would receive an additional $1.6 million in “overage.” Then there was the “perk package”—a lump sum of $1.5 million for private jets, a fully equipped gym trailer, three-bedroom deluxe suites on locations, round-the-clock limousines, and personal
bodyguards. The producers Mario Kassar and Andrew Vajna did not agree to pay Schwarzenegger this record sum because he possessed unique acting skills—after all, the part he was to play (along with a digital double and many stuntmen) was that of a slow-speaking robot. They also did not pay Schwarzenegger on the basis of his box office track record. Indeed, his previous two films,
End of Days
(1999) and
The Sixth Day
(2000), had failed both at the world box office and at video rental stores. Nevertheless, in the ten years that had elapsed since
Terminator 2: Judgment Day
, Schwarzenegger’s image had become so inexorably linked in video games and TV reruns to the deadly robot that he had become the crucial element of the deal and Kassar and Vajna needed him to raise money.

To make this deal Kassar and Vajna first needed to get the rights to the moribund franchise. So, backed by the German-owned movie financier Intermedia Films, they bought the sequel rights to the
Terminator
franchise for $14.5 million from the bankrupt Carolco Pictures and the initial producer, Gale Anne Hurd. Next, they spent another $5.2 million developing a script. That was the easy part. Now they needed $160 million in financing, which was more than any other movie had cost in those days. They had lined up three distributors: Warner
Bros. would pay $51.6 million for North American rights, the Tokyo distributor Toho-Towa would pay $20 million for Japanese rights, and Sony Pictures Entertainment would pay $77.4 million for the rest of the world. (The balance would come mainly from tax shelter deals in Germany.) But all three distributors—Warner Bros., Sony, and Toho-Towa—made their financing conditional on Schwarzenegger signing on to play the robot. So: No Schwarzenegger, no money.

Kassar and Vajna had no real choice but to accept Schwarzenegger’s terms if they wanted to make the movie (and, aside from reviving the franchise, they themselves would earn $10 million in producer fees if the deal went through). Schwarzenegger’s demands, however, did not stop with the guarantee of $29.25 million. He also insisted on and got 20 percent of the gross receipts made by the venture from every market in the world—including movie theaters, videos, DVDs, television licensing, in-flight entertainment, game licensing, and so forth—once the movie had reached its cash breakeven point. Such “contingent compensation” is not unusual in movie contracts, but, in some cases, Hollywood accounting famously uses smoke and mirrors to make sure to define “breakeven” in such a way that a movie never reaches it. Schwarzenegger’s contract, thanks to
the ingenious lawyering of Jake Bloom, allowed for no such evasion.