The Mailroom: Hollywood History from the Bottom Up (44 page)

SPENCER:
When Mike Rosenfeld got promoted to agent, Amy Gross-man needed an assistant. Amy asked me to tell her about myself. Then she said, “Yes, but what do you bring to the party of life?” I’ll never forget that question because I had no idea how to answer it. I tried something about being a hard worker, having common sense, blah, blah, blah. She said, “But what
extra
thing do you have?”

I said I could speak French.

I got the job.

I didn’t know how much I wanted to be an agent until I’d worked for Amy. The first six months with her were the worst six months of my life. She was incredibly meticulous, pointed out every single mistake I made, and was right on every single thing, which really drove me nuts. I must have lost about fifteen pounds and I didn’t sleep. Talk about anxiety. Every day I came to work I knew that something would be wrong and that I would get in trouble for it.

Then it changed. One weekend I read all the clients’ scripts, knew what she was reading, and read that, too, in case she asked. I knew where all the money was. I knew where all the clients were. I lay in bed that Sunday night, about eleven o’clock, and I suddenly realized I didn’t have that Sunday night anxiety. From then on, working for Amy was great.

Well, almost. Amy had a producer client, Tom Kune, who was at the Cannes Film Festival. Amy said to get Tom at the Majestic. We were in her office, she at her desk, I on her really low, soft, uncomfortable couch. It was like
The Tonight Show,
where Jay Leno is always about three feet higher than anybody else. I called and said, “Hello, I’d like to speak to Mr. Tom Kune.”

Amy interrupted and said, “Hang up the phone! Hang up the phone!” I hung up. She said, “You have to speak French!” I asked why, since they all speak English. “No. You have to speak French! You have to get him in French! I want to hear you speak French.”

I dialed the number again and with a faux French accent said: “
Bonjour.
I would like to speak to Monsieur Tom Kune.”

Amy barked, “Hang up the phone! Hang up the phone! You told me you could speak French!”

“Okay, I lied. I cannot speak French.”

“You
lied
to me?”

“I lied to you.”

“Why would you lie to me?”

“I wanted the fucking job, Amy. I didn’t want to be in the mailroom anymore. They all speak English in France. I’ve been there, and they all speak English.”

She fumed and laughed at the same time. I picked up the phone again and did Inspector Clouseau: “I would like to speak to Monsieur Kune.”

“
Ah oui,
Monsieur Kune, I will get him right away.” Thirty seconds later he was on the phone.

Amy did her business with Tom and I walked outside to my desk. When she hung up she yelled, “Martin, come back in here!”

I went in and she closed the door. “You lied to me! Don’t ever lie to me again.”

By that time she was laughing. I never lied to her again. And she didn’t ask me to speak French, either.

BERLINER:
People got desks pretty much by seniority. When Ron Meyer’s desk opened up, there was, at the time, an edict: He did not take men as assistants, he took women. But not trainees. However, his assistant Suzanne told him, “You have to hire Jane, she’s the only one who’s ever gotten your food orders right.”

The way to a man’s heart, honey.

WAX:
Todd Harris, who is now a producer at USA, was on Bill Haber’s desk and getting ready to move on. Kevin Cooper had been there before him, and together they figured that since my dad was a TV agent I should work for Haber. In truth, they kind of bushwhacked me into it. They said I’d be great for the job, that Haber was a partner, that I’d move up fast. I thought it was a great way to get out and get in. I’d heard that Haber was a little out there, but, stuck in the mailroom, I really didn’t know the truth or the extent of it.

At first I was really excited to be on the desk, thinking, I’ve got it made, I’m working for a partner. But Haber turned out to be an SOB. After four months either I was going to throw him out the window or he was going to do it to me. He hammered me every day. He loved to yell and scream and call me names. Maybe he thought it would be kind of fun to flick me shit after my dad had been above him at William Morris, but I got tired of the abuse. I figured the assistant thing was just like being a pledge: They yell for a while, but then they give you the keys and let you in. With Bill it never came full circle. I wanted to be his assistant, not his fucking whipping boy.

Ken Howard, who starred in
The White Shadow
, was in the office early one morning. He was good friends with Haber, who had helped him out over the years. Haber sent me to get a specific bouquet of flowers for Ken’s wife. But it was 9 A.M. and not many flower shops were open, and the shop nearby was out of what he wanted. I figured it was better to bring back a general bouquet than no flowers at all.

Haber called me every name in the book, right in front of Howard. I stood there and took it. Later Haber went to Ray Kurtzman and said, “I can’t deal with this guy anymore!” Of course, the feeling was mutual. Even the other agents would roll their eyes when he screamed, like, “You poor bastard.”

I moved to Rowland Perkins’s desk. Haber would walk by and not say anything. Just to bug him, I’d say, “Hey, Bill, how ya doin’?” Perkins had a lot of power but was more relaxed. I handled his desk with no problem.

I never became an agent at CAA. After a Palm Springs retreat, Rowland brought me into the office and said, “Well, it doesn’t look like it’s going to work out.”

I said, “Why?” I did everything I was supposed to on Rowland’s desk. Then it hit me: “Man, I never should have gone on Haber’s desk.” Rowland nodded. I said, “Fine, I’m outta here.”

UFLAND:
Bill Haber did one of the greatest things ever when I was an assistant. He invited the trainees and agents in the TV department on a secret trip for a weekend, to celebrate a terrific pilot season. We all showed up and got on a waiting bus, but Haber was nowhere to be found. As we drove down Santa Monica Boulevard to the 405, everyone tried to guess where we were going. We wound up at the Santa Monica airport. Three private jets waited on the runway. We boarded. They were fully loaded with food and booze. We took off with still no idea of our destination. An hour later we landed in San Francisco and were met by limos, again fully stocked, and then taken to the Fairmont Hotel, where we all got little bags full of chocolate and cheese and wine and shirts, and itineraries. There were also hooded sweatshirts that had “AL” in big black letters, and the CAA logo, and “TRAZ”: ALCAA-TRAZ. Also a CAA watch.

The itinerary read: meet in lobby, go to secret place. Meet in lobby, go to secret place. With times noted. We met in the lobby and marched all the way down to the wharf, where Haber had chartered a boat, again stocked with food and booze, and took it to Alacatraz for a great private tour. On the boat ride back to the mainland, we realized that Jack Rapke’s sister, Eileen, was left behind. She had to get another boat.

At the wharf we walked through all the different tourist shops. Then we separated into smaller groups. Me, Haber, Abby Adams, Leigh Brillstein, and some others walked into a record-your-own-song booth and did an a capella “New York, New York.” We got the tape, bought a boom box, went back to the hotel, got ready for dinner. Later we met in front of the hotel and Haber marched us down the hill—all the women were wearing pumps—to a McDonald’s at the bottom. We cut through—in one door and out the other—and across the street was a five-star Japanese restaurant. Got a private room. Had an unbelievable meal of I don’t know how many courses. Of course, there was booze, booze, booze. And a competition. Each table had to come up with a joke, and the table with the funniest joke would win the prize. I remember watching Leigh and Abby get up and leave the room. I followed them out. They’d found a guy whose name was Bob. He was from Nebraska and there on vacation with his wife and kids. Their plan was to have Bob tell the joke.

After dinner, thirty of us piled into cabs and went to an underground club called DV8 (Deviate). Another guy and I went up to the door and said we were from CAA, and they said, “Oh yeah, we know people from your music department. They book bands here all the time. Come on in.” We danced all night and the next morning took limos back to the airport, flew back in the jets, and recovered before we had to go to work on Monday.

I never became an agent at CAA, either. After I decided to go I had a very nice conversation with Ron Meyer, and I sent Haber a memo, thanking him. He sent it back with a hand-scrawled “See me, end of day. Haber.” That evening I walked into Haber’s office. Closed the door. We stood face-to-face. Then he told me about me from his and his son’s perspective—Mark was a mailroom summer camper. “My son thinks you’re one of the smartest blah, blah, blah . . . but I think you’re a very off-center human being and . . .” As he talked I looked down and saw the man was wearing Mickey Mouse slippers. And he called
me
off-center.

GOLDMAN:
I wanted to work on Mike Marcus’s desk. I ended up with Mike Menchel. I learned from him to be comfortable in my own skin without giving up being effective. He didn’t come out of Harvard with an MBA or law degree. He was just a regular guy who became successful and did it on his own. But I was so caught up in achieving and working and making the grade that I never stepped out of my skin and asked myself if being an agent is what I really wanted.

While jogging one morning a car hit me. I went to the emergency room and my ankle was shattered, and yet I freaked out about what would happen at my desk that day. I showed up at the office, straight from the hospital, on painkillers, on crutches—and found some secretary doing my job and everything was fine. I realized that no matter how indispensable I believed I was, I was entirely replaceable. It was a horrible moment. I wanted to have a lot more impact. If I got hit by a car, I wanted someone’s life besides mine to be affected.

I left CAA a month later and went to InterTalent.

CHAVOUS:
I wanted to work in Talent, and Paula Wagner’s desk opened up. It was scary. Paula’s reputation was that she did not take any shit. Paula had gone through so many assistants, it was a joke around the office. On the back door of the mailroom were two fuzzy cotton balls stuck up with a pin, and a note that read: “These will be your balls if you get on Paula Wagner’s desk.”

I was a pretty ballsy kid, but I walked into her office and sat there freaked out of my mind, thinking about how all the guys had teased me, while she made phone calls. Then Paula said coolly, “Well, Donna, so, you’re going to be on my desk.”

I said, “Yes. I’ve heard that you can be a bitch, but I think that I can handle it.”

She looked at me. “Excuse me?”

I said, “Well, yeah, that’s, uh, what I’ve heard. But I think I can do a good job for you and I’m looking forward to being on the desk.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, Holy shit. I’m screwed.

Turns out, it gave her the sense that I might make it.

Within the first week I wanted to change desks. My predecessor, Kathy Anderson, who had trained me and then floated to another desk down the hall so I could do things on my own, checked in on me one day and saw the look of sheer terror in my eyes. Kathy went around the corner and started crying. Later she told me she’d thought: I don’t think Donna is going to make it. I’ll have to go back and I’ll never be able to leave!

The interaction between me and Paula was riotous. I was stubborn and determined, and so was she. What Paula really wanted was for me to sit in her office with my phone book, at the telephone, all day long. I knew I’d never get any work done like that, so I’d do my best to stay at my desk. When she wanted me she would yell, “Donna? Donna?” You could hear her around the corner. I’d say, “Yass, Miss Paula.” She hated that. “Donna, what are you doing calling me Miss Paula? I don’t like that very much. What exactly does that mean?”

Then I started with “Yes’m, Missus Paula,” and I found a plastic ball and chain. I’d put it on my leg, and anytime she called me, I’d drag my leg into the office and say, “Yes’m, Missus Paula?” The whole hallway would be in tears.

When Paula was happy with me she bought me lunch and talked to me about what it was like coming up as an agent. She truly trained me. She taught me how to speak on the telephone. About poise. About dressing. She also explained that it’s tough being a woman and that you have to work a little bit harder than the men, and that the price is often being perceived as a bitch.

One afternoon Ovitz called me into his office and asked me to sit down. “We’re really happy with you here,” he said. “We’d like to promote you. You’ll still be working for Paula until we get you an office. We’ll figure out a way to get you some clients. You’ll probably be servicing and working from within, but it’s going to be great and you’re going to be great.” That’s all he said.
Boom.
It took about five minutes.

That’s the thing that makes me really crazy about this town: You work, you do the mailroom, you get your ass kicked on a desk, and then what’s the big shebang? Five minutes in somebody’s office listening to them say, “We’ve made you, baby!”

MIKE ROSENFELD JR.
is a television packaging agent at CAA.

JOEL ROMAN
is the vice president, Soundtrack Department, at William Morris.