Letter from LA: A Night in Hollywood

What do Ed Blau, Kate Capshaw, Chris Columbus, Tom Cruise, Jodie Foster, Don Granger, John Goldwyn, Dustin Hoffman, Nicole Kiddman, Howard W. Koch, Ron Kovic, Barry Levinson, George Lucas, Rick Nicita, Mike Ovitz, Brad Pitt, Sydney Pollock, Marty Scorcese, Elliot Silverstein, Sting, and Ruben Hostka all have in common? They were all recently seen in the same room together, the VIP anteroom just before the start of the Artists Rights Foundation Tribute to the John Huston Award for Artists Rights. We’re making some progress here, eh?

The Artists Rights Foundation is, as you may know, an organization formed in 1991 by many of the notables above as a tool for artists to use to fight some of the more egregious barbarities perpetrated upon the film community’s work, such as colorization or hatchet-job editing to fit TV timeslots. It is deeply involved in an industry-wide effort to bring more than just the force of moral suasion upon these and other crucial issues, and as part of its publicity, political, educational and fund-raising campaigns, it bestows an annual award upon an artist deemed to have show exceptional career-long efforts in this fight. Previous winners have been directors Fred Zinneman, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, and Milos Foreman; the first non-director to be so honored, actor Tom Cruise, was this year's winner, bringing, if possible, even more media attention to this award and organization.

Our dear friend Ruben, who as his star rises is growing ever dearer by the moment to more and more people, many of whom would not have previously given him the time of day, but to we who knew him when, is and will always remain a true and cherished friend, was invited by his longtime true friend and mentor, director Elliot Silverstein, President and one of the chief spokespersons of the ARF. This is a good thing, and the tale of this month will relate his experiences during this most memorable and momentous evening.

First things first, he had to get a tux, but since his check from Paramount is still in the mail, having been sub-routed via Tanzania (amazing how that happens, isn’t it?) he still had not two nickels to rub together. ARF comped the ticket, but the tux was his problem, which, after it became clear you can’t fit a size 44 body (his) into a size 40 tux (mine) he solved cleverly by a tuxedo shirt, a cummerbund, black tie and Blue Brothers black suit, making due as best one can. The Cloutmobile, our 1979 Mercedes 300SD, was all shined, fueled and ready, courtesy of moi, so with a buck-seventy-nine in his pocket, he was off to meet the media elite of the planet.

He arrives at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, gives his keys to parking valet with a brief thought on how he was going to get them back at evening’s end, but being the resourceful producer that he is, he figured the evening events would take care of that, not to worry, hopefully. For now he simply went up to the reception table, where a pass to the VIP room awaited him. Thank you, Elliot, you are a real mensch, since not only Ruben but I, as omniscient observer, got to go, too. And in that room, the above-mentioned notables were gathering. Ed Blau, Ruben’s lawyer who had helped shepherd his Paramount deal through (along with Marty Baum, who was in Canada on a film set with client Dickie Attenborough) immediately took him aside, increasing his center of film biz gravity by geometric proportions, for if someone as important as Ed has someone as unknown as Ruben by his side, then maybe something big is going on that one should pay attention to.

And, thusly, attention was paid. Eyes were raised, introductions made, and in fifteen minutes Ruben had been, by being there then, Anointed. He was now a Player. Just like that. Never mind that Paramount had, well, dicked him around for three months before not giving him what he wanted. Never mind the two nickels he didn’t have to rub together (or even the valet parking fee needed to get the car out of hock.) Never mind the fifteen years of relative oblivion he’d been living in. He was an overnight success after fifteen minutes, because he was there.

Of the many memorable moments in this part of the evening, two distinctly stand out. One was the look on Don Granger’s face when he saw Ruben there. Granger, as we recall, was the Paramount exec who had befriended Ruben through all his deal-making turmoil, the one who finally told him to "take the deal" when it was clear that fighting further would hurt him more than help him. It was a look of bemused pride on Granger’s face at that moment, a "what the hell are you doing here?" look of pleasure, since Ruben’s presence validated Granger’s faith in him. It was sweet. (John Goldwyn, the executive one rung up the corporate ladder, evidenced a look a little more studied, but it, too, showed an acceptance of his achievement, while still indicating a few things left to prove. In due time; their movie, Varsity Blues began shooting in Austin, Texas that very same day, April 17; they sipped champagne in celebration thereof as well as of Tom.)

The other memorable moment, one that promises to spin off into a tale or tales of its own was Ruben’s introduction to Howard W. Koch. Koch, a gentleman in his 80’s, has been a writer/producer/director since the 1950’s (The Manchurian Candidate, The Odd Couple, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, to name a few of his over forty produced credits) with offices on the Paramount lot for 30 years, a mover and shaker and maker of careers. "El General," with a hard "G," immediately took a liking to our Israeli friend, asking him to call him on the lot on Monday. Which he did, leading to a meeting that afternoon at two which lasted until five, leading to a lunch in the Paramount Commissary to further introduce him to the brass, and finally a Day at the Races on that Friday, the opening of Hollywood Park with fourteen close personal friends. It was a week to remember, but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

After the VIP room it was going to be hard to find a topper, and the dinner was eaten in the quiet relaxed glow of the moment and the future potential therein revealed. The Beverly Hilton Hotel chicken was juicier, the asparagus vinaigrette tangier, the mashed potatoes creamier, the chocolate cake bittersweeter, and the macciato robuster than he ever remembered it. But of course he’d never been in this kind of situation without crashing before; belonging is a sensory enhanceer of powerful proportions.

After the dinner, the Awards Ceremony began, introduced by Jack Shea, Chairman of the ARF, followed by John Williams conducting the Young Musicians Foundation Debut Orchestra, then the presentation hosted by Jodie Foster and Dustin Hoffman, with Sydney Pollock, Rob Reiner, Melissa Etheridge, Barry Levinson, Anjelica and Danny Huston, Elliot, Sen. Barbara Boxer, and, of course, the honored recipient, Tom Cruise.

But it was not the self-congratulatory atmosphere of the presentation itself that left a lasting impression upon this observer, but rather a single momentary interchange after it was over, between our friend Ruben and Ron Kovic, the paraplegic Vietnam Vet portrayed by Cruise in Born on the Fourth of July. As the crowd began filing out of the dining room, Ruben and Kovic’s paths intersected, and they momentarily stopped as the crowd flowed around them. Kovic, not knowing who Ruben was, nonetheless stared at him for a moment of puzzled recognition. And Ruben, knowing full well who Kovic was, nodded his head and said, after staring deeply into those sad eyes, "I want to pay my respects to you, Mr. Kovic, as one soldier to another." Kovic, now knowing what he had intuitively recognized in that initial stare, extended his hand, looking at him with the look only one soldier can give to another.

And in that moment I truly understood what this whole evening had been about. Yes it was celebrities celebrating celebrity, people validating each others’ importance, as well as money being raised, reputations spread, agendas furthered and all that. It was a quintessential Hollywood evening, that it was. But is was also more, because it was truly about something. It was about artists, right or wrong. It was about a man like Ron Kovic, a man who lost a precious and irreplaceable piece of his life in a foolish all but forgotten war, knowing that his sacrifice was truly not in vain. Knowing that his message, his love poem to the America of our hearts and dreams, written in his book and spread through the movie, would live on long after he and the generation that fought in, or against, that war had passed on.

It would live on because an artist had decided, at a pivotal time in our nation’s history, to take a huge professional and artistic and political risk, and made possible something that without his presence would not have been possible. No other actor in the world could have gotten that movie made at that time, but Top Cruise could and Tom Cruise did, and now Kovic’s message lives on and his life and sacrifice have greater meaning because of it. Born on the Fourth of July is a movie that will live as long as Tom Cruise is known, which I suspect will be as long as anyone in this art form is known, as long as Jimmy Stewart or Frank Capra, or Spielberg and Lucas and Scorsese for that matter.

Tom Cruise is an artist who took a risk, as all true artists must, or else we are all at risk. They are there for us, when and where we cannot be, and this evening, while it was about many other things, was at heart about being there to appreciate him and the efforts he has made thus far, and the ones he will make in the rest of his career. Here’s to you, Mr. Cruise. You’ve done good.

*******

But, as all things must, the moment passed, and as Ruben wended his way outside, he was accosted by Elliot and Ed and taken to the Coconut Club, Merv Griffen’s Big Band nightclub of the Hilton, there to have a drink, be serenaded by Ray Anthony, greeted by Hugh Hefner (there may be an invitation to the Playboy Mansion in the cards soon; stay tuned) and, then, finally, off into the night.

Well, not quite. There was still the valet parking tab to be dealt with. Eighteen dollars. That’s right. A week of food for a normal college student, but about sixteen twenty-one more that Ruben had on him at the moment. So he begs it off of Elliot, with promises to pay it back on the morrow, which he does by, ahem, borrowing it from me. Maybe when the Paramount check returns from its vacation in Tanzania, he’ll pay me back. We’ll see.