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Eight months prior, I'd parted ways with my collaborator of several years and was striking out on my own. As always, my timing couldn't have been worse. Money was tight, bills were piling up, a strike was looming and jobs were scarce. I was staring down the barrel of an exciting career at Starbucks when, out of the blue, I got the call from my manager: “Dust off your dancing shoes. He wants to hear the pitch.”
Twelve hours and a half dozen lattes later I was driving up Benedict Canyon, glancing at the scribbled directions that ended with “Buzz the tennis entrance and someone will let you in.” I parked on the street, worried that my piece-of-crap car would leave some unsavory stain on his driveway. I rang the bell and his assistant appeared, leading me inside. “He'll be right with you,” she said, depositing me in the study with a smile before disappearing to answer a phone.
I looked around, trying to savor the moment—trying to burn it into my memory. Of course, it was all a blur. My mind was reeling with the reality of what was about to happen. I tried to focus, taking in the room, the furniture, the framed photos. Faces I recognized, famous faces, sharing a moment with the man I was about to meet. Then, behind me, a door opened. I turned, and there he was, holding his hand out as he approached: “Hi. I'm John.”
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| In the span of three months, says author John Weidner, John Frankenheimer “impacted my work and my soul in a profound way.” |
And that's when it hit me: Okay, we share the same manager and we share the same first name. But other than that, we have less than nothing in common. Me, a struggling screenwriter with nary a produced credit to my name. Him, a living legend, director of The Manchurian Candidate, Birdman of Alcatraz, Seven Days in May and my personal favorite, Seconds.
He waved me to a couch and settled his long, stooped frame into a chair. I sensed this was my moment, and began. Two sentences later, I decided to risk it: “I, um, just have to tell you, John, that I'm, uh… your biggest fan.” I brace myself for the possible backlash. You never know with these legend types. Much to my relief, he smiled, genuinely appreciative, even taking the time to ask me… about me. Where did I grow up? What school did I go to? Who were my favorite writers? Like I was more than just some guy—some stranger—sitting in his study with my hat in my hands.
Again, I launched into my pitch. My mouth was cotton and my eyes saw white—that make-believe realm where characters perform on your command. Fifteen minutes later, it was over. I waited, trying not to hyperventilate. John sat there silently, deep in thought, a cipher. I instinctively rose to my feet, figuring I could make it to the door before his assistant threw me out. But then, to my complete amazement, he began to backtrack through the entire story, beat-by-beat, offering detailed commentary as he went along. In a town where ADD is epidemic, he had heard every word—every nuance—retaining each and every moment as if he'd already committed it to film. And then the impossible happened: he agreed to direct my project.
Months later, even as he spent long, exhausting days toiling on what would be his final film, Path To War, John found the time to accompany me to several meetings. I recall each of them in vivid detail. I'd do my pitch; then John would dazzle the entire room with the places he had been and the people he had known. I recall one such story about an Afghan warlord who, during the making of The Horsemen, offered John a parcel of land if only he'd promise to take up permanent residence when filming was complete. As always, these anecdotes were the highlight of the meeting. As we headed back to our cars after one of them, I asked John why he'd never written any of it down. These were gems, life adventures that would make for a great book. John looked at me and half-smiled: “Maybe someday, but I'd have to write it myself. Those kind of books never get it right; people wind up getting hurt. I don't want that to happen.”
| “He put his faith, his reputation, his complete confidence in the hands of a relative unknown...” |
A few weeks later, we hit our stride, closing in on a home for the project. And that's when everything came to a screeching halt. “Back surgery, nothing serious,” my manager assured me. One week later, the trades reported that John had pulled out of his latest project, and a few weeks after that, I saw those piercing blue eyes in the Sunday Times.
Thinking back on those days, there are so many moments I'll never forget, but this one keeps coming back: John had arranged a meeting for us with a producer he knew—someone he felt should hear our pitch. En route, John called me from his car phone: “What can I do to make it easier for you? What can I do to help?” I struggled for an answer, amazed that this master moviemaker—this blossoming mentor—would defer to my judgement. Of course, I didn't have a clue what to say, but offered this: “If I miss anything, John, feel free to jump in.” Without a moment's hesitation, he firmly replied: “Don't worry. You won't miss anything.”
John Frankenheimer never doubted my ability to do my job, to hold up my end of the bargain. He put his faith, his reputation, his complete confidence in the hands of a relative unknown. For that—and for so much more—I will be eternally grateful. MM