Hark! Is that a screenwriter I see before me? This sentiment, or something comparable, is what greeted me during my stay in Germany and Greece when my original screenplay, The Cat's Meow, went into production in November and December of 2000. Lions Gate Films arranged the financing, Kirsten Dunst starred and Peter Bogdanovich was in the constantly ripping director's chair.

Ten and a half years prior to finding myself on set, the first draft of the script, then titled “Everybody Charleston!,” was registered in March of 1990 by a young screenwriter recently graduated from NYU’s Film School. The script explores a controversial weekend in November, 1924, when William Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies hosted a birthday cruise for studio pioneer, Thomas Ince. The guest list included Charlie Chaplin, Louella Parsons and Elinor Glyn. There was a casualty that weekend.

My student film had brought me the attention of an agent who called with the option news by that December. I was so stunned that I had to call the agent back and ask him to repeat every word he had just told me, including the pinch-me-am-I-dreaming option amount of ten thousand dollars! Could I retire on this? Have I ‘made it’? Good god—I’m an overnight success, mom!

In that first year, the producers found a director and foreign financing of $15 million, and began casting. I was even flown from my native New York to LA to work on rewrites. Per diem allowed this Greek immigrant housepainter’s son a luxurious breakfast every morning at Caffe Latte on Wilshire and Crescent Heights (13 bucks!). Now there could be no doubt whatsoever—I had arrived!

Well... The financier’s letter of credit wasn’t worth the paper it was written on, the director was booted and the project was taken off the perceived fast track. A second option period put more money in my pocket, but the film was no closer to the first day of shooting. By now I had moved to LA and began taking meetings and peddling spec scripts. I shared credit on Frank Coraci’s (The Wedding Singer) first directing gig—a direct-to-video thriller called Murdered Innocence—and wrote and directed a stage play, “Karlaboy,” for which I had raised the financing and later received a Dramalogue Critics Award for Writing.

Around this time I parted with the film’s initial producers. Others filled the vacuum with similar results. One producer had a stroke. Another production company had the bad luck to be dissolved, causing the project to languish in limbo for six months. By 1996, I was tired of telling the tale on phones, in conference rooms and on endless reams of xerox paper. I wanted—needed—to tell an audience.

One night, I saw a friend, Kim Bieber, perform as a prostitute in the play, “La Ronde” in Hollywood. With her blonde curls and charming performance, I thought she would make a terrific Marion. She knew of my script and had access to financing, so we made a deal. I transformed the screenplay into a stage play, finding great joy and rejuvenation in reexamining every word I had first written nearly seven years earlier. In 1997, the play premiered at The Coast Playhouse on Santa Monica Boulevard under the title, “The Cat’s Meow.” The production was gorgeous, the cast terrific and the reviews first rate... well, with a couple of exceptions.

Kim found a film producing partner in then-casting director Carol Lewis (Red Rock West, U-571). The duo optioned the newly revamped screenplay and set out to make a movie. At the end of 1998, they got it to Peter Bogdanovich. The Last Picture Show, What’s Up Doc? and Paper Moon are classics, but I also love two of his lesser known films, Targets (his startling debut) and Saint Jack. I had long thought he would be perfect for the script. He thought so, too, and came on board. I was in Mexico celebrating my first wedding anniversary when Kim called with the news of Peter’s desire to direct. Yes, I was excited, but history had taught me to take such developments in stride.

Soon after, Lions Gate got involved and found a financing partner, so casting began. Even then, I didn’t allow myself to get truly excited. Kirsten Dunst was first on board as Marion, Jennifer Tilly as Louella and Cary Elwes for Ince. Peter wanted two Brits to play the two Brits and found them in Eddie Izzard as Chaplin and Joanna Lumley as Elinor Glyn. Finally, Edward Herrmann rounded out the cast as Hearst. Ten years earlier, he was one of the actors I saw in my head when I researched this towering figure.

But what of that feeling? That feeling of “bearing witness”—better yet, of participating—that so few writers get to experience. How on earth did it happen? Who permitted such a startling anomaly? Me, of course. And The Director.

Initially, the pressure of a shrinking budget caused several line items to be cut. The writer-on-set was among the first to go. This was not going to deter me, especially since Peter and I had gotten along so well during our meetings about the script. “I want you there for rehearsals and shooting,” he said on numerous occasions. As every screenwriter knows, this invitation is not often extended. If a director or producer doesn’t want the writer on set, they’re not permitted. Even if they pay their own way. “Thanks for the script—we’ll see you at the premiere!” is more often the way it goes. And even then, you only get a ticket if you call them. And even then, you have to battle to get more than two seats.

Lions Gate, to their credit, loved the script as is. So did Peter and the producers. Sole credit for Steve. Another rare treat. However, I implored Lions Gate to send me, implying—as Peter had—that tweaks of some kind will become mandatory, given the nature of an actors’ piece and the tight production schedule. Still, Lions Gate was not going to budge. Finally, a financial compromise was reached and I arrived two days before rehearsals began.

Peter did not have an easy task. The official greenlight came late, giving him a very tight pre-production period. This was exacerbated by the overseas locale and Peter’s prior commitments. Regardless, he had a firm handle on this film from the very start. Seeing it, shot-for-shot, in his head at any given moment.

Still, he saw the value of having the writer—the guy who researched it all, who first set words down on blank paper—on the set. Beyond “the value” in it, he felt it was a necessary tool. Secure in his abilities, Peter felt no threat in having me there; no fear that his authority would be undermined.

A pioneer in uncharted territory, I was intent on not screwing up, so I paced myself carefully. The first week, I got a major paranoid semantical jolt when I realized that “wanting Steve for rehearsals” does not mean “wanting Steve in rehearsals.” I quickly got over the fear that I had made some unaware faux pas when I realized this was standard, allowing the actors a safe place to talk turkey about the text. Peter and I would meet afterwards and discuss any changes within scenes and their repercussions on the film as a whole. The script, thus the film, was getting better. Most significantly, I did a major overhaul in the last act, pumping up the tension and bringing about more emotional complexity. When Eddie wanted to play Chaplin closer to his South London roots, major work was needed to temper my more verbose take.

On day one of production, I stood behind Peter, peeking through the black velvet that obscured his monitor. By day two, I simply asked him if it was okay to sit beside him and watch (peeking seemed silly). “Trust me,” Peter began, “if I didn’t want you to sit there, you’d know.” By day three, I made my first comment/suggestion. I did it with tact, away from the actors. It was small, but Peter listened, thought it was a good idea and implemented it.

For the most part, I was a silent observer, flashing Peter a supportive thumbs-up when I thought something worked, or offering up the intent of the text if it seemed to be eluding an actor during a line reading. Peter often asked my opinion, if only with his eyes, and sought my consultation at moments when the 14-character ensemble material got a bit unwieldy. I was another set of eyes keeping tabs on all the story strands. After all, Peter had to deal with production, camera, actors… having someone to turn to who was thinking only about story seemed to be a help to him. A safety net, if he chose to utilize it.

By my observation, the actors and production keys unanimously expressed both surprise and approval at my presence. As for me, I have welcomed their input. After all, I had been splitting my time for 10 years between 14 characters. Now, 14 actors had arrived, some with notebooks filled with research. It would have been foolish of me not to listen and see if there was something of value in their ideas. More often than not, the ideas were good ones.

When wind and rain in the remote Greek village of Kyparissi (doubling for the SoCal coastline) put us two and a half days behind schedule, I was asked to find places in the script to cut. Ten pages of places. I worked intensely for three days.

So who needs a writer on set? Anyone who cares about the picture, that’s who.

During that intense three-day period of script editing, Peter looked at me and said, “Can you believe they weren’t going to send you here? Who would have done all this? Me? When? At two in the morning while I’m supposed to be sleeping?”

In the end, the director’s got to direct the picture. Period. But the writer is usually excluded (at the director’s insistence) on the mere presumption that he/she might be a nuisance. The writer, this one in particular, is innocent until proven guilty. Sure, if we cause tension, we should be given fair warning and then, if necessary, booted off—but not before. I created the story and Peter told it. Without me, there’s no script. Without Peter, there’s no movie. And without the writer on set, the director’s got one less tool to tell the story well.

Now, of course I know that this is a complicated issue. There is one director, but often several writers and/or writing teams. And more often than not, writers are not appreciative of their re-writers. Thus, it remains to be seen if writers who haven’t been properly introduced can co-exist harmoniously on set for the good of the project. However, speaking for my case, when there is one writer or writing team who saw a project through from start to finish—especially if they originated the material on spec, from the heart—to forbid them from the process seems a moral crime, let alone an aesthetic one.

Hark! Is that a screenwriter I see before me? You’re damn right. And there’s another and another and another... And following closely behind is a roster of films that are just a little bit richer than they might otherwise have been. This is a screenwriter’s dream come true, and moviemakers would do well to help to make that dream a reality. MM