(The following conversation was recorded at home over drinks, while waiting for the oven-fried potatoes to cook.) 

CAROL BAUM:  Are the potatoes in?

TOM BAUM:  Yeah.  Another 15 minutes, then I’ll turn them.  So these types you have to deal with on a daily basis—

C:  Some of them are definitely pathological.

T:  Remember that woman, about five years ago, who ran in the Democratic primary for Mayor of N.Y.  They had to soundproof her City Hall office, she screamed so much.  Did anyone’s Hollywood office get soundproofed?

C:  Not that I ever heard, but I’ve known a lot of Screamers.  I worked for several in a row.  They could be set off by anything, and there was no way of knowing when they would strike.

T:  The first one was ______.

C:  Blank out his name please.

T:  Really?

C:  Anyone I mention.

T:  Even the ones who are dead?

C:  I’m still in the business.

T:  Got it.  So anyway, this first Screamer—

C:  He did more than scream, he’d get red in the face, the veins would stand out on his neck, the floors would practically shake.  We’d all retreat to our offices and shut the doors until the storm blew over.  Then the sun would come out and we’d surface again.

T:  So what did this accomplish?  For him.

C:  Hard to say.  It certainly wasn’t rational.  These people are rageaholics.  Another one of my bosses used to talk about it in his therapy, so I guess he wasn’t completely OK with it.

T:  Unless he was just confessing to get absolution.  Because doesn’t screaming work for them, in business?  Your first Screamer was very successful.  He headed up a network division, he produced a lot of movies.

C:  He wasn’t as successful as he wanted to be.  He got away with it in N.Y., but in L.A. things were more corporate, the screaming was noticed and he burned a lot of bridges.  The guy who talked about it in therapy, he was different.  He would scream at the person, not just at the air.  He was cruel.  He liked to make people feel bad.

T:  Anyway, neither of them gave it up.  Because it worked.

C:  Yes, many people—most people?—are afraid of anger—their own and other people’s.

T:  Winning Through Intimidation.  The tennis game in School for Scoundrels.  Every time a guy misses a shot, the Machiavellian guy says “Hard cheese,” and the other guy just gets angrier and angrier and his game goes into the toilet.

C:  But that’s not screaming.  The screaming is like something on a back ward.

T:  Yes, and if an underling started to behave that way, they’d be fired.  Or carted away.  Or locked up.  It’s like that thing of Erving Goffman’s:  A bum comes up to a man in the street, stands too close, starts jabbering away—the man avoids him.  Beautiful girl comes up to the man, same behavior—man doesn’t walk away.  What do you do about Screamers?

C:  One suggested treatment is to talk very quietly, say something like, “This isn’t appropriate behavior.”  Or, “Call me when you calm down,” and hang up.  Leave the room.

T:  Did you try that with _____?

C:  Yes.  He got worse.  I thought one of these days he’s going to explode, he’s going to have a heart attack.  And he lived to be 90.

T:   I don’t remember any Screamers at NBC.  Everybody was very pleasant.  No meltdowns in the Advertising Department.  One of my agents, _____, was famous for throwing trash cans across screening rooms, but he was never violent in my presence….So there’s no cure?

C:  Well…I understand _______ stopped screaming once he started meditating.  But that was after my time.  How to deal with them?  Get in touch with your own anger and not be afraid of it in you or other people.

T:  That way the Screamers won’t be so scary.

C:  Or just quit.  Not all workplaces are loony bins.  The problem is, a lot of extreme behavior is condoned…encouraged…in Hollywood.  The usual laws don’t apply.  This is the land of drama, and “big personalities” are admired.

T:  Rude Boys became rampant in Hollywood before there was a general feeling that American society was getting ruder.

C:  Yeah, there was a big Rude Boy surge among agents in the 80s.  The era of the gentleman agent was over.

T:  Haven’t things calmed down since?

C:  To an extent.  The agencies are less colorful than they used to be.

T:  More suits to the square foot.  And I’m really not all that convinced American society is that uncivil.  I’m amazed how many people at Ralphs say “Sorry” if they bump into you.  Or if their cart’s in the way.

C:  OK, and there’s the not-so-rude people.  The Passive-Aggressives.

T:  Is there a special Hollywood version of passive-aggressive?  That term gets thrown around so much today.  Like “sociopath.”  Or “bipolar.”

C:  There are a lot of bipolars in Hollywood.

T:  Yeah, more people admit to it these days.  When it was called manic-depression, there was more stigma to the diagnosis.

C:  When Catherine Zeta-Jones announced she was bipolar—that’s made it even more acceptable.

T:  When I think of passive-aggressive, I think of people who can’t confront…can’t pass to your face…rely on other people to play the heavy.  The Brits are supposed to be confrontation-avoiders.  _______, for example, may he rest in peace:  One day I was the writer on the project he was attached to as director, the next day I wasn’t, and never a word from him.

C:  But that happens all the time.  That’s not really passive-aggressive.  It’s business as usual.  Every company has a consigliere to deliver bad news so the boss doesn’t have to.

T:  Speaking of bipolar, there’s the Paranoids.

C:   Yeah, ______was very paranoid.  No matter what we did on the movie, we were accused of undermining.  And it obviously came from insecurity, inexperience, thinking, “Ohmigod, I’m over my head as director.”

T:  Projecting their self-doubt onto you.

C:  And believe me, we supported ­­­­______ plenty.   My partner on the project—in a million years, this person would never undermine the director.  And interestingly, ­­­­______ never directed again.

T:  When there are several producers involved in a project, people get paranoid about getting “marginalized.”

C:  Which means you have to deal with justifiable paranoia.  “Why didn’t you copy me on the email?”  “I forgot to hit Reply All.”  I think paranoia is an occupational hazard for directors.

T:  Especially if they’re not talented.  And there are so many departments that can be talking about them behind their backs.

C:  It’s easy to feel paranoid.

T:  When I directed that Hitchhiker, I didn’t feel dissed.

C:  No?

T:  No, the only person who dissed me, dissed me to my face.  Bud Cort.  In front of the crew.  He said, “This setup is retarded.”

C:  (laughs)  Did he really?

T:  And he was right.  So we didn’t do the shot.  What about Liars?

C:  Yeah, well, Hollywood is famous for that.  “I have three people interested…” ”I’ve got half the financing…”  “Denzel is attached…”

T:  Some things are so easy to check.  You can’t hide from the Internet.

C:  But no one busts anybody for exaggeration.  Or the white lies.  ”It’s terrific, but we have one just like it…”  That’s not even lying, by Hollywood standards.  Like parents saying “Good job” to their kids.

T:  But it’s corrupting.  In Hollywood, you can “die of encouragement.”

C:  Pauline Kael’s line.

T:  Richard Albarino said he gave her that line.

C:  Maybe he was lying.

T:  No, I’m pretty sure he did.

C:  My favorite is “I had dinner with Charlize Theron last night,” and it turns out they were only in the same restaurant.

T:  Perfect.

C:  Or, I had dinner with Ang Lee, and it turns out it was a big dinner party.

T:  Discount everything people tell you by 20%.  As a rule of thumb.  Especially when they’re complimenting you.

C:  And then there are the Chronic Liars.  When your agent, ____,  told people you wrote for the New Yorker, because it suited him.

T:  It’s not a criminal act.  Just depersonalizing.

C:  You don’t know how you stand with people like that.

T:  With any of these pathologies, you have to learn not to take it personally.  On that Hitchhiker, Bill Paxton, Bud Cort, and I, we all thought the actress disliked us.  Then when we compared notes, Bill thought she thought he really meant it when he said the line, “Get your black ass upstairs.”  Bud thought she just didn’t like his sarcasm.  And I thought maybe I wasn’t praising her enough.  Three people, three different assumptions, and basically it was all coming from her.

C:  Basic life lesson.

(Phone rings.  Carol takes a business call.)

C:  (resuming)  Are your potatoes done?  I just heard a ding.

T:  I’ll be right back.

(Tom leaves to turn off the oven, returns.)

C:  I was talking today with someone about Team Players.  How they put the company ahead of the project—ahead of the director, the actors, anybody.

T:  The company stands for the parents.  The ultimate authority.  The most virulent form is the fűhrerprincip—“Kiss the ass above you, step on the person below you.”

C:  I’ve never been a company girl—not at Lorimar, not at Fox.  I could never bring myself to say “We.”  “We don’t make movies like that…”  Just couldn’t do it.  And I think that’s why the writers and the directors mostly enjoy working with me.  Because they know I’m in their club.  For better or worse.  I mean, most creative people are loners at heart.

T:  But that’s not the way education is trending today.  Solving math problems in groups.  And offices—there’s this whole design concept—no cubicles, like an open classroom.  Though there is a counter-movement—bring back the walls.  Because some people—often the most productive people—need privacy.  Not everybody flourishes in a group environment.

C:  But a lot of movies tell that story—a loner learns to be a team player.  An Officer and a Gentleman.  Top Gun.  So many movies promote that as a positive value.

T:  And you and me, we love Stalag 17—William Holden as the unrepentant loner.  He saves Don Taylor out of  cynical motives.  And we love him for not coming around.  For not learning to be a team player.

C:  There’s a sub-category of Team Players—the Lifers.  People who attach themselves to stars—often they’re creative people—and become their lifelong advisers.  Or run their companies.  I could never do that.  Submerge my identity in someone else.   Be their “person.”

T:  And then there’s the worst form of Team Player—the Robot.  Development people mostly.  D-bots.

C:  Always mouthing the party line.  Which changes daily.  Especially in TV.  “It’s not noisy enough,” that’s the current robot phrase.  And they’re not even embarrassed.  New information comes in, they get reprogrammed.  It’s like talking to a phone tree.  When they’re young, especially.  The good ones learn confidence.  They do become human eventually.  Turn from puppets into real girls and boys—like Pinocchio.

T:  Like all robots will become human, around 2045.

C:  But there’s a pathological Hollywood version of the individualist—The Entitled.  No matter how little they contribute, they think they’re essential to the project—insist on being at all the meetings.  They’re so important they don’t have to do anything.  It’s so weird—because so many people think the opposite.  “I’m not doing enough.”

T:  Yeah, Hollywood’s full of hard workers, and most people who succeed aren’t Gladstone Gander, they don’t laze around waiting for fortune to come to them, they pay their dues, they put in the time, work incredible hours.

C:  And then there are the people who’ve struggled, who’ve had huge success—especially early success—and then think they’re entitled to keep having it.  I’ve known several directors who suffered from this syndrome.  They were hot, the buyers have moved on, now they’re cold, they’re in director jail, and they don’t know how to deal with it.  They go into a tailspin.

T:  Styles change, and they don’t reinvent themselves.

C:  Now it happens faster.  A couple of years, instead of decades.

T:  But there’s another form of entitlement.  The people who are so powerful they can subject their employees to anything.

C:  If you push people around too much, eventually they’ll push back.  The town can turn on anyone.

T:  Yeah, reminds me of the executives who pride themselves on saying no to stars.

(Kitchen timer bell rings.  Tom leaves to check again on the potatoes.)

C:  We’ve forgotten the Chronic Partygoers.

T:  Right, they’re a class unto themselves.  They have an anxiety attack when they’re not invited to the party of the night.

C:  They’ll call up:  “How come you got invited to the Vanity Fair party?”  “Because I was invited.”  _____ is famous for sitting at the bar at the Four Seasons, waiting for someone to come in that she knows, in hopes they’re headed to some party somewhere.

T:  Does it really help them in the business?

C:  Well, you can make a lunch date after a casual encounter at a party.  That’s the basic move.

T:  The Compulsives.  That’s a related pathology.

C:  You can’t sit down with them, talk about anything but business.  “What have you read?  What directors do you know?  What writers are hot?”  You can never have a relaxed conversation.   Or the people who have to go to every single film at Sundance.  On the one hand it’s helpful, it’s conscientious, but it can get out of hand.  They’re like the Partygoers, they’re terrified of being left out of anything.  I used to have a touch of that—needing to know every scrap of information—back in my twenties, when I was learning the ropes.  I’ve kept my competitive drive, but worrying all the time that you’re not up on absolutely everything…it smacks of desperation, and should lessen as you get older.

T:  Like a Babinski reflex—past a certain age, if you tickle the kid’s foot, and the big toe goes up, it’s a sign of a brain disorder.  What about the Charmers?

C:  Well, they’re legion.  Not always pathological.  ______ will bring a package to a meeting, flatter one of the junior execs—“I love your shoes, can you put some stamps on this for me?”  And it works.

T:  Free postage.  Hollywood on Five Dollars a Day.

C:  And the assistants remember him, which helps.

T:  Of course there’s sometimes a fine line between the Charmers and the Bores.  The people who suck up all the air in the room.

C:  And often don’t know how to do their job.  They call you up, make a lunch date to pick your brain, and leave you to pick up the check.

T:  And the Svengalis.  That’s a terminal form of charm.  Remember _____?  He was called a Svengali in the press.

C:  He was a master seducer.  Promised every actress, every employee, he’d turn them into a star. He lavished compliments but was also brutal, finding your weak spot and digging in.  If you were vulnerable, he had a field day but if you had a sense of yourself he had a harder time.  Wanted his apples sliced a certain way every morning and the only person around was the gardener who didn’t know how to do it right.  His assistant had to give instructions to the gardener.  She also had to deliver girls he spotted on magazine covers.  Remember when we saw those workmen digging on that hillside?  He told us he was moving the mountain so _____ wouldn’t have to deal with the sun coming in the window in the morning.  Megalomania crossed with seduction.

T:  You sure we can’t mention him?  Everybody knows his story.

C:  Please let’s not.

T:  Even the dead ones.

C:  I’ll have nightmares.

T:  Right.  And we’ve been concentrating on the pathologies.

C:  Wasn’t that the point?

T:  Well, it leaves out the Sweethearts.  Plenty of those in Hollywood too.

C:  That’s OK.  They know who they are.