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"Dare to Be Great. O.K. I can do this now. It's the witching hour. Now is the perfect time to tell the story of the mad genius who made "The Matrix" a reality through sheer force of will. Only to burst into flame from the heat of the sun and spiral tragically earthward. This is the hour that was his kind of long night's journey into day. Now I can see him clearly, as if still entwined in his dream of a life gone mad. Genius mad. Unfulfilled mad. Reeling out of control mad, but still firmly in control, mad. I remember how small he was in life. Small. You know, as in Groucho Marx small. Pacino small, but big. Crouched down low in the cashmere top coat with the collar turned up. Walking briskly, hands pushed down in the pockets, perpetual Camel, dangling from the lip as the rapid-fire stream of unconscious thought came tumbling, no, rumbling forth. "No, no, no this is it. Right now. Right here. This is the movie. Fuck the script. Writers are all parasites. This is the movie. This conversation. These ideas. This flow is the movie. What if we're in the movie now? What if this is all it ever gets to be? Does that still make it great.? Damned straight it does" |
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Dan Cracchiolo. Force of nature. " Growing up hard on the streets of Brentwood. Born to the Italians raised by the Jews" is how he loved to put it. Dr. Cracchiolo, his father was Physician to "the Man." Chairman of the Bored, Francis X. Sinatra. His running buddies were the true rat pack of Hollywood. "Bobby Downey got hooked on trying to be me. He could never get to be me so he went for the runner up. What ever he could smoke, shoot or snort to forget he could never be me. Hell, I couldn't even be me and I had more practice at it than anybody." And then, on June 15th of last year, the blow torch went out forever. Forever. |
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I like what
you're doing, but I can't help but wonder what you hope to gain
from it.
-Doris S. Fame - HW |
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Why do you keep saying you're holding out for an offer from WPP? They would never pay you what you're worth. I'm expecting them to pay me more than I'm worth. That's why I'm holding out.- HW |
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Consider what it might be like to have everything that Hollywood could offer and still not have enough. Think of being the apprentice to a sorcerer who made "The Donald" look like an alter boy. The alter ego of Joel Silver. One of the guys who ate the sharks that everybody claims, ply the waters of Hollywood. Then one day, after making "Conspiracy Theory" and "Lethal Weapons 3 and 4" with Mel Gibson and "Swordfish" with Travolta, "Thirteen Ghosts" and "Exit Wounds." "Romeo Must Die" and other mindless, hyperviolent "Joel Silver "shitburgers", everything changes. These two guys from Chicago sit across from you in the Warner Bros. palace that is Silver Pictures and push this comic book across the table at you. Imagine how your entire twisted, tormented life would change when you open the page to read the only words in the only panel on the elaborately drawn page. "What Is The Matrix?" And so it begins. Your journey into madness. Everything used to be so clear cut. You were Silver's "go to guy." That meant that everything that went to him had to go through you as President of Production. You had the power. Then fate, karma, or maybe just plain old misfortune. Puts these two Wachowsky Brothers square in your path. Nothing would ever be the same again. You knew it. You felt it. This comic book of an epic with every shot, every scene, every sequence meticulously thought out. Realizing this into reality would be the only thing that mattered. Producing "The Matrix" would define your life for the rest of your life. You get Terry Semel on the phone. He's the head of Warner Brothers Studios and one of the last of the Moguls. You get him on the phone because he thinks you have a problem on "Lethal Weapon 4" and nobody wants any problems on a surefire moneymaker, so he takes your call. "Terry. Dan. I need a drawing board for the storyboard guys on Matrix" says Cracchiolo. "I thought this call was about LW4?" says Semel." If you knew this was about Matrix, would you have taken the call?" says Dan. "Probably not." Responds Semel. "Then I need a drawing board for the storyboard guys on LW4."
That's what a movie producer does. He lies his way into getting the picture made. Suddenly a picture that was budgeted at $16 million with a washed up cult star, a Denzel wannabe and a girl who fills a shiny plastic suit like nobody else on the planet, gets to be a $45 million dollar tour de force in film-making. The movie Hollywood couldn't wait to see. Then couldn't stop talking about. Suddenly, the film that would define you, is done. Now your job is to wrangle the on probation DMX and the progressively porked out Steve Sagal up to Canada. The ride on the wild mouse is over and it's time for shitburgers as usual. But business can never be usual for you again. The box office can't stop building for Matrix. The Media can't stop talking about it. People can't stop taking credit for it and they can't stop taking their bows long enough to give you any credit for it. Besides, you're too busy trying to calm down a Russian Mobster whose Ferrari was rented for a scene with Steven Segal to be concerned about credit for "The Matrix", right? Too busy trying to convince the mob guy that Steve will be right back with his ride. Even if Segal nor the ride has been seen for the past three days. So what, if the Mob guy only agreed to rent you the car for four hours? You're in a state of production. Somebody tell Ivan to step the fuck off. By the time you're back in Hollywood, your brain is fried. The Matrix spotlight has moved on. You've failed your fourth drug test in as many weeks. Your royalty participation talks with Joel Silver have broken down. Your one nerve left is sprained to a snap. And then it does. And in a meeting of Silver staffers, you boldly stand up and point your puny little mortal finger at god and say those words that will signal the end of your career. "Joel. You've murdered the spirit of film making." And then you're out. A decade of absolute power and authority; over in an instant. And so there you sit. Surrounded by the red velvet walls of your $1.8 million corner apartment on the 19th floor of the Sierra Towers overlooking the ribbon of headlights and tail lights that define Sunset Boulevard as it curves eastward towards the ten story painting of Britinny Spears ass. And you remark to your running buddies George and Harry. "So now what?" Even though all you can think about is the fact that your phone hasn't rung in hours. "Now we get to work" says Harry. "Dreams are nice" says Georgie Vetrano, the smooth as glass ex goomba kid-turned Mortgage Banker from New York. "Dreams are nice, but the money makes them real." And one by one the new brain trust is assembled. The whip smart Chinese finance guy and ex-kick-box champion, Meng. The too slick Arab model management guy from Toronto everybody calls "Z"
The tough as nails, heart of gold "shadow" Antonio. All of us want to be. Dan is the only one who was. Little do any of us know that at that very moment the wheels in Hollywood are slowly turning to make sure he never is again. This is his dream we are setting out to build. This thing he calls "Opus Communicea." The phoenix he promises to raise up from the ashes of his self-emmolated career. And so, all of our lives are put on hold. All leaves are canceled. My wife is 4 months prego. "Too bad. Danny just called, gotta go." George has million dollar mortgage deals about to close. "Too bad. Danny just called. Gotta go." Z has a baby girl up in Toronto he hasn't seen since she was born. "Too Bad. It's 4am. Danny just called. Gotta go." And that's how it went until the business plan was done, The investors were secured and the $2.5 million was in the bank. Now the madness could really begin. Tune in next week for "Pleasure Dome" For Jeffrey Wells excellent farewell tribute to Dan click here.
More.
I'm considering doing this column twice a week because the traffic
Stay Tuned. |
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