Nemesis
Lenny Kaplan knew that the wise move, the political move, the enlightened career move, was to stay silent. Though at first he tried, he also knew who he was, and more importantly, who he did – and didn’t – want to be.
Still relatively new to L.A., and even newer to the movie business, the occasion was his first appearance at a high-powered Hollywood dinner party. That he was invited was proof, in the words of his agent, that the sale of his original screenplay about growing up white in a Black community had made him “the flavor of the month.” It was up to Kaplan, added fast-talking Jonathon Schechter, to make the heat last by creating a favorable impression.
“Remember,” stated Schechter, “in a town where nobody knows how to judge talent, it’s all about relationships.”
The task, Kaplan quickly realized after arriving at the home of the studio exec hosting the soiree, wouldn’t be easy. Instead of conversations about great filmmakers from the past (Orson Welles, Kurosawa, Billy Wilder, Preston Sturges), or a glimpse of purported Hollywood decadence, what he found were people working the room or lamenting the latest box office grosses.
Kaplan’s sense of being out of place among those gathered – a producer, a director, a manager, and a couple of A-List actors, plus execs from a cable network, a streaming service, and another studio – increased exponentially once seats were taken at the dining room table.
His sense of unease rose even higher as the main course was served – wild salmon with a sorrel sauce, except for the cable exec, who received vegan pumpkin risotto, plus a plate of berries and kiwis for the fruitatarian Best Actress Award winner – when people started sharing college stories.
Kaplan chose to let his mind wander out as one after another, tales were told that were meant to sound outrageous, but fell far short. He did take notice, however, when a pompous studio exec named Bob Bloom laid claim to a roguish past with a story of paying for law school by selling – one each academic year – a sports car stolen by a childhood friend. First a Porsche, next a Ferrari, finally an Aston Martin.
Though what Kaplan heard sounded uncomfortably familiar, right down to the makes of the cars, he said nothing, hoping that somehow, someway, there was an unlikely coincidence.
That became less of a possibility when, on his next turn, Bloom spoke of fencing rare pieces of Tibetan art.
“I’m assuming,” Kaplan offered as a warning signal, “that you went to Yale Law.”
“Indeed I did,” replied Bloom proudly.
Instead of taking the hint, on the next go-round Bloom regaled the diners with his supposed deftness in finagling a one-on-one appointment with the Dalai Lama.
Unable to restrain himself, Kaplan chose not to pull punches any longer. “Seems you and I know someone in common.”
“Who?” asked Bloom, making no effort to mask his irritation.
“My friend Bruce Lipman,” said Kaplan, promptly receiving a venomous glare.
“Why the fuck did you speak?” screamed Schechter over Blu-tooth the next morning.
“You heard already?” wondered Kaplan.
“In this town, gossip spreads faster than herpes. So why?”
“Those were my friend’s exploits he was lying about.” Kaplan replied.
“This is a business where everyone lies. Cockneys show up here claiming they went to Oxford. Guys from Burbank claim to be New York street kids. Ever heard of “The Sting” with Newman and Redford?”
“What about it?”
“When it came out that it was plagiarized, the only ones pissed off were producers who didn’t think of it. With Bloom as an enemy, it’s going to be twice as hard for me to get you rewrites or adaptations.”
“Who says I want rewrites or adaptations? I told you I want to write originals, not take in laundry.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“No, honest.”
It was not until that evening that Kaplan was able to reach Bruce Lipman, who was working in the Hong Kong office of an international law firm.
“Fucking Bloom,” Lipman stated after being filled in. “Desperate to be the smartest and hippest guy in the room, but often falling short. But be wary. The little twerp is vindictive.”
The bravado Kaplan displayed with his agent was tested repeatedly in the days, weeks, and months that followed. When told by Schechter that scripts of his were turned down despite for being brilliant, but not commercial, or really well-written, but not what we’re looking for, he took to joking. “One of these days I’d like to hear, ‘This is unoriginal or badly written, but has bucks written all over it.’”
Even when a couple of his originals wound up being optioned, frustration loomed. The development process, Kaplan came to understand, usually meant being tasked to do a rewrite based on notes that made little sense, then being replaced. The progression, he painfully explained to his girlfriend Jenny, seemed to mean being “Only the writer, nothing but the writer, then no longer the writer.” Ultimately, the option would lapse, or the project would fall into what in Hollywood was called “development hell.”
What Kaplan could never fully determine was how much his predicament owed to what he thought of as The Bloom effect.
As weeks turned first to months, then to a couple of years, it didn’t help when contemporaries who courted adaptations and rewrites moved up what Schechter called “the food chain.” Some were friends, some he knew casually, and others he knew only by reputation. But while Kaplan and Jenny remained in a rickety guest house in a part of town where gunshots were often heard, his so-called peers were buying houses, Priuses, and Audis.
Worse was the absence of cause-and-effect. Even while eking out a living, Kaplan had a sense of being invisible. Nothing – not a single one of his scripts – was even close to getting made.
It helped his finances – and to some degree his pride – when a friend who’d taken a job on a re-imaging of “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” asked a favor. With several teleplays falling short, Chris Farnsworth begged Kaplan to come to the rescue. Armed with pastrami sandwiches, the two of them spent an afternoon kicking around a notion Kaplan came up with. Then, with pre-production due to start in less than a week, Kaplan toiled for three days and nights on what became his first screen credit. Never again would he have to cringe when someone asked whether anything of his had gotten made.
As he drove to the set the first day of shooting, Kaplan was sorely tempted to give the finger when his nemesis, Bob Bloom. zoomed past in a Tesla. Instead he simply shrugged.
Kaplan was about to return to his usual routine when he got a call from someone he hadn’t heard from in months: Jonathon Schechter. “What’s your feeling now about assignments?” the agent asked.
“Why would I be interested in something a bunch of people could do?”
“What if it’s not a bunch? Didn’t you tell me you used to watch some Harlem basketball tournament?”
“The Rucker.”
“A couple of young producers need someone to do a script about one of the playground legends.”
“Do they know about Bloom?”
“Somebody paranoid?”
“Paranoia can be heightened awareness.”
“Then it won’t upset you that the word is Bloom’s on the way out.”
“Here come crocodile tears.”
“Plus these are newbies who probably never heard of him.”
Kaplan took a deep breath. “They okay with a white guy doing it?”
“Only because you’re lucky. Seems you’re only guy in the movie biz who saw him play. Interested?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even if it’s low-budget minimum?”
“I’d pay to do it.”
“Don’t tell them,” warned Schechter. “Anything else? Any special requests?”
“A week in Harlem before I start scripting.”
“But it’s a world you already know.”
“It’s been a while.”
Kaplan’s time spent in Harlem was a dream come true. He got to hang out with old-timers he’d seen play in the days when he’d lie to his parents about going to a movie, then take a bus from New Jersey to Manhattan, and a subway uptown. He got to soak in sights and sounds. Best of all, after being sequestered for far too long with his computer, he got to feel alive.
Only when the script was done – and promptly embraced by the producers, with minimal notes – did Kaplan’s spirits crumble when the financing turned out to be a mirage.
Asked by the producers which studio they should approach, Kaplan urged a different route: cable. His explanation: Black films made by the studios at that time were mostly crime stories or teen comedies. But the producers were adamant that only a studio film would satisfy them. So they started reaching out to established producers in the hope of using their cachet.
Kaplan fell into a funk that made it hard to start another original screenplay. Just as he was thinking that it wasn’t just the basketball project, but his career, that was hexed, the producers broke their silence. Which cable entity, they asked, made the most sense?
HBO was Kaplan’s reply, since starting with “The Wire,” they seemed to be most open to offbeat Black programming.
To his great joy and amazement, one of Kaplan’s feature-length scripts at last went into production – not in Harlem as he hoped, but in Canada, where the streets had to be prepped with litter.
Still, the finished film received glowing reviews in the Hollywood trade papers, which led to Kaplan’s phone ringing as never before.
In added to congratulations from friends and family were calls from seemingly every producer with whom he had ever crossed paths, most expressing chagrin that the script had never been sent their way.
Kaplan chose the high road, not mentioning the rejection letters from many of them.
“Want the good news? Or the better?” asked Schechter, calling early the next Monday morning.
“Let’s start with the good.”
“Your moldy-oldie about an out-of-work rock & roller?”
“What about it?”
“Some indie guys want an option.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Heat breeds heat, kiddo, especially when you’ve got a great agent.”
“And the better news?”
“You seated?”
“Quit stalling.”
“Now that you scored at HBO, Showtime wants you to come in.”
“Because?”
“To sign you to an overall deal, starting with another oldie-but-goodie.”
“Which one?”
“That comedy about a guy who wants to get away from New York once his marriage breaks up, so he takes a job as the house doctor at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Didn’t you tell me that’d never find a home?”
“You’re thinking of your other agent.”
“I have no other agent.”
“And even better –”
“Yeah?”
“They’re open to having you direct.”
Kaplan took a deep breath. “Promise me you’re not making this up.”
“Nope. And I’m waiting for a thanks,” replied Schechter.
“Thanks,” said Kaplan.
After his lengthy stretch of rejections, disappointments, and soul searching, instead of allowing himself to celebrate, Kaplan spent several days waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Only once he started to accept that some semblance of success might at last replace frustration did he announce the news to Jenny over Indian food at one of their favorite places.
“So when’s the meeting with Showtime?” she asked after they toasted.
“Next Tuesday.”
Two Showtime executives – La Quita Perry and Rudy Hernandez – made Kaplan feel welcome by gushing about his scripts.
After discussing their overall mandates, La Quita got specific.
“I love Is There A Doctor In The House?” she stated.
“And so do I,” said Rudy.
“And we’re prepared to let you direct. Pleased?”
“You bet,” replied Kaplan. “But am I sensing there’s a catch?”
“Not a catch, actually,” said La Quita.
“More like a security blanket,” added Rudy.
“We’d like to attach an executive producer,” said La Quita. “So that you can focus entirely on the creative side. Make sense?”
“Depending on who it is. Got names?”
“Two or three,” said La Quita, “but let’s start with one. Ever have dealings with Bob Bloom?”
Though a part of him wanted to laugh – and another part wanted to scream – Kaplan forced himself to remain composed. “Next?”
“But –” La Quita started to say, only to be immediately cut off.
“You said two or three, so I’d love to hear.”
La Quite exchanged a quick glance with Rudy, then again spoke. “How about Joy Stewart?”
“I love her!”
“But Bloom?” wondered La Quita.
“Joy’s the one for me.”
Kaplan presumed that Schechter would call what happened payback. Jenny, he figured, would label it ironic. And Bruce Lipman, he was certain, would have a hearty laugh.
But instead of gloating, or savoring what took place, Kaplan simply breathed a sigh of relief. The next stage of his career – and his life – was just starting.
It felt great to be filled with newfound hope.
Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel ‘The Beard’ was recently published by Harvard Square Editions. His newest film is “When Houston Had The Blues.”
