I had a meeting with eight or nine studio executives recently. I told them, “You bought the option to remake The Bellboy in 1996 and for nine years you can’t get it made? I made it in less than nine days, including writing the final draft.” I said, “Come to me with a deal and I’ll write the screenplay for you.” They said they’d get back to me.
That was three months ago.
In Hollywood, control is a dirty word. That’s in granite, kid.
My reputation is that I had an affair with every one of my leading ladies. One of my leading ladies was Agnes Moorehead, so let’s just put that reputation where it belongs.
Men can demean themselves for a laugh. Women can, too, but it’s a tougher laugh.
Penny! I love you my darling, you old horse.
A few years ago, I thought I might open a chain of eulogy stores where you could go in off the street and, for twenty bucks, they’ll tell you all the nice things they’re going to say about you after you croak. But I don’t want people to say wonderful things about me when I can’t hear them. Tell me now, while I’m still here.
