Dispatches From the Platinum Triangle II
Legendary Hollywood Producer Charles Wasserstein offers readers anecdotes, advice and humour from his 6 decades in the business.
I became a father in 1987, 9 months after an ill-advised dalliance with a prime piece of cooze who sang backup for Eric Clapton. Based on her partners in caterwauling, I think Slowhand’s eye was even better than his picking.
We called the kid Demetria and she became Pride & Joy Numero Uno, no mean feat considering the boom times I enjoyed during Reagan’s second term. Considering her looks and ineffable charm, Demetria was naturally inclined to gravitate toward the silver screen. I respected her ambitions but made one thing clear: I wouldn’t hand her any jobs. She had to carve her own path, just as I did. I grew up with my folks and two brothers cramped into a 3-bedroom in Murray Hill. Demetria would’t have to claw her way up the way I did but I wasn’t gonna pull any of this Alan Horn shit.
But I did help her out in the early goings. Like Dear Old Ma, Demetria enjoyed long legs but tits like pencil erasers. Her implants cost almost as much as the down payment on my Tesla but Dr. Mahdavi du Canon Drive did a helluva job as is his usual custom.
I also set Demetria up with Rog Klein over at UTA. Great guy, Rog…he’s handled more Oscar winners than Madonna’s snatch. He was the one that said “Wasserstein’s a name that plays over drinks at the Soho Club but it’s not gonna work on a marquee.” I said ‘what about Wendy’ and he told me to go fuck myself. Great guy, Rog…his mind’s quick as a front-seat blow-job.
We graced dear Demetria with the surname you know her to don: Collins. Hearty, all-American, no bullshit. Plus, the “Collins” deception put my mind at ease when I jacked off to thoughts of her new udders during the rare night alone. I’m kidding! But I’ve always felt a streak of sympathy for Ryan O’Neal putting the moves on Tatum during one of his famed lapses in judgment. There’s no stranger feeling than seeing some blonde knockout in fuck-me boots round the corner and you realize she’s your daughter half a second after Captain Knish rises in the oven. It’s every papa’s worst nightmare.
Playing “hands-off” was probably for the best, at least in the early goings of the Saga La Demetria. She put her heels to the pavement in 2006, just after I doused my own dick in hot water for calling Joel Gray “my favorite fag” during a Farewell to Fallopian Cancer dinner at Sardi’s. I tried to plead not-guilty on account of being loaded on scotch and slaw but Joel wasn’t out yet and the mincing mafia closed ranks right onto my balls.
I smoothed over the choppy seas with a few well-directed checks and I’m back on Joel’s speed dial after I hooked his own dishy daughter Jennifer up with Dancing With the Stars. But Demetria Collins wasn’t about to throw my name around right before she slated her own. Sorry, baby.
Demetria booked her first gig around the same time a certain blonde actress gave me the clap. I’ll leave her name out of it but she burned up the silver screen as well as my cock. I had my eye on her ever since she cartwheeled her way through BLADE RUNNER but I have to admit, my bombshell was more trouble than she was worth. Here I am, 65 years old, a pillar of the community and I’m bent over the toilet moaning because the babe from POPE OF GREENWICH VILLAGE let Mickey Rourke grease his weasel one last time before she shacked up in my pad. What a nightmare.
Anyways, Demetria flashed her ass across an episode of ENTOURAGE (why the hell did I buy her new cans, huh?) and subsequently landed a few wrestling sections with Adrian Grenier. I told her to watch out for wasting her buds on actors…producers are the ones who can turn spilled milk into top billing. Just drop my name in front of Kim Basinger; she’ll wet her bloomers.
ENTOURAGE, playing a rape victim on LAW & ORDER: SVU, a music video for Good Charlotte…I thought Demetria’s wheels were spinning. She’d meet me for Jap tapas at Katana in a backless number and I saw the second coming of Hayworth. Smart girl, too. We once worked our way through dessert rehashing episodes of ALLY MCBEAL.
After the antibiotics knocked out the devil’s drip, I was back in action and ready to call in some favors. When you’re the man behind three Grisham adaptations, you’ve got a lot of players ready carry you across a river of septic runoff just for a chance to hear your voice. Back during the Reign of Bluhdorn, Paramount’s development office called me “Massa” and they’d let me fuck their wives just to read something I’d optioned. But I’ll save my Ojai weekend with Mrs. Michael Eisner for another time.
Long story short, I tracked Steven Soderbergh to Book Soup where he was flipping his way through WAS CLARA SCHUMANN A FAG HAG. What a mind. I called him a ‘turtle-faced fuck’ per my usual custom before listening to him drone on about the statistical mind of Bill James until I damn near excused myself to take a leak. But eye on the prize…I reminded my dear Shmuel who convinced Northern Arts to distribute SCHIZOPOLIS even if I thought it was the stupidest fucking idea since the Domino Theory. And low and behold, a part opened up for my dear Demetria in THE INFORMANT!
Demetria’s scenes were cut out of THE INFORMANT! but I got to see the footage. She offers Matt Damon’s character head while he’s in Hawaii. 20 years earlier and a part like that would’ve led to third-billing in a Friedkin movie by month’s end. But times is tough, kiddies. I’m currently working the phones trying to get Demetria into the BLADE RUNNER sequel but if it means getting the Running Rage from Pris the Replicant again, I might have to steer my baby into publicity. Hell, I de-flowered Robin Baum.