My Neighbor Frank Yablans
His favorite words were “schmuck” and “putz.” He walked to the mailbox shirtless in torn undies, without shame or embarassment. He was cantankerous, outrageous, mean and cynical. Yet he could be charming and generous and regale you with a dirty joke. He was old school Hollywood, a movie legend who played an important part in reviving 70’s American film.
I met Frank Yablans in his later years when he lived next door to the guest house my wife and I rented in the Hollywood Hills. He’d gone through two divorces and was living with his girlfriend Nadia. I became friends with Nadia and got to know Frank. I made the mistake of telling him I was a screenwriter.
“You mean you’re a schmuck,” he said.
I was taken aback.
“All screenwriters are schmucks. They think they know more than anybody but someone else always profits from their work.”
“That’s pretty cynical,” I said.
“It’s also fucking true, you putz. I’ve been making movies my whole life and one thing has never changed. Writers write but producers make the money. That’s why they call it show business.”
“Doesn’t that bother you,” I asked. “Shouldn’t writers profit from their work? They’re the ones who pour their heart onto the page.”
