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Take The ‘A’ Train

Alan Swyer

    “A couple of other producers and I have teamed up on a project about Duke Ellington,” Lorber announced proudly over lunch at a Japanese restaurant in Brentwood way back before Netflix and Amazon reconfigured the movie business.
    “So what’s the catch?” asked Klein.
    “Why should there be a catch?”
    “You didn’t lure me here just to share good news.”
    Lorber shrugged. “You’re well-steeped in music.”
    “And you’re in need of a story.”
    “Why think that?”
    “Because ‘first burp to last breath’ doesn’t cut it. You need a narrative for structure, drama, and something called emotion.”
    Lorber nodded. “Like you brought to that rock & roll movie you wrote. And the one about the Harlem playground basketball legend. Got any thoughts?”
    “Let me ask something. Not that you necessarily need ‘em, since Duke is certainly a public figure, but did you buy any life rights?”
    “No.”
    “How about music?”
    “What about it?”
    “Remember when I turned down that Jimi Hendrix project because all they had were Hey, Joe and The Star Spangled Banner?”
    “Yeah –”
    “Well it’s not really Duke without Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, It Don’t Mean A Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing, or Take The ‘A’ Train. And no way you can use ‘em without rights.”
    “One of my partners comes from the record biz, so he’s on it. So what’s your notion?”
    “What makes you think I have one?”
    “The look on your face.”
    Klein nodded. “The key, at least as I see it, is Duke’s son.”
    “Mercer.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Go on –”
    “For years Duke treated him like a second-class citizen.”
    “Really?”
    “While showering tons of attention on a surrogate son named Billy Strayhorn.”
    “And?”
    “When Duke’s health was fading, guess who he wanted to take control the band.”
    “And Mercer was reluctant?”
    “To put it mildly.”
    “Interesting,” said Lorber while Klein speared a piece of broccoli tempura.

    Three days later, in a small, newly constructed loft-like space in Santa Monica, Klein presented a more detailed version of his approach to Lorber and his two producing partners.
    Goldsmith, whose two distinguishing traits seemed to be a gray ponytail and a significant gut, applauded once Klein finished. “I love it!” he exclaimed. “You guys with me?”
    “I am,” said Lorber.
    “I’m not so sure,” stated Schechter, brushing a finger through the soul patch under his lower lip. “Isn’t having Duke in a hospital room claustrophobic?”
    “As he and Mercer discuss their past,” Klein explained, “we’ll flash back to scenes filled with drama.”
    “And lots of music, if I understand correctly,” added Goldsmith.
     “What if I say, Back to the drawing board?” pondered Schechter.
    “What if I say, Have a nice life?” answered Klein, getting to his feet.
    “Whoa, everybody!” said Lorber, seeing Klein start for the door. “Ed’s handle on the story is the first I’ve heard that makes sense to me.”
    “And me,” chimed in Goldsmith.
    Schechter eyed his two partners before again fixing his gaze upon Klein. “Why don’t you write some pages, and then we can see?”
    “Tell me you’re kidding,” was Klein’s response.
    “You’re not willing to work for the job?” asked Schechter.
    “What job? You guys need not just a story, but someone with appropriate credits to pitch it in the hope that a job materializes.”
    “You trying to turn this into a pissing contest?” demanded Schechter.
    “Not really,” replied Klein. “But you and I can compare credits if you want.”
    Quickly, Lorber got in Schechter’s face. “Cool it, Jon.”
    “I’m just trying to establish who’s in charge.”
    “And you’re doing it badly,” needled Goldsmith, who then turned to Klein. “What’s the next step as you see it?”
    “If we’re in sync – and right now I’d say that’s a big if – my plan would be to write something we can use as a leave-behind if we go out to meetings.”
    “Don’t you mean when?” interjected Schechter.
    “Anyplace special you think we should take it?” asked Goldsmith, ignoring his partner’s question.
    “As I mentioned to Bob over lunch, my first thoughts would be HBO and Showtime.”
    “What’s wrong with doing it as a feature?” demanded Schechter.
    “In a world of CGI and superheroes?” countered Klein.
    “Give me one good reason why cable.”
    “Other than the fact that I’ve worked at both places?” When Schechter said nothing, Kleini turned to the others. “What’s the story on music rights?”
    Lorber deferred to Goldsmith. “We can get what we need,” he asserted.
    “At a price that makes it feasible?”
    Goldsmith nodded. “Trust me. I’ve been working as both producer and music supervisor for years.”

    Walking with Klein toward their cars, Lorber waited a moment before speaking. “About Schechter,” he then said, “he’s not a bad guy.”
    “Sure fooled me. Does he live and work in that space?”
    “From what I gather.”
    “But places like HBO, and Showtime aren’t good enough for him.”
    Lorber shrugged. “So tell me what you’re thinking.”
    “There’s the good and the not so good.”
    “And the good is?”
    “Duke Ellington, plus a chance for the two of us to work together.”
    “And the not so good, aside from the impression Schechter made?”
    “It’s not just the impression. Do you actually see this as a studio movie?”
    “Once upon a time, maybe. But I can talk some sense into him.”
    “And as for Goldsmith –”
    “Yeah?”
    “Does he have the music? Or is he pulling a Dusty Springfield?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Wishing and hoping.”
    “I’ll push him. So what’s next for you?”
    “Some soul-searching.”

    In a business dominated by remakes, reboots, sequels, and prequels, with terms like brand, franchise, demographics, and quadrants bandied about by marketers who had usurped control at studios, Klein found it hard to dismiss a chance, however slim, to be involved in a project about someone he considered the greatest artist of the first half of the twentieth century.
    Through a sleepless night he pondered not merely the degree of difficulty in getting a Duke Ellington movie made, but also the impediment known as Schechter.
    Only as dawn neared did Klein make a decision. Using the Duke-Mercer relationship as a springboard, he would try his hand at a treatment. If pleased with the result, he would slip the pages to Lorber before allowing them to be seen by Goldsmith or the guy he had privately dubbed Shitster.
    Two days of nearly total immersion followed, with Klein going through the biographies on his bookshelves and scouring the internet, while supplementing his significant collection of vinyl and CDs with searches on Youtube. Then came marathon sessions at his computer.
    Once a draft was done, a weekend was spent catching up on emails and phone messages, walking to a nearby playground to shoot baskets, plus, on Saturday, going out for Thai food with his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Harriet.
    Not until Monday morning did Klein again peek at the pages he had written. Far from displeased, he fiddled with the prose, referenced a couple of more Ellington songs, then further emphasized Mercer’s reasons for resisting his father’s demand.
    Once again he closed the file, vowing not to peek at it again until Wednesday.
    When that day came, Klein once more reread his treatment, made a couple of tweaks, then at last called Lorber. “I’m about to send the pages to you alone,” he explained.
    “You happy with ‘em?”
    “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t send ‘em.”

    It took less than twenty minutes for Klein’s phone to ring. “Brilliant!” yelled Lorber. “You nailed it!”
    “So what’s next?”
    “I’d like to give it to my partners.”
    “On one condition.”
    “Name it.”
    “If Shitster acts up, I don’t want to know.”
    “Shitster?”
    “That’s his name until proven otherwise.”
    “Leave him to me.”
    “He’s all yours.”

    Two days later, Team Duke reconvened at Schechter’s place. After Goldsmith gushed about the treatment, Schechter faced Klein. “At risk of upsetting you,” he began, “I’d like to slip the pages to a couple of studio execs.”
    “Because?” asked Klein.
    “I’ve got a pretty good handle on what they’re looking for.”
    “I guess that explains it,” said Klein.
    “Explains what?”
    “Why you’ve got so many movies in production.”
    Lorber and Goldsmith cringed, while Schechter steamed. “Was that really necessary?” he demanded.
    “Necessary, maybe not,” Klein answered. “But appropriate?”
    “Guys!” said Lorber, stepping between Schechter and Klein. “We’re in this together.”
    “Some people have a funny way of showing it,” stated Schechter.
    “Call me when I can contribute something else,” Klein said firmly. “Or when there’s a return to reality.”
    The three producers, whom Klein was beginning to think of as Manny, Moe, and Jack, watched in silence as their writer departed.

    Assuming the project dead after several weeks of silence, Klein was surprised when a call came in from Lorber. “You were right about studios,” he acknowledged.
    “There goes my faith in Shitster.”
    “Mind putting up with another get-together?”
    “Only if it’s reality-based.”

    “Before we go out to HBO and Showtime,” said Lorber to Klein and the other members of Team Duke, “Jon has an idea.”
    It was Klein that Schechter faced. “What do you think about adding Wardell Mercier to our team?”
    “What does he bring to the table?” Klein responded.
    “He’s Wardell-fucking-Mercier, the biggest name in jazz today!”
    “With Mingus, Monk, and Coltrane gone, and Sonny Rollins retired, that’s like being mayor of Peoria. Why would we want or need him?”
    Schechter frowned. “Because of the legitimacy he brings.”
    “Plus his vast filmography?” Klein turned first to Lorber, then to Goldsmith, before finally fixing his gaze on Schechter. “To me it’s simple. Either you believe in the pages or you don’t.”
    “How about this?” said Lorber, playing peacemaker. “One phone conversation with Mercier before you reach a decision.”

    Two mornings later, Klein found himself on a conference call with Wardell Mercier plus his unseen lawyer and his unseen manager.
    “What gives you the right to do Duke?” Mercier immediately demanded of Klein.
    “Nice way to ingratiate,” was Klein’s retort. “Want to clarify that question?”
    “When you’re talking about Duke, you’re talking about brother shit.”
    “Which means?”
    “Everything comes down to pussy.”
    “And that’s something no white guy, green guy, yellow, or purple guy ever got involved with? Know what? Your father would be embarrassed to hear you play that race card.”
    “You don’t know shit about my father!”
    “What if I tell you I know someone who used to change your dirty diapers?”
    “Motherfucker, you better not be making shit up!”
    “Then tell me, who is Clora Bryant?” said Klein, referencing a Dizzy Gillespie protege who just happened to be the mother of a friend of his.
    Silence ensued until Klein spoke again. “Still there, Wardell?”
    “Let’s move on,” Mercier said softly.
    “Not so fast,” replied Klein. “I know who you are.”
    “Oh, yeah? So who am I?”
    “Curator of the jazz museum.”
    “Which means?”
    “No improvisation, just transcriptions. For an audience nearly 100% white.”
    “I resent that.”
    “But you didn’t say it’s not true. Nor, I’d bet my house, do you know anything about me. So let’s have fun.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Got a second line?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then call a number I’ll give you.”
    “I ain’t taking down a number.”
    “I will,” said one of the other guys, whom Klein assumed was Mercier’s manager.
    “(213) 737-8000. Then ask for Mr. C.”
    “Wardell,” said the other disembodied voice, “cut the crap and say you’re sorry.”
    “Whose number is it?”
    “It’s Ray Charles’ private line.”

    “Ready to go out into the world at last?” asked Lorber when he and Klein met at a funky Santa Monica coffee house rumored to be owned by Bob Dylan.
    “What’s a few months among friends. But doesn’t Shitster want me to talk first with Quincy? Or Shaq? Or Louis Farrakhan?”
    “Fuck Schechter. I spoke to your guy at HBO and your gal at Showtime. Both seem to like the notion. I say we pitch the hell out of it, then leave your pages with them.”
    “Plus a CD of several Duke tunes.”
    “Want me to get Goldsmith to burn it?”
    “If I do it, I know it’s done.”

    “You’re timing is perfect,” said HBO exec Tom Porter when Klein finished his pitch. “We’ve been looking for a music piece that’s relationship-based rather than just tunes. So you’ll write?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “And produce it with your colleagues?”
    There was dead silence until Lorber spoke. “If that’ll make you comfortable.”
    “And the music rights?”
    Klein, Lorber, and Schechter turned to Goldsmith.
    “We can get ‘em,” he mumbled.
    “For how much?”
    “H-hopefully not too much.”
    “That doesn’t really help,” Potter said dismissively.

    Silence reigned as the members of Team Duke approached the parking garage, then Schechter grabbed Goldsmith by the throat.
    “You sonofabitch!” Schechter screamed.
    “That’s not helping,” said Lorber, trying to pull Schechter away.
    “We had a deal!” Schechter moaned.
    “I-I can make it work,” Goldsmith muttered. “I’m sure I can.”
    “With us looking like monkeys?” Schechter complained. “You’re out of your fucking mind!”
    Realizing that Klein was walking away from them, Lorber tried to catch up with him. “You okay?”
    “Me? I’m peachy.”
    “Want to grab a coffee? Or a beer?”
    Klein shook his head.
    “Look,” said Lorber, “maybe before the Showtime meeting we can work this out.”
    “Or maybe I’ll wake up 6'7 and play for the Lakers.”
    With no sense that in the years to follow he would produce a compilation of Ray Charles love songs, then direct a documentary about another well-known musician, Klein bade goodbye not just to Lorber, but also to any hope of making a film based on Duke Ellington.

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