A few years ago, I passed through the lobby of the Loews Hotel in Santa Monica, during American Film Market. Fred “The Hammer” Williamson was standing a bar table, next to a nebbish young man. I had never met him, but admired him–particularly as a producer.
I introduced myself, and asked him if he played his entire career with the Oakland Raiders. He replied that he played his final year with the Kansas City Chiefs. I then asked him if he knew why there are so many Black people in Oakland and so many Armenians in Fresno.
He paused a moment, then held up his large hand on which two Super Bowl championship rings were on his middle and pinkie fingers. He said “Because we’re champions, baby”. I rejoined “Nah, Oakland got to choose first”. I nodded and started to walk away. But, he asked me to stick around, which I did, and we had a nice chat.
A few years later, I encountered him one evening at the Loews, again during the AFM. He told me was there to see some old friends and–politely acknowledging my date–said he was there to “meet pretty ladies”. I told him to let me know if he met any. She immediately burst into laughter, while Mr Williamson abjured for the moment before recognizing that I was joking and my date clearly took no insult.
His reflexive kindness spoke volumes. He had gone from playing a violent sport to performing in violent movies, but bore a kindness that transcended both. What a gentleman.
In 2001, I had lunch with my friend Kevin Mills in Beverly Hills at Nate ‘N Al’s Deli on Beverly Drive. Loud. Abrasive servers. Packed with people. As we approached the one unoccupied table, we could see that Jerry Springer was sitting alone at a table next to it, reading a massive tome. I commented to Kevin that I had gone to a hockey game the previous night. Mr Springer looked up from his book and said: “We don’t fight on my show anymore.”
He was right. USA Networks had bought the show the previous week, and announced that the battling was over. However, when viewership levels tanked, the prohibition quickly was rescinded.
While Kevin and I ate lunch, Mr Springer would occasionally ask us questions about the international tv market (the topic Kevin and I were discussing). He particularly wondered why his ratings in the UK were significantly higher than elsewhere in Europe. Kevin and I speculated that the British loved to watch others air their laundry in public, but were hesitant to show their own. That seemed to make sense to Mr Springer.
The three of us continued to chat during lunch. When it was time for Kevin and I to go, I said that I would pick of the check, but hoped that it would not end up on the front page of The Cincinnati Enquirer. Mr Springer put his face down on his open book, pointed to the door and said “Leave now. Say nothing more. Leave!”
Should I mention that while he was mayor of Cincinnati, Mr Springer paid a prostitute by personal check? Said payment was obtained by the newspaper, at least temporarily putting his political career on hiatus.
Tony Brown, Journalist
Roger Ebert, Film Critic
Jerry Springer, Talk Show Host
Fred “The Hammer” Williamson, Actor/Producer, NFL Hall of Famer
In 1990, I was attending American Film Market at the Beverly Hilton in Beverly Hills. My objective was to license a movie titled “Reel Bullets” in the international marketplace.
A middle aged Black man came into the hotel room (which had been converted into a sales office) to discuss a film with which he was involved. At the time, Tony Brown had a Sunday morning show on PBS called “Tony Brown’s Journal”, which dealt with Black political issues.
The movie was titled “The White Girl”. I asked if I could speculate on the story line before seeing the flyer. He invited me to go ahead. I guessed that it was about a light-skinned Black girl trying to pass for Caucasian who recognizes the error of her ways and becomes proud of being Black. He initially assumed that I had already encountered the movie. But, it was easy to make the case that I had not.
He changed the subject to the number of Black people in entertainment media. He said that Blacks were underrepresented in the acting trade. I disagreed. A study quoted in one of the trade papers stated that Blacks held 16% of the acting jobs, but 14% of the population. It was Hispanics that were underrepresented.
It was in non-acting creative and non-creative areas that Blacks were relatively rare. He asked how I thought greater numbers of Blacks could join the ranks of producers, writers and directors. I supposed that making more prison movies would be a start. His initial shock permutated into a subtle smile as he left. I watch his show on the following Sunday, where he showed pictures of his visit to AFM. But, made no reference to our encounter.
In 2010, I stood outside the American Pavilion at the Cannes Film Festival, holding the door open for a gentleman who exiting the building. Film critic Roger Ebert looked at me and said “I don’t remember your name. But, I do remember that you are an asshole.” I smiled and said that I had read that he had been ill, and hoped for his rapid and complete recovery.
Of course, there is a backstory. In 1987, I conducted a seminar at the Hawaiian Internatonal Film Festival in Honolulu. The topic was “What Producers Need to Know About Distrribution and the Marketplace.” It went very well. During the last half hour, Mr Ebert and his entourage came into the small theater, sat in the back and started having a party–a very loud and disruptive party.
I told him that we would soon be finished, and I would conduct the Q&A session outside so that he could begin his lecture on time. In return, I politely asked him to keep it down until we were finished. He would have no part of it. He said that business had no place at a film festival.
I contended that 70% of producers that had produced a film were never able to produce a second one, largely because they mishandled the business side on their first one. I was trying to make sure this did not happen. Mr Ebert was unmoved, and spoke to me like I was an idiot as he repeated that film festivals are no place to discuss business.
Now, I was pissed. I responded that not every failed screenwriter has a career in film criticism to fall back on. Money doesn’t matter, I continued, just as it didn’t matter when he dumped PBS for more money with Tribune Broadcasting, and then dumped Tribune for Disney.
“My personal finances are none of your business!” he roared. He stormed out and, I found out later, went directly to the festival office and demanded that I have my credential taken from me. Otherwise, he would leave that night.
When chased down by the organizers, I made a deal with them. Other than the Governor’s party the next night, I would attend no official events. As for Mr Ebert, I never spoke with him again until that brief encounter at Cannes. He died in 2013. I’d be a liar if I said I miss him.
