At what he called the get
acquainted lunch, which took place before he officially agreed to direct the
baseball instructional video he was offered, Leibowitz did a surreptitious
check on what he termed attention span.
After countless hours with
public figures -- doing on-camera interviews with politicians, scientists, law
enforcement officials, and athletes -- directing actors for film, plus singers
in music videos, Leibowitz had learned the hard way that each and every person
has a fixed period of time -- a maximum -- after which concentration shuts
down. That means that at a certain
point, shooting simply must be interrupted.
Though for most people the window is roughly ten minutes before a break
is needed, there are those who are able to go five, ten, or even fifteen
minutes longer. Others, however, reach
their limit sooner -- after eight, six, or in rare cases, only five minutes or
so.
Clete Holmes, to Leibowitz's
astonishment, broke all land and sea records.
His ceiling, Leibowitz noted over tasteless pasta at a San Fernando
Valley Italian restaurant that wouldn't have lasted a week in Rome, New York,
or even Hoboken, was two minutes maximum.
As Leibowitz saw it, that
translated into an attention span in the same range as a two-year-old child and
a Labrador Retriever.
But given Clete Holmes'
singular place in American culture, that was no great surprise.
Clete Holmes, Leibowitz knew all
too well, was baseball's quintessential Bad Boy, a guy whose stats and
accomplishments would have guaranteed a first-ballot entrance into the Hall of
Fame had his behavior been anything less than deplorable. Mickey Mantle's alcoholism, Ty Cobb's racism,
and the great Babe Ruth's legendary womanizing and carousing were far more
palatable to baseball's powers-that-be than Clete's most glaring
infraction. He, in their eyes, had
committed the game's cardinal sin:
betting on his own team's games.
To make matters worse, he then spent years disputing and denying
clear-cut evidence, only to do an about-face when money woes forced him to come
clean in an As Told To autobiography calculated to bring in an influx of cash.
So from a public relations
standpoint, Leibowitz was taking a risk in getting involved in such a project.
And factoring in Clete's
ridiculous attention span, the production itself could potentially range from
difficult to absurd.
But Leibowitz, who loved
challenges, particularly when there was controversy, was a lifelong sports
nut. He had done a film about a Bad Boy
in the world of basketball -- a Harlem playground legend whose life went awry
-- and would later do a documentary about an even more questionable world: boxing.
Yet the Clete Holmes project, he recognized, might be his one and only
chance at directing anything even remotely associated with baseball.
But also not to be denied was
a reality drummed home repeatedly by both his agent and his business
manager. For different reasons than
Clete -- foremost among them, double alimony plus child support -- Liebowitz,
too, needed a payday.
So rather than heed the
all-too-present warning signs, Leibowitz did his best to convince himself that
the experience would be interesting. And
grist for his memoirs, should he ever write them. And maybe, if luck proved to be on his side,
even fun.
Sporting hair a reddish color
not found either in nature or on his old baseball cards, and with a fondness
for warm-up suits usually seen on L.A.'s third-tier Russian mobsters, Clete
Holmes, Leibowitz sensed immediately, was fighting desperately not to appear
un-young. More ominous for the task
ahead was that there was something willfully, coarse, abrasive, and animalistic
about him. While those traits, coupled
with his legendary cockiness and aggressiveness, may have been virtues on
baseball diamonds, they were, Leibowitz knew too well, hardly pluses on-screen.
The camera, he had learned
from experience, was not only unerring in capturing a person's true self -- it
somehow managed to exaggerate a human being's very essence. As a result, a soul who was naturally upbeat
would, when seen on-screen, seem positively ebullient, while someone taciturn
would go from reticent to total sourpuss.
So what was needed to make the instructional
video viewer friendly was a counterbalance for Clete -- someone kids, their
parents, and their grandparents would actively welcome to their TV screen or
laptop. But that someone, Leibowitz
knew, could not in any way be threatening to Clete. It couldn't, therefore, be someone young and
good-looking.
The answer, Leibowitz sensed,
was an old-time scout named Tim Norwood, who in the best sense personified the
word avuncular. Easy-going, with a warm
smile and a twinkle in his eye, Tim made both baseball and life seem like
fun. Tim would, if brought in as a
sidekick, light up a screen darkened by Clete.
And in the process, he would serve another key function as well. Since Clete's frame of reference was entirely
from once-upon-a-time, the names he mentioned would, to a Little Leaguer or
even a high school player, seem prehistoric.
But if Clete alluded to a long-retired lefty pitcher named Steve
Carlton, Tim could state, Like Clayton Kershaw today. Or for Gary Carter, interject, Who today
would be Buster Posey. Or for Mike
Schmidt, add, Who played third-base like Pablo Sandoval or Adrian Beltre.
All too vividly aware of the
potential pitfalls and land mines ahead, Leibowitz hosted a series of what he
privately termed bonding lunches with Clete and Tim, during which the two
old-timers grew comfortable not merely with each other, but also with the
director.
As the rapport developed, so,
too, did an interesting dynamic -- that of two baseball lifers hanging out and
telling stories while sharing insights about a game they both loved.
Starting to feel a bit more
positive, Leibowitz searched for a baseball diamond that was secluded enough to
keep them relatively free of gawkers during production, then selected a
racially mixed group of minor league and collegiate players for the drills they
would be shooting.
For his technical crew, he was
careful to hire people who knew something about baseball, making certain to
avoid anyone who might in any way annoy or irritate Clete, even
inadvertently. Then, he hand-picked an
assistant director whose main task would be outside the usual job
description: to monitor Clete's
two-minute attention span. It was a
strange task -- one about which no other person, especially Clete -- could be
informed. But one minute and forty-five
seconds into a take, Doug Grote was to signal Leibowitz. And in non-filming moments, if someone else
managed to commandeer Clete, it was up to Doug to interrupt by telling Clete,
as the two-minute mark neared, that the director needed him.
“So who's in charge of this
circus we're about to put on?” Clete asked Leibowitz one afternoon when the two
of them were alone.
“Yours truly.”
“And you know more than me?”
“About baseball? No.
About filming? Absolutely.”
“Hold on --” Clete said,
clearly irritated.
“No, you hold on and hear me
out. When Tony LaRussa was managing you
at Oakland, who was in charge?”
“He was.”
“And if the manager's Mike
Soscia? Or Maddon? Or a younger guy like Girardi or Bochy? Who's running things?”
“He is,” Clete acknowledged
with no great glee.
“Well, on this team I'm the
manager.”
Clete eyed Leibowitz
carefully. “But what if --”
“Yeah?”
“There's something that
bothers me.”
“Then pick a nice quiet
moment, and we'll talk.”
“And then?”
“I'll decide what's best.”
“You?”
“Yup.”
Not pleased with what he what
have termed intransigence if he were familiar with the word, Clete steamed.
“You got some set of balls,”
he stated once he regained something approximating composure.
“You can bet on it.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
Clete snarled, ever so sensitive about his reputation.
“It's a figure of speech.”
“Then listen up, Mr.
Figure-of-Fuckin'-Speech!” Clete bellowed, jamming a finger into Leibowitz's
chest. “That's someplace we don't
go. You hear me? That's someplace we never fuckin' go!”
Aware that if pushed beyond
the boiling point Clete Holmes was capable of picking him up and breaking him
in two, Leibowitz nonetheless stood his ground.
“What's the first rule of
baseball?” he asked calmly but clearly.
“You fuckin' tell me!”
“Be a team player.”
Clete glared, all the while
searching unsuccessfully for a response.
When none was forthcoming,
Leibowitz shrugged, then turned and walked away.
As always on the night before
actual production was to begin, Leibowitz had a tough time sleeping. His mind raced not just with the customary
obsessions -- what he might have missed that still needed to be done; what
contingencies perhaps had been overlooked; what things, big or small, could
possibly go wrong -- but also with the X-factor provided by Clete Holmes.
Yet happily, Day One got
underway without either a bump or hitch.
No crew member called in sick or got lost, no piece of equipment had a
glitch or even a hiccup,
Clete, who was known to
surround himself with a posse, accepted Leibowitz's First Day of Shooting ban
of onlookers, showing up at the ballpark entirely on his own. Though clearly ill at ease, he relaxed a bit
when greeted by Tim Norwood, who, per Leibowitz's suggestion, promptly led him
toward the catering truck. There they
were instantly handed humongous breakfast burritos topped with salsa, crema,
and a mound of guacamole.
Only when they were seated at
a bench and chomping did Leibowitz approach the living legend.
“Ready to play ball?”
Leibowitz asked.
“Put me in, coach,” Clete
replied, getting a pat on the back from Tim Norwood.
With non-pros, Leibowitz tried
whenever possible to shoot in sequence, so that questions like Where are we? or
Where does this fit in? became a non-factor.
That led him to start production with what's known as a Cold Opening --
a shot of Tim and Clete, talking in the dugout -- which would provide for viewers
both an introduction and a statement of purpose.
“For years young players and
their parents have been asking me for something that would teach baseball the
right way,” Tim began once the camera was rolling. “And thanks to you, Clete, they'll have that
opportunity.”
“We'll do our best,” Clete
said. “You and me and all the
ballplayers here to help us.”
“And know what?” Tim
replied. “We're gonna have fun doing
it.”
“Played the right way,
baseball is the most fun there is,” Clete added, relieved when Leibowitz said,
“Cut!”
Only then did Clete add what
he hadn't said on-camera. “Except
getting laid!”
“I kinda remember what that's
like,” Tim joked. Then, as their
laughter subsided, Clete grew serious.
“Did I do okay?”
“Academy Award,” Tim answered
with a smile.
“I'll settle for a base hit,”
Clete said. “So, Mr. Director, what do
you have to say?
“Remember how you told me
you've never done anything like this?” Leibowitz replied.
Clete nodded.
“Well, now you have.”
“And lived to tell the tale,”
Tim added..
“Which means,” said Leibowitz,
“we get what in filmmaking is known as the great reward.”
“Namely?” asked Clete.
“Another take for insurance.”
At eleven that morning, while
Doug Grote was wrangling a wandering Clete Holmes for the third time in less
than an hour, Tim Norwood got a call, then approached Leibowitz with a troubled
look on his face. “One of my grandkids
took a fall at school,” he began. “Okay
if I sneak out at lunch for a half-hour or so?”
“Take more than that if you
need to.”
“Just want to poke in at the
hospital and say hello.”
Always the good sport, Tim
finished the next segment they were filming -- Clete's approach to baserunning
-- then announced to Clete and Leibowitz that he'd be back right after lunch.
“What's up?” Clete asked.
“I figure it's a chance for
you guys to finally get a word in without me monopolizing the conversation,”
Tim joked.
“Lunch is on me,” Leibowitz
said, grabbing Clete's arm and leading him toward the catering truck so as not
to lose the star to the calls to friends and bookies he would otherwise make.
“What are the three most
important things in the world?” Clete asked as the two men put down their
plates -- Leibowitz's an ascetic piece of salmon accompanied by brown rice and
steamed veggies; Clete's a mountain of salmon, prime rib, and lasagne, plus a
helping of potato salad.
“I give up.”
“Think of the Three P's.”
“Still blanking.”
“Pussy, the ponies, and more
pussy,” Clete bellowed.
Again and again Clete tried to
steer the conversation toward dive bars and massage parlors, though not in that
order, but each time Leibowitz did his best to return to baseball.
What surprised him, during the
moments when he was able to get Clete to concentrate, was how fresh,
intelligent, and iconoclastic the aging star's take proved to be. “Why is it that people claim you need power
at the corners?” Clete asked at one point, referring to third-base and
first. “What's to prevent you from
having a power guy at short, like Ernie Banks?
Or behind the plate like Piazza?
Or at second, like Morgan?”
Seeing Leibowitz smile, Clete
continued. “And why in hell try to hide
some lug with hands of stone at first?
Dumbest thing I ever heard is to hide a guy like Dick Stuart --”
“Dr. Strangelove --” Leibowitz
interjected, drawing a fist bump.
“-- In that position,” Clete
continued. “Think what it means. The pitcher doesn't want to throw over. The catcher won't throw behind a runner. The shortstop and third-baseman start to aim,
which is bad news. And a ground ball or
pop-up toward first with the game on the line?
Nightmare! You want power over
there? Give me Vic Power, who was the
best fielding first-baseman I ever saw.
Or else a non-power guy like J.T. Snow, who had great hands.”
With Tim Norwood back as
promised, filming went well that afternoon, giving everyone the sense that the
rest of the three-day shoot might prove to be trouble-free. Everyone, that is, but Leibowitz, who knew
that each day carries with it the potential for new and unforeseen problems --
which is why the industry saying, Never dare or upset the movie gods.
What concerned him above and
beyond the mercurial nature of his star, plus the less than likely chance of
rain or a terrorist attack, was the fact that to keep the investors from having
coronaries, he had imposed only a one-day ban on visitors.
Lookie-loos, as they were
often called, could have a disruptive effect, as could friends, relatives, and
hangers-on, especially when dealing with someone as prickly and inconsistent as
Clete Holmes.
So it was with sinking
sensation in the pit of his stomach that he saw Clete, on Day Two, arrive with
a guy with gold chains and a ponytail of thinning gray hair.
“Come say hello to Mumbles,”
Clete squawked, waving Leibowitz over.
“He's got a great idea for us.”
“Cups!” Mumbles offered as
though proposing a path toward world peace.
“We need a segment about the importance of cups.”
“We?” Leibowitz asked.
“You. Me.
The video,” Clete interjected, gleefully grabbing his own crotch. “We don't want any sopranos. Right, Mumbles?”
“Fuckin'-A!” Mumbles answered.
“Let me think about it,”
Leibowitz said, signaling for Doug Grote to get Clete as far away from Mumbles
as possible.
To the dismay of the crew
members who had worked with him on other projects -- particularly the
cinematographer and the sound man, who knew he who never dawdled when there was
work to be done -- Leibowitz ambled out toward the right field, then suddenly
burst into laughter.
The laughter started slowly,
then grew steadily until the director was doubled up in stitches in a way none
of them had ever seen or imagined.
What they didn't know --
indeed couldn't know -- was that the laughter was based not on a joke or a
funny piece of behavior, but rather on what Leibowitz considered to be the
absurdity of life -- especially his.
Having come to LA from New Jersey via Paris with the hope of being the
next Orson Welles, Jean-Luc Godard, or Preston Sturges -- someone who could magically
combine art, entertainment, and social criticism -- he was instead shooting at
an off-the-beaten-track baseball diamond, worrying not about lenses or
dialogue, but rather some schmuck of a hanger-on obsessing about protective
cups in jockstraps.
Only with a nearly superhuman
effort was Leibowitz ultimately able stifle his guffaws, then return to the
task at hand.
A segment on bunting went
fairly well, slowed down only by Clete mugging on a couple of occasions -- once
for a couple of the investors, then later when Mumbles pointed out a prime
example of cleavage among the onlookers.
Not finding the distraction to
be either helpful or endearing, Leibowitz was not overjoyed when Mumbles
approached him once they were ready to take a break.
“So we going forward with the
cup idea?” Mumbles asked, with Clete standing nearby.
“Only if we get you
on-camera.”
“Doing what?” Mumbles
inquired.
“Grabbing every guy's crotch
to see who's protected.”
While Mumbles sneered, Clete
took a step forward. “That ain't
helpful!” he growled.
“No shit,” Leibowitz
said. “Time to move on.”
Fortunately, there was little
chance for an extended period of pouting, for the next segment was Clete's
favorite part of the game: hitting.
With renewed zeal, he spoke
incisively about what he considered to be the best approach -- reminding
potential viewers that the area next to home plate is called the batter's box,
not the watcher's box -- then put on a show that would have been impressive
from a star in his prime, but was awesome from someone years beyond his playing
career.
First from the right side,
then from the left, Clete demonstrated initially how best to swing the bat,
then how to hit the ball the opposite way, and finally how to foul off pitches
until the right one -- the hitter's pitch, as he termed it -- finally appears.
For the onlookers who were
gathered, as well as for the minor leaguers and collegians -- and even for
Leibowitz, who had been around future Hall of Famers at Spring Training in both
Arizona and Florida -- the demonstration went beyond memorable. It was the highlight of the entire
production.
And it led to a standing
ovation that caused Clete's chest to swell.
Hoping that the glow would
carry on through the rest of the shoot, Leibowitz shook Clete's hand, then
moved toward centerfield to set up a segment on outfield play.
Only when he was ready to
shoot did he look for Clete, who was cornered by a white-haired woman in a
Dodger cap and her cute, blond granddaughters, aged, Leibowitz figured, roughly
ten and twelve.
With Doug Grote nowhere in
sight, Leibowitz started sprinting toward them.
“Clete, I need you!” he
yelled, all too vividly aware of Clete's limited attention span.
“Duty calls,” Clete said
apologetically to his well-wishers.
“One last question, Mr.
Holmes?” asked the younger of the girls.
“Sure, honey,” Clete
responded, ignoring Leibowitz, who was shaking his head.
“During your playing days --”
the blond-haired girl began.
“Yeah?”
“Did you used to lift
weights?”
“Only when I took a leak!”
Clete stated proudly, leaving the grandmother and her granddaughters mortified
as Leibowitz dragged him away.
Though everyone involved in
the production -- the ballplayers, the crew, the investors, and even Leibowitz
-- thought they were on to something special, by Day Three there was an
ever-increasing sense of restlessness.
The source, each and every one
of them knew full well, was Clete Holmes.
Like an unruly kid, or a dog
that barks incessantly, he had gone from amusing to tiring, and then became
simply tiresome. Anything and everything
was about him: his wants, his needs, his
ego, his mood swings, his posse. And
most of all, his total and unrelenting narcissism.
Even the most easy-going
people Leibowitz had assembled -- Tim Norwood and Doug Grote -- made it clear
to Leibowitz that their patience was wearing thin, though neither joined the
ranks of those who started grumbling openly or belly-aching publicly.
Trying to keep a lid on an
explosive situation, Leibowitz defused a couple of near blow-ups, then put a
last-second stop to what would have been a production-ending practical joke in
which Clete's prized collection of gloves and bats were almost set on fire.
But once he had sufficient
footage to cut together a video if -- for whatever reason, or reasons,
production was never quite finished -- Leibowitz backed off as peacemaker.
And it was then, when he had
adopted a completely different attitude that Clete approached him once too
often.
“I keep feeling like there's
something you've missed,” Clete said in a condescending way.
“What?”
“Some way to end the video
with a bang. You know, that'll hit
home. That they'll really remember.”
“I got it,” Leibowitz said as
Tim Norwood, Doug Grote, and some others wandered up.
“Let's hear.”
“I figure we'll have Tim say,
You know, Clete, I'm convinced that anyone who watches this video will be not
just a better ballplayer, but a better person as well.”
“Not bad,” Clete
responded. “And what do I say?
“Can't you guess?”
“Guess what?”
“You can bet on it!”
Though everyone else got a
kick out of the joke, Clete Holmes refused to speak to Leibowitz the rest of
the day.
Clete's demand that Leibowitz
be banned from the editing room backfired due to a Directors Guild contract
that gave Leibowitz what's known as final cut.
Somehow, Tim Norwood got
significantly more close-ups than was originally intended. And that meant that the putative star, who
wanted at all times to be featured, wound up with far fewer than he hoped for
or expected.
As is often said in baseball
circles, payback is great.
___
Alan Swyer was once a boxer. Plus, he recently made a documentary about boxing: www.elboxeothemovie.com
