If a Dog Pitches, Beware the ‘Trickle Down’ Theory

Not all Hollywood illusions are on the screen. I learned this after our agent had us meet a producer famous for high-concept stories. We met at Junior’s Deli in Westwood, and while we savored overpriced tuna sandwiches he floated ideas. Finally he said, “How ‘bout this: Two schmucks kidnap Lassie.”

Of course! O. Henry’s “The Ransom of Red Chief” and “Ruthless People.” It had been done before--so that meant it had possibilities.

So my writing partner and I developed a pitch. At first, nobody cared. Then our agent had a brilliant idea: “Attach a dog to the project.”

We got Max, a Jack Russell terrier who had costarred with Jim Carrey in “The Mask.” He played the dog. Then our agent said, “You should take Max with you on the pitch.” The guy was on a roll!

Our first stop was Paramount. An hour before, my partner called in sick. I couldn’t find the producer--this was 1995, pre-cell L.A.--and the trainer, who lived in someplace like Lancaster, was already on the road.

At the studio an assistant gave me a message: The producer couldn’t make it. We had rehearsed. My partner had his lines. I had mine. The producer had his. Now I was flying solo. As panic set in, I heard panting. My agent never pants on spec, so it had to be Max. And the guy with the fanny pack full of Liv-a-Snaps was his trainer.

Five minutes later I was pitching in an exec’s office. Then I heard slurping. I looked over and he was licking himself. Max, not the Paramount exec.

I kept talking, but by now it was all a blur. Every time I described something that Max would do in the movie, the exec asked for a demonstration.

Apparently, it takes Max quite awhile to get into character.

My spiel spiraled downward from there.

But I did learn that although Max had his limitations, he also had a great strength: He was awfully cute.

For our next pitch, we arrived early, sat Max at the head of a long table, put a legal pad in front of him and a yellow No. 2 pencil in his mouth. When the Universal people arrived, they took one look at Max and started laughing. We were in. He was so cute that we could’ve been pitching Amway.

In the parking lot, as we congratulated ourselves on a great meeting, Max irrigated the left rear tire of my aging Volvo. I’m told that in some cultures, this is good luck.

So Universal called our agent, and our agent called the producer, and we found out that our producer has a partner, and this guy wanted a million to produce the movie. I’m told that in some cultures, that’s a lot of money.

As a hedge against not making the deal, we went to Columbia. Max couldn’t make it. A prior commitment, scheduling conflict, worms--I’m not sure. But by this time our pooch pitch had made the trades--page one in Variety--and our dog project finally had heat.

Columbia made an offer, but it wanted a low-budget movie. The producer’s partner’s million got in the way. He wouldn’t budge. Neither did Columbia.

So we pitched to a boutique studio. Five minutes in, they bought it. The producer’s fee was no issue. “Just don’t give us a talking dog movie,” was the studio’s only caveat. We wrote it for $10,000 less than our usual fee and called it “Busby.” We turned in the script.

The check came, our agent took his cut, then our lawyer, then our accountant--and that was the end of “Busby.” As it turned out, the whole exercise apparently was a charade. We were just role players in a drama that involved powerful people scratching one another’s backs, with the ultimate goal not to make a movie but to inflate the baseline asking price of the producer’s mysterious and demanding partner. In that regard, the doomed “Busby” was a huge success. The producer’s partner went on to make many pictures for a million a pop. And up.

No longer a pup, Max now must beg for guest shots on basic cable. And I’m still driving the Volvo upon which he tinkled. How could I ever sell such a lucky car?