Face to Face

The Art of Human Connection

Brian Grazer

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781501147722
• eBook ISBN: 9781501147746
• Topic: Business
• Subtopic: Creativity
• Index: Business

Featured on CBS This Morning, Squawk Box, MSNBC, CNN, Bloomberg, Forbes, Fast Company, The New York Times, and more. "Reading Face to Face is like being a fly on the wall, watching Brian Grazer work his magic. Utterly entertaining, this is how you become Hollywood's best producer." —Malcolm Gladwell, author of Talking to Strangers Legendary Hollywood producer and author of the bestselling A Curious Mind, Brian Grazer is back with a captivating new book about the life-changing ways we can connect with one another. Much of Brian Grazer's success—as a #1 New York Times bestselling author, Academy Award–winning producer, father, and husband—comes from his ability to establish genuine connections with almost anyone. In Face to Face, he takes you around the world and behind the scenes of some of his most iconic movies and television shows, like A Beautiful Mind, Empire, Arrested Development, American Gangster, and 8 Mile, to show just how much in-person encounters have revolutionized his life—and how they have the power to change yours.With his flair for intriguing stories, Grazer reveals what he's learned through interactions with people like Bill Gates, Taraji P. Henson, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Eminem, Prince, Spike Lee, and the Afghani rapper activist Sonita: that the secret to a bigger life lies in personal connection. In a world where our attention is too often focused downward at our devices, Grazer argues that we are missing an essential piece of the human experience. Only when we are face to face, able to look one another in the eyes, can we form the kinds of connections that expand our world views, deepen our self-awareness, and ultimately lead to our greatest achievements and most meaningful moments.When we lift our eyes to look at the person in front of us, we open the door to infinite possibility.

CHAPTER 5

Trust in the Vision

“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”

—Carl Jung

People ask me all the time how a good movie is made. What really happens behind the scenes? They’re usually interested in the juicier parts about stars and parties, so I’m never quite sure how to answer. The truth is that movies are often much less glamorous than people think. In fact, underneath all the polish, they can be unbelievably complex and challenging to bring to fruition.

As a film and television producer, my job is to nurture a creative idea from inception all the way through to its realization on-screen. Being a producer is very much like being an entrepreneur starting from zero every time. There are no guarantees and countless obstacles. It’s a risky business. For each new project, you need to build a strong case that will be attractive to everyone from funders to actors to audiences—all kinds of people with different mind-sets, different concerns, and different ideas. Needless to say, it requires a lot of negotiation. Given all this, there are two things that are absolutely crucial for me to see a project through successfully—a clear and compelling vision that I believe in and the ability to form strong connections with others.

The idea for a film or television show can come to me anywhere at any time. Sometimes it is rooted in something personal; sometimes it’s about an overarching universal human theme. Two of my first movies—Splash and Night Shift—were very personal to me. They were therapeutic at a time when I was a single twentysomething trying to work out things in my life. My futile search for true love inspired Splash, a rom-com (romantic comedy) about a man falling in love with a mermaid. The idea for Night Shift was born out of my almost superhero-like ability to get almost any job . . . and then lose it. I thought, What would be the worst possible job that I could find myself in? A night shift worker at a morgue running a prostitution ring seemed like a terrible—and hilarious—answer.

Whatever the idea, I ask myself some important questions about the story at the onset: What is at the center of the story—a concept, character, theme, mission, or deep personal passion? What thoughts or feelings do I want the story to stir up for my audience? Why would they be drawn in by it? But perhaps the most important questions are: Why does it exist? And Why does it matter to me personally?

A Beautiful Mind told the story of John Nash, a schizophrenic who earned a Nobel Prize in economics. I made the film to help destigmatize mental disability, or any kind of disability. It was a mission that mattered to me deeply. My son Riley, now thirty-two, has autism spectrum disorder. Back in elementary school, I was watching him from the fence and saw a bunch of kids hide his lunch tray while he was getting a drink. He came back to the table and was disoriented and confused as they all laughed. It broke my heart in pieces, and I wanted to do something about it. I was determined to tell a story that would be a vehicle to create empathy and compassion for those who are different.

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Author Simon Sinek, who delivered one of the most watched TED Talks of all time, says, “People don’t buy what you do; they buy why you do it. And what you do simply proves what you believe.”¹² Making a movie or a TV show is not a solo affair. It takes studio backing, financiers, and a whole team of committed people—writers, directors, actors, production—working together. If I don’t believe in the vision, or I can’t articulate it in a compelling and persuasive way, then how can I expect anyone else to believe in it or commit themselves to it? How can I attract the most talented and interesting people to the project?

Sometimes, I’ll come across a script or book I love for its plot or characters, but the message or purpose of the story is not immediately apparent or compelling to me. When that’s the case, I will often try to find out what the writer intended, or work on it together with the writer until I truly believe in the vision. If I don’t believe in it, then I don’t want to do it. Because I know that no one else will believe in it, either. They’ll just go through the motions to make the movie. And it will be shitty. We’ve all seen those movies.

Finding people who share my vision and convincing them to come on board is only half of the equation, of course. I couldn’t do either of those things effectively, let alone make a successful film, without trust. People have to trust that I am authentic and genuinely believe in the project. They need to trust that I am going to hold up my end of the bargain and I need to trust them to do the same. We need to be able to come together, face to face, look one another in the eye and know that we are in it together, willing to do what we have to do to see the film through. Whether or not you are able to build trusting relationships will make or break not only a movie, but pretty much any big idea that you want to bring to life. One of the most powerful examples of this from my own life is the backstory of how the movie American Gangster got made.

Nick Pileggi caught my eye in the early nineties. Nick was married to the late Nora Ephron, and the two of them were toasts of the town, more specifically, literary toasts of New York. Nora was a superstar screenwriter first and then became a director. Nick was a renowned journalist specializing in American crime. When he came to my attention, he had just co-written the script for Goodfellas, based on his nonfiction book, Wiseguy: Life in a Mafia Family, and would soon pen the screenplay for Casino, based on his book of the same name.

I was impressed by the scope of Nick’s knowledge on twentieth-century crime, and enthralled by his ability to foster rapport with so many Mafia bosses and organized crime figures. Somehow, he—a journalist, no less—had gained enough trust to earn entrée into that usually impenetrable world. So, naturally, I reached out to see whether he would have a curiosity conversation with me. He agreed and suggested we have dinner at Rao’s, an Italian restaurant in Harlem that was notoriously difficult to get into.

Since it first opened in 1896, Rao’s has occupied the same corner of East 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue. It wasn’t until the seventies, however, when owner Frank Pellegrino took the helm, that it morphed into a true New York landmark. After Mimi Sheraton penned a glowing three-star review in the New York Times, the demand for reservations at Rao’s went through the roof. It was more than the ten-table (technically four-table, six-booth) hangout could handle. To deal with this newfound fame, Frank came up with the novel idea—a time-share system of sorts. He assigned each of his customers a regular night—some weekly, some monthly—and a table. The original eighty-five regulars essentially “owned” their tables for the night—even if they finished dining early, the table would not be reset—and for life. When an “owner” dies, their family often inherits their table. As a result, it’s nearly impossible to dine at this New York establishment. Even the likes of Celine Dion, President Bill Clinton, Hank Aaron, and even John Gotti had to have an “in” to dine here.

When I walked into Rao’s, I felt like I had walked straight onto the set of The Godfather. Christmas lights (that apparently stay up all year long) hung on paneled walls along with photos of Sinatra and Frankie Valli. It was unusually bright inside, with a jukebox along the wall and a bar at one end—dark-stained, oak-panaled wood with a red leatherette pad where Nicky the Vest (so-called because of his rumored collection of over a thousand vests) held court. Far from fancy, Rao’s was a homey throwback with a rack for coats near the men’s room. It was a place where everyone seemed to know everyone and knew exactly what they wanted to eat. (At Rao’s you don’t get a menu unless you ask for one, and asking didn’t seem advisable.) I had no idea what to expect of Nick, or what he would be like, but the sense of familiarity and exclusivity of the place seemed conducive to establishing a genuine connection with him. I was happy he had chosen this spot to meet.

Just then, Nick walked in wearing a dark shirt and jacket. He was tall (about six feet), balding, and wore big, round, tortoiseshell glasses. There was an intellectual quality about him and a quiet, unaffected way that was compelling to me. Immediately, I liked this guy.

We sat down at a booth, and the conversation was effortless. It turned out we had a mutual and intense interest in each other’s crafts and worlds. I was eager to talk about Nick’s writing and learn more about the crime world he knew so well. I knew he could feel my sincerity and interest by the way I listened and asked questions that made him think. He was an animated listener himself and responded by telling the most entertaining stories; I would reciprocate with some of my own from Hollywood. We were both intrigued by the complex characters who became leaders of organized crime, and the personalities of the enforcers, or lieutenants, beneath them.

Deeply charming, I could easily see why gangsters would open up to Nick. Even in the rare times when he raised his voice to punctuate the punch line in a story, he didn’t intimidate. He spoke openly and kept eye contact. The warmth of his eyes drew me in, but not all the way. At a certain point they were guarded. Of course, that made sense. Nick was talking about crime and the Mafia. Everything was confidential. I got the sense that this meeting was a kind of test. That he would be gauging how far he could go, how much he could say to me, whether or not he was going to continue the conversation or excuse himself. I intuited that he had very clear, inflexible values and boundaries, and I respected him for it.

Eye to eye all night, jumping from casual and funny to deep and intense conversation, we were simultaneously processing one another as the stories flowed. I felt a trust with him that I can’t quite describe. I understood why it had seemed, from the moment he walked in, that Nick was beloved by every person in the restaurant that night.

With a final farewell and a genial handshake, Nick and I ended the evening agreeing to stay in touch. I could tell that it was not one of those empty “keep in touch” moments. Over an Italian family-style dinner and a bottle of chianti, we had created a bond that, in my experience, usually takes years to form. We both thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and each other. I knew that we would see each other again. Every year or so after that, Nick and I would get together to have coffee.

It was ten years after Rao’s that Nick reached out to me with some urgency. He called me to say he had a story that he thought could be a movie. He had read the New York magazine article “The Return of Superfly,” written by Mark Jacobson. It was the story of Frank Lucas, the biggest and most powerful heroin dealer and gangster in America during the seventies.

Raised poor in rural North Carolina, Frank moved to New York in 1946, where he saw a quick way to make money. He started robbing bars and jewelers, becoming more bold and brazen with each ensuing crime. He quickly realized that dealing dope was how real money was made on the streets. Frank started earning his stripes by going against both the Italian Mafia and the black crime syndicate. To break up their heroin operations, he decided to go directly to the source—the poppy fields of Southeast Asia.

In a move that was both outrageous and risky, Frank flew to the Mekong Delta during the Vietnam War and made his way through the jungle to meet face to face with Luetchi Rubiwat. Rubiwat, known by the nickname “007,” was a legendary Chinese drug kingpin, who controlled all the heroin in the Golden Triangle, which comprises the borders of Thailand, Burma, and Laos. Frank struck a deal with him to guarantee shipment of heroin directly into the U.S., cutting out the middlemen. And that’s how he single-handedly modernized the heroin trade and ended up the head of the largest drug empire in America . . . at least for a while. Eventually Frank was busted: a forty-year Federal term and thirty-year state term.¹³ He was released in just a few years though after providing cooperation that led to over one hundred arrests.

After reading about Frank, Nick was intrigued. He secured special permission to visit him in prison and spent time getting to know him. “I know this guy ran the narcotics things,” Nick told me, “but there was also a charm. He and I got to be friendly and when he got out of prison, I said to Frank, ‘You are a story.’ By then, he trusted me totally and I trusted him. At this point, we hadn’t really sold anything yet, and he said he needed money to pay the tuition for his kid at Catholic school. It was ten thousand dollars. So, I wrote him a check for ten thousand dollars. My wife, Nora, said, ‘Are you out of your mind?!’ ”

I was riveted, and immediately asked to meet with Nick and Frank at my office in LA. Just days later, across a long, shiny oval table in our conference room, I first laid eyes on one of the most notorious gangsters in American history. You could tell he was a boss. He had a commanding presence and charismatic air about him that made his mythology almost instantly believable.

I have to admit that the idea of meeting with a ruthless drug kingpin—let alone going into business with one—was a bit nerve-racking. Frank had spent a fair amount of time in prison, most recently seven years for heroin trafficking, and though he’d never actually served time for any violent offenses, the man had admitted at least once to being a stone-cold killer, although he later denied it.¹⁴ But my curiosity was greater than any qualms I had. My desire to learn more about Frank was insatiable. It would not let up, and I had to keep peeling back the layers to see what was there. What would he be like? Would his story hold up face to face? Could it translate well to film? Where was the redemption in his narrative?

Once they were both seated, Frank set his sights right on me. I held his gaze with a strong, discerning look as he began to tell his story. At one point, I leaned forward and asked point-blank if he ever killed anyone. Although he didn’t exactly admit to murder, he did offer up a shockingly graphic description of events that took place, including acts of disturbing violence. At the same time, he was also telling me about his devotion to his family and his deep and abiding loyalty to his mother.

It hit me that Frank was telling me his story of survival. The story of a semiliterate black man who was able to teach himself not just how to survive, but how to be successful in the face of poverty and brutality. It was a story with a theme that was larger than the specific details of Frank’s life. At the core of it was the American dream and the human capacity for resourcefulness. I knew I had to make this movie. No question. No thinking. I bought the story right there in that room.

Next we had to hammer out the terms of our agreement with Frank. Naturally, he was always after more money. Given who he was, maybe he was always going to be squeezing us a little, trying to extract as much as he could. I pointedly looked him in the eyes and directly stated, “Look, I have a very good record of getting movies made. Believing in me and believing that the movie will get made will create the most remunerative income stream to you. You’ll get the option payment now, a purchase payment later, and then bonuses for performance.” He signed the deal with us. And he ended up earning every single payment.

Nick, now eighty-five years old, recently reflected on that fateful meeting, where all three of us committed to the long road ahead and got into business together: “I never had a doubt about you, Brian, ever. You’re the person who truly committed to the project. I don’t know what Frank would have wound up doing. By committing yourself, flying us out, Lucas began to trust me because I said, ‘We’re going to get this thing made as a movie.’ ”

Now, Nick realized that a Hollywood deal doesn’t necessarily mean that a movie actually gets made, but from getting to know each other, and thanks to that first connection at Rao’s, he believed in me. And I believed in him. I knew enough about Nick’s values that if he believed in this story, then it was going to be good. In fact, much, much better than good. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was about to embark on making the most difficult movie of my career.

With Frank on board, my next step was to find the best screenwriter in the world. Nick and I were both convinced that Steve Zaillian, who had won an Oscar for writing Schindler’s List and had written other Oscar-nominated screenplays, was the one. Through Nick’s personal friendship with Steve, I was able to make contact and convince him to read the Superfly article. He didn’t immediately bite. It took him six months to really focus, and another three years of me constantly calling him, explaining the vision, and sending him research materials, to get him to commit. But—finally—he agreed to write the screenplay. And once he did, he was all in.

In order for Steve to write the most authentic and captivating script possible, I knew that he and Frank would need to get to know each other. Frank barely trusts anyone, but he did trust Nick. And since Steve and Nick are friends, it made sense to have him serve as a liaison. I hired Nick to spend a few months helping writer and subject connect with one another. Eventuall...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Introduction
• One: Do You See Me?
• Two: Take a Chance on Connection
• Three: The “Key” to Serendipity
• Four: Together We Rise
• Five: Trust in the Vision
• Six: What Do Your Eyes Say?
• Seven: It’s Universal
• Eight: In the Public Eye
• Nine: Listen Up!
• Ten: Adapt or Die
• Eleven: Curiosity in the Kremlin
• Twelve: What Words Can’t Say
• Thirteen: Where Life Begins
• Fourteen: Venturing into New Worlds
• Fifteen: In the Blink of an Eye
• Sixteen: Honeymoon in the Holy Land
• Seventeen: What It Means to Be Alive
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Notes
• Copyright