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TRICKSTERS AND HUCKSTERS: SHOW BIZ ARCHETYPES
by Addison De Witt
“The Megalomaniac and The Crowd Pleaser” Part II
(Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent from the potentially litigious.)
I first met Jeff Pryce when I was summoned at short notice to the palatial home of Harry Turner, the celebrated songwriter who had asked me to write the book for a new Broadway-style musical Pryce had commissioned as the latest jewel in the crown of his burgeoning Las Vegas empire. Though Pryce’s legend preceded him – he was the relentlessly self-promoting, free-spending King of Las Vegas with rumored mob connections – I was not fully prepared for being in the presence of the Great Man.
In Kinds of Power, mythologist James Hillman seems to be speaking of Jeff Pryce, when he says, “Exhibition is the blatant generous showmanship of codpiece and cleavage...With this power comes high fashion and flash...which always went along with pirates and buccaneers, warlords...and big-time gamblers. It’s the exhibition of palaces and city-block brownstone mansions, long limos, liveried servants and bodyguards. I am who I am and you know who I am because you can see who I am – and it’s exciting.” (Pp.128-9)
I’m here to tell you, Dear Reader, that just as men of his wealth and power are often anecdotedly described, Jeff Pryce in person really did “suck all the air out of the room” – which was no mean feat in Harry Turner’s 18,000 square foot mansion. He arrived straight from the airport – and his private jet – in a chauffeur-driven car. I wasn’t surprised that he kept us waiting an hour – he’s an Important Man, after all, and even
private jets can run behind schedule. What did surprise me is that when his car finally pulled up into Harry’s circular driveway, Pryce sat in the back seat for an extra 20 minutes casually reading a newspaper. Was it, perhaps, his special way of letting us know who was boss? If so, it was a wasted gesture. With a man of Jeff Pryce’s carefully calculated reputation, there was never going to be any doubt whatsoever.
Dressed in black from head to toe (even his hair is dyed black), his face tanned, his capped teeth whiter than white, his physique trim, Jeff Pryce bore a striking, if unwitting, resemblance to Wayne Newton, another Vegas icon. When introduced, he conveyed a certain kind of warmth and familiarity that I’ve experienced with other men of his stature; I instantly knew how Pryce’s barber must have felt when they first met. Or his cement contractor. Something in his voice and his grip let me know that I was only allowed in by his good graces. I was on probation. I would have to prove myself.
Fair enough, I thought. Jeff Pryce and I come from different worlds. No reason why he should be impressed by my credits or my reputation. I was just another commodity being acquired for Pryce’s personal use, and the sooner I knew it, the better. And if I needed an example for confirmation, I only had to look across Harry’s Architectural Digest living room at Danny Melvin.
Until Jeff Pryce snapped him up to run the entertainment division of his Vegas empire, Danny Melvin was the most famous and successful personal manager in Hollywood. With his guidance, many of his clients had become superstars, and in turn had made Danny Melvin one of the wealthiest men in show business. The biggest names in the film, television and music industries were his pals. It was clear why Jeff Pryce would want Danny Melvin on his team. What was less clear, indeed mystifying, is why Melvin would give it all up to work for the King of Las Vegas.
But he had. And here we all were together. I was the only one in the room I’d never heard of. Pryce launched into a speech I was to hear many times over in the months to come. It was all about his love of Broadway musicals, his first fateful meeting with Harry Turner, and his plan to build a theatre on the Vegas strip to house this new musical extravaganza. He never failed to mention his visionary successes – his three colossal hotels, his record-breaking entertainment spectaculars, the “class” he had brought to the gambling mecca. With Harry Turner’s enthusiasm and encouragement to support me, I did my (methaphorical) tap dance, giving Jeff Pryce and Danny Melvin the broad strokes of the story as Harry and I had discussed it. Harry played a few songs to whip up some excitment. It was like performing for the Emperor: Pryce had the chair of honor and everyone looked to him for his reaction.
Pryce gave his opinions freely and with confidence. But whenever Danny Melvin tried to interject a thought, Pryce cut him off. And rather rudely. Now that he had hired the biggest maven in Hollywood, it was as if Pryce was determined to prove that he didn’t need him. It was mortifiying to watch the great Danny Melvin subjugated and humiliated. Three thoughts crossed my mind: 1) Pryce must be paying Melvin a fortune; 2) Melvin’s not going to last six months in this job; and 3) If this is how he’s treating Danny Melvin, what kind of treatment can I expect? (My private prediction came true, incidentally, for Melvin resigned within six months of that meeting, following a heart attack.)
I made it through that first meeting. Harry and I breathed a sigh of relief when Pryce, Melvin and entourage finally left. If we kept our noses to the grindstone and didn’t rock the boat, if we managed to somehow not offend the King of Las Vegas, we were going to be the lucky writers of perhaps the most lavish new musical ever produced.
Contract negotiations began. Things were proceeding apace, with the normal give and take, when my lawyer called suddenly to announce that Jeff Pryce had made a threat: If he didn’t have signed contracts with Harry and me by the next day, he was going to back out of the project. I wasn’t privy to Harry’s contract negotiations, but I knew that my “demands” were simple and few, certainly nothing out of the ordinary. Both Harry and I knew that Jeff Pryce was capable of a certain amount of phony bluster and bravado, but neither one of us wanted to take the chance of having the project fall apart. So we signed.
A few weeks later, I was busy completing another writing project when I suddenly got a call: I was to be at Harry’s house the very next day for a meeting with Harry and a certain Tony-winning Broadway Director. Jeff Pryce would be there, too, and I would be expected to present an outline for the musical. I reminded Harry that I hadn’t begun writing the outline for our show. Harry told me not to worry, just whip up something. There was not even a question of whether the meeting could be postponed or rescheduled. Jeff Pryce wanted a meeting, and he was going to get one.
That night, I stayed up to all hours and came up with a six-page outline. When I arrived at Harry Turner’s the next day, I was shocked to find miles of cables and camera and sound and lighting equipment all over Harry’s living room, as if for a professional movie shoot. A crew was busy setting everything up. I had to carefully step over cables and wires to even find Harry in the middle of all of it. I soon found out that Jeff Pryce had hired a film crew to make a documentary of the making of our musical. The musical I hadn’t written yet. Harry and I were outfitted with clip-on microphones and battery packs, as were Jeff Pryce, Danny Melvin, and the Broadway Director. By this time, a world-renowned Broadway Scenic Designer had arrived as well. We were going to be the “stars” of the movie.
Scared out of my wits, but with no way out, I proceeded to describe the characters and the premise of the show I had yet to write as the cameras rolled. Going scene by scene, making up much of it as I went along, I stopped only for Harry to perform his determinedly crowd-pleasing songs. When we were finished, Jeff Pryce launched into the familiar speech, speaking for the cameras, and for posterity.
The cameras still rolling, we proceeded to have a “creative” meeting, with everyone pitching in with ideas and half-formed concepts for the look and feel of the show. I have been to a lot of crazy development meetings in my time, but none even half as surreal, or as bizarrely brimming with pie-in-the-sky excitement, as this one.
A few weeks later, on less than 24 hours notice, I found myself on Jeff Pryce’s private jet, headed to Las Vegas. The seats were made of the softest leather. The trim was made of highly-polished wood. There were solid gold fixtures in the jet’s bathroom. Even though Harry and I were the only two on board the ten passenger plane, we had our own stunningly beautiful flight attendant, ready to bring us drinks and food and anything else our hearts may have desired.
One of Jeff Pryce’s fleet of limos whisked us from the airport to a the V.I.P. underground passage of Pryce’s newest luxury resort hotel. Harry and I were greeted by our own personal (British) butler, who escorted us to our lavish 6,000 square foot “villa”, which contained two master suites, five bathrooms, a living room, a bar, a fully-stocked kitchen, a formal dining room, a fitness room with sauna and steam, a massage room, even a small hair salon. Not to mention our own private swimming pool.
At precisely 6:45 p.m., an Escort arrived to bring us to dinner with Jeff Pryce and his wife at one of the hotel’s gourmet restaurants. After an incomparable meal, Harry and I were given the royal tour by Mr. Pryce himself: The spectacular lobby, the tastefully (for Las Vegas, anyway) decorated casino, the pricey Rodeo Drive-ish boutiques. Pryce made it clear that his own extravagant vision and legendary attention to detail had made this the showplace of the Strip. He was justifiably proud of all he surveyed.
It was at dinner that the agenda for our hastily called meeting was made clear: Pryce had been listening to a tape that Harry had made for him of our show’s songs. And Pryce had played it for “friends”. Some of those friends were wondering if the songs weren’t...a little old fashioned. If they weren’t...a bit too reminiscent of Harry’s previous work.
Harry stayed calm. But I could tell he was boiling inside. Still, he quietly, but forcefully, made the case for his music. Jeff Pryce wanted a Harry Turner musical and that’s what he was getting. Indeed, Harry wore the mantle of “old-fashioned” proudly. If Jeff Pryce wanted “Rent”, he had hired the wrong man. If Pryce thought his songs were derivative, then he didn’t understand music. The chord progressions were completely different, the melody, too. Before long Harry had the mogul eating out of his hand, backing down and apologizing. Harry was masterful, and I was proud as ever to be his collaborator. I realized that when Harry’s music was threatened, he could stand up to the Big Boss. I had reason to hope that he would stand up for me, if and when the time ever came.
It would come sooner, Dear Reader, than either of us could have imagined.
In the cart-before-the-horse nature of this project, Harry’s score was completed before I’d even written a scene. While I was writing, Jeff Pryce spent upwards of $300,000 to make a recording of Harry’s songs, performed by various well-known Broadway singers, backed by a 57 piece studio orchestra. The recording sessions themselves were fun and exciting, and every minute of it was captured by Jeff Pryce’s film crew.
While the CD was being mixed, I was writing away, and making plans to show Harry some more scenes, when I got an ominous call from Jeff Pryce’s office. My presence was demanded at a big meeting in Las Vegas five days hence, to launch the building of the theatre. And Mr. Pryce was insisting on having my completed script before the meeting. (“How can I build a theatre without a script?!” he exclaimed when I spoke to him.)
In a panic, I called Harry Turner, only to find out that Harry hadn’t been invited to the meeting and had no intention of going and was, indeed, heading out of town for a vacation. You’ve got to tell Pryce the script isn’t ready, I pleaded. But Harry told me to give Pryce whatever pages I had and not to worry about it. In my heart, I knew this
would never fly. So I pulled out all the stops and completed the script’s first draft, 60-odd pages of dialogue for a 90-minute, intermission-less show with nine show-stopping musical numbers.
I got on a plane (no private jet, this time) and delivered the script to Jeff Pryce’s office in person. The next day, I showed up for a meeting in Pryce’s luxurious board room. There, in attendance, were builders, architects, and lighting and scenic designers, some of whom had flown in from New York, and members of Pryce’s staff. Across the hall, in Pryce’s office, an original Manet self-portrait was being hung over Jeff Pryce’s desk. In the meeting, Pryce was masterful. Having called all these people together in one room, he was preparing to break ground on a brand new, state-of-the-art Broadway Theatre – on the grounds of one of his luxury hotels. Plans and blueprints were unfurled. Pryce knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t go to take no for an answer. Hydraulic lifts, huge amounts of fly-space and wing space, room for a large human chorus and an even larger amount of machinery to make the magic happen.
Pryce didn’t pay much attention to me, which was fine. Although I didn’t really have a function at the meeting, I was fascinated to watch it all unfold. In spite of my efforts, however, Pryce admitted he hadn’t read the script yet. “I’m ten pages into it...and so far there isn’t any character development! You’re going to have real, developed characters, aren’t you?!” I nodded, of course, fully confident that I had written the kind of script we had all been talking about for the past few months: Quick, funny, broad – all in support of Harry Turner’s score.
I went back to Los Angeles that day, and waited to hear Jeff Pryce’s ecstatic voice on the phone, telling me he’d read the script and loved it. Harry came back from vacation and read the script...and loved it. But still, no word from Jeff Pryce. Then, after about ten days had passed, I received an ominous call from my lawyer. She had just received a fax from Jeff Pryce’s attorney, telling her that my services were no longer required.
Devastated, I immediately called Harry Turner. To my surprise, Harry admitted that he’d had a phone call from Pryce the day before and knew that Pryce was unhappy with the script. He claimed that he had come to the script’s defense, and mine. But as we continued talking, it became very clear to me that Harry wasn’t going to put himself on the line to save my job. I was going to be sacrificed to the whim of Jeff Pryce.
The warning signs were all there, of course. And I hadn’t been blind to them. But it still hurts to get fired. On the other hand, I had a contract. I would have to get paid the balance of my writing fee, which was substantial. My lawyer assured me that I would.
In our next conversation, however, my lawyer informed me that Mr. Pryce was refusing to pay. Even though I was clearly in the right, he was, in essence, daring me to sue him. The guy who owned half of Nevada and all its politicians in his pocket. The guy who was worth hundreds of millions and could afford to keep a nuisance suit like mine tangled in the courts indefinitely.
Harry was saddened, he said, but really, what could he do? Within hours, I heard rumors that other book writers were being pursued to replace me. I was bereft at that moment for the loss of the collaboration with a great songwriter, and the loss of the collaboration with the Director (who, it turns out, never saw or read my script), and the other artists involved. And I was angry that I would have to fight to get paid what was rightly owed me.
But then, as I was working through the gamut of emotions, something quite extraordinary and unexpected happened. Jeff Pryce’s entire Las Vegas empire was gobbled up in a hostile takeover. Jittery stockholders had lost faith in their golden boy and, in what seemed like a flash of lightning, all that was once owned by the King of Las Vegas had slipped out of his fingertips. His name and face, so prominent in his luxury hotels, were unceremoniously removed. He took his Manet self-portrait off the wall, and his marbles and a few hundred million dollars, and went home.
The future of the show is in limbo. It looks like it may never get produced. In any event, Jeff Pryce doesn’t own it anymore. In the meantime, though, Pryce was suddenly in the news again last month. He’s purchased one of the oldest hotels on the Strip. And he’s announced plans to tear it down and build the biggest and most luxurious property that Las Vegas has ever seen. We have not seen the last of Jeff Pryce, by any means.
In “Fiddler On The Roof”, one of Broadways greatest musicals, a poor villager asks the elderly Rabbi if there’s a proper blessing for the Tsar. The Rabbi thinks for a moment, and says: “May God bless and keep the Tsar...far away from us!” And, Dear Reader, that pretty much sums up how I feel about Jeff Pryce.
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