How Do I Get My First Job in Hollywood?

I drove out to Spielberg’s house with Jason Hoffs, a fellow executive at DreamWorks SKG back in the early, glory days of the studio. We were flush with money from Paul Allen and seemed hell-bent on spending it, having recently paid $3 Million for a werewolf script called “Bad Dog” written by Dale Launer. To the best of my knowledge, nobody else was bidding on the script. We simply wrote a check for that amount because we could, and because we wanted to make a statement to the rest of the town that we had arrived and could do whatever we damn well pleased.

But what did I know? I was a kid in my 20s who had somehow stumbled into executive life. I still had no idea what I was doing there, having been recently promoted from the title of Story Analyst to that of Creative Executive. What this meant, in effect, is that I had been given the keys to the Ferrari. The whole thing made little sense. The job of a Story Analyst is to sit in an office, read movie scripts and write something called “coverage.” Think of it as a fancy book report. Each week, the studio would receive dozens (if not hundreds) of scripts and books from writers, agents, managers, producers, and just about anyone else who had a story to sell. It was my job to separate the wheat from the chaff by summarizing the story and providing my opinion on whether I thought it might make a decent movie. It is not a glamorous job. In fact, Story Analysts are generally perceived of as only slightly above trolls; strange creatures who sit in the dark and churn out snide commentary on bad scripts. We were the gatekeepers, and believe me when I say that very few scripts ever made it past my desk.

Creative Executives, on the other hand, are the Golden Retrievers of the film business. We’re the ones who are out there doing the breakfasts, lunches, drinks and dinners (often on the same day) in a never-ending search for that one great script that could make our careers. It’s a social job, a slick job, one that involves glad handing and parties as a means of business currency. At least it did then. It was the 90s and the party was still raging. None of us knew at the time that we were essentially living in Weimar Germany circa 1933. It was all about to come crashing down, but for now we were blissfully unaware of terms like “streaming” and “Netflix.” We were the cool kids. The movie people. Television was for chumps.

The irony is that I wanted to remain a troll. I saw myself as a screenwriter first and foremost, this despite that fact that I had no particular talent or experience at the time. So it came as something of a shock when Adam Goodman (a wunderkind who would go on to become the President of Production at both DreamWorks and Paramount Pictures) poked his head into my office one afternoon.

“Hey, I’m getting promoted to VP. You should take my CE spot.”

I looked up from my computer with what can only be described as vague disinterest. Understand that these are jobs people kill for. Literally. Every assistant in town would have begged Adam to put them up for it. Especially at DreamWorks. The chance to work for Spielberg at the hottest studio in town. Are you kidding me?

“I don’t know,” I responded. “It’s not really my thing.”

My response was perhaps the most inane thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. It’s like the Yankees calling and asking you to play shortstop and you saying “Uh, no thanks.” The answer is “Yes!” A hundred times out of a hundred, Yes! Because no matter who you are or what you want to ultimately do in life, getting a chance to work at a movie studio with the greatest filmmakers in the world is an absolute no brainer. Was my response rooted in ego? Fear? Some likely combination of the two? It’s difficult to say in retrospect, but I remember Adam looking at me strangely for a beat before he shrugged and continued off down the hallway.

Two days later a set of contracts showed up on my desk. I was getting promoted, like it or not. No interviews with anybody. Nobody else even brought in to compete for the job. I can’t emphasize enough how unlikely, even impossible this is. But my ego ultimately got the best of me. “I guess I’m just that good,” I thought to myself as I signed on the dotted line.

*

Jason and I pulled into the driveway of Steven’s house in West LA and were immediately met by security. We were there to discuss a project called “The Ninth Man,” based on the novel by John Lee. The plot centered around a group of German spies in the Second World War who managed to make their way ashore off the coast of Long Island to sabotage a munitions depot. The book was based on a true story, but in reality the saboteurs never made it very far and were quickly apprehended. The novel, however, posited that the plan was all a ruse designed to draw attention away from a bigger German plot designed to assassinate President Roosevelt. 

It was a high-profile project, with Steven attached to direct and Dick Zanuck on board as producer. For those who don’t know, Dick Zanuck was true Hollywood royalty. His father Darryl was an architect of the Hollywood studio system and Dick had produced some of the most successful films of all time, including “Jaws” and “Driving Miss Daisy.” He was also a true mensch, one of my favorite people to work with and a guy who always had time to share a laugh and a good story. (“Did I ever tell you about the time Newman and Redford wanted to switch roles in Butch and Sundance??”) I was a kid who knew nothing about anything but Dick always made me feel included. I’ve never forgotten it.

Dick and screenwriter Blake Masters met us in the driveway and we headed into Steven’s guest house, where he took his meetings on the days he didn’t make it into the studio. I was already nervous and trying desperately not to show it but the ruse ended as I walked through the door and was confronted with a trophy case filled with Oscars. This was all very real. What was I doing here??

We sat around a coffee table and made small talk until Steven entered. Steven’s not a particularly large or loud guy and I’ve never heard him raise his voice, but he commands every room he enters and this was no exception. Steven and Dick chatted amiably for a bit while I forced a nervous smile and nodded along. Finally, Steven gestured my way.

“Dick, do you know Andy? This is Bruce’s nephew.”

I did a double take. Bruce Ramer is Steven’s long-time lawyer and one of the most powerful and respected entertainment attorneys in the business. I spell my name with a “Y.” He does not. I am not Bruce Ramer’s nephew. I have, to this day, never met Bruce Ramer.

It took me a moment to get my bearings. Dick looked at me and smiled. He knew I was from Pennsylvania. And that I had no connection to Bruce whatsoever.

“We’ve met. He’s a good kid.”

And that was it: I was in. The meeting got underway and I remember none of it. Because what I figured out in that moment was the reason why I was promoted in spite of myself. Why the keys to the kingdom were handed over to me, and why there was not so much as a whiff of competition for the job:

I was the beneficiary of accidental nepotism. And I owe my entire career to it.