And so, after Bob Harper, Fox’s head of marketing, saw an early rough cut of Bookworm, he told me it was a very good movie, but, of course, he had some grave concerns. I’m quite sure he gave the same response to Chernin, Mechanic, et al. First, he said, we were going to have to do something about the title, since his gut told him it was going to turn people off. Every time he uttered the word Bookworm, his face would pucker. And, by the way, Harper wanted everyone to know that the demographics were shit. Hadn’t we realized that the favorable audience for Tony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin skewed over 30? And, surely, everyone knew that movies with lots of action skewed under 30. According to my calculations, if Harper’s analyses were right, there would be no age group interested in seeing this movie.

Since marketing is the last stop on a film’s journey, however, the natural inclination is to not piss off the marketing guys. Once Harper had given me his dire prognosis, I was eager to be polite and ooze gratitude.

“Tell me what we should do, Bob.”

“Well, for starters, let’s change that title . . .” He was about to say Bookworm, but the word had become too distasteful.

“Hey, whatever works, you know me.”

I should have lost my producer’s license with that remark.

For the next few weeks, while a trailer was being cut and different one-sheet posters were being prepared, numerous lists of titles were made. Here are some of the choices:

Wild

Wilder

The Wild

Into the Wild

Wilderness Now

Deadhunt

Deadfall

On the Precipice

Over the Precipice

Edge

The Edge

On the Edge

The Bear Roared

The Bear and the Brain

Bloody Betrayal

At one time or another we had everything on this list but If You Come to See This Shitstorm, We’ll Pay You.

I read the list to Mamet over the phone. When I finished, he was only able to utter, “Oh, God.”

Those of you who saw this film on TV or happened to drift into your local cineplex know that we settled on The Edge. As with most collective decisions made in the name of creativity, we ended up choosing a banal solution which, by definition, would be the least provocative and the least objectionable. Years later, I remain so dithered by the process that I can only refer to the film as “the bear movie.”

To my taste, it provided some truly memorable scenes between Hopkins and Baldwin, supported by remarkable writing and able directing. For its opening weekend in September 1997, the film grossed $7.7 million on 2,351 screens, putting it in fourth place. (The No. 1 movie, The Peacemaker, grossed $12.3 million.) No one from the studio called Tamahori or me with the news. Four weeks later, it became apparent that the domestic gross of our picture would settle around $30 million. Hardly a smash hit, and yet not a total wipeout. Compared with recent Fox debacles such as Firestorm, The Newton Boys, or Chain Reaction, we looked virginal.

When I saw Mechanic from my office window on the Tuesday following the opening, I was more than aware that we hadn’t spoken since Friday. He was alone, making the long trek from the administration building to the commissary, dwarfed by the kitschy murals painted on the sides of the large soundstages. As he passed under the 60-foot-high rendering of Darth Vader dueling Luke Skywalker, I decided to intercept him and commiserate.

“Hey, Bill. How’s it going?”

“It’s lunchtime.”

“Sure is.”

He didn’t look quite so sanguine up close.

“I know. I know. It’s not a homer, but I’m thinking, ground-rule double.”

“We’re projecting the movie to lose $10 million,” he said stoically.

“Really.”

“That’s right.”

“You know this even before it’s released internationally?”

“That’s right.”

“Even before the DVD comes out?”

“Pretty much.”

“What if . . .”

“Hear me, we’re going to lose money.”

I assumed, with that sort of forecast, Mechanic must be smarting from his Murdoch/Chernin-inflicted rope burns.

We eyed each other, both of us awkward and unfulfilled. Throughout the entire production, Bill had remained a supportive and generous influence. His disappointment was genuine. In the end, however, he was a victim and a slave to the numbers.

He kept walking.

I wanted to keep it cheery by adding, “Say, Bill, maybe we can call it an infield single?”

But I decided to let it go.

Excerpted from What Just Happened?: Bitter Hollywood Tales from the Front Line, by Art Linson, to be published next month by Bloomsbury; © 2002 by the author.