Major Minor
MAJOR MINOR
I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.
—J. R. R. TOLKIEN, THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING
1994–1995
Matt Stieglitz was leaving Alliance. That was the rumor. No one knew where or when, but what was clear, or at least crystallizing, was that he was done agenting. And what of David Shipp? There was talk he might leave as well. If they both left, many believed that Beanie Rosen at the Sylvan Light Agency would be the top agent in the business.
But no one wanted to believe it more than Beanie Rosen. While she dismissed the rumors as petty gossip, she also fueled them, letting it be known, indirectly of course, that with her list of filmmakers and superstars, no one had bigger reach. And if someone had the balls or ignorance to suggest Moze Goff as the heir apparent, they were dismissed with a disdain that informed exile.
In truth, Beanie’s reputation had grown so large that other agents now vied to put her name next to theirs if only to make themselves or their clients seem more important. That was how rapidly the sands had shifted for her. Her client list was only dwarfed by her reach. And her reach was epic. Suddenly it was her name opening doors in entertainment, in politics, and in education, as institutes of higher learning sought Beanie Rosen to lend her name to their boards, or to give commencement speeches inspiring others. The world recognized her as an accomplished woman who had broken through, who would support other women in their climb.
When she talked about it, and she didn’t often, as the backward glance was still too fresh, she’d recall that a mere ten years earlier she’d been in servitude to a misogynist, pouring her heart into his career, inhaling his drugs and his lies, believing that he would rescue her, until she woke the fuck up and rescued herself.
Now journalists were calling her, asking her to weigh in on whatever industry topic was up for debate. They recognized her not as an agent who siphoned off 10 percent of other people’s income, but as an architect of careers strategizing for others how to break through, how to make their dreams come true. Her story became urban legend: from the Central File clerk to the superstar who represented superstars.
“The sky wasn’t the limit,” she was quoted as saying, “just a resting place.”
Even her mother was proud.
Miriam Spitz, who used to brag that she was the wife of a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, was now the mother of Beanie Rosen, the most successful agent in Hollywood. She no longer criticized or poked or questioned who or if she was dating, and even began complaining about the skinny twins, how they were leeches with their hands constantly out. They weren’t like Beanie, who gave her mother Chanel purses for Chanukah and flew her on the Concorde.
Professionally, Beanie kept her circle tight, working closely with Stevie Lanzetti—and of course Ella Gaddy, who, in the spring of ’94, at the age of thirty-seven, had a baby girl, whom she named Olive.
Shortly after Olive was born, Ella, whose reputation for being fickle was well earned, decided that King’s Road would have one less partner, and left to form her own boutique management company with offices in Los Angeles and Lake Tahoe.
Barry, Howie, and Stevie, who’d relied on her clients to attract others, were shocked and furious, but it made sense to Beanie. Ella was always her own boss and had it not been for Garry Sampson and perhaps Beanie, she’d have left Sylvan Light and the structure of a company long ago. It was only a matter of time until she found her way to running her own shop, answering to no one. She flew to LA once a month, bringing Olive who, like Ella, was lanky and long with strawberry curls and a face full of freckles, and would stay with Beanie in her Nichols Canyon home.
Ella was happy and Beanie was happy, and their mutual clients were happy, most specifically Scott Westman, who in September 1994, opened his film The Adventures of , which he wrote, directed, and produced to rave reviews and massive box office success, solidifying the fact that he was a triple threat—perhaps bigger than Eastwood.
Westman had poured five years of his life into , writing and rewriting, terrified to do it, terrified not to. He assembled a cast of some of the biggest stars, including Tom Cruise, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jack Nicholson, Al Pacino, and Adrienne Seabergh. It was for him, an opus of sorts: a story about faith and destiny, questioning if the grass was really greener on the other side of life, or just a different shade. It’s a Wonderful Life meets Heaven Can Wait, The Adventures of was a resounding success, and not just for Westman, but for the two ex-secretaries who had pushed and sweated and argued and finagled a way to getting this very expensive fantasy film financed and produced. And they had done it together as partners and friends and equals. It was a stunning triumph, putting a cherry atop not just Westman’s career, but Beanie’s and Ella’s as well.
Beanie, riding the wave of his triumph, had more power and more money than she’d ever dreamed, and all that was left on her to-do list that year was to make sure the agency didn’t fire Sheila Day before giving her the board seat they were supposed to have given her two years earlier. After Moze had left, quickly followed by Ella, Howie, and Barry, the board had reconsidered the accelerated seat and informed Sheila’s attorneys that they wouldn’t even revisit a discussion until 1995, as per her original agreement.
Sheila, almost sixty-four, was out of bargaining chips. All that was left was leveraging the heat of others, specifically Beanie Rosen, who had enough clout with the boys on the first floor to give her that leg up and in. For Beanie, Jamie, Hawkeye, and any woman who’d dreamed of a seat at the only table that mattered, Sheila had to get in, and they had to make sure she did.
So, after the Westman premiere in September 1994, Beanie flew to New York and had a sit-down with Stu Lonshien and Nat Rosenthal, two of the most lucid and powerful board members, to make sure Sheila was still on track.
Lonshien and Rosenthal assured Beanie that they understood how important Sheila was not only to her but to the agency, and promised that they were keeping an open mind. Still, they suggested it wouldn’t hurt if Sheila could sign a star, implying, not so subtly, that she hadn’t in quite a while.
“I’ll ask Cruise for lunch,” Sheila said, upon hearing their veiled threat. She’d said it so casually, as if ordering a sandwich from Salami ’N’ Cheese, that Beanie presumed she was kidding. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Beanie, who had just flown back from New York, was sitting in Sheila’s office with Gil Amati, Jamie Garland, and Hawkeye.
Amati laughed. Sheila didn’t.
“Why shouldn’t he want to have lunch with me? I’m a good get, and I pick up the check,” she said, pausing for comedic effect, then adding, “Sometimes.”
No one expected Cruise to take Sheila’s call, not on the first try, so the other faces in her office reflected stunned admiration as her male assistant’s voice announced over the intercom, “Tom Cruise on one.”
Tom Cruise, arguably one of the most talented and powerful actors in the world, was laughing and charmed within seconds.
It’s as if he was waiting for her call, Beanie thought in awe as she witnessed the ease with which Sheila steered the conversation, demonstrating her wit, skill, and innate talent to woo talent.
Sheila and Cruise had met a few times in passing and had spent a few days together when she was visiting her ex-client Sydney Pollack on the set of The Firm. She knew she could make him laugh. She knew he liked her and was properly respectful and deferential for all she had done. And most importantly, she knew that he considered her one of the greats who had known the greats, and Sheila played into it, recalling anecdotes about Hackman and Brando and McQueen and how Cruise was both similar yet different, carving out his own legend for future artists to emulate.
Then she’d find her way to her signature move, praising the wife, praising him for choosing the wife, and the ultimate closer, praising them both for the work they had done together. There could be no better affirmation of a couple than cementing their artistry alongside the greats like Olivier and Leigh, Hepburn and Tracy, Newman and Woodward.
“Honeeeey, sign the spouse,” Beanie could hear Sheila saying on a loop as she listened to Sheila heap praise on Far and Away, a film Cruise and Kidman had done a few years earlier, reminding Beanie that compliments were a currency that could pay in dividends if you knew how to give them. There was an art to bestowing praise, and Sheila, sincere without being effusive, wickedly funny, brilliantly erudite, was Picasso.
Deeply humbled by talent, Sheila found the balance between bullshit and hyperbole. By the end of the call, she had secured a dinner at Cruise’s home followed by a private screening of his newest film Interview with the Vampire.
Perhaps all Sheila needed, Beanie thought, in awe of what she’d just witnessed, was someone to show her a glimpse of who she could be by reminding her who she was . Sheila still had it. And that was important to Beanie. She did not want to see the giant fall.
Over the next few months Sheila Day came alive, sending Cruise books, articles, ideas, anything to keep the conversation going without looking obvious, or worse, desperate. But given the fact that he hadn’t been looking for an agent, she was keenly aware of the dance, never pushing so hard that she’d repel him.
“I’m close,” she said to Beanie that Christmas after the Cruises sent her eight gorgeous Baccarat crystal goblets. “I can feel it.” All she needed was an organic opportunity to let Cruise see her in action. Four weeks later, the opportunity presented itself.
In early January 1995, The Adventures of was nominated for nine Academy Awards, including three for Scott Westman: best director, best writer, and best actor. He was a landslide favorite to win, and Ella and Beanie decided to throw a party in his honor.
Ella, who was supposed to fly in and co-host, was having difficulty with her second pregnancy and was advised by her doctor to stay put. Since she’d be flying to California six weeks later for the Oscars, her doctor advised she not risk two trips so close together.
Beanie was more than capable of doing it alone, as it was to be a relatively small dinner for seventy-five at her Nichols Canyon home. She had planned on reviewing the guest list with Ella, but Ella was preoccupied with Olive and bedrest, and just told Beanie to review with Scott so his friends, most of whom were teamsters, were included.
“And then,” Ella said, “invite whoever the hell you want. It’s our party, too, Bean!”
A few days later, Beanie got a call from Sheila Day, who had emailed Tom Cruise a funny article and received a response immediately, asking if he would see her at Beanie’s that Saturday.
Sheila, who hadn’t even known about the party, quickly vamped, telling him she was looking forward to it.
“Why would you say that?” Beanie asked, annoyed.
“Why wouldn’t I?” replied Sheila.
Beanie took a deep breath and reminded Sheila, though it made her deeply uncomfortable, that her deal with Ella was that Sheila never got involved with their mutual clients.
“Honeeeey,” she said, “did the cunt say I couldn’t occupy the same airspace?”
Beanie didn’t respond.
“Apologies,” Sheila corrected, “I meant to say, fucking cunt.”
Beanie hung up.
Sheila called back, promising she wouldn’t even look at Westman. She was begging now, saying that this could close Cruise.
Beanie argued that the board seat was all but guaranteed regardless of Cruise. She wouldn’t let them back down. Neither would Jamie.
But this no longer was about a board seat for Sheila. This was about proving something to herself, to the agency, to the industry, to everyone who’d wanted to retire her, to shut her down simply because they could. She wasn’t ready to stop, not nearly. “I could sign him,” Sheila whispered. “Please.”
There was something desperate about this request. As if the granting of it was a life-or-death situation, and perhaps for Sheila Day, it was. Everything came down to this one evening with Cruise. “I promise,” she whispered to Beanie, “Scott Westman won’t even know I’m there.”
Unfortunately, others did.
Twinkly lights dotted the lemon trees as just under one hundred people, stars, teamsters, and studio heads ate, passed hors d’oeuvres, and then feasted on a buffet of sole meunière, filet mignon, scalloped potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise, and a pasta station all beautifully prepared by Janice Rosen’s Good Eats.
Beanie, who never tasted a morsel, had been taking diet pills for the past several months in order to fit into her Christian Dior gown for the Oscars, and was already back at her fighting weight of 141 pounds and had selected for the evening a royal-blue Calvin Klein sheath dress, with a slit up the side showing off her slender legs, and matching Manolo Blahniks to elongate them. She wore her thick hair in a long French braid to highlight her newly rediscovered cheekbones, along with her sparkly new four-carat diamond earrings that she had gifted herself from Tiffany’s.
“You bought retail!” her mother had shrieked, citing Rabbi Schnitzer’s brother-in-law who worked in the Diamond District and would have given Beanie a substantial discount.
But Beanie didn’t care, telling her mother if she played her cards right, she’d get her something from Cartier for her next birthday. Not surprisingly, Miriam immediately complimented the jewelry.
Beanie Rosen felt thin, chic, and put together as guests mingled around the outdoor firepit or roamed the flowering manicured trails of her property which, since she’d bought the land next door, was now over two acres, with a tennis court, pool, and guest house that was being renovated.
She only saw Sheila once that evening, right when she had first arrived.
“Honeeeey,” Sheila had said, taking in Beanie’s home, the catering, the guest list, “I couldn’t have done it better myself.” Then she thought about it and redacted, telling her that that wasn’t true, she would have had less people, better lighting, and done a sit-down, as buffets were “taaaaaaacky.”
Beanie, unoffended, laughed, and it was then that she realized Sheila was just a different version of Miriam. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to her. Beanie was constantly trying to gain approval from both women who held it back just enough to keep her trying.
True to her word, Sheila never went near Westman, spending all her time with Tom Cruise, holding court, escorting him, introducing him, charming him, and Beanie hoped, for Sheila’s sake, signing him.
For much of the evening, Beanie was focused on Westman, making sure he had a great time, introducing him to a few industry heavyweights whom she’d invited, meeting many of the teamsters he’d invited, and just hanging out around the firepit in the white Adirondack chairs with Hermes blankets provided by her houseman.
Westman liked her, she knew that, but that night he seemed to like her more. He was laser focused on her in a way he had never been before, not letting her out of his sight.
“Where’d you go, Bean?” he asked after she’d left to say goodbye to the head of Paramount Studios.
“Just showing people the door,” she told him.
“They can find it themselves,” he said, putting his arm around her proprietarily and not removing it. He held her closely, naturally as they walked around greeting people like they were a couple, which Beanie rationalized made him feel more secure. Ella and he had more of a familiarity, so normally she’d have been the one walking with him, touching him. For quite a while the town had assumed that Ella and Westman were an item, and they were until they weren’t. But they had an ease that informed a deep connection.
Beanie had no such ease. She was self-conscious when his hand would accidentally graze her breasts and her nipples would stiffen. She tried to adjust, but each time she did his fingers would find them again. It was dark enough, and no one could see, but she realized by the third or fourth time that it was no accident.
She was aroused, and he was arousing her, and they both knew it.
While industry heavyweights talked box office and ate pigs in a blanket, the biggest star in the world was toying with his agent, telling her how sexy she looked, and though she knew it was wrong and hoped he’d stop, her panties said otherwise.
People began clearing out around eleven, and by midnight everyone had gone except Scott who, by that time, was wantonly rubbing his hands up and down her sheath dress, pressing against her so she could feel his desire.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“You’re right,” he answered, and there in the backyard under the lemon trees heavy with fruit, and in front of the steam coming off the pool, he kissed her full on, and she kissed him back.
“I always wanted to do that,” he told her lustily, holding her chin. He looked at her, waiting for permission, as she teetered on the precipice of right or wrong, client or lover.
Her knees were weak, her nipples hard as she leaned into him, giving enough of a green light to give them both relief. Beanie arched her back as he slid off her sheath dress and got on his knees, kissing and nuzzling her crotch. He laid her back on the grass as he continued the foreplay with Beanie writhing, moaning, and lost in an ecstasy she hadn’t enjoyed since Moze.
Dizzy from multiple orgasms, she reached for Westman to reciprocate, but he just smiled.
“Let’s go for a swim,” he said, kicking off his cowboy boots and jeans.
Beanie had only been in her pool twice, and both times were to cool off. Now was no exception. Their lovemaking was erotic and lustful, starting in the pool and finding its way to Beanie’s room, her houseman later making sure all evidence was folded, pressed, and hung.