hawley roddick

writer, co-author, ghostwriter, editor, book doctor

David Brown

A True Story

When David Brown died at 93 in 2010, I posted my memories of him on my Open Salon blog. Here the story provides a glimpse of my memoir-writing style.

A Fond Farewell to David Brown, Producer of Jaws

David Brown, producer of such memorable films as Jaws, The Sting, and Driving Miss Daisy, is dead at 93. We're lucky he lived so long and left such fine work behind. But that doesn't soften sadness that he is gone.

My mother once asked me, "What is David Brown really like? On television talk shows, he seems like such a pussycat, but no one that rich and successful is as nice as he appears to be."

I replied, "What can I tell you? He's a pussycat. He's one of the nicest people I've ever known."

How, you may wonder, did a non-celebrity like me, know David? I met him first when I worked at Cosmopolitan, and his wife, Helen Gurley Brown, ran the magazine. I knew him better when I was married to the publisher of Avon Books. Both Cosmo and Avon were owned by the Hearst Corporation. My husband and Helen were friends as well as colleagues, so we two couples saw each other from time to time.

The summer when David was filming Jaws on Martha's Vineyard, my husband, son, and I were vacationing there. David invited all three of us to dinner at the inn where he and associates, including the young Steven Spielberg, were staying; Helen remained in Manhattan. Before dinner, my family and I were with David in the lounge when Steven appeared in jeans and a baseball cap, walked purposefully up to David, and said, "I know what to do about Bruce." (Mechanical difficulties with Bruce the Shark were frustratingly serious.)

David smiled skeptically.

Steven said, "We'll make a mechanical whale that will eat the shark!"

David, grinning, said, "Get out of here, Steven."

Steven, grinning, exited. My son still remembers that when he was four, he met Steven Spielberg.

That evening during dinner, David told us ruefully that he had just been informed by Universal Studios that his was the first film to go one hundred percent over budget. He said if Jaws failed, he'd probably be broke and unemployable. And Helen had told him she doubted the film would work, "Because all you've got are three men and a fish."

But David turned hopeful. "I've taken chances before that paid off. Once I spent my last $500 on engraved stationery from Tiffany. I wanted to look successful. I became successful."

A year after our dinner with David, Jaws had made the Browns several million dollars richer. But at a private screening of the film for Hearst Corporation executives and their spouses, I was, much to my embarrassment, the only one who shrieked when Bruce made his first appearance. Film editor Verna Fields had ramped up the tension by making sure we saw the shark seldom and only at his best, and I fell for it — well, hook, line, and sinker.

Some years later, my husband and I were having dinner with David and Helen in a Manhattan restaurant. David glanced sidewise, and his face lit up with that wonderful smile as he said, "Hi, Greg!" My head swiveled automatically, and I was staring at Gregory Peck seated at the next table. I did not shriek that time, at least not aloud. But I nearly swooned. My friends and I, as little girls, had sung to the tune of "The Girl That I Marry:"
    The man that I marry will have to be
    As strong and as handsome as Gregory.

And now I was dining at a table neighboring his (he was with his beautiful wife, Veronique, but never mind). I had seen him. In person. Gregory Peck. Thanks to David Brown.

As time passed, I, as the wife of a corporate biggie, was always surprised when people treated me as a player. For instance, when my husband, son, and I were staying at the Ritz in Paris, the concierge told me he couldn't possibly get us dinner reservations at Le Grand Vefour that night and implied that I shouldn't make such outrageous requests. Disappointed, I said, "Well, if anything opens up, will you make a reservation for two for [and I mentioned my husband's name]?"

After a brief pause, the concierge said reprovingly, "Madame. Why didn't you tell me who you are? You will have the reservation."

The Ritz concierge saw me as Somebody, and I'm glad I went along with the gag, because dinner was too sublime for words. So was lunch at Le Grand Vefour the next day, when we included our friend Liz Rich, who lived in Paris, and our young son, who enjoyed the meal so much that he told us later there are two great restaurants in the world: Le Grand Vefour and McDonald's.

The digression to Paris serves a purpose here: I want to convey how startled and pleased I was when Helen Gurley Brown called and said David would like to meet Bill Rogers, and would I ask Bill if David could take him and his wife, Adele (my mother's best friend), to dinner at 21 with Helen, my husband, and me? William P. Rogers had been attorney general under Eisenhower and secretary of state (before Kissinger) under Nixon. David Brown was a Hollywood legend in his own time. And I was the power broker asked to arrange for them to meet? Calling on the stature I'd gained in Paris, I said casually, "Sure, I'll call Adele."

I'd known the Rogers all my life and loved them even as much as I would have if they'd been Democrats.

Adele said she'd ask Bill. Bill said fine. I called Helen and said fine. That, in case you yourself have never acted as a power broker, is how these things work. We six had a wonderful dinner at 21 and I savored my favorite 21 dish, steak tartare (a heavenly savagery). The conversation was as delightful as the food.

Now let's move on from dining with David to interviewing David. While I was working on my book Writing That Means Business for Macmillan, where my editor was George Walsh, who (to bring this story full circle) had been my boss at Cosmo, I interviewed successful people about effective business writing. Two of these people were Helen and David.

Helen's excellent advice: "Always put what you need in terms of what your reader wants."

David's advice took shape as an anecdote: "Never send anything you have written when you're angry. I'm fortunate to have an executive assistant who refuses to let me send anything I write in a rage. She holds onto it, sometimes for a day, until I calm down and rewrite diplomatically. If you write angrily, your reader becomes defensive. Defensive people are in no mood to cooperate, because they're too busy trying to repair their ego. Always leave a reader you disagree with room to turn around and agree with you without losing face."

That is one more talent of which David was a master: not hurting people.

As will so many others, I will miss him.