In life, golf or lunch, revenge is always sweet

Successful people in Hollywood can sometimes be easy to get along with, says Rob Long

A scene from the Jurassic Park franchise, whose latest installment, Jurassic World, is on its way to joining the original among the top 25 movies of all time." Universal Pictures / AP Photo

I’m working on a project with one of the most successful film producers ever. His recent series of films have been some of the biggest box-office winners of the past decade. Two of his movies rank in the top 25 movies of all time.

And yet, he’s still a very nice guy. He’s humble and thoughtful and in many ways defies the stereotype of the powerful movie mogul. He always picks up the bill for lunch – I wouldn’t stand for any other arrangement, of course – but for such a successful producer, he’s managed, as my father used to say, to keep his head screwed on straight. In Hollywood, producers with far smaller fortunes are allowed to behave much, much worse.

We had lunch a day or so ago – right after the release of the mega hit Jurassic World, the Steven Spielberg-produced sequel to his equally successful Jurassic Park – and my friend was depressed. Jurassic World, according to box office reports, was going to knock one of his movies from the "all-time most successful movies" list that people in Hollywood are obsessed with.

In Hollywood – and maybe in every other business – even the nicest, richest, most successful people can be ruthlessly and mercilessly competitive.

“We got killed by a dinosaur movie,” he shouted over his kale salad. “And not even the first one. We got knocked out by the sequel. I’m so bummed. I feel like a failure.”

“You feel like a failure because one of your movies is no longer in the top 25 of all time? What is it, like, number 26?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. And then he gently added, “You don’t know what it’s like to be ...”

“Successful?” I suggested helpfully.

“That’s not what I meant,” my friend said. But of course it is what he meant – not in an unkind way, just as a statement of fact – and so, of course, I forgave him.

I ordered a very expensive lunch, but I forgave him.

It all reminded me of a round of golf I played in 2009 with my then-young godson. He was about seven or eight, and we hacked around the small nine-hole course near my house in Venice Beach. He was extra-excited to play because we had just watched the nail-biting US Open Championship, in which the great left-handed player Phil Mickelson once again came tantalising close to winning the match before putting horribly on the final few holes.

My godson and I played a pretty even round. I am a truly horrendous golfer, but I find that when playing alongside an eight-year-old boy, I can hold my own. On the final hole we were only a few strokes apart, and when we got to the green we were even. (To satisfy your cruel curiosity, I’ll admit that I shanked my shot off the tee, topped the second and third shots to the green, and gave up a three-stroke lead to an eight-year-old boy.)

But once on the green, it was my godson’s turn to unravel. He three-putted his way into the hole and I, triumphant, regained the score for a win.

“I can’t believe I lost!” my young godson lamented. “I don’t know what happened to me. I was putting like … like … like Phil Mickelson.”

Which makes sense if you’re eight. All my godson really knew about Phil Mickelson was that on that Sunday afternoon, at Bethpage Black Golf Club, he hadn’t putted very well. What he didn’t know was that only a very rare nano-fraction of human beings have enough talent to be professional golfers in the first place, and of those very few make the cut to compete in a major tournament, and of that tiny fragment of a slice of a n­ano-fraction of the whole, only eight or so make it to final round on Sunday afternoon.

I didn’t bother to explain that to my godson – he was only eight, as I said, and I was still marching around triumphantly rubbing his nose in his abject defeat – but I did tell the story to my friend the producer.

He listened and nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “The key to everything here is to maintain what they call an ‘attitude of gratitude’. I’m grateful for the successes I’ve been allowed to have and that’s the most important thing.”

I raised my glass of – very expensive, because I ordered it – mineral water and toasted to his philosophy.

"And besides," I added, "your movies are great, but they're really just action movies with cars. Jurassic World has amazing and scary dinosaurs. I mean, it's really an incredible picture. Just so big and gripping and over-the-top. The dinosaurs and the teeth and the suspense. Amazing. I loved it so much I actually saw it twice."

His eyes suddenly narrowed. “You went twice? You bought two tickets?”

I nodded guiltily.

Which was a tactical error, because at that moment the lunch bill arrived. What I’ve since learnt is that competitive and driven people – whether they’re eight-year-old boys or Hollywood mega-producers – will eventually get their revenge.

Since 2009 my godson has brutally humiliated me on the golf course each time we meet there.

And my producer friend made me pay for lunch.

Rob Long is a producer and writer in Hollywood

On Twitter: @rcbl