Tod Lippy: How did you get involved in the agency business? My understanding is you didn’t start out in the mailroom...

Sam Cohn: I went to law school, like everybody goes to law school—there comes a time when you’re graduating from college and somebody says, “So what are you going to do next?” You don’t have the slightest idea, so you opt for three more years of avoidance. After that, I got a job here in CBS’s legal department. After a while, I became a so-called business-affairs person. When the head of programming at that time, Hubbell Robinson, left CBS to become a producer, he invited me and another fellow there, Tom Ryan, to go with him. MCA became our agents, and they sold a series of, I think, thirty-nine specials to the Ford Motor Company, in the person of a guy named Sonny Werblin, who later created the Jets. He promised Ford that those 39 programs were going to have thirty-nine of the MCA stars in them. You know, Marilyn Monroe, etc. etc.—a whole list of them. And we managed to produce six or seven programs quite brilliantly, and the other thirty-two… well, they just weren’t there. Without the machinery of CBS behind him, Hubbell couldn’t do it. So MCA took it over, and I’m sure rebated an enormous amount of money to the Ford Motor Company.
   So Tom and I decided to leave the company, and Hubbell remained on with MCA as his agent and financiers, and he made extremely generous settlements with us. We started a little company making prestigious specials—which we had just proved we didn’t know how to do. That lasted for about a year, and then there was a company—still is—called Goodson-Todman, which was the king of the game shows, and the senior partner of an entertainment law firm called Marshall, Bratter, Greene, Allison & Tucker, had just died—well, the details are irrelevant. Mark Goodson or Bill Todman offered me the chance to become general counsel of that company, which I declined—I didn’t want to serve one master—so I think the law firm got wind of it, and contacted me and asked me if I wanted to go there. I really didn’t want to practice law, so I made a ridiculous proposal—which they accepted, because they wanted to help the client, I guess. I went there, and ironically ended up doing some work for Goodson-Todman. And I started to work with a client of the firm’s named Herbert Siegel, who had started acquiring talent agencies—one of the first was General Artists Corporation. I worked on this acquisition, and because I’d produced a couple of off-Broadway plays—

You were producing around the same time?

No, during the time I was at CBS. Red Eye of Love, which actually was good, and, oh, a whole bunch—maybe five. On an avocational basis, because I couldn’t bear what I was doing at CBS. I’d be working on contracts for programs that had been broadcast a year earlier. It was like being in a Russian play.
   So I started working for Herb, and started getting entwined in the business, so he suggested that I should come and work for him for a year or so. I did that, and that’s how I first got involved—just as an advisor to him. Then I got more deeply involved, and Herb decided to make a bid to acquire Paramount Pictures, and immediately Paramount sued us and said you couldn’t be an agency and a motion-picture producer—you cannot be an employer and an agent at the same time. Which made sense—we knew that was going to happen—so I organized a group, including myself, to buy the agency from Herb. That’s how I really got in deep water, because I was not going back to the firm having become a principal in the ownership of the company.
   Prior to Herb’s leaving we had acquired a number of other agencies—small ones, whose names I can’t remember—because in the middle of all of this, in ’62 or ’63, came the breakup of MCA, when between the government and SAG they essentially forced MCA to make an election between producing television and motion pictures or being an agent. MCA elected to go into the production business, and the agency broke up. There were a lot of splinter groups, some of which we acquired. So that’s how I became an agent.

My understanding is that in this period of the early sixties, General Artists (GAC) was best-known for representing nightclub acts.

We had a big so-called “personal appearance” area. The Copacabana, for example, was a big source of income. I guess that’s called “variety entertainment.” I really didn’t have that much to do with it. We also had a theater department—nothing to compare with MCA’s—which was oddly enough acquired by International Famous Agency, whom we ultimately merged with to form ICM a decade later. IFA’s department was run by Audrey Wood and Phyllis Jackson, two distinguished practitioners of the theater. I mean, elegant, tasteful people who represented really the major playwrights of the United States. When we got together, it was the twilight of these women. They were wonderful, wonderful people.

Did you first begin representing clients at GAC?

Oh, yes. My first client was Jackie Gleason. PHC was his agent. The guy who was responsible for him left the company, and Herb said to me: “You’re Jackie Gleason’s agent.” So I got on a plane—I’ll never forget, it was the Lindbergh plane—and we flew to Fred Waring’s country-club resort place in Pennsylvania. I introduced myself as his new agent, and he couldn’t have been nicer. We had a relationship that went on until he died. It was a wonderful experience. He probably went to the seventh or eighth grade. You know, I thought he was a genius. He was very generous and honest and absolutely conservative politically. A Nixonite. But honest as the day is long. I can remember so many things that I learned from him.

Such as?

Well, he once said to me—he was about to go out and do one of those hour-long Honeymooners—“I’ll give you a thousand dollars if there’s a prop on the set that I haven’t used by the time I’m finished.” I didn’t get my thousand dollars….And he used to do a monologue during the beginning part of the show, where he’d come out and sit down with the little teacup which was supposed to be full of booze. The writers would write the monologue and he would insist that they slip it under the door. He would read one after another—and I would be sitting by him sometimes when he did—and just continue to turn them down, send them back. One time I just felt so bad for the writers, I said, “Jackie, c’mon, that’s the five-hundredth one of those you’ve gotten.” He said, “Listen, Sam, if you think it’s so funny, why don’t you go out and do it.”
   I remembered CBS wanted to have a morals clause in his contract—if he committed a felony, did this or that, etc.—and he said, “You know what? I’ll sign this if Bill Paley will sign one.” That was the end of that. Anyway, those were wonderful years with him. He was a real genius. I mean, the formula of the half-hour Honeymooners was so simplistic-seeming, but you know, it’s a little bit like Eugene O’Neill. You go to see Long Day’s Journey, and the first hour, you’re sitting there thinking to yourself, “This guy couldn’t pass a high-school writing class,” and then, suddenly, it overwhelms you. It was that kind of thing. When you see that embrace that came at the end of every episode, it’s really moving.

Did your work with Gleason serve as a model for future client relationships for you?

Well, he was pretty singular. But I’ve been lucky. When I began, I really never dreamed that I’d work with some of these people, like Arthur Miller, Edgar Doctorow, Bobby Fosse, Paddy Chayefsky. And lots of the actors, too: Sigourney, Meryl for a long time, Susan Sarandon. Bill Irwin. You know, it’s been very gratifying.

Have you ever been tempted to become a producer?

There have been occasions where people, particularly Bobby Fosse, would ask if I’d like to produce their movies. I remember saying to him, “Look, Bobby, if I became a producer, my job would be to come in in the morning, make sure the coffee was hot, stand around all day while you shot the movie, go to the rushes—and if I made a comment that displeased you, you’d throw me out.” I don’t want to live life that way. I’d rather be an independent person, free to express my views, free to involve myself in the exciting moments—you know, with the script and the casting, the cutting, the release and the marketing and all those things, and not have to be essentially part of a one-man band. And also, to go through the agony of being on a movie set without a specific role—you know, the long periods of time.

How about becoming a studio executive?

No. I never wanted to live in California. I really couldn’t do that—I just wouldn’t. And not because I hate it. I always used to say—whether it’s true or not—that probably I’m just afraid I’d go out there and in two months or something I’d be driving around in a Porsche with a glove compartment filled with God-knows-what and a 16-year-old girl at my side. So maybe that was it—I knew myself too well.
   But I’ve never really liked the environment there. I wouldn’t go to Hollywood for the same reason I sold my house in East Hampton.

Because most of Hollywood is now there all summer long?

Well, Hollywood and other Masters of the Universe. That environment just doesn’t work for me.

Do you spend much time in L.A.?

I used to go out there more often, but I go out very infrequently anymore. I’m flying out next week, but it’s to see a rough cut. That’s what I go there for mostly these days. You know, in terms of making a deal, it’s really not that important with all of this stuff [Points to computer, fax.] As a matter of fact, it’s counterproductive—you’re dancing to someone else’s tune, and you’re in a hurry to get back.
    I’m a little bit like Woody. I like it here. The biorhythms are good for me.

Do you think the business is run differently here than it is there?

Yeah. Well, that’s not fair. In the first place, 80 percent of it is there. And 90 percent of the decision-makers are there. But certainly, locally, it’s different. Also, I spend a lot of time in theater, which is located here. And in many ways, the theater is a much more marginalized business than the motion-picture or television business.
   But I don’t want to exaggerate, because there are a lot of difficult people in and around the theater, and it’s changed from the days of the Robert Whiteheads, Robby Lantzes, people like that. But the ethos is still different. Not everybody cares about the work, but more people do than in film or television. People have higher aspirations. Also, for me it’s much more exciting because it’s a plastic art form—you know, you can continue working and changing.

You say that 90 percent of the decision-makers are in California. Would you say New York played a more central role in the ’60s and ’70s?

Well, not really. I guess Paramount was here, but not for long. United Artists was here until the end of Orion—the lamentable end of Orion. But it was never really central—in my time, anyway. I think in an earlier generation even than mine it was a different story. But the so-called creative stuff was always centered in Hollywood. And the so-called front office was here—the people who controlled the money, dealt with the shareholders, held the reins in their hands. And there was always that tension between the two.

Just to back up with a second—could you talk briefly about the series of mergers that led to the formation of ICM?

Well, first GAC merged with CMA—Creative Management Associates—the principals of which were David Begelman and Freddie Fields. The purpose there was to get more involved with so-called movie stars. And from my point of view, you know, to put a little pepper in the steak, if you know what I mean. To be challenged. And I liked Freddie a lot; David was difficult. And then we merged with International Famous—that was ’74, and became ICM.

Were you shifting into film at that point?

No, I was already representing film clients.

Who were your first?

Fosse was one. I think he was already at IFA—maybe in the theater division. I remember Stevie Phillips was somehow involved. And Robert Benton, and Woody. Oh, a whole bunch of people…

How did you get involved with Woody Allen?

We represented him, I think, as a variety performer. He was a big success in clubs and things, and hated it. So I became friendly with his managers, and they let me know he wanted to do film. Edgar Scherick, who ran ABC Films, financed the first movie, which was Take the Money and Run. And for the second movie, Bananas, and God knows how many more, David Picker was the guy, at UA. Then when Transamerica forced Krim and Benjamin out, and they made their first Orion deal with Warner’s, I was still involved in that. Then they became independent. And fortunately, I really felt it was a shitty situation, so our deal—Woody’s deal—with Orion provided that if there were a material change in Arthur Krim’s position or power, he could leave, which, when there was a bankruptcy, really allowed him to get out. Lucky thing, because a lot of people got stuck trying to unglue themselves. I loved representing Woody.

He left you for William Morris in 1998 after a thirty-year relationship. Are you still representing him in any way?

No. We’re still friends. He’s a wonderful artist. You know, with these relationships, I understand, even if I feel I’ve done a superb job, that it’s work. I guess that’s my background as a lawyer. I really can’t rage at people because they’ve decided their circumstances require something else. People think I’m nuts on that score. So what.

Yet you’ve been described as harboring an “eye-watering loyalty” to your clients.

Well, that’s nice to know. I’m the wrong person to ask about that.

Are there particular personality traits an agent should have?

Personality traits… You know, some of the agents, and I’m not going to name any of them, whom I’ve met over the years, and who have huge and important client lists—I would never let them near me when and if I needed the services of an agent. But that was also the case when I was a lawyer: the rainmakers ruled the day, even though some of them were almost incompetent. They had a way of relating to clients, bringing them in, while the guys in the back room were doing the actual work. So, the “personality traits,” to use your phrase, that help people acquire enormous and important client lists sometimes have very little to do with their actual accomplishments.
   I mean, the ideal agent is somebody who—well, I guess there are a few things involved. One is to understand the business and be able to make an effective and protective deal. It’s not a mystery; it’s not that difficult to learn. There are intricacies involved in the equity positions, and the profit stuff, and one does occasionally get involved in unusual and interesting things, but I’m talking about the basic business aspects of making up the deal. You need to understand distribution, with respect to almost everything. How a play is distributed, how a book is distributed, how a movie is distributed, how a television show is distributed. Because, for example, in television, as you well know, if you have a wonderful show and it gets programmed opposite a huge success, it’s a toxic decision. But they have to put something in those places, so you’re often fighting with the networks or the cable networks not to be in one of those spots.
   You should have a real knowledge of marketing—for example, when it’s appropriate for a certain kind of movie to be released. For example, even though we weren’t very successful in our plan, the way Map of the World was distributed was to get it into theaters by early December for Oscar consideration, which almost happened, and deservedly so. A great performance, and the debut of an interesting director. Anyway, that’s just an example. That’s number two.
   Number three is, I think it’s important to be literate, in the true meaning of that word. To be able to read and advise. Also to have the courage of your convictions, and not to be a go-alonger. To say to somebody, “I’m sorry, I know how passionate you are, and you may be right, but it’s my duty to advise you that this is a big mistake.” That’s the hardest thing. Also, the hardest thing is to bring the bad news. That was the hardest lesson for me, at least.

You mean when a deal has fallen through, or someone hasn’t gotten the job?

Exactly. It’s not a problem for me anymore, but it was a terrible problem for me early on. It’s an analytic issue. One feels guilty, even though it’s such an inappropriate feeling. When Jackie’s career went through some arid stretches, I got to the point where I couldn’t bear to talk to him, because I didn’t have any good news. And he called me and said, “Listen, I know how badly you feel, but believe me, I’d rather hear from you and get the unvarnished truth.” That was a terrific lesson, but a hard lesson for me to learn.

Any other tough lessons?

Well, I don’t want to name the people—but sometimes you represent two people on the same project. I was in a situation once where, essentially, it was understood that an actress client of mine was going to play the part. And there was a reading of the script, and afterwards, the director—also a client—said to me, “I think I’ve made a mistake, and I’m not going to cast her. Please treat this confidentially.” I said, “Well, I can’t withhold that information for long, but if you promise me you’ll deliver this yourself…” And a day went by and it didn’t happen, and then another day went by and it didn’t happen, and I didn’t really do what I should have done, which was to say, “Well, I’m sorry, but I need to tell my client.” It led to a very serious thing—the actress called me when she finally learned about it and asked me if I’d known about this. I told her I had, and she left me. And she was right, even though we had a long, enormously successful relationship.
   A terrible lesson. You really have to have the emotional strength to counsel against something that somebody’s passionate to do, and to give them all the information that you have as quickly as you get it. Always. And if somebody says, “I’m telling you this on a confidential basis,” and it involves a client of yours, you have to say, “I’m so sorry, but you should have known this.” I don’t know how to deal with that situation; it’s still a tough one. I think that the way I did it, at the beginning, was correct—it was my follow-through that was awful. I should have said, “Okay, I’ll give you the rest of the day to tell her.” Not enforcing it was a big mistake.

Would you say that the agent-and-client relationship has other analogues, like, for instance, that of parent and child?

That way lies death. I had a client whom I loved—still do—but who got me confused with his father. That had never happened to me before. I went to see—at his request—his therapist seven or eight times, got involved in advising him on how to create a really marvelous rent-controlled apartment, stuff like that. He eventually came to me and said, “I’m sorry, I had real problems with my father, and I’m getting them confused with you.” It was a tough one.

It seems that it could be a very emotional relationship.

Well, not in every case.

But you’re good friends with a number of your clients…

I am. And then there are some clients who, in fifteen years, I’ve maybe had dinner with twice. But not because I don’t like them; it’s just because we’re in different orbits. And I feel it’s my prerogative to choose my friends.

You never worry about a potential “business/pleasure” problem?

No. I don’t think it makes any difference. In fact, I’d say just the opposite. That’s the great pleasure of the job. If my personal, social life wasn’t intertwined with my business life, I don’t think I would be doing it. I would have done something else a long time ago.

I know you’re loathe to use the word, but many have credited you with started the whole “packaging” trend that reached its apogee at CAA in the ’80s.

Not really—I never did that.

But a film like Eyewitness had, I think, five or six of your clients in it. Peter Yates directed, Steve Tesich wrote it, Sigourney Weaver, Christopher Plummer, Irene Worth—they all were your clients at the time, right?

True. Well, I don’t think we represented Irene at the time. Peter and Steve—their relationship came from Breaking Away. I had actually given Steve’s original script to Peter because I liked it a lot. Then Peter had the idea of merging that script, called The Cutters, with another one of Steve’s, and then they became good friends after that. So there wasn’t any packaging, because there’s no economic advantage to it, really, except that it’s a job.
   I mean, what “packaging” connotes to me is putting different elements of an artistic work together regardless of the appropriateness of the elements. I refuse to say I’ve ever done that—I really mean that. If somebody calls and I feel that a non-ICM client is the best choice, I’ll tell them. And I’ll tell them on two levels: one, on a certain level of pride; but secondly, if you make good and valid suggestions to people, when it comes time to honestly recommend a client. you’ve got real access. If, on the other hand, you make a suggestion from a list of people that varies anywhere from Cher to Irene Worth, you know, it’s absurd. I have pretty good access with most directors because they know, even though I may be wrong, that I’m not just “flogging the list,” as it were.
   In other words, if I represent a director or a star, and there’s a project he or she wants to do, it’s one thing to shoehorn the people you represent into it to make as much commission money as you can. I’m sure there are many, many agents who don’t do that—I don’t mean to say I’m the exception—but you need to talk about the right people. I mean, we all put movies together. But with Ovitz, the motivation was different.

What do you make of the whole Art of War metaphor as applied to the agenting business?

I find it abhorrent. It doesn’t seem to exist here, in this little group of people. But it’s almost opera buffa, that kind of stuff.

In a New Yorker profile from the early ’80s, you were described as being “the single most important force of the motion-picture business in New York.”

Not really. Never was.

But you’ve wielded, and continue to wield, enormous power; it’s hard to argue with that.

The basic psychological crisis that exists for all people is that distance between what you think is the essence of yourself and what others perceive. And closing that distance, and making yourself an integrated human being, I suppose is the big casino. I haven’t succeeded. I just don’t have that self-image, and I’m not being modest. It’s nice to hear it. Maybe if I hired a chorus to sit around all day and keep saying it, I might actually believe it.
   It’s not that I can’t be aggressive and all of that, you know, when somebody’s “doing” me, but I don’t feel like a center of power. I don’t. Nor do I feel denuded of it. I feel like I’m intelligent and articulate, and I try very hard—it’s my wish—to be well-informed, about the business as well as the art of it. You know, the first section of the paper I read in the morning is the business section, so that indicates something.

How do you come across material? Do you read a lot of manuscripts, a lot of screenplays?

I have to read a lot of stuff. And I’m slow. I’ve been reading a new novel by Philip Roth—whom I don’t represent, but one of my clients is interested in the movie possibilities. It’s called The Human Stain—isn’t that a wonderful title?—and it’s taken me four weekend afternoons to read it. You know, when I start to read something, I finish it. And I’ve never used coverage. What’s the point? If you read it and say to yourself, “Gee, this sounds terrific,” how do you really know? And the same with the opposite—how do you know the person who’s written the coverage is intelligent? Maybe he’s wrong.
   But there’s only so much time. And I’m busy every night. I go to the ballet a lot, to theater a lot. Music a great deal. There’s much more of that here.

Do you see a lot of movies? I remember reading a quote of yours from a while ago about seeing at least 100 a year.

Oh, yeah.

Do you attend screenings?

I go to screenings only when somebody tells me it’s important to the company that I go. I prefer not to go. They always start a half an hour late; they’re always tense. I like to go to the movie-movies. And I never watch video, unless there’s no other way to see it. I’ve got two godchildren with whom I’m very close, so I’m an expert on children’s movies. Not because I wish to be. They hate going to the Walter Reade, which has the best children’s movie series on the weekends. They’re afraid it’s going to be in some foreign language. So I get to go see things like Snow Day, or Toy Story 2, which I actually thought was a wonderful movie.

Do you see a lot of independent films?

Sure. I go to mainstream American movies last.

I always think of you as representing “big-time” talent—do you have any clients from the independent world?

Well, Scott Elliott, certainly. And Lavinia Currier. I was astonished that Passion in the Desert didn’t do well. It was amazing. I represent a lot of theater directors, and a lot of musical theater people, which is funny, because I never thought of myself as an expert on musicals. I guess that started with Fosse and Tommy Tune.

How many clients do you represent?

I have no idea. I don’t really count them.

Have you ever turned someone down because of a concern about being overextended?

Somebody who could be economically important, whom I like—somebody whose future I believe in—I’ll do it. I mean, I don’t feel overextended. Sometimes, you know, on the weekends when I’m trying to read this stuff, I get an anxiety attack that I’m not going to get it all done, or am not going to be able to do what I said I was going to do and all that.

How often do you talk to your clients?

That depends on their anxiety level. I probably speak to Nora Ephron six times a year; I speak to Scott three times a week. And also, when Cradle Will Rock was being put together by myself and several other agents, I talked to Tim two times a day for many, many weeks. Same was true with Dead Man Walking. You know, when you get into the middle of something with somebody, it increases. Like I’m talking to Claudia Shear right now every day, because we’re moving to Broadway with Dirty Blonde.

What is the ratio of your theater clients to film clients?

It changes. A lot of these people, like Sigourney, Kathleen Turner, Dianne Wiest, work in theater as well as film. I encourage that. I think it’s essential. It’s invaluable to movie actors.

Are most of them based in New York?

No. A good portion of them are.

What’s your opinion about the enormous salaries actors are now drawing?

I think in terms of commercial movies, they should get what the market will pay them. But I also think it’s important for an actor to be elastic—as Tom and Nicole are, for example—and willing to do something like Eyes Wide Shut for nothing. Bruce Willis is another example. Actors should be willing to consider adapting themselves to working at different levels on better, or whatever the word is—more interesting—movies.

So you see it as sort of a payback?

It’s not a question of paying back. It’s the cinematic version of the theater. And it’s in your self-interest to work with those kinds of directors, and those kinds of scripts. And particularly since we are the dominant culture in the world, it’s an important thing to do. I hope I would feel that way if I were an actor.

And you encourage your actors to do that.

Absolutely. But many don’t require any encouragement.

Can you give me a sense of some of your most rewarding relationships with clients?

No, I can’t do that. I think that’s improper.

How often is your advice not taken by clients?

I’m trying to think of an honest answer, which means I have to push my ego to the back of my head. I’m going to say rarely.

How often are you right in the situations when it’s not?

Not always. Of course not. For example, I begged Lily Tomlin—who’s no longer a client of mine—not to finance her Broadway show, Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe. I think what happened was we financed half from the Shubert Organization, and there was half left. She said, “I want to do it myself.” I told her I thought it was too high-risk. It’s a good thing she didn’t follow that advice; I was dead wrong. That’s an example that certainly sticks in my head.

What is your opinion of the state of the American film industry right now?

Well, I mean, with the success of some of these pictures like American Beauty—I’m not going to tell you whether I liked it or not—or David O. Russell’s Three Kings, which I thought was terrific, and Soderbergh’s arrival in the commercial world—I think that’s all good. There are some very good movies being made. And of course there’s the presence of the Weinsteins and the Octobers, the Good Machines, and Shooting Galleries, the GreeneStreet boys, Christine Vachon.
   You know, I’m not sure what the motivation was for American Beauty. I suppose the idea was to make it for 15 or 16 million dollars, and I guess establish a relationship with Mendes, probably because Spielberg saw Cabaret or whatever. But I promise you that its success was a big surprise.

There was a lot of talk in the last several years about a somewhat pronounced antagonism between the New York and Los Angeles branches of ICM. Could you talk about that?

That’s dissipated. There’s no secret to the fact that Jeff Berg and I had real differences of opinion over about a year and a half, but that’s been resolved, happily so, as far as I’m concerned, and I think as far as he’s concerned. And we’re working together quite well. I’m very sorry that Jimmy Wiatt left—I’d be silly not to be. That was, I thought, a sad loss.
   You know, as agencies go, I suppose I could go and work at any of them. But I certainly have no impulse to do so. It’s no Plato’s Republic here, but I have a sick identification with ICM.

Well, you’re one of its founders.

It’s a terrible thing to be a founder and/or a legend. Because the immediate response to that is to call Frank Campbell and reserve a spot.

In a recent issue of Variety, an agent in L.A. was quoted as saying, “New York has lost its viability as a base to represent film clients.” How do you feel about that?

I don’t think it’s accurate. That’s my answer. There are some people, some artists, who may feel that they want an agent on the “battleground,” if they think L.A. is the battleground. But there are others who actually remained with this agency because, even if they’re based in L.A., they want connections with the theater and with the literary world. We have a great collection of literary agents downstairs. So we provide a lot of access to that which our artists—at least the thinking ones—want. Steve Martin, who is a very important motion-picture star, is here in part because the two plays that he did were terribly important to him, and the novel that he’s just about to publish, and all the pieces that he’s written for The New Yorker, have given him a new view of himself for which he’s very grateful. And being able to do that kind of thing is what makes this kind of an enterprise work.
   In the worst day of our arguments, Berg never contemplated changing this place. Me, maybe, but not this place. [Laughs.]

You sold your equity in the company recently, though, right?

I did. That was, I think, appropriate. 

You’re famous for the Sam Cohn “telephone terror,” or the infrequency with which you return phone calls—

Well, I don’t think it’s as much a problem now as it used to be, because I don’t have as much management stuff as I used to have. For many years I was deeply involved in corporate policy, negotiating employment contracts with the CFO and general counsel, who used to be here in New York. I’m not, now, and that’s given me a lot more breathing room to return phone calls. It used to be that my telephone would be lighting up all day. It’s not that way anymore. It’s surprising how much time that takes up.

Do you have any opinion about the recent move in the industry toward personal management?

I wouldn’t want to be a manager in the sense that I could force myself on my client’s movies as the executive producer, and all that other stuff that goes on. I find that tawdry. The connotation is that the manager is the guy who does the sound check, or meets the plane. That’s probably not accurate, but it doesn’t attract me.

You grew up in Pennsylvania; did you always want to come to New York?

No. I was frightened of New York. I was very provincial. I thought I was going to go back to Pennsylvania and be a judge, because I just didn’t think I could deal with this place—I didn’t think I could find a place in the field that interested me. But my then-wife insisted, and this CBS thing came along as a result of an interview, which seemed like a miracle. I was sure I was going to end up in some sweaty law firm. I knew I wasn’t going to make it to one of the great white-shoe ones, because in those days there was a slightly different attitude about Jews. Completely not the case anymore.

Do you feel like an “insider”?

In what world? 

Well, in the entertainment world. I guess the irony of being in New York is that, however connected you are, you’re still—by virtue of geography—on the outside.

I think that’s correct. It certainly doesn’t trouble me. L.A. is not the right environment for me. But I feel, and I’ve always felt, that being in New York creates a back-door kind of insider-ness. I’ve deluded myself into thinking that there’s a certain mystery connected with the fact that you’re not there, and they don’t see you every night. When they come to New York, they want to have lunch with you, go to the theater with you. In some ways, it’s a more advantageous relationship.
   You develop a certain kind of stature, maybe a certain amount of envy—because there are many men and women in that city who wish they weren’t living there. And also, I think—this may be a bad thing about me—there’s a sense of cultural chauvinism, which may put some people off. And may draw others to me. Who knows? I hope it’s not an affectation.