millions of dollars were flushed away with an efficiency that rivaled that of the federal government. Suddenly the company was on the brink of collapse. It sought to recoup what it could by selling what assets it had—which amounted to a few properties in development and a number of as-yet-unreleased films. Some of the unreleased films found buyers at major studios, but others could not be unloaded. What every studio wanted was Mr. Murder, largely because Bruce Willis was tied to it and he was box-office gold.
Realizing they had a hot property, the failing production company offered Mr. Murder, but only if the buyer also took a package of unreleased films that nobody else wanted. This made the price for Mr. Murder onerous, and no studio would bite under those conditions. The production company remained stubborn about their terms—until Mr. Willis, as his contract allowed, had to step out of his commitment and take another film to fill the available window in his production schedule. I did not celebrate that night. I did not weep. I did not devise murderous schemes with the production company honchos as my targets. I was quite restrained in my reaction, and I only chewed off one finger in frustration.
Eventually other producers got Mr. Murder at a bargain price and developed it as a four-hour miniseries for network television. The final product was okay, though it suffered from an inadequate budget and some miscasting. It never inspired in me the desire to slit my wrists, but it also never inspired in me the desire to watch it a second time.
A couple of years later, before the aforementioned miniseries hit the air, a guy came up to me at a party and, quite innocently, said that he had an idea that would be a huge hit movie. “Get Bruce Willis to star in Mr. Murder. He’s perfect for it.” I chewed off one of his fingers in frustration.
