Shock Value - Jason Zinoman [73]
Louis “Butchie” Peraino was a Brooklyn made man who was the grandson of a Sicilian Mafioso who immigrated after escaping prison in the early twentieth century. He helped move the family into adult films, which proved to be a profitable business decision. With a little taste of the movie business, he was looking to branch out. He greeted his visitors warmly, shouting: “We loved the movie. We’re going to make a lot of money on this.” He knew the lawyer who accompanied Skaaren, Arthur Klein, because he had represented Joey Gallo. At one point, the meeting was interrupted when a man entered with a briefcase and placed it in front of Peraino. He opened it. Diamond bracelets gleamed. These were the options for a gift for his wife. Peraino picked one, flashed a grin, and then returned to the meeting. It was not much of a negotiation. Bryanston had already decided what it would offer and had a precut check. Bozman and Skaaren agreed quickly, shook hands, and left. They were happy to get out alive, but they thought they had a good deal. At least they had a deal.
The opening weekend took in more than $600,000. The movie made $20 million in its first two years and proved to be a stalwart crowdpleaser at midnight showings. It was banned in England and Australia. And when it opened at Cinema Village in New York in the middle of 1975, Michael Wolff described the scene in an article for The New York Times: “It was a cultural experience but an acquired taste. Pot smoke was in the air. Young couples were chuckling in the corner. A bored theatergoer shouted at the screen: ‘So cut her head off already.’ ”
Almost overnight in the winter of 1974, Gunnar Hansen went from being an unknown actor in a small town in Texas to an unknown actor seen in photos throughout the country. His anonymity did not change because the guy swinging the chain saw in posters, photos, and advertisements was wearing a mask. But Hansen knew. And since he owned a piece of the movie, he was getting very excited. Days after the October opening of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Bryanston bought a page in Variety to trumpet its popularity. It boasted: “$602,133 in the first four days.” Imagine the riches! When Hansen discovered his first check in the mail about two months later, his heart started beating a little faster. After ripping it open, his smile flattened: $47.17.
The great horror movies made by small companies almost always ended in bad feelings and empty pockets. George Romero and his original twenty-six investors saw hardly a dime from the proceeds of Night of the Living Dead, since they never registered the title with a trademark. No star of The Last House on the Left made more than $1,000. Roger Corman, American International Pictures, and Hammer Studios may have sent more checks, but their movies didn’t exactly make you filthy rich. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre was such a hit, however, that the stakes seemed higher, which led to years of litigation. But by the time a suit for breach of contract was filed against Bryanston, the company had sold off the rights to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre to pay back a vendor, which violated a contract, leading to more suits. There was an out-of-court settlement, but no one who worked on the movie was happy about it, least of all the men who played the killers.
Hansen remained the most even-keeled. At the other end of the emotional spectrum was Ed Neal, the Vietnam veteran who played the crazed brother of Leatherface with a worrying persuasiveness. He was furious at Tobe Hooper and threatened physical violence in an article in the Los Angeles Times about the financial troubles of the movie. It seemed as if the monsters were turning on the man who gave them life. “He was scared to death,” Neal says of Hooper. “I had one of my kids call him and say if my daddy wanted you dead, you would be dead.”
Hooper was an obvious scapegoat, especially since he left Austin for Hollywood soon after the movie became a hit. It was the same old story. The actors and production team received