Through a lawyer called Paul Migdal in Los Angeles, I met the actor Donald Sutherland. So sad that he just passed away. Back then, we palled around a bit and he proposed that I should join his company. He hired me. Donald was having a fine old time: He was Canadian, and the Canadian government had introduced what was then the world’s best tax shelter, to encourage investment that furthered the training, careers and the financial wherewithal of Canadian cast, crew and companies. Donald was internationally one of only three notable and recognizable Canadian film stars at that time, the other two being Margot Kidder and Donald Pleasance. Donald’s great friend was Paul Mazursky, a fine director and actor. They had always wanted to work together as actors. We developed a script called A Man, a Woman and a Bank and were able to persuade Avco Embassy, a decent sized Los Angeles distribution company, to put up half of the film’s $3.6 million budget. In our script, Donald’s and Paul’s characters were thieves, who worked out to how to tap into the data lines that went into a bank in order to open the doors, and then the vault.

I flew up to Toronto, and met a lawyer called Rosemarie Christiansen, who was putting hundreds of Canadian taxpayers with significant tax liabilities into film investments, which resulted in a certificate which allowed them to avoid or greatly reduce their taxes. Rosemary said yes. Realizing that we had now fully financed the film, I set off for Vancouver to work out which locations would be appropriate together with a local location manager and the rest of the scouting team. Only one film had ever been made in Vancouver by 1979, Robert Altman’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Undaunted, we explored the city. I fell in love with its great beauty and the can-do attitude of the Canadians. It was a great pleasure pulling things together there. And there were terrific Chinese restaurants. Although there was not an abundance of experienced local crew, we were allowed by the Canadian union to bring people in from Los Angeles, USA, though hilariously they would not let us bring the same crew categories from Toronto, Canada.

And then a truly horrible thing happened that I had not anticipated: the Canadian government changed the tax code overnight! There was suddenly no longer a deduction available for all those doctors and dentists who had agreed to invest in A Man, a Woman and a Bank. It was just two weeks before principal photography and I already had 50 or so crew on site, building the sets, sewing costumes and delivering equipment. Rosemarie Christiansen phoned me and said “I’m very sorry Peter, but I can’t send you any money at all. And we have to void the contract.” I said I was pretty sure laws cannot apply backwards in time. Wasn’t it unconstitutional? “Ex Post Facto?” Rosemary said “Yes, in the USA… but not, my friend, in Canada.” She apologized, and that was the end of it.

I was flummoxed, and immediately flew back to Los Angeles without telling the crew that I was suddenly missing half of the budget for the film. In Los Angeles, I went and met with Avco Embassy, who made two things perfectly clear: That they were not going to give us the rest of the money. Secondly, that they did indeed own all rights internationally and in all media, in return for the half that they were contributing. And if the film collapsed, clearly this was my problem, not theirs. It made for an impossible situation, because I had nothing to sell except equity. I couldn’t pre-sell foreign distribution rights nor any subsidiary media rights… because they all belonged to Avco Embassy. What to do?

I went to the very limited number of people I knew with significant amounts of money. Paul Migdal,  Donald Sutherland and I tried over a week or so and failed miserably to find the $1.75 million we  needed to finish financing the film. I booked my ticket to fly back up to Vancouver, close the film  down and fire everybody. I was devastated. It felt like the end of my career as a full producer, a  career that hadn’t even yet started.

Then, on the Monday, I opened the Los Angeles Times and read a front page article, a profile piece
about a young man, the heir to a great family fortune, who that very day, on his 25th. birthday, had received control of his inheritance. This was Frederick W. Field, known as Ted. It even had his picture, a line drawing on page one. The article continued on a later page of the newspaper and said that he was a student of philosophy at Pomona College, a place I’d never heard of. It also mentioned that he was interested in motor racing and that he loved films. Disaster makes one bold. It was all I had.

Arriving in our office on La Cienega Boulevard, I said to our executive assistant, Susie Dunster, that we were going to write a letter to this Mr. Field on the off chance that he might want to save our bacon. Susie, a wonderfully ironic English woman who had been working with Donald for years, had a habit of raising one eyebrow when she thought the person she was with was saying crazy things. Such as I was then: this was one of those occasions. I dictated a letter to Ted, a man I had never met and who had certainly never heard of me. Susie typed it up, and asked where exactly I would like her to send it. I said “Ah, yes, you make a good point. We obviously don’t know his address. We’ll have to send it care of the Department of Philosophy of Pomona College.” Which is exactly what we did. Susie asked me if I wanted to put a stamp on it and put it in the mail, or to call a messenger. With no idea exactly where Pomona might be located, I said “in for a penny, in for a pound. Send it by messenger.” So we hired a man on a motorbike for $100, who indeed delivered the envelope to Pomona College, or so we hoped.

The following morning as I prepared to take the flight to Vancouver to fire everyone and close down what was now a useless money pit, the phone rang and the voice said “Hello, it’s Ted Field. I got your letter. Shall we have lunch?” I said “I would love that. Where are you located?” He said “I’m in Orange County but don’t worry. Where are you? I named a restaurant in Westwood called the Bratskellar where I knew we could get a quiet table. Ted and I got on like the blazes! Towards the end of the lunch, as we nursed coffees, he asked if there was any film where he might be able to invest and become an executive producer. “Yes,” I said “there is in fact such a film.” I was transparent with him. I told him that the film Donald and I were about to make in Vancouver was going to collapse because the Canadian government had cancelled the tax shelter which was good for half of the budget. Ted asked if he could read the script. Could I perhaps send it down to him in Newport Beach? I said I could do better than that. I reached into my briefcase and gave him a hard copy of the script right there, over the lunch table.

My instinct was that the lunch had gone well, and I postponed the flight up to Vancouver a further
day. Sure enough, the next morning, a man called me and said “I’m Tom Baldikoski. I’m Ted Field’s lawyer. He’s instructed me to wire $1.75 million to you right away. Can you give me the banking instructions?” I took a deep breath, and said, “Tom, thank you so much and please thank Ted. But do
you realize we have no contract?” Tom said that Ted and he did realize that, but Ted had told him the need was urgent, and to wire it immediately, just on my word, and then sort out the contract later. Amazing.

And so it was. Four hours later, the money arrived by wire. A blessed moment. I flew back up to Vancouver, pushed forward with the prep and shoot, and never told anyone how close they had been to getting fired. Phew! Certainly a squeaker. Definitely my strangest funding story.