Malibu, 1977. Martin Scorsese’s mansion is heaving with Hollywood royalty. Brian De Palma’s holding court somewhere. Francis Ford Coppola is there too. Prowling from room to room is Jack Nicholson with that lupine smirk. “I like the setup you boys got here,” he tells Scorsese. “Big speakers for music. A cave for movies and charming the ladies.”
They’ve gathered for drinks before heading to a screening of The Last Waltz, Scorsese’s masterful film about The Band’s farewell concert in San Francisco. But Coppola, concerned by how undernourished Scorsese and his housemate, The Band’s Robbie Robertson, are looking, insists on cooking everyone a proper meal. He hauls a 16mm projector into the kitchen and ingeniously tapes a wooden spoon to one of the reels; his famous Italian sauce will stir itself. Robertson offers to stay behind and watch the pot.
