By all accounts, one-time biopic subject Patch Adams is a decent man who has done nothing but help terminally ill patients through his pioneering advances in clown therapy. That was all Hollywood needed to hear to make his story into a 1998 hit starring Robin Williams. And yet all these years later, the good doctor says, he's still awaiting his real close-up, or at least the payday that was supposed to accompany the last one.
Cindy Adams (no relation, I think!) dug up a few of the hospital hero's complaints on the occasion of his forthcoming book project, which will comprise some of the 400,000 letters sent Adams's way by his grateful patients and their families. Williams is expected to provide the foreward, which may or may not address the doctor's delightful recollections of developing his life story for the movies:
"The moviemaking experience was horrifying. I never wanted to do it. I only did it because I needed to raise money for my staffers who earn $300 for a 60-hour week and wouldn't leave for anything because they love what they do. The movie made $200 million. Robin earned $2 million. And nobody -- no person, no corporation, nobody -- ever gave me $10. I was promised all kinds of things and never got any of it. See, I didn't use lawyers. I trusted. That's my nature. But you can't trust anyone in Hollywood."
That's a tough break nobody would wish on anyone. On the other hand, everyone knows the rule-of-thumb threshhold for these kinds of back-end deals is usually one apartment for every Best Picture, razed slum dwelling and $200 million gross your film earns. But I'm no lawyer either; re-read the fine print just in case.