Goodwill hunters target showbiz
More charities eyeing deepest pockets
Flash forward to 1998 when Irving Azoff accepted an award from the American Oceans Campaign. Part of his speech was that "asking for donations for the right charity should be viewed as legalized extortion,'' which got a big, knowing laugh from the audience.
The entertainment community has always been exceptionally charitable and has always had its own unique way of giving. But as the charity season kicks into high gear Friday with the Carousel Ball, this generosity is being tested by piranha-like election-year fundraising, a rising tide of charities and a hiccuping stock market.
This season in particular, donors feel deluged by requests -- which is not an illusion. According to the National Charities Information Bureau, charities and private foundations are growing at the rate of 30,000 per year -- on top of the 600,000 that already exist.
"This is a profoundly generous industry,'' said Barry Diller, who has raised millions for AIDS Project Los Angeles. "The thing that still amazes me is how many people give me their proxy, how many just tell me to put them down for an amount.''
Personal touch
Which is the first trait that makes Hollywood money-raising different from, say, Detroit: It's much more personal. Experts who work in the national charity field -- where $143 billion was raised last year -- say that in other cities there's more focus on developing relationships with corporations.
Here, because jobs change more rapidly, there's an emphasis on the individual. In Detroit, you go to Ford. In Hollywood, you don't go to Paramount. You go to a buddy who's at Paramount.
"Fundraising is a very personal issue,'' said Michael Ovitz, who is currently heading a 10-year, $800 million fundraising campaign to build the $1.1 billion, 1.7 million square foot I.M. Pei-designed UCLA Medical Center. "We're always asking a person for money. I don't know any other way to do it.''
The reigning queen of personal touch (though at 83, she says she's retired), entertainment industry fundraising is Edie Wasserman. For years, she went out two or three days a week accompanied by two execs from the Motion Picture & Television Fund and made office calls.
She makes no secret of having used her husband's name liberally. "I'd throw Lew Wasserman at them,'' is the way she puts it. "Nobody would turn Lew down for anything in those days.''
Her technique was to be quick, tenacious and to the point. "These people are busy, very busy,'' Wasserman says. "If they weren't, they wouldn't have the money.'' Though this method was effective enough to raise $50 million for the Fund's capital campaign, there were still times when she "didn't get the money from some people who should give it. People who are really loaded -- really loaded.''
Old vs. new wealth
Which is another problem singular to Hollywood (and perhaps Silicon Valley): Many of the "really loaded'' are really young and haven't come to grips with their wealth.
"New money tends to be awkward,'' says Peter Karoff of the Boston-based Philanthropic Initiative. "The giving part tends to be confusing. In old money families, there's a tradition of giving. With new money, it takes getting used to.''
In-front-of-the-camera talent tends not to write checks (with some exceptions, including Robert Redford, Tom Hanks, Paul Newman -- and Barbra Streisand, who gave away $1 million annually for 12 years). They contribute more with personal appearances, signing auction items or allowing themselves to be honored.
Marge Tabankin, exec director of both the Streisand Foundation and Steven Spielberg's Righteous Persons Foundation, points to Shelley Fabares' work with the Alzheimer's Assn. as an example of the difference a celeb can make.
"She's on the road all the time and people are excited when she comes to town. Women are at the luncheons, the dinners are sold out. She's an enormous asset. Hollywood has these special edges that no one else has got. There're people in any business who can write a check, but they can't get the Eagles to reunite for a benefit.''
One tool that's becoming harder to employ is the benefit movie premiere, which traditionally had been one of the favorite venues for raising money. Depending on the film, it was usually less painful than an honoree dinner, and the charity simply had to sell a block of tickets: All the logistics of food, security and decor were done by the studio.
While there are still major charity galas associated with premieres, the number is declining. "The directors, the stars, the studio want the film to be seen and handled in a certain way, and it's not necessarily with a charity audience," says Lorraine Sheinberg, who for many years did one for the Westside Children's Center.
Passion plays
While this venue might be shrinking, the entertainment industry's enthusiasm for causes is undiminished, which is a key strength. One national charity surveyed possible donors about what would make them increase donations. The first answer wasn't a surprise: If they trusted the org, they'd give more. The second caught them off-guard: They'd also give more if they had a passion for the cause.
This works to Hollywood's advantage: It's a town that feeds on passion, which made a marked difference in the early days of the AIDS epidemic. The Hollywood community was virtually the only sector of the economy to offer large-scale corporate and private support.
"In those days, getting money from a Fortune 500 company was unheard of,'' said Craig Thompson, executive director of AIDS Project Los Angeles. "The Hollywood support was incredibly important seed money. It provided us with a tremendous amount of legitimacy.''
While there's a long list of current prominent figures whose passion drives the fundraising -- Lilly Tartikoff with the Fire & Ice Ball for breast cancer research, Tom Sherak, who recently helped raise $2.5 million for MS, Jean Firstenberg for AFI, Elizabeth Daley for the USC School of Cinema/Television -- a question remains of the fundraisers of the next generation.
Wasserman says the question concerns her these days. She mentions a few current activists, including Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone, but she's unsure of how the mantle for major fundraising will be passed on.
What it comes down to, she says, is "the young people -- I need them to grow up.''
