"The studio system collapsed only when Elizabeth Taylor charged $1 million for Cleopatra"
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Leslie Caron points to the moment Elizabeth Taylor secured a $1 million paycheck for Cleopatra as the fulcrum where old Hollywood gave way to a new order. The studio system had thrived on long-term contracts, fixed salaries, and near-total control over talent. Stars were assets on a balance sheet, interchangeable parts in a factory that owned the theaters and the means of production. Taylor shattered that logic. Her unprecedented fee, coupled with profit participation and generous overtime, made her not a replaceable employee but a sovereign partner. The balance of power flipped from studios to stars and their agents.
The reality is more complex and Caron knows it. The collapse had been a long unspooling: the 1948 Paramount antitrust decree that ended vertical integration, the De Havilland decision limiting endless contracts, the rise of television, and agents like Lew Wasserman pioneering percentage deals. Yet Cleopatra dramatized the change with operatic flair. The production lurched from London to Rome, ballooned to tens of millions, and nearly sank 20th Century Fox. Executives were ousted, assets sold, and an industry learned that a single star could destabilize an entire studio. Even though the film topped the box office in 1963, it could not recoup its swollen costs. The math of the old factory simply stopped adding up.
Caron, a product of MGM musicals, reads Taylor’s million as both symptom and spark: the symbolic price tag on the end of studio paternalism. After Cleopatra, the dominant model became independent production, star-driven packages, and studios as financiers-distributors rather than masters of a stable. The lavish biblical epic looks like the last flare before New Hollywood’s grittier, director-led films took hold. Caron’s line compresses decades of legal, economic, and cultural shifts into one star’s paycheck, insisting that the fall of the system can be seen in a single, glittering number that made everyone realize the rules had changed.
The reality is more complex and Caron knows it. The collapse had been a long unspooling: the 1948 Paramount antitrust decree that ended vertical integration, the De Havilland decision limiting endless contracts, the rise of television, and agents like Lew Wasserman pioneering percentage deals. Yet Cleopatra dramatized the change with operatic flair. The production lurched from London to Rome, ballooned to tens of millions, and nearly sank 20th Century Fox. Executives were ousted, assets sold, and an industry learned that a single star could destabilize an entire studio. Even though the film topped the box office in 1963, it could not recoup its swollen costs. The math of the old factory simply stopped adding up.
Caron, a product of MGM musicals, reads Taylor’s million as both symptom and spark: the symbolic price tag on the end of studio paternalism. After Cleopatra, the dominant model became independent production, star-driven packages, and studios as financiers-distributors rather than masters of a stable. The lavish biblical epic looks like the last flare before New Hollywood’s grittier, director-led films took hold. Caron’s line compresses decades of legal, economic, and cultural shifts into one star’s paycheck, insisting that the fall of the system can be seen in a single, glittering number that made everyone realize the rules had changed.
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