Animated, enthusiastic and absolutely blinding at times with his right-side-of-the-brain constructs, Cracchiolo had a truly untethered mind, which is not an abundant attribute among mainstream Hollywood producers.

Cracchiolo's impassioned, irreverent attitude toward Hollywood gamesmanship (which he took seriously, although he never shrank from satirizing the nonstop perversity and flamboyance of it) was fun to absorb. He really "got it," and in a way got off on it.

His psychology was especially uncommon for someone reared in deeply political, high-pressure work environments such as International Creative Management, where he began his career under talent agent Ed Limato, and then at the Warner Bros.-funded production company run by high-powered action-film producer Joel Silver.

Under Silver, Cracchiolo helped to develop, launch, cast and keep tabs on a roster of big-budget, big-star vehicles through various stages of production, including "Swordfish," "Exit Wounds," "Romeo Must Die," "The Matrix," "Made Men," "Proximity," "Lethal Weapon 4," "Conspiracy Theory," and "Assassins."

Cracchiolo told me stories, stories and more stories about all of this. Lots of Mel Gibson anecdotes, including a beautiful one about his cranial dimensions. Cracchiolo's the one who passed along to me that classic Silver observation that "all movie stars have really big heads."

Cracchiolo left Silver Pictures in '01 over increasing animus. One issue was about Silver's refusal to push Warner Bros. production chief Lorenzo DiBonaventura over casting Sean Penn in CRADLE 2 THE GRAVE. There were also "issues" with Dan. There was a substance thing for a time, but he eventually took care of that. Guys who carry the ball for Silver get frustrated sooner or later. It's in the cards.

The following year he launched Opus Communicae, which operated out of a posh duplex on Oakhurst Drive in Beverly Hills. He hired a stable of young untested writers to bang out scripts, but concentrated mostly in the early stages on an ambitious (i.e., expensive) "naturalist" trilogy that Cracchiolo referred to as "Air, Fire and Water."

When he pitched this last year to Mike DeLuca at DreamWorks it was suggested that he pitch something smaller and single-unit that wouldn't cost $500 million.

One of the big reasons nothing ever came to fruition at Opus was Dan's ADD problem. His mind kept flipping channels. But he did manage to grind out a purportedly good script with associate Harry Webber called "Pink Hills," about a black entrepreneur in Atlantic City who buys into a casino. Cracchiolo wanted DMX to star, and was crushed when he was told the actor wouldn't be available for several months.

Cracchiolo's most recent project, which sought funding through English and German concerns and was apparently going to be co-produced by Jason Diamond, was called "The Soundhunter."

I'm writing about him here because he was a friend and a good hombre. I liked him. He helped me out from time to time, and I did what I could to reciprocate.

A friend told me yesterday he was "despondent" about not being able to get one of his Opus projects up and running, but I never detected anything downbeat about him. He may have been a better actor than I realized.

He was especially proud of his close and supportive relationship with director-writers Larry and Andy Wachowski during the development and shooting of THE MATRIX.

Cracchiolo championed the Wachowskis' script in the early development stages (when no one at Warner Bros. could make heads or tails of it), did what he could to insulate the Wachowskis from political temblors coming out of Warner Bros. during production, and generally rode herd on physical production when "The Matrix" was rolling in Sydney, Australia in '98.

When the film became a surprise worldwide hit in '99, Silver and DiBonaventura took the lion's share of the producing credit.

Those who'd heard of his input knew that Cracchiolo's rep was riding, in a certain way, on the continued success of the MATRIX films. Because of this, no one took the quasi-"failure" of THE MATRIX RELOADED and THE MATRIX REVOLUTIONS harder. He became so depressed about what he was told about RELOADED's shortcomings that he decided not to see it.

Part of Cracchiolo's creative energy went into interior decorating. He was always looking for new high-quality furniture to put into the Oakhurst duplex. He was once profiled in Architectural Digest for restoring architect Pierre Koenigs 1960's "Case Study House 21" -- a 1950s-style thing -- to its original condition.

He threw a party at his Oakhurst headquarters on May 11, 2002 (I know because the date is still in my PDA) to announce Opus with a splash. A lot of people showed, but I didn't see any heavy-hitters. But the food was great and there were lots of awesome-looking women. A journalist friend who came with me called it "a booty-call party."

Dan loved women and could be - what is the phrase? - extremely attentive when things got rolling with the right girl. He had a heavy thing going with actress Elizabeth Rohm ("Law and Order") for several months in '03.

Cracchiolo was driving his Ducati motorcycle last Monday on Apollo Drive near Willow Glen Road when the accident happened sometime around 6 pm. He was going out for smokes or groceries at the Laurel Canyon country store, doing a round trip from his rented home in the upper reaches of Laurel Canyon, in the Mt. Olympus area.

He collided with a car driven by Janice White, 55, who was dropping her daughter off for a music lesson. I've been told that two people who live nearby held and tried to comfort him (he told them his name was "Dan") while waiting for the ambulance. He died from head and internal injuries at Cedars Sinai Hospital about two hours later.

However, authorities were unsure of Cracchiolo's identity and news of his death didn't get around until Wednesday afternoon (6.16) when his body was identified by Diamond at the L.A. County Morgue.

A memorial service will be held on Saturday, 6.19, at Gates Kingsley Gates mortuary in Santa Monica, near 20th and Arizona.

Door is More

I have a suggestion that will make Tod Williams' THE DOOR IN THE FLOOR (Focus Features, July 23) into a perfectly realized film, instead of merely a good, thoughtful, admirably mature one, which it is now.

Make it into a 1959 Ingmar Bergman film. Re-process it into black and white, throw out the English-language soundtrack and re-dub it into Swedish, and then add English sub- titles. It will seem even better, I swear, although the substantial elements will be unaffected.

DOOR is set in present-day Long Island and based on a portion of a John Irving novel called "A Widow For a Year," but the Bergmanesque traits are plentiful. It's gloomy, thoughtfully downbeat, intriguingly sexual, haunted...the only thing it doesn't have is Max von Sydow in the lead male role and, say, Liv Ullman or Harriet Andersson playing the female lead.

This isn't to suggest that DOOR's principals, Jeff Bridges and Kim Basinger, aren't up to the task. They are and then some. They both give their flat-out finest performances in years.

A story about longing, ennui, demons and the unquenchable pain of losing one's children to tragedy, DOOR is a smart, appealingly restrained adult drama.

Irving's 1998 bestseller told three crucial chapters in the life of Ruth Cole, a writer with a problematic personal life. Williams' film deals with only one of these episodes, when Cole is a very young girl in 1958, about the dissolution of her parents' marriage.

The film's title is taken from a successful children's book written by Ruth's father Ted Cole (Jeff Bridges), who's also an illustrator. The "door in the floor" alludes, of course, in the context of the film, to scary disturbing memories that have been hidden -- suppressed-- by the main characters, which of course results in these memories breaking out and manifesting with further sad and damaging results.

The main story is about 16-year-old Eddie (Jon Foster) moving into the Coles' house in East Hampton beach community during a summer break from college to work as Ted's gofer guy. Ted's marriage to Marion (Kim Basinger) is coming apart over her inability to deal with the death of their two teenaged sons in a car accident.

Well, Bridges' inability also...although he expresses his grief in a different and slightly sleazier way than Basinger. Taken by Eddie's lust for her, as well as his resemblance to her sons in all sorts of ways, Marion falls into a hot and heavy affair with him, and it's hard to blame her. You can also get why Bridges, who picks up on what's going on fairly quickly, kind of nods and goes along with it.

Bridges, meanwhile, uses his fame as an illustrator to hit on local women, one of them being Mrs. Vaughn (Mimi Rogers). His technique is to get the women to pose for nude portraits (arty at first, and then gradually more lewd and graphic), and then take things in a more conventionally carnal direction.

The tone that Williams achieves is one of detached compassion. He obviously cares about these wounded people, and so did I. And their story is engaging -- quietly riveting -- from start to finish.

The tensions eventually lead to meltdowns and final conflicts, of course, but in a way that never sacrifices focus or dramatic balance. Eddie and Ted have their eyeball-to-eyeball, and Ted's thing with Mrs. Vaughan goes completely kablooey, but in a bizarrely comic way that works as a piece of black farce.

I loved the sex scenes between Basinger and Foster. They remind you of the maxim that screen sex is always hottest when the usual awkwardness and emotional underpinnings that go with any coupling are rendered with no-holds-barred honesty and gravity.

Bridges somehow manages to make the creepy, manipulative Ted into a sympathetic character, which is no small feat, mainly by never losing sight of his sadness. The beautiful Basinger is also unusually moving, but with moves that are even subtler than Bridges'.

Foster bothered me by seeming a lot less comprehending than I would imagine a college kid to be in these circumstances. He plays scene after scene in the opening and middle sections with his mouth open, which is what so many younger actors seem to do these days when they play scenes with commanding adults. (Scarlet Johansson did this so much in THE GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING that I was ready to scream.)

My mouth was never open when I was 20 years old and in the company of my elders. I always maintained a sardonic expression, never wanting to convey what I didn't (yet) know. I never let my guard down. And if I'd been lucky enough to have a shot at loving an older woman as drop-dead ravishing as Basinger, there would only be one or two significant ways in which my mouth would be open in her presence.

If Ingmar Bergman had directed this story in 1959, his Eddie character would have kept his mouth shut also.

Oh, yeah....the little girl (Irving's lead character) is played by Elle Fanning, the younger sister of Dakota (MAN ON FIRE). She's fine.

THE DOOR IN THE FLOOR is as well composed visually and texturally as it is in the other departments. The softly sumptuous widescreen photography (it really feels lit by Long Island summer light) is by Terry Stacey, and Therese DePrez's production design gets the look and feel of well-tended East Hampton homes and stores just right.

You've got over a month to think this one over, but DOOR is definitely one of the better adult films that will open this summer. (That's an oxymoron, I realize, but we've seen enough stabs at summer counter-programming over the least few years for it not to be a complete joke.)

I'll tell you what - forget the black-and-white makeover. That isn't essential. Just take out the English dialogue and bring in Bridges, Basinger and the rest of the cast for the Swedish dialogue dubs, and then lay on the subtitles. I know anyone connected with this film will snort at this suggestion, but I swear to Bergman it would kick this thing up into a higher realm.

Bad Heathrow

I got a bum steer from British Airways on my way home, and no help from the information monitors at Heathrow Airport in correcting it. Maybe if somebody reads this the problem will be addressed down the road. I'm amazed things are set up as badly as they are over there.

Just before leaving on my British Airways hopover last Monday afternoon from Charles de Gaulle to Heathrow. I was told by a British Airways attendant that I would find my connecting flight for Los Angeles in Heathrow's Terminal 4. I spoke to another BA person inside this terminal after landing and asked her what gate I should go to, and she said the announcement would show up on the monitors an hour before the 4:25 pm departure.

3:25 pm came and went with no info about the Los Angeles flight. 3:30, 3:35. 3:40...hmmm. Something's wrong. It finally dawned on me after hitting the loo that I should go to a British Airways information desk. After waiting in a line and waiting for three or four people in front of me to relate their entire life stories to the British Airways attendants, I finally asked what was up.

"Oh....the Los Angeles flight isn't leaving from Terminal 4," I was told. "It's leaving from Terminal 1." But I was told to come to this terminal, I said, and the monitors never relayed any information about the Los Angeles flight leaving from any terminal anywhere. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's not my fault and you don't need to be this strident about it. But if you hurry downstairs and grab a bus, you might make it."

It was now 4:00 pm, and my ticket said the departure doors would be shut as of 4:05 pm.

I hurried downstairs with my luggage on a cart, and got into the waiting British Airways bus. I was fucked and I knew it. I started searching through my Sony Clie to figure out my best option for somewhere to stay in London that night.

People were on the bus but the driver didn't seem inclined to leave. I went up to him and said, "I'm sorry, but can you tell me if you're planning to leave any time soon? I'm late for a departure." The driver, a fat, pink-faced, fuck-me-and-fuck-you type, looked at me and said, "I'll leave when I decide to."

He left a minute or two later, and we got to Terminal 1 after five or six minutes. I raced upstairs to the departure gate after first going through the metal-detection process. A sympathetic attendant understood what I was going through and did what she could to facilitate.

Luckily, they were holding the flight, and I managed to get on and claim my seat, which happened to have plenty of leg room in front of it. I was sweating and agitated, but I eventually relaxed and cooled down.

The flight took eleven hours. The food was fine, but I always kept in mind that the important thing was not to offend the attendants. Just act like a grateful mouse and everything will be fine, I said over and and over to myself. Flying on British Airways is not about the contentment of the paying customers, but that of the crew. They must be placated, soothed...made to feel good about themselves. Contribute to this effect and there will be no trouble.

Many restaurants are like this...particularly those in Los Angeles. Concentrate on making the waiters happy, don't exacerbate their sense of rage about themselves or their careers, and it'll all turn out fine. But watch it!

Touch Pad Blues