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There are many directors who probably should be chained and locked up. Whitey Bel-Air III actually was. Or was he?
Bel-Air, grim-faced in prison-issue scrubs, recently arrived at the Marina del Rey, Calif., offices of Ground Zero in a sheriff’s van—shackled into a six-man chain gang—and was released to the baffled care of creative honcho Court Crandall. Apparently he was being sprung from the Big House, and wanted Crandall to sign for him so his young son at home wouldn’t be traumatized.
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