According to Michael Deeley, ''A producer doesn't really make films...he causes them to be made.'' Deeley caused a strikingly eclectic roster of pictures, and his anecdotes (such as firing an allegedly cocaine-riddled Sam Peckinpah from Convoy) should rivet anyone fascinated by moviemaking. In particular, the pages devoted to Blade Runner offer an absorbing rundown of that classic's evolution. But Deeley can be a little too pleased with himself, and he occasionally loses himself in financial drivel. Nevertheless, his memoir, Blade Runners, Deer Hunters, and Blowing the Bloody Doors Off: My Life in Cult Movies, remains a sharp guide to Hollywood's ''dream factory'' and the suits who run it. B+
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