“Jodie, I went to the men’s room and there were
girls
in there!” I say, never having seen anything like it. “I mean, how can a guy pee with a girl smoking a cigarette next to him?!”
I leave at sunrise. In a few hours I’ll have rounds of interviews and it will be a struggle to stay awake and focused. Something has occurred to me: With every increasing encroachment of my privacy, with each additional loss of the ability to lead a normal life, to cover my deep discomfort, I will compensate by enjoying the fun that comes with it. And all these years later, looking back, I’m glad I did it. Because for a while, it worked.
For
Hotel New Hampshire
, I’m sitting for an interview with
People
magazine for what is to be my first major exposure in mainstream media. (Today, a hot nineteen-year-old would likely be put on the cover, but this was still a time when that distinction was reserved for those who had a track record of actual achievement. Coverage by the legit press was an honor bestowed on accomplished, “real” stars only, like Redford, Newman, Beatty, Fonda.) After the interview is over I feel an unnameable unease, which will only increase after the photo shoot. I have a vague notion that I’m doing something wrong, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. The press I’m getting is good on one level—it’s putting my name out there and is, in and of itself, an indication of my growing profile in Hollywood. But there is a slight air of condescension and a lack of seriousness in the coverage. I’m hoping that people want to know who I really am and what I’m about, but I’m not getting those kinds of questions.
In hindsight, I know why. First and foremost was the way I looked. There is just no way anyone is likely to take a nineteen-year-old boy as pretty as I was seriously. Even I wouldn’t. I look at myself in those early movies and pictures and am stunned by the disconnect between how I felt on the inside and what I looked like on the outside. People looked at me and made a judgment. It’s the way of the world. I do it, too, sometimes.
The other reason that my early press had a lack of seriousness was that, as a good midwestern son and people pleaser, I wanted to be liked and (as I was in school) be a “pleasure to have in class.” The world “no” was not in my vocabulary in spite of my sometimes feeling like I should say it. So, as a result, I posed for photos that I shouldn’t have (I remember letting one photographer paint Brooke Shields–like eyebrows on me) and answered questions that would’ve made de Tocqueville seem like a lightweight. If they asked it, I answered it. No one close to me had the wisdom, experience, or instinct to guide me or play bad cop when needed. And it is
always
needed if you want to last. The survivors either naturally have that tough, uncompromising side, develop it later, as I thankfully did, or hire or marry someone who has it.
But however confusing my relationship with my nascent public image might have been, it would become more complicated with time.
* * *
Even as a young actor, I knew that any time I could work with an important director, I should jump at the chance. So in early 1989, when Roman Polanski wants me to meet with him in Paris, I immediately hop on a plane.
I’m picked up at Charles de Gaulle Airport in a torrential downpour. My driver is cursing in French slang that I can’t understand in spite of studying AP French in school. I read Camus’s
The Stranger
entirely in the language but have no idea what this guy is yelling about. The only words I recognize are “rain,” “strike,” and “fuckers.” Ahead, the Champs-Élysées is barricaded by protesting farmers who have covered the famed avenue with rotting produce. In spite of the stench, my first view of the Arc de Triomphe brings tears to my eyes.
Roman Polanski has summoned me to Paris to screen-test for
Pirates
, a movie he’s making with Jack Nicholson, which will reunite the two men who made
Chinatown
, considered by many to be the greatest movie of the modern era, behind
Citizen Kane
. If I get the role, I will play a young man kidnapped by Nicholson and indentured into a life of high-seas plunder. It is a huge-budget movie and a rare opportunity to work with two living legends at the top of their powers.
I’m dropped off at a studio on the outskirts of the city. Roman greets me as I exit the cab.
“Welcome to Paris.”
He is small, hard with muscles, and immediately exudes charisma and charm that could knock out an elephant.
“Shall we get you ready, no?” he asks.
My character is a shipwreck survivor, so he wants me clinging to the mast, dressed in tatters. His crew puts me in a glorified loincloth and leads me to a small, rudimentary set of a masted ship.
I’ve always been an instinctual actor. From the start, I’ve believed that confidence in your own instinct trumps the ponderous and often pretentious preparation that is sometimes more lauded because it sounds sexier, more “intense.” That day, my instinct tells me to break out a full French accent, even though it has never been discussed. It’s a risk, I go for it, and Polanski seems pleased.
I am a little thrown, however, by the great director’s shooting style. He pushes the big Arriflex camera right up into my face, maybe six inches in front of me. The wide lens smashed in tight was a technique I hadn’t encountered, and not many use it today.
Jack Nicholson is not there to do the scene with me. I figure he’s in L.A., probably watching the Lakers. Instead, I work with a sweet and well-meaning Frenchman who, even if he were scientifically engineered, could not have been less like the actor he was filling in for. After a while, we take a break as a local gypsy attempts to sell the crew his hoard of leather goods.
“He comes to all my sets,” Roman says warmly. “Good jackets, no?”
Soon we have completed the scene and I’m shuttled back to my hotel, just off the Champs-Élysées. I am wired from the shoot and bursting to explore this city I’ve studied and admired for years. But it’s freezing and rain is still coming down in sheets. I make the best of it by wandering around the hotel, a European classic, complete with the kind of grille-gated elevator that characters in thrillers get murdered in.
As I wander the halls, a door opens and a bleary-eyed man looks out. I recognize him at once as Bill Murray, one of my favorite actors.
“I thought I heard room service,” he says.
“Sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Oh. You’re American!”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good. These frogs are driving me crazy. Wanna watch some golf?”
I spend the next few hours learning the finer points of the game from Carl the groundskeeper from
Caddyshack
. I want to tell him that on
The Outsiders
we had
Caddyshack
-watching parties at least once a week, but something tells me I shouldn’t. I explain that I’m here for a screen test for Polanski’s
Pirates
movie. He tells me he is working on his first serious role,
The Razor’s Edge
. We talk for hours and he’s funny as hell. What a great surprise to meet a hero under these strange circumstances. Soon I have to meet Roman for dinner and we say our good-byes.
“Thanks for letting me hang out,” I say as we shake hands.
“Thanks for not stealing my wallet. Oh, and good luck on that pirate thing.”
We go to a restaurant called Pacific Palisades and are surrounded by American girls—so much for experiencing foreign culture. There must be fifteen models, all stunning, at our long table in the back of the room. Roman sits at the head, and a few men whom I don’t know are mixed among our group. Roman has taken good care of me, placing me between a fantastic redhead and a breathtaking blonde. I spend most of the dinner like a spectator in a tennis match with my head on a swivel. Both girls are funny, nice, and interested. As the dinner winds down, Roman motions for me to come talk to him.
“Thank you so much for this dinner. This place is amazing,” I say.
“Ah. It is nothing. We will do many like this during the movie,” he says. My heart leaps and I wonder, does this mean I have the part?
“Sure, that would be great,” I reply, trying not to seem as excited as I feel.
For a moment we both stand there, watching the scene before us. The wine has been great, the women are pretty, and possibly a great movie is in the offing. What could be better?
“May I give you some advice,” says Roman, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Um. Sure. What’s up?” I ask.
Roman gestures to my two beautiful tablemates and says, “You better make up your mind or you will end up jerking off.”
I take the master’s advice and spend my first night in the City of Lights in a romantic, impulsive, and too-brief encounter that probably wouldn’t have happened but for Roman. Thank you, Mr. Polanski. Viva la France.
I awaken at dawn for the early flight back to Los Angeles. I kiss the sleeping redhead good-bye and slip quietly out of the room. Closing the door, I trip on something at my feet. It is a beautiful leather-bound book. I open it to find it’s a first edition of
The Complete History of Pirates
. I look closer and see there is an inscription. It reads:
To Rob—
All the best on your movie.
Your pal,
Bill Murray
* * *
One of the more bizarre rituals in Hollywood is the process of anointing “The Next Big Thing.” In an industry that thrives on young blood, it’s a science that seems to become more inexact with every passing year. (Although the high watermark was probably in the late ’90s when
Vanity Fair
put an actress on its cover who had never starred in a movie.) It’s always been a subjective process; the industry gatekeepers and tastemakers have to put the touch on you before you’ve accomplished anything substantial. They go on a series of criteria: publicity, reputation, previous work (although this can easily be ignored), spin from agents, jive from managers, pressure from publicists, and sometimes talent. Age makes an impact and looks are critical. Romantic leads need to look the part, which is to say they must be sexy, but not sexual. Serious actors should look like they are from the mean streets of the eastern cities or the Australian outback. Comedy stars need to be asexual—an exact ringer for the guy who fixes your dryer and absolutely, positively not a threat to turn your girlfriend’s head.
Obviously there are exceptions to this formula, but they are rare. And when it does happen, it’s in spite of the system, not because of it. It also goes without saying that The Next Big Thing can also be a flash in the pan, given that a new one is crowned about every six months (dictated by TV’s pilot season or the movies’ summer and Christmas release dates). The good news is: that’s a lot of slots; the bad news is: there’s gonna be some newbie busting your rice bowl every six months.
With the reaction to
The Outsiders,
the release of
Class
, and the pedigree of a project like
The Hotel New Hampshire
, I find myself in the heady, pressure-filled bull’s-eye of the star-making machine. I am either offered parts or in “conversations” on most movies. But on the other hand, I am not even considered for certain others because I have already been discovered. And the bigger the director, the less likely they are to use another big director’s find.
Polanski has offered me the part in
Pirates
and now I have to wait for him to finalize the movie’s funding. This goes on for months and eventually Jack Nicholson tires of the process and drops out. I continue to wait but I start to hedge my bets by looking at other projects.
So, while the director of
Chinatown
hopes I stay patient, I am hounded by the director of
Hot Dog … The Movie
, who wants me to do
his
new film. It’s a movie about the rugged, cutthroat world of junior ice hockey, called
Youngblood
. Despite my love of sports, I have no real connection to hockey, so I pass on the film. Also, ideally I’d like to continue to work with directors with more experience.
There are exceptions, of course, because you never know who will become a great director. I meet with John Hughes for
The Breakfast Club
, but he wants to make his own discovery of an “unknown.” So the fantastic part of John Bender goes to newcomer Judd Nelson. When Emilio gets a role in the movie, I decide that I need to choose a movie of my own. It’s time to get off the sidelines; careers lose momentum in an instant. And momentum is everything.
Every once in a while I read a script that I know is going to be a hit.
Top Gun
,
Jerry Maguire
,
The West Wing
. But the very first one I came across was a script called
Footloose
.