L.A. Man Read online

  this is a genuine rare bird book

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Joe Donnelly

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address: A Rare Bird Book |

  Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302,

  Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  Set in Minion Pro

  epub isbn: 9781947856660

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Donnelly, Joe James, author. | Stecyk, Craig, 1950-,

  foreword author

  Title: L.A. man : profiles from a big city and a small world / Joe Donnelly ; foreword by C. R. Stecyk.

  Description: First Trade Paperback Original Edition | A Genuine Rare Bird Book | Los Angeles, CA; New York, NY: Rare Bird Books, 2018.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781945572876

  Subjects: LCSH Los Angeles (Calif.)—Biography. | Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Biography. | Los Angeles (Calif.)—Social life and customs. | Celebrities—Homes and haunts—California—Los Angeles. | Motion picture actors and actresses—United States—Biography. | Popular music—Californi—Los Angeles. | Rock Musicians—United State—Biography.| BISAC BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Entertainment & Performing Arts | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY /

  Cultural, Ethnic & Regional / General

  Classification: LCC F869.L853 D66 2018 | DDC 979.4/94053092—dc23

  For Olivia

  Contents

  Foreword

  Driving Wes Anderson

  Morning Becomes Electra

  Lou Reed Laughs Last

  The Birth of the Now

  Understanding Craig Stecyk

  The Malloy Brothers’ Conspiracy

  Who’s That Girl?

  Christian Bale and the Art of Extreme Acting

  “Sean Penn, With His Own Two Eyes”

  Fucking With Drew Barrymore

  Monster Out Of The Box

  What’s Wrong With Wes Anderson?

  Into The Wilde

  The Pirate of Penance

  Lone Wolf

  The Farewell Tour

  Werner Herzog In Los Angeles

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  A recent blunt force head trauma had rendered me incommunicado. My memory recall was nonexistent. The old cranial bell had become permanently rung when my skull hit the hardwood deck of an indigenous boat traversing a rigorously strict Islamic archipelago. No idea how Joe D. got my number as I then had none, but he came at me out of the void, popping up and requesting an interview about matters that had transpired decades ago. My answer was an emphatic no. The previously described perpetual mental haze prevented my willing participation in such an exercise. That wasn’t much of a deterrence to Donnelly who seemed more interested in my participation than my willingness.

  Somehow, eighteen years later, Donnelly is still around and still demanding answers. Through his perpetual interrogations and musings he has morphed from the aforementioned terrorist into a well-respected member of my ohana. (I realize that this could perhaps be interpreted as a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome.)

  This book is a lot like that/him/then/there/now. Glad tidings from an unrelenting inquisitor. Great work oftentimes hurts as well as heals. In times like these a good read is all that really matters.

  —C. R. Stecyk

  Minor edits have been made to some of these pieces.

  Driving Wes Anderson

  Originally published as “The Road Wes Traveled”

  in the LA Weekly, January 27, 1999

  Author’s note: Rushmore debuted in New York and Los Angeles on the cold, December day that Wes Anderson and I road tripped to Texas. I was between gigs and doing some freelancing when the great Manohla Dargis, then film editor at LA Weekly, asked me if I’d be interested in a cover story on Wes Anderson, one that required accompanying the young director on his journey home for the holidays. Dargis was playing a couple of hunches. One was that Anderson, already in a precarious position after the lackluster performance of his charming debut, Bottle Rocket, had made a transformational film with Rushmore. The other was that I, relatively new in town, was the right guy to ride shotgun with Anderson while his fate unfurled in real time.

  The driver is breaking the law again. Tearing like a tornado across the Mojave wastelands in a rented white Ford Explorer. Hands at ten and two. Chewing highway. Approaching his favorite speed: ninety mph. What would the honorable folks at Disney’s Touchstone Pictures think?

  Had they done a background check before anteing up for this buggy, they’d have known it would be like this. Wes Anderson is a recidivist. The last time he blazed through the Southwest, the law finally caught up with him in Van Horn, Texas. When the cop ran the registration and discovered Anderson had another speeding ticket besides the one he was writing, he threatened jail time. But first, he thought, let’s check the trunk to see what kind of contraband this scofflaw is running across state lines.

  In the trunk, the cop found a portrait of Herman Blume, the character played by Bill Murray in Anderson’s latest film, Rushmore. The painting anchors the film’s opening shot. In it, Blume sits in front of his disaffected movie family, looking like Ted Turner on painkillers. Set against a burnt-orange curtain, the Blume family portrait lingers onscreen an uncomfortable ten seconds before the curtain pulls back and the movie starts. Clearly, somebody’s meant to get the picture.

  “Is that that guy from Groundhog Day?” the cop asked Anderson.

  Anderson replied that yes, indeed, the face in the painting was Bill Murray’s.

  “Then I went into my song and dance,” he says.

  The “song and dance” is that point during a pullover when Anderson humbly explains that he is a movie director on an errand of vital importance to the project. In this case, say, delivering the painting to Mr. Murray himself for approval.

  “The cop ended up calling the judge at midnight, and I paid by credit card.”

  Then there was the time a couple years ago when a policeman in Tennessee pulled him over for doing ninety but knocked it down to eighty after the song and dance.

  “The cop was really nice. He had a great accent. He thought it was really something that we were both the same age,” Anderson recalls. “I thought he had some sadness about being only twenty-seven and being an authority figure.”

  Anderson has learned that part of Hollywood’s magic is how it cools out the trigger finger of authority. The strategy in case we get pulled over, which seems like a safe bet given Anderson’s preferred speed, is for me to wave the tape recorder conspicuously and ask the officer if I can get the whole thing on record for the story I’m doing. The cop will ask what story, and…

  “Then I’ll downplay it, like, ‘Oh, Jeez, I’m embarrassed,’” says Anderson. And the song and dance will be on.

  Don’t blame him for planning for the inevitable. When you drive as much as Wes Anderson does, somewhere in the John Madden range, you’re bound to rack up moving violations. It’s best to have a strategy. Hot chicks cry. He does his song and dance.

  Today he’s on the road from Los Angeles to New York, with a first stop scheduled for Amarillo, Texas. Any way you measure, it’s quite a haul, but it’s nothing compared to the larger journey of an artist who has come into his own. On that road, Anderson is somewhere between Great Expectations and Del
iverance. There’s a lot of emotional investment in how he negotiates this stretch, and not just his own. Many critics appear ready to anoint him as a favorite son. Some are even saying that Rushmore, just his second feature following the critically praised but largely ignored Bottle Rocket, marks his rise to the top of American filmmaking. Rushmore’s limited showing in December for Academy Award consideration earned it a place on dozens of 1998 Top Ten lists and serious Oscar hype. Premiere magazine has gone so far as to hail the somewhat gawky, twenty-nine-year-old upstart as the heir apparent to Allen, Brooks, Lubitsch, Sturges, and Keaton. There are, though, dissenting voices in the chorus of praise, and among the naysayers, one can sense an eagerness to lash back at whatever revenge-of-the-nerds factor Anderson’s work represents, like New Times calling the film “self-important” or Time saying it “delights in itself too much.”

  Even though this crisp Friday in December is a portentous one—the day Rushmore opens for a week in New York and Los Angeles—the driver is doing his best to ignore the signs along the big journey. Audience reaction? Critical response? Backlash from the early festival fawning? Full houses? Those are the questions crashing around in the world outside the speeding Ford Explorer. For now, Anderson is relieved they are off on the horizons behind and before him. For now, his song and dance is to keep his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel. For now, the smaller journey, the one that will take him to Amarillo for a short rest before he drives on, is posing questions.

  “Do you want a sandwich from the cooler?”

  The driver pats the cooler lid with a casual grace that suggests he feels pretty at home behind the wheel of a rented white Ford Explorer. He ought to. He’s been driving one on Disney’s dollar since he went home to Houston for Thanksgiving.

  “In lieu of In-N-Out Burger?” the passenger asks fearfully.

  We are 120 miles into the trip and nearing Barstow. The digital display says we have 185 miles until empty, the voltage is good, and the oil life is 99 percent. All systems are go. We’re in rhythm, which means we can stop looking ahead and start looking at each other. When you’re driving fourteen hours with someone you’ve just met, you’re going to make some silent assessments. One is that the two people onboard would probably have intimidated each other in high school. The driver unduly pegged as an intellectual snob. The passenger dismissed as a smug jock.

  “No. Not in lieu of In-N-Out Burger,” the driver decides. “Let’s stop at the next In-N-Out!”

  It’s a little early for that, but when you’re driving fourteen hours with someone you’ve just met, a roadside In-N-Out Burger, like a lot of things you thought you’d given up, has a certain siren call. It’s a bonding thing.

  “Hell,” says the passenger, “it’s twelve o’clock somewhere. We can even drive through.”

  “We will drive through, believe me.”

  A wicked grin slips across the driver’s sharp face. With his round glasses and seventies shlub clothes, he looks a bit like Mr. Rogers gone to pot, in pursuit of grease instead of grace. Soon enough, he’s ordering a double-double with cheese, fries, and a Coke for the passenger; a single with cheese, fries, and a vanilla shake for himself.

  “Can you put it in one of those to-go trays, please?” he says to the girl in the window.

  We grab the stash and point toward Needles on Interstate 40. The colors of the Mojave—brown, blue, and fading green—clash outside the white bubble of the Ford Explorer. As we dip fries into the same puddle of ketchup, it’s clear we’re in this together now. To break the ice, the driver asks the passenger how he typically passes the day. The passenger admits to being in the throes of a debilitating Beverly Hills 90210 addiction (reruns four times daily on FX). Painful admission that it is, it doesn’t stop the passenger from lobbying the driver to do for Luke Perry what he did for Bill Murray in Rushmore—the inspired casting-against-type that earns the actor rave reviews and shines him in a new light.

  “How can you miscast him? As a Mexican or something?” the driver asks.

  “I suppose as a bus conductor or an airplane pilot.”

  “He’d just become that,” the driver says with conviction. “He’s such a chameleon.”

  Alas, ultimately Perry just doesn’t have the kind of face that interests Anderson. He likes a face like that of Jason Schwartzman, the eighteen-year-old acting novice he cast as Max Fischer, the lovesick, mildly sociopathic playwriting prodigy and lead character in Rushmore. The actor’s face becomes a billboard for teen angst and a sight gag at the same time.

  “But Luke really needs this, for the indie credibility!” says the passenger, appealing to the driver’s magnanimity.

  Finally Anderson relents. “Okay, I think we can do that. I think we can push him through the system. Man, Amarillo is a long ways away. At the moment, we’re still in California. We still have to go through New Mexico and Arizona, two of the biggest states in the US.”

  ◆◆◆

  Centuries ago, a wise man said even the longest journey begins with the first small steps. The journey of the artist might be the longest and scariest of all. On this path, the biggest step is a leap of faith: it is making the terrifying declaration, to yourself at least, that you are chosen, that you possess the tools to be an engineer of the human soul. Thanks to Mrs. Torda, Anderson began groping his way along that path a long time ago. You see, back in 1977, when Anderson’s parents were getting divorced, his fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Torda, was into experimental teaching.

  “She was doing this thing where she was making everyone do these weird meditation exercises, that thing where you drop a tissue and catch it in the air, you know?” he says. “And while everyone would be doing this meditation thing, she started giving me massages. It was a little odd. It was not a thing I enjoyed. She sized me up as being extremely anxious and a problem.”

  Part of the problem was that Anderson was embarrassed about the divorce. He saw it as a failure—not his necessarily, but the family’s. It drove him crazy. He denied it was happening and tried to keep it from everybody. Not surprisingly, the ten-year-old began verbally acting out, telling lies, running through the hallways, throwing things.

  “I kept getting in trouble. I kept getting little demerits.”

  He also started writing—plays, of all things. So Mrs. Torda launched a program with Wes where every two or three weeks or so that he didn’t get a demerit, she would let him put on another play. There was The Christmas Escape and also his early mystery classic The Initial Bullet.

  “The mystery is solved because it’s a doctor who has shot this guy, and they found these X-rays of the guy with a bullet in his head, and if that’s not incriminating enough, the bullet has the doctor’s initials engraved on it that you can see in the X-ray.”

  The driver is staring out at the road ahead, smiling wryly. He’s a keen observer of youthful folly, especially his own.

  “One of them,” he continues, “was set all in cars. That was a big one, because that one, I remember, we did it for the class, then they expanded it for the lower school, and then they did it for the whole school. I was in fourth grade. Yeah, that was a big hit, that play.”

  The passenger looks into the rearview, stealing a reflected gaze into the driver’s eyes. The past is rolling by in sequence like the broken lines on the highway.

  “So, when Max says to his rival, ‘I’ve written a hit play, what have you done?’ you’re speaking from your heart.”

  “Yeah, speaking from my heart, except I think Owen [Wilson, his best friend and writing partner] might have written that line.”

  “Owen’s speaking from your heart.”

  “Yeah.”

  There’s a long pause, as if Anderson is trying to scrutinize something ethereal.

  “We did an Alamo play, The Battle of the Alamo, in three acts, and I was Davy Crockett. And we did The Headless Horseman, in which I played the Headless Ho
rseman and Ichabod Crane.”

  “You had a grandiose sense of yourself at this time,” the passenger suggests.

  “Yeah, major ego, because I was”—he clears his throat—“I had a lot of insecurity, and I guess that’s the way it manifested itself.”

  “Do you remember what kind of affirmations you got when you were putting on your plays?”

  “Yeah, the affirmation of me signing autographs for people who didn’t want my autograph. You know, I had a pad of paper and I was giving people my autograph. I was kind of standing there finding kids who I thought wanted my autograph and giving it to them. I was sort of feeling like I was a boy wonder.”

  Anderson chuckles at the thought, unaware of or uninterested in the irony.

  “Well,” says the passenger, “no one wants anything more in fourth grade than for people to want his autograph.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I tried to create a market for that.”

  What do you get when you pay five billion dollars to reroute the Colorado River 336 miles north and over 1,200 feet uphill to a desert cauldron fit only for rattlesnakes and scorpions, then decide the damned (literally) water is unfit for drinking but perfectly fit to be the new home of the London Bridge, which is transported and rebuilt brick by brick at a cost of more than eleven million dollars and is now the centerpiece of a town that hosts the London Arms Pub and the Sherwood Forest Nursery?

  The citizens of Arizona got Lake Havasu City.

  The sign in front of the Pilot gas station near Lake Havasu City doesn’t say “Welcome to the Biggest Mistake in the West,” but it does say “Welcome.” And our gas gauge says empty. So at 2:00 p.m. and 320 miles into the trip, we stop.

  During the last stretch of California, we passed a coyote on one side of the road and an attractive female hitchhiker in red pants on the other. The driver was concerned for both, especially the woman in red pants.

  “Those red pants are going to get her picked up at some point,” he said plaintively. “I just hope it’s the right person.”