A case of matricide, p.8
Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way, page 8
“Sonny boy, when Bunny gets her paws on you, you’ll wish your father never met your mother — it’s not something you rehearse.”
I knew I was in for a world of shit whether I stayed or fled, but my keen sense of professionalism took over.
How would an A-list actor prepare for such a scene?
“Al, I need two minutes,” I said, holding up a hand, walking toward a corner of the bar.
“Okay, but only two,” he shot back. “We got a fight scene to shoot before lunch.”
Whenever an actor is faced with a serious challenge — and mine was being forced to make love to a woman twenty years older than me (on camera) — he or she must use every tool in their creative box to face, meet, and overcome that obstacle.
In this case, I called up a bizarre acting exercise that had lain dormant in my mind since high school: astral projection. Sometimes acquired knowledge doesn’t pay off right away. In this case, for instance, it was a three-decade wait, but its ultimate value was immeasurable.
Through this technique, I was able to “project” myself back to Junior High School, when Bunny was the subject of countless adolescent fantasies. Modern day Bruce might not be able to service an aging sex starlet, but a sixteen-year-old Bruce would have the time of his life.
Also known as Retrograde Sensory Association, this is a radical, but highly effective technique used by actors only in the most dire circumstances. Side effects are typically mild, but may include headache, dizziness, and blackouts.
My ensuing journey was so intense, so convincing, I actually have no recollection of what took place here on earth. I was in a parallel universe.
What eventually brought me out of this life-altering, “far away place” was Al, shouting “Cut!” over and over.
When I opened my eyes, time had skipped easily an hour and a half into the future. I was lying on the pool table, next to Bunny, naked as an eight ball and drenched in sweat. Bunny, also without her cowgirl duds, took a deep drag off her cigarette. The look on her face was the most beguiling combination of awe and satisfaction I’ve ever seen.
Something weird just happened.
“An actor doing research my ass,” Al scoffed, tearing our “contract” into a thousand pieces. “You wanted to get into Bunny’s pants all along. Well, let me tell you something, buster — nobody gets to please my lady like that except me. Now BEAT IT!!!”
It was the first time I was ever thrown off a set, but the net result of growing as an actor and sharpening my professional tools made it all worthwhile. In case you’re interested, Al and I later renegotiated, and the scene is available as a DVD extra on Al’s newly-released collection, Schtup-tacular: Sex Education Films of the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. The Tarantino commentary alone is worth it.
7
Mike Mounts His Movie
At exactly ten o’clock the following morning, Richard Gere and I presented the new “mugging” scene for Mike Nichols and the screenwriter, Kevin Jarre, during rehearsal at Mike’s brownstone.
Mike and Kevin had collaborated before on Working Girl, and were at a comfortable place in their professional relationship. I had been fortunate enough to work with Kevin on a TV pilot called Missing Links, and although it failed to mature into a full-blown series, we had enjoyed the experience.
The sound of Richard and me getting our breath back masked the quiet consultation Mike was having with Kevin. My sternum hurt like hell, but I managed to get through it. After a minute, Mike spoke.
“Hey, fellas, wow,” he said, not necessarily happy. “Let me just say that I’m glad that nothing is broken and I hope you’re both okay. But I have to ask you, what led you to take it in this direction?”
I looked to Richard.
“Well, Mike, we just wanted to get the most out of the scene,” he said.
“It was just a mugging, Richard.” Then, looking at me, “you guys made it into a scene from Walking Tall.”
“But, now Mike,” Richard interjected, “let’s not forget that Harry Grayson has a military background — Desert Storm, Desert Shield.”
Mike walked over to the coffee machine, thinking. “Yeah, okay, I guess I could see that, but Jesus, I dunno.”
“And he’s a New Yorker, through and through, Mike,” Richard pressed. “He’s got coffee in his veins.”
Mike put Cremora in his cup of coffee, swirling it around with a plastic stirrer, then stopped and looked at me. “And what was in Foyl’s past that might make us believe that he can do what you just did? I didn’t read ‘has the ability to perform numerous karate moves’ in your back story.”
I couldn’t expect Richard to bail me out on this one. “Well, Mike, Foyl had a brief stint in the National Guard, and he had a very domineering father, which led to numerous violent altercations.”
Mike stared at me, unblinking. It’s like that during rehearsals sometimes, where lots of long silences hang in the air simply because things have to be sorted out.
“Think of it, Mike,” I urged. “This is a romantic comedy, but there’s nothing that says you can’t have some zingers, some mush-mush to give the flick a little kick in the ass.”
“Mush-mush?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, that’s my pal Sam Raimi’s term. It’s when he uses every available means to jazz up a scene, to goose it. You add mush-mush.”
“Is this a story about mush-mush, Bruce?” Mike asked, with a lack of expression that was intimidating.
“Well, no, but it’s like the seasoning of a meal, like the —”
“Mike,” Richard offered, “could Bruce and I show you another scene that we worked on? It might give you a clearer idea of where we’re coming from.”
“All right, gentlemen, have at it,” Mike said, walking slowly back to the worktable he shared with his secretary, June.
Richard and I had a quick confab.
“Look, let’s tone this next one down a little,” he said. “Mike doesn’t seem to be a fan of the broad stuff.”
“Okay, yeah,” I said, agreeing. “He was about to eat me.”
“But let’s keep the intensity,” Richard reminded. “In this scene, it’s your job not to let me through that door, no matter what.”
Richard was referring to a sequence near the end of the movie where Foyl must stop Harry from entering the building to see Renée’s character, Debbie. It’s a contest of wills, and Richard’s character wins. We took our positions in the open floor, facing each other and began.
FOYL
(trying out a more genteel Southern accent)
Sorry, Harry, I cannot let you do this.
“Better, Bruce,” Mike said, “I like that much better.”
“I do too,” Richard said, looking at me apologetically.
“Okay, fine,” I said, mildly annoyed.
“Let’s continue,” Mike instructed.
HARRY
(determined)
I have to get in there, Foyl. I have to see Debbie.
FOYL
Well unfortunately, sir, she doesn’t want to see you.
That was Richard’s cue to advance. Mike scooted his chair forward in anticipation. Kevin was paying close attention, not only to the words, but to our actions.
As Richard advanced, I retreated.
HARRY
(warning)
We’ll just see about that.
FOYL
Don’t push me, sir.
Richard forced me up against a side door, which we were playing as the entrance to the apartment building, and he put his hands on my collar.
Mike stood up. “Knock his hands off, Bruce.”
I did, and it felt right. Richard is a very intuitive actor, and he reacted by putting his hands right back up, only this time more firmly in place.
HARRY
You know what she means to me, Foyl.
FOYL
(through gritted teeth)
Yes, I do. And that’s the problem, sir — she means nothing to you.
“That’s an action line, Bruce, move during it,” Mike instructed. “Move away from the door. Richard, are you okay with Bruce forcing you back?”
“Sure, yeah, let’s try it,” he said, fully in the moment.
With a nod, I pushed Richard back from the wall. He resisted with his toned body, but I made some headway. “That yoga shit really works for you, doesn’t it?” I said under my breath.
Mike took a step away from the table. June followed to take notes, because she knew he was prone to throw directions over his shoulder in the heat of a scene. “Now, Richard, you’ve got to get in that building,” he reminded in a fatherly tone.
Richard and I looked at each other, getting set.
“You want to do the next bit?” I asked.
“Sure, why not?” he said, smiling.
With that, Richard swung an arm over my head and got me in a headlock. I quickly elbowed him, and his grip released enough to get free, but he was already working his way to the door. I tackled him from behind and we rolled around on the floor slamming into one of Mike’s custom cabinets.
“That’s the intensity,” Mike said, becoming more animated. “Kevin, you on board?”
Kevin shrugged, but he was chuckling just the same.
“June, you got those moves?” Mike asked.
“Pace, collar, push back, headlock, elbow, tackle, roll — got it,” she said, writing furiously with a No. 2 pencil.
Richard had since rolled on top of me, and I worked my leg under to push him off. Mike saw what I was about to do.
“Make sure it’s away from the building, Foyl. You want to keep him away. Let me see it!”
I let Mike see it, all right — and Richard too, because I pushed him back harder than I had intended. Richard backpedaled right past June and into the coffee station. Spoons, napkins, Nutri-Sweet packets, and freshly roasted, shade-grown Hawaiian blend coffee went everywhere.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry, Richard,” I said, worried that I had broken the star’s back.
“Don’t you apologize to him, Foyl,” Mike scolded. “Stay in character! You just did what you needed to do, and now Harry Grayson will do what he needs to do.”
Richard took that as his cue and ran toward me. I got ready to perform the next bit of rehearsed action, but Richard was coming too fast. What happened next wasn’t anyone’s fault — in fact, it’s a problem that often occurs when two actors are allowed to “fight” together in a scene. Actors and fighting is a little bit like wildfire — if it isn’t watched closely, it can get away from you.
The move we rehearsed was this: Richard would charge, but I would step aside and whack him in the back, sending him to the ground — simple.
But Richard was going too fast for that, and his lunging shoulder impacted my thigh, sending me out of control.
Richard was also knocked off course, but inertia kept him going until he belly-flopped into a table of pastries, sweeping it clean — tablecloth and all. I was too busy spinning like a top to notice. In fact, the only thing I knew for sure was that the stairwell of the brownstone was getting closer.
When I hit the raised lip of the concrete stairway backward, I knew that what lay ahead was not going to be good. Any stuntman will tell you, falling backward down the stairs is “a broken neck waiting to happen.”
As I tumbled backward, the expansion of time caused by impending trauma allowed my mind to free-associate. I thought about the time I was acting in a Super-8 movie in Michigan, around 1976. Sam Raimi, boy wonder at that time, was directing a film called The Great Bogus Monkey Pig Nut Swindle. My role, a bad guy, required me to take a punch over a concrete wall and fall into a “river” below. The camera rolled, action was called, and as I hurled myself over the wall, the same bubble of expanded time enveloped me. Below, images flashed in slow-motion detail: ripples moving across the dingy water, the twist of a leaf in the wind, the concrete slab, hidden two feet beneath the surface.
I hit the first set of stairs, and a loud snap from a damaged bone rang out as a harbinger of things to come. The sound of the fall was as spectacular as the visuals: Whack – bam – “Ooof!” – clump – scrape – “Ow!” – duff – snap – wham!
I finally got to the bottom of the steps, but momentum carried my cartwheeling body through a locked, metal fire door that will forever retain a torso-shaped dent. I tumbled into the adjacent alley, finally stopped by a row of metal garbage cans.
Mike ran to the top of the stairs. He could see all the way down to where I was sprawled among the wreckage in the alley. “Oh, my God,” he yelled, sounding horrified. Then: “That was beautiful! June, did you get it all?”
“Let me see,” she said, checking her notes. “Leg push, coffee crash, charge, hit, spin, table clear, stairs, including whack – bam – “Ooof!” – clump – scrape – “Ow!” – duff – snap – wham! Then, door and alley — got it.”
“Excellent,” Mike said, working his way down to me. “Now that’s the way to mount a scene!”
I tried to roll over, but my back wouldn’t allow it. Oblivious to my trauma, Mike knelt next to me.
“Bruce, I have to admit, I was pretty resistant to this new direction,” he said. “I’m a character guy, you know? I don’t really do the flashy stuff. But I think I’m starting to get it now, and to be honest, I love it.”
Mike grabbed my wrenched arm and hoisted me up. “Let’s not forget, in this scene Foyl loses the fight, but he’s still a gentleman. That’s the core of his being, it’s what motivates him.”
Mike gave me a healthy pat on the back and jogged back up the stairs, whistling a happy show tune.
• • •
Ready for a hot bath, a massage, and a nap, I stumbled through the lobby of my SoHo hotel looking like the loser of a bar fight — at 11:00 a.m. I approached the slightly disturbed desk clerk and smiled cordially.
“Good morning — any packages for Bruce Campbell?”
The clerk, an intern type, looked behind the desk. “All I have is a FedEx for Let’s Make Love!”
“That’s me.”
“Could I see some I.D.?”
“They don’t ask for that in Oregon, you know,” I grumbled, rummaging through my bloody jeans.
“Well, you’re not in Oregon anymore, are you?” she said, with obvious disdain.
I found my license and waved it in the clerk’s face. Reluctantly, she handed over the package.
Every delivery from the outside world is like Christmas to the gypsy actor, so I can get excited by a gas bill. Back in my room, I ripped the box open immediately. Expecting the usual stuff from the home front, I instead found a strange amalgamation of used B-movie DVDs, VHS audition tapes (one marked Danny Bonaduce), news clippings, and a rambling note from Rob Stern, the Paramount punk I recently met.
The package was clearly not meant for me, but you know what they say about possession and the law. The attached note was addressed to Mike Nichols, and outlined Rob’s agenda:
“Mike-o,
Stern here. As we strive to transform Let’s Make Love! from something you’d sleep through on an airplane to something parents will hand down from generation to generation, the road may be a little bumpy.
To help pave the way, I’ve enclosed some additional doorman auditions that rock (hey, until we actually shoot, the “door” should stay open), and some great B movies of the past - check out the groovy shooting styles. Let me know if any of this helps.
Fighting for you from the coast,
Rob”
I was surprised how quickly I could tear a piece of paper into a thousand pieces, flush it down the toilet, and cram an entire FedEx box into my undersized hotel kitchenette garbage can. For the record, it took exactly nine seconds.
“Doorman auditions my ass,” I hissed, stomping on the parcel one last time. “Track that, motherscratcher....”
The little pissant really was looking for other actors, and had the audacity to flaunt it, knowing full well that Mike had already made his decision. My first reaction was to shove the audition tapes up Rob’s generous ass, but the calm, resonant voice of Mike Nichols echoed in my head: “Being a gentleman is what motivates Foyl…the core of his being....”
If Mike wanted a gentleman, then by God he was going to get one. I was going to become the most gentle gentleman ever to roam the earth. It was time to go to the source, to the land of Dixie.
8
The Gentlemen’s Club
Gentle man: an oxymoron if ever there was one. Granted, modern men do come in all flavors — some are cute and cuddly, but most of them are rough and tough, and some are just plain pirates. I encountered a good example of this while directing an episode of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys in New Zealand. The Kiwis are a very hearty bunch. The Down Under men are manly, fearing nothing except their wives, girlfriends, and elderly aunts.
Through idle conversation between shots, I became friendly with a grip on the crew. He was a very nice fellow, but you wouldn’t know it by his rough look. He was tall and wiry, and sported a plethora of scary-looking tattoos. He even had a gold patch over his right eye, and it fascinated me. Eventually, I became familiar enough to ask the fateful question:
“Hey, Rod, how’d you get that patch over your eye?”
“Oh, no big deal,” he said with a wry smile. “I used to inject cocaine into it. Goes straight to the brain that way. ’Course, after a while, the cornea wears out, doesn’t she?”
I stared at Rod in horror. It was one of the most hideous stories I had ever heard. “Sorry I asked.”
“No worries, mate.”
But trying to focus on a genteel portrayal of Foyl Whipple meant putting away such macho memories. I had to erase the images of an overly aggressive modern man, a species bursting at the seams with testosterone, and replace it with the more restrained sensibilities of a Southern gentleman.
The Richmond Gentlemen’s Society was housed in an antebellum mansion on Cotton Gin Lane. This grand estate wasn’t just a place to stay, it was a living museum — a pristine link to a more mannerly time.
