Christian Bale (18 page)

I remember one evening when David, Christian, and I went to see a movie at the Santa Monica Promenade. On our drive up from Manhattan Beach, I was sitting in the backseat. Suddenly, I saw one of the newly introduced Volkswagen New Beetles drive by.

“Punch buggy!” I yelled, and I hit Christian on the shoulder. It was the Canadian version of Slug Bug, where you hit someone in the car whenever you spot a VW Beetle.

The effect was instantly catastrophic. Christian yelped, “Dad! He hit me!”

David, who was driving, swerved the car to pull over. He turned to yell at me, his own giant fist raised: “How dare you hit my son!”

But then Christian broke down laughing with his infectious asthmatic Woody Woodpecker laugh as I tried to explain the rules of Punch Buggy to David, while hoping I wasn't about to get punched myself. Christian was very amused.

The heated temper was something that Christian shared with David. They both overreacted out of proportion to any perceived
offense. Whether it was bad service at a restaurant, declined credit cards at the rent-A-car, or mix-ups in reservations, both father and son would get huffy and quickly boil into outrage. David was much more vocal about complaining, while Christian would seethe and hiss like some kind of surly snake. Once at an Enterprise Rent-a-Car just a few blocks down from their Manhattan Beach house, Christian was so loudly lecturing the woman at the desk, and he was so angry that she started trembling and pointed to the security camera overhead for protection. Initially, I found it all very entertaining and assumed the Bale huffy-puffery was all about being English. This was so different from my Asian upbringing of stoic tolerance.

What moved me were notes from Christian like this:

As our friendship grew deeper, Christian began to trust my opinions completely, so he fell easy prey to my own highly developed sense of humor. On a trip back to Toronto, I matter-of-factly told Christian that Celine Dion owned the hotel we'd be staying in. That didn't seem too far-fetched as the Air Canada flight we were on featured Celine Dion singing the departure and landing videos with the song “We Were Born to Fly!”

Celine Dion was our running joke of everything he hated about American-style stardom: She was Vegas, showy, a megastar with her own line of Celine Dion Sensational Body Lotion, Celine Dion Belong fragrance, Celine Dion Sensational Eau de Toilette, and Celine Dion Pure Brillance perfume. And, of course, Mister Indie Music could not stand the belting Diva Dion, but as a proud Canadian, I'd always list her as one of the many Canadians who had made it in Hollywood. So in the hotel lobby at check-in, I was astonished when a normally shy (but very inquisitive) Christian asked the front desk how often did Celine Dion visit.

Christian in front of the Ontario Science Centre in Toronto, Canada.

“Sir?” The surprised concierge said. “Celine Dion?”

“Yes,” Christian wanted to know. “Does she personally stay here? Does she inspect your hotel often?”

Only when he noticed that I had run off to laugh did he realize he had been had.

“You lied to me!” he snorted. And it was his turn to playfully hit me on the shoulder. “That's for lying! And that's for making me think of Celine Dion for far too long!”

Christian and little Mojo would often drive up into the Santa Monica mountains for the day. He liked hiking and dirt biking and the solitude of the hills, and he'd take a backpack full of scripts to read outdoors.

While he was out, David swung into action.

David's approach to parenting intrigued me. Coming from a very traditional Chinese family, I thought my parents were over-protective, but compared to David, I was practically a latchkey kid. He poked around Christian's wastepaper basket, looking for any telltale signs that his son was unhappy, using drugs, or masturbating excessively. (He didn't wear gloves, by the way.) He knew where Christian kept his journals and poetry and he had keys to Christian's filing cabinet. He made no apologies and got defensive when I questioned him.

“This is Hollywood! How do you suppose a single parent can take care of a young and vulnerable son? I need to know who his friends are, what drugs he's using, and who he's sleeping with. Each one of them could be a dangerous influence on him! I'm his father!”

“What are you doing?” I asked David the first time I followed him on this inspection tour. Christian's room was dark brown with red velvet drapes drawn; call it dorm room macabre. I was shocked that his bed was low to the ground until I realized he didn't have a box spring, just a mattress on the floor. I caught the earthy scent of candles and cigarettes and old books, and then realized that Christian's room had an interesting underlying odor. I was reminded of a song that a Canadian poet, Meryn Cadell, had written about a boy's sweater, noting it had “that slightly goat-like smell that all teenage boys possess.” It was no surprise to find hundreds of books piled everywhere. And on top of the books were hundreds of CDs opened and carelessly discarded—Oasis, Bjork, Green Day, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Belly, Beck, Doves, Badly Drawn Boy, Paul Westerberg. His floor looked like an earthquake had hit a music store. Scripts were all over the floor on a carpet in dire need of a good vacuuming.

A bookshelf held a menagerie of what appeared to be assorted animal fetuses in jars. On the windowsill were a couple of dirty
plates, forks, teaspoons, and filthy mugs full of crystallized tea and mold. Closer to his bed was a pile of girly magazines—English titles, I presumed, as I had never heard of any of them.

“I have to see what my son is up to. Is he depressed or not,” David explained. He waded through the messy floor and showed me Christian's windowsill, which had an array of little clumps.

“You see,” David began, “my poor son has a morbid fascination with death and decay. He enjoys watching things rot and mold on his windowsill.”

“Yuck,” I said. I took a closer look and tried to identify the blackening clusters on the sill.

“Christian has always had an inquisitive mind,” David said proudly. “You see that? He's experimenting with his own bodily fluids on pieces of bread. Some of that is blood. Some is spittle. There's semen there. He wants to see what stimulates the largest amount of mold or takes the least time to decay.”

I was horrified as David sniffed through Christian's belongings like a bloodhound. Ever see
Jeepers Creepers
, when the Creeper sniffs through Justin Long's dirty laundry? You get the picture.

If the macabre gallery wasn't enough, David would then grab Christian's latest CD purchases, take them downstairs to the kitchen table, and read the lyrics on the CD insert.

“I need to know what he's listening to,” David explained again. “If the music is suicidal or hopeful. If the music is about loneliness or sadness.” Sometimes, David would scribble down notes while he read the lyrics so that he could analyze them in depth later. I had never seen anyone behave like this before!

In 1995, during Christian's dry spell, the American Film Institute decided to honor Steven Spielberg with a Life Achievement Award. After years of being criticized as just a pop director with big box office blockbusters, Spielberg impressed the critics with his 1993
Schindler's List
, demonstrating that the popcorn movie maestro could also create a serious film.

Christian was invited to speak at the tribute. David was ecstatic. This would be an important networking opportunity for Christian to reestablish good relations with Spielberg and his prolific producers, Frank Marshall and Kathleen Kennedy. And it would be good for Christian to get out there on a national TV special so that the world could see that the boy from
Empire of the Sun
had grown up into a handsome young man.

Though the producers of the tribute offered Christian help with their writers, he chose to write his own speech. For some reason he didn't have to clear his remarks with any of the producers.

Tom Hanks was the host. Jim Carrey stole the night with a devastating, funny speech that finished with him telling Spielberg: “Up yours, man!”

But Christian's homage to Spielberg hit a couple odd notes:

“When I recall working with Steven, I can remember a scene where I had to run down some stairs and say something particular obnoxious. And I was obnoxious throughout the film but this was obviously exceptional because I got slapped for it.

“And we rehearsed this many times so that I wouldn't actually be hit, so that the hand would just miss but it would look for real. We spent a long time perfecting this and then eventually we did a take.

“So Steven shouts: ‘Action!' I ran down the stairs and said my line and SMACK! She hit me! And she really wasn't holding back! This was no light tap. And I looked up and Steven said: ‘Excellent! Excellent reaction!'

“And I said: ‘Well good, I didn't have to do very much because she hit me.'

“And he said: ‘Oh, oh dear. Let's make sure Christian doesn't get hit again.'

“So alright. I go back up and we do another take. I run down, I say my line and SMACK! Same thing again. I look up and relocate my jaw. And they convince me that it really was just another mistake. It's never going to happen again.

“So I say, all right.

“Anyway, four or five times this happens and finally it dawns on me that she's never going to miss. And what's more, Steven had absolutely no intention of allowing her to miss.

“And whenever I was out of earshot, he was giving her the thumbs up and saying: ‘Same again!'”

While the audience tittered and laughed, Spielberg blushed beet red and covered his face. At one point, his wife, Kate Capshaw, turned to ask him if the story was true and you can see Spielberg wringing his hands, nodding.

A couple days later, David called me, upset at a letter Christian had received from Spielberg. Though the letter thanked Christian for speaking at the tribute, David was horrified that Spielberg added: “I think you only got hit once. Any more would have been child abuse.”

“Oh dear! What is the meaning of this?” David cried. He was sure that the letter was a thinly veiled warning. And Christian's memories of making
Empire of the Sun
—did that face slapping really happen the way Christian described it? Could his son have been harboring resentment or bad memories all these years?

Christian finished 1995 without doing much work; his only completed project was the voice-over work for Disney's
Pocahontas
. Much to his father's chagrin, his next five films were low-budget but high-prestige indie films shot in Europe.

The first one,
The Secret Agent
, was set in nineteenth-century London and directed by Christopher Hampton. Christian had a small supporting role of Stevie, a mildly mentally challenged boy. Even with the strong cast that included Bob Hoskins, Patricia Arquette, Gerard Depardieu, and an uncredited performance by Robin Williams, the film was poorly received. It was only the second time as director for Hampton, who was better known as a screenwriter. Hampton had won an Oscar for the screenplay for
Dangerous Liaisons
and would earn another Oscar writing nomination for 2008's
Atonement
.

The next film Christian did was headed up by director Jane Campion, who was fresh off the success of her 1993 film,
The Piano
, and had decided to adapt the Henry James novel
The Portrait of a Lady
as a starring vehicle for Nicole Kidman. Christian snagged a small part as Ned Rosier, an upper-class twit who falls in love with Pansy, played by Italian actress Valentina Cervi. The film reunited Christian with his
Empire of the Sun
costar John Malkovich, and his
Swing Kids
costar Barbara Hershey.

To get her cast in character, Campion had asked Christian and Valentina to write love letters to each other in character.

Though the film received mixed reviews and minimal box office, Christian enjoyed the shoot that took place in Italy, his favorite place in the world.

Said Christian: “I fell in love 100 times a day in stunning surroundings whilst eating the best pasta in the world. Not a difficult choice. And the wine wasn't bad either!”