Hollywood Hellraisers (47 page)

Jack and Lara would enjoy, if that’s the right word, a typical on/off relationship. ‘Sleeping with Jack is like sleeping with Einstein,’ she reasoned. But returning from holiday in the south of France Lara was allegedly incensed at Jack after finding a bracelet in his luggage not intended for her. ‘It is so over with Jack,’ she told reporters. Hounded by the paparazzi, Lara was photographed in a New York club with Harrison Ford, then having his own marital troubles. Jack swiftly got in touch, keen for reconciliation. It worked, and they were all smiles again for the showbiz marriage of 2000, between Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones in New York. ‘Lara has a sense of fun and daring to her,’ said Jack. ‘That’s probably why we like being together.’ But for how long?

In any case, Jack had other problems, such as the time a very large female fan stripped naked and ran round his house demanding sex. After driving her car through security gates at Mulholland Drive she started banging on doors demanding, ‘Make love to me, Jack!’ Staff alerted police and the thirty-five-year-old nymphomaniac was taken to a mental hospital for observation.

Over the years Jack had come to expect the unexpected – being one of the most recognisable people on earth had its drawbacks. For the most part, though, Jack has always been comfortable with fame; if you don’t like the attention, go live in the desert and run a gas station. Pursued one night by paparazzi on his way to Kennedy International airport to pick up a girlfriend, Jack had his limo stop at a neighbourhood liquor store in Queens, where he graciously shared a pint of Jim Beam with the snappers and local strangers. One time in London he spotted a very shapely young lady looking at a shop window display. He sidled over to her, put his face into hers and grinned. The girl squealed with delight upon recognising him, Jack stepped back, tripped over an ice-cream stand and nearly fell on his arse.

Another public encounter had a couple stopping him in a store to ask, ‘How long have you been a Jack Nicholson lookalike? How much do they pay you?’ When he told them he really was Jack Nicholson they just laughed at him. ‘There was no way I could convince them that it was really me!’

My God! Let me get a look at you. You know, you look like shit. What’s your secret?

W
hen Marlon Brando agreed to make
The Score
(2001), playing another supporting role in what was a decent heist drama, no one knew it was going to be the last movie he’d ever make. It was a hotly anticipated picture. Marlon was to appear on screen for the first time with Robert De Niro, the meeting of two industry monoliths. It was to prove a rocky journey. Before Marlon showed up he called producer Gary Foster to introduce himself and ask a couple of practical questions. Foster finished by saying, ‘I’m looking forward to meeting you, we’re going to have a lot of fun.’ There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Marlon spoke. ‘How do you know we’re going to have fun?’ Foster said, ‘Well, I usually try to have a good time when we work.’ Marlon laughed, as if to say, ‘We’ll see.’

It wasn’t as though Foster hadn’t been warned. While setting up the movie he’d run into
Dr Moreau’
s John Frankenheimer and told him he was about to work with Marlon. Did he have any advice? Frankenheimer just looked at Foster and said, ‘Here’s what I’ll say to you. If I was penniless and desperate and the only job available was working with Brando, I’d rather lie down in the gutter and die.’

When he arrived on location Marlon charmed the socks off the crew; after all it was Marlon Brando, oh my God! Foster wanted to rehearse that evening the scene they intended shooting the following day, Brando in De Niro’s jazz club. ‘We don’t need to rehearse,’ said Marlon. ‘We’ll just go to work tomorrow.’ That was cool, smiles all round. A little while later Foster was summoned to Marlon’s trailer. ‘We had a really nice chat, it wasn’t even about the movie, he wanted to know more about me.’ Then it happened, Marlon said he didn’t want to shoot the jazzclub scene the following day but something completely different, the moment he hits a villain with a fire poker. Foster said that scene wasn’t prepped yet, but Marlon was adamant. ‘Why don’t we get the director?’ So in came Frank Oz, who backed up Foster’s argument. ‘Look, Marlon, we’re not ready to shoot that scene, we haven’t finished the work on the prosthetic arm.’ Marlon asked, ‘What prosthetic arm?’ Oz said, ‘The prosthetic arm for the guy you hit.’ Marlon looked dumbfounded, ‘How the hell do you know I’m going to hit him in the arm?’ Frank said, ‘Because that’s what’s in the script.’ Marlon, with feigned shock said, ‘Oh my God, you’re pre-directing the movie.’ He then turned at Foster and roared, ‘Get out.’ Foster did just that. ‘And I don’t know what transpired afterwards, but five minutes later Frank Oz stormed out of the trailer saying, “Nobody fucking talks to me that way.” Frank was just beside himself. And he never told me what was said, and Marlon never told me what was said, but it was, oh my God, what’s going to happen now?’

What ended up happening was a battle between Marlon and Oz for the rest of the three weeks that Marlon was on the film. ‘There were periods of time when it was fabulous,’ says Foster. ‘Everyone got along, and then there were periods where Marlon couldn’t stop himself poking at Frank.’ It didn’t help that Marlon insisted on calling Oz Miss Piggy, the Muppet character he’d voiced on the classic seventies show.

Things got so bad that the studio talked seriously about replacing Marlon. ‘Because three weeks of this kind of crap,’ says Foster, ‘we wouldn’t be able to stand it. So Marlon was put on notice that he had to cooperate. De Niro was unbelievable, playing at being diplomat. Clearly he didn’t have to get in the middle of it, but he wanted this one experience of appearing with Marlon not to be chaos. There were moments when Marlon and Frank had a disagreement on set and Bob went over to Marlon and said something and Marlon calmed down. We got through it, but it was a trying process.’

Marlon continued to have issues, like pitching script changes that Foster didn’t think were appropriate. ‘Well, if I was to appeal above you, who is the power behind all this?’ Marlon demanded. ‘Who do I talk to?’ Foster said, ‘The head of the studio, Peter Guber.’ Marlon asked. ‘And where is he, in Hollywood, hiding behind his desk?’ Suddenly Marlon got into this whole diatribe on power, as Foster recalls. ‘He started saying, “You wanna see power? I’ll fucking show you power,” and he started doing Don Corleone right in front of me, and he was loving it. And I was smiling because there was the Godfather talking to me. But Marlon definitely had this issue with authority.’

In another scene Marlon begs De Niro’s character to do one last bank job for him because his life is on the line. Finally, he breaks down and De Niro agrees. It was 5.30 in the morning when Foster’s phone rang. It was Marlon. ‘I’m calling to let you know I am not going to cry, it’s not going to happen.’ Foster didn’t argue, instead he went to the set early and told Frank Oz and De Niro. Between them there was no real understanding of how it was going to get resolved. ‘But what happened when we shot it,’ says Foster, ‘ – and this was brilliant Robert De Niro – Marlon said, “Can you do this?” and Bob took his eyes off Marlon and put his head down, just didn’t respond. So Marlon started improvising. Bob still stared at the ground, he would not acknowledge Marlon until Marlon realised he had no choice but to make Bob look at him, which caused him to get to a place he didn’t want to go to. When Bob finally felt that he had gotten the most honest performance he looked up at Marlon and said his line, “OK, I’ll do it. I hope you’re not fucking me up.” And he got up and he left, he literally walked off the set and out the building. Marlon sat there for a few minutes, emotional, and then erupted. But we got the scene.’

Brando’s last day on the film proved just as difficult. His last scene had him lying on a bed watching a news report on TV about the robbery and letting out a smile when he realises his friend’s gotten away. ‘We did about ten takes,’ says Foster, ‘and Marlon gave us this completely sour face. Frank asked, “Come on Marlon, just a little smile.” He wouldn’t do it. I cleared the set. Marlon was on the bed. “Come on up,” he said. So I got on the bed. “Listen,” I said. “You want to go home, let’s get this over with, do one take where you smile, I’ll put you on a plane tonight.” Marlon looked at me. “I won’t do it.” I said, “Why are you doing this?” He glared at me and said, “Get off the bed.” I went to the cameraman and told him, let’s do one more take, see what happens, and then we’ll wrap him. And that’s what we did, he didn’t smile, and we wrapped. He made a lovely speech to the crew thanking them for their time, and then wandered off, into the sunset. I never heard from him again. So it was a little bittersweet. None of us knew, and I don’t even know if he knew, that would be the last movie scene he was ever going to do.’

Strange that even right at the end Marlon was defying direction, still rebellious, this is my performance, I’m going to do it my way. Although in post-production a computerised smile was added to Brando’s face. ‘I do think that Marlon had some pride in his craft,’ Foster admits. ‘But he told me, “Do you understand how hard it is to get to that place, how draining?” It was debilitating to him, or he couldn’t get there or didn’t want to get there. It was a shame, but I think he felt he’d got to a certain point in his career where it’s pay your million dollars and you get Marlon Brando, you get that brand, it wasn’t really about hiring an actor. You look at some of the choices he made in the later part of his life and you think, why the hell did he do it? Because they paid him! I would hope that he did
The Score
for more than that.’

To the three Bs – Bikes, Beer and Booty

While Dennis Hopper was busy every other Tuesday making movies, his personal life hadn’t been entirely without incident, especially on the marital front. Back in 1989 he’d married his fourth wife Katherine LaNasa, a former ballet dancer turned actress and thirty years his junior. (Go, Dennis!) They had one child together, a son Henry. But the marriage didn’t last and they divorced in 1992.

In court Katherine claimed Dennis used violence towards her during their marriage, something he strenuously denied. Though with his past reputation there would always be doubts. ‘I know that I’ve belted a few women,’ Dennis told the
Daily Mail
in 2006. ‘But I had taken years of abuse before it got to that stage, and some of them had belted me first. I’m not going to feel bad about doing what I did.’ Indeed, he’d never felt any compunction about treating a woman the same as a man; if they went for him he’d retaliate as if it was Jake La Motta throwing the punches. But all that kind of shit, Dennis said, ended when he took his last sup of alcohol.

Dennis never understood why Katherine raised the issue of domestic violence in court, but maybe it had something to do with the fact they were battling each other for custody of their son. Dennis had missed much of his other kids’ upbringing and wanted so much to be involved in this one. ‘But karma has dealt me the same kind of hand again – it’s been hard on me.’

Depressed about the divorce and custody battle, Dennis was eating alone in a restaurant one evening when a very attractive young lady approached him. She’d just seen an exhibition of his artwork and wanted to discuss its finer points. Dennis was delighted. Her name was Victoria Duffy. They’ve been together ever since. As with Katherine, Victoria was almost thirty years younger than Dennis and when they married in 1996 he did feel conscious of the fact that one of his own daughters was older than her new stepmother. But Victoria was no bimbo. Dennis was proud of the fact she was a three-day-event champion who trained her own horses. ‘She has been a very subduing influence on me,’ he revealed. In 2003 Victoria gave birth to their first child, a daughter. Dennis remains on good terms with his other children, and like Jack has been open about his problems with drugs and their dangers. ‘When you get into the depths of drink and drug addiction, insanity and death are really the only outcomes.’

Career-wise, Dennis continued to appear with alarming regularity in all manner of piffle that brought shame and disgrace to bargain bins everywhere, like crime movie
Luck of the Draw
(2000), in which Mickey Rourke walked off the set when the producers refused to let him include his pet Chihuahua in the movie. And
Ticker
(2001), an action movie that Dennis worked on for one whole day and never even met its stars Tom Sizemore and Steven Seagal. There was the odd breathing space of a decent role in a decent product, a guest appearance in several early episodes of the groundbreaking TV drama series
24
as, yes, you guessed it, a baddie. ‘I usually play some sort of nut. I’m very good at it.’ And he played an evil tycoon in George A. Romero’s first zombie flick for twenty years,
Land of the Dead
(2005).

While his talents as an actor were going largely to waste, Dennis’s flair as a cutting-edge conceptual artist was being recognised around the world with exhibitions of his work in major capital cities. Especially pleasing was becoming the only living American artist ever to show at the Hermitage in St Petersburg.

Then came a flood of Dennis product in 2008, an incredible six films in total, the kind of output Michael Caine with a Spitfire engine up his arse would find hard to beat. He gave a chilling performance as an abusive father in
Sleepwalking
, starring and produced by Charlize Theron; there was the superior drama
Elegy
with Penelope Cruz and Ben Kingsley (oops, sorry, Sir Ben Kingsley, even Dennis confirmed in interviews that he likes to be called Sir Ben), which was followed by Kevin Costner’s
Swing Vote
. There was no escape from Dennis in 2008, even at home, with a starring role in
Crash
, the spin-off TV series to the Oscar-winning film about racial tensions in LA. It was a return to the mad heights of Frank Booth, playing a demented music mogul into knives, drugs, orgies and talking to his penis; yes, that’s right, he regularly holds conversations with his dick.

There was also
Hell Ride
, produced by Quentin Tarantino, a grindhouse inspired motorcycle movie about revenge, drinking beer and getting laid, with the added inducement of seeing Dennis hop on a hog just like his old
Easy Rider
days. It’s something he still does in real life: hits the open road when the mood takes him, with a gang of like-minded bikers that include stars Jeremy Irons, Laurence Fishburne and former model Lauren Hutton. They’ve been on various road trips, cycling from Munich to Salzburg or making a 1,500-mile trek around the United Arab Emirates. So the sprit of
Easy Rider
lives on, a spirit that was there from Dennis’s early beginnings. As a young actor in New York he’d tear around the city on a Vespa scooter, one time with fellow struggler Steve McQueen sharing the saddle. Some idiot opened a car door once and – whack – Dennis and McQueen hit the road literally, ending up with a mouthful of tarmac. Late for rehearsals, McQueen split, leaving Hopper to clean up the mess. Naturally, neither had a licence.

No more women, OK?

Back in the sixties, Leslie Caron remembered, ‘If you woke Warren Beatty in the middle of the night, before his defences were up, if that is ever possible, and asked him what he wanted to be, I think he would say president. I don’t think he’ll stop until he’s president.’

Talk of Warren’s possible bid for the White House had been steadily growing for a number of years, and he spoke of campaign finance reform and Medicare for everyone, impressive and radical policies. But it was all for nought, he didn’t run. Just as well, according to his friend Buck Henry. ‘Easygoing isn’t a quality Warren has. You know how presidents age in office? If Beatty were president, either he would be dead after the first year, or the country would be dead, because his attention to detail is maniacal.’