If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (20 page)

Then there was the
Ellie-vator,
named after its first victim, Ellen Sandweiss. This rig was based on an old magic trick and allowed her to float in the air, as if possessed, without wires. Sam, a former Bar Mitzvah-style magician, often used simple trickery in his films. To him, motion pictures were the ultimate sleight of hand. He once explained it this way:

"The point isn't to just make the film, it's to amaze yourself and everyone at the same time. If you think what you're doing is neat, chances are everyone else will too."

But who could forget the
Ram-o-Cam?
Need an evil entity to ram through a plate-glass window? No problem. This rig consisted of a two-by-four (what else?) with a "T-Bar" at the end which would prevent injury by smashing the glass well ahead of the probing camera. With a total wholesale price of around $3.50, it also prevented costly budget overruns.

When all else failed, we just taped the damn camera to Sam's hand. The opening shot of
Evil Dead
consisted of me pushing Sam in a rubber raft across a swamp while he leaned out, skimming the camera across the water and swooping over decaying branches.

Lest you forget, the number one rule of the B jungle is: "When in doubt -- make it up as you go along."

"BRINK"MANSHIP

Given the factors of inexperience, a distant location and the early arrival of an unusually harsh winter, our "perfect" plan of a six-week shoot rapidly turned into eight, then ten, then twelve weeks.

Sam's script called for the main characters to endure countless woes during the course of one interminable night. It kind of worked this way: If you weren't possessed by a demon, you were chased by one. If you weren't killed, you were at least caught and soon wished that you had been. If killed, however, your character would come back to life as an unstoppable monster. As you might imagine, the actors were pushed to the brink of human endurance very quickly.

One such scene called for Teresa Seyferth's character to be hacked apart with an axe. Because the film had no rating, and we really didn't film any scenes to meet MPAA guidelines, Sam figured it would be cool to see her "parts" flopping about on the floor.

This required Theresa to be placed
partially
under the floor, with very specific boards fitted carefully around her neck. This way, she could remain an animated, decapitated creature and torment those around her -- torment being the operative word.

Rob Tapert, who foolishly agreed to play her disembodied leg and arm, had to get into position next to her. Underneath the floorboards, their intertwined bodies resembled a perverted game of Twister.

By the time everything was put into place, which was several hours later, Rob was getting horrible leg cramps. Theresa also felt that she had been uncomfortable long enough, and was ready to get out. Sam, in a rare moment of compassion, agreed. That's when I had to step in.

"Look, the whole thing sucks. Everyone's uncomfortable, but getting out right now isn't the answer because we're just gonna have to put you back in again. Let's just shoot the damn thing right now and be done with it!"

After we shot that scene, Theresa never looked at me the same way again.

Then, it was Ellen Sandweiss's turn to endure the hardships of stardom. A scene in the film called for her to race through the woods, dressed only in a nightie and slippers, hoping to escape the evil "force." This entailed an entire night of clawing her way, literally, through the dense foliage around the cabin. Oh, did I mention that it was about forty degrees outside?

After the twenty-second take, Ellen fell hard and gashed her leg. She began cursing and stated flatly that she couldn't film any more that night.

Shooting came to a halt.

Rob pulled Josh aside while the crew wrapped to point out drops of blood left in Ellen's wake.

"I like it when an actor bleeds," he exclaimed. "It makes me feel like I got my money's worth..."

Later, it was Betsy Baker's turn. Her big scene took place in a makeshift graveyard up the hill from the cabin. Betsy Baker, as Linda, had just come back from the dead (you've all downloaded the script off the Internet, right?). As she attempts to kill the dim-witted Ash (me), he defends himself by smashing
It's Murder!
beams over her head. These Styrofoam "beams" (whose normal use is to create a "rustic" look in mobile home dens across America) were used extensively in Sam's epic Super-8 film,
It's Murder!
and became identified with the same.

The scene was to progress like this:

Betsy approaches. I swing. The beam cracks over her head and she spits out a milky bile. Hoping to avoid putting in the cumbersome white contact lenses, we applied white makeup to her eyelids instead. As long as she kept her eyes closed, you wouldn't really notice the fakery in the middle of a scuffle. Therefore, Betsy had no way of really knowing what was going to hit her, when, or how
hard.

For her close-up, Sam and I lined up on both sides of the camera with beams to get the maximum number of hits without stopping to reset. Upon "Action," I would swing my portion of the "beam" and break it over her head. Sam would then follow this with a blistering SMACK that would send Betsy into a rage. Sam would apologize, set up for another take, and do the exact same thing again. Here's what you got:

Sam: "Action!"

Bruce's hit:
Whack!

Sam's hit:
CRAAACK!

Betsy: "Goddammit, Sam!"

After the third cranium-rattling blow, Betsy defiantly spewed milk (a bile substitute) in every direction, mostly into the camera lens. This, in turn, pissed off the cameraman, Tim Philo -- so went a typical night.

I wasn't left out of the torment loop -- not by a long shot. In fact, since I shared a longer working relationship with Sam than anyone else on the set, I became the very
least
of Sam's worries. Sam knew too much -- way too much -- and it worked against me.

I'm not crying "foul," but I can guarantee that Theresa, Ellen and even Betsy were nodding to themselves, thinking,
Hey, I gotta wear these damn contact lenses, but at least I don't have to get the living shit beaten out of me every day.

One occasion got out of hand -- after filming yet another vicious graveyard encounter, I ran down a steep hill, rejoicing that we had finished the scene. On the way down, my foot caught a root and my ankle turned in a direction that was diametrically opposed to the way I was going. I hit the ground, curled up in pain.

Sam and Rob thought this was particularly hilarious, and prodded me to get off my ass -- there was more to shoot. I managed to get to my feet, but that was about it. Next thing I knew, Sam had a pretty good-sized stick.

What the hell is he gonna do with that?
I thought.

Then Rob appeared with one of his own. They circled me, like Amazon tribesman around a downed animal and began poking my ankle.

I couldn't help but laugh at the insanity of it all. This misinterpreted angst only spurred them on and I was soon huddled in the corner of a back room begging -- no
pleading
-- for them to stop.

The scene we filmed later that night recorded a very visible on-camera limp and now you can tell the world why...

THE WRONG STUFF

Then there was the blood -- that damnable stuff. Fake blood is one of the staples of horror films and ours was no exception. We needed gallons of the goo, and most of it had one destination...
me.

Within weeks, we had cleaned out every local Quik Pik, Gas n' Go, and Bait Shop of the essential ingredient: Karo syrup. This harmless substance, beloved by pancake-eaters across America, became my nemesis. As it dried, Karo (or "Kay-ro" as it's pronounced down South) became the inbred cousin of Super Glue. One night, my shirt "broke." Hoping to make my life easier, I hung my Karo-soaked shirt on the back of a chair and placed it directly in front of a space heater.
If I just dry the thing,
I reasoned to myself,
it won't cling to me so horribly and wrench the very hair from my arms.

Within minutes, it seemed to be dry. That was an understatement, because my science experiment had created something just a little harder than peanut brittle. Upon thrusting my arm into the shirt, a sleeve snapped off and fell to the floor. I tossed the rest of it into the fire.

After each night of carnage and mayhem, I'd jump into the back of our rented pickup truck, soaked in blood like a mass-murderer, and ride home. One Sunday morning, we passed a series of spit-polished families, bound for church. There really wasn't anything I could do but smile and wave like nothing was wrong.

Back home, I'd walk straight into the shower, fully clothed, and let the hot water work its magic -- the only true solvents of Karo syrup were heat and time.

WHERE THE FUN NEVER SETS

It would be incorrect to portray these twelve weeks as a mirthless exercise in agony. Somewhere along the way, maybe once a month, we managed to have some fun.

Our first official reprieve was Thanksgiving, and we celebrated Southern style. I have never had a meal like it before or since. A small army of women, all related somehow to Gary Holt, took three days to prepare the fixings. In case you're skimming, that was three
days.