I Blame Dennis Hopper Read online

  For three days I had been starving myself in an attempt to be “in character” to shoot a part of a scene that had never been completed. The problem was the weather would change so rapidly on the mountain that many times you would be in the middle of shooting a scene when the weather suddenly wouldn’t match what you’d been shooting. So you’d have to start to shoot another scene. The call sheet, which lists the day’s scenes, was six pages long! It read, “Under cloudy conditions to be completed: list of scenes. Under sunny to be completed: list of scenes.” I needed sunny conditions to complete this scene in which I was supposed to be very hungry. The sun kept going down before we got to my scene. It had been five days of Frank’s telling me, “I promise. We’ll get to it tomorrow.” It was my own idea simply to stop eating. We had done one fast already, but I wanted to take it further. Starve for my art! And I was starving.

  The sun went down, and I was sitting in the snow on what they call an “apple box”—there were no chairs—and Frank came up to me that fifth day shaking his head, grinning with the usual “Sorry, Illeana; we’ll definitely get to it tomorrow.” We had been there so long, I forgot what civilization looked like, and I guess the conditions finally got to me. I stood up and said, “That is it. That’s it! I’m leaving.” And I walked off the set. Problem was, we were on a mountain. I still remember the look on Bruce Cohen’s face as I just started to walk past the plane set and out into the snow. I mean, we were forbidden from walking away from the boundaries of the set. It was quite dangerous, but I was walking somewhere, stomping off in the snow. Pretty soon Frank Marshall was told what was happening, and he and Bruce came after me in a snowmobile. I’m stomping along, and I could hear Bruce talking in hushed tones, explaining, because clearly I had lost my mind, “Frank, she hasn’t eaten in three days.” And Frank’s saying, “Can we get her some food? Is there anything here?” And Bruce’s saying, “I think we have some baked potatoes left over from lunch.” The next thing I knew, they were radioing base camp. I heard the second assistant director tell Bruce, over the walkie-talkie, that the potato was on the way. Then the second assistant director came snowmobiling out to Bruce and Frank with the potato. Handed it to him. The second A.D. said to Bruce, “This is all that was left.” I saw this shriveled, burned little baked-potato half. Frank shook his head as Bruce handed him this measly little thing. But he’s the director; he’s in charge. He is going to get me to eat. He starts pushing this potato at me, saying, “Illeana, eat the potato. C’mon. You have to eat something.” He had the little shriveled half a potato in his hand, and he was saying, “Please. Illeana, please eat the potato.” And I was starving, and I wanted that potato so bad, but there was another part of me that was so stubborn; I just did not want to accept that fucking potato because it was like accepting that I was wrong, that I needed help. I was so tired. I was so hungry. I was looking into Frank’s eyes. He was holding out the potato, and I was like a wounded animal as I took it from his hands. I put that cold, hard, shriveled potato in my mouth and started to chew. Much-needed blood sugar started to flow to my brain. Frank walked out to the snow, and I just collapsed in his arms crying. “We won’t tell Marty about this,” he said, and I started to laugh. My director was holding me in his arms. Holding me till I felt safe. And eventually, true to his word, we did get that scene.

  When Alive was over for me, my knees buckled under me as I tried to walk away from the plane. I knew things would never be the same in the real world as they had been on the mountain. Love. Trust. Safety. We had distilled everything that was good in one another. I had learned so many life lessons. I was wearing a plastic T-shirt designed to give me some protection from the snow. On the back one of the cast had written, I TASTE LIKE CHICKEN. I weighed 112 pounds. I had worn the same filthy dress for four months. I hadn’t bathed or showered in weeks. I had cried over a baked potato. Frank Marshall hugged me. We had all become these great huggers. Kevin Breznahan said, “Illeana was our wife, our girlfriend, our sister, and our mother.” Nicest thing anyone ever said to me. The last night I was there, Ethan and Josh Hamilton and I rolled downhill together outside Ethan’s condo. There was no more snow on the ground. It was spring. We decided that if there was a heaven, it looked like the stars above us.

  In the morning, I boarded a single-engine plane to Calgary. I eventually flew for sixteen hours, no sleep, one plane to another, finally landing in Wilmington, North Carolina. I had become what I had always wanted to be, but there were sacrifices. Alive went over schedule, and now I was flying straight to another movie, Household Saints. I hadn’t seen Marty in four months. He said to me, “What do you want to eat when you get home?”

  I said wistfully, “Cherry pie.”

  I was on the set of Household Saints. And it was hot. Close to a hundred degrees. I missed the snow and cold of the mountain. The movie took place in the ’50s, so they had cut my hair, dyed it black. I was in a black ’50s dress. We were shooting a wedding scene. It was supposed to be in Greenwich Village. Someone handed me a baby to hold. I was trying to ground myself, but nothing seemed familiar to me. I had no idea who I was or what had happened to me. I was a cannibal. No, I was a housewife. I was standing next to Tracey Ullman, who was the lead in the film. She was the star of The Tracey Ullman Show. I idolized her, but I was so disoriented that I was still searching for something to say to her when she said, “Someone just told me you were shooting a movie on a fucking iceberg?”

  “Something like that,” I said quietly. The days went by. I was so lonely, but there was no one around who could hug me until I felt safe.

  Now, I don’t remember this—it was told to me after the fact—but when I finally did make it home, apparently I ate an entire cherry pie, by myself. Marty planned this special dinner for me, and invited Daniel Day-Lewis and Winona Ryder, who were in The Age of Innocence. We were at the dining room table and everyone was laughing, and I said, “What?” and Marty said, “You just ate that entire pie!” I looked, and the pie plate was empty.

  I said, “Oh, my God. Why didn’t you say anything?” And Daniel said, “You seemed to be enjoying it.” Now I started laughing. We were all sitting at the table, laughing. I looked at the empty pie plate. I looked at Marty. I was home. We were going upstairs. Marty was screening Sullivan’s Travels for Daniel and Winona. They had never seen it. I think I laughed more at Sullivan’s Travels than any movie I had seen. “There’s a lot to be said for making people laugh” learns the director, played by Joel McCrea. I had climbed that mountain, and attained that missing something I would be able to talk about for the rest of my life. I was, as Nando had hoped, “happy just to be alive.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Uncle Roddy

  Hugo’s restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard. Photograph by Roddy McDowall. “You’re not going to like these photographs,” he said, “but someday you will!” As with everything else, he was right.

  It’s not good to break down in tears when you are trying to make a good impression on a Hollywood legend, but luckily for me Roddy McDowall understood actresses and their frailties. I met Roddy right after I had auditioned for the part of Janice, the suspicious sister of Matt Dillon in the Gus Van Sant film To Die For. I was pretty despondent by the time I arrived at Hugo’s, the restaurant where Roddy had chosen to meet me. I was convinced I was not going to get the part I so desperately wanted.

  Sometime after Cape Fear came out, Roddy McDowall contacted my Los Angeles agent. I received the following message with utter astonishment, “The actor Roddy McDowall called and he would like to take you to lunch, and snap some pictures of you for his latest book.” Roddy was well known for his photography books of actors, a series called Double Exposure, so this was quite an honor.

  Then it dawned on me. Wait a minute, Roddy McDowall, the Roddy McDowall? He wants to take pictures of me? Why? No, this is great. It will be great. Don’t be nervous. I already knew a lot about him. There wasn’t a celebrity bio I had read that hadn’t had Roddy McDowall in it. Roddy McDowa
ll was the confidant of Elizabeth Taylor, Natalie Wood, Montgomery Clift—basically everyone. Can I ask him about Elizabeth Taylor and what happened on the set of Cleopatra? The cult classics Inside Daisy Clover and The Loved One? His friendship with Montgomery Clift? Can I bring my copy of The Legend of Hell House and have him sign it? Can I bring my crappy camera and take pictures of him?

  We set a date to coincide with my audition for To Die For. I was flying to Los Angeles for my second audition for the film. For the first audition, I had flown out to Los Angeles on January 16, 1994, and spent the night at the home of my former roommate, Steven, in Santa Monica. We had gone over all my scenes, had some wine, and said good night. I was feeling very confident and couldn’t wait till the morning. I was sleeping on the floor in the living room and the next thing I remember, the earth was moving. Up and down and sideways. Pictures were falling from the walls, books came tumbling down, and dishes were crashing around me as I scrambled in the unfamiliar house to find Steven’s bedroom. We held onto each other for dear life and prepared for the end. Two actors’ lives tragically cut short. The shaking stopped, we went outside to see the destruction—even filmed some of it with my new toy, the video camera Marty had given me—and then, typical actress, I wondered if I was still going to have my audition in the morning. I even tried to call the studio. Yeah. No one answered. I had been upstaged by a really, really bad earthquake!

  So I was back in New York when I received the call about Roddy McDowall’s wanting to meet me. I know you know that, but I wanted to write it one more time. Roddy McDowall called and wanted to meet me! I was not going to let L.A.’s largest earthquake stop me from auditioning for To Die For. Auditioning for a part I thought I had been born to play.

  My plan was to go to the audition and then meet Roddy McDowall and hope that I had some good news to share with him. “Roddy, I’ve signed on for the picture.” Something like that. Roddy chose the place. It was a restaurant called Hugo’s on Santa Monica Boulevard. Another good sign.

  I knew all about Hugo’s. The first time I went to Los Angeles was to work on Guilty by Suspicion. Marty insisted I had to have breakfast at Hugo’s. “Every morning!” he said. “Make sure you’re seen!” Hugo’s was sort of an in-spot in those days. “You never know who you’ll meet there.”

  So every morning I went to Hugo’s and had breakfast. He was right. I saw a lot of famous folks. Didn’t meet too many of them, but I saw them for sure. Then, at one of my last solitary breakfasts at Hugo’s I see James Woods. There is nothing like the thrill of seeing a movie star, especially one you admire, swagger through a power-breakfast room, table-hop here, smile at someone there. Oh, wait—he’s smiling at me. James Woods is smiling at me. He paused to say hello. My first welcome-to-Hollywood hello. (Something I reminded him the night when I spilled goat cheese on him.)

  I remember calling Marty and telling him, “Marty, you’re right. Hugo’s is the best! I just met James Woods.” Long silence from the other end. “Stay away from him.” There were no hard feelings. They worked together years later on Casino!

  When I went to meet Roddy McDowall, it was an unusually rainy day and I was still wearing my audition outfit, because I didn’t have time to change. Here I was back at Hugo’s. My place, I thought as I entered. Not only was I actually going to experience dining with someone there, but I was also going to meet Roddy McDowall. My first impression was of course to notice the instantly recognizable expressions and mannerisms and impish voice that I had seen and heard so many times in so many of his films. He would tilt his head, and I would think, Oh, my God, it’s Cornelius from Planet of the Apes. Stay focused, Illeana. The next thing I noticed was the impeccable, Old World way in which he dressed and carried himself. His crisp white shirt cuffs were turned up over a baby blue V–neck sweater, which was covered by a tan Members Only cargo jacket. Wonderful cologne. He turned his gold ID bracelet on his left hand as he spoke. It’s a cliché to say you want movie stars to live up to who you hope they’ll be, but Roddy was everything I had hoped for and more. Charming, funny, gossipy. He dropped the name of a beautiful French starlet from the ’30s and said, “She brought the clap to Hollywood—Gershwin, everyone had it.” He had stories about everyone, always with a wonderful aside—usually about their private lives or loves. I was in heaven.

  Then he ruined it by asking me how the audition had gone. I sighed and started to describe the scene to him with as much humor as I could muster. Auditions are always competitive, but the line of twenty-plus girls who auditioned for To Die For was a who’s who of successful actresses, including two future Academy Award winners. We could have all left and filmed another movie. There was that much talent. I was sandwiched between two really successful gals, and I was convinced that someone more famous than I would get the part. It had nothing to do with the work. The work had gone well. And I knew I had allies. At one point, I was struggling with the reader—the person who is hired to read opposite you during the screen test. She was stumbling over the lines, and Nicole Kidman, who had been watching, piped up and said, “Do you want me to read with you?”

  Actress looks directly into camera: That’s what’s called a good sign.

  A bad sign? Buck Henry had his feet up on the desk the whole time I was there, rocking back and forth in this high-end office chair. Rock, rock, rock. When you are auditioning, and maybe this is just me, you survey the room when you walk in and think, Hmmm, who do I need on my side? Along with Gus Van Sant, producer Laura Ziskin, Nicole Kidman, and some Sony execs, there was the towering giant of a screenwriter, Buck Henry. Hadn’t counted on that. Twice nominated for an Academy Award—Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium, for The Graduate, and Best Director, for Heaven Can Wait. Let’s throw screenwriter of Catch-22, What’s Up, Doc?, and co-creator of Get Smart into the mix, too.

  There he was, feet up on the desk, chewing gum, having seen a million auditions, not impressed, not laughing at any of my jokes, and why should he? He’s Buck Henry. He cowrote The Graduate! Not on my side.

  Now, that’s what the scared actress is assuming he’s probably thinking. When is lunch? Or, I wonder how big my on-screen writing credit is going to be? What’s the hotel like in Toronto? I remember all through the audition thinking, this is going very well, and if I can just get Buck Henry to stop rocking in his frigging office chair it will go even better. Nicole Kidman gave me a secret smile as she said goodbye, or maybe I was assuming that, too. Gus took a Polaroid of me. That might be a good sign? I was recounting the entire experience to Roddy McDowall when he stopped me.

  “Do you mind if I take some pictures? You’re very … expressive.”

  “Sure,” I said reluctantly. I hadn’t expected him to take pictures right there at the table. I mean, I didn’t even have any makeup on, but I think he sensed something was going on with me emotionally. He took out his camera and began snapping away. I was trying to smooth my hair, trying to look pretty for the camera, and I started to feel really self-conscious. Roddy McDowall had photographed some of the great leading ladies of our time. In fact, stop reading this right now and go pick up his four-book Double Exposure series, and you’ll see what I mean. As he snapped away he asked me, “Do you think you have the part?” I wanted to laugh and say, yes, of course, I have the part—but all of a sudden I was pretty sure, in fact I was convinced, that I did not have the part.

  I looked down at what I had chosen to wear for the audition. A white Capezio bodysuit with tights, Doc Martens boots, and some crazy short jumper I had bought at a Village flea market. Pseudo–Audrey Hepburn chic was the look I was going for. I had worn it so often it was already starting to rip under the arms. I mean, who wears something like that to meet Roddy McDowall? Would he notice? And now photographs would prove that I actually wore things like that to try to get parts in movies. I began to feel ridiculous and out of place in Hollywood. Meanwhile, the rain was coming down. I hadn’t valet-parked, because I wanted to save money. Always thinking of mone
y. I would have to make sure that Roddy got into his car before I did so he wouldn’t find out. What kind of actress doesn’t valet-park?

  Roddy was snapping away, and I started to unravel. “No,” I said. “I don’t think I got the part. I don’t have a chance.” Then came the tears. I was convinced that another actress had cinched it. I said to him, “I saw the way she hugged everyone goodbye.”

  I’m not sure why, but I started to tell Roddy about the pressure I felt coming out here and competing against actresses who had already “made it” in my mind. About the pressure of having a famous boyfriend like Martin Scorsese who was so successful, and what would he think if I didn’t get the part. I was revealing insecurities I didn’t even know were there. Listen, I’m sure if I had had the clap I would have confessed that to him, too. He was a very good listener.

  Roddy put down his camera, and handed me a handkerchief to dry my tears. “Oh, you poor dear,” he said sympathetically. He started talking to me as if we were old friends, and I felt as if we were old friends. I’m sure a lot of other actresses had cried on his shoulder: Natalie Wood, Tuesday Weld, Elizabeth Taylor, and that actress with the clap. He was everyone’s confidant. Now he was becoming mine.