I had an actor friend I used to see a lot. We’d walk in Franklin Canyon and share horror stories about Hollywood. Then he had his second kid and I had the divorce fall on me. Time happened, and when we resurfaced, we were on opposite sides of the freeways that divide our city of angels. And now we send text messages promising to figure out when to grab a coffee. Which is where we’ve been for a few years.
We are both redheads. Or were. I got more grey now. But back then, we were two options for Hollywood to fulfill its ginger quotient for guest star roles.
I was the short version of said unassuming ginger. And he was the tall. Because we often competed for the same roles, we should have been enemies, but we were friends. One time, while waiting on a callback for a reoccurring role, we agreed to share the income from a job we were both up for. The splits we came up with was that whoever got the job would get 68 percent and the other person 32. Neither of us got it.
During one of our walks, I could tell he was distressed and I probed to learn if he wanted to talk about what was on his mind. Before telling me what it was, he made me promise not to judge him. That it had to do with what just happened whole on location for a film he shot.
I reassured him that I wouldn’t judge. Which was kind of true. Part of me was intrigued by knowing what outrageous things could he have gotten into; crime, orgies crime and orgies, money laundering while on party drugs? A lot can happen in Michigan on location.
Especially when you were playing the best friend and side kick to a minor celebrity.
He started off by saying it all started between takes. Then after the first week, they had lunch together every day. And eventually, hung out on weekends. He told me they played video games and bowled a lot. And when they wrapped, they had exchanged private numbers. This celebrity had given him his private cell number. He flew back home thinking he was now friends with a minor star.
And that was when doubt crept in. He didn’t want to come on too strong and call right away; but also, if he waited too long, what they shared in Michigan would be forgotten. So he called.
And when he heard nothing back the first time. He tried again. What had happened? They had promised to go to the climbing gym, hike in Malibu. The celebrity was going to let him play pinball in his pinball machine room. But nothing. He was getting ghosted. And this was before ghosting was cool.
He felt silly. And used.
The thing is when a star is on location, they appear like normal people. And even veteran actors fall for it.
My friend felt he had made a friend. And now he seriously doubted if he saw the actor - who maybe was Jason Scwaztman or Owen Wilson - would even recognize him.
And then the moment came.
He saw him at the Whole Foods in Venice. Browsing the prepared food section with his entourage. My friend positioned himself near the row of sprouted grains so he could be easily spotted. And the guy just walked on by. Just like a Carly Simon song.
He couldn’t help himself. He just had to call out his name “Jason (Or Owen!.”
The actor didn’t even turn to look back. He was being brushed off as a fan.
Or maybe — maybe … he was ashamed.
Jason (Or Owen) was with his agent and his publicist, his assistant, and other members of his team. He had an image of power to maintain or the whole dynamics would crumble and slide into the ocean that was seven blocks to the west.
Maybe Jason (or Owen) secretly wanted to embrace his friend and talk about bowling again in a small town in Michigan. Or laugh about that time they went to Denny’s when there was nothing else open to eat. And he had to east Moon over my hammys.
But instead, he felt the hurt. The pain of being outside in crowd this whole town creates. And trust me, when you have been inside of that invisible, pathetic little mafia, no exile is greater.
He felt stupid and naive. And oddly dirty. Like he had been used and discarded. He was the other woman.
It was as if Michigan never happened.
The hard cold fact about our business is we generate false intimacy in order to endure the inevitable and never ending monotony Hollywood magic making requires. And that strange phenomena gets super charged when you add in the element of fame.
There is a certain allure that follows people of great external success. You want to be in their orbit and it adds this layer of being finally on the inside of the event horizon. That soon, you too, will get invited to Sundance, or go to board game night at Gwen Stefani’s house. Stars have gravity and gravity sucks everything of weaker mass into its orbit. It’s just fuckin science.
So, when someone with a double digit IMDB number tells you personal details about their wife’s sleeping habits, or that he too has doubts about his own acting abilities, and doesn’t like traffic, and wishes they could drive to like to central coast or surf more often - it makes you feel like you, too, are in their class. It humanizes them. And for a moment you forget that they are assholes who live in a bubble of privilege and fantasy who will fuck you and forget you ever existed in a line at Whole Foods.
What takes this devil’s agreement to the strangest height is when the whole seduction, grooming, conversion, and ultimate dump happens during fourteen hour night shoots. Especially while on location far from home. Which is what happened in my friend’s case.
What routinely happens under these constraints, is, as I mentioned, that everyone adapts to a kind of confessional - Real World season 14 mentality - where you share parts of yourself you don’t anywhere else.
And it is in these late night moments while picking through cracker and cheese packets at craft service that you believe for a moment the stars are truly just like you and me. But they are not. They are not at all. Even if they also play the drums and collect sports cards.
But is it all phony? Or was that time in Michigan or Georgia or Vancouver really real. Was it the real life? Is it all like the chorus of a Bob Seger song? Did that time you caddied for George Clooney in an Italian Suit commercial really mean something? Did you really help him decide if he should invest that money into making Goodnight and Good Luck, or were you just the kid they hired to carry his golf bags?
Did those conversations about making political movies matter? Did he even read the letter you sent? And when you saw him again on that day you played in Argo, in a scene where you got cut out of and replaced - did he really remember you? Or was he just smiling and nodding and charming you. Did you get Georged?
Say it ain’t so, George. Say it ain’t so. But maybe it is true. It’s all a hustle and a con.
I know I’ve lied to people who say they met me that I have no recollection of. And when they reminded me of the experience we had on set of Mighty Ducks, I did what anyone would do. I lied. I smiled. And I said, “that was a fun day.”
Which is exactly what George said to me. Me and George? We have that in common.
Tales From The Pond by Matt Doherty is a reader-supported publication. Please help me survive Hollywood and keep wriing stuff for as little as 5 bucks a month.
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