Greenlights

by Matthew McConaughey

  “Staying active and social, Matthew, that’s the key to longevity.”

  On our way back to the rental house after an early-evening bingo match at the recreation center, Camila and I were stopped at a red light.

  “You wanna move back to Texas, don’t you?” she unexpectedly asked.

  I had been thinking about it. Maybe it was the manners, the value people put on common sense, the fact that when you’re playing baseball in the front yard and a car stops to have a look, it’s a well-wishing neighbor instead of paparazzi. Maybe it was the optimism and the fact that nobody acts like there’s a crisis even when there is one. Maybe it was that Mom was now in her late seventies and by football math that was at least the fourth quarter and seeing her more than twice a year seemed a prudent proposition. The answer was that Camila and I had just started a family and I wanted our children to have all of the above.

  I turned to meet her gaze.

  “Yep.”

  She took a deep breath, nodded her head left to right with a shrewd grin. “You son of a bitch.” Then she gave a glance to baby Levi in the car seat behind us.

  “Let’s do it.”

  The light turned green. I hit the gas.

  * * *

  After taking care of the family dilemma that brought me back to Texas, Camila, Levi, and I bought and moved into a home on the outskirts of Austin, overlooking the river.

  Nine acres, a spring-fed well, and a deed for a plot of land at the water’s edge for a boathouse that the seller forgot to list as a feature. More than enough room to have some dogs, raise a family, and bang on my congas in my birthday suit without disturbing a neighbor.

  Just as the early death of my father made me level up and become a man, the family emergency along with fatherhood helped me more deeply reconsider my life and who I was in it. Especially with my career. Death, family crisis, and newborns—the end of a life, trying to keep a life, and welcoming in a new one—these are three things that will shake your floor, give you clarity, remind you of your mortality, and hence, give you courage to live harder, stronger, and truer. Three things that make you ask yourself,

  “What matters?”

  Three things that make you realize,

  “It all does.”

  In the fact of fate that death and birth bring

  we recognize we are both human and God.

  We find the belief that our choices matter,

  that it’s not all for nothing,

  it’s all for everything

  * * *

  I was a successful actor, a celebrity, and a movie star. I didn’t have to worry about putting food on the table or paying rent, but my career path and the characters and films I was getting offered and doing were not satisfying me anymore. Bored with the rom-com roles and the worlds they inhabited, I’d been going to bed with an itchy butt, waking up with a stinky finger for long enough.

  My life was full. Wild. Dangerous. Essential. Consequential. Lively. I laughed louder, cried harder, loved bigger, loathed deeper, and felt more as the man in my life than in the characters I was playing in the movies. I appreciated the fact that if it had to be imbalanced one way or the other, a vital existence was more important than a vital profession, but I wanted to be in stories that at least challenged the vibrancy of the life I was livin, and play characters that at least challenged the liveliness of the man I was.

  Those roles and stories I was looking for? The ones that would compete with the life I was livin? They weren’t coming my way, and again, I wasn’t sleeping well with the ones that were. It was time to make a change, to pivot, to make a new commitment. No more changing addresses hoping the weather would change. This time, with more than ever to live for, it was time to quit leaving crumbs, time to get truly selfish, and see what I could live without.

  It was time for real sacrifice. Plus, Camila was pregnant again.

  *1 I first heard Mishka in Jamaica at the turn of the millennium and instantly loved his music. I found him five years later in the Caribbean and soon we decided to make music together, so I started j.k. livin Records and produced a couple of albums with him.

  *2 For the past twelve years, Camila and all of our children have always traveled and lived with me on every location my acting career ever took me.

  FALL 2008

  When facing any crisis, from Hurricane Katrina to a family emergency, to the profound choices we have to make in life, I’ve found that a good plan is to first recognize the problem, then stabilize the situation, organize the response, then respond. Aware that I needed more as an actor, I’d recognized the problem. Now it was time to pivot and stabilize my situation.

  I called my money manager, Blaine Lourd, and asked how long I could go without working and still live the life we were accustomed to.

  “You saved your money well, do what you need to do,” he said.

  I called my agent, Jim Toth, and told him that I wanted to stop doing romantic comedies to find dramatic work that challenged me.

  “No problem,” he quickly replied.

  “What do you mean, ‘No problem’?” I asked. “My rom-coms have been bringing in a healthy 10 percent commission to your agency’s wallet for over a decade. What do you think your bosses are gonna say when you go in the Monday morning meeting and tell them, ‘McConaughey’s not doing romantic comedies anymore’!?”

  “I don’t work for them, Mr. McConaughey, I work for you.”

  Mensch.

  selfish

  When I’m rich enough to not care about the money.

  When a child’s life is more important than my own.

  When my self-worth isn’t reliant on the adulation of others.

  When I don’t care anymore, to outscore my desires,

  I look near and within, and get self-ish.

  This is the measure of a man’s greatness,

  when a man becomes classic.

  When mortal rewards are no longer enough to pay his rent,

  man becomes legend.

  Fish for yourself.

  Self-ish.

  It was a risky bet I was making. In Hollywood, if you pass on too many projects, they may quit asking. If you step out of your lane, and turn your back on what you’re successful at, the industry can turn its back on you. They don’t mind seeing you miss the bus because there’s plenty of people to take your seat. Again, it’s not personal, it’s just business.

  I wet the floor with my tears talking to Camila about this decision. We cried. We prayed. We made a deal.

  “It’s gonna be dry weather for a while, honey,” she said. “Who knows how long it will last. It’s going to be hard. I know you’re gonna get antsy, I know you’re gonna get wobbly, I know you’re gonna drink more, but…If we’re gonna do this, if we’re gonna commit to this change, then we’re gonna do it all the way. No half-assin it. Deal?”

  Just like my dad told me years ago.

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  At a crossroads not a catastrophe, I knew my existential dilemma was going to cost me, monetarily sure, but even more so emotionally. The fatigue of not knowing if and when I would come out of it was going to be a test. By telling Hollywood, my mistress of the last almost twenty years, I still love you, but we need a break, and I’d rather be alone and happy than together and not, I was now in limbo. I’d purchased a one-way ticket to will notify. I prepared for the worst and hoped for the best.

  * * *

  The holidays were coming up and I was looking forward to spending time with my family. The more family I could be around, the less I would think about the career I was walking away from, and the more I would be reminded of where I came from.

  Each Christmas we all go to my brother’s ranch in West Texas for our yearly reunion. Everyone loads up their trucks and RVs with their kids and dogs and heads to the
ranch, where we catch up with each other, drink, eat, and tell lies. During the days we hike the rugged West Texas terrain, deer hunt, ride horses, feed cows, watch bowl games on TV, and then end up around a campfire at night telling new stories and resurrecting old ones until deep into the morning. As religious as we were raised, these family gatherings now offered very little Christmas ritual besides opening presents on the twenty-fifth. No family sit-down dinner, no Bible readings, just all of us together for a five-day 24-7 onslaught of beef, bullshit, no curfews, optional showering, and drinking to remember, not to forget.

  If anyone ever shows up on their high horse or is walkin on their toes, as Mom calls it, the rest of the family will rip them back down to earth until they cry for mercy, then we lift them back up off the ground and serve them a drink. There are always a few tears shed but a hundred percent forgiveness by the time we leave, because, as my brother Rooster says, “If everything we did was right, we’d never know what was wrong.”

  I’d been on the receiving end of a few of these humble pie interventions but not this year; no, my family knew I was going through a challenging time. If anything, they were wondering just what in the hell was wrong with me turning down regular work and hefty paychecks, but they could tell my mind was made up, and my family always respected sincere conviction, which I now had.

  A couple days after Christmas, Rooster, Pat, and I were riding around the ranch sipping beers in Pat’s maroon dually truck when Pat, who was then and still is a pipe salesman working for Rooster, decided to call into his answering service to see what business-related messages he might have missed over the Christmas break. Pat had one of those 24-7 virtual receptionist services where you call in with your ID number and they relay your missed messages. He dialed the 1-800 digits.

  “This is 812,” he says.

  “Yes, 812, give me just a moment…”

  Ten seconds pass.

  “Um, sir. That account appears to not be active.”

  “What do you mean ‘not active’?”

  “I mean it is out of service, sir.”

  “But that’s the ID you gave me to call in and check my messages.”

  “I understand that, sir, but account 812 has, it says here, been inactive for over…two years.”

  Pat, beginning to fume, immediately slammed the brakes, hopped out of the truck, and started yelling at the other end of the line,

  “What do you mean it’s been down for over two years! Do you know how many millions of dollars that I lost from business calls coming in, to me, to buy pipe, from me, and they couldn’t even leave a message, for me, because you had my account inactive!!! I am gonna sue your ass! I’m taking you to court! Two years my account’s been down and it’s your fault!”

  “Uh…sir, I’m just the person who answers the phone and connects people with their accounts, and yours, sir, is not active.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you say, I’ve probably lost at least ten million dollars because you haven’t been takin my messages in over two years! Ten million dollars, lady! That’s what I’m suing you for!”

  She hung up on him. Pat continued his rant.

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me, you hear me! You OWE me!”

  Finally closing his flip phone, Pat kicked the dirt, then turned to me and Rooster who had been witnessing the tirade.

  “You believe that shit?! Two years they’ve had my account inactive, two fuckin years! I’m suing those fuckers for ten million! I’ll take this all the way to the Supreme Court if I have to!”

  That’s when Rooster asked Pat a question he obviously had not considered.

  “Well, little brother, what do you think the judge is gonna say in court when he finds out that you didn’t even know it was down ’cause you hadn’t even called in to check your messages in over two years?”

  Case closed.

  I guess everybody in my family has a passion for prosecution, we just have trouble picking litigations we can win.

  The next day, Camila, Levi, and I had to cut the holiday soirée short and head back home to take care of a more time-sensitive affair.

  * * *

  I believe trying to maintain a honeymoon glow in a relationship is a fool’s errand fantasy. Worse yet, it’s unfair to the two lovers trying to maintain it. It’s a 120-watt bulb that burns too hot to last. No one can live up to the pedestal we put them on if we always put them on one. As well, when we only see our lover as a superhuman, our reflection in their eyes makes us one to them in theirs. Then we’re both for rent, because we’re both unobtainable.

  The honeymoon, like Hollywood, is an animated movie. It’s larger than life, not a reality we should expect to see once we exit the theater.

  Where we live. Where our humanity lives. Where our secrets, scars, fears, hopes, and failures reside. This is what comes after the credits roll. Where real love cares, hurts, understands, falls down, and gets back up. Where it’s not easy, but we get to honestly try.

  The twenty-watt bulb isn’t enough light to show the way if I expect you to be Wonder Woman and you only see me as Mr. Incredible.

  The hundred-watt honeymoon bulb is superhuman.

  By design.

  It’s the beginning, the first time, the birth. That’s why it’s called a honeymoon, not a marriage. It’s not obtainable, or sustainable.

  Until you have a daughter.

  On January 3, 2010, Vida Alves McConaughey was born.

  The only honeymoon that lasts forever.

  Greenlight.

  I went to a voodoo shop south of New Orleans the other day . It had vials of “magic” potions stacked in columns with labels defining what they would give you: Fertility, Health, Family, Legal Help, Energy, Forgiveness, Money.

  Guess which column was sold out? Money. Yep, money is king currency today. Money is success. The more we have, the more successful we are, right?

  Even our cultural values have been financialized. Humility is not in vogue anymore, it’s too passive. We can get rich quick on an Internet scam, be an expert at nothing but everything if we say we are, get famous for our sex tape, and attain wealth, fame, rank, and power, even respect, without having a shred of competence for anything of value. It happens every day.

  We all want to succeed. The question we need to ask ourselves is, What is success to us? More money? Okay. A healthy family? A happy marriage? Helping others? To be famous? Spiritually sound? To express ourselves? To create art? To leave the world a better place than we found it?

  “What is success to me?” Continue to ask yourself that question. How are you prosperous? What is your relevance? Your answer may change over time and that’s fine, but do yourself this favor: Whatever your answer is, don’t choose anything that will jeopardize your soul. Prioritize who you are, who you want to be, and don’t spend time with anything that antagonizes your character. Don’t depend on drinking the Kool-Aid. It’s popular, tastes sweet today, but it will give you cavities tomorrow.

  Life is not a popularity contest. Be brave, take the hill, but first, answer the question, “What is my hill?”

  * * *

  a year went by.

  Dozens of romantic comedy offers came my way. Only romantic comedy offers came my way. I read them out of respect but I stayed the course, stuck to the plan, and ultimately passed on them all. Just how puritanical was I about it?

  Well, I got a $5 million offer for two months’ work on one. I read it. I passed.

  Then they offered $8 million. Nope.

  They then offered $10 million. No, thank you.

  Then $12.5 million. Not this time, but…thanks.

  Then $14.5 million.

  Hmmmm…Let me reread it.

  And you know what? It was a better script. It was funnier, more dramatic, just an overall higher quality script than the first one I read with the $5 million offer. It was the
same script, with the exact same words in it, but it was far superior to the previous ones.

  I declined the offer.

  If I couldn’t do what I wanted, I wasn’t going to do what I didn’t, no matter the price.

  * * *

  A sense of humor helped me cope, a strong woman by my side kept me steadfast, and an infant son and newborn daughter to raise kept me busy. Together, they all helped me navigate my self-induced hiatus from Hollywood. I continually had to reinforce my belief that my holdout was a form of delayed gratification, that today’s abstinence was an investment that would give me ROI tomorrow, that my personal protest was going to mail residuals to my soul down the road, that I was, as Warren Buffett says, buying straw hats in the winter. But being out of the limelight, not working, was taking its toll.

  I’ve always needed work for my own sense of self-significance. For eighteen years, I’d had the honor of being addicted to acting and making movies, and now, without it, my dependency on it was causing a good amount of anxiety. With each rom-com offer that came in I couldn’t help but think about the opportunity to work again, on anything. My need for immediate personal accomplishment had me fighting against the temptation to do what I had always felt privileged to be able to do in the first place, while fighting for the necessity to have my art, my work, more resemble myself and my life.

  Ten more months went by.

  It was evident that the industry, the studio heads, the producers, the directors, the casting agents, all of them, had gotten my message because now nothing came in. No rom-coms, nada. Not one single offer. For anything.