Apparently, some executives at Disney got cold feet about releasing a film about an African American legend because a predominately Caucasian production team produced it. They feared a critical backlash in the black community, no matter how “Oscar worthy” the animation was. The movie had become a stealth project, a labor of love but too risky to release or show anyone.
The executives hired Forest Whitaker to salvage the film, hoping his participation, no matter how incidental to the animated section, would deflect any criticism. Disney is very, very cautious with their brand name and will go to great lengths to avoid controversy.
Whitaker shot a beautiful introduction where my teacher character scoffs at the notion that man, no matter what his color or strength, could beat a machine.
The nervous executives saw the finished project and still feared a high-profile slap in the face. The Legend of John Henry, the supposedly Oscar-worthy short film, went straight to video, minus my scene, too. I was pretty disappointed. I do feel that things happen for a reason, though, because something unexpected and wonderful came out of this job about a year later.
I was having dinner with good friend Bob Hummer and his wife, Dawn, on a Friday night, and my cell phone rang. It was my agent calling.
“You just got hired on a major studio film. It’s called First Daughter. Congratulations!” he said.
“Huh? ... What?” I stammered.
“First Daughter, it’s a Fox film starring Katie Holmes and Michael Keaton. You’re on it for four weeks!” he replied.
“You’re kidding?” I gasped. This job came totally out of the blue, no first audition, no callbacks, nothing. “Who’s the director?”
“Forest Whitaker,” he said.
Snap!
I started work the very next Monday playing the press secretary to Keaton’s president. Forest is one of America’s best actors and a helluva director, too.
Following my work on First Daughter, my commercial agent sent me on another top-secret audition. This was becoming an intriguing habit. I was to meet with a casting director, Laray Mayfield, for a Heineken beer spot. Nothing more could be revealed.
I went on the interview in the afternoon and booked the job that evening. No callback, again! That was highly unusual. Commercials always have callbacks. Actors must be paraded before a committee of advertising people so they can determine if you are the right person to sell their toilet paper. It’s akin to brain surgery.
I couldn’t believe my luck when my agent said that my commercial was going to air during the Super Bowl. They are the crème de la crème of advertising. Not only that, the spot was going to be directed by David Fincher! Fincher was at the helm of some of my favorite films: Fight Club, Panic Room, and Seven. Advertising agencies spare no expense for their Super Bowl spots. Bragging rights are at stake.
I reported to work in downtown Los Angeles about a week later, excited to meet Fincher and play my part in the hush-hush commercial. I was told only one thing about my role: I was going to play a doorman at an exclusive condo and work with another actor. After donning my wardrobe, a company van ferried me to the set where I met the other actor: Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt?! Wow, this job really took an unexpectedly cool turn.
I was just a supporting player in the commercial whose story had Brad Pitt, mega–movie star, eluding fans and paparazzi as he hunts for a cold Heineken.
We were introduced, and Pitt said, “Hey, man, I should say Hi, Barry when I see you. You’re my doorman, right? We probably talk from time to time, don’t you think?”
Pitt’s simple suggestion spoke volumes about his generosity as an actor. He put me on an equal footing as a collaborator, making the scene more believable. Trust me, I’ve worked with plenty of stars who don’t give supporting players squat. They take the bucks and run, particularly in a commercial. Brad Pitt is worth a million in my book. In fact, I heard he made a few million for that commercial. They pay you what you are worth in Hollywood.
CHAPTER 51
Working with Future Legends
I saw a new pattern happening in my career. Not only was I working in major feature films, I was getting repeat business from A-list directors. That meant a lot to me, especially since I was working in obscure dinner theater not that long ago. All the hard work, the networking, sending out flyers, acting in small theater productions, seemed to help get my career back on track. I was on a roll.
After the Heineken commercial, my agent called me and said, “David Fincher is looking for a really good actor to play a newspaper editor in his next film, Zodiac. There’s no scripted dialogue at the moment, but there’ll be plenty of opportunities to improvise some things. It’s four weeks’ work. Interested?”
Hell, yeah! What actor is going to say no to working with David Fincher again, not to mention getting the chance to rub elbows with Robert Downey Jr., Jake Gyllenhaal, and Mark Ruf-falo? Not I.
Over the next four weeks, Fincher asked me to improvise dialogue in a few scenes. Unfortunately, it didn’t make it into the final cut. No hard feelings, though. The film is almost three hours long and my verbal additions were hardly critical to the plot. That being said, Zodiac is a brilliantly complex piece of filmmaking. It is an absolute classic, and I got a front-row seat watching it get made.
David Fincher is the most exacting director I’ve ever worked with. He knows where the camera should be at all times and how it should move. He is also precise in what he wants from an actor’s performance. That can translate into many, many takes of the same scene. I found his process to be no problem because Fincher’s requests were concise and understandable. As long as the director has a specific change in mind, and conveys it clearly, I’ll do the scene forty times without getting uptight. Things get dicey when a director asks you to do it again and says be funnier or speed it up. That kind of direction is so vague it’s easy to get confused and frustrated; that’s a scary place for an actor to be.
From my close-up vantage point, Robert Downey Jr. seemed to be the actor most stressed by Fincher’s requests for multiple takes. He is a performer who thrives on spontaneity. Repetition can sometimes lead to stagnation for such quicksilver artists. After the twentieth take (occasionally more), Downey would look at me and quietly roll his eyes from fatigue. Being the consummate professional, though, he never lost his cool and dove back into the next take, trying to match Fincher’s requests for new shadings. The man is the John Coltrane of jazz acting.
In the final cut, Downey’s performance as a brilliant man who falls victim to his own vices, is as good as it gets. What you see on screen is Fincher’s talent for molding Downey’s mercurial skills into a stellar performance. I am such a fan of both men.
There were other challenges we faced while filming Zodiac. Our sprawling set, duplicating the San Francisco Chronicle’s offices, was constructed on the fourth floor of the old Terminal Annex Building in downtown Los Angeles. The nearest bathroom was on the first floor and accessed by a maddeningly slow elevator. You didn’t dare leave the set to go to the toilet, because it took so damn long to make the journey, let alone “do” your business. Believe me, the last thing you want to see upon your return is everybody standing around waiting for you. Not a good way to endear yourself to the director. Come to think of it, I don’t know that I ever saw Fincher leave the set to relieve himself. The man must have a camel-size bladder, a big plus when you’re driving a film that cost sixty-five million dollars to make.
Robert Downey Jr., on the other hand, must have had a normal-size bladder like the rest of us mortals. He resorted to sneaking off whenever possible into the building’s dark corners to pee into a large coffee can. One day he made an announcement: “If you ever find a coffee can with my name written on it with a blue Sharpie, it’s not full of Yuban. It’s my personal Porta Potty.”
Late one night, after shooting had wrapped after a long day, a relieved-looking Downey emerged from the back of the building. I saw he was toting his can and watched him discreetly toss it into a Dum
pster. I said, “Robert, you shouldn’t throw that away. Put it up for auction on eBay. You could probably get a lot of money for it.”
Downey laughed, knowing I was joking about celebrities who sell their useless crap online. He said, “You’re right! I could probably sell it. It wouldn’t be worth anything, though, it’s drug-free.” He’s a funny guy with a huge talent, very resourceful, too.
After Zodiac wrapped, I was asked to audition for a new series, Mad Men, which chronicled the exploits of Madison Avenue advertising men in the 1960s. I had a connection to that world through my Uncle Bernard who worked at one of the big agencies during that era.
When I met with Matt Weiner, the show’s creator/producer, I told him about my uncle’s favorite activity: taking afternoon naps. After lunchtime cocktails with “the boys,” he’d return to his office, close the blinds, lock his door, and take a nice, long snooze. He had no qualms about his lousy work ethic, either. He was a lifelong member of the Communist Party, so working on Madison Avenue was a big compromise to his proletariat principles. He used to say, “I earned my living on Madison Avenue, working in the belly of the capitalist beast. Naps were just my way of saying, ‘fuck you’ to the whole corrupt system!” He was quite a colorful guy.
Matt Weiner enjoyed hearing about my uncle’s distaste for Mad Avenue. He also liked my reading and hired me to play one of “the lecherous guys” in the art department, Duane Davis. It was another new kind of character, far from my famous alter ego, Ernie Douglas, who seemed to be a vague memory to one and all now.
Over time, I’d grown accustomed to going unrecognized for being on My Three Sons. On rare occasions somebody on a set would ask: “Didn’t you used to be ...” And that was fine. I’d readily ’fess up. I wasn’t trying to hide the fact, but I just wasn’t going to promote it, either. As the Beatles sang: Let it be.
My work on Mad Men required me to do some period dancing, the Twist and the Cha-Cha, in a bar scene. Dance rehearsals commenced with all of the show’s principals. I could tell that none of the show’s young stars had an inkling about who I “used to be.” Fine by me. I was just another actor on their show that week—politely ignored. That’s standard behavior on most every set. The stars huddle in their clique, and the supporting players gather in their corner. No big deal.
After a while, Matt Weiner, the show’s creator and King of the Realm, came down to watch rehearsals. When the King is on the set, all of the series regulars are on high alert, secretly hoping for his attention. After all, he’s responsible for writing your role and can make or break your career. We supporting actors are hopeful for acknowledgment, too, but it’s not likely going to happen. The day players are just a tiny blip on the producer’s busy radar screen.
After we showed Weiner our dance moves, he shared a few hushed words with the choreographer and headed for the exit, all eyes following his every step. As he passed by me, though, he abruptly paused, clasped my arm, and whispered, “I know who you are.” Then the King dashed out through the door.
I glanced back at my fellow actors, stars and day players alike. Their puzzled eyes were fixed upon me. It was easy to read their funny expressions: “So ... who the hell is he, anyway?”
Soon after, word spread like wildfire that I was someone who used to be famous, and the stars welcomed me into their exclusive club. So much for anonymity. The TV ghosts from My Three Sons are here forever, I suppose.
Over time, I began to think that being Ernie wasn’t such a bad thing, especially since I got another request to come read for a role in Adam Sandler’s next film, You Don’t Mess with the Zohan. I’d auditioned for every one of his films since we met four years earlier. Sandler was really proving himself to be a huge and loyal fan of My Three Sons.
My audition was for the character of Gray Kleibolt, a corporate toady out to destroy the Zohan. I prepped hard for the interview, even enlisting the advice of my friend and mentor, Steve Railsback. The reading with the casting director, Randi Hiller, went well, and I kept my fingers crossed.
Weeks went by, and I heard nothing. As Tom Petty aptly sang: “The waiting is the hardest part.” At last, I got a call requesting that I attend a “table read” of the script. My agent told me very clearly that I didn’t have the part yet. That statement was unnerving, mainly because a table read is just that: a simple recitation of the script for the director and writer to hear the words, no acting allowed. Since I didn’t have the role, this put me in a bit of a bind: if my reading were flat, I’d run the danger of looking boring and not being cast. On the other hand, if I read with too much gusto, I’d look like a big ham and lose the role. It was thin ice either way.
The day of the table read arrived, and I went to a huge conference room at Sony Studios. It was packed with actors, writers, studio executives, wives, and girlfriends. I found an open chair, took a breath, and reminded myself: Listen and react, listen and react, keep it simple. A hand tapped me on the shoulder, snapping me out of my meditation. I turned to see Sandler standing behind me, grinning. “Hey, Barry, I told you I’d get you something good! I told you, didn’t I?” he said.
I practically wept.
I read my part, and it went great, nailing the jokes that the writers had given my character. I got up to leave and spied Sandler across the room, surrounded by his “people.” I was hoping for a little eye contact, but I got a helluva lot more than that. Sandler waved and yelled, “Good job, Barry! Thanks, man!”
It’s always a good thing to have an industry titan complimenting you in front of the studio executives. I was finally cast in one of his movies, just like he had promised.
I hate to get slavish singing the praises of Sandler, but his unique character warrants testimony. I worked on Zohan for four weeks, and I can tell you that there isn’t an ounce of pretension or bullshit in him. If he saw a production assistant hunting for a place to sit at lunch, he’d make room for him at his table. If he was lighting up an expensive Havana cigar and saw you watching him, he’d offer you one. I casually mentioned that my son Spencer had a band called the Alternates. Months after this conversation, I took my son to the Happy Madison Christmas party. When Adam arrived, he picked us out of the crowd, rushed over, stuck out his hand to my son, and said, “You must be Spencer. How’s the band doing?” Again, I held back a tear. What a mensch.
CHAPTER 52
Big Love
If My Three Sons depicted the most wholesome family in TV history, then the HBO series, Big Love, wins the medal for presenting the most amoral clan. It’s a wonderfully warped universe of polygamy, treachery, and deception. I was thrilled that my next job was a recurring role on the series playing the lawyer who represents the show’s lecherous church leader, Roman Grant. I defended him at his big child-molestation rape trial. It doesn’t get much juicer than that.
The show boasts a galaxy of talented stars such as Bill Paxton, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Bruce Dern, and Ellen Burstyn, to name a few. I had the good fortune to spend most of my time acting with Harry Dean Stanton who plays the sinister family patriarch.
Stanton, for those of you who don’t know, is a Hollywood outlaw icon and a mentor to people like Sean Penn, Tim Robbins, and his old roommate, Jack Nicholson. I was happy to learn that Stanton, now over eighty years old, hasn’t forsaken his wild ways. He goes out drinking every night, whether he has to be on the set at six in the morning or not. Despite his all-night carousing, I never saw him miss a mark or muff a line of dialogue.
Stanton’s not the most open, gregarious guy you’ll ever meet, but, eventually, we connected on music. Years before our meeting, I saw him onstage at a Los Angeles nightclub, the Mint, singing his beloved Mexican folk songs in a clear high tenor. He was authentic and terrific, and I told him so. My praise warmed the thorny old outlaw up, and he asked me if I’d been acting for long.
I said, “Harry, if there’s one person on this set who’s been acting longer than you have, it’s me.” That got his attention. We determined that he had me beat by four ye
ars. His earliest job was in 1954, in a TV show called Inner Sanctum. My first job was Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys! in 1958. I told Stanton that I was on My Three Sons and asked him if he ever did an episode.
He thought for a moment, rubbing his gray gaunt face, and then said blankly, “I’ve never heard of the show.” I should have guessed.
CHAPTER 53
The Social Network
The biggest new project in my long and winding career hit the movie theaters in 2010, The Social Network, directed by David Fincher. This is the fourth time I’ve worked with him (Zodiac and two commercials, Heineken and Orville Redenbacher popcorn). What a pleasure to be part of his creative world. The film was nominated for numerous awards and won Best Picture at the Golden Globes and three Academy Awards on Oscar night.
In addition to Fincher, the film was loaded with talent. Aaron Sorkin, author of A Few Good Men and creator of West Wing, wrote the script, and Jesse Eisenberg, star of The Squid and the Whale and Zombieland, and singer/actor Justin Timberlake headline the cast.
Sorkin’s screenplay is an adaptation of a book, The Accidental Billionaires. It’s about the genius nerds (my kind of people) at Harvard who created the Internet sensation, Facebook. It’s a fascinating look at the lives of these young and brilliant young men. They are the Thomas Edisons of our age, and very few people were aware of their story.
I play Harvard’s computer security chief, an older nerd named Cox, who has to deal with the shenanigans of the computer geeks running amok on campus.
During the shooting of the film, Fincher was his usual self: a relentless perfectionist. Example: my first scene (Cox being awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call) required at least tweny-five takes. Sometimes he’d ask me to try different line readings, sometimes the camera moved incorrectly, a few times we repeated the scene because my “wife,” in the background and asleep, didn’t look relaxed enough. Fincher has the eyes and ears of an eagle; nothing escapes his attention. I would have repeated the scene another twenty-five times if he’d asked for it because I knew in the end he’d make my work look as good as it can get. What more can you ask for?
The Importance of Being Ernie: Page 22