Nothing General About It

by Maurice Benard

  This time I made sure I studied and watched old footage, trying to get the Desi voice. I still wasn’t sure I wanted the role, but I was sure I wanted to prove to them that I could do it. While I was waiting to audition, Michael St. Gerard, an actor I knew who had played Elvis in a miniseries, was sitting next to me and, as we chatted, I voiced my reservations. Michael told me not to resist the role and not to overthink it.

  “Just do it,” was his parting advice.

  When I got into the room for the third audition, the producers were austere and intimidating, looking me up and down critically.

  “What makes you think you can play Desi?” one of the people at the table asked.

  I didn’t hesitate. “Because my father is just like Desi.” And that was the truth, because as a kid I had watched him at parties, larger than life, always flirting and entertaining.

  The producers eyed me, unsure, and after a long beat they asked me to go in the bathroom, slick my hair back, and then return to read. So I did, yet the producers were still wavering and wanted more. Next, I had to do a screen test with Frances Fisher, who was playing Lucy. I had never done a screen test before and was already nervous when I got to the soundstage and I became even more nervous when the executive producer, Larry Thompson, with his signature ponytail, stood right by the camera, watching. I knew it was cocky, but I asked if they could get him to leave and Thompson disappeared. I figured I had probably pissed him off, but at least I had given the screen test my best shot, so I was surprised when they called to tell me I finally got the role and was equally surprised I was happy about it.

  The first morning I was due on set, I was feeling great. When I reached for my pill bottle, I hesitated. It had been so long since my breakdown, I had been out of the hospital for three years and the last time I went off lithium, years ago, I didn’t have a violent breakdown. I didn’t realize—or maybe hadn’t accepted yet—that mine was a lifelong condition and would require lifelong medication. Once again, that macho voice inside me figured I could handle it; my head told me I didn’t need meds because I wasn’t sick, and I put the pill bottle back in the medicine cabinet.

  Paula was thrilled about the movie and we decided to splurge and rent a house in the Hollywood Hills with a beautiful view. While I was at work, Paula settled us and the animals into our new digs.

  There was one small problem—I had Desi down, but I just couldn’t get the singing no matter how hard I tried. It stressed me out and worried me, but when I voiced my doubt to the director, Charles Jarrett, he didn’t flinch.

  “This is the deal, Maurice—we have eighteen days to shoot this and five thousand yards of film,” he told me.

  So I didn’t give up and we kept doing take after take, and finally I got through the musical demands of the film. Although the singing had been hard, I loved doing scenes with Frances Fischer, because not only is she an amazing actress, she’s a wonderful person, and we had fun during the shoot. At the time, she was with Clint Eastwood, and my one regret during filming is that I was asleep in my trailer when he came to the set and I didn’t meet him, though he’s another one of those icons in my book.

  When we wrapped, I couldn’t wait to show the film to my friends because I thought, No doubt, I’m Al Pacino now, however, I didn’t get quite the reaction from my friends I anticipated and, in fact, most of them hated it. They weren’t alone—the critics were ruthless, and although I was devastated, I still wanted to read every single brutal review. They called me things like Speedy Gonzales on cocaine, and on top of that, Johnny Carson even came out on his show and told his viewing audience to boycott the TV movie in deference to the family. I still remember every harsh word, every mean comment, all these years later, but regardless of the critics, the film got decent ratings and in true Hollywood style I even received flowers from the president of the network, Jeff Sagansky.

  A month later, however, I was broke again, and standing in the unemployment line with people staring at me and finally mustering the nerve to ask, “Weren’t you Nico on All My Children? Weren’t you Desi?”

  It was humiliating.

  Although I had gotten small roles in some independent films that were a creative outlet for me, including Diego in Ruby and Creeper in Mi Vida Loca, I didn’t get paid enough money to cover the bills. Another example of classic Hollywood that caused problems for me was shooting a film but never knowing when it would be released or if I would end up in the final cut, and, to my dismay, my character was cut from Mi Vida Loca. The only way you get your next gig is because people saw your last gig on TV or in the theater, so it was like I’d never done the film, and that didn’t help at all. Once again, we couldn’t afford the steep rent, and begged the landlord to let us break the lease and move out—luckily, he agreed. When we found an affordable house to rent in Studio City, we thought things would get easier; however, six months later our former landlord took us to court and sued us for the rest of the money. It seemed like no matter how hard I tried, things just kept getting worse.

  Meanwhile, Paula began doing extra work on many films and TV shows to bring in money and in hopes of meeting someone who would give me a break in a movie. She managed to get a two-week job as an extra, a member of the jury, in the film Body of Evidence, starring Madonna, Willem Dafoe, and Joe Mantegna. At lunch, Dafoe and Mantegna graciously listened to her talk about her actor husband, and the veteran actors even had me come to the set one day to meet them.

  Another time, she was asked to test as the body double for Winona Ryder in Dracula, and even though it required shooting topless, she thought if it would help me, she’d do it, imagining my delight at being on set with Francis Ford Coppola. Paula was petrified and nervous through the whole two days she was on hold, but as it turned out, she was very tan at the time and Ryder was not, so she was released, and, frankly, relieved.

  Paula also began waitressing to cover the bills, and I immersed myself with studying the craft of acting, enrolling in the Howard Fine Acting Studio. My first impression of the six-foot-tall, dark-haired teacher was that Howard seemed wise beyond his years, truly a savant, very serious, and extremely kind. One day, during a scene from Zoo Story, when I began crying Howard stopped the scene.

  “You need to see me after class,” he said.

  He continued with class, and when it ended I lingered behind as the other students trickled out. When they were gone, he closed the door and gave it to me straight.

  “That’s the worst acting I’ve ever seen,” he told me. The words cut me to the core, but he continued, “Your talent is there, but your technique is horrible. Because I believe in you, and I understand that you don’t have a spare dime, I’m going to teach you for free. You can pay me back later.”

  I appreciated his honesty and his offer to help, so I bought a tape recorder and took it with me every week to work with him, and after months of one-on-one training I did a monologue from Danny and the Deep Blue Sea, playing a character who wants to kill himself. I had grown a beard and walked in completely in character, and when I finished my monologue Howard looked at me a beat and shook his head proudly.

  “You’re Danny. You’re done,” he said.

  He was an amazing teacher because he showed me how to really become a character and feel an emotion instead of playing one. Howard was impressed with my progress, but he was worried that there was danger in a fragile emotional person going so deep into method preparation. He suggested I audition for sitcoms and balance out the heavy drama. I still had no luck; even when I auditioned for the Actors Studio, I wasn’t asked to join. I was disappointed again and again. It was a constant struggle for two long years, so it’s no wonder the intense pressure began to take its toll.

  Not only was my ego crushed, I was ashamed that my new wife worked all day, every day, to pay the bills. When we couldn’t make ends meet my parents also had to help financially. The more the pressure mounted, the worse I felt, and, angry, frustrated, and depressed, I began making some bad decisions, like going t
o strip clubs with my new buddies Ray and Danny.

  Danny, who had dated a former costar of mine on All My Children, had the same weird sense of humor as me, and we shared a passion for acting. Ray and I had become friends while attending the same acting class in Malibu and also talked about acting and movies all the time. He was a cowboy who did the best impersonation of Elvis I had ever seen or heard. Since Paula is an avid Elvis fan, I always had him call her as Elvis and sing, which Paula loved.

  Although I had borrowed money from Ray, I didn’t have to spend any at the club because they knew me as Nico from All My Children and were fans, so I always got free drinks. The dancers knew me as well, so they danced for me and Ray and Danny without expecting big tips. But despite the good time I had hanging out with the guys, I felt bad that Paula was working and I wasn’t. I felt inadequate, I was drinking, and at this point I had been off of lithium and therapy for two years without thinking about what a disastrous combination that was.

  At the club I always talked to one dancer in particular and even convinced myself I had fallen for her. One night I walked her to her car and leaned in to kiss her and she pulled away, looking into my very soul, like Kelly had years ago.

  “Go home to your wife,” she said. I knew I’d never try that again. I also knew she was right and I had almost made a terrible mistake. I couldn’t wait to get home to see Paula, but when I walked into the house, I knew something else was wrong.

  I finally got it out of Paula that she had heard from her sister that her mother had adopted a three-week-old baby girl named Heather—the second child she had adopted in two years. Both children were born to Paula’s cousin, and both were taken by the state before Paula’s mom filed to adopt them. Paula was deeply worried about another child having to live in the same conditions she had grown up in. She felt helpless that there was nothing she could do, but she still had no relationship with her mother. For once, it was my turn to console her.

  The next day, I got a call from the casting director on Philadelphia to do a table reading for the part of Tom Hanks’s character’s boyfriend, and my hopes soared. I drove to Columbia Pictures and went into a room where the producers and the director, Jonathan Demme, were all sitting around a huge table. Even though I was nervous, when I saw the scene in the script that I had to read I almost laughed out loud: Tom Hanks’s character and the boyfriend go to a costume party as . . . wait for it . . . Desi and Lucy. I pulled out all the stops during my audition and did my best Desi, and they loved it, laughing and smiling.

  As I was leaving, Demme piped up, “I like you.” He smiled.

  I left on a high, waiting for word from my agent about the part, and in the morning he called and said they loved me. But words in Hollywood are often false. Nothing happened, then a week went by, followed by a month, then another. I had given up on the role, so I was surprised when my agent called several months later and said I was in second position.

  “Who’s in first?” I pressed.

  “Antonio Banderas,” he answered. I knew of the relatively unknown actor. “If he passes, you’re it,” my agent promised.

  Again I waited for the call, but when it finally came, it wasn’t good news.

  “Banderas took the part.”

  I was devastated. It’s almost harder to be so close to getting the job than having no chance at all. My bigger problem was debt, because I was thirty thousand dollars in the hole and couldn’t seem to get ahead. After two years in Los Angeles, I felt like my life was going nowhere.

  At the end of my rope, I decided to give it one more shot when my agent told me I had gotten an audition for an independent Italian movie I wanted to be in more than anything. I ran lines with Paula for hours, memorizing them, desperate to make it happen, and had a hard time sleeping that night. The next day, when I walked in, I started saying the lines I’d memorized and the director immediately interrupted me.

  “We didn’t call you in for that part,” he said, staring at me, irritated.

  It was terribly awkward and I was mortified. Surprisingly, he asked if I could learn the other part in five minutes, so I studied it and went back in, but I didn’t do well and left quickly in a state of despair. At home, I couldn’t let it go and pestered my agent until he promised he could get me back in for another audition. He managed to get the director to agree to see me again, but I had gotten no sleep and the stress of the past two years was taking me down to that familiar dark place, so when I did the scene, I was way too into it. I had a meltdown and couldn’t stop weeping, and the producers were so worried they didn’t know what to do. Should they call 911? I knew I had blown it, and so did my agent when they asked him if I was mentally unstable. That was it—I was ready to let go of my dream, I didn’t have any more to give and I was going to walk the hell away from acting.

  But a few hours later, just as I decided there was no future for me in Los Angeles, the producers of the long-running daytime serial General Hospital called. They liked my work on All My Children and wanted me to come to the ABC Prospect Studios to read for them. I was tired of the emotional roller coaster I had been on as a freelance actor but promised Paula I would go read for the part, so she drove me to the meeting and sat outside in the parking lot anxiously while I read for Wendy Riche, who had just taken over as executive producer a year before, and Shelley Curtis, who had also just returned to the show as producer. They both loved my reading, we talked for three hours, and by the time the meeting was over they had offered me a job.

  I had to choose between two roles: Damian Smith, a mobster, and Michael “Sonny” Corinthos, Jr., a character who ran a strip club. Sonny was only a six-month arc, but I liked the name Sonny and I liked that it was a short contract. And that was how Sonny came to be; I would take him from the page and create him from scratch. Just like that, after all the could’ve, should’ve, would’ve moments, the lost roles, the frustration, my life changed . . . in more ways than one.

  The darkness that I couldn’t escape had found me again, and this time it was threatening to destroy everything I had worked so hard to attain.

  Chapter Eight

  Man in the Mirror

  In August 1993, my first day at General Hospital was Friday the thirteenth, and maybe I should have taken that as an ominous sign.

  The show started at seven a.m. and Paula drove me to the ABC Prospect Studios in Franklin Hills, entering through the gate for cast members and making our way to the reserved parking. It occurred to me as I walked to the main door that the building actually looked like a hospital from the exterior.

  On the way to my dressing room, the very first person I saw was the actor who plays Scott Baldwin in the fictional town of Port Charles.

  “Hi, I’m Kin Shriner,” he greeted me warmly. I’ll never forget what he said next. “Don’t let anyone screw around with your character.”

  I didn’t realize it at first and wouldn’t know until we became friends, but Kin suffers from OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder is a chronic disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviors and feels the need to repeat them over and over. In the movies it’s often depicted as quirky or even comical that someone has a fear of germs and must have things in symmetrical order, but OCD is not humorous and can also expand to aggressive thoughts toward self or others involving sex, religion, and harm.

  When eventually Kin shared with me that he had dealt with OCD his whole life, I realized we had something more than the show in common, because OCD causes anxiety for the person who has the disorder. Many who suffer from it also experience depression and may use alcohol or drugs to ease the anxiety or depression. It can really disrupt work and life but can be treated with medication, psychotherapy, or a combination of the two. Despite not knowing about our common experience when we met, I felt an instant connection—one that would only grow over time.

  After meeting Kin, I wound my way through the maze of hallways that also resembled a hospital, with that neutral tone and fluores
cent lighting that makes you lose your sense of time and place, past the greenroom where extras were getting coffee and looking at lines. I found the makeup department next to wardrobe, where the costume designer had already done fittings and selected Sonny’s signature wardrobe for me the week before.

  After I sat for hair and makeup, I waited to be called upstairs to the set, and when I heard my named on the PA system, I started up the stairs. I walked through the maze of dark sets to the facade where Sonny did most of his business at that time: a strip club named the Paradise Lounge. I felt uneasy, and considering I had been hanging out at strip clubs and lying to Paula about it for months, walking into another strip joint put my mind in a dark place. My first day I was also filled with anxiety and felt an enormous amount of pressure because I had several monologues and knew I couldn’t forget any lines or the pressure would be even greater. Although I didn’t work with Tony Geary or Genie Francis much at first, I couldn’t believe I watched Luke and Laura in high school and now here I was on the same show. I had also told Wendy Riche when I accepted the job that I had one caveat—I didn’t want anyone telling me I had to talk louder because I wanted to be subtle and to bring more of a movie style of acting to the table. As the crew adjusted the lights and we began blocking and rehearsing, suddenly the director, Joe Behar, stopped me.

  “Maurice, can you please speak a little louder?”

  I bristled and continued to speak at the volume I had been speaking, repeating the line and continuing the scene, but Joe stopped it again.

  “Maurice, we still can’t hear you, can you do it again? Louder, please.”

  I did the scene again but never raised my voice, and finally the director moved on. I fought that particular battle for a while and they finally stopped asking me to raise my voice.