Mustache Shenanigans

by Jay Chandrasekhar

  I pulled up behind the arena, where I saw Willie’s famous bus, the Honeysuckle Rose. I walked up and knocked. The door opened, and standing there was David Anderson, a tall, lean man with an insanely wicked, Texas-style sense of humor. Dave led me past a curtain into the smoke-filled “living room” of Willie’s bus. The bus was crowded with pre-concert well-wishers, smoking joints, laughing, and listening to country music. Through the smoke, about twenty feet away, I could see him: the legend himself, Willie Nelson. It was too crowded to move and I didn’t know bus etiquette, so I sat down on a couch, wondering, How exactly does one go about getting country music legend Willie Nelson to sign on to a movie? I watched Dave whisper into Willie’s ear. Willie nodded, looking my way. Then he waved. Oh shit. Showtime. I waved back. Then, Willie started over and handed me a smoking joint. “Hey, I’m Willie.”

  I was starstruck, so I just smiled, grabbed the joint, and puffed and puffed—oops, too much. I burst into an explosion of coughing. Fucking rookie. But here’s the thing—I was anything but. I had smoked just about every single day of college and some of the days after. I considered myself a skilled grass smoker. And now, in my big moment, when I was getting to smoke with a man I counted as one of my heroes, I was blowing my lungs out. I struggled to say the words, “I’m . . . Jay,” as Willie sat next to me. Then, silence. I was here to offer him the role of Uncle Jesse, and Willie was waiting for the offer, but I had somehow lost my voice—I assume from nerves. I couldn’t speak, so the two of us sat, quietly, awkwardly passing the joint back and forth. After a long pause, he mercifully broke the ice: “So I hear you’re making a movie?”

  Still no voice, but I choked out the words, “Yes—you—Uncle Jesse.”

  Feeling sorry for me, he said, “Do you want some water?” I nodded, and he went and got me a bottle of water. When he came back the conversation went nowhere faster. After more nothing happened, Dave walked back over and told Willie it was time to start the show, so Willie smiled, waved, and started for the exit. And just like that, he was gone.

  I spent the show backstage, pissed at myself for blowing the meeting, but loving watching him perform all of his great songs. My high was wearing off and my voice had returned, so I was plotting my postshow conversation with Willie, where I was going to charm the shit out of him to make up for my earlier debacle.

  After the show ended, I lurked nearby, watching Willie sign autographs. Eventually, he waved to the crowd and disappeared back onto the bus. I waited a few minutes, since isn’t it proper etiquette to wait a few minutes before harassing a country legend after his show? Who the fuck knows, right? Eventually, I approached the bus door, but a huge security guy motioned for me to stay where I was. I pointed to my Willie Nelson Family backstage pass, but he just shook his head. And then, the bus started up and drove away. FUCK!

  The next day, I got a call from Billy Gerber. “Sounds like it went well! Nice job!” I laughed, getting ready for a good mocking, and told him about the Debacle in the Desert. Billy was shocked. “What’re you talking about? I just got off the phone with his agent. Willie is in.” I laughed.

  “I guess he doesn’t care who the fuck is directing this movie!”

  Everything was going right on this film. Johnny Knoxville signed on to play Luke, which was a big win. Johnny has a wild, real, funny, authentically southern vibe that really helped ground the film.

  Then Seann William Scott signed on to play Bo. I loved Seann from American Pie, but it was his performance in Old School that really put him over the top for me. Sure, he wasn’t a southerner, but there were enough southerners in the film that we’d be okay.

  Meanwhile, Mary set up several meetings with actresses who wanted to play Daisy. I met a ton of famous actresses in jean shorts. Those were great meetings. When Billy Gerber called, he asked about Jessica. I told him, “No way,” but he said I was crazy not to hire her. She’s the most popular girl in the country. We’d be lucky to get her. Plus, she’s a real southerner and Warner Bros. loves her. Can you at least meet her?

  I met Jessica Simpson in the garden of the Chateau Marmont Hotel. She came in jean shorts and brought her puppy, Daisy. Truthfully, we got along well. We talked about her dog, her reality TV show, and the fact that she’d never acted before. When the meeting ended, I was unconvinced.

  So I kept meeting and auditioning actresses. Meanwhile, the rest of the cast was falling into place. Joe Don Baker signed on to play the governor, Lynda Carter agreed to play Pauline, Kevin Heffernan slotted in as Sheve, and Burt Reynolds agreed to play Boss Hogg. Then Warner Bros. president Jeff Robinov called. “What about Jessica?” When the president of a studio calls, you take it seriously. Appealing to his artistic side, I suggested that we should audition her to see if she could handle the role. Knowing what I knew about nonactors, I knew that there was no way she could succeed.

  When Jessica came in to audition, she was a nervous wreck. Her public campaigning had led to this. She had to prove that she could act. She wasn’t ready. Her face was buried in the script and you could barely hear her. She was toast—end of story.

  When I left the audition, Billy called. “How was she?” I played it cool. “We’re sending the tape. Judge for yourself.”

  When Warner Bros. and Billy saw the tape, they saw what I saw, but they had a different reaction. You’re the director. Can’t you teach her how to act? Warner Bros. was anxious. It was Jessica’s time! The country wanted her to be Daisy Duke. How was this director not seeing what everyone else was seeing?

  Not wanting to stand in the way, I told Billy that maybe I should step off the film so they could hire a director who would agree to hire Jessica. It’s me or her. Billy wouldn’t hear it. Losing the director might pull the movie out of a green light, which could mean that it might never get made. Billy made it clear that I was their guy, period. End of story.

  But it wasn’t the end of the story. A week later, Billy and Warner Bros. came to me with an idea. They told me to pick my top three Daisy choices for a screen test. The fourth actress would, of course, be . . . Jessica Simpson. At the end, we’d all look at the screen tests and pick the best one.

  Here’s the thing about Hollywood. It’s full of operators and manipulators. I am a manipulator. I do it every day, whether it’s sweet-talking an agent or getting actors to say lines they don’t want to say. But Billy was the former president of Warner Bros., so he played pro ball. I gamed it out: My three choices would be professional, experienced actresses, who have done screen tests before. They are going to have their lines memorized, and they’re going to nail it. Jessica doesn’t stand a chance. So I said, “Sure, let’s let the screen test decide.” We both left confident that we had outplayed the other guy.

  We chose two scenes for the screen test and convened on the Warner Bros. back lot, with a midsize crew and a borrowed General Lee. With a flair for the dramatic, Billy set the audition order, slotting Jessica in last.

  As expected, my three top choices came in and nailed it—every line, every joke. They were hot and they were great. I was feeling cocky. Then Jessica stepped out of her trailer.

  I didn’t envy her. She saw the three famous actresses on the lot wearing their Daisy Dukes. She knew it was me who was standing between her and the role. And she knew that after all of the campaigning she had done, if she didn’t get the part, people would make fun of her. She had to be nervous, but she didn’t show it. She just smiled and winked and said, “Here we go.”

  Billy and I watched from the monitors. “Action!” Jessica started in. Wait. What’s this? She’d memorized it. She knows her lines—all of her lines. Billy and I exchanged a look. Uh-oh.

  Her first take was good. Her second take was better. In her third take, she improvised a joke. But her fourth take was the best. She’d found an acting coach and she’d worked on the scenes. She had confidence and charisma, and her energy was popping off the screen. The girl seemed to be goddamned
glowing. Billy just smiled at me with his Cheshire grin and said, “You’re fucked.”

  I was. When I cut the screen tests together, it was all there. Was she the best actress of the four? No, but she was Jessica Simpson, America’s sweetheart, and goddamn it, she could act. We had our Daisy Duke.

  Two months later I was sitting on a folding chair in the back of a semitruck that was filled, wall to wall, with racks of jean shorts—probably five hundred pair. I was doing rewrites, as Jessica went into a changing room and tried on her top fifty favorites. I’d look up as she’d come out in a new pair, spin around, and say, “What do you think, boss?” I smiled, knowing that the ten-year-old me wouldn’t believe it.

  Jess and I would go on to become good friends. She’s smart and funny and oversees quite a merchandising empire. But one thing bugged me. The girl I knew didn’t jibe with the ditzy one from her reality show. When I asked her why, she said that the producers of her show decided to create this ditzy persona. They included her “mistakes”—they used muffed lines or footage that made her look clueless. The ditzier she seemed, the higher the ratings went. And while she never intentionally said anything stupid, she did stop filtering herself. She’d just say whatever came to her mind, including her famous “Chicken of the Sea” comment. It’s all show business.

  Jessica was a great Daisy Duke. It was her moment. And when the film opened to $30 million, then the biggest-ever August opening for a comedy, we all knew that a very large portion of the draw was Jess. This became superclear to me when we were on a red carpet in Tennessee with thousands of screaming fans and photographers. I was doing an interview and apparently blocking the view of a paparazzo who was trying to photograph her. Finally, he just exploded, “Get the fuck out of the way!”

  I slinked away. “Gee, I’m only the director.”

  A month after the film came out, a package arrived at my office. Mounted in a case was a pair of Jessica’s Daisy Dukes. Written on the pocket were the words, “Thanks for giving my ass a chance. Love, Jess.”

  With the cast in place, I turned my attention to stunts. There was a car chase and a huge jump in every episode of The Dukes of Hazzard TV show, so the show became a laboratory for innovative stunt-driving technique. But demand for stunt drivers outstripped supply, so the Dukes stunt coordinator used to often walk into bars to ask tough-looking blond bartenders a hilarious question: “Hey, you wanna fly the General Lee?” Novice stunt drivers were told, “Keep the wheels straight and hit the ramp at sixty and you’ll be fine.” Those guys were badasses and they made that show the huge success that it was. Considering how loose the safety restrictions were (and how much coke was being snorted in Hollywood at the time), it’s a miracle that there was only one serious injury during the whole six-year run of the show.

  When hiring a stunt coordinator for the film, there was only one guy I wanted: Dan Bradley. Dan was the stunt coordinator for the groundbreaking film The Bourne Supremacy. When Matt Damon drove his car into the Moscow tunnel in Bourne, I knew that car stunts had changed forever. Was Damon really in that fucking car? Kids in the eighties were blown away by the stunts in Dukes, and modern-day kids needed to have that same feeling. Dan Bradley needed to be the guy to make the General Lee fly.

  Dan asked for twenty-five Dodge Chargers, all of which were quickly painted orange. We also bought fifty police cars from Batman and repainted those. Down in Baton Rouge, we built a twenty-four-hour garage. Dan would smash the cars during the day and send them to the garage at night for repair. By morning, fixed-up General Lees were sent back out so Dan and his guys could smash them again.

  With our cast and crew secured, it was time to move the circus down to Baton Rouge, where I would get another crack at making a good impression with Willie Nelson. The cast was arriving, and Billy and I stopped by Willie’s wardrobe fitting to welcome him to town and to invite him to a cast dinner at Sullivan’s Steakhouse. Willie said he’d be there. Then Billy’s phone rang, so he walked off to answer it. As I turned to leave, Willie winked and said, “Come on over to the bus before dinner and let’s get hungry.”

  I smiled. “You know, Willie, the last time I was on your bus I was a little nervous and, I don’t know, I uh . . . didn’t . . .” I was rambling. Get to the point. “Well, I just wanna say, I was a pretty big pot smoker in college.”

  Willie thought there might be more to that sentence, but there wasn’t, so he just smiled and said, “Great.”

  There was an awkward silence, so I added, “I mean, like, I smoked every day.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, how about that?”

  I was the king of the dorks at a festival of dorks. I was dying inside, so I mumbled, “See you later,” and walked off.

  At around six forty-five P.M., my friend and assistant director Artist Robinson and I knocked on the door of the Honeysuckle Rose for a pre-dinner smoke. For those of you who don’t know, the assistant director (or AD) on a film is not the director’s assistant. The AD’s job is to be the liaison between the director and the crew and to make sure that the director’s vision is executed, and executed on an efficient timetable. The AD is like the boss of the crew. Artist is a legendary AD who came up in the go-go eighties and has seen it all. Artist was the first AD on Breakdown, Face/Off, Jurassic Park III, Men in Black II, Spy, the new Ghostbusters, and many, many more. He’s got a deep southern voice, and he was fond of saying, “If you can’t drink all night and work all day, you’re in the wrong goddamned business!” A Texan and a singer-songwriter himself, Artist was also a huge Willie fan. As we waited at the bus door, Artist turned to me. “Boss, I don’t need to tell you how much I appreciate you including me in on this. This is a big moment.”

  The door opened, and Dave Anderson let us in. We walked back to the kitchen table, where Willie was already sitting with the actor M. C. Gainey, who was playing Rosco P. Coltrane. M.C. is a big, funny, tough-guy actor who played Hank in Club Dread. In Broken Lizard we like to cast tough guys who can actually beat you up in real life. M.C. fit that bill nicely.

  Artist and M.C. sat on one side of the bench, with Willie across from them. And since I wasn’t about to tell Mr. Nelson to move over, I stood. Willie looked up and said, “Shall we?” This was my moment. Redeem yourself and smoke this joint like the man you are. This is Willie Nelson, motherfucker! If there were an Olympics for joint rolling, Willie’d take the gold. Actually, he did. He won the High Times joint-rolling competition. His opponent rolled and smoked twenty-five joints. Willie did twenty-six. The man is an expert—I’m talking perfectly rolled, lit, and in his mouth in twenty seconds. He passed the joint to me and I took what I felt was a “reasonable starter hit.” However, when I exhaled, a massive plume of smoke came out, followed by a series of hearty coughs.

  “You gotta cough to get off, partner!” M.C. laughed. But I was fine, and I smiled, coughed some more, and passed the joint to M.C. As I looked to my left, there was Willie, rolling a second joint. I thought, All right. Two joints, four guys, that’s how it goes down on Willie Nelson’s bus! Willie passed me the second joint, and this time, I made sure to take a reasonable hit. I passed joint two to M.C., who then started telling one of his hilarious New Orleans stories.

  As I was listening to M.C.’s story, it slowly dawned on me that, regardless of how “reasonable” my last hit was, the damage had been done by my first hit. I had heard that the medical science behind “you have to cough to get off” was that coughing bursts blood vessels in your lungs, which gives the THC a more direct path into your body. That’s probably stoner bullshit, but regardless, I was currently higher than a CIA drone. I was dizzy and I had a serious case of dry mouth. What was in this fucking pot? I needed to quench this thirst, as I didn’t want to lose my voice again, so I said, “Hey, Willie, you got a beer? I’m a little parched.”

  Willie looked up, exhaling a huge plume of smoke. “I don’t keep beer on the bus because it leads to darkness.”

/>   It’s getting pretty dark over here, Willie, I thought, as he started rolling a third joint. M.C. was just getting to his punch line, which caused everyone to burst into laughter. Thinking fast, I fake laughed along but pulled a Clinton and sent the joints by my mouth without inhaling. “Yeah, totally, totally,” I said to no one in particular. Since I’m a vaguely talented actor, I got away with it. I told you this would amount to something, Mom and Dad.

  Artist and Willie were talking about the Austin music scene, while I was so high and dizzy I was wondering if I was going to keel fucking over. And there was Willie rolling a fourth joint. Dear God. The man’s an assassin. The conversation had kind of hit a lull, and I found myself holding two joints, and Willie was holding the other two, and everyone was looking at me, since I was now the logjam. Since I physically couldn’t smoke anymore and I couldn’t get away with “my fake-laughing trick,” I passed the two joints to M.C. Willie then passed me joints three and four, but I just passed those on as well.

  Willie looked up innocently. “What’s wrong?”

  I waved him off. “I’m good, man. I’m good.”

  Then he smiled. “Say, ‘I submit.’” I looked at him. Is he serious? He nodded. “Say it.”

  And I said it. “I submit, sir.”

  Willie just laughed. “Big fuckin’ smoker!”

  While I had sort of redeemed myself with one legend, there was another one down there in Baton Rouge. Maybe I shouldn’t tell this story, but I’m going to. See, we have a tradition in Hollywood where movie stars behave however they want to, sometimes poorly, and we on the crew all keep mum. From the studio’s perspective, this “gag rule” comes from wanting to keep the star looking good in the public’s eye and, by association, the movie looking good. And while I have plenty of stories of stars misbehaving (I worked on Community) that I’m not going to tell, this one story is special. And so this one time, I’m going to break tradition.