“But this was just, like, two hours ago,” I reasoned. “Wouldn’t this be happening over a period of days?”
“Yes. Like I said – is bad.”
“Jesus. Okay, get Bob on the phone.”
Bob was our line producer – the nuts-and-bolts guy who gets stuff done. Bob would take this to the next level. The decision was to get the quick opinion of two doctors, just as a safeguard. By the time I saw the first doctor, about an hour later, my arm had continued to swell. He didn’t like the looks of it either, especially considering how “young” the infection was and recommended an immediate regime of medicated wraps and thumb-sized antibacterial pills. The second doctor, found through the American Embassy, confirmed the infection and assumed that I would take off work for the next week or so, just in case I need to go on drip medication.
“Are you crazy?” I asked. “This is an American low-budget exploitation film that I’m starring in and directing. They’ll never give me that much time off. I gotta heal fast, Doc!”
Thankfully, the following Sunday was off, but it was still tense because the infection hadn’t “broken” yet. That’s the scary part – not knowing when the aggressive son of a bitch would stop invading my body. Ida was out of town that weekend, so aside from the occasional doctor visit, it was a lonely “I just wanna go home” twenty-four hours.
Monday delivered a good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that it appeared the infection had leveled off and was no longer on the march. The bad news was that because of the wraps and medication, my right hand had swollen to twice its normal size and had to be kept elevated in a sling. The good news was that we were able to adjust the shooting schedule so I was only a director that day and didn’t have to appear on camera.
Man with the Septic Arm
By Tuesday, the jig was up – I had to be back in action. The infection was improving, but the swelling of my hand was only mildly diminished. Fortunately, my scenes that day were all in the back of a taxi, so I gestured mostly with my “good” hand.
When Wednesday rolled around, life was almost back to normal, but every night after shooting for the next week Ivan had to drive me to a clinic to get very annoying ultraviolet/electromagnetic treatment on my arm. I asked the doctor why I needed that treatment if the infection had receded.
“Because of the tissue.”
“What has that got to do with it?” I asked.
“The infection might have killed tissue in your arm,” he explained dryly. “This should help stimulate it.”
Jesus, I thought to myself. I’m going to be permanently maimed because of a movie called Man with the Screaming Brain?
GAGGING GOODMAN
To lighten the load of a near-death experience, it was time to have some fun. My idea of fun is a practical joke – the more elaborate the better. Back in 1988, I tried to get my producing partner, David “Goody” Goodman, extradited from California to Wyoming to deal with a bogus car fiasco (see my original Chins book for details). I was able to execute the complicated joke over a three-month period, and it took Goodman completely by surprise. I assumed that he might smell something fishy if I tried to pull another stunt, but two decades had rolled by since, blunting even Goodman’s usually keen recall, and he was ripe for the picking.
During Alien Apocalypse, I hung out with my director buddy Josh at his apartment in Sofia, drinking Kamenitza beer and bullshitting about the day’s work. I learned that Goodman was going to take Josh’s exact apartment when he vacated, which was great news because I already knew the location, the buzzer system – all the particulars. This would come into play later.
During Josh’s film, I got to meet a number of really good Bulgarian actors. Among them, two stood out – Todor Nikolov and Vladimir Kolev. On screen, Todor played a hunchbacked gnome named Bill the Mountain Man and Vlad played Bob the fisherman. I enjoyed their acting but also their general sense of humor and command of the English language.
Since these fine fellows had both been in Alien Apocalypse, the wardrobe department knew their exact sizes, which would come in handy when it came time to rent police uniforms. Ivan managed to round up a pair of handcuffs and a magnetic police light. Todor completed the package with his nondescript white sedan, and the elements were in place.
The plan was for two Bulgarian “cops” to “interrupt” a “script session” that Goodman and I were having at his apartment, ransack the place, talking about “passport problems” and eventually take him away to “Serbia.” The actors were instructed to do two things as soon as they could – get Goodman’s passport and cell phone away from him.
Knowing that Goodman would want to make a call, we alerted Ivan that a panicked call might come, but he was not to help in any way. We also knew that Goodman would eventually offer up a bribe, as I had been regaling him with stories of the Sofia police and how everything worked a little better if you “greased the wheels.” The actors were instructed to go ballistic if the subject ever came up.
Vladimir was tall and imposing. He would play the “bad” cop. Todor was short, and he would be the inquisitive one, or “good” cop. The important thing about the success or failure of this type of gag – getting someone arrested in a foreign country – all depends on timing. The trick with Bulgaria is to hit the victim within a couple days of arriving so they’re reeling from both jet lag and culture shock – an unbeatable double whammy.
The timing was perfect. As planned, I arrived at Goodman’s apartment around 6:00 p.m. for a “script conference.” The basic premise of our story needed to be tweaked to accommodate a Bulgarian setting rather than East L.A., so there was actually a little bit of work to be done.
A half hour later, Goodman’s door buzzer rang.
I shot my best “who the fuck?” look to Goodman, but he was already working on a priceless expression of his own. I had just showed him how to use his intercom. He approached it with apprehension and pushed the talk button.
“Gentlemen, this is our target.”
“Yes?”
“Polizia.”
Goodman whirled around to me. “The cops? Shit.”
The buzzer rang again. It was not a polite sound. “Polizia.”
“You better let ’em in, Goodman,” I said, with building dread.
Reluctantly, Goodman buzzed them in.
The next thirty seconds were Hitchcock tense, because it took the cops a while to walk up the flights of stairs – the ominous sound of hard-soled shoes echoing off bare stairwell tiles increasing with each step.
The knock on the door was forceful, exactly what you would expect from cops in the former Eastern Bloc. “Polizia.”
Goodman unlocked his door, revealing two cops. Unlike American officers of the law, who might, say, ask for permission to enter, our Bulgarian friends walked right in and began casing the joint. Looking directly at me, Vladimir asked phonetically, “Dav-id Good-man?”
Naturally, I pointed to Goodman. “There’s your man.”
The cops turned to Goodman and flanked him on both sides. “Pass-a-port?” Vlad asked, palm outstretched.
Goodman hesitated a second. “Passport? Why? What’s wrong?”
Todor spoke up. “Problema pass-a-port.”
Playing my own role of dutiful friend, I stood up to make my case. “Hey, do you guys even speak English?”
The cops ignored me and turned their attention back to Goodman, who by now had whipped out his cell phone and was nervously dialing. “I’m calling Ivan.”
Ivan answered on the other end.
“Ivan, hey, there are some cops here,” Goodman said, trying to sound calm and professional, but his trembling hands gave him away. “They say they want my passport. Can you talk to them?”
Goodman handed the phone over to Vlad, while Todor began a leisurely stroll around the apartment, opening drawers and cabinets.
The phone call with Vlad didn’t go well. Bulgarian is an angry-sounding language to begin with, and when conversation gets heated it
’s a harsh sound. Goodman winced from the negative effect. Eventually, Vlad handed the phone back to Goodman.
“What did he say?” Goodman asked Ivan impatiently.
The answer didn’t help. Ivan explained that there was nothing he could do and that Goodman would have to go with the policemen to Serbia to work this out.
“Serbia? You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Goodman bemoaned.
Eventually, he hung up the phone, looking pale and distressed. Todor was getting a little nosy, so I stood up again and made a few threatening steps forward.
“Hey, pal, you got his passport; what else do you want? You got no right to go through his stuff without a warrant.”
Vlad intercepted me with an arm out. “Problema? Problema?”
I stopped in my tracks. “No. No Problema.”
A pack of cigarettes on Goodman’s desk caught my eye and I held them out as a peace offering. “Cigarette?”
Vlad took the pack, without comment, and shoved it into his pocket.
While Todor continued to case the joint, Goodman nodded at me to step aside for a quick sidebar conversation. “Look, I haven’t had a good history with these Russian bastards,” he said in a hushed, ultra-serious tone. “Last time I was in Moscow, I almost got arrested for throwing a shoe through a plate-glass window.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Long story. Look, do you have any per diem? I only have a few leva. I’m gonna give these commie bastards some cash and be done with it.”
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the equivalent of $20. “This is all I have, but you’re welcome to it, pal.”
Goodman combined my money with his few leva and approached the two cops, who were starting to get impatient. He offered the cash with a smug look. “Here, guys, maybe you speak this language.”
I would have used real police, but they were busy freaking out another paranoid actor and his wife.
Todor’s reaction to the proposed bribe was worth the entire gag. He exchanged an indignant look with Vlad and grabbed the money out of Goodman’s hands. Crumpling it into a tight ball, he threw it on the floor and proceeded to lecture Goodman in his angry language while Vlad got handcuffs out and started to snap them on.
Again, I protested. “Hey, Jesus Christ, guys, this isn’t necessary. He’ll go with you, okay? He’ll go, but no handcuffs,” I implored, pointing to the restraints. “No cuffs.”
By this point, Goodman had thrown in the towel. He looked at Todor like a lost little boy. “Can I at least put my shoes on?” Reluctantly, Todor relented.
“Goodman, don’t sweat this,” I said, trying to reassure him.
Vlad and Todor: My partners in crime.
“Yeah, easy for you. You’re not the one goin’ to a fuckin’ gulag.”
“Look, I’ll get Production on the phone. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Goodman laced up his second shoe and stood up, resigned to his fate. “Make it quick. I don’t know how much time I got…”
Vlad took Goodman’s cell phone and passport and they were out the door. I continued to make calls, which I knew would be answered by either Vlad or Todor, alternately demanding not only an immediate release but also an explanation for this outrage.
“No English, no English,” came the response, and the phone would go dead.
Perfect, I thought to myself. Those guys are giving the performance of a lifetime.
In actuality, Vlad and Todor merely took Goodman around the city on a confusing joyride while I made my way to a very nice restaurant, where we would all rendezvous.
Goodman’s expression changed dramatically when he entered the room and saw me sitting with Ivan and Ida at a lovely corner table. His grim look morphed into a rueful, tight smile. “Ooh, man, Campbell, you’re gonna get it. You’re gonna get it bad.”
More than pissed, Goodman was relieved to know that he wasn’t really going to a Siberian labor camp after all. What he didn’t realize was that I had to talk Ivan out of dropping him at the local police station to spend time on the “trolley car” – an elevated, horizontal metal bar used to handcuff drunks with their hands over their heads, presumably to prevent fighting and general mayhem.
Goodman looked at Todor and Vlad, who by now had huge grins on their faces. “Fellas, I’m one of the producers of Man with the Screaming Brain, and you both got parts – you’re fuckin’ good actors!”
True to his word, when it came time to cast, Vladimir took a major secondary role as a sleazy cab driver and Todor did a great job as a solemn doctor.
This was the second time in twenty years that Goodman had been the butt of an elaborate, borderline mean-spirited gag. He’s a sweet, mild-mannered guy most of the time, but I know I’m pushing my luck. He’s going to get me back one of these days. I’m waiting for it, Goodman.
DOUBLE CHIN
In a post-script, it should be noted that the entertainment industry allows one to be a hero and a dog – both at the same time. Alien Apocalypse aired as a Saturday night original movie several months later on Sci-Fi and got the highest ratings of any original TV movie to date for them. Studio executives were delighted to share with me even the minute details of quarter-by-quarter demographics and how we kicked major cable TV ass.
Alien Apocalypse = Hero.
Man with the Screaming Brain aired in the same slot six months later and laid a massive Nielsen ratings egg. Studio executives were not so forthright with the ratings news, presumably because it was bad, and I never heard a thing. There was a brain screaming all right – mine.
Man with the Screaming Brain = Dog.
Thirty years from now Brain will no doubt be hailed as a “clearly ahead of its time classic,” but for now it lies in a vegetative VHS state in a Van Nuys, California, warehouse. A recent LA Times article, touting “The Death of VHS,” used Man with the Screaming Brain as the poster child for movies that videotape merchants simply couldn’t “give away.” The current backlog was “at least” five thousand copies.
Instead of being depressed, I used the opportunity to make the world a better place. I bought the entire lot off a group of Lebanese wholesalers for $1 per VHS and put them to good use – as insulation in an addition on my eco-friendly Oregon house, paid for by my fee on Alien Apocalypse.
In retrospect, would I say that the former Eastern Bloc is a good place to make a movie? Yes and no. Yes if you like a charming, hardworking society, struggling to emerge from communism. No if you are disturbed by roaming packs of wild dogs and a language that is spoken like the person is permanently annoyed. But after eighteen years of kissing everyone’s ass in sight to direct my first feature film, Bulgaria was just fine by me.
11
LIFE ON THE WILD SIDE
Ida’s best friend came to visit us in Oregon a few years ago. She had been working in Atlanta and hadn’t spent much time in the Pacific Northwest. Upon arriving at the house, scanning the mountainous terrain, she was mortified. “This is where you live? Where are all the people?” she asked.
Ida’s friend has never returned. All the more Oregon for me.
The farther out or away you get, the more interesting “civilization” becomes. I used to own a decommissioned Forest Service truck. You could see where the official decal had been scraped off. I bought it New Year’s Day at a used car lot for $3,000.
Thinking I worked for the Forest Service, folks in town would wave and smile respectfully. In the outback, some people wouldn’t acknowledge my truck or even wave back, because I was a “Fed.” What was I up to? they wondered.
I enjoyed one particular drive into my “extended backyard” when I encountered a “tweaker.” Meth is a huge problem where I live. My local town of Medford is known sarcastically as “Meth-Ford.” Billboards with the tagline “Meth: Not Even Once” dot the I-5 corridor through town.
Publicly owned land is not only a great place to make meth – as there are thousands of miles of unused Forest Service logging roads nearby – it’
s also a great place to take drugs and tweak your brains out. I spotted my guy, Tweaky Pants, deep into Forest Service territory, a good fifteen miles from civilization in any direction. As I got closer, Tweaky saw my Forest Service truck, assumed I was after him, panicked and raced across the dirt road to a wooded section. As my truck edged closer, I slowed down and scanned the foliage, immediately spotting Tweaky “hiding” behind a tree. I use quotations because the tree didn’t really hide him – his belly stuck out one side of the tree and his ass stuck out the other.
As my official-looking truck passed by, I slowed to a tedious crawl and enjoyed watching Tweaky craftily counter-roll around the tree as I passed, now moving glacially. His wilderness ninja skills were impressive. I decided to stop the truck and just sit there for about five minutes, testing his resolve. Tweaky stood his ground, shivering uncontrollably. He wasn’t going to budge. He was too good and this was life or death. Eventually, when my sadistic side had had enough, I gave the horn a friendly toot-toot and drove away.
I wouldn’t exactly say I live in the howling wilderness, but I don’t live in the suburbs either. Technically, it’s called the Wild-land Urban Interface, or WUI – life on the edge. While much of the forested land in southern Oregon, both public and private, is indeed fragmented, wildlife tends to be much less in retreat up here.
In Oregon, deer tend to be like dogs – you get used to seeing a lot of them. Over the years, we have always had no fewer than four deer on the property and sometimes as many as eight, both does and bucks. Our plan all along has been to basically ignore them. We don’t feed them or adopt them as pets. We do our thing and they do theirs. Over time, we have learned to adapt to each other. Our first house had a curved grass roof that could be accessed from the ground. It was disconcerting as hell to walk out the front door and look up to see three deer casually eating on the roof. When the kids were younger, we had a trampoline, which made for great deer shade when summertime rolled around.
Some folks have squirrels on their roof.
Hail to the Chin Page 10