Hail to the Chin

by Bruce Campbell

  He knows if you’ve been groovy …

  The cast of The Librarians made shooting a delight. Rebecca Romijn was a great leading lady – funny, professional and striking. The rest of the actors, rounded out by the great John Larroquette, were eager and fresh.

  You want to work on a TV show early on, because it’s still a fun voyage of discovery. “Old” TV shows can devolve into plodding, humorless affairs, like my guest-star experience on the last season of The X-Files, where it felt like the entire company would rather have been anywhere else.

  Once I crossed Santa Claus off my actor bucket list, another work call came in – this time from longtime friend and collaborator John Cameron, whom I have known since high school. Beginning as an assistant director, John soon found himself running major movie sets, including Men in Black and The Hudsucker Proxy. He began producing with the Coen brothers shortly thereafter and I wound up with cameos in Ladykillers and Intolerable Cruelty, so we kept bumping into each other.

  John’s most recent gig was producing the Coens’ adaptation of Fargo for FX and the first season had taken off critically. For his efforts, John walked away with both an Emmy and a Golden Globe. I got a kick out of going over to his house and making a big deal about it in front of his seemingly unimpressed teenage kids.

  “Come up to Calgary and play Ronald Reagan,” John said, over the phone.

  Knowing full well that we had both imitated Reagan mercilessly during his stint as president, John felt confident that I could fake an imitation, but the trick was to make him a full-blown character, not an SNL sketch.

  In anticipation of joining this highly regarded show, with a first-class writer in Noah Hawley and Emmys in its wake, I got nervous, so I wasn’t going to take any chances. A local rehearsal space in Hollywood is known as The Complex. This jumble of a half-dozen mini-theaters and rehearsal rooms is my favorite place to prep. Each of the small spaces has a different name and feel – they come with sparse furnishings, lighting and a bare stage with about twenty seats in miniature auditoriums. Whenever I go there, I feel like a real actor, with zero distractions.

  I dragged my filmmaking buddy Mike Kallio along to shoot a demo of Reagan giving a speech in the opening of the episode. I wanted to show John and Noah what I was gonna do before I got in front of their Emmy-winning cameras. That way, if they wanted to make adjustments – or freak out and recast – they had the time to do it. Fortunately, their response was positive, so I went up to Calgary and my bucket list got a lot smaller.

  18

  HOLLYWOOD IN PONTIAC!

  Even though I was born and raised in Michigan, I only worked on a handful of movies there. The original Evil Dead was filmed in Tennessee because we were trying to avoid a brutal Midwest winter. Our second film, the disastrous Crimewave, was shot all over the city of Detroit, but trying to make a movie in the dead of winter left a very unpleasant taste in our mouths.

  The next film I produced in Michigan was Lunatics: A Love Story. The suburban town of Pontiac was selected, mostly because it was a tiny, more manageable version of Detroit, with plenty of funky old buildings. A large, recently abandoned middle school became our base of operations.

  To give you some background, Pontiac was an automotive powerhouse in its post–WW II heyday, kicking out cars and even busses for decades before the industry took its business elsewhere. A one-horse town, Pontiac – and a lot of other towns like it in Michigan – never fully recovered. For as long as I have known it, Pontiac was always a “sketchy” place.

  As we were filming on the streets of Pontiac, the local police were very helpful keeping curious types at bay. My favorite character strolled by late one night, wearing a gloriously ratty tuxedo.

  “Hollywood in Pontiac!” he bellowed. “We got white stars, black stars, polka-dot stars!”

  The only other recent experience I had with Pontiac was being rousted by their Law Enforcement Officers on a bike path. Apparently, some nervous Nellie called in about two people “waving pistols around.”

  Mind you, riding around on bicycles Ida and I didn’t exactly look like Bonnie and Clyde. Ida was sporting a white, Burberry trench coat and I looked like a model out of an Eddie Bauer catalogue – and this wasn’t some dark alley or mean street; this was a bikes only, bucolic path on a beautiful Michigan fall day.

  As we rode, we could see a police car block an intersection coming up in front of us, with two anxious officers leaping out.

  “I thought the guy had to take a leak,” Ida later recalled.

  We looked behind us and another police car had pulled in to block our retreat.

  “Looks like they’re after someone,” I said, not overly concerned. We thought we were caught in the middle of something else going down.

  The cop in front of us, gun drawn, approaching “with purpose,” shouted with great authority, “Put your kickstands down and put your hands in the air!”

  I looked at Ida, incredulous. “Holy shit, he’s talking to us!”

  We complied with his demands and got a quick, unsympathetic pat-down for our efforts. Thankfully, Pontiac was not in any immediate danger. Neither of us was, in fact, armed and we were allowed to go along our merry way.

  Jesus Christ.

  After that alarming incident, I had no desire to return to Pontiac – ever again. Imagine my surprise (and delight?) to learn that the prequel to The Wizard of Oz, one of the most endearing and enduring classics of American cinema, was going to be filmed – not in Los Angeles or New York or Toronto or New Zealand or even Bulgaria but Pontiac, Michigan!

  Ironically, the choice made sense. Penny-pinching production practices had sent film and TV projects to Canada and Eastern Europe for decades. To stay relevant, states began implementing their own incentive/rebate programs to entice producers back stateside and it worked.

  Michigan knew how important it was to fight the flight of domestic industries, so they jumped into the incentives program with a vengeance and started subsidizing Hollywood movies. I was living out west by this time and started hearing stories about Robert De Niro, Clint Eastwood and Drew Barrymore shooting in Michigan. It seemed like “everyone” was working back in my home state.

  The truth was, Michigan’s incentives were among the best around. A production could expect to get a refund of almost 40 percent of the money spent in the state. When a certain Disney movie had an estimated budget of “well north” of $200 million, it’s easy to see how incentivized both state and studio would be to work together.

  WINKIE GATE KEEPER

  Most of the guys who made Super-8 movies with me in high school went on to become professionals in film, television, writing and photography. I’ve known guys such as the Raimi brothers, Rob Tapert, Josh Becker, Scott Spiegel, Mike Ditz and John Cameron for most of my adult life, but we don’t exactly text each other every time some new project falls into our laps. I don’t always know what “the boys” are up to and I don’t tend to read the trade magazines such as The Hollywood Reporter or Variety. I actually heard about Sam doing Oz from a friend of a friend of a friend.

  It was bizarre to imagine that Sam was chosen by Disney to revisit such a classic. The original Wizard of Oz was truly an icon of filmmaking with some of the most recognizable imagery in cinematic history. When you look at Sam’s early work, it’s easy to appreciate him as a horror director, but let’s not forget that he also directed a stylish Western, the wonderfully restrained A Simple Plan and the Spider-Man movies (the first three anyway) – proving that what defined him most was a varied, fanciful, visual style. Oz was bound to be a playground of eye candy and visual quirks, so Sam was perfect for the job.

  In order to be involved, I knew that I had to hound Sam relentlessly. The irony of working on a successful multi-season TV series was that people tend to think you’re unavailable.

  “Sam, come on,” I implored. “There’s gotta be, like, seven thousand roles. Just gimme a little one.”

  “All right, buddy. Yeah, I’ll think about it,�
�� he replied, placating me for the time being.

  I knew the second Sam hung up he wouldn’t remember talking to me. That’s how he gets when he’s waist deep in a big project and this was the biggest of them all. To keep the pressure on, I dusted off my agent’s number and urged him to “track” the lumbering project.

  Eventually, Sam tossed me the nebulous role of a Winkie – one of the numerous big, mean, ugly guys who guard the castle.

  Even the Ladies of the Evil Dead got a cameo.

  I felt special that Sam included me, but in retrospect, I can’t feel that special. It turned out that Sam gave virtually everyone he ever met in Michigan a part in the film. Next time you’re bored (or stoned), cross-reference the end credits of Oz the Great and Powerful with the 1976 Groves high school yearbook and you’ll see what I mean

  OZ, THE SLOW AND POWERLESS

  The timing was perfect. Burn Notice was over for the season and I had some time to kill. My mom, brothers and some old friends still lived in Michigan, so I decided to rent a place there for a month. I’m glad I did because various production delays kept me on hold and threatened to scrap my “pivotal” scene entirely.

  Oz was the biggest-budget project I had ever been a part of. A gigantic former bus-manufacturing facility was completely refurbished (to the tune of a couple hundred million dollars) into a state-of-the-art Hollywood studio – now the largest such space between New York and Los Angeles.

  I’ve seen big, sprawling sets before. Hell, for Army of Darkness we built a castle. But the sets for Oz were unique, in that they were only partially built. In the modern world of digital compositing, you didn’t need ceilings – or a second story – anymore. Mr. Digital took it from there. So, while a castle entrance would boast an impressive, sweeping staircase, you wouldn’t see where it leads until the movie was almost finished.

  A “production schedule” is a color-coded calendar of interiors, exteriors, location days and studio time. This schedule has to factor in actor availability, budget restrictions, unpredictable weather and a slew of other external factors. It is by no means etched in stone, but much effort is made to never let it get out of control. Oz was a big movie, with a big, complicated schedule – therefore, when it had problems, they were big.

  Some fans noticed similarities to another Sam Raimi film.

  My little cog, a two-day part, was caught somewhere in that big wheel, so when I was told that my first shooting day had been pushed back I didn’t think anything of it.

  No big deal. Part of the process.

  The second time my scene got delayed, I thought, Okay, well, Sam’s doing complicated stuff and it’s taking more time than they thought …

  When I got the third call, I knew something unforeseen was causing a big speed bump in the schedule. It wasn’t an actor problem (rehab or injury); it was just the scope, size and difficulty of the undertaking, squeezed through a Sam Raimi kaleidoscope.

  My Name Is Bruce was shot in the newish HD format, which resulted in what I called HDelay. Oz was being shot in 3-D with state-of-the-art cameras. I could only imagine the complications of “3-Delay.”

  I was beginning to get a nagging feeling that my silly little scene was going to get the axe. It wasn’t a particularly crucial scene. I wasn’t launching the story by leading a doomed expedition through the jungle or helping reveal a major plot twist by standing next to Billy Bob Thornton. I was expendable.

  Then the phone rang.

  “Bruce, Sam wants to talk to you,” said the ominous, familiar voice of a Raimi assistant.

  Getting Sam on the phone was a rare feat since he only came up for air for a few minutes at a time between camera setups.

  “Ah, hey, buddy,” Sam said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “O-kay,” I replied guardedly. “Shoot.”

  “The good news is we’re going to pay you.”

  “That is good news!”

  “The bad news is we’re cutting your scene.”

  “That is bad news!”

  For Oz, I was officially contracted and scheduled. I had already gone through a couple wardrobe fittings and an effects makeup session. I knew Sam must have been deep in “the weeds” to pull the plug after all this.

  “No worries, pal,” I consoled him. “You’ve got bigger problems.”

  FRANCOPHILE

  Being cut from the biggest-budget movie to ever film in my home state by one of my oldest friends was deflating, but then the phone rang again. This time, it was James Franco, the star of Oz. For some inexplicable strange reason, he had enough spare time during the production to star in a student film for an NYU class he was teaching, called TAR.

  “Bruce,” he offered, “since you’re, um, available now, would you be willing to do a gas station scene with me and Goody before you leave town?”

  “Goody!?”

  That’s right, David Goodman, the “filmmaker’s burden” and fellow Man with the Screaming Brain survivor. Incomprehensibly, Sam had picked Goodman, a chronically lousy driver, to shuttle around James Franco, the star of his massive-budget blockbuster.

  Despite Goody’s piss-poor driving skills, Franco had become pretty enamored with him. The “filmmaker’s burden” is a very funny guy and the fact that he’s so easily tormented is one of his more likable quirks.

  I told Franco, “I’ll do the scene on one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “Goody has to drive me to set.”

  In the spirit of good-natured sacrifice, Franco conceded and loaned me his affable, if distracted, chauffeur for the day.

  When an obscenely large Cadillac Escalade pulled up to my rental house the morning of the shoot, I sauntered to the rear passenger door, opened it and smiled. “Goddamn right, Goodman.”

  “Shut up and get in the fuckin’ car,” was the surly response.

  As we drove through Detroit, Goody and I discussed the history of our troubled home city. Franco’s film was set in the 1970s and our scene was all about two guys complaining. Goody and I knew the time period and what the residents would complain about – which was mostly the mayor, hockey and whatever “those jerks were doing to Telegraph Road.”

  Franco gave us carte blanche to ad-lib in the scene, so Goody and I maxed out. After half a day of filming us bullshitting, Franco pleaded, “Guys, you have to shut up at some point. I’ve got to get my lines in there somewhere.”

  After a fun, low-key day of shooting, Franco cracked a crooked grin. “Sam may have cut you from his movie, but I didn’t cut you from mine.” We shared a knowing laugh, but I suspected that Mr. Franco was up to something.

  By this point, I had relocated to a hotel near the Detroit Metropolitan Airport in anticipation of an early flight out of Michigan. At 10:30 that night, the phone rang. Caller ID pegged it as Sam’s number. I assumed that Sam either had butt-dialed me, thought he was calling Neve Campbell, or was just taking a moment to say, “Happy trails, dear old friend.”

  However, the voice on the other end was Bob Murawski, Sam’s editor. Bob, to put him in historical context, also edited Army of Darkness and the Spider-Man trilogy. Pause. Oh yeah, he also won an Academy Award for editing The Hurt Locker. Affectionately, he’s known among us as “Bob the butcher.”

  “You know what,” Bob declared, “you gotta be in this movie. I don’t know why they cut you out. What the hell’s the problem? Why don’t you just – you gotta be in it.”

  “Bob,” I replied, “I’m not the guy to make that decision. Talk to your pal Sam. I have a flight tomorrow at eight. That’s all I know.”

  “This is bullshit,” Bob barked. “We gotta change this. Just make it one scene. Just shoot one day.”

  “Bob, that’s a decision above my pay grade –”

  “Okay, fine. Bye.”

  Click.

  Moments later, my phone rang again and this time it was actually Sam.

  “Yeah, listen, pal, we thought about it,” he explained. “I don’t know, you know, it’s a g
ood idea … Maybe we’ll try and do something. Anyway, see ya. Bye.”

  Click.

  Contrary to popular belief, I’m an old man and 10:30 p.m. was past my bedtime. I was getting both drowsy and weary of these interruptions.

  Again the phone rang – again showing Sam Raimi, but this time James Franco was on the other end. My mind was racing. Did my breakout, ad-lib–fueled performance in his NYU experimental film cause him to “need” me in his huge, albeit largely existential, film? Let’s go with yes.

  “You know what?” he declared. “This is bullshit. We’re shooting that scene on Monday.”

  “James, I’m supposed to get on a plane tomorrow at eight a.m. Am I getting on that plane? Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Are you standing next to Sam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ask him if I’m getting on the plane.”

  On the other end, I could hear their muffled ramblings.

  “No, you’re not getting on that plane,” Franco finally announced. “We’re shooting it on Monday.”

  “Okay, are you sure?” I could hear loud music (probably “Brick House” or “Macarena”) in the background and had little confidence that any conversation would be remembered in the morning. “You’re sure this is happening?”

  “Yeah, you know [gibberish] and shit –”

  Click.

  I transferred to a different hotel and waited for the truncated version of my clearly expendable scene. It was now going to be one shooting day – a long, Sam Raimi shooting day. That meant in addition to the prosthetic makeup process and my time in front of the camera, I could also expect to get both physically and psychological abused for the director’s amusement.