I couldn’t speak or close my mouth, and my jaw was pushed way to the right. I gotta admit I was slightly freaking, too. I needed this star-studded film for my résumé. And of course, I needed my jaw intact.
The Eskimo girl pressed a spot between my shoulder and neck. She pressed it with a mighty force, sorta like a Vulcan death grip—and easy as a tiny dick sliding into a whore, my jaw was back in its correct location. The crew applauded!
Roger merrily proclaimed, “Luckily, we got the shot. Let’s move on!”
Every day was a new injury. During a chase scene with Roger yelling on the walkie-talkie in the car, “Faster, Clancy, faster. Harder turn at the intersection Clancy! Crank it!”
Clancy and I braced ourselves for take number 37. We barreled down the alley of a Vancouver ghetto. The car flew over a big bump, which torqued my spine, and then Clancy cranked the car sharply to the left at the intersection. FYI, there are these people in movies called STUNTMEN. There are also the ones known as STUNT DRIVERS. Roger opted for neither, as he wanted it to LOOK REAL. My back wrenched, and I screamed in excruciating pain. I laid there in the backseat of the STUNT car while Clancy profusely apologized.
Roger opened the car door to see if I was okay. The medic examined me and said, “She probably just threw her back out, but let’s get her to the hospital.” That was a keen observation that any idiot could have observed, and I’m pretty sure medics on movies are from local high school first-aid classes. Roger replied, “Thank god we got the bloody shot, let’s get her to the hospital,” whereby he accidentally slammed the car door into my head, jamming my skull into my neck like a turtle.
Henry Kingi, the most gloriously cool-looking stuntman in the history of stuntmen, rushed me to the hospital. Henry Kingi is six foot five, a Native American, and has jet-black hair to his waist. He is a spiritually enlightened human being and has remained a lifelong friend. After being examined, it was recommended I take lots of pain meds. Ugh! I didn’t want to go through the next week of filming doped up. I called the production company and asked if there was a good chiropractor in the area.
The production people recommended a particular chiropractor because he utilized a rare form of therapy called Grostic. I won’t forget that word as long as I live: “Grostic.”
Soon I was lying facedown on the chiropractic table, and Henry Kingi was standing in front of me four feet away. I commented to the doctor, “You can’t crack my neck. I won’t let anyone crack my neck.”
“That’s not how I do it. I use the Grostic technique. I won’t even touch you,” he proudly proclaimed.
I tilted my eyes up to Henry with a Really? He’s not even going to touch me? What the fuck? Henry raised his eyebrows.
The chiro started hopping around like he had ants in his pants. I’m not exaggerating. He began hopping and bending and “gathering” something. Gathering and scooping at the air around him. Scooping, gathering the air, and rubbing his hands like people do when they’re freezing. Jesus, it was all too much and way too comical and stupid looking. I peered up at Henry again, and we had to divert our eyes lest we fly into hysterical laughter and interrupt the Grostic process.
Well, Dr. Freakshow did this bizarre ritual for about three minutes, and then what occurred was literally inexplicable. He swooped in and pressed his hands down hard, landing one to two inches from my back. If I hadn’t been there, I would never have believed this ridiculous story. Thank god Henry was there as my witness.
It felt like a cross between being electrocuted and having a two-by-four smashed into my spine. A shock wave of the most painful pressure smashed into my body, and I threw up when I was hit by the crush that almost rendered me unconscious. This was a violent hurl that was immediate and reminiscent of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
And it was TRUE. He hadn’t so much as touched me.
I’m no voodoo witch doctor occult-believing kind of girl. I need explanations. I need analytical reasoning. I need to understand fully how something works.
All I know is that I did get up. I did run, not walk, out of Grostic Central so my back was somehow working properly. But it freaked me out so terribly that I became violently sick, puking my guts out for days, like I’d been possessed by some alien demon. I have no idea what the hell he did to me. I’ve asked other chiropractors what the hell he did to me, but only one had heard of Grostic, and he merely replied that it was “energy work.”
I can testify that I will never again have energy work.
This is how the movie went on, injury after injury. Remember, Sidney Poitier and I hadn’t worked directly together up until this point. My character was with the psycho killer, being dragged around the mountains, while he was killing off all the campers I’d taken on a camping trip. They kept falling off cliffs or being stabbed—you know, psycho-murderer kind of stuff.
Meanwhile Sidney and Tom were joined at the hip, just a few days behind us in pursuit of the murderer and trying to ensure I wasn’t his next victim. The only reason Clancy didn’t kill me was because he needed me to guide him out of the mountains, plus he was holding me for ransom.
My point is, the only people who saw me get whacked, pushed, terrified of heights, or whiplashed were Clancy, the crew, and of course, Rog.
When we completed shooting at Whistler, we segued to an enormous ferryboat. This is where Sidney Poitier, Tom Berenger, and I began working together.
Clancy’s character had me at gunpoint aboard the vessel, as his hostage. At one point he had to jump from the ferryboat railing and smash me to the ground. Needless to say I was horrified at my impending doom. I had a stunt double, but Roger had yet to use her. Clancy also needed to “pistol-whip” me, causing Tom to leap in and rescue me. Sidney was sitting behind the camera watching the scene.
Clancy grabbed me by the throat and put the fake gun to my head. Roger explained, “Now, Clancy, when Kirstie struggles to escape, you must take the butt of the gun and pretend to smack it across her face. The gun falls to the floor, you jump on the railing to escape, she grabs the gun so you jump on her and ‘smack her across her face’ again with your fist, rendering her unconscious.”
“QUIET ON THE SET!” yelled the first assistant director.
“ACTION!” screamed Roger.
Clancy grabbed me by the throat—I struggled—I screamed—and Clancy pretended to belt me across the face with the gun. The gun fell to the ground, and I grabbed it. Clancy leapt from the railing, pretending to smash me onto the hard metal decking, and “play” smacked me across my mouth. I ACTED like I was rendered unconscious.
“CUT!! CUT CUT cut cut cut,” Roger complained. “Clancy—that looked fake. Just place the butt of the gun in your palm. It will look like the gun is striking her. When you leap on her, go for it, man! Knock her to the ground, grab her face, and act like you belt her!” By this point in the film the stunt coordinator was ready to shoot himself; this is a perfect example of how actors get hurt. Really hurt. I could see the coordinator shaking his head behind the camera. He was whispering to Roger, probably telling him this was dangerous, beckoning him to use my stunt double.
Even the pretend fighting was painful. Being pushed down onto a metal floor, no matter how gently it’s done, hurts like a bitch.
“All right everybody, let’s go again!” Roger announced.
But Mr. Poitier strolled around from behind the camera, took me by the arm, and said to Roger, “She’s done. Bring in her stunt double and one for Clancy. This is ACTING, Mr. Spottiswoode, ACTING.”
It was magnificent! I mean, who the hell is going to argue with Sidney Poitier? His intensely powerful voice is enough to quail a Marine.
While Roger reluctantly summoned the stunt doubles, Sidney sat with me, and that’s where our friendship began. What an awesome person he is. Everything out of his mouth was riveting. I prompted him to tell me stories about all his movie adventures. From Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, to To Sir, With Love, The Defiant Ones, Lilies of the Field, to In the Heat of the Ni
ght.
He was terribly gracious. I’d ask him what it was like to work with movie greats such as Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn. For days he told me intimate, funny tales of all his experiences. We had lunches and dinners together, and we have kept in touch throughout the years. He is very special to me. But at that moment in time he was my hero. He stuck by me throughout the remainder of the movie. Roger never asked me to do another stunt, nor did he ask my costar Clancy Brown to belt me.
Sidney taught me to stand up for myself on movie sets and to stand up for other actors who are green and being taken advantage of. I guess you could simply say, he taught me, “I’m an actor, not the bionic woman.”
Oddly, I ended up adoring our wacky director, Roger. He really was a well-intentioned man; he simply needed a new moviemaking mantra . . . “Stunt doubles”—namaste.
I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
—ANAÏS NIN
The Art of
Cheerful Men
IF I hadn’t walked into the Cheers meeting at the Four Seasons with the confidence of Atlas, I
A. wouldn’t have gotten the part and,
B. wouldn’t have had the opportunity to star in one of the most famous sitcoms in history.
Jimmy Burrows, undisputedly the finest, most talented sitcom director/producer in history, had first seen me as Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Mark Taper Forum in LA some three years prior. He remembered that I was funny, which in itself is funny because Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is a drama. But then what all the Cheers cast had in common was that all of us were, and are first and foremost, talented dramatic actors. Put any brilliant actor with a sense of what’s actually funny in a dramatic piece, but in the wrong place and time, and those will be your comedy geniuses.
I’d just completed Shoot to Kill, and I was very cocky when I walked into the Cheers luncheon in my skintight Kelly-green leather dress with denim inset details. I’d paid $1,500 for that dress in 1986, so it damn well better have been outstanding. I filled the dress well, was skinny as a stick, and wore Kelly-green stilettos on my feet. My hair was huge and wavy and down to my hips. In my mind I was a cocky film actress who had only done dramas and only done movies, except for a short-lived series and a cruise on The Love Boat because I wanted to make sure my new boyfriend, Parker, wasn’t cheating on me.
If I could have walked in slow motion toward the Cheers table like a cheesy hair commercial, I would have. It felt like I was. I remember these moments in time vividly because usually I walk into a meeting feeling like there’s toilet paper on my shoe.
There they all were, all famous and popular, but they were TV people and I was a movie star. So was Ted, but I blocked that out . . .
I ordered orecchiette. When it arrived, I commented that it looked like a plate of dick heads. And they do, literally. Whoever invented orecchiette certainly had a circumcised penis because orecchiette is an exact replica of the end of a circumcised dick.
They all laughed, which reinforced my belief that although I had never been hired to do comedy, I certainly had the chops to do it. Ted and I were flirting with each other, and it was clear we had chemistry. I soon got the offer to do the show, and it was one of the best all-time TV offers in history. My plan was to do Cheers for one year, then move on to do comedy movies, so I asked for a one-year contract. The standard is a seven-year contract so that actors don’t have the advantage of negotiating for more money the following years. But in success, every actor renegotiates anyway and gets more money. I somehow got a one-year contract, probably because I was replacing Shelley Long as the female lead of Cheers, not a small act to follow. She is an awesomely gifted comedy actress. The powers that be probably thought I wouldn’t be accepted on the show anyway, or some dude in business affairs just screwed up the deal. For whatever reason, much to our surprise, I scored a one-year deal. My plan was in motion and perfect, one year and I’m outta here.
But the first week on Cheers it was clear to me that I not only didn’t wanna be out of there but that I’d found, at least as an actor, a home.
I wasn’t that good in the beginning. My character was designed to be a hard-nosed bitch. Although I can be that in real life, I just wasn’t funny on film portraying that. After the second week the writers slyly watched my personal mannerisms, like running into doors, and crying at the drop of a hat over everything happy and some things sad. They saw how in real life I was extremely vulnerable and klutzy. And so Rebecca Howe was shaped. I could see the writers watching me do cigarette tricks, smashing my fingers in the cash register, doing shots of tequila at Cheers parties, and dancing, a lot of dancing. These bits would always show up in my character Rebecca Howe’s story lines.
The men of Cheers are beyond compare and beyond comprehension. It was group love at first sight for me. Each one was unique from the next, but each one was an extraordinary human being, and a genius actor.
If I had written the script myself of how I would be accepted into this group of men, I couldn’t have written it more perfectly. It seemed impossible. They’d had a hit show for the previous five years, critically acclaimed and awards for all. Cheers was not just a well-written and -acted show; it will stand throughout time as one of the top comedy shows in history.
So here’s this girl from Kansas who had done some dramatic movies. A girl who had never done comedy, except for the drama Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And they accepted me with open arms. Come on! They had to have been terribly nervous about the future of Cheers, their futures, the futures of their careers and livelihoods. But they never alluded to it or gave me an inkling that they were anything but confident that I would be an asset to their hit show.
It never dawned on me that my presence on Cheers would be anything but successful, but I’m sure it dawned on NBC, Paramount, Jimmy Burrows, Glen and Les Charles, and the entire cast. My blissful ignorance came from my undying confidence that I could do anything and would go to the mat for any of these people.
We were a hit, and we soon rose from number three to number one, but the memory I’ll carry with me throughout my life is how sweet and supportive and generous they all were with me. The next six years of my life proved to be my glory days that I’d never experienced in high school or college or at any time in my life.
When I tell you that every single day at Cheers was like Christmas, I do those days a disservice. I became one of the boys along with Rhea Perlman, who’d been one of the boys on Cheers since its inception. I will try to articulate the kind of people I spent six years of my life with, but even today, their amazingness amazes me.
THE BOYS WHO BELLIED UP TO THE BAR
Jimmy
In case you aren’t aware of who Jimmy Burrows is, you really should be. Jimmy is the most sought after sitcom director in the world. He is primo on any savvy producer’s wish list. He’s directed The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Laverne & Shirley, The Bob Newhart Show, Taxi, Cheers (he and Les and Glen Charles created Cheers), Will & Grace, Veronica’s Closet, Frasier, The Big Bang Theory, and Mike & Molly. Phew! That, of course, is not all, but you get the idea. Jimmy came by some of his talent honestly. He is the son of Abe Burrows, the Pulitzer Prize–winning author of such legendary musicals as Guys and Dolls and How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.
You can’t not fall in love with Jimmy Burrows. He is genuine, hysterically funny, and an all-round decent, dedicated human being.
His sitcom genius is unparalleled. Jimmy always sets the tone and the pace of the show. He oddly has 100 percent control over his actors without them knowing it. The Cheers squad seemed to be an uncontrollable lot of lunatics who never paid attention to anything anyone told them to do, but in reality, that wasn’t the case.
Jimmy is what a real director should be. He grants infinite amounts of freedom to his stars, allowing them to b
e their creative best, all the while holding his invisible reins and getting them to do anything he wants them to do.
I spent six years on Cheers and never once saw Jimmy lose it. He had created an atmosphere of lightness and camaraderie long before I came on the scene. I walked into an unruly summer camp. No one was ever on time (no one meaning the actors, especially the boys). I’ve never seen anything close to it. It seemed strictly unprofessional. Woody might show up an hour late, Kelsey, perhaps three hours. George and John, usually only 20 to 40 minutes late. Rhea was on time, mostly. Ted, yeah, Ted was pretty much on time, but the whack part was that no one cared. Jimmy could have cared less. When I mentioned a few times in the beginning, “Jimmy, no one comes on time,” he would just laugh it off.
About four weeks in I made a “late jar.” Ten bucks had to go into the jar any time one of us was late. The proceeds would go to some “on time” charity. The jar soon filled up, but never caused anyone to be on time. The guys were all very philanthropic and more than happy to contribute to the charity daily.
By week five I gave up and joined the party. I would show up in the 15-to-45-minutes-late category. Except for once, I never got reprimanded for it. The only time Jimmy Burrows got ticked at me for being late was when Rhea and I showed up 45 minutes late from lunch. And that was only because the guest star of the show that week was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Colin Powell!!!
Jimmy is one of the most thoughtful, caring people I’ve come across. All throughout the show, I was desperate for a baby. Everyone in the cast had kids. I got pregnant while shooting Look Who’s Talking Too, and everyone, including Jimmy, was elated.
During the shooting of Cheers that year I went in for a routine exam with my obstetrician. It resulted in him having to tell me I’d had a spontaneous abortion; the baby had died inside me. I was devastated. Jimmy couldn’t have been sweeter and more considerate and consoling to me. All the guys were like that. It helped me heal quickly.
The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente] Page 15