The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente]

by Kirstie Alley

  This began our 24-year passion for doing skits with each other, something that he, Anson, and Linda, his besties, had done for many years prior.

  I made him talk only in “Wayne’s” voice. If he slipped back into being John I corrected him. We were all drunk, except for Wayne, who never drinks much, and we were very loud. That’s when Wayne asked me to dance. I’ll never forget it: what Patrick had done for me, dirty-dancing me around the clubs of Charleston and Natchez, Mississippi, Wayne did for me in the two-step.

  I instantly felt the electricity go up a thousand volts. He was so smooth, so sexy, so, oh lord in heaven, here I go again! Danger, danger Will Robinson!! “Knock it off,” I heard my dad’s voice say. “Knock it off!” I heard my dad screaming in my ear. But I didn’t want to knock it off, I wanted to take it to the moon.

  I felt like the road show version of Debra Winger—no wonder she gave such a stellar performance in Urban Cowboy, she had to have fallen for Wayne, er, uh, Texas Bud, er, uh, John.

  We danced the night away, and it was love. But was I in love with John or Wayne? Who cared, I was in love with one of ’em.

  As filming went along it got worse—or better, depending on your viewpoint. We fell deeper and deeper and deeper in love. As if it weren’t messed up enough that I was married, I had to remind myself we were both Scientologists, ugh, half of our religion is about ethical behavior, the quest to take full responsibility for every aspect of our lives, to rise above the status quo and do the right thing, to have integrity and honesty, and to set good examples for people. Well, it all sounded good. And I was—he was—trying like crazy to just keep it friendship, to not step over the line, which mentally we had stepped over the day we danced.

  It was becoming a real dilemma, not just a movie crush. We both knew it, and so did my husband because I confessed to him what was happening. Apparently I didn’t confess enough because it just kept getting more intense and I just kept beating myself up for being such a shitty Scientologist, which isn’t as stupid as it sounds. When a Scientologist gets a divorce or causes trouble on a set, god forbid, the story in the papers is never about the actual offense. I’m pretty convinced that taking a shit must have something to do with my religion, as far as the press is concerned.

  But this one was real, for us, and we were both using every ounce of willpower we could muster up to do the right thing.

  I tried my very best to “knock it off” and not fuck up my marriage, as I was still completely in love with my husband. We had a relationship that was sweet, rooted in admiration and respect. John also respected my marriage and was very fond of Parker.

  It’s almost impossible not to fall in love with your costar when you’re filming a romantic movie. Can you imagine pretending 16 hours a day that you are in love with someone? And it’s your job? Love scenes, fight scenes, makeup scenes, sex scenes. I’ve heard actors say, “It’s just acting. There’s a whole crew behind the camera. It’s awkward. You have no feelings during love scenes.” I wanna punch those actors in the gut for lying. Come on!! That’s bullshit! Countless actors end their real-life relationships and run off with their costars. Isn’t it a little obvious that within a year of filming, actors get divorces or publicly start dating their new girlfriend, who just happened to have been the costar on their last film? Of course it’s our own fault. We chose acting as a profession. But unless the guy or girl lying in bed beside you in that love scene looks like a bulldog, you are going to become titillated!

  Most people get office crushes or workplace crushes of one kind or another. But it’s not part of the job description to make out by the water cooler.

  One of the reasons I became an actress was to act with and make out with handsome costars. It’s something I’ve wanted to do from the time I was three. Who doesn’t superimpose themselves in a movie scene with Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Ryan Gosling, or Javier Bardem? It’s why romantic movies work. You can experience yourself falling in love with the male or female movie stars. Just try making out with Johnny Depp for 12 hours a day and see how you fare.

  The average movie takes three months to shoot, and most are on location away from your normal city and your real family. It’s actually a recipe for divorce: one cup Ryan, a half-cup Angelina, four tablespoons of sex, and a dash of nightlife. You’re fucked. It would take a saint to reject the affections of some of the most charismatic beings walking the planet.

  There is an extremely high divorce rate in Hollywood, especially among film actors. It’s not surprising. What is surprising is that any of us would get married in the first place, knowing the depth of the love traps. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not condoning this shit, just laying out the reality of an actor’s life.

  Then there is the afterhours routine, usually going to dinner with each other and sometimes going to clubs or parties or premieres. Pretending to be in love 12 to 16 hours a day, then getting off work and going home to . . . each other. Show biz is by no means safe, sane, or secure. It’s full of beauty. It’s fraught with egos. It’s rampant with sex appeal.

  Most artists, especially actors, are free-spirited and wild-ass. If they become famous enough, they feel entitled to break all the rules and invent their own. They can usually charm the leaves off the trees. Most are intelligent, intense, funny, and rebellious. Honestly, how I managed to stay married for 14 years without banging any of them is a mystery and a testament to my own willpower. I know myself very well in the arena of sex. I’m not a casual lover, although I’ve aspired to be one. Sex is the nail that seals the coffin for me. If I wasn’t in love with the guy before I had sex with him, I would surely convince myself I was by the time we were basking in the glow, smoking a Kool.

  I’m not lying when I tell you the one thing I wish I could change about myself is the ability to have an affair without falling in love. It seems so groovy, so jet-set, so attractive, dangerous, exciting—so Hollywood!

  But it’s never worked for me. I’ve also never actually had a sexual affair. I’m the bride, never the bridesmaid. I’m never the date. I meet you, I love you, you love me, and you don’t worry about seeing me next Saturday night, hell, you never take me home! From the time I was 16 until I was 50, I had one three-month break of not having a boyfriend or a husband. The only reason for the three-month sabbatical was to get a grip on myself and land a movie. I exiled myself into isolation so that my attention would strictly be on work, not some dude lying next to me who needed to discuss something. My personal belief is that “discussions” wreck relationships. Just shag each other. You’ll either have angry sex, crying sex, or some other emotion of sex, but it will be evident what the sentiments are, and unlike a discussion, you get a big bonus at the end, which usually makes you forget what the discussion was about in the first place.

  On movie sets you are living the dream, the fantasy. The line of reality versus acting is blurry at best. Your perceptions are clouded, a pseudoreality mixed with a pseudofable. It’s sort of like an extended version of the most idiotic show on television, The Bachelor. While it’s being filmed, it’s nearly impossible to sort out the real feelings from the heightened realities of the production.

  For John and me, the movie took a backseat to what we were, in fact, experiencing. We are two peas in a pod, volatile, passionate, funny, inventive. We both like to hold court and “outstar” each other. We vie for positioning in a room. We both suck the oxygen from the space.

  We had to do a dance in the movie. He is world renowned for his movie dancing. I wasn’t, but I still fought like a cat in heat with John and the choreographer to do the dance the way I felt was best. John and I would fight, slap each other, storm out of the rehearsal hall, endless drama. It was way more dramatic than the simplistic romantic comedy we were shooting. Then one of us would call the other at three o’clock in the morning and apologize for being an ass, then explode in mad laughter, you know, the way lovers do after coming to terms with their own stupidity.

  One day, sitting in my trailer, we had “the�
� talk, the talk we had skirted around having for months. He wanted me for his wife. I wanted to marry him. We admitted to each other the truth, as best we could unravel it. There was a clarity there. For once, among all the chaos, there was clarity, right or wrong, good or bad, Scientology or no Scientology. We wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. There was only one thing standing in our way—my pesky husband. The only thing left for me to do was to decide whether I would divorce Parker. Parker and I didn’t have children. John wasn’t married, so there was no tie for him to break. The decision was clearly left in my hands.

  Oh, I left one part out. The movie John had done before Look Who’s Talking, the one where he had to dye his hair black? It was with Kelly Preston. Kelly was married during that movie, but John and Kelly had become a little smitten with each other. The attraction hadn’t moved forward because of that, probably. I’d known Kelly for several years prior to meeting John because we had the same agent, Chris Barrett. The same agent who represented George Clooney. Chris frequently had all of us young up-and-coming actors/clients to his house for barbecues and to swim. I didn’t know Kelly well, in fact I can’t remember if Kelly and George lived together before or after she was married to some dude named Carl or Kevin or Kenny. Anyway, I knew Kelly and John had formed little crushes on each other. It was all becoming quite incestuous, which is typical of Hollywood. The six degrees of separation, Kevin Bacon theory, is not far off.

  It was all quite complex and on the verge of becoming a Rubik’s Cube. John and I together decided the best thing to do to make my decision is the thing Scientologists do when they are contemplating divorce or having marital difficulties. It boils down to a confessional, but not one-on-one with a priest, like Catholics do. In this case, Parker and I sat before a Scientology minister taking turns telling what we’d done and what we’d withheld from each other. Oh lord, I wished I was a Christian or a Jew or a Catholic at that sitting. How easy it would have been to say to a priest, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, I’ve fallen in love with John Travolta.” Perhaps he would have sent me on my way with 45,000 Hail Marys, which wouldn’t have been spectacularly embarrassing.

  But no, in my church you have to confess it to the person you’ve transgressed against. I mean, you don’t have to, but it is the objective of the confessional—to fess up to what you’ve really been up to, to the person who should actually be in the know. It’s the respectful thing to do.

  Shit, I was squirming like a kid who just stole a Schwinn. The minister says nothing except for two things: “What have you done?” and “What have you withheld.” Oh lord, I was first! “Um, let’s see, um, what have I done? Let me think . . . um, oh yes, I, uh, danced with John in a sort of, well, a seductive way.” Phew! One down.

  “Thank you,” said the minister. “What have you withheld?” he asked.

  “Um, let’s see, well that . . . um . . . That I was dancing all sexy and stuff on more than one occasion,” I answered sheepishly.

  “Thank you,” he said, and it went like this for about 30 minutes with me peeling off my indiscretions. I tried not to make eye contact with Parker, but when I would get a glimpse I could see the steam shooting from his ruby-red ears.

  Then in true Scientology fashion, the tables were turned. Now it was Parker’s turn to answer the two questions. I’d just assumed he had been all Goody Two-shoes while I was loving up Mr. Travolta, and because I knew I was the culprit I hadn’t given much thought to what he might have been up to.

  Again, only this time addressed to Parker, “What have you done?”

  Blah, blah, blah, blah, er, a um, blah, er, um, a blah, blah, my ears perked up, um and blah, blah. Confessionals are confidential, so what he said is of little importance in this story. But I can tell you, he was not up to what I was. His indiscretions were different from mine, but I was so pissed off that I wanted to leap across the desk and strangle him. But then why wouldn’t I? So far I’d only confessed the small stuff.

  Blah, blah, er, um, I’m so sorry, but blah, blah.

  Ah hah! I thought, I’m definitely going to divorce him!

  I’ve never been such a good listener in my life. I clung to every sordid detail as it justified an imminent split.

  “What have you withheld?” asked the minister.

  “Oh, this ought to be good!” I yelled.

  “Kirstie, you’re not allowed to comment during Parker’s confessional,” the minister said.

  “Allowed?!” I screamed. “He’s my fucking husband. I’ll say whatever I want!!” I protested.

  “You’ll have your turn to comment when we come back around to you,” the minister replied.

  Oh shit! Back around to me? You mean we keep going back and forth in this “he said, she said” until we actually come clean? Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is the meanest, dumbest religion on earth, I thought. I began mentally lining up the order of the next stuff I was going to have to tell, in order of the easiest to the big babonza: “I want a divorce so I can marry Travolta.” I became quiet as a church mouse as I tried to contain my overwhelming urge to run next door and sign up at the Lutheran church.

  It took us three days, back and forth, back and forth, spewing our guts out to come fully clean of all our indiscretions. We had dated two years before we were married and had been married for six, so we’d both racked up all sorts of crazy shit. Most of it was fairly innocuous, but we also both had some doozies.

  A funny thing happens to people when they come clean with each other. Along the journey of the confessional, it went from grounds for murder to I’m gonna kick the fuck outta you when we get outta here, to God, I’m so sorry I betrayed you, to Oh, so you’re not so innocent either, mister, to Wow, I respect you for having the balls to tell me that, to I sorta remember why I married you, we’re both a couple of louses, to I’m deeply sorry for hurting you, to I sorta love you, to What the hell was I thinking? I’m still madly in love with you!

  Not all Scientology confessionals have this end result, and it is not the end purpose. It’s a huge achievement for all involved if it ends in rehabilitating a marriage to the point of staying together, but the end result is actually when the two people are in good affinity, reality, and communication with each other so that they can sanely discuss their future, together or apart.

  I made my decision at the end of the confessional, and it was to salvage my marriage and continue on with my husband.

  I called John and told him. He respected our decision. I’d like to say, as it would make my life seem more righteous and Candy Land–like, that it was the end of yearning for John. It was not. Every incarnation possible occurred over a multitude of years. I was the bee to his honey and vice versa. It was nearly impossible, no matter how much I loved my husband, to not be madly in love with John. If brother-husbands had been an option, I would have opted.

  Look Who’s Talking became an enormous hit! It made $300 million and was the highest-grossing comedy of all time (at that time). John and I were the talk of the town, even the world. Cheers was number one on TV and Look Who’s Talking was number one at the box office, so of course Look Who’s Talking Too was imminent. The only way I can keep track of my crazy evolution with John is by viewing the timeline of Look Who’s Talking 1, 2, and 3, ugh, only in the life of an actress would a love affair be traced via IMDb.

  John and I were struggling with our newfound “friendship only” relationship. He could not hold the line of us not being together as a couple. I wasn’t great at it either, but on one particular occasion he was the absolute worst!

  It was the Christmas after Look Who’s Talking had been released. We were all being “very ethical” and civil to one another in the same fashion that I’d been civil to one of Parker’s costar crushes when I had her to dinner to show Parker I was okay with her now. I made two pork chops for the three of us and drank half a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild before I set about interrogating her and scoffing at every word out of her mouth.

  No, no, we
were all good. John, Parker, and I were all very adult about everything. So we invited John to spend the holidays with us at our Encino house. John hadn’t pursued Kelly at this point because I think although she had divorced Carl/Kevin/Kenny, she was now engaged to Charlie Sheen. Anyway, all was going swimmingly, we hired a chef and dined like royalty. John and Parker smoked Cuban cigars on the porch as I decorated the house like Macy’s windows. Christmas Eve was skits, laughter, and singing Christmas carols around the piano, all very Norman Rockwellish. We actually were doing very well together, all three of us.

  Then came Christmas morning, the time for gift giving. I don’t quite remember what Parker gave me, but for as long as I live I will recall what my good “friend” John gave me. He gave me a diamond-and-sapphire ring he’d brought from Singapore, a gorgeous dress, a check for $25,000 to keep or give to my favorite charity, a gray roan dressage jumping horse that was being shipped to our ranch in Oregon, and a telephone that had cameras in it. This was pre-computers, iPhones, cell phones, and Skype, but he had found somewhere in his journeys some futuristic contraption that I hooked half of to my house phone, he hooked the other half to his house phone, whereby every day when we spoke we could see each other on tiny screens. The invention was so cutting edge that one had to have a company to hook it all up and monitor the system. If I had been my husband I would have disemboweled John, right there on the spot in Macy’s window. If it wasn’t clear to Parker then that we all had a lot of work cut out for us, I don’t know what could have jogged him into reality.

  A good two-year period transpired before John and I got fairly good at our attempts to “just be friends,” and even then they were fairly lame attempts. And yet we kept trying to be ethical.

  Charlie and Kelly had broken off their engagement. I’m not sure if she returned her enormous bajillion-carat pink diamond. I’m not so sure I would have. John and I were having a conversation during the filming of Look Who’s Talking Too and he brought up Kelly. I can’t deny that although he wasn’t mine, and it looked as though he never would be, I wasn’t ready to let him go to anyone, let alone someone as gorgeous and remarkable as Kelly. It fueled the jealousy flame like a funeral pyre.