by Ron Perlman
Then there was the aftermath, ya know, that period right afterward, when the news is bad. And then right after that, when it gets worse. And finally two years go by, and there’s no news at all—that period! So Dr. Stutz and I had mucho, mucho, mucho to discuss. And discuss we did. And I started noticing signs of improvement—little things, like my highs and lows diminished by around 88 percent. And my demeanor at home got calmer, more dependable, and less unpredictable. And I became way more cognizant of the world around me and finally started to have an awareness and an empathy for what “the other guy’s” life might be like. And so I started looking for ways to put all of my attention on the outside world, on ways I could use my blessings to lighten people’s loads, even if it was just with a fucking smile. And discoveries and epiphanies started exploding inside of me. And things Phil had warned me about, if applied assiduously, started to become just another part of my day. Things like the more I took the attention off of me and put it on the things around me, the bigger and more powerful I felt, and not powerful in the yucky way people in high places lord over the world, but rather a true power, one that lived deep inside me that no one could feel but me. This was the beginning of something big.
Another thing happened in my sessions with Phil, and this time it wasn’t something that came from him; it was the other way around. I started talking about a relationship that had formed and was evolving in my life that added a dimension that finally addressed the collision of the real with the mysterious that I had danced around my whole life, the things that seemed coincidental but years later were things I clearly knew had happened for a reason, and I had nothing to do with them happening, even though they were the most definitive forces guiding me. And with these realizations came a relinquishing of needing to be in control of every little thing every minute of the day, for there was a force way outside of me that was doing more to chart my path than a gazillion plans I could’ve made myself. So I gave this force that lovingly surrounded me a name, and because I couldn’t think of anything original to call it, I simply referred to it as God. And I—this son of an agnostic, this individual who, like my father before me, had nothing but disdain for organized religion—was filled up. This force for me was humbling in the purest form of the idea. And I loved him. And talked to him, sometimes eight or ten times a day. And I knelt before him because, even through turmoil, with him present I could feel only love.
I mentioned this relationship of mine that came from no one but me, that meant nothing to anyone but me and to Phil. He got a look on his face I’d never seen before, like a tinge of disbelief. As I was waiting for the explanation of what might have caused him, after all this time, to finally be caught flat-footed, he took over the conversation. Now, having not studied under the geniuses he did so as to make him equipped to be who he turned out to be, I wasn’t aware that apparently all these guys, no matter what viewpoint they started from, all eventually had the same epiphany—the God epiphany. And once they did, their teachings transformed themselves to include a mystical force one is able to give over to that makes everything else profoundly enhanced. All Phil’s heroes, many of whom had been sworn atheists, not only came around to God but also became realigned. So our discussions going forward always included this all-encompassing force that, because of which, one’s relation to self is never the same. It’s interesting to think that maybe that’s how the whole ball got rolling in the first place.
Anyway, Alien: Resurrection had a decent opening, grossing around $38 million on the Thanksgiving weekend it got released. And then, in week two it disappeared. No legs, as they all too often say in Hollywood. So, rather rapidly, excitement gave way to disappointment, which gave way to embarrassment, which gave way to another two-year stretch during which the phone literally didn’t ring. I don’t mean literally, I mean LITERALLY! Like not even for any Saturday-morning cartoons, which had sustained me through so many of the lean times. But this one felt different from the others. This radio silence was such that, with every passing day, there was less and less reason to believe it would turn around and more and more reason to think, Well, maybe my luck finally ran out. There appeared to be no prospects in movies, even less in television, and the voiceover thing seemed like even that had had its day. So as good as things were going in my personal life due to the real connections I was making with Phil, there was an alarm building as to how long I could hold on to it all.
One of Phil’s tools that had always proved really effective for me was the “Contingency Plan,” whereby you focus your mind on the worst-case scenario . . . I mean short of a devastating health diagnosis—that’s different. But rather, worst case, what happens if . . . and then once you put yourself there in that hopeless place, what are your options? Say you lose everything—the house, the school for the kids, the ability to interface with what had been your lifelines—what do you do? And whuddya know, I came up with something! I saw myself as a teacher at NYU or some noble institution for the arts, back in New York City, living in a two-bedroom in what-the-fuck-ever neighborhood we could afford on a teacher’s pay. And it was good, it was fine. Life went on. And it was a good life. And suddenly calm washed over me, almost as if to make me fearless. Because I just dealt with the worst-case scenario and came out the other side unscathed, with everything intact. And I even had some amazing memories of all the glory days I had in showbiz. I was smiling. Fuck, I was happy. And the energy changed. All of a sudden I was giving off a different brand of pheromones. Calmness replaced anxiety. My worst fears had been addressed, and I still had everything that matters, and then some. And sure enough, a funny thing happened . . .
Out of the muthafuckin’ blue! Out of the blue, for no reason at all, as I hadn’t spoke to the dude in, like, twelve years, Jean-Jacques called: “I’m in LA for a few days—why don’t we get some dinner?” We made a plan, I met him, and he looked every bit as good as this handsome elegant Frenchman with movie-star looks ever had. We had some small talk—how’s the kids, how’s the wife, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit—and as the salad arrived at the table J. J. said, “So I have a movie, and it’s not quite green-lit yet because we’re waiting for a movie star to say yes, but if he does, the movie goes. And I just want to prepare you because I wrote a part for you, and it’s juicy. It’s not big, but it has all the quirky character and charm of Amoukar and Salvatore. Knowing you, you’ll steal the picture!” And all I could do was stare into his face. This normally overly expressive smooth-talker was suddenly speechless. And goddammit if, after about a half a minute, I didn’t start crying. Jean-Jacques, not knowing what the fuck was happening, started looking around the restaurant, making sure nobody was seeing this less-than-manly display. He asked, “You alright?”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s allergies!” I didn’t share with him what he had just done for me. I chose not to tell him how, just the day before, I was on the brink of selling everything and leaving the business. I never mentioned how I thought the world had forgotten me and that the scope of not only being remembered by someone but also being handed a little tailor-made jewel to boot, that had my name on it, meant so much to me. I knew that Jean-Jacques along with Guillermo and Ralph and Phil were my four angels of the apocalypse, but this was huge. This was life altering. This was a game-changer. J. J. saved me from a God-knows-what kind of life. Because Jude Law did indeed say yes, and the movie did get green-lit, and when Jean-Jacques found out how much money they had offered me, he stepped in and made them double the offer, saying, “This is Ron Perlman. He is my friend. Treat him right!”
On a personal note, and I think by now we can get personal, don’t you? I’ve always been obsessed with doing whatever I had to do to begin to approach the man my dad was, the men my dad worshipped as heroes were. So there was a drive to close gaps, to address the synapses, to ameliorate the conditions preventing me from reaching that goal. Because to me that was Big Casino, which was the one element that would inform all the others: being a good husband, a good dad, a good citizen,
someone who, when I said I got your back, I wasn’t giving lip service. I’d seen plenty of that, especially in Hollywood, and personally, it turned my stomach. So I couldn’t live with myself if that was ever gonna be the dealio.
’Cuz what good is it to have a hero if you didn’t emulate the values that made them such in the first place? What good is it to complain about cowardice or the lack of resolve or the lack of backbone in people when you’re gonna end up just like them? That would have been the ultimate hypocrisy, and that just wasn’t okay with me. Those heroes I talk about, they were not just heroes; they stood for elements of the human condition that were noble and worth aspiring to, even when standing up for them cost them personally. And unless you’re prepared to emulate these heroes, to learn from them to the degree to which you’re willing to have that same swagger as they have and maybe even be willing to put yourself in a little bit of danger for the greater good, what good is having those heroes?
Frankly, I’m not entirely sure what my rep is around the movie business. But I’m pretty sure it ain’t wishy-washy. I’m pretty sure if ya ask a cross-section of people I’ve either met or haven’t in my travels, they would say, “Oh him . . . what a dick!” I’m also pretty sure if you asked 100 percent of all the crew guys I worked with over the years—the below-the-line guys, the grips and gaffers, the electrical guys and set painters, the makeup, hair, and set dressers—you’d get a pretty consistently good report. ’Cuz since the beginning, when power was wielded such that the real worker got disrespected, I got in people’s faces. When people asserted their authority in ways that divided a company into camps, I let ’em know that that shit was fucked up, even intolerable. I never ever asked for a bigger trailer or better cocaine in that big fat trailer or, indeed, anything that would make the gap any wider between me and the guy who swept the floor. ’Cuz I loved that guy: he got up every day to feed his kids, make a better life for his loved ones, did whatever he hadta do to be in the film business, ’cuz he knew what a privilege it is. And he didn’t have an agent, a manager, a lawyer, or anybody the fuck else to fight for him—except me! So if ya wanna know my rep, I guess it depends on who ya ask.
But if you’re gonna be that guy, you have an even greater responsibility to find a way to do it so that it is not dismissible. Because it’s too important. Yer never gonna get anything done to improve the environment if people think you’re shrill, a dickwad, and an asshole. So doing the work I did with Phil Stutz was essential to finally accessing real strength without having it be hindered by the short-circuiting that occurs when wires are crossed.
When you look at some of the greats, they did the same. Hell, James Cagney was the very first president of the Screen Actors Guild. There was no union up to that point to mitigate working conditions for artists. And what people were up against was nothing new and, in fact is a discussion we’re still having: big business wants the biggest profits possible with the smallest investment they can make, and whoever gets in between them and that agenda is to be stopped at all costs. So the notion of unionizing was then, as indeed it still is now, something owners would do anything to avoid. And I do mean anything! Can you imagine how miffed they were by the things Cagney stood for? And he was one of the biggest stars of the day, so he had an enormous amount to lose. But the outrage he felt because of the callousness of man to his fellow man was enough for him to throw caution to the wind and piss in their faces. Oh, and by the way, he managed to stay every bit the star he had been, whatever the fuck that means.
One of the by-products of the glare that came with Beauty and the Beast was the realization that success is way harder to deal with than is failure. It requires a greater amount of character; the reason why people on top are as self-destructive as they are is because they can’t handle the baggage that comes with it. It really is a strange phenomenon. Success puts a bunch of shit into your path that you almost have to be a genius to modulate, to deal with properly in a balanced way. I know a lot of people who, the minute they see their name in print and are talked about in a hyperbolic way they start losing their grip, they start looking for ways to destroy themselves. And but for the grace of God, you just got to hope they’re surrounded by really strong friends and family and that there are enough people who are going to say, “Hey, stop the shit. You’re blowing it. Chill brutha. Get humble. Grab a hold of yourself. You got the best set of problems in the world!”
And Now a Letter from Dr. Phil
You’re probably curious about what it’s been like to be Perlman’s psychiatrist for such a long period (twenty-three years . . . but who’s counting?). People always ask me what it’s like to treat stars. It’s not a good question. Just like “regular” people, each star differs from the next. But they do have one thing in common: each of them is subject to the whims of public acceptance or rejection, a nasty beast that can effortlessly give them a swelled head and then, just as easily, bite that head off.
Each star deals with this situation in his own way, and you can learn a lot about them by observing how they handle its pressure and temptations. But federal law and simple human decency forbid me from discussing anything about my patients . . . unless I have their permission. Mr. Perlman has given me more than that: he has insisted I write something about our work together.
Time and space are short, so I’ll jump right in. The first word that comes to mind in describing my time with Ron is “surprise.” Every time I thought I knew him fully I discovered something new about him. In fact, my feelings were hurt when I realized how much of the stuff in the book he had never bothered to tell me at all—not that his job was to entertain me. (He did give me a free book.)
His tendency to reveal hidden talents never seems to end, right up to and including the writing itself. I suspected he could write, but I had no inkling of how funny he could be without at all diminishing the impact of his message. That misperception is fully corrected in the chapters on the making of The Island of Doctor Moreau. In fact, if you’re pressed for time, I advise you to skip the rest of my reminiscenses and reread Perlman’s account of what it was like to meet Marlon Brando on the set of that movie. If you don’t find it to be one of the funniest things ever written in the English language, you need a shrink (or a new shrink).
But what surprised me the most about him wasn’t his hidden talents, no matter how many of them there were; instead, it was his willingness to face himself honestly at his worst moments. I don’t consider that “star-like”; rather, it takes a humble kind of courage, not the first qualities that come to mind when you hear the word “star.”
Which brings us back to public acceptance and rejection. Let me be specific: at the beginning of our relationship he would come in depressed and demoralized, trapped in a dark cloud he couldn’t see his way out of. The darkness was usually his reaction to professional setbacks. “Setbacks” is putting it mildly: when he says the phone stopped ringing he means that literally. If he got one call all day, it would be from one of those guys who interrupt your dinner to sell you worthless penny stocks, and even that guy would hang up when he realized he’d gotten the coldest actor in Hollywood.
It didn’t seem funny at the time. He’d get some kind of an unusual role, play it in a way no one had ever seen before and, for awhile, electrify the public and most of show business. Then nothing . . . and more nothing. This could go on for months.
All the while he’d fall further into his abyss. When all hope was gone he’d call me for a session. (That should be on my business card.)
His sessions always followed the same pattern: he’d spill out his latest tale of woe for fifteen or twenty minutes until he felt I had all the details. Only then would he stop. Okay, sometimes I had to stop him with a judiciously placed, “Shut the fuck up.” But at that point he’d look to me to make sense of whatever had just happened to him—near bankruptcy, poor reviews, the cold phone, and so on—in a way that made him feel like it didn’t mark the end of the world.
No matter how articulate
and persuasive a therapist is, you can’t talk someone with a crushed spirit into a positive view of himself or his future. People need tools that give them the power to change their inner state, no matter how bad their outer circumstances are. Without that, your words are just that: words. I call it “loose talk,” and I hate it.
As it turned out, so did Ron. Maybe ’cuz we were both from New York, where “money talks and bullshit walks.” In this case “money” would translate into “that which has real, permanent value.” And spiritually the greatest value is the ability to turn yourself around and climb out of whatever hole you’ve let yourself fall into. When you can do that, you don’t just get through adversity; you grow from it. The real star is the person who has that ability, even if no one has heard of him. Ron turned out to be that kind of star.
But it didn’t seem that way at first. In those early sessions, once he’d finish talking, he’d sit quietly while I explained how he could create an identity that didn’t require approval or recognition from other people. Then I’d teach him tools to achieve the emotional independence that required. This isn’t the place to describe what the tools were, but they work—as long as you use them consistently.
This was where Perlman surprised me the most. In the beginning I had no idea whether he understood what I was saying—or if he was even listening. I certainly had no reason to believe he’d go home and do what I’d asked him to do. Yet that was exactly what he did, time after time. And time after time he’d drag himself back to the realm of the living. His recovery time—the true test of psychological strength—went from a few days to a few hours.
A couple of years after I met him I was giving a seminar, and Ron came. There, while helping someone with problems similar to his own, he explained with perfect clarity what they needed to do to heal themselves. He wasn’t repeating my words; rather, he was describing his own experiences. At that moment I realized he wasn’t just committed to mastering acting; he was also committed to mastering himself. Now you know it too.