by Ron Perlman
—Dr. Phil Stutz
(CHAPTER 22)
Meanwhile . . .
While all this trivia was playing out, there was something lurking in the nether regions, something that, while starting out millions of miles away from my orb, would eventually wind up not only intersecting with it but also sweeping it up into an energy force responsible for the momentum that led me to this very day.
From the moment Guillermo del Toro and I met, it seemed like there was a really good chance it would lead to one of those rare things not only in showbiz but, indeed, in any endeavor: a real and lasting friendship. And like I said before, having presided over the event that literally set me on the path that was to carry me through the entire second half of my life, which included an enduring love affair with a culture I was to revisit heartily from that point forward, Guillermo had already taken his place among the most important figures to affect my destiny forever and always. All that being said, he was a pal, somebody I couldn’t wait to hang with, have meals with, shoot the breeze with.
On one of his growingly more frequent trips to LA now that his career was getting into gear, we went for one of our signature meals of arroz con puerco at one of our most favorite eateries. I was already aware that, among all his boyish obsessions, among his most rabid proclivities was his love of comic books. In fact, even at that young age, he was already on his way to building a collection of comic book art that would eventually rival the most important on Earth. Anyway, as we got closer to paying the check, he hurried me up, claiming that there was something he had to show me. Sure enough, we got back in the car and drove to a very large comic book store on Sunset Boulevard. We walked in the door with great purpose and walked up to a beautiful scale sculpture of this very exotic, very red superhero. “Ron, meet Hellboy! He is my favorite comic book character of all time! In a perfect world, if there were ever to be a movie of Hellboy, you would play him. That is my dream!”
“Wow!” I said. “That’s some dream!”
There are just some things that are too good to be true, and this definitely had to be one of them, and I expressed this to Guillermo at that moment and, indeed, many, many times thereafter in the ensuing years. The fact of the matter is that comic book movies are expensive to make, especially those that are heavy on alternate universes. Not only that, but if they resonate to an audience, it can become a franchise, which represents huge profit potentials for studios. So regardless of what you do or do not think about Ron Perlman as a talent, the studio is gonna need, even demand a big-name movie star on which to hedge such a big bet. Nuthin’ personal—it’s just how it is. But the notion that this movie giant even thought to give me a part that had such a personal meaning for him, well, that made me adore him even more. So anyway, even though the big G insisted on buying me a copy of Seed of Destruction, which is the first installment in the Hellboy series, and even though I took it home with me, I resolved to never open it, lest I fall in love with the character like Guillermo did and then be invested enough to suffer once I saw the part go to someone else.
It wasn’t long before Guillermo did indeed get Universal Studios to purchase a five-year option on his Hellboy project. He set up meetings, and everyone was excited to get this thing going, but there was one obstacle upon which the studio heads and Guillermo could not agree. When they asked who would play Hellboy and he told them that Ron Perlman was perfect for the part, well, all he could hear were crickets!
“It’s not that we don’t like Perlman,” Guillermo was told. “It’s just that . . . what about Nick Cage?”
“I love Nick Cage,” Guillermo said. “Let’s set up a meeting.” And then for some strange reason, Guillermo didn’t show up for the meeting.
A few months would go by, and Guillermo would bring in busts of Hellboy as sculpted onto my likeness just to show them how well this fusion would work, and they would say, “What do you think about the Rock?”
Guillermo would say, “The Rock is great. Let’s get a meeting together.” And when the meeting time came, no Guillermo. This little charade went on for five long years. Movie stars got mentioned, meetings got set up, and no del Toro. Finally, after five years, with the option running out, Universal decided to wish Guillermo luck and give him his project back because, well, by now, the reasons were obvious.
Meanwhile, the copy of Seed of Destruction remained unopened ’cuz I kind of agreed with Universal on that one. In fact, I said as much to my friend: “Guillermo, this movie is too good, too important to not make. I love you for sticking by me, but this is Don Quixote pissing into the wind—it’s just never gonna hit the mark! Please go make this movie, and I promise I will cheer you on from the sidelines, be there on opening night to celebrate with you!”
“Yes, my friend, you are right,” said the Mexicano. “That is what I will do.” The little devil!
Around 2000 Guillermo pitched an idea to do a sequel to the movie Blade, starring Wesley Snipes. The studio guys at New Line flipped over it and then proceeded to give him the green light and the funds to direct Blade II. So after a long absence between films, the Big G was off to the races again and, not only that, finding a way to bring me along with him. And so off to Prague we went for what was to be our second flick together. Once I was on the set, my small role got bigger and bigger, with Guillermo giving me lines to say and new scenes to play right on the spot. It turned out fantastically and was released in March 2002. Even more stunning, Blade II earned $35 million the first weekend, thus becoming, far and away, the number-one movie of the week. This proved what anybody who knew Guillermo already knew: the hombre knew what he was doing and was more than capable of directing a major-studio, action-packed film. Suddenly everyone in Hollywood wanted to get into the Guillermo del Toro business.
That week Guillermo made a decision to use this moment of being considered a money-making genius to his advantage, knowing that, in Hollywood, windows like this don’t stay open very long. He also knew that if, at this time, with all this heat on him, he couldn’t get Hellboy made his way, on his terms, then he was never going to get it made at all. The town responded in kind. There was no studio that didn’t want their next picture to be with him. But they knew enough about Guillermo’s penchant for doing original, self-generated projects that most of them were smart enough to ask him what he wanted his next project to be. The answer was always the same: “I have a lot of things I have developed that I would be happy to do, but if you ask me what my number-one priority would be, I would tell you unequivocally that it is Hellboy.”
They would invariably ask who he wanted to star and what the budget would be, and once he told them, for the most part the response was, “We’ll get back to ya!” That is, until he got to Joe Roth and Tom Sherak at Revolution Studios. Joe asked, “How do we get in the Guillermo del Toro business?” And he got the same response. Joe said, “I know the Hellboy project, and I’m a fan. Are there any caveats?”
G took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, a big one: Ron Perlman plays Hellboy.”
“And what’s the budget?” Joe asked. And G told him. There was a thirty-second pause, and then Joe said, “Well, I can’t do Hellboy with Ron—who I like by the way—for that price. But I can do it for . . .” and he said a number that was about $30 million less than Guillermo’s. “If you tell me you can make it for that, we have a deal.”
Guillermo stuck out his hand and said, “We have a deal.” And that, as they say, is that! Seven years, two studios, 875 doors slammed in his face, the prospect of never, ever making this beloved project at all, and, as if the whole thing was this well-oiled plan/Apashe dance, Hellboy, starring yours truly with an option for two sequels, was a reality. Now I’m no linguistic expert, but I do know that the English translation for Toro is bull. Ya know how to get Guillermo del Toro to really do something? Tell him he can’t!
To him, to make a movie any other way than how he envisioned it was a waste of creativity and a betrayal to his art. Hellboy was going to be made his way, a
nd he refused to compromise, choosing art over money, and this made him, believe me, a rare type of person in Hollywood. But then again, Guillermo was not from Hollywood. Nor was he of Hollywood. No, he was clearly more like the guys my dad couldn’t get enough of watching and studying when I was a kid growing up. He was a guy who stood for a principle, even when everyone around him told him he was nuts. I never saw that before in Hollywood. I’m not sure anyone did. And I’ve certainly never seen it since.
What ensued at this point—and I have to direct hand-to-God and swear to its veracity, because, for the life of me, it has remained to this day something too strange to even process, much less believe possible—is that at the time the offer came in I was looking to move to more exclusive representation: which agency represents an actor plays a large part in the direction that actor’s career travels. I felt that by walking into an agency with a firm offer for the title role in a potential huge studio franchise for a world-class director, I could call my own shots, that they’d all be salivating to take 10 percent of a deal they didn’t have to work to obtain in the first place. My manager and dear friend Erik Kritzer and I identified the big five we wanted to target, and I asked to put in the calls and set the appointments. It turned out no appointments were forthcoming. One by one, each of these agencies, William Morris, ICM, Endeavor, CAA, and UTA, decided to pass. When all the dust finally settled, I was dumbfounded. I asked Erik how was it possible that none of these players wanted free money? I mean, for Chrissakes, even if they never planned on lifting another finger on my behalf again, WHO THE FUCK WOULDN’T WANT FREE FUCKING MONEY? Wanna know who? Those five, that’s who. I noticed that Erik, even as smart as he is, was not able to answer the question. By the way, I’m not ruling out ever having an agent in the future; it’s just that I haven’t had one since. That was eleven years ago. Fuck me? Nah . . . .
Of course, we ultimately cobbled out a deal, and a few months later, we were all off to Prague, with me getting ready to make the transition to become Hellboy. The great Rick Baker of Beauty and the Beast and countless other incredible masterworks was brought on board to create to the best of his ability the elements it would take to transform Ron Perlman’s physicality into Mike Mignola’s creation. And speaking of Mike, you can bet that before I left for Prague I dug out those comic books Guillermo had given me years before and immersed myself into the visual and poetic world Mike had given way to, finally understanding Guillermo’s fascination with it.
As described in the title of Mignola’s kickoff introduction to the Hellboy Saga, our hero is summoned to Earth in an epic occult ceremony conducted by the Hitler Regime as the ultimate seed of destruction, with an irrevocable destiny of being the instrument that eventually leads to the end of the world. And, as in the oracle of Greek tragedy, this destiny of his is nonnegotiable. So there is the element of certainty that this Hellspawn will deliver this result—that is, until he is found at the moment of his birth by the benevolent Professor Broome and lovingly raised and nurtured to develop pure goodness with which to utilize his formidable skills and abilities. So now you have a character at odds with himself, and the fascination of watching him is witnessing the struggle playing out as to which of these conflicting proclivities will win out at the end of the day, when the big shit hits the fan.
The road to Prague, though scintillatingly magical and majestic as this insane miracle Guillermo spent seven years in pulling off, was not without its hiccups and speed bumps, many of which exemplified the similarities between me and the distinctly underachieving ways of this most unique of superheroes—underachieving-ness being the quality that charmed me the most.
The first such example came when it was pointed out to me that, although we were still eight or nine months from the start of filming, Rick Baker needed all of that lead time to create the customized pieces that would become the defining physicality of our hero, and that would include his superhuman, muscle-ridden, ripped-to-the-tits torso. I realize that I run the risk of ruining the illusion for all you Hellboy fans who were absolutely convinced that those were my actual biceps and eight-packs, but trust me, even a god-like specimen like myself needs a touch of enhancing. So I needed to report to Rick’s shop for a series of body castings so as to begin the process of building the pieces. The problem was that, like every other time I find myself “between engagements,” I was fifty-five pounds overweight—and happy as a clam!
Well, obviously that first trip to Rick’s and all those castings proved to be a colossal waste of time and money, ’cuz no matter how many muscles Rick’s design included, they were essentially gonna be applied onto an extremely obese muthafucka. So I got my first call from Guillermo: “Excuse me, Roncito, but Rick can’t use any of the stuff from that last session. In fact, Rick is not going to be able to use anything until you are a great deal smaller. How long do you need?”
I said, “Give me a month, and we’ll do it again.” He agreed.
I go in a month later, and I’ve lost a whopping four pounds. So while they are applying all the plaster of Paris to create the body cast, I am holding my breath and sucking in my stomach to the point of cramping. But, indeed, nothing I did could make up for the bitch tits that were prominently displayed where there should have been pectoralis majors—minors even. Needless to say, the next day the phone rang again: “Ronaldo, you’re fucking killing me here. I give you the month, and you lose FOUR FUCKING POUNDS?” We clearly were about to have our first fight.
I said, “What is this bullshit about having to be ready nine fucking months before the fucking camera rolls? When the time comes to play Hellboy, I’ll be fucking ready. That’s the way it’s always been, and, Godammit, that’s the way it is now! Godammit!”
“Yes, but Ronaldo, excuse me, but—do you mind if I call you fat boy?—you do realize Rick is trying to turn you into a god, but he needs time.”
To which I ran out of defensive answers and said, “If you insist on hitting me with logic, we’re not gonna get anywhere. Godammit! Gimme another month.”
At this point I just flat-out stopped eating. My breath smelled like the Russian Army at the battle of Stalingrad, but I did manage to lose about 20 pounds, just enough so they could see the effort and feel sorry for me enough to stop bombarding me with what a piece of shit I was. When the cameras finally did roll I was 205 pounds, a full 55 pounds lighter than I was when the process started. But poor Guillermo did get a front-row seat to what degenerative behavior looks like close up. But, gentleman that he is, he only reminds me of that little incident every time I see him. The little devil.
Once in Prague, and as filming was about to get under way, the atmosphere was stupendous. Guillermo had assembled a dream team of artists to surround, support, and utilize in bringing his formidable imagery to life, with a cast that remain among my favorite, both professionally and personally, to this day—Selma Blair, John Hurt, Doug Jones, Jeffrey Tambor, Rupert Evans, Biddy Hodson, Karel Roden, Brian Steele, to name a few. And although the big man poured everything he had into the making of this movie and demanding no less from the rest of us, looking back, I feel that we never really got out of the honeymoon period. That set was as joyous, bright, warm, and fun as any ever and always, and the spirit Guillermo exerted in sticking to his guns to make the movie he saw fit to make characterized the entire proceeding in its magical realism.
Hellboy opened to great reviews, with a staggering 93 percent positive, most of which were downright raves. To no one’s surprise, Guillermo had made a kick-ass tent-pole action flick, but he fused it with art-house sensitivity, integrity, and intimacy. All the people who mattered to me took notice. The box office was strong; we were number one on opening weekend and hung around the top ten for a few weeks. Internationally we were even stronger, with DVD and VOD through the roof—all in all something to be quite proud of. And although the numbers are incredibly important in terms of measures of success, what I take with me everywhere and for always are the opinions and comments of all those for whom I
have deep admiration. On that level Hellboy was a blockbuster of uncommon proportion, one that trafficked more in human values than on technological achievements. Because at the end of the day the thing that truly separates my friend Guillermo del Toro from the pack is his heart and what comes seeping out of it as it relates to his view of humanity. There are no numbers to measure that!
There was a validation following Hellboy I that was palpable. One could sense I was, although not quite there yet, ever closer to a seat at the grown-up table. It certainly felt like a personal triumph, what with all the elements of the stuff that dreams are made of converging to make it possible. I sure was proud of that movie. And to this day I find that the people who dug it, really dug it.
The prospects for a Hellboy II were not automatic, not slam-dunk status. For although the first one did just fine at the end of the day, the box office didn’t dictate that a sequel was mandated, as they sometimes are with these comic book titles that break box office records. But we had our fair share of angels lurking about that would turn uncertainty into downright enthusiasm. One such angel came with the name Scott Bernstein, an executive who had been in charge of the Hellboy I production while he was at Revolution Studios and had moved to a high-level executive gig at Universal, the original scene of the crime, bringing with him a deep and abiding enthusiasm for the title and for Guillermo’s prospect of making cinematic history with it. So the discussion gathered steam.
Meanwhile, Guillermo was off making real cinematic history: when he left Spain two years hence, he carried with him his unabashed masterpiece, Pan’s Labyrinth, which not only I but also 135 of the top movie critics around the world called the greatest movie of 2006 and among the greatest of all time. It definitely goes in my top hundred! Talk about a game-changer! This was one of those movies—Spielberg has a couple, as does Scorsese, Coppola, Capra, Kurisawa, Ford, Sturgess, Hawkes, Wilder and Wyler, Stevens, Chaplin, and Hitchcock—whereby if it had been the only movie they ever made, they would still go down in history as the greatest the art form had ever known. Guillermo returned from Spain a little like Charlton Heston does in The Ten Commandments: hair a little whiter, wisdom a million miles bigger. You could see it on him. He had done something earth-shattering, and it was singular, original, and gorgeous. Imagine what the guy who starred in his next movie would look like.