by Rob Lowe
I have settled on USC as my college. If I don’t get a part, I will enroll and study film. I’ve been toying with following my dad into law or pursuing marine biology. But in the end, my heart is stuck on reaching people with stories on film. If I can’t be in front of the camera, I’ll be behind it.
Finally my agent calls.
“Do I have the part?”
“No.”
My heart sinks.
“But they want you to fly to New York and read again.”
I can feel the blood coming back to my face. I’m still alive in The Outsiders sweepstakes.
“What part am I reading? Soda or Randy?” I ask, holding my breath.
“Both.”
I try not to be disappointed that Randy is still an option.
“Pack up. You leave day after tomorrow.”
I put down the phone. It rings in my hand. It’s Emilio.
“Dude, did they call you? Are you going to New York?”
“Yeah! I made it. What about you?”
“We’re going, too! Me and Cruise!”
“What parts?”
“I’m going for Soda, Randy, and maybe Darrel, depending on ages,” says Emilio.
“What about Cruise?” I ask.
“Soda, Randy, Darrel, and Dallas.”
“Holy shit,” I say. This thing is clearly still a wide-open free-for-all.
I hang up, excited that my friends are among the chosen. We are competitors and it will likely come down to one of us versus the other. And if it does, we will try to blow each other out of the water with zero regrets on all sides. But until then, it’s down to the Sheens’ Gilligan’s Island pool to celebrate.
On the plane we sit with the other two “L.A. finalists,” Tommy Howell and Darren Dalton. Together we try to predict who will get what role. We also find a cute stewardess and work her relentlessly for alcohol.
It’s a night flight with lots of empty seats, so it feels like we own the plane. By the time we land we are connected like a less dangerous, teenage, show-business version of the Dirty Dozen. We are all thrown together by fate, required to work together to achieve a goal that will be a highlight of our lives. Along the way any one of us could fall. You don’t want it to be you, but you don’t want it to be your new brother either. There is also a group waiting to knock us out entirely, the “New York” actors. Their reputations precede them—tough, intense, serious hard cases. We make our plans to battle them, to come out of this together, leaving the others in the dust. We are the L.A. Greasers. After surviving the three-day, thirty-hour battle at Zoetrope Studios, we feel like Hollywood’s finest.
We check into the Plaza Hotel. I am taken aback at the luxury and spectacle of the lobby. Last time I was in New York, Dad and I stayed at the Sheraton. The front desk tells us we will be sharing rooms. In a flash, Cruise is on the phone to his agent, Paula Wagner.
“Paula, they are making us share,” he says. He is certain that this is not right and wants it fixed ASAP. The rest of us are staggering around like happy goofs, but this guy’s already showing traits that will make him famous; he’s zeroed in like a laser—all business and very intense.
“Okay, then. Thank you very much,” he says like a fifty-year-old businessman getting off the phone with his stockbroker. “Paula says it’s fine.”
After sorting out our rooms, we decide to pile into a cab and check out the sights.
“Forty-second Street,” someone says.
The cabbie’s eyes widen as he turns to look at the group squeezed into his backseat—a fifteen-year-old, a seventeen-year-old, and the three “adults” weighing in at around nineteen years old.
“You boys sure you want to go down there? Ain’t nothin’ but women and trouble to be found there.”
“Yes, we’re sure!” we howl, and laugh, banging on the Plexiglas divider like animals.
We are all seriously dragging the next morning as we arrive at “Zoetrope East.” Any effects of our long night are mitigated by the growing tension of the East Coast versus the West Coast acting brawl that is moments away.
This time the auditions are called what they actually are: screen tests. And unlike at the L.A. audition, the group from New York is much more select, maybe fifteen guys in total. We lounge together in a giant loftlike waiting area in some dingy office building somewhere near Broadway. I’m freezing—having little travel experience, I have not packed correctly for New York in the winter. It doesn’t help that I’m jet-lagged and hungover. I find a spot on the floor next to a radiator and take a nap (to this day, when I feel too much stress I want to fall asleep).
“Dude, wake up,” says Emilio, banging me in the ribs.
I try to clear my head as I roll up off the floor.
“Francis wants us in the studio.”
It’s a small, hot space. The basic setup is exactly like L.A., except for—inexplicably—Carly Simon, wearing a sort of catsuit, curled up in a corner. I also recognize Matt Dillon, already a huge teen idol and the star of S. E. Hinton’s first movie adaptation, Tex. It hasn’t come out yet, but it’s supposed to be good. Matt is in front of the camera reading the part of Dallas. And by reading, I mean reading. He is holding the entire script, eyes locked on the text. After a while, however, he puts it down and begins paraphrasing. Soon he’s ad-libbing completely and making up dialogue while the other actors try to keep up.
I don’t know if Francis asked him to freelance like this or not. If he did, then clearly Matt has got the part locked up. If he didn’t, then Matt Dillon has dangling, clanking, scary-big elephant balls.
Next up is a tiny kid I competed against a few months back for a part on the hit TV show Eight Is Enough. It came down to the two of us for a new starring role they were adding to that show. We both went to the network reading in a boardroom packed with stone-faced executives in business suits. He came out on top.
Now he’s reading the part of Johnny, the tortured, doomed Greaser. Like with Tommy Howell, it is clear that he is the front-runner. When he’s done I call over to him.
“Ralph! Hey, Macchio! It’s me, Lowe.”
Ralph comes over to say hi. “Hey, man, good to see ya.”
“How many times have you read for this?” I ask.
“A lot. Matt and I have been doing this for days.”
“Have you read for any other parts?”
“Nope. Just Johnny. Matt, too. Just Dallas.”
I see Francis looking around the room. “Rob? Rob? Can you come read the part of Randy?”
This is what I was afraid of. I feel like I might pass out.
“Um, sure. Uh, no problem,” I manage.
I quickly look over the scene. If I do well now as Randy, Francis might want me for that part, opening up Soda to one of the other finalists who have been on the periphery until now, like Tom Cruise. Maybe I should tank the reading, I think briefly, but knowing I’m incapable of it.
I finish playing the scene at full throttle. I’m praying I don’t get this part. No one wants to be a Soc in a movie about Greasers. It’s 110 degrees in this sweatbox of a studio as Tom Cruise is called to the floor. Now I have real issues; he’s giving my role a try. He begins Sodapop’s big breakdown scene at the end of the movie. I watch him and think, that’s it, I’m done. He’s clearly a force to be reckoned with, and is more focused and ambitious than I ever thought about being. (And that’s saying something.)
But then … Tom has stopped. Stopped the scene! Right in the middle of the monologue! A hush falls over the room.
“Um, I’m sorry. Um, I’m really sorry,” he says, looking directly at Francis. “This just isn’t working for me.”
Holy shit! Not working for him? I thought Francis Ford Coppola was the judge of what works and what doesn’t. There is a low murmur among the actors. Francis lets him try again. When he’s done, I know the Cruise missile threat has passed.
“Rob, give Soda a try, please,” Francis asks blithely. But I know that right now, right here, in this moment, a lif
e-changing part is mine for the taking. What Francis is really asking is: Rob, do you want this part? I do the scene and crush it. The answer is yes. Yes, I do.
CHAPTER 10
A suspenseful two weeks later, it’s official. I’m offered the part of Sodapop Curtis, the romantic, sweet-natured, loving middle brother. Tommy Howell surprises no one by getting the lead role of Ponyboy, and Matt Dillon fulfills expectations by getting the role of the tough hood, Dallas. My instincts proved right about Ralph Macchio: he will play the tragic mascot, Johnny. The other roles remain uncast.
I’m elated. It doesn’t seem real. I’m going to make a movie. And in my first movie, I have one of the starring roles. My first director will be one of the greatest who ever lived. And not only did I survive one of the longest, most competitive casting searches in years, I was one of the first to be cast.
I celebrate with my family. I contact USC and tell them I won’t be enrolling. I start to think about what it will be like to be away from home, on my own for the first time, while we shoot on location in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I also am anxious for my new brothers in arms, Emilio, Tom, and the others with whom I bonded over the last few months. They are all still hoping to get one of the remaining roles, but so far they have heard nothing.
I have no idea what to expect. My apprehension is probably similar to what any seventeen-year-old feels as he packs for freshman year at college. But in that case, you could ask your dad, “What do I need to know? What advice do you have?” and Dad tells you. But obviously I can’t do that, as no one in my family has any experience in this new world.
So I walk down to the Sheens’ house, looking for Martin. We crack open the vanilla Häagen-Dazs and I ask him every question I can think of. He is gracious and patient; I am vulnerable and a little scared, but excited. By the time we finish our ice cream I feel more prepared for what I might encounter. I thank him. At the door he stops me.
“One last thing…”
“Sure, Martin, what is it?”
“Don’t let Francis make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
I consider that last unsettling piece of advice as I jog back home, through the gathering fog, to pack. I am on the cusp of something and I feel a mixture of emotions: I’m proud, scared, cocky, insecure, anxious, and confident, all at once. And truth be told, after the long adrenaline-filled audition process, I’m also feeling a little let down. (I will later learn this is a hallmark of alcoholism; we call it the Peggy Lee Syndrome. You reach a goal you’ve been striving for, only to feel, “Is that all there is?”) If I’m gonna make a career of this, I will have to sort myself out.
My bare feet are hurting slightly as I trot down our driveway. Chad and Micah are playing horse and my mom is calling us all into the house for dinner. A wave of homesickness rises up, but I haven’t even packed a suitcase. Looking down, I notice a tiny cut with some blood on my right foot and I realize, I am going to have to build up my calluses.
* * *
There are giant praying hands outside my airplane as it descends into Tulsa, Oklahoma. The massive sculpture from Oral Roberts University seems to be sending a message. My future is at hand. It is unknowable. It is an adventure. I don’t know where it will lead, and I might as well pray!
I’m flying alone. Tom and Emilio were offered parts at the last minute and are driving out in Emilio’s pickup. Tom is playing my best friend, Steve, and Emil, Two-Bit Matthews, another of the Curtis brothers’ circle of friends. The Sheen family’s complicated history with Francis runs so deep that before he accepted the role, Emil literally put the script under his mattress and “slept on it” before finally saying yes.
The plane comes in for a bumpy landing on an early spring afternoon in the beginning of March 1982. It’s two weeks before my eighteenth birthday.
The Tulsa Excelsior sits smack in the middle of downtown. This will be my home for the next ten weeks. At the front desk I’m handed a new shooting script, crew list, an envelope with a wad of cash, per diem, and a key to room 625. “You are right next door to Tommy Howell and across the hall from Mr. Macchio. Welcome to Tulsa,” says the man behind the counter.
I look up and recognize Diane Lane coming through the revolving door of the lobby. At only sixteen, she already seems like a legend. She has starred with Laurence Olivier and been on the cover of Time magazine. Oh, and she may be the prettiest girl on the planet. She will play Cherry Valance, the queen Soc. Too shy to introduce myself, I watch as she breezes by with her chaperone. With all the teen testosterone on this movie, she’ll need one!
I head up to my room, which is very plain and very simple—a desk, a small refrigerator, and two twin beds. But to me, it’s the greatest setup I’ve ever seen. It’s like my own first apartment—and in fact, it is. I’m out of the house, away from my parents, living on my own, and because I’ll be eighteen in a week or so, for the first time, I have no guardian. This new sense of freedom is powerful enough to knock me to my knees, right here in room 625.
“Hey, man, is that you?”
I recognize Tommy Howell’s voice as he unlatches the door between our adjoining rooms.
“We did it,” I yelp, as we hug in celebration.
“Man, I am so glad you got Soda,” he says.
“Thanks, man. Who’s with you? Do you have a guardian?” I ask Tommy.
“No, it’s just me!”
I’m a little taken aback. Tommy is just fifteen, but I ask no questions.
“Put your shit down, let’s go eat,” he says.
I throw my suitcase in the corner and we head for the elevator. It stops on the fifth floor.
“Hey, guys!” says Darren Dalton, a tall kid who got the part I was praying I wouldn’t get, Randy the Soc.
“Why aren’t you on our floor?” I ask.
“Dude, our floor is Socs only. We have these amazing suites, free room service, gym privileges—it’s so cool!”
“Yeah, Francis wants us segregated,” Tommy informs me. “He’s given them more per diem, better rooms, and these embossed leather script binders.”
“Aah, I see, he’s trying to create a class system on the set, trying to make us Greasers jealous,” I say.
“Well, it ain’t working,” cackles Tommy. “If anybody’s jealous, it’s them about us, since the Greasers are the fuckin’ stars of the movie!”
Tommy and I laugh and high-five, busting Darren’s balls. On The Outsiders, ball busting will become a fine art.
Coming back from dinner, we come upon an amazing spectacle. There must be fifty girls around our age congregating around the Excelsior lobby. I remember the body language and the low-level hysteria from being mobbed in Riverside and I recognize them at once as fans. But of whom?
At that moment, Matt Dillon saunters past and the girls sway en masse like willows in a spring breeze.
“Um, hey. What’s shakin’?” asks Matt in his patented, laconic cool-guy fashion. It’s a little hard to hear him, as he’s carrying a gigantic boom box that’s playing an obscure song by T. Rex.
None of us really know Matt well; we are the L.A. group after all, and he is the embodiment of the “New York actor.” He is already well established as a fledgling matinee idol and, more important, has Tulsa wired from starring in the movie Tex, which he shot there six months ago. He knows the rub on all the levels. We had crossed paths at the New York auditions but now we make our introductions in earnest. Matt is funny, wry, and has a sort of jaded charisma that none of us possesses. As we talk, the girls twitter and whisper in the background.
“Aaah, man, I’m tired. See ya at rehearsals,” he says, hoisting his boom box to his shoulders. He crosses to the elevators and passes the gaggle of fans. Then something remarkable happens. He stops dead in his tracks and whispers to a pretty brunette. She listens for a beat, then turns to the four girls she’s standing with and whispers something to them. Matt fiddles with the volume on the boom box. The girls caucus together for a total of four seconds till the brunette leaves he
r friends behind and joins Matt for a walk to the elevators. He puts his free arm around her. At the last second, just before they enter the elevator, she turns back to look at her friends. Her expression is one I’ve never seen before. It’s like she has a thought balloon over her head that reads: “Holy shit! How lucky am I?!” Matt yawns, and the elevator doors close. The entire transaction takes less than forty-five seconds. So that’s how it is, I think, and take note. Matt Fuckin’ Dillon. My hero.
Rehearsals begin the next morning in an abandoned elementary school. The classrooms are used as the film crew’s production offices, the auditorium/gymnasium as our rehearsal space. I’ve never rehearsed anything but a play, and there is no real rehearsal in television. Since we are playing two of the three brothers at the center of the film, Tommy Howell and I are already beginning to connect in a way that will hopefully pay off emotionally later when we need it in our performances. We stand in a corner of the musty, dirty gym with Tom and Emilio, who pulled an all-nighter driving from Point Dume.
“Who is playing Darrel?” asks Cruise, who had auditioned for the part of the eldest Curtis brother.
“We still don’t know,” says Howell. It’s been a bit of a soap opera, the search for this last actor in The Outsiders puzzle.
“I heard they offered it to Mickey Rourke but he turned it down,” Emilio says.
“I heard he turned down all the parts,” says Ralph Macchio.
Someone proffers up a tidbit that Fred Roos has pulled the casting rabbit out of the hat by finding an actor who never auditioned with us in L.A., a much older guy who did a movie where he danced around on roller skates.
“What’s this guy’s name?” I ask.
“Patrick Swayze,” says Emilio.
Minus the mysterious Mr. Swayze, who will arrive later, the entire cast begins what will end up being over two full weeks of rehearsals. Only years later will I learn that this lengthy, luxurious preparation was due to the movie’s funding collapsing. While behind the scenes the future of The Outsiders hung in the balance, we blithely submitted to Francis’s unique methods of preparation.