by Rob Lowe
“Thank you so much for this dinner. This place is amazing,” I say.
“Ah. It is nothing. We will do many like this during the movie,” he says. My heart leaps and I wonder, does this mean I have the part?
“Sure, that would be great,” I reply, trying not to seem as excited as I feel.
For a moment we both stand there, watching the scene before us. The wine has been great, the women are pretty, and possibly a great movie is in the offing. What could be better?
“May I give you some advice,” says Roman, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Um. Sure. What’s up?” I ask.
Roman gestures to my two beautiful tablemates and says, “You better make up your mind or you will end up jerking off.”
I take the master’s advice and spend my first night in the City of Lights in a romantic, impulsive, and too-brief encounter that probably wouldn’t have happened but for Roman. Thank you, Mr. Polanski. Viva la France.
I awaken at dawn for the early flight back to Los Angeles. I kiss the sleeping redhead good-bye and slip quietly out of the room. Closing the door, I trip on something at my feet. It is a beautiful leather-bound book. I open it to find it’s a first edition of The Complete History of Pirates. I look closer and see there is an inscription. It reads:
To Rob—
All the best on your movie.
Your pal,
Bill Murray
* * *
One of the more bizarre rituals in Hollywood is the process of anointing “The Next Big Thing.” In an industry that thrives on young blood, it’s a science that seems to become more inexact with every passing year. (Although the high watermark was probably in the late ’90s when Vanity Fair put an actress on its cover who had never starred in a movie.) It’s always been a subjective process; the industry gatekeepers and tastemakers have to put the touch on you before you’ve accomplished anything substantial. They go on a series of criteria: publicity, reputation, previous work (although this can easily be ignored), spin from agents, jive from managers, pressure from publicists, and sometimes talent. Age makes an impact and looks are critical. Romantic leads need to look the part, which is to say they must be sexy, but not sexual. Serious actors should look like they are from the mean streets of the eastern cities or the Australian outback. Comedy stars need to be asexual—an exact ringer for the guy who fixes your dryer and absolutely, positively not a threat to turn your girlfriend’s head.
Obviously there are exceptions to this formula, but they are rare. And when it does happen, it’s in spite of the system, not because of it. It also goes without saying that The Next Big Thing can also be a flash in the pan, given that a new one is crowned about every six months (dictated by TV’s pilot season or the movies’ summer and Christmas release dates). The good news is: that’s a lot of slots; the bad news is: there’s gonna be some newbie busting your rice bowl every six months.
With the reaction to The Outsiders, the release of Class, and the pedigree of a project like The Hotel New Hampshire, I find myself in the heady, pressure-filled bull’s-eye of the star-making machine. I am either offered parts or in “conversations” on most movies. But on the other hand, I am not even considered for certain others because I have already been discovered. And the bigger the director, the less likely they are to use another big director’s find.
Polanski has offered me the part in Pirates and now I have to wait for him to finalize the movie’s funding. This goes on for months and eventually Jack Nicholson tires of the process and drops out. I continue to wait but I start to hedge my bets by looking at other projects.
So, while the director of Chinatown hopes I stay patient, I am hounded by the director of Hot Dog … The Movie, who wants me to do his new film. It’s a movie about the rugged, cutthroat world of junior ice hockey, called Youngblood. Despite my love of sports, I have no real connection to hockey, so I pass on the film. Also, ideally I’d like to continue to work with directors with more experience.
There are exceptions, of course, because you never know who will become a great director. I meet with John Hughes for The Breakfast Club, but he wants to make his own discovery of an “unknown.” So the fantastic part of John Bender goes to newcomer Judd Nelson. When Emilio gets a role in the movie, I decide that I need to choose a movie of my own. It’s time to get off the sidelines; careers lose momentum in an instant. And momentum is everything.
Every once in a while I read a script that I know is going to be a hit. Top Gun, Jerry Maguire, The West Wing. But the very first one I came across was a script called Footloose.
Joe Tremaine runs one of the leading dance studios in Los Angeles. I’m in the back row of one of his beginning classes, brushing up on my old moves from the days of John Kenley and Peanut Butter and Jelly. Footloose’s director, Herbert Ross, has given strict instructions that I come ready to bust a move for his screen tests. The lead in the movie is a star-making part and everyone wants it. I’m going to have to will my way through this dance audition/screen test somehow and then hope my acting can do the rest. But here in the stifling, crowded dance studio, I see that I’m never gonna be John Travolta. But I’m not one to give up—you never know what’s in the cards.
The movie’s producers are Craig Zadan and Neil Meron. They are lobbying for me to get the part and coaching me through the process. In spite of my low-level dance skills, as I walk onto the soundstage at Paramount Studios, I know I have a shot. Herb Ross addresses the assembled group of actors. There are a couple guys I recognize, but no one famous. I take that as a good sign.
“Hello, fellas,” he says, looking a little like Roy Scheider as Bob Fosse. “We will be learning a full routine today to ‘Rockin’ the Paradise’ by Styx. You have an hour to learn the steps, then we will do the number and make our cuts.”
Wow. This is just like A Chorus Line, I think. All around me people are doing intense stretches and otherwise warming up their “instruments.” I figure I ought to do the same, so I do some calisthenics I remember from my fifth-grade soccer team. The choreographer goes through the routine and I actually follow along pretty well. My time at Joe Tremaine’s dance studio is paying off.
Eventually the director returns, followed by the producers and a phalanx of studio executives, all in Armani power suits. They sit in a line of folding chairs facing us. We shuffle in place nervously.
The choreographer counts off “One, two, three!” and the speakers blast the opening bars of the song. All twenty of us go into the routine. I know better than to think—that would just mess me up—so I trust instead and … holy shit, it’s working! Out of the corner of my eye, I see one guy stumble. Another loses his place completely. But I can also see that some of these guys are smokin’ it.
The routine ends with a big running dive to the knees and a stage slide across the floor. I decide I’ll make up with enthusiasm what I lack in technique. The big finish approaches. I explode into a sprint, leap as high as I possibly can, and come down on my knees hard, skidding a good ten feet across the floor. There is a grotesque pop that can be heard over the music, and my right knee explodes in pain. Within seconds it is the size of a butterball turkey. I look up at the director and black out.
I didn’t get the part in Footloose. I did get a torn meniscus and an assurance that they weren’t going to cast an actor anyway; they’ll go with a pro dancer. I get driven home to rehab my knee. A week later, they hire Kevin Bacon, an actor.
Meanwhile, back on the continent, Roman Polanski still isn’t ready. He has recast Jack Nicholson’s part of Captain Red with Walter Matthau. Talk about a different way to go! While I’m a fan of Mr. Matthau, I’m having a hard time envisioning him as a dangerous, daring swashbuckler. But I’m sure the legendary Polanski sees something I don’t, so I remain patient.
Meanwhile, MGM, the studio that is making the hockey movie, is relentlessly trying to get me on board. And when a big studio pulls out the guns for a charm offensive, it’s hard not to be swayed. I reread the script,
looking for something I can bring to the role, and begin a series of talks with the young director, Peter Markle. Turns out he played junior hockey and knows the world inside out. His passion gets me interested.
Almost eight weeks after my screen test in Paris, I take the bull by the horns and call Polanski myself. If he personally tells me to hang tough, I will. I leave a message at his home. After waiting another two weeks with no return phone call, I say yes to Youngblood and good-bye to Pirates.
Roman would eventually make the movie with Walter Matthau. An unknown French actor who looked exactly like me would play my part. It would be neither Mr. Polanski’s nor Mr. Matthau’s high-water mark—Pirates would sink without a trace. So much for career planning.
With principal photography six weeks away, it’s time to tackle the single biggest challenge of making Youngblood: I can’t skate. I mean, not even a little bit. There is talk of wheeling me around the ice on a platform and only shooting me from the knees up, but I veto it. I remember the Ron Howard motorcycle disaster too well. I will instead embark on an intense six-week training regimen. The studio hires a power-skating coach and a hockey coach. A physical trainer is given the challenge of adding fifteen pounds to my still-scrawny teen frame. The crash course will be so intense that I am relocated to a small apartment a block from the rink where I will train. This is my daily schedule:
7:30 A.M.
—
breakfast
8:00 A.M.–10:00 A.M.
—
power-skating lesson
10:00 A.M.–10:30 A.M.
—
meal
10:30 A.M.–12:30 P.M.
—
weight training and cardio
12:30 P.M.–1:45 P.M.
—
lunch
2:00 P.M.–4:00 P.M.
—
hockey training
4:00 P.M.–5:00 P.M.
—
big afternoon meal
6:00 P.M.–7:30 P.M.
—
hockey scrimmage
8:00 P.M.
—
late meal
It’s a brutal, physically painful ordeal. But after six weeks of it, I’m bigger and stronger, and can skate like the wind. The Youngblood preparation program got me hooked on physical challenges, adrenaline sports, and daily training, all of which have been a big part of my life ever since. Every movie gives you a gift. This was Youngblood’s.
I keep hearing about another movie in the casting stage that’s getting a lot of attention, St. Elmo’s Fire. I’m already in preproduction on Youngblood and exhausted by its rigors, so I haven’t really tracked this script as it became a hot commodity among other young actors. And suddenly, young actors are everywhere. Studios are filling their pipelines with material by and for people under twenty-five like never before. They’ve seen enough promise in the performances of Taps, The Outsiders, Caddyshack, Risky Business, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. It seems like there are new opportunities and new actors appearing daily. In this Wild West gold rush, even industry insiders can’t keep track of what’s what or who’s who. This youth movement is so conspicuous, it’s begging for a “catchall” label or category to describe all these new faces making their mark.
Columbia, the studio making St. Elmo’s Fire, wants me in the movie. The director and producers, for whatever reason, do not. My agents convince me to read the script and I immediately fall in love with the part of Billy Hicks, the lovable, debauched, sax-playing ladies’ man. The studio brass twists the director’s arm and he agrees to meet me as a courtesy. But he has made it clear that I’m not “right” for the part of Billy, though he might consider me for the square, rigid yuppie, Alex. Coming off the movie D.C. Cab, starring Mr. T, he sees this as an opportunity to step up his game, so he’s being very protective of his vision.
A meeting is scheduled quickly, before I leave for location for Youngblood. I know the director’s feelings about me playing Billy and I have no interest in the other role, so I hatch a plan.
I meet the director, Joel Schumacher, on a late spring afternoon. I’ve been out on the town the night before and am feeling pretty shot. I make no attempt to hide it. In fact, I bring a six-pack of Corona with me to the meeting. Mr. Schumacher clearly thinks I’m not wild or dangerous enough to play this part. I’m going to show him otherwise.
The sun is blinding as I blink through watery eyes. I’m looking for Building 125 on the Columbia lot. The guard at the gate has been less than helpful.
“Follow the blue line to the red line. Make two rights. Then follow the blue line again until you get to the western back lot. Then go to the water tower, where you will pick up the dotted green line to its intersection with the yellow line that wraps around the commissary. Your meeting will be on the left.”
After a few steps, I’m lost. I look for someone to help me and see an extraordinary sight. It’s a girl in a see-through sundress, backlit, revealing a gorgeous body. She has long, light brown hair that she has tied up and over (completely covering) a straw cowboy hat. It’s a look I’ve never seen before or since. She is standing about twenty yards away, looking right at me. We lock eyes. Before I can ask her for help with directions, she steps between buildings and is gone.
Eventually I find Joel Schumacher’s office. I’m very punctual by habit but this time I’m glad I’m late; it will have the desired effect. I wander in, holding my six-pack. Joel is a stylish, funny, smart, and sometimes bitchy man who dresses like a Ralph Lauren model. We hit it off at once. He is bemused as I pound a beer and regale him with semiaccurate stories of wild nights on the town. I know he is looking for recklessness and a big sense of fun in this character, so I give it to him. At all costs, I don’t want him to think of me for the yuppie, square role.
Soon, the beer is taking effect.
“Joel, I’m sorry. I need to use the men’s room.”
“Just use the one here in my office. I have to step out for a phone call, anyway.”
Joel goes to make his call and as I’m getting some relief from pounding my Coronas, suddenly the door to the bathroom opens.
“Oh, hi,” says the beautiful girl in the sundress.
“Um. Hi,” I say, stunned,
“Joel told me to come on in. I didn’t know anyone was in here. Sorry,” she says, without seeming sorry at all. She smiles winningly. And then, in a one-in-a-million voice: “I’m Demi.”
With that, she and I were off to the races. Demi Moore at nineteen was a study in charisma and raw talent—a wild child with bona fides. It was obvious she was perfect to play the sexy, troubled, and magnetic Jules. She and I sat on Joel’s couch, talking like we’d known each other forever. Joel said very little; he was assessing whether we would make a good on-screen couple.
I think Demi and I wondered the same thing, and so after the meeting adjourned, we spent the next few weeks trying to figure it out ourselves. Between the Youngblood workouts in the daytime and hanging out with Demi in the evenings, I was burning the candle at both ends.
Whether Joel Schumacher cast me of his own volition or was forced to by the studio is open to debate (I think he was forced), but one way or another, I got the role I wanted in St. Elmo’s Fire a week before I left to shoot Youngblood. For the first time, I was starring in two movies back-to-back, and my agents were looking for a third. I could feel the expectations and the pressure build around me. Part of me loved it; part of me was scared. Within my family, I had also taken on a new role. With the money I’d made so far, I bought my family a house. A home owner at twenty—this was an irrevocable step into responsibility and adulthood. It also changed the balance of power in our family. As Cyndi Lauper was singing at the time, “Money changes everything,” whether you want to admit it or not.
The public attention had been getting progressively more out of hand and now was just unmanageable. It was not unusual to be mangled at an airport by Argentinean schoolgirls on holiday or followed on roads and h
ighways by coeds, secretaries on lunch break, or moms from the carpool. Sometimes this adoration was nice and human, with a real connection and feedback, and it gave me a rush. Sometimes there was no interest in me as a person (let alone as an actor) whatsoever. It was as if people were on a big-game safari and had stumbled across a living Bigfoot and just wanted a hair sample and a smiling photo. These encounters left me feeling like I was living in a zoo, but I denied myself the realization that it bothered me. After all, who the hell was I to look askance at such good fortune?
One day I picked up a copy of USA Today. On the front page was one of their famous (and hilariously banal) pie charts that are meant to present a daily snapshot of America. On that day the title was “Who We Love.” According to the graph, 10 percent of America loved Simon Le Bon, 28 percent loved Tom Cruise, and 68 percent of America loved me. Now even I couldn’t deny it. I was The Next Big Thing.
I should have been elated. From as far back as the hours spent at the Dayton Playhouse, my driving goal was to have an acting career. I had worked hard, taken advantage of luck and opportunity when it came my way, and succeeded beyond anything I would have thought possible. But satisfaction often took a backseat to an unnameable sense of unease and low-grade melancholy. These feelings weren’t always there, and when they did bubble up, I was able to quiet them by throwing myself into work or play with a vengeance. But late at night, or anytime I was left alone with myself, doubt, fear, and unease would rock me oh so gently, subtly, and quietly, like a baby in a bassinet. Never enough to raise an alarm, yet always enough to remind me it was there. Someday I would need to get to the bottom of it. But not yet.