Coreyography: A Memoir

by Corey Feldman

  I went about promoting and performing, and Susie and I moved in together. On Valentine’s Day, 2002, we got engaged. But Michael and I would never reconcile. We never spoke to each other again.

  * * *

  I first noticed it in 2002, when I was touring to promote my third album.

  It used to be—back in the ’80s and ’90s—that, as a celebrity, you could anticipate when and where you would be expected to interact with the press. If you attended a film premiere, for example, or an event with any kind of red carpet, reporters and film crews would certainly be there. If you hosted a fund-raiser or a charity gala, you might even call the press in order to secure coverage for your event. But you didn’t expect to be bombarded by cameras on a random weeknight, if you went out for an anonymous night on the town. You didn’t expect to see paparazzi loitering outside a restaurant when all you wanted was a quiet meal with your significant other. By 2002, that had changed. And suddenly, the only film offers I was getting were to play some version of myself.

  Bikini Bandits was the first project in which I starred as “Corey Feldman.” It was a ridiculous premise and a poorly written script. I regretted it, but I needed the money.

  Next, I got a call from Wes Craven. I was a huge fan—I had already made several horror films, and Craven is an auteur of the slasher. He had even revived more than a few stalled-out careers: Drew Barrymore had a small part in the 1996 blockbuster Scream; it was one of her first roles on the road back to mainstream stardom. I took a meeting with Wes for his new film called Cursed, and we talked all about my proposed character. I was stoked—I thought it was the call I’d been waiting for. But when the script came back nearly six months later, I saw that I’d been given a two-page cameo and, again, I was being asked to play myself.

  “I don’t understand,” I told one of the producers. “We talked about playing a character?”

  “Well, the script has changed. But Scott Baio’s in it—he’s also playing himself.”

  I passed. They offered me more money. Again, I said no. Again, they increased the offer. Finally, after they agreed to pay me, per day, an amount equivalent to my weekly rate, I agreed. (Lucky for me, the movie encountered massive production delays, was rescripted and partly recast, and my footage ended up on the cutting-room floor.)

  The third such offer was for a film called Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star. David Spade called me himself, and told me he wanted to put me in a poker scene with Leif Garrett, Dustin Diamond, Danny Bonaduce, and Barry Williams. Again, I turned down the offer and, again, I was offered more money. The clincher was when they agreed to let me provide a song for the soundtrack.

  On one of the last days of filming, a slew of former child actors—including Gary Coleman, Florence Henderson, Jeff Conaway, Todd Bridges, Christopher Knight, and Maureen McCormick—was assembling to sing a sort of “We Are the World” parody, a celebrity-studded song called “Child Stars on Your Television” that would play during the film’s closing credits. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a part of it, but then the producers told me they’d secured a cameo with Corey Haim. At that point, I hadn’t seen him in ages. Against my better judgment, I signed myself up.

  I was walking through the parking lot that morning when I heard someone call out from behind me. “Core! Core, man. What’s up, bro?”

  A particularly unkind reviewer once referred to a bloated, overweight Haim as looking like a “fat lesbian.” It was a cruel thing to say, but it wasn’t entirely untrue. By 2002, Haim was puffed up and swollen; he was, in fact, unrecognizable. I had walked right past him without even stopping.

  The final offer to play myself—that old nail in the coffin—was for a Big Brother–type reality show, to be filmed with a cast full of “major” celebrities. The pitch came from Mark Cronin, whom I had worked with back in ’92, not long after news broke of Sam Kinison’s death. A number of my friends told me to tune in to Howard Stern that day; Stern was devoting an entire radio show to Sam’s legacy, playing old clips of Sam’s appearances. I felt compelled to call in, which lead to an appearance on Howard’s short-lived Channel 9 television show (on which Mark Cronin was a staff writer) to perform my single “What’s Up with the Youth?”

  I didn’t know much about Stern’s television show; I was told it was a little like Club MTV. It was closer to a surrealist, David Lynch–inspired acid fest. I ended up dancing on a stage next to a topless little person dressed in a grass skirt while Howard stood in the audience, wearing a bald cap and something akin to a Brazilian-cut bikini, batting around blow-up dolls as if they were beach balls. The whole thing—which, unfortunately, will live forever on YouTube—might be the most uncomfortable five minutes in television history. So, when Cronin came calling, I probably should have hung up the phone.

  The Surreal Life was pitched to me as a positive show. The point wasn’t to portray all of us as hapless has-beens, or to make fun of our respective careers. Still, I declined. Again, I was offered more money. And again, against my better judgment, after many rounds of negotiations and a meeting with one of the top execs, I agreed to play myself.

  Before filming began in earnest, in the fall of 2002, each of the seven cast members—Vince Neil, MC Hammer, Emmanuelle Lewis, Gabrielle Carteris of Beverly Hills, 90210, Jerri Manthey of television’s Survivor, Brande Roderick of Playboy fame, and, of course, myself—participated in some initial interviews; the footage would be used to build the opening credits and to establish our “characters” on the show. I sat down in front of a camera, and a producer asked me a question. “So, Corey, you’ve been around for so long. You’re really more than an actor. You’re an icon, an industry. How does that make you feel?”

  “Uh, well, thanks,” I said. “But I don’t know if I agree with all that. Really, I’m just happy that I’m still making movies after all these years. I’m happy that I’m still working.”

  “Okay, that’s great, but it doesn’t really incorporate the question. Please repeat the question and restructure the answer accordingly.”

  Have you ever noticed, in those interview segments on reality shows, that the cast members almost always begin by speaking in complete, well-constructed sentences? You know why, right? The cast member is being asked a series of questions by someone positioned off-camera. But no one wants to hear the producer talking, so the cast member is encouraged to repeat the question so that the viewer will be able to follow along at home.

  I balked. “I don’t really want to say those words. I mean, that sounds pretty egotistical.”

  The producer and I haggled back and forth, until finally I said something like: “Okay, I’m more than an actor, I’m a musician, and a producer, and a dancer. And it’s wonderful if people think that I’m an icon, an industry, but really, I’m just appreciative of the fact that I’m still working.”

  I left the session feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

  There’s a special editing term used in the world of reality television: it’s called the “Frankenbite,” as in, the piecing together of disparate sound bites to manufacture story, to create drama, and, sometimes, to make it appear as though someone said something they really didn’t. I don’t want to be one of those people who blames the editors for the fact that their reality television portrayal turned out to be unflattering, but when I watched the opening credits of that first episode, and heard myself say, “I’m more than an actor. I’m an icon, an industry,” I knew I was in trouble.

  I don’t blame people for being turned off by what they saw on The Surreal Life. I sounded like a pompous, egotistical ass. Even I sat there every week, cringing in front of the television, screaming, “Shut up! You sound like a total idiot!” It was the single worst professional experience of my life. It was also the first time I was able to see—with the advent of the Internet—viewer’s reactions in real time; I have never heard the word “asshole” used more times in reference to myself.

  It’s not like people had never had negative things to say about me before
. For years, people have made ridiculous, off-color comments about my relationship with Michael Jackson—that we had “matching monkeys,” for example. (I don’t even have to mention what some people have come up with based on his problems with molestation accusations and my history of abuse.) For the most part, I don’t care about stuff like that. People can say whatever they want. But what killed me was the construction of that “icon, industry” quote. It shows up everywhere, it’s listed on several professional Web sites as one of my “famous quotes”; it will forever be attributed to me. I am proud of my career, and I am proud that I continue to work as an actor, but that quote is never something I would have said. It’s not how I feel about myself.

  There was one positive thing to come out of The Surreal Life, though I never thought I’d get married on a reality show, and it certainly wasn’t my idea. The producers approached Susie and I three days into filming (she was around a lot behind the scenes)—everyone knew we were engaged, so they pitched us the idea of getting married on the season finale of the show.

  I said no way, told the producers I thought they were crazy. But they kept increasing the proposed budget for the wedding, kept promising more and more perks. Even though my entire family advised against getting married on television, I knew I couldn’t afford to give Susie the wedding she deserved—if I agreed to get married on the show, the network would provide us a wedding planner, fly in our family from all across the country, and Susie would be able to pick the dress of her dreams. It’s perhaps also helpful to point out just how draining a show like this is—it’s long hours, lots of stress, and zero privacy. Eventually, you just get worn down. I ended up selling myself on the idea.

  Susie was a stunning bride, and despite all the chaos around us, I was able to block out everything and focus solely on her. After the wedding, we took off for our honeymoon in Bora, Bora. I felt calm, and at peace. I was married now, and deliriously happy. But after The Surreal Life, I also knew things would have to change.

  I moved management. I vowed to turn down every single offer to play myself. I only wanted to work in challenging, artistic, redeeming roles. If that meant that I didn’t work for a while—if it meant I never worked again—that was going to have to be okay. I was going to have to swallow my pride. I would have to take a leap of faith.

  CHAPTER 21

  In February 2004 I read a quirky script for an independent film from an up-and-coming Spanish director. As soon as I leafed through it, the characters, the camera direction, all of it immediately leaped from the page. It was a wildly ambitious project, and my role, that of the sheltered, socially inept Norman Forrester, was the acting opportunity I had been waiting for.

  I spoke with the director, a then-twenty-six-year-old Eugenio Mira, and quickly discovered that he was charismatic, full of energy, and—like me—an unabashed lover of film. He also had big plans for the production: not only would the film be shot in “real time,” but my character would be in every shot of the movie. Not every scene, mind you—every single shot. It was a huge amount of responsibility, but Susie and I were stoked and we agreed to travel to Spain for the three-month shoot. It was the second piece of good news we had received that year. By the spring of 2004, Susie and I discovered that we were going to have a baby.

  * * *

  Barcelona is an incredible, vibrant, cosmopolitan city. It’s the home of Park Güell and Sagrada Familia, two of the most famous works by the surrealist architect Antoni Gaudí. It’s also a city of small hills; our hotel suite was perched at the top of one, and we had an incredible view from our fourth-floor balcony. Of course, living in Barcelona for three months also came with its challenges. In 2004, Spain still felt very much like a country of smokers; people lit up just about everywhere, which can be a little uncomfortable when you’re traveling with a pregnant wife. Drinking, of course, is also part of the culture—it’s completely acceptable to drink during lunch; in fact, there was always a bottle of wine on our table. And if you know anything about Spanish food, well, it’s not exactly vegetarian-friendly. Susie and I carried around a little tourist’s guidebook, which was supposed to point us in the direction of the city’s few meat-free restaurants. We went to one—an Italian-style bistro—and were shocked to find “horse steak” on the menu. (So much for vegetarianism.) Still, filming The Birthday was one of the most exhilarating and exciting professional experiences of my life.

  The Birthday performed well on the festival circuit—it won Best Art Direction and was nominated for Best Film at the Sitges Film Festival in Sitges, Spain; I won Best Actor at the Luxemburg Film Festival—and earned a theatrical release in Spain. But, as so often happens with small independent productions, it failed to secure American distribution. Eugenio Mira has a bright future—he was a second unit director on the brilliant 2012 film The Impossible, starring Naomi Watts and Ewan McGregor and his newest film, Grand Piano, has been called one of the most anticipated releases of 2013. His film The Birthday is one of my proudest achievements as an actor. I dearly wish more people had seen it. My hope is that, one day, they will.

  * * *

  After three months in Barcelona, Susie and I were back stateside, making preparations for the baby. I had also signed on to do another film (it was schlock, but I was trying to build my nest egg), which would shoot for three weeks in Bulgaria. We decided we would both go to Europe—Susie and I didn’t like being apart, especially when she was with child—and by the time we returned home, she would have another month or so left in her pregnancy. As the saying goes: if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

  Just a few days before we were scheduled to leave the country, we attended a friend’s wedding in Palm Springs. (I actually became ordained online, at the couple’s request, in order to officiate the ceremony.) It was August and it was hot, the temperature had been averaging well over a hundred degrees. Still, we wanted to stay through the weekend, turning the trip into something of a mini-vacation. Besides, Susie was planning on getting a maternal massage, and she needed it; she’d been struggling with pretty severe back pain for the past several months. The morning after the wedding, though, I woke up and reached across the bed for her. Susie wasn’t there.

  That part wasn’t unusual. Susie has restless leg syndrome, which frequently kept her up at night. She often left our bed in the wee hours of the morning, in an attempt to get comfortable, and in an attempt not to disturb me. I woke up many mornings to find her curled up in random spots throughout the house. I looked around our hotel suite, and found her in the sitting area, laying on her back with her feet stretched straight up in the air.

  “You okay?”

  “I haven’t slept,” she said, visibly exhausted. “My back is killing me. Maybe it’s the heat?”

  We went about our day as planned, lounging poolside, relaxing and unwinding before we would make the long ride home, host a baby shower, and then make our way across the Atlantic. But all throughout the afternoon, she kept saying she just didn’t feel right. She felt off. And then she told me that she hadn’t felt the baby move in a while.

  “What?” I shouted, the panic already creeping in.

  “I haven’t felt the baby move since yesterday. I think that’s why I was up all night.”

  I insisted we head home. I wanted to get Susie nearer to her doctor. It didn’t make sense to stay in Palm Springs, even if nothing was really wrong. We packed up the car and started the two-hour trek, and as we entered L.A. county, she suddenly felt the baby kick.

  “There he is!” she shouted, breathing an audible sigh of relief.

  “You still want to call the doctor?”

  “No, I’m sure everything’s fine,” she said. “I think we panicked for no good reason.”

  Now that we were back home, a day earlier than expected, we decided to go out for a quiet dinner and a movie. But as we left the theater later that evening, again Susie said, “I haven’t felt him move.”

  “What are you talking about? I thought everything was fin
e now. I thought you said he moved earlier.”

  “He did,” she said. “But I haven’t felt anything else since then.”

  “Well, that’s it,” I said. It was time to call the doctor.

  We checked into Tarzana Medical Center, and Susie was immediately hooked up to all kinds of equipment and fetal-monitoring machinery. We were shocked to discover that—at just thirty-two weeks along—she had gone into preterm labor. More terrifying still, the ultrasound tech poked and prodded Susie’s belly, but the baby still wasn’t moving; she couldn’t get him to respond. On the fuzzy black-and-white monitor, the baby looked almost frozen. Then, as they moved the wand across Susie’s belly, they discovered a little white blip on the baby’s brain. No one could explain what had caused it, only that, at some point, the baby had suffered a “loss of oxygen,” which had been caused by some kind of “traumatic event.” That’s when the doctor dropped a bomb, the single scariest sentence ever uttered to expectant parents: “Your baby may not turn out … normal,” he told us. The baby’s chances of being born with MS were great. He might never run, laugh, or play. The options were laid out before us: leave the baby in and “see what happens,” or take the baby out and hope for the best. We prepared for an emergency C-section.

  I stood next to Susie’s head, behind the giant blue surgical curtain separating the top half of her body from the bottom, and when those first few, gentle cries rang out we were both flooded with relief. But then the baby went stiff again, and started turning blue. He was immediately placed in some kind of oxygen tent—it looked like a scene straight out of E.T., the doctors all standing around him in their surgical masks, poking and prodding and pumping. Susie was hysterical. She kept screaming out, “What’s wrong?” So, I lied to her, told her that everything was fine, and prayed harder than I ever had. I begged God to let my son turn out all right. Finally, he started to cry again, more robust now. I could hear him crying his way back to life.