* * *
I started getting calls from the network. The ratings for The Two Coreys were high enough that they wanted to order a second season. At that point, I didn’t see how filming additional episodes would even be possible; Haim had spiraled so far, so fast. Plus, I was an executive producer—I had a contractual obligation to deliver a set number of episodes. I wasn’t willing to sign myself up for certain failure. The only way to move forward, then, would be to scrap the semiscripted sitcom format and shoot a more traditional “reality” show. We’d have to film the good and the bad and just let it all hang out. Let the chips fall where they may.
We set about redrafting our contracts, making it very clear what we would and would not show in this new iteration. My personal requests—mainly, to keep Zen uninvolved in the production—remained the same. With regard to Haim, we would not discuss his former or current drug use, unless he visibly relapsed. If and when that happened, his struggles with sobriety would become an integral part of the show. He was fine with that arrangement. The only topic we were not to discuss, under any circumstances, was his history of abuse. “If I fuck up, I fuck up,” he told me. “But you better give me your word that you never bring up those three or four names, you never talk about the fact that I was molested.” I had no intention of discussing his abuse publicly, so I readily agreed.
Then, in the very first episode of the second season, he just went for it: “You let me get fucked around in my life—raped, so to speak—when I was about fourteen-and-a-half-years-old.” My jaw was on the floor, and I knew the rest of the season would be a doozy.
In a matter of weeks, Lost Boys: The Tribe would prepare for a few days of pickups and reshoots. Despite his earlier disruptions on set, I somehow convinced the producers to let Haim try again. We would give him one more opportunity to shoot a few scenes for the movie, and incorporate the filming of those scenes into the filming of the television show.
At 7:00 A.M., I was in the makeup trailer, being fitted with a long, blond wig. (I had actually grown my hair out for principle shooting, but cut it short again before the filming of the second season.) The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and in walked Haim—loaded out of his mind. He could barely speak, could barely string two words together, and was completely incapable of delivering his lines. We spent hours trying to nail down a single scene. I was so mad at him. I couldn’t believe he had chosen this moment, surrounded by executives from Warner Brothers and A&E, to blow it so catastrophically. Ultimately, his scenes had to be cut completely from the movie.
We moved forward with the season. We shot an intervention episode. Haim and I even talked with a therapist. But I realized I wasn’t helping him. When The Two Coreys was finally cancelled after filming wrapped on season two, I decided the best thing to do would be to walk away for a while. He had so much potential, but again, he had imploded and sold himself short.
* * *
Many people, fans of the “Two Coreys” even, seem to be under the misconception that we never spoke again, but Haim reached out to me in 2009, at the end of what proved to be the most difficult year of my life.
Marc Rocco, the director of Dream a Little Dream, died suddenly in May, at the age of forty-six. My grandfather, Bedford Goldstein, passed away a short time later; that was like losing a father. In June came the news of Michael Jackson’s death, as shocking to me as it was to everyone else. And by the end of the year, my wife and I decided to end our marriage.
Susie and I may have had an unconventional relationship, but it worked because complete and brutal honesty was the foundation upon which the rest of our lives were built. She had been my partner and my best friend for more than seven years. But when the trust was gone, and the foundation was broken, there was no rescuing the relationship. Still, I was devastated. I felt totally alone in the world.
One day, not very long after Susie and I split up, Haim called me up out of the blue. We hadn’t spoken in more than a year. He knew, of course, about the string of deaths and the divorce. But now, he told me, his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. He had cleaned himself up, had moved Judy in. And he wanted to mend things. It wasn’t about our careers, it wasn’t about being the “Two Coreys,” it was just about being friends. I knew a thing or two about losing someone before you could repair a broken relationship. I was happy that he had called.
Haim was incredibly supportive in the months following my divorce. He spent a lot of time with Zen, and he doted on his mother. He didn’t have a car, so he would walk to the store, picking out aromatherapy candles and bubble baths, trying to create for her a healing, spa-like atmosphere. He would get up early and cook her breakfast. He would take her to chemotherapy. For the first time, he was caring about someone more than he cared about himself.
Haim’s career seemed poised for a turn-around, too. He had a small role in the action film Crank: High Voltage, starring Amy Smart and Jason Statham. He was also attached to star in a number of indie movies. Over the next few months, we grew closer than we had ever been.
In February, Haim and I went to a Super Bowl party at the Playboy Mansion; it would end up being our last public appearance. Afterward, I invited him back for an after-party at my house. He had changed. He wasn’t trying to score. He wasn’t interested in doing drugs. It was as if the Corey I had always known, the hyperactive kid who couldn’t sit still, who was always fixated on that next thing, had maybe started to grow up.
The sun was coming up. I was sitting on the couch; Haim was sitting on the floor near my feet. He stretched out his hand, initiating the secret “Corey handshake.” We had invented it years ago, when we were just kids; I think it’s been incorporated into every one of our movies. He looked at me then, and smiled.
“I just wanted to thank you, man.”
“For what?”
“For this weekend,” he said. “For everything.” He paused, looked around my living room and sighed. “I finally see the world through your eyes and it’s a beautiful place.”
We shook hands again and gave each other a hug and then I excused myself and went to bed. By the time I woke up the next morning, he was gone. I would never see him again.
* * *
Corey and I spoke often about going public with our respective stories. And I know that when he dropped that bomb on the show, when he admitted to being molested, it was a step—the very smallest of steps—toward admitting the root cause of all his inner demons. Still, I wanted him to come forward about the big one—the one that, even in that awkward moment in a diner in Studio City, he was still nowhere near ready to reveal. I wanted him to say the name of the man who had stolen his innocence on the set of Lucas, the man who walks around now, one of the most successful people in the entertainment industry, still making money hand over fist.
Even after The Two Coreys went off the air—after the blowup and the reconciliation—Haim was under the impression, for a while, that we were going to move forward with a third season. I had to explain to him that there would be no more seasons, that he had burned all his bridges again. I told him that his self-destructive behavior stemmed from what happened to him as a boy, that the only way he would free himself would be if he came forward with that information. If he could do that, a giant weight would be lifted from his shoulders. I told him he wouldn’t find peace until then.
“Why don’t you do it?” he asked me.
“Do what?”
“Why don’t you tell my story?”
“I’ve got my own story to tell,” I said. “And you’ve got yours. You’ve got to write your own story. You’ve got to write your own book.”
At the time of his death, Haim still just wasn’t ready.
When I first started batting around the idea of writing a book about my life, I had no intention of making it a “Two Coreys” story. I had no intention of discussing Corey’s experiences with abuse. But in the wake of his death, I felt like I had to do the one thing he was never able to do.
* * *
<
br /> After nearly forty years in the entertainment business, I have been privileged to work with some of the greatest artists and innovators of our time, and I’m honored to have made movies that people think of as classics, that they’ll always remember with fondness and nostalgia. I have also lost so many, many friends to the pressures of Hollywood and the dark side of fame. I’m glad I have somehow managed to survive it all. I’m even looking forward to what the future will bring.
In 2009, I got a call from Joe Dante’s office. He was teaming up with producer Roger Corman (with whom I had worked on Rock ‘n’ Roll High School Forever) to film a new project. I was more than a little surprised to hear from him—we hadn’t worked together since 1989’s The ’Burbs, days Dante had once called some of the worst of his entire career. Reteaming twenty years later felt like a chance to redeem myself. Splatter, a dark horror series, became the first original Web series offered from Netflix; these days, producing content exclusively for the Web is a trend that seems to be taking off.
Not long after that, I was pleased to announce the release of my second Truth Movement album. Technology Analogy is the album I set out all those years ago to make; I had the pleasure of recording several songs with Pink Floyd collaborators Scotty Page and Jon Carin, and was bowled over when the legendary artist Storm Thorgerson—best known for his work with the rock bands Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin—agreed to provide original work for the cover of the album.
In preparation for the next Truth Movement tour, I knew I wanted to try something different. Large-scale rock concerts, with their lasers and lights and amps and generators, leave in their wake a notoriously large carbon footprint. I have long been a passionate eco-activist, so I was curious about ways to make our shows more environmentally friendly. With the help of a few biodiesel generators—and the willingness of the folks at Universal CityWalk—Truth Movement was able to perform the first in a series of concerts powered entirely by an alternative energy source. It is my hope that, particularly as the technology advances, many more artists will consider moving their shows “off the grid.”
As for my romantic life, I am content being single, though I am dating—and there is one woman, Courtney, who is closer to me than anyone has been in years. Maybe one day I will again love a woman completely. But my primary focus is and will always be Zen.
Zen is eight years old as I write this, and I often marvel at the fact that he has blue eyes and blond hair, despite the fact that his mother and I are both brown-eyed brunettes; it’s ironic that he looks just the way my mother always thought that I should. He is, in many ways, the little boy she so desperately wanted me to be. And he never ceases to amaze. Just the other day, he sat down to do his homework: math homework. Multiplication. The skill that had been so impossible for me to master, that my parents spent hours and hours drilling—even beating—into my head. Zen, however, sat down, breezed through his homework, and got every question right. He is healthy and beautiful and brilliant, with no trace of having been a premie. Today, he’s actually one of the biggest boys in his class.
Becoming a father has also, amazingly, enabled me to find peace with my own traumatic childhood. I’ve since forgiven my mother for the way she behaved when I was young. I know now that she was mentally unstable; I’m not sure she was capable of having done better than she did.
People are always quick to slap a label on things, perhaps especially the trajectory of a former child actor’s career. And everyone experiences peaks and valleys—it’s impossible to sustain a years-long string of nothing but success. But in the past few years, I’ve been busier than at any other point in my career. I’ve been hard at work on a new solo album and have been collaborating with a slew of new and talented artists, including Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit, Kaya Jones of the Pussycat Dolls, Wu-tang Klan–affiliated producer Supreme, and r1ckone, best known for his work with the Black Eyed Peas. I’ve reteamed with my friend and former costar Sean Astin not once, but twice: We’re at work on a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles television series for Nickelodeon; he also made a cameo in the music video for my single “Ascension Millennium,” which premiered on MTV in July 2013. I’ve even got a new business venture in the works: Corey’s Angels, an exclusive social club and management company. All that’s in addition to my usual slate of one to three movies a year. (I’m especially excited to announce the upcoming release of The M Word, directed by Henry Jaglom, which will be my first lead role in a theatrical release in more than a decade).
Despite the highs and lows, the ups and downs, the peaks and valleys, I’ve never lost sight of my spirituality; I owe so much to God, and continue to put my faith in Him. I’ve never taken for granted the love and support of my fans; they drive me to continue creating. I’ve never stopped trying to be a positive voice, raising awareness for the causes that are near and dear to my heart. And I’ve never stopped trying to make the world a better place for our children. I’ve never really taken a break—and I have no intention of taking one now.
Really, I’m just getting started.
On the “Rock On” music video set: Michael Damian and Dream a Little Dream costars Meredith Salenger and Corey Haim, 1988.
Alfonso Ribeiro and I kicking it old school after performing “Dirty Diana,” 1988.
Jeff Hoefflin and I watch as Michael Jackson poses with his wax figure at Hayvenhurst.
Majestik, Muhammad Ali, and I, circa 1986.
[Left to right]: Jeff Hoefflin, me, Michael, Emmanuel, and LaToya in Michael’s theater at Hayvenhurst.
Sir Paul McCartney and I come together backstage at The New World Tour, 1993.
Behind the camera producing Dream a Little Dream 2, 1994.
The final photo: Yoko Ono, Susie, Michael, and I, photographed by Sean Lennon. Tavern on the Green, September 7, 2001.
Backstage with Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour.
Miraculous moment: With baby Zen on the day of his birth, August 7, 2005.
Lone soldier: In my Edgar Frog costume again for Lost Boys: The Thirst, South Africa, 2009.
Corey and his mother Judy were closer than ever in his final days.
Me, baby Zen, nephews Ashton and Dorion, and sister Mindy at a Goldstein family dinner.
Soul survivors: Cousin Michael and childhood friend Ian, showing off baby Zen.
Richard Donner and I, celebrating on my tour bus at The Goonies 25th anniversary concert, June 2010.
My proudest achievement: A happy and healthy Zen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Almighty God: I am eternally grateful that I have been blessed with this life and the opportunity to keep living it. I am grateful for the many gifts I have been given, as well as the opportunity to have my voice heard. Whenever I hear your call to defend the rights of animals, the environment, or the innocence of your children, I pray to serve thy will. I am your humble servant, and pray that this book serves your will, too.
Zen: My beautiful, amazing, brilliant, handsome, sweet, and loving son, I love you so much. Thank you for understanding when I was locked away at night, chained to my computer, consumed with telling this story. I owe you a lot of playtime! Thank you for bringing an enormous smile to my face every day. You are my driving force and the reason I get out of bed every morning. Everything I do in this world is for you. Zen, you are my everything.
My fans: I love you all so much. Thank you for never letting go, for believing in me, for sharing my dreams, and for being the reason I stay in this roller-coaster business. I hope that my art lives up to your expectations. I do, actually, love you more.
My mother, Sheila Feldman: Thank you for bringing me into this crazy world and for teaching me the most valuable lessons one can learn: patience and tolerance. Thank you, too, for instilling in me a love of animals—you showed me at an early age that animals deserve to be treated with love (sometimes even more than humans).
My father, Bob Feldman: Thank you for instilling in me a love of music, and for allowing me to spend time in all those re
hearsal rooms, soaking it up. You helped me learn to hear the difference between a good note and a bad one. I definitely learned how to be a rock star from you.
My sister, Mindy: Thank you for putting up with me through those unruly times, and for all your love and support. I love you very much. I know that you have always been there for me, and I will always be there for you, no matter what. I respect you as a mother, and for holding our family together, even in the darkest hours. I am proud to call you my sister.
My brother, Devin: Thank you for always being the calm in a perfect storm. I admire your honesty and dedication to standing up for what you believe. You have always had a great concern for others, and I know you will make a great father one day. I love you.
Uncle Merv: Thank you for always being there for me as a kid. Even though I never got to live with you, you provided a home to my siblings and have acted as a surrogate father. For that, I am eternally grateful. I love you, Merv.
My cousin, Michael: Thank you for being my best friend in the whole world. You know more about me than probably any other person. Although we have grown apart since you moved away, you are always in my heart, and I am very grateful to have you in my life. Other family members to thank are Dara, Ari, Marci, Murray, Marianne, Mark, and Alexa, and Ashton and Dorian Wilson (my sister’s kids).
Richard Donner: Dick! Thank you, my dear, dear friend. I wish I could say “I love you” often enough to explain how much I care for and respect you. You are, without question, the greatest man I have ever met in the entertainment industry. Thank you for always being there, no matter what. I could not have made it without you—that’s the God’s honest truth! I would also like to thank Lauren Shuller Donner and Derek and CeCe at the Donners company.
Coreyography: A Memoir Page 25