by Logan Miller
We called Gordon back.
“Gordon, they’re going to honor Ed Harris tomorrow night at the Castro, a big interview onstage.”
“And?…”
“We’re going to talk to him there.”
“How?”
“Don’t know yet.”
An interminable pause.
“Gordon?…You still there?”
No response.
“Gordon?”
“I’m thinking!…If…If you’re going to TRYYYYY to talk to Ed, you’d better have your pitch down. An elevator pitch.”
“We thought you said no elevators?”
“Elevator Pitch, guys. Elevator PITCH! Your thirty-second pitch…Give me your pitch.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
This is like asking a writer to saw off his writing arm and beat himself with it. There’s no worse question—summarize your child, your life, in thirty seconds. Can you do that? Suits are always asking writers to pitch their story. Writer’s write, editors abbreviate. But if you want to be a working writer, you’d better learn to edit your work, and more importantly, learn to pitch.
We stumbled. “Uhhhhmmmm…”
“C’mon, guys. You got thirty seconds. Your time’s up. You’d better work on it.”
“We’re gonna do it, Gordon. We’re going to the Castro. We’re gonna talk to Ed Harris.”
“Very well. Let me know how it goes.”
We started planning.
Shit, what if it’s already sold out? It’s probably sold out. Damnit.
We called our friend Chau. She’s like family, lives with her husband Josh in San Francisco, half a mile from the Castro. She walked down Market Street and bought three tickets. Step One complete: make sure we get in the door.
Step Two: presentation and detention.
How are we going to present our movie? How are we going to detain Ed Harris?
A week earlier, Pierson cut a beautiful two-minute trailer from the Tucson shoot, dreamy baseball sequences to Nick Drake’s Pink Moon.
We printed a fresh copy of our screenplay and paper clipped our business card and Panavision endorsement letter to the cover and then placed all this inside a manila envelope. What else do we need to bring? Our laptop. The goal was to show Ed Harris the trailer on our laptop—demonstrate that we had a vision for Touching Home—pitch him and then get him to read the screenplay, call us, and say, “Hey, guys. I’m in.”
The odds of all this happening? A million to one…on the luckiest day ever.
BRAD DOURIF FIRST
We met Chau at her house on Friday afternoon at four and headed west on Market Street, marching with bold optimism and a backpack full of movie-pitching materials.
Chau was the ideal companion for this mission. In 1979, her family built a forty-foot boat out of the floorboards in their house and sailed from Vietnam to Malaysia with seventy other people, desperate to escape the horrors of communism. They spent one year in a squalid refugee camp before making it to the United States. Chau remembers those rough years vividly. If anyone believes in the impossible, it’s Chau and her family. Talking to a celebrity? Big deal. Sailing the high seas in a tiny boat and making it to America? That’s tough.
“This is so exciting,” Chau said. “What are you guys going to do? How are you going to do it?”
“We’re not sure yet. We need to do some reconnaissance first, case the joint, scope it out.”
The light turned green. We crossed the street. Our cell phone rang.
“Brad Dourif is in,” said the guy on the other end. (You’ll meet this wonderful piece of foul-smelling humanity later, not Brad, but the turd on the phone right now. You’ll meet Brad later as well, but he’s terrific. The piece talking right now is not.) “He read the script and loves it. He wants to play Clyde.”
Clyde was the role of our uncle in the script, our dad’s brother.
“Great…,” Noah said. “We’re on our way to meet Ed Harris. Gotta go.”
RECON: AN ARMY OF TWO
We arrived at the Castro Theatre at 4:30 P.M. We looked through the glass doors at the concession stand. The lights were off inside. Nobody had showed up for work yet. We bought Chau an ice cream at the coffee shop next door and then stood in front of the theater and formed the line, first ones there.
The Castro District, one might say, is not ordinary. All around us, packs of grown men were holding hands. There was a bar across the street with Harleys parked out front where muscular dudes in leather pants and handlebar mustaches were also holding hands. Some were canoodling. We heard the crack of a leather whip in the distance. Yes, not ordinary, one might say. The Castro is definitely not ordinary. But it happened to be the place that we were at today, 1,440 miles from Kansas.
A few theater employees threw irritated glances at us as they showed up for work, tapping their watches. “We’re not open yet.”
“Thanks.”
We’d smile and wave, standing with our backpack, tall and proud at the front of the line. Finally they opened the doors and we went inside and set up operational headquarters five rows back from the stage. It was the closest we could sit. The first four rows were cordoned off for the press and film society members.
Chau watched our gear as we launched our reconnaissance. We needed to find out when and where Ed would enter the theater. There were several entrances and exits. Logan cased the right side of the building, Noah the left. We opened exit doors, peered into alleys, janitor’s closets, the balcony, discovered the storehouse of candy bars and popcorn, shared a Twix.
Noah walked downstairs to the men’s room to take a leak and struck up a conversation with the guy at the urinal beside him. The guy was wearing a headset and microphone, looked like Secret Service.
“You do this a lot?” Noah asked.
“What, take a piss?” He didn’t turn his head, focused downward on his aimer.
“No, security detail.”
“Only the festival. Worked it the last three years.”
“When’s Ed coming?”
“Don’t know.” He zipped up his fly and walked out.
Meanwhile Logan bought a bag of popcorn, wanted to look natural, just another movie junkie at a festival. He posted up next to the front door where the red carpet stretched to the curb. There was a security guy there too.
“So is, uhh, Ed, just gonna walk down the carpet right here?”
“Probably not…He doesn’t really like the spotlight.”
“You know him?”
“Not really.”
“Kinda?” Logan asked, chewing on popcorn, casually looking around, nodding and appreciating the ceiling.
“Not really.”
“Limousine?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you know who knows?”
“You gotta go, buddy. You gotta move out of the doorway, you can’t stand here.”
“Okay…No problem. See you around.”
We reconvened at our seats and held a debriefing, whispering for secrecy.
“What do you got?” Logan asked.
“Nothing. There’s tons of ways to get into this place, probably twenty doors, maybe even a secret tunnel somewhere. He could come in from the alley on the right or the alley on the left. There’s a parking lot adjacent to the alley on the right…Who knows? There’s probably an entrance backstage. What do you got?”
“They rolled out a red carpet in front.”
“Do you think we should wait out there?”
“It’s already packed. And the security is heavy.”
“I think we should do one more round of recon, talk to whomever we can. Get some hard intel.”
“Roger that.”
Chau listened intensely, smiling, her head swinging back and forth from one of us to the other. “This is so exciting!”
After ten more minutes of recon, we met back at our seats.
“I saw him,” Logan whispered.
“Where?”
�
�Just a glimpse as he came down the balcony steps with a few people.”
“Should we go up there and talk to him? Let’s rush the balcony.”
“They walked out one of the side doors.”
“You should’ve stopped him.”
“Couldn’t. Didn’t have time. They were across the lobby from me and moving quick.”
PUSHING THROUGH THE CURTAIN
The Castro was filling up. We were sitting in the aisle seats on the right, fifth row from the stage, looking over our shoulders, scanning the balcony, studying every face spilling in, ready to pounce on opportunity. There was still a chance we could buttonhole Ed Harris on his way to the stage, pitch him with frantic passion, show him the trailer on our laptop as we hustled alongside him.
If Ed Harris walked down the right aisle…he was ours.
Then Graham Leggat, the executive director of the San Francisco Film Society, took center stage. He was wearing a black blazer, shaved head, sharp features. The crowd hushed.
“Thank you all for coming…It’s our great pleasure…Please welcome, Ed Harris.”
Clapping, cheering, whistling.
The curtain on the left side of the stage ruffled as two men swam through it. Film critic Pete Hammond appeared, followed by Ed Harris. They walked across the stage, paused in the middle, waved, and then sat in comfortable chairs, a coffee table with glasses of water between them.
The theater inflated as we deflated. One thousand, three hundred and ninety-eight people rose from their seats and cheered as twin brothers sunk into their chairs. Why? Because Ed Harris came in from backstage.
How the hell are we going to get backstage?
The prospect of us talking to Ed was nil.
It probably sounds obvious to the reader of this adventure that Ed Harris would enter from backstage, right? But in our mania, in our deluded optimism and foolishly impractical confidence, we figured he would enter from the street, walk down the red carpet into the theater, down the right aisle, shake our hands, slap us high fives—might even postpone the interview to watch our two-minute trailer on our laptop; he’d been waiting his entire career to be pitched on our movie. This was the role of a lifetime.
The interview began.
Pete Hammond asked his first question, something like, “Tell us about your background. You grew up in Jersey…”
Ed described it as the all-American, 1950s-era neighborhood: white picket fences, two-parent households, kids playing in the street. He talked about how he was a jock growing up, played football and baseball—dreamed of playing in the major leagues.
Major leagues?
We sat up.
A star high school athlete, Ed went to Columbia University to play football and baseball and quickly realized that he wasn’t big enough, fast enough, and “couldn’t hit a curveball.” He explained how he’d never done anything related to theater or art, nothing creative, until he saw a theatrical play while visiting his parents in Oklahoma during his freshman summer break. The cast received a standing ovation. The applause lavished on the actors was the same applause an athlete received for an outstanding performance on the field. It seemed as though this new type of performance could fill the void left by athletics. Thus began his journey to where he was now.
These were favorable parallels to our journey. We had taken similar paths into the creative world. Still, our confidence faded with each question and each answer.
How are we going to talk to him? How are we going to get backstage?
Forty minutes later Pete Hammond said, “One more question and then we’re going to pass the microphone around the audience for a Q&A.”
Logan grabbed Noah’s arm, whispered, “Bro, I’m gonna get the mic. We’re gonna talk to him, put him on the spot in front of all these people.”
“What are you gonna say?”
Logan squeezed his brain for thirty seconds and extracted the juice, whispered to Noah. “Hello, Mr. Harris. Me and my brother are local independent filmmakers. We’re shooting a movie up here this summer and were wondering if we could talk to you for two minutes afterward?”
“Sounds great.”
The interview ended.
Then Pete Hammond said, “Now we’ll take some questions from the audience.”
Two ushers, one on each side of the theater, stood with microphones.
“Please raise your hand if you have a question, and we’ll do our best to give you an opportunity to ask it.”
We ejected from our seats, the first ones in the theater to raise their hands, gesturing with fanatic intensity. An usher with a microphone was two seats in front of us. He scanned the theater for fans with raised hands. But he couldn’t see the twin maniacs. So we switched tactics and became a two-man fitness video, vigorously calling attention to ourselves with jumping jacks. And when that didn’t work, we switched to military tactics; signal men landing F-16s on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
The usher looked at us. We locked eyes. Right here, dude. Land it, man. Land it.
He nodded.
That’s right, dude. Right here, give us the mic…We have an audience with destiny.
He walked toward us.
Yes. Destiny.
Logan smiled, nodded, held out his hand to receive the microphone. And the usher walked right past him and up the aisle. Logan swiveled in shock as destiny abandoned us.
The usher handed the microphone to a yoga-sedated woman. She asked one of those deep, philosophical acting questions that only Buddha could answer. Ed did his best.
Then the microphone was passed to someone else. They asked a question. Ed answered. The microphone was passed again. And again. Everywhere but us.
We remained standing, waving our hands, desperately gesturing for the microphone.
“Over here!” We’d cry. The sadistic usher would look us in the eyes, nod, grin, step around us, and find someone less desperate. It was as if we embodied the usher’s entire frustrations of his youth. And tonight was the reckoning.
“Okay. We’ve got time for one more question.”
The last question was hurled at Ed Harris. They never gave us the microphone. Festival staffers have a preternatural ability for spotting derangement. And they had spotted us that night.
We felt like rioting, throwing chairs, burning cars.
“Thank you,” Pete Hammond said.
THE INJUSTICE!
The house stood and clapped, smiled, and whistled. A deafening ovation. Ed Harris waved and then disappeared through the curtain. Our world dimmed and slowed. Our hearing muted.
The audience became a grove of giants. We had failed. We felt heavy and insignificant, embarrassed and humiliated that we’d hatched such a laughable scheme. Sure, go to the Castro Theatre along with fourteen hundred other fans, talk to Ed Harris, pitch him on our movie, show him our trailer, and give him our script. Sure, it’s possible—YOU IDIOTS! Only a couple of idiots would buy into such a wild and outrageous plan. Only a couple of idiots would waste time organizing such a far-fetched undertaking.
It had all been useless, ridiculous. WE WERE RIDICULOUS.
Our chance to speak to Ed Harris was gone.
It was an impossible dream.
The world was silent.
Then Noah rose from his chair and stepped into the aisle.
“Where are you going?” Logan asked.
Noah turned around, fierce. “Fuck this! We’re going backstage to talk to Mr. Harris.”
ONWARD AND UPWARD, BROTHER! was our battle cry as we stormed the stage. EITHER YOU’RE IN OR YOU’RE IN THE WAY!
We strutted down the aisle like intoxicated prizefighters and turned left at the front row, past security in yellow jackets and San Francisco cops in blue, up the steps and onto the stage, the theater still undulating with appreciation. We pushed through the curtain and bumped into a woman on the other side, startling her.
“Uhhh, excuse me,” she said. “What are you doing back here?”
“We’re the independent fi
lmmakers,” Noah said. “And we’re here to talk to Ed Harris.”
The words echoed with self-styled importance: We are THE independent filmmakers.
Act like you belong and you might have a chance.
We stepped around her, attention forward, barely acknowledging the handler. We were important. We had an appointment. We sensed in her hesitation that she didn’t want to be the one that prevented Ed Harris from meeting with “THEEE independent filmmakers.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“We are THEEEE independent filmmakers, and we’re here to talk to Ed,” Noah repeated.
THEEE independent filmmakers just came out naturally. It made us sound important…
Then it registered that we were imposters.
“Absolutely not! You’re not going anywhere! Get outta here!” She shoved Noah back through the curtain and onto the stage. He didn’t resist. The weight of being a fraud was now crushing him.
The theater was bustling, noisy, the stagehands hurrying to clear the stage in the ten-minute intermission before the screening.
Desperation set in. So Noah told the truth. “Look, we’re local independent filmmakers. We’re shooting a movie up here this summer, and we want to speak to Ed about it. Would you please see if he’ll talk to us for two minutes? Please, just two minutes?”
She paused, softened. “Where are you guys from?”
“Across the bridge, forty-five minutes north, a small town you’ve never heard of.”
“I’m a filmmaker as well,” she said.
“Where are you from?” Logan asked.
“Arizona.”
“We used to live in Tucson. We just filmed down there a couple weeks ago.”
“Really? I love Tucson.”
“Could you please see if Ed will talk to us for two minutes? Just two minutes of his time. That’s it.”
She squinted, examined our faces. Could we be trusted?
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll go ask.”
She disappeared through the curtain in front of us.
Behind us, cops and security guards, the ones we just walked past on our way up the stage, were watching us. We felt dangerously vulnerable, as though the wooden shampoo or the security guard necktie was on its way. And we also figured that the young woman was coming back with the cops. We were surrounded by cops and security, onstage and backstage. Our run was over.