Just like wrestling.
When I first trained at the Hart Brothers Camp, they had us lie down in the middle of the ring with our knees up in the air and our hands on our chest. Then we would hit the mat simultaneously with our hands and feet hundreds of times. At first I couldn’t understand what that had to do with wrestling, until I figured out that was how you learned to bump, which was the foundation of the art form. Bumping properly was the difference between becoming the next Shawn Michaels or Shawn Stasiak, and learning how to drop in properly was the difference between becoming the next Paul Newman or Paul Shore.
I learned two very important lessons from Kirk, the first being that the words on the printed page meant nothing, it was how you delivered those words that made an actor great.
Kirk explained, “If you know how to harness your emotions and express them properly, you can make someone cry by reading the phone book.”
We ran through exercises in his class that helped deliver emotion, not lines. The most draining of them all was called “The Ritual,” designed to bring out the rawest emotions from the darkest part of your soul. While my classmates did interpretive dances or conversations to dead relatives, I did something different.
I painted a face on a watermelon and brought it to the front of the class.
“Everyone please say hi to Danny!”
It was a few months before my mom passed away and my hatred of him was at an all-time high as her health declined. The class greeted the melon, smiling and playing along with the joke, oblivious of who Danny was.
“I want you to meet the son of a bitch who paralyzed my mother and ruined my life.”
The smiles drained off their faces and I proceeded to tell Danny Melon everything I’d been holding inside since my mom’s accident. Then I took a knife and started stabbing him, taking out my murderous anger before bursting into tears.
When I was done, the class was crying too, including Kirk. It was the first time I really understood what true acting was. If I dropped into character and pulled out my real emotions, I could make people believe. I could make them cry. I could make them feel what I was feeling. And I liked it.
The second lesson I learned was the art of making choices. This was the process that an actor used to decide the quirks and nuances of the character that weren’t written in the script. Johnny Depp made the choice to portray Captain Jack Sparrow as a Keith Richards– esque rummy. Heath Ledger made the choice to have the Joker slurp after every sentence. Mike Myers made the choice to make The Love Guru unfunny. Making choices was an actor’s most valuable tool and something I’d never considered before.
With my newfound knowledge and respect for acting it was time to hit the pavement to find a gig. Auditioning in L.A. was a whole new world, and I found out quickly that my international superstardom from the WWE meant nothing in Hollywood. But I had no problem checking my ego at the door and starting at the bottom; that’s where I started in wrestling and in music and I’d done okay with those.
Still it was quite the experience to walk into an audition for CSI: Sheboygan and see ten other dudes who looked just like me reciting their one line over and over. Then I’d get called into the room and stand in front of four or five producers (who looked like they had just eaten sour grapes) and deliver my line.
“Hey you, take your damn hands off of her!”
They would say thank you and I’d leave with no feedback, no comments, and no idea how I did.
I auditioned for a remake of The Rocky Horror Picture Show for the role of Riff Raff, and had to sing an a cappella version of “Time Warp” in front of the producers. It was brutal. I didn’t know the words, the song, or what key it was in. I was asked to leave, and I felt like one of the rejects from the first few weeks of an American Idol season.
During another audition, I was in the middle of an impassioned read for the movie Beer League when the phone rang and the casting director took the call.
“Hold on a second,” she said drolly as I stood there like Johnny Drama. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part.
When I showed up for an audition for Cashmere Mafia, I was puzzled to see a bunch of seedy long-haired biker types standing in line. I took my place at the back and waited, wondering how they were going to get through so many people in the twenty minutes until my turn.
“We’re gonna get to film in some pretty exotic locations if we get this,” said one particularly disheveled scumbag wearing a do-rag and a Molly Hatchet shirt.
“Exotic locations?” I thought as I fixed my suit. “The show takes place in New York City.”
Then a PA showed up with a clipboard, and after asking my name said I wasn’t on the list.
“But I have an audition.”
“For what?”
“ Cashmere Mafia.”
He smirked and told me I’d made a mistake and was standing in line for the pirate movie.
So I went over to the proper line, ready to impress and get the part. I’d worked on the scene for a week and felt great about my chances. It was a dramatic part and I’d dropped in by remembering how I felt when Horshack, my pet goldfish, died when I was six.
I was full of emotion as I started my performance. “I can’t believe she’s dead. Leprosy is a terrible disease, but I never thought it would—”
“ Arrrrr be darrrr! ”
Wawazat?
I wasn’t sure what I’d just heard, but whatever it was, I wasn’t going to let it affect my performance.
“I have to come to terms that she’s gone forever and—”
“ Shiver me timbers! ”
What the hell was that? I composed myself and continued.
“But I will always love her and—”
“ Walk the plank, matey! ”
“I need more growling, guys!” yelled another voice through the paper-thin wall. “You’re pirates, give me more pirating! ”
I forged ahead. “She will always be the wind beneath my wings—”
“ Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! ”
“Is anybody else hearing this!?” I snapped at the moon-faced casting director.
“Well, of course I hear it but if you can’t concentrate, maybe you’re not ready for this part?”
She was right. I wasn’t ready to read with the crew of the Black Pearl peg-legging it next door. It didn’t matter as my career was on its way down to Davy Jones’s locker anyway.
No matter how good or how bad I was, I just couldn’t catch a break. Over the next few months I auditioned for parts in The Oh in Ohio, The Believers, Beer League, Beerfest, Into the Blue, The Dukes of Hazzard, The Devil’s Rejects, Knocked Up, Transformers, X-Men 3, The Longest Yard, Wild Hogs, Meet the Spartans, Shoot ’Em Up, The Fog, Gone Baby Gone, and Banana Hammock Boys Gone Bad (actually I did get the part in Banana Hammock Boys ). That’s a combined gross of $1,265,367,185 for the movies I didn’t get cast in.
I’m the bizzaro Samuel L. Jackson.
I hadn’t booked a job in months and was getting quite discouraged, when a call came in from the Sci-Fi Channel offering me a part in a movie called Android Apocalypse. It wasn’t exactly Transformers, but it was the first offer I’d received and I was thrilled. I was visiting Chad and Speewee in Calgary and had to be on the set in Regina the next day, so the producers arranged for a limo to drive me the five hours so I could make my early call time.
Chad had wisely suggested that the limo company provide me with pillows and blankets so I could sleep during the trip. They set up a makeshift bed on the floorboards of the spacious car, and as soon as we started driving, I dozed off.
A few hours later, the car slowed down and I heard the driver say he needed gas. I looked out the window and saw it was 3 a.m. and we were stopped at a Shell station besieged by a swarm of teenagers. I laid back on the floor and closed my eyes.
Suddenly someone started banging on the windows.
“Hey, it’s a VIP! Who’s the big shot in the limo?” an obnoxious voice slurred.
I was completely flummoxed Goldust™ that the driver had decided to stop in the middle of a sea of drunken kids and totally pissed that the dipshit wasn’t even gassing up the car, but was inside buying a Coke instead. Then the yelling intensified and the door of the limo flew open. A chubby farmboy wearing a Clint Black sweatshirt stuck his head inside the car and said, “Who’s in here??”
“Get the fuck out!” I threatened as I untangled myself from underneath the covers. I had taken my shirt off earlier and his eyes widened in amazement as he saw the naked man squriming on the floor.
“Somebody’s having sex in there! Everybody come here!”
I kicked Clint out of the car and reached to close the door, but his friends had arrived and were trying to pry it back open. I felt like I was battling with a horde of undead zombies who wanted to eat my flesh instead of a horde of horny farmboys who wanted a glimpse of some. After a few seconds of struggling, they managed to fling open the door and suddenly there were two of them in the car.
“Where’s the girl?” asked another bumpkin, this one in a “Wine Me, Dine Me, 69 Me” trucker’s cap.
“There is no girl in here, just me, you idiot!”
Wine Me looked at Clint in amazement and said, “He’s jacking off!”
They cackled at the fact they’d caught a guy wanking himself on the floor of a limousine.
“I’m not jacking off!” I hollered as the two stooges climbed out of the car.
“Hey, there’s some guy in here pulling his pud!”
“I’m not pulling my pud!!” I yelled out the door, slamming it shut and locking it as the dopey driver returned and put his snacks in the car.
“Let’s go! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” I shouted.
“But I still need gas—”
“Forget the gas, let’s get out of here now!!”
As he drove away I saw another wave of pervert zombies shambling toward the car to get a glimpse of the parking lot peep show.
“I’m not pulling my pud!” I yelled out the open window.
I’d been cast in Android Apocalypse in the role of Tee-Dee (who coincidentally was an android), and the first scene of the day involved me and my costar Joseph Lawrence (Whoah!) getting into a firefight with sentinel robots who had been sent to kill us. The scene called for us to run through the canyon shooting our rifles at a red light, which would later become a CGI flying robot. I was given an actual rifle that shot dead rounds and we were coached on how to fire so the shells wouldn’t fly out and burn anybody.
I made the choice that Tee-Dee had been hit with shrapnel in a previous battle and walked with a slight limp. To make sure I didn’t forget my choice I put a rock in my shoe. I was a veritable De Niro in Raging Bull. The problem was the stupid rock made me take a bad step just as I fired my rifle. When the director yelled cut, one of the extras reached in her shirt and pulled a smoking cartridge out from between her boobskis.
“Not a bad shot,” I thought to myself.
Android Apocalypse was a great experience and I really turned some Hollywood heads with my three minutes of screen time. Hey, everyone has to start somewhere, right? I mean, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s first movie was Hercules Goes Bananas, and I know this was better than that one.
Absolutely.
After I wrapped Android, I hit the streets once again to take meetings. In Hollywood you don’t have meetings, you take them. And where you take them I have no idea. To dinner? To the carnival? To a Chumbawamba concert? I guess only Bronson Pinchot knows for sure.
I had just taken a meeting at Paramount, and when I walked out of the office I saw Matt Dillon a few feet behind me. I was stoked to be in the presence of Dallas Winston himself. Of course I was too froot to say anything, but I gave him a half-smile with a slight nod, and he reciprocated my greeting. We walked down a flight of stairs to the valet parking area, and as Matt approached the attendants, they halted their conversation and began nudging each other, obviously excited to see such a legendary performer. As he reached the bottom of the stairs the three valets were practically jumping up and down they were so excited. Dillon gave the first one his ticket and the guy broke out into a huge grin, not able to contain his excitement any longer.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe it! You’re my favorite!”
Matt smirked at the valet’s enthusiasm.
“I’ve been waiting for so long to meet you … Mr. Jericho!” the guy said, turning his attention directly to me.
Dally looked completely bewildered as the valet and his two comrades shook my hand and clapped me on the back. “We’re big fans, Y2J!”
Dillon gave me a look as if to say, “Who the fuck are you?” I gave him a look as if to say, “Well, I’m the shizznit, aren’t I?”
He stared at me for a moment longer, then drove away in his Jaguar. I got into my Taurus, and realized I was the shizznit no longer.
Later that day I took another meeting at New Line Cinema, and when I walked into the execs’ office I was surprised to see my old friend Jeff Katz sitting behind the desk. I’d first met Katz when he’d gotten a job as an Internet reporter in WCW at age sixteen. Bischoff had admired his drive and determination and hired him to work in the then fledgling online division. I respected his gumption for getting himself employed by his favorite wrestling company at such a young age. If I’d had the chance when I was sixteen, I would’ve done the same thing.
In the years since I’d last seen him, he had moved to L.A. and been the driving force behind the Freddy vs. Jason movie, simply because it was a showdown he’d always wanted to see. He approached the task of getting the film off the ground the same way he’d got himself hired in WCW—with pure determination. Freddy vs. Jason was a huge hit, making $115 million, and a few years later Katz was one of the top young executives in town.
Jeff started introducing me to his friends in Hollywood, including an up-and-coming director named Eli Roth. Eli had just released his first movie, Cabin Fever, which had become a surprise box-office hit, and I thought it was great.
We met at a breakfast place in Hollywood and hit it off instantly when we found out we were both obsessed with American Movie, a little-known documentary about a scatterbrained small-time filmmaker from Wisconsin. We entertained ourselves by trading quotable quips from the movie, excited to find somebody else who had actually heard of Mark Borchardt. I started to hang out with Eli whenever I was in L.A., and eventually he extended the offer to stay with him whenever I was in town.
Eli and I were kindred spirits, both of us obsessed with Italian horror movies, Iron Maiden, and everything ’80s. The first time I went to his place in the Hollywood Hills, it wasn’t surprising that his address was the last house on the left. The first thing I noticed when I went inside was a movie poster for the early-’80s Willie Aames/Scott Baio classic Zapped. He got me a cold pumpkin beer, and as I took the first delicious sip, I recognized the weird synth music playing in the background.
“Hey, is that the soundtrack of Zombie?”
“Yeah, it is!”
I nodded approvingly. “I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you’re playing the soundtrack to Zombie or the fact that I recognized it.”
One night we were discussing the intricacies of Cannibal Holocaust when he told me he had an idea for a movie that he wanted to make quickly in between the projects he already had booked. It was called Hostel and was about a group of college kids (aren’t they always?) in Europe who get kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder to be tortured and killed. He explained the plot in great detail (including the Japanese girl getting her face burned and her eye cut out), and I thought it was a froot concept.
He eventually pitched it, got it greenlit, and Hostel ended up earning $80 million worldwide, making Eli one of the hottest directors in Hollywood almost overnight.
Months later after he’d completed filming he invited me to a private test screening for the Lions Gate studio executives. They were literally putting the finishing touches on the print while
we watched.
“Could you add some color there? We need some contrast here.”
It was incredible to see Eli’s vision translated onscreen almost exactly the same way he’d described it to me initially. I reacted loudly to some of the gory parts and afterwards two of the execs quizzed me about what I liked best about the film and took notes when I gave my answers. So it’s quite obvious to me that without my amazing feedback Hostel wouldn’t have been half the success it was … right?
My time squatting at Eli’s place came to an end when I came home one night and found the front door open. I snuck inside and saw Eli working diligently in his office with his back to the entrance. I crept up behind him like Belial and slapped him on the back hard, screaming, “Muahahahahahahahaha!”
He jumped out of the chair in shock and I burst out laughing.
“Ha-ha! Looks like Mr. Horror Man is scared!! Ohhh, you ain’t so scary now, are you, Hostel boy!”
He didn’t invite me back to his house for three months.
CHAPTER 40
The Baby-Faced Assassin
When I was growing up I originally had three dreams: to be a wrestler, a rock star, and a hockey player. As I got older, the hockey dream died when I found out that I just wasn’t very good. But I still followed the game meticulously and played for fun in the local rinks whenever I could.
But I never imagined I’d play in the most famous arena in the world until I got a call in December 2000 from the New York Rangers asking me if I wanted to take part in a charity hockey game at Madison Square Garden organized by Christopher Reeve.
A chance to play hockey in MSG? Gee, let me check my skedge …
I was totally keyed up to follow in my father’s skatestrides and play in the same battleground where he had become famous, especially since Chris Reeve was involved.
I had been following Chris’s progress as a quadraplegic for years, and his advances in the field of spinal cord injury were a real inspiration to me and my mom. His condition was actually worse than hers, as he needed a breathing tube to function, but he had an unbelievably positive attitude and honestly believed he would someday walk again.
Undisputed: How to Become World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps Page 33