You’re a great walking advertisement for Sherwood Oaks…
The guy that put this together is Gary Shusett, and Gary has got the balls of King Kong. He would go up to anybody in the industry and ask them to come to his little experimental college and talk. He would literally knock on their front doors…And he always got them! I’m enormously indebted to his chutzpah because it benefited me with a film education from industry people.
How did you develop a relationship with Frank Capra?
He came to Sherwood Oaks to screen It’s a Wonderful Life and to talk about it. This was before It’s a Wonderful Life was the classic that it is today. [9] While I was watching the movie, I noticed certain elements that really spoke to me — especially the Jimmy Stewart character and the idea that he was just trying to be a good person even though all these horrible things were happening to him. The thing that really got to me was the ending, with the family, the money and the bell. I had seen that sequence a number of times on TV. Somehow, I had always managed to catch the movie at the end and that scene always got to me emotionally, even though I had never seen what led up to that point. Now that I knew what had come before, I had this wonderful moment of revelation: “Oh, it’s that movie!” I felt compelled to approach Capra afterwards, and I said, “I need to know you. I need to understand what you do, because I want to do the same thing.” And he was kind enough to give me his phone number and address so I could get in touch with him.
After that, I was on a mission to see all of his movies. They weren’t available on video yet, so I had to wait until they came to the revival houses. Each one had a strong effect on me, because he consistently embraced that theme about the little guy against big odds.
When he worked for [producer] Mack Sennett, Capra was a silent gag writer for Harry Langdon, who in turn was a huge influence on me. There was a lot of Langdon in the character that I created in the Mime Company. He had that man-child quality. Langdon’s character, particularly in the films that Capra was involved with, had a humanity that made him watchable and likable even though he was a cartoon in the middle of a realistic world. It’s the same quality that Jimmy Stewart has in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Or Gary Cooper in Meet John Doe. People treat him like an idiot, but he’s not an idiot. He’s an innocent with uncompromising morals and an incredibly strong sense of self.
How would you sum up Capra’s influence on you?
His attitude was that movies are a people-to-people medium. If you don’t care about the people, you don’t care about the story. You can have all the fancy camera tricks and special effects in the world, but it means nothing if the audience doesn’t care about the characters. And I try to take that idea and put it into everything that I do — whether I’m doing a horror movie or a romance or a drama. If you care about the people, you get taken in. I’m not necessarily using a Capra-esque story structure or a Capra-esque character, but I’m very consciously thinking I’ve got to get the audience to like the characters and relate to them so that, when things start to happen, you’re rooting for them. You want to see them succeed and, on some level, you want to be them.
I remember a couple of other things that Capra said that really stuck with me. One was, “If you get a chance to talk to people for two hours in the dark, you must have something to say.” That made sense to me because I know the effect that movies have on me. I carry the experience of certain movies around with me for a long time. I know how many times I’ve been in a really tough situation in my life and the image that comes into my head is George Bailey at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, or Rocky Balboa pulling himself up in the fifteenth round to keep fighting. I love those scenes that represent the human desire to keep trying, no matter what.
When you were going to the movies during this time period, did you feel like you were doing research for a future career?
For me, the late ’70s was a period of studying to be a filmmaker — taking any job I could that would pay the bills and allow me to be on a set. That was my mandate. When I was working [as a stuntman] on the movie Prophecy, I’d check in with the A.D. every morning. Even if they didn’t need me that day, I’d hang around. They didn’t have video monitors in those days, but you could trail behind the director if you wanted to see what was going on. The crew would set up the shots while the director and the actors went back to their trailers, and during those great spaces, I had the opportunity to talk to all the different crew members and learn about what they did. That was the kind of experience that my dad believed was far better than film school.
Since you brought up Prophecy…How did you end up getting the role of the mutant bear in that movie?
Because of my mime background, I was called to meet with [director] John Frankenheimer and [producer] Robert Rosen. They needed someone to get into this monster suit and run on all fours. They showed me some early sketches of the monster, which looked like a weird mix of Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan — all the monsters from the Japanese horror films. The movie was about a mythological creature called Katahdin, and Katahdin is supposed to be this combination of all of God’s creatures. So their early sketch of the monster was accurate in that this thing was a combination of bird and mammal and all these other creatures combined…It had a beak and a wing and a claw and sort of a bear-shaped body. I looked at it and they said, “What do you think?” I was trying not to laugh; trying not to lose the job. So I said, “Well, I sure wouldn’t want to be in the same room with that thing.” That was the kindest thing I could think of. Eventually Tom Burman stepped in to redesign the monster, and he came up with the notion of the mutated bear.
What was it like inside that costume?
It was me and another guy, a dancer named Charles Flemmer, who wore the bear suit — the idea being that if one of us got worn out, the other would take over for a while. And we did get worn out because this bear suit weighed about 150 pounds, most of which rested on our heads. We were eye-level with the neck. The bear head, with all the hydraulics in it, was perched on top. We had to do a lot of conditioning to make sure our necks were strong enough to handle that. Then we had to run on all fours, with extenders on our arms and legs. It was a real endurance test.
At one point I had to get into scuba gear for a scene where the bear emerges from underwater. I realized very quickly that this suit — which was rubber — absorbs water. The first time it happened, I couldn’t stand up because the thing was so heavily weighted. I think they finally just cheated the shot. A stuntman put on the head, got into the water, and then they blasted water up around him as he stood up.
There were so many crazy shots where we were fighting to make this thing look as big as it was supposed to be. I remember the scene where I’m chasing the Native American character, played by Victoria Racimo…They put her on a dolly, on her knees. Then they pulled the dolly while I was running behind her. It was the most absurd-looking thing as we were doing it. As I was in there, I was just thinking: I’m paying my dues. My goal is I’m going to direct one day. That’s what got me through.
Prophecy was a grueling job…I even had to run through fire! I caught on fire twice while wearing monster suits — once on Prophecy and once on Alice in Wonderland [1985], when I played the Jabberwocky. The wing caught on fire because they had real torches on the set. I remember hearing somebody say, “The Jabberwocky’s on fire. Can we put him out?” I’m inside the suit, looking back and forth, going…huh? Put him out??
Tell me about being directed by John Frankenheimer.
For me, it was a chance to work for nine months with a living legend. John Frankenheimer represented to me what the great classic directors, like Ford and Hawks, would have been like. He wore the boots; he had the power. When he went on location, forty people followed him wherever he went. If he walked into the river — which he did one day to look for a shot — everybody walked right into the river with him. He was in charge and you did whatever he said.
At that time, I was a frustrated wannabe filmmaker and I ac
tually had the stupidity to make some suggestions to the director. As much as I respected Frankenheimer, there was a part of me that regarded the filmmaking process as communal — because when you make little films, everybody throws something into the pot and it’s up to the director to sort everything. I had the idea that’s how all films were made. So when there was a scene that involved me, I would say, “Mr. Frankenheimer, what if the camera was down here and then we could get the monster’s point of view from over here and then…”
The crew must have been thinking, Why is this mime in a bear suit telling John Frankenheimer how to direct his movie? The first time, John was like, “Yeah, well, thank you Tom, I appreciate that.” He blew it off. The second time, he said, “Can I talk to you for a second?” He pulled me aside and he said, “I know you haven’t done this a lot, but you don’t tell the director where to place the camera. That’s my job. It’s not that your ideas aren’t good — in fact, I’m going to use that idea — but in the future if you have an idea, come to me privately. Don’t do it in front of the whole crew. You’re just embarrassing yourself.” I thought that was very nice of him to address my stupidity that way.
As years have gone on, the more I think about it, the more I cringe. I can’t believe I had the nerve to do that. But it was an innocent, well-meaning gesture. I was just thinking, Gee, we’re all making a movie together, and I’ve got an idea to contribute. I still genuinely love that sense that movies are a group effort. I think people are always more committed when they feel like it’s not just one person’s movie. Film is a communal art form, and you want everyone in the group to be excited and share their best work.
Was everyone else as excited about making a monster movie as you were?
John did not want to do a monster movie. In fact, if you referred to Prophecy as a monster movie at any given time, you were fined or yelled at by John — and you didn’t want to be yelled at by John. I think he had convinced himself that he could call this a political movie about environmental problems, because they developed the monster around this Indian mythology about the destruction of nature by the white man. And he probably thought it would be a big money-maker.
No such luck.
When I went to the preview screening of Prophecy at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, people were laughing at it. It was really hard on some of the people who worked on the movie. And hard for the studio, which had put a ton of money into it. I remember somebody told me that the production costs were $40,000 a day…And on some days we only got one shot. That’s $40,000 for one shot! Plus we started shooting day for night, and when the studio execs saw the footage they scrapped all that material and started over. They built a forest on the sound stage sixteen at Paramount and started all over again. That’s when the realities of excessive studio spending became very clear to me.
And all for a movie that then gets laughed off the screen.
Well, at the first preview anyway. But I think there might have been some people in the audience who wanted to sabotage it. The movie really did work on one level. It was very intense. The problem was that the monster just…wasn’t…scary. And because the actors were taking things so seriously and the monster was so ludicrous, it seemed like a joke. And all it takes is one person to start laughing. Suddenly everybody in the theater is going, “Is this supposed to be funny?” It’s like a fart that starts to permeate the room, and it wasn’t long before the mood in the theater changed. It just became a farce, and I was started slowly sinking down in my seat too.
The best thing that came out of Prophecy was I met my wife Nancy on the set. The head of security had a daughter who was best friends with Nancy. I met her on stage sixteen as I was crawling out of the ass-end of this monster. Picture this: I’m wearing an electric blue leotard and tights. As soon as I get out of the costume, I immediately start to exercise — because my muscles would get so hot in that suit and I couldn’t let them get cold or everything would tighten up. I had a routine that I had to do — because I knew that, when I got back into that suit, my muscles couldn’t be cold or I would really hurt myself. So I was doing my routine and she made eye contact with me and I with her. Her immediate reaction was, “He’s gay. Has to be. In leotard and tights, looking like a ballet dancer…”
I managed to find out that she worked as a waitress in a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, so after we wrapped that night I went home, cleaned up and went to the restaurant. I walked up to her and she was shocked to see me. I think I said something corny, like “I was afraid I was never going to see you again.” Which was terribly romantic to her. And then, “What time do you get off? Let’s meet for coffee.” That was the beginning of our relationship. Thirty-four years later, we’re still together.
In your next film, The Black Hole, you played the second-fastest robot gunslinger in the universe…
I was originally hired as a sort of sentry robot / humanoid stunt choreographer, which was the case on many projects in those days. The film featured two different kinds of robot characters, and the director, Gary Nelson, wanted somebody to train those guys to move in a consistent way. With the humanoids, I went for a slow-motion floating walk. With the sentries, I decided to use Nazi goose steps. We kept their movements very staccato, so that they would still look like machines.
I wasn’t hired to act in the movie, but one day Gary came to me and said he was thinking about creating a new character called Captain S.T.A.R. He was the original prototype before they turned to clone robots, and he’s incredible at these laser video games. They basically wrote that part for me, and then they created a suit where the arms were rubberized instead of plastic, so I could spin the guns and do that kind of stuff. So that became my little cameo in the movie. I was surprised to see myself listed on the credits with all the top-name stars.
When did you get interested in horror again?
The “dark side” never stopped fascinating me. While I was auditing classes at USC and UCLA and going to seminars at Sherwood Oaks, I decided to write a horror movie. I really wanted to make a comedy, but comedies really weren’t selling. Horror was selling, and I loved those too. When I saw The Exorcist, I decided that if I was going to do a horror movie, I wanted it to be something like that.
What was so compelling to you about The Exorcist?
People who saw that movie couldn’t sleep. For so many people…it really affected their lives. The Exorcist changed my life too, but in a different way. It made me realize the potential of a movie like that. One of the big reasons I wanted to be a filmmaker was because you really can affect people on a level beyond entertainment. A good movie goes much deeper.
I was fortunate to see The Exorcist in the optimum conditions at the National Theater here in Los Angeles. I saw it on the third day of its release, and the lines were enormous. Word had spread through the city that you had to see this film. [Director William] Friedkin and [writer William Peter] Blatty were out on the sidewalks in front of the theater, passing out coffee and hot cocoa to people waiting in line. So we went into the theater with this sense that we’re going to see something evil. I mean, this was going to be really an experience. People came in with that anticipation. They expected to be traumatized. And sure as hell they were.
People ran up the aisles with their hands over their mouths, about to throw up. Many did. One guy stood up and just passed out. Sometimes it was the needle into the arm scene that did it, when she [Regan] was getting the spinal…or the scene when her throat bubbled up. There was so much tension in the theater, and visuals like that would just push people over the edge. My favorite memory of that screening is when the movie was over and the credits were rolling, and I saw that some people couldn’t move. I saw them standing to leave — people with a coat half on — and they were not able to move any further.
Needless to say I went back the next night and the night after that. It became an obsession — trying to understand every aspect of how they put this thing together and trying to separate the myth from the truth. Di
d bad things really happen on the set? Were there really things on the screen that were subliminally affecting viewers in the audience? I eventually came to realize it was just one hell of a dog-and-pony show. But that movie sent hordes of people back to church…because they didn’t want whatever got that little girl to get them. It created a phenomenon like we’ve never had since. It actually changed people’s lives.
I went to the catacombs when I was in Paris studying with Marceau. Went down six stories of stairs and found myself wall to wall with skulls and bones from hundreds of cemeteries. It’s different now but, in those days, everybody in the tour group was given a candle and you walked through the catacombs with it. There was no artificial lighting…Talk about gothic.
I let the tour group go ahead of me and I stayed back alone, to kind of experience this on my own. And it was the first and only time I ever experienced supernatural fear. By that I mean, I know there’s nothing in there that’s going to get me, but I felt that sensation that starts at the bottom of your spine and rises. I knew I shouldn’t be there all alone. It was part claustrophobia; part awareness of the dead all around me. I found myself hurrying to catch up with the group. And that impression was the thing that created One Dark Night.
How did you and Michael Hawes work together to write the script?
Hawes and I always went to horror movies together, so we were both anxious to try writing a horror script. I would have not written that piece if he had not kept on me. I wrote things out by hand, then bounced ideas off of him and he would say, “Yeah that works” Or “How about this instead?” The objective was that we wanted to create a claustrophobic Edgar Allan Poe kind of horror movie, but it had to be teen-oriented because that was the target demographic that made money. Once we had a script, we started to shop it around…but nobody wanted it because it wasn’t a slasher movie. Hollywood only wants to copy what is successful right now. So we kept shopping it around for years. Lots of attempts; lots of closed doors.
A Strange Idea of Entertainment: Conversations with Tom McLoughlin Page 5