My return to the entertainment business also gave me the opportunity to produce an independent film. A mutual friend introduced me to Anatoli Ivanov, an accomplished Russian writer, director, and cinematographer. We discussed his plans to shoot a film in Moscow and St. Petersburg about Aleksandr Pushkin, the great Russian writer. Pushkin’s great-grandfather, Abram Petrovich Gannibal, had been born in Ethiopia. Abram served as a page to Peter the Great, who educated Abram in France as a military engineer. He went on to become governor of Reval and was responsible for building many of the sea fortresses and canals in Russia. I was intrigued by the notion that Pushkin was of African descent, even more so when I learned that he was passionate about his African lineage. The idea of exploring Pushkin’s African roots through Russian culture fascinated me. The independent film project named Black Prince was critically acclaimed and won the Grand Jury Prize at the New York International Independent Film and Video Festival. It starred Russian prima ballerina Anastasia Volochkova, of the Bolshoi Ballet, as Pushkin’s wife; Georgian actor Levan Uchaneishvili as Pushkin; and me as Roy Charles (Gannibal).
The making of the film was one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. I flew to Moscow in 2002 to begin production. The ancient beauty of the city was powerfully moving. From my hotel window I could see the Kremlin outlined against the evening sky. I remembered the images of Russia from during the cold war and how terrifying they were. As a boy, I had been afraid that Russia and the United States would engage in an apocalyptic war, but now I was walking the streets of Moscow, experiencing Russian culture and history. In St. Petersburg I stood on the landing in the harbor and watched the great ships sail in as part of the city’s three-hundredth anniversary celebration. I was taken on private tours of the Hermitage Museum and Peter the Great’s summer palace. I visited the classroom where Pushkin was taught, and I filmed scenes inside his apartment along the canals of St. Petersburg. I watched the Bolshoi Ballet in their home theater, toured cities along the Black Sea, and stayed at the Grand Hotel in Nevsky Prospekt, where I visited the Church of the Resurrection of St. Petersburg.
As much as I loved Russia, though, the project closest to my heart was my father’s life story. It was burned into my soul. Stuart Benjamin, Taylor Hackford, and I had been on a quest to bring it to the screen for fourteen years. We had pitched the project to major studios and production companies over the years with no success. Given the ultimate success of the film, it is incredible how difficult it was to get backing. One of our meetings with potential backers is funny in retrospect. Reggie Jackson, an associate of mine, and I were meeting with a production company and one of the vice presidents of William Morris. We sat around the conference table as I pitched my father’s story. I told them about George drowning in the tub, my father going blind and being sent away to blind school at eight years old. I described his mother’s death when he was fifteen and his struggle to survive as a blind black orphan in the South. I told them about his trip to Seattle alone, about his breakthrough success in the music business, about his heroin use and how he had beat his drug habit. I told them about my parents’ love story, and I also told them about the other women and children. Most of all, I told them about my father’s triumph over the many obstacles that made his journey seem impossible.
When I finished, there was a short break while they conferred. When we sat back down at the table, one of the producers said, “Gentlemen, we’re sorry. There’s just no story here.” I was dumbfounded. No story? Then I was questioned about my authority to represent my father. One of the VPs of William Morris asked, “Are you even empowered to bring us this story? We would need a letter from your father saying you have the right to represent him.”
I picked up the conference-room phone and called my father. “Is this Ray Charles?” I asked.
Dad said, “Yeah, son, what do you need?”
“I’m here with one of the VPs of William Morris and another production company speaking to them about your life story. I am being told there’s no story. But they want a letter from you stating that I have the right to represent you.”
My father replied, “Just walk out of the meeting.” And that’s what I did.
These kinds of meetings were a familiar part of our journey. No one was willing to invest the funds necessary to make a film about the life of a poor, blind African American musician from the South who just happened to be Ray Charles, a music icon.
In the long run, the rejections we received for more than a decade turned out to be a blessing. They ultimately led us to Philip Anschutz, a highly successful businessman who had the vision to see the story’s potential and the commitment necessary to make Ray the high-caliber film we all needed it to be. After hearing us out, he said, “This is not just an African American story. It is a triumph of the human spirit. It is an American rags-to-riches success story.” Mr. Anschutz’s production team included Crusader Entertainment and Bristol Bay Productions. He was committed to keeping the film focused on its central message: the rise of a man who came to greatness against all odds. Mr. Anschutz refused to include scenes showing sex or graphic drug use. He wanted the film to be appropriate for everyone. James L. White had come on board to write the screenplay. He bonded immediately with my parents as well as with me, and that bond breathed life into his screenplay. Taylor Hackford was destined to direct this film. Taylor understood all of the elements that made my father’s story great and how the music could be used to drive it. “Unchain My Heart,” as the film was originally called, finally went into preproduction in 2003.
I was thrilled to have the project under way, but I also felt a tremendous sense of responsibility for the way the film would represent the events of my father’s life. There was a lot of controversial material in the film, and I wanted it portrayed properly. Both of my parents were still alive. I did not want anyone to sensationalize his story; his life and all that he accomplished spoke for itself. My father was a star and provider for his family, but my mother was the foundation of our family. I wanted that to be made clear. If I felt the film was not representative of my family, I was going to have to bring it to my father’s attention. That may have resulted in a complicated and expensive legal battle. But Taylor and the rest of the production team soon put those fears to rest.
The ensemble cast that Taylor assembled was simply amazing. They were dedicated to the film and treated my father with great respect whenever he was on the set. Taylor chose Kerry Washington to play my mother, and I thought she was a fantastic choice for the role. Taylor chose Jamie Foxx for the lead. Jamie is not only a fine actor; he is also an accomplished singer and classically trained pianist. Apparently, the first time he met my father, he sat down at a piano and played until my father slapped his leg and laughed in approval. My first day on the set, I met Jamie and told him, “I know that you can do it. And if you win, we all win.” I spoke with him about a few of my father’s mannerisms; other than that, he came prepared indeed. That preparation showed in his performance. In New Orleans, I walked onto the Hepburn set, and Jamie was outside on the porch playing a keyboard, weaving back and forth. As he continued to play, I watched him closely, and began to get an eerie feeling. It was almost as though I were looking at my father when he was young. It was as though my father’s spirit was using Jamie’s body as a host. Jamie’s performance was electrifying. It was the perfect story, the perfect actor, and the perfect time.
We shot the film in New Orleans, and I quickly fell in love with the city. So much of my family’s history is there. My grandfather was from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and my children’s family on their mother’s side were from New Orleans. My father had played there as a struggling musician, back in the days when a home-cooked meal from Miss Mary was a blessing and a treat. The city itself embraced us with open arms. Most of the crew was from New Orleans, and the people were extremely hospitable to me. During my visit, I dined at some of the best restaurants in New Orleans but I became a regular at Delmonico’s, one of Emeril’s r
estaurants. I ate there almost every night, and they always had a table for me and my favorite sorbet prepared for dessert. They treated me like royalty.
I expected the filming of Ray to be one of the high points of my life, the culmination of a fourteen-year quest. The film was everything I hoped for. What I hadn’t realized, however, was that the film would force me to relive all the trauma, fear, and anxiety of my childhood. I hadn’t dealt with memories and anxieties as my father had. The day I first walked onto the Hepburn set, I began to get uncomfortable. The set looked exactly like the house I grew up in. For a moment, I felt like I was actually there again. There was my father’s grand piano in the living room, and on the office wall were the plaques, gold records, album covers, and Billboard covers. Standing there, looking at all the familiar objects, my childhood came rushing back, with all the pain I had tried to forget. I had to get out of that room on set immediately. From then on I sat in another room and watched the filming through the monitor. I would go back and forth inside the room, never staying too long. I hoped the feelings would go away, but as the days went by, they would get stronger. One night, after I returned from the set of Hepburn, I went back to my room and used some cocaine for the first time in three years. After being clean for so long, it made me sick and a little disoriented.
It was about this time that my youngest daughter, Blair, came to New Orleans to visit me and watch production. I was excited to see her and eager to show her around the city. I took her to Café du Monde in the French Quarter and showed her around. I introduced her to Jamie Foxx and some of the other people on the set. Once she got comfortable, she started venturing out on her own. She visited her cousins and made friends with some of the people she met. New Orleans is an exciting city, and Blair seemed to be having a wonderful time. We made plans to go to an NCAA championship game that weekend.
After my experience on the set of Hepburn, I had already started to self-medicate. On the day of the NCAA championship game, I decided to finish the cocaine I had left. Instead of getting high, I got sick and began having an anxiety attack. I thought I might need a doctor. I told Blair I was feeling sick and couldn’t go to the game that night, but she knew all too well what was really wrong with me. She and her cousin Claudia took a taxi to the game and they spent the evening sitting in the corporate box with Jamie. Claudia tried to comfort her, and Blair made the best of the situation. By the next morning I felt better, and I did not use the rest of the time she was there and while I was in New Orleans during production. We continued to enjoy New Orleans. We spoke about that event. I tried to relieve her anxiety, but I knew I had hurt her and revived the old memories about me in the past. I was painfully aware of the irony that my attempts to deal with my own childhood trauma had revived my daughter’s as well. Blair returned to Los Angeles a few days later. I saw a doctor, who helped me flush the drugs out of my system.
Four weeks after we started filming Ray, I had to leave New Orleans and return to Russia to work on Black Prince. Rumors circulated about my departure, and I had left so abruptly that even my father didn’t know why I was gone. By the time I came back to the States, the film had wrapped in New Orleans and moved to Los Angeles to complete shooting. I was in LA briefly, but then I had to go right back to Russia. I made several trips back and forth to Moscow. Out of the country, I missed the wrap party, the group picture, and all the other celebratory rituals that occur when a production finishes filming. I missed the satisfaction and joy of completing Ray on set with the cast, crew, and production team. And I missed the opportunity to express my gratitude to the amazing ensemble of individuals that brought my father’s story to life in a way that exceeded my greatest hopes and expectations.
IN DECEMBER 2002, on one of my brief trips home from Russia, I received a call from my father. He said he wanted me to come to a brunch he was having with all of his children. I realized that he wasn’t just referring to me and my brothers; he was referring to all of his offspring, including my half brothers and half sisters I’d never met. I knew something important was in the air because he had never called us all together before. I was also struck by the fact that he made the call himself. Usually he would have someone else call if he was arranging a meeting. If he was calling everyone himself, it had to be important. I had been talking to my father by phone periodically, but I hadn’t seen him for about six months. I wondered what the meeting was about. There was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong.
Walking into the brunch that day was unsettling. I was curious about my siblings I was about to meet, but I was anxious, too. We all introduced ourselves and hugged. I found myself watching them intently, trying to see family traits I recognized. My feelings were mixed. On one level, though I knew some of my siblings, it was exciting to meet my other siblings up close and personal. On a deeper level, it was difficult thinking of what my mother had had to endure in knowing about most of my siblings. Almost all of them were there except for Margie Hendricks’s son, Charles, and Sandra Jean Betts’s daughter, Sheila. In attendance were Louise Mitchell’s daughter, Evelyn; Mae Mosely Lyles’s daughter, Raenee; Arlette Kotchounian’s son, Vincent; Gloria Moffett’s daughter, Robyn; Mary Anne den Bok’s son, Corey; and Chantelle Bertrand’s daughter, Alexandria. I knew the meeting must be an emotional roller coaster for my other siblings as well. In spite of the awkwardness, though, it was ultimately a comfort to finally meet the brothers and sisters I had known about most of my life. I hoped that we would be able to start new relationships that were based on more than just shared genes.
My father looked uncomfortable at first as we all milled around, making introductions and getting to know one another. Once everything settled down and we had a chance to eat, he got up to make an announcement. He said that he had set up an individual trust for each of us. We looked at one another, and a murmur ran around the room. No one had expected this announcement from my dad. My father seemed relieved, as though a burden had been lifted off him. He said that Mr. Adams would take care of the details and give us instructions on the disbursement of the money he had put in trust for each of us. Then he sat down, and Mr. Adams got up to speak.
Mr. Adams began to talk about the estate and the money our father had set aside for us. My father had referred to a single disbursement, so we were all surprised when Mr. Adams suggested to my father that it might be more prudent to disburse our funds over a four-year period rather than a lump sum. Mr. Adams would serve as trustee for all of our trust funds. As I listened to him, it was clear Mr. Adams would be in control of my father’s estate and our individual trusts. After this uncomfortable announcement, we all gathered around my father to take family photos. These would become the first and only pictures of almost all of my father’s offspring together with him.
Everyone said their good-byes, but as I prepared to leave, I began to get a sense of urgency about my father. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, just a general uneasiness about him and his health. He was next to me as we walked toward the door, and we stopped to talk briefly. As I was about to leave, my dad suddenly grabbed me by the arm and asked me to wait. He was standing behind me when he said it. He started squeezing my arms and then ran his hands over my shoulders. I was startled. He hadn’t done this in a long time. He put his hands on my waist and patted me. I asked him what he was doing. He replied, “Just stand still a minute. I want to see you. I’m just trying to see you, son. I love you. You know that.”
I didn’t know what to think. This wasn’t like him. I pulled Vernon aside and asked him if something was wrong. Was there something I needed to know about my father’s health?
Vernon said quietly, “You need to come to the office and speak with your father. In private.”
I felt a knot of worry in my stomach. I asked my father, “Is there something about your health I need to know?” He wouldn’t give me a straight answer. I asked him again, but each time, he evaded my question. The feeling of uneasiness stayed with me.
Later that day Anastasia, Boris, Anatoli, and I were taken to holy ground. A priest from the monastery led us there through the woods, about fifty minutes from the monastery. He was a small man, no more than five feet tall, with a beard that came down to his waist. Among the ancient trees, he looked more like a character of myth. There was a baptismal pool and a well where the priests brought flowers and prayed over the water. It was freezing that day, less than thirty degrees, and I found myself transfixed as I gazed at the water. The place felt holy, and people came from miles around to bless themselves with the holy water. If the house in Laurel Canyon had been the house of lost souls, then surely this was the pool of salvation.
Without stopping to think, I said, “I’m going to get a blessing today,” and jumped into the ice-cold water. I began splashing my face with water and continued to pour water over my face with my hands cupped for more than five minutes. As the water cleansed me, I felt deep chills running through my body, as if I had been touched in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Something was happening to me, a deep sense of an awakening, a blessing I had never experienced before. I couldn’t put a name to what I was feeling, but it was beautiful. After watching me for a few minutes, Anastasia got into the water, too. Afterward, we exited the pool, she filled a bottle with water from the well to take back to the monastery, and I continued to splash my face with the water from the well. Eventually we returned to the monastery, where we spent the night. The feeling that had filled me in the pool stayed with me. When we returned to the monastery, I had no desire for anything, only to be alone with God in solitude.
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