by Jon Cryer
* * *
Once again I was living my particular actor’s nightmare: Something had happened that had absolutely, irretrievably stopped the whole fucking show.
At home, where I had mostly spent my time awaiting all news via text, alert, e-mail, phone call, and news flash, my iPhone had become a terrifying object. What was once a sparkling portal to a whole new world of communication and information was now some dark conduit of notification hell. And I really hoped it wouldn’t be the delivery system for the worst possible news of all regarding Charlie, because even though it appeared I had just lost my job, that this incredible run of eight seasons was over, what was on everybody’s mind was our colleague’s potential imminent death. How had this friend who seemed so proud of his sobriety gone completely off the rails?
The day after Charlie was fired, my publicist, Karen, called me to ask if I wanted to put out a statement. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said, “but if you want to, now’s the time.”
I thought about it, and decided I wanted people to know how much I was going to miss working with Charlie, that I wanted him to get better, that he and Brooke deserved peace. We began crafting a statement: “It’s my hope that Charlie can find a way to focus on his sobriety again. Working with him was a pleasure, indeed an honor . . .” and as I’m literally hashing out this statement with Karen, my fingers on the keyboard, she stops me.
“Wait. Here comes something,” she said, reading an alert on her computer. “Okay. Get ready. ‘Charlie Sheen lets loose on Cryer, calling him a troll.’”
“Maybe we should put a pin in the statement of support,” I said.
* * *
I mentioned earlier that you have to be careful about narratives created about you, or that you fashion for yourself. I’ve always been just an actor. I never had a public narrative, and I certainly didn’t want to create one by being on, say, a reality show. Nobody cared about me personally anyway, and that’s how I like it, says the guy writing a memoir.
But with Charlie’s “troll” crack—he also added the alliterative sobriquets turncoat and traitor—I saw an opportunity to address the situation in a way that gave me control of the narrative. On the one hand, Charlie was a man suffering from an addiction that seemed to be getting worse, yet on the other, he was being patently ridiculous and needed to be ridiculed. I had to come out and say, “You know what? You got me, Charlie. I’m a troll.” Maybe then he’d realize how far gone he was.
My publicist, Karen, got in touch with Conan O’Brien’s people and asked if they’d be interested in me coming on and doing a humorous response on his show. They were willing, so between their writers and me we came up with a bit in which I’d walk out from behind the curtain—surprising the audience—and confess to being a troll. The spiel being, my parents didn’t know. I’d spent all kinds of money on electrolysis, reconstructive surgery, and hair dye to hide it. We don’t drink the morning dew from buttercups . . . all really funny stuff. One of the writers came up with a fantastic ending, a tweak on the “It Gets Better” public-service messages that were geared toward the LGBT community.
When I made my entrance on Conan, I got the same thunderous applause Charlie got after his return from ignominious arrest. It was that same feeling. The audience was in on a story. They realized they were in the room with the guy from the headlines that day, and could now voice their support for this new narrative: the good soldier who stood by the friend as he fell apart, and who was taking the craziness in stride with humor, and maybe showing said friend that he was acting like a jackass.
* * *
And then choosing to be part of the narrative revealed its own unique side effects.
The day after my Conan appearance, everyone around the world learned about the horrific devastation that had taken place in Japan, when an earthquake unleashed tsunami waves that killed thousands. I was at my computer in the morning reading up on the latest when my son came in and asked me about what had happened. I told him that a terrible tragedy had occurred, and brought him closer to the screen so he could read about it.
He looked a little closer at the CNN.com page, and noticed that under the headline “Tsunami Hits Japan, Thousands Dead” was a second headline: “Jon Cryer: ‘I Am a Troll.’”
Yep.
Very few moments in life present themselves as instantly teachable, so I gathered myself for this golden opportunity, turned to my oldest, and said, “Son, there’s the Internet for you. Information of actual substance and magnitude shares space, almost equally, with incredible triviality. As you go through life, you’ll have to use your judgment to figure out what’s more important. But here’s a good foundation for that judgment: In this case, the tsunami is more important.”
* * *
Charlie’s $100 million lawsuit against Chuck and Warner Bros. was another instance in which you just wanted to shake him and say, “Get help! Not lawyers!” Suddenly crew members were being approached and offered astronomical sums in order to cull horror stories about Chuck, and I started reeling at the prospect that I would be called to testify.
I knew that my testimony would not help Charlie, but I was also pretty sure that he wouldn’t be dumb enough to subpoena me.
As the bad press about Charlie’s behavior and firing continued to flow, Chuck called me. “They’re going to ask you about what I had to do with this, and I hope you’ll let them know how hard I tried to get him to get help,” he said.
“I know, Chuck,” I said. “Of course I will.”
But the media didn’t want to hear that there was no feud between Chuck and Charlie. A feud needs two sides. If the McCoys are just firing away at the Hatfields, and the Hatfields are standing around saying, “Huh?” it’s not really a feud. I have told many people this over and over. Shouted it from the rooftops. It was one guy simmering in his own anger for years before it exploded. His complaining once that an actress isn’t pretty enough doesn’t constitute long-standing hostilities.
* * *
America’s—indeed the world’s—reaction to the meltdown was cacophonous and unsettling. Opinions ranged from righteous indignation to purple-faced outrage. The bellicose underbelly of the Internet was unleashed. After Charlie gave Chuck’s phone number to a radio host during an interview, Chuck received so many death threats that he had to hire personal security.
The Web was boiling with anger about Charlie’s dismissal. Predictably, there were those who were angry because they felt it had been way too late, that his alleged crimes demanded this action long ago, but surprisingly there were also those who felt it was unjustified. An astounding number of people stood up for Charlie, as though people should be able to show up to work rarely, if at all, verbally abuse their coworkers publically with anti-Semitic slurs, get arrested on a regular basis, as well as abuse drugs to the point where they can barely function, and not have their incredibly high-paying jobs threatened. They directed their fury at Chuck, but also at me, with hundreds of comments about how I’d betrayed Charlie, that I was a “homely fag,” and that they’d never watch a show with me as the lead. As ridiculous and horrifying as those sentiments were, it was impossible for me not to feel their effect. And even if I could dismiss their specific comments, I was filled with sadness that there actually appeared to be thousands of people who felt this way.
The most disgusting group of folks were the rubberneckers who were just enjoying watching Charlie’s drug-fueled self-immolation for the entertainment value. And goading him further with “go, O.J., go!”–style cheerleading.
America’s faceless corporations didn’t acquit themselves particularly well either. They began clamoring to capitalize on the marketing opportunity that Charlie’s epic flameout was presenting. A company called Ustream gave him a webcast platform to continue his rants in a monetized worldwide fashion. LiveNation immediately offered him millions to go on a stage tour across the U.S., which he christened his “
Violent Torpedo of Truth.”
I knew that Charlie, while being a gifted actor and a remarkably smart man, didn’t have the slightest fucking idea how to put on a live stage show, even when he wasn’t loaded, but I figured he must have at least one person in his retinue of managers and hangers-on who knew what they were doing in that respect. Turns out, I was wrong. His first few dates were spectacularly incompetent. They resembled exactly what happens when a bunch of assholes throw money at a drug addict to make him dance like a monkey.
A curious phenomenon was bubbling up in the media as well. Entertainment culture had become so stultifyingly repetitive, mechanical and predictable that Charlie’s antics felt like a breath of fresh air. To some authors, commentators, and bloggers, seemingly intelligent people, he was a rebel, a truth teller willing to poke his masters in the eye. They defended his baleful screeds. (I’m looking at you, Bret Easton Ellis.) Of course, Charlie wasn’t those things. He was simply lashing out at the people who told him the party was over. That he was actually just a human being with a monumental drug dependency mattered less to the pundits than his value as something to write about to alleviate their collective boredom. The fact that he could very well be dead soon was not their concern. In fact, it’d just give them more to write about.
Charlie was never an insurrectionary guerrilla fighting the established order. He was a guy who got everything he had ever wanted from it. He even texted somebody at the show once, “I think they gave the wrong guy too much money.” That shows even he had the occasional flicker of self-awareness.
And hey, Bret Easton Ellis, don’t be a dick.
* * *
My agent, Sarah Clossey, was on the line.
“I just got an offer for you, but before I tell you about it, I want you to know that you’re doing it.”
I stammered, “Um . . . okay.”
About three weeks before, I’d become the most famously unemployed actor in America, and my agents were now urgently trying to rectify that situation.
Sarah continued. “They’re doing Company at Lincoln Center with the New York Philharmonic. The cast is insane, and they want you too!” My mind raced. I loved the show. Company was one of Stephen Sondheim’s most sophisticated and beloved works of musical theater. But I hadn’t done live musical theater since Stagedoor Manor. And this was the New York fucking Philharmonic!
I queried, “Who else is in it?”
“Well,” she continued, “there’s Neil Patrick Harris, Patti LuPone, Stephen Colbert, Martha Plimpton—”
“Jesus,” I interjected.
“I’m not done. Christina Hendricks, Anika Noni Rose, Craig Bierko—” She rattled off a list that was a veritable murderers’ row of Broadway heavy hitters. Then she went on. “It’s going to be a benefit for the Philharmonic. They’re doing it under an Encores contract. You need to do this!” Encores referred to a style of production where actors perform the show in front of the orchestra with the script in hand. Many Encores revivals of popular musicals had turned out to be very successful, boasting Tony-winning best musical Chicago as one of their premier efforts. The advantage to that kind of production is that the shows can be thrown together with very little rehearsal. And since the actors are required to be on script with minimal staging, they end up having a very loose, fun flavor to them.
“But the last time I sang live was at summer camp. I can’t perform with—”
“You’re doing it!” she insisted. Sarah was a member of an elite minority in Los Angeles: agents who are also trained opera singers. I’m pretty sure it’s a minority of one, actually. She was show folk, and she would allow no disagreement from me. This was an opportunity I needed to seize. In times of crisis, when the world is in chaos and all seems lost, only one thing can save us: musical theater!
I agreed and hung up with great trepidation. I was still reeling from my show’s demise and the maelstrom that was the Sheen meltdown. But I consoled myself with the idea that at least this was going to be a relaxed, just-for-fun one-off that would benefit the New York Philharmonic. It’d give me an excuse to visit my mom, reconnect with my roots, and maybe get my head out of the madness.
My first inkling of trouble was a call I got from the show’s director, Lonny Price.
“Your first choreography rehearsal will be tomorr—”
“My what?” I interrupted.
“Your choreography rehearsal. You’ve got a few numbers—”
“Wait. There’s choreography?!”
Lonny carefully explained to me that this show was NOT going to be a loose, fun one-off with the actors bumping into one another with scripts in hand. It was going to be a fully staged production, without scripts, that would be performed four times in Avery Fisher Hall and then filmed for release in movie theaters! I had misunderstood. It was going to be done under the Encores contract, but not in the Encores style. I had cavalierly committed to appearing in the equivalent of a Broadway show.
“Holy shit! Are you kidding me?”
He wasn’t kidding me. And he had a nice capper. “Stephen is coming to see it.” And he didn’t mean Colbert. I slid into fretful apoplexia. Stephen Sondheim, one of the most admired writers in the American musical canon, was coming to see the first time I’d ever sing professionally. With the New York fucking Philharmonic.
And speaking of the other Stephen, Colbert, I was nervous enough simply to meet him, much less perform with him. He, Jim Walton of Merrily We Roll Along, and I were going to sing “Sorry/Grateful” together. As far as I was concerned, Stephen Colbert was a comedic genius. Jesus, I was in over my head.
I flew into JFK with wife, Lisa, and my one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Daisy, in tow. Paparazzi pelted us with questions as we got to baggage claim and sprinted after us as we headed to our town car. We decamped to my mother’s apartment and unpacked our suitcases in my childhood bedroom.
My second night in New York, I ran into Colbert at Comedy Central’s Comedy Awards and got up the nerve to ask him, “Did you know this was going to be a fully staged production?”
He let out an aghast, “No! I thought we were going to have scripts! I only found out when they told me I had to go to fucking karate practice!” His character and Martha Plimpton’s have an elaborate karate battle in one of the opening scenes of the show. I felt better knowing I wasn’t the only one out of the loop. And at least I didn’t have to learn karate.
The cast would have only two weeks to rehearse for this show. Two weeks! No one puts up a Broadway musical in two weeks. Compounding that was the fact that everyone in the cast was so busy (Neil was still shooting How I Met Your Mother, Christina, Mad Men, and Stephen Colbert was taping his Report daily) that the cast could never be in the same room at the same time. I was the only one with enough free time to be at all of the sessions. Lonny got around this by bringing in a bunch of musical theater majors from Pace University and having them learn the entire show and then stand in for whoever was missing that particular day. Their enthusiasm was inspiring, but it would never quite feel like the real thing.
We worked out of Pearl Studios on Eighth Avenue, where the hallways were packed with performers either working on shows in other rooms, generally kibbitzing or waiting nervously to audition for other productions. It was instant total immersion in the New York theater community, and it was great to be back.
Patti LuPone remembered me from my days backstage at Evita with my dad, and she was warm and welcoming. And also a bit of a drill sergeant. I discovered while working with her exactly why she’s so good at what she does, because she sweats the small stuff and doesn’t stop working until it’s perfect. That’s why she hired a piano-playing premed student to spend months working with her on the songs before we even started.
The music of Company is very difficult to learn. When it was written, it was considered bizarre and avant-garde. Many of the rehearsals were spent exploring the vexing minutia
e of it. That it all comes together into one of Sondheim’s most crowd-pleasing scores is part of its singular appeal.
Martha Plimpton sang the shit out of it. Which was only surprising because I didn’t know she could sing at all. Colbert and I shared a certain dismay about our own vocal abilities. We were in the midst of the most formidable voices on Broadway, and we were concerned we’d stick out like atonal sore thumbs.
Midway through the first singing rehearsal with conductor Paul Gemigniani, we had a break, and Patti casually stood up and announced, “I’m getting something to eat in the other room. Anybody need anything?”
“I’ll take some water,” Colbert offered.
She nodded and was headed out when I piped up helpfully, “Actually, Stephen, there’s a whole box of bottled water right over there in the corner.”
Patti registered that and continued on her way.
Colbert whirled on me with an exasperated whisper, “What are you doing?!”
I lamely began, “I was just—”
“I almost got Patti LuPone to get me water!”
As I looked at him mystified, he explained, “Don’t you get it? Broadway is like prison. Your first day in, you gotta jack the biggest guy in the room!”
That night I shared a cab with Martha back up to our respective digs on the Upper West Side and asked her whether she had been aware this was going to be a fully staged production. She blurted, “No! I only found out when they told me I had to go to goddamn karate class!” It appeared that particular miscommunication was not uncommon.
We spent the first week practicing the show without our lead. Neil Patrick Harris was playing Bobby but was still in Los Angeles working on his TV show. I couldn’t imagine how he was going to play such a large role with perhaps the least amount of rehearsal of all of us.
We’d all received MP3s of our vocal tracks as well as ones with just our tracks removed so that we could practice either way. We’d also been sent video of our dance moves performed by choreographer Josh Rhodes. So all you had to do was plug in your headphones and your iPhone would become your virtual rehearsal partner.