Heaven and Mel (Kindle Single)

by Joe Eszterhas

  "That fucking cunt is driving me crazy!" he says to me. "She's doing everything she can to turn Luci against me."

  He turns away from me and stares a long moment at all of Luci's toys on the patio.

  His back still turned to me, he says, "I'm going to have her killed."

  I gape at him: What did he say?

  He turns slowly back to me and looks me in the eye. "I'm going to make her disappear," he says. "She's going to be gone. Gone! And no one will ever know it's me. No one! I'm not going to live this way the rest of my life! She is evil! They worship the Devil where she comes from! She's going to disappear!"

  The air suddenly seems suffocatingly thick between us.

  "Don't talk like this," I say. "This is crazy talk. You can't talk like this."

  "I mean it. I've talked to these ex-FBI guys. They're going to help me to do it. No one will ever know! No one!"

  He adds, "I'm going to fix it so that her fucking cunt of a mother can never enter this country again. I'm going to get rid of that cunt, too!"

  * * * *

  IN THE MIDDLE OF ONE OF HIS ANGRY OUTBURSTS, he says in a complete non sequitur, "Ari Emanuel is a fucking cunt! Fucking Jewboy! He's a cunt fucking Jewboy!"

  Ari Emanuel, now the head of William Morris Endeavor, fired Mel from the agency the day after Mel was revealed to have used the "N-word" on one of Oksana's tapes.

  His firing took place one day before Mel's longtime agent Ed Limato died.

  * * * *

  "GOD HAS TURNED HIS BACK ON ME," Mel says. He is upset, emotional.

  "No," I say. "God loves you. Trust God."

  "No," Mel says. "He has turned his back on me."

  "Why," I ask, "would God do that, Mel?"

  "I've been bad lately," he says simply.

  I wait for him to explain it if he wants to.

  "I was at a dinner party," Mel says, "and there was this girl and she took me into a room afterwards and she went down on her knees… and I let her."

  I say, "So what?"

  He shrugs, in obvious pain.

  "Mel," I say, "the whole world knows you deserve to be blown. There are all these idiots with T-shirts out there that say so. Do you really think that God is going to turn his back on you because of one blow job?"

  My answer doesn't satisfy him. He looks at me and walks out of the room. That stupid electronic gizmo he has in the corner of the living room starts to hum.

  * * * *

  MEL AND I ARE IN HIS CHURCH. We're sitting here praying the rosary with Jim Caviezel's crown of thorns near us and it occurs to me that Mel was Martin Scorcese's first choice to play Jesus in "The Last Temptation of Christ."

  The church is dark as we say the rosary. We are, naturally, saying the Sorrowful Mysteries: Christ's passion and crucifixion since we are both passion and crucifixion freaks.

  When the rosary ends, Mel reads this prayer from an old prayer book:

  "In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of the Blessed Michael, the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles, Peter and Paul and all the saints, and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of The Devil. Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered, let them that hate Him, flee before Him."

  It is the Exorcist's Prayer, I know. It is the prayer said to exorcise unclean spirits from those who are possessed by the Devil.

  Mel says afterwards, "That prayer was about Harvey Levin." I know that Harvey Levin runs a hugely successful gossip website called TMZ. And I know that Mel is angry at him because he thinks TMZ's coverage of the custody battle has favored Oksana.

  Mel says, "I want to bring Harvey Levin to his knees. I want Harvey Levin to come to me on his knees!"

  * * * *

  MEL IS SITTING QUIETLY WITH LUCI at the kitchen counter in Malibu. She suddenly slaps him across the face… hard. Mel stares at her a moment and then says, "Why did you hit Daddy, Luci?" The little girl looks at Mel and quickly says, "I'm sorry, Daddy. I love you." Neither of them smiles.

  * * * *

  THE SUN IS SETTING IN MALIBU and Mel and I are out on the patio talking about Alan Nierob, my former publicity agent and Mel's present one, a man both of us view as a friend.

  "Do you know his dad is a Holocaust survivor?" I ask Mel.

  He looks at me with that flinty eye.

  "The Holocaust is mostly a lot of horseshit," he says.

  I know he's goading me. He knows how I feel about the Holocaust and about our "Jewish Braveheart."

  "They're just a bunch of oven dodgers," he smiles.

  It is an actorly smile, the kind of smile Robert Mitchum did so well in "The Night of the Hunter."

  * * * *

  BACK AT HOME, I go to my favorite place to pray, my little chapel.

  The chapel is all windows. Light pours in from every direction. Woods backdrop the windows. The statue of Jesus isn't Christ crucified on the cross; it is the resurrected Christ, from the Glorious Mysteries of the rosary, not the Sorrowful ones. There is a statue of the Blessed Mother near the altar. Mary is smiling, flowers usually at her feet.

  "What should I do?" I ask God. "Should I just walk away from this whole thing right now? Should I say it's because of creative differences; the line they always use in Hollywood? Should I go public and say Mel Gibson is an anti-Semite and reveal what he said about wanting and planning to kill Oksana Grigorieva?

  After a while I hear an answer in my heart. It's in the form of a question: "Don't you want to write this script? I thought you wanted to write it. That's why I sent it to you, because I want you to write it."

  "Of course I want to write it," I reply, "I'm aching to write it. I can knock it out of the park!"

  "Then knock it out of the park," I hear His voice. "Write it."

  "But he's nuts," I say. "He needs medication."

  And the voice of God which is in my heart says, "Half the people in Hollywood are nuts. Almost all of them need medication."

  * * * *

  SO I SIT DOWN and start to write "The Maccabees." I will write such a powerful script, I tell myself, that nuts or not, full of hate or not, Mel will be forced to direct it because of the power of the script. The power of the Holy Spirit will overcome him.

  I begin writing each day with a prayer to a very special saint: Judah Maccabee, the Jewish hero, the Jewish warrior, who is also a saint of the Catholic Church.

  I'm going to let all those Jewish Old Testament prophets, all those Jewish holy men… convince… Mel Gibson!

  My script would conjure those early Jewish prophets and their power, holiness, and shrewdness would do the rest.

  I hear God say something else to me: "Come on, man, get real. You've got four teenage boys in Catholic schools. Catholic schools are expensive. You've got a deal with Warner Brothers. Write the script. Get the damn money! Pay for those Catholic schools! Let the nuns work their magic!"

  * * * *

  I'M MAKING GREAT PROGRESS WITH MY SCRIPT. I've solved the love interest problem without having to explore any more MRI tunnels.

  She is Rachel, a former captive of the Greek/Syrian king, a woman just as fierce a warrior as Judah himself.

  While I write, Bjorn Pork emails me that he's trying to quit smoking. He lasts a day. "I failed already," he writes. "Got a taste of the withdrawal just like I remembered. Too much stress."

  I've solved another major script problem: How to compress a thirty-year war into a two-hour movie. I've decided to focus on the first few battles — a three- or four-month span.

  As I keep writing and saying my prayers to St. Judah Maccabee, my characters are coming alive. I'm joyous that it's coming together creatively for me, but I'm nervous about Mel and "prefiguration" and "oven dodgers" and all the rest of the noxious sack of shit he carries around.

  And Bjorn Pork emails me: "You're toast now. Maura and I put you and your family on a 54-day novena. Watch it work! M
ay God's grace pilot you."

  * * * *

  AT THE END OF OCTOBER 2011, Bjorn Pork emails me again: "I was thinking of hitting Costa Rica after Thanksgiving. But I want to take Luci, which means I must run it by a judge first and get the Dragon's (Oksana's) fucking meaningless approval. I'll let you know more when I know more. I thought I'd get it in your head."

  It's nice of him, but I don't really want to go to Costa Rica now. I'm writing. I'm in a tunnel of my own creation that stretches from Bainbridge Township, Ohio, to Jerusalem circa 160 B.C. All of my days are spent in that tunnel. I'm not seeing any movies, I'm not reading any books, I'm hardly even watching the Cleveland Browns on TV. I am up on the third floor of our house, in my office, listening to Judah Maccabee and letting Jewish history and the Holy Spirit tie me off and shoot me up.

  I also don't want to be distracted at this point of the writing by any of my director's ideas — good or lame. I just want to finish my script, my first draft. There will be plenty of time after my first draft to hear Mel's ideas, but now isn't the time — not while Judah Maccabee and the Holy Spirit are helping me to give birth to my Judah, and his dad, Mattathias, and his brothers John, Simon, Eleazar, and Jonathan.

  But Nick Guerra, Mel's assistant, calls and says Mel would really like us to go and to be his guests in Costa Rica. He will pay for our trip, and the weather in Costa Rica at this time of year is stunning.

  Bjorn Pork emails and says, "The Monster (Oksana) gave clearance for Costa Rica. So it's on if we do a little work, the play time is great."

  Bjorn emails me again: "Bring Bible — will work some."

  * * * *

  NAOMI AND I DISCUSS IT. I really don't want to stop writing. I'm in a flow and I fear that the flights and Mel's house there, the "playtime," will badly disrupt me. I don't need sun and "playtime" now, I don't need to hear any more of Mel's graphic and violent visual imagery. I need to be left alone with Judah and Mattathias and Eleazar and the other guys.

  They're all upstairs now, living in my office. They've moved in. They've taken over the place. There's barely any room for my desk up there. Leather and brass armor lie everywhere. Mattathias keeps pecking away at my old manual typewriter, enjoying himself.

  I tell Naomi about the Maccabees living upstairs in my office. She gives me a look and asks to meet them. I tell her it doesn't work that way. Only I can see them and talk to them.

  She says, "It would be really rude to refuse Mel's invitation to Costa Rica."

  I know she's right — she's right most of the time — but I think it would be damn rude on my part to leave Judah Maccabee and his brothers all alone up there in my office.

  The hell with Mel, he's a lightweight compared to Judah. The absolute last person (real or imagined) I want to piss off is Judah Maccabee… who's my pal and who's busting his nut to help me.

  But Naomi says we're going to Costa Rica.

  * * * *

  OUR SON NICK IS FIFTEEN YEARS OLD and has turned himself from a C and D student to an A and B student. Like Judah, Nick busts his nut — often working on his homework from four in the afternoon until midnight. He's the most religious of our four boys, too. Whenever he can, he comes to church with me. Naomi often finds a rosary in his bed in the morning.

  Nick loves nothing more than wildlife and has a special fascination with jungles and with Latin and Central America.

  "Let's take him with us to Costa Rica," I tell Naomi. "As a reward. He deserves it."

  Naomi says, "Will Mel mind?"

  I say, "I'm sure not. Some other friends of his are coming. Luci and Annie and her husband will be there too. I'll make sure we pay for Nick's expenses."

  Naomi likes the idea and hasn't realized until now that Luci will be there with Annie. She's thrilled about that.

  I can't reach Mel, who's out of the country, so I call Nick Guerra and explain that we'd like to bring our Nick and that we'll pay for his trip. Nick Guerra calls back quickly. He's reached Mel, and Mel thinks it's "a great idea," Nick Guerra says.

  We tell our son, a sophomore in high school, that he's coming to Costa Rica with us for a week and he goes over-the-top apeshit. Not only will it mean being in Central America in a jungle setting for a week, but it will also mean that he'll be able to play hooky from school for a week.

  There is one other factor, too. Nick is the biggest Mel Gibson fan: He's seen almost all of his movies; he's seen "Braveheart" five times.

  "This is unbelievable," Nick says. "I mean it's really unbelievable! I'm going to be hanging out with Mel Gibson!"

  There's more: The plan is that we will fly on Mel's private plane from Costa Rica to Malibu, spend two or three days there at his house, and then fly back home.

  When he hears that, Nick runs out of the room and around the house, up and down the stairs. When he comes back down the stairs, he hugs us both. Naomi and I share his great joy as we hug him… not knowing that we've just made one of the biggest mistakes we've ever made as parents.

  * * * *

  I HAVE A DREAM.

  My father, Istvan Eszterhas, the alleged war criminal, is sitting on the dock by the lake behind our house in Bainbridge. He wears his fur Hungarian sheep-herders hat, and is covered by a robe. He is very old and feeble. Standing next to him is a dazzling, handsome young man, his hair down to his shoulders, wearing leather and brass battle armor. It is Judah Maccabee.

  Both my father and Judah Maccabee are looking at the lake.

  Judah says: "What madness possesses someone to want to wipe an entire people off the face of the earth? Is it such a sin to be a Jew?"

  I realize as I hear him saying it that it's is a line in my script that I have written that day.

  And I hear my father say, in his halting, broken English, "No. No. I am sorry. I am so sorry."

  Judah looks at him and puts his arm around the feeble old man who is my father. Both men look at the lake. There are tears in my father's eyes.

  III.

  APOCALYPTO

  WE FLY INTO SAN JOSE, Costa Rica, and are met at the airport by a friend of Mel's who drives us to the hotel he owns — The Alta. We are charmed by the hotel — a pretty place with an open air restaurant — and also by Mel's friend, a Malibu ex-pat who's gotten married and settled down in Costa Rica.

  Our Nick is cranked. He can't believe he's in Costa Rica and he can't believe that tomorrow he'll be with Mel Gibson listening to howler monkeys making barking noises in the trees.

  The next day we are helicoptered over jungle and verdant canyons to the sea. To Mal Pais, in Guanacaste, to Mel's estate. We see the sea sparkling below as the chopper circles Mel's house, which is deep in the hills, surrounded by jungle growth, and lands at Mel's helipad, carved into the hillside.

  Mel greets us warmly. He's happy we're here, we'll have some fun. Nick, I see, is cool but can't quite hide the fact that he's starstruck. Mel handles our teenager easily, he's obviously had a lot of practice with his own sons. He treats Nick like they're old pals.

  We tell Mel how much we enjoyed the hotel Alta and thank him for sending his friend the hotel owner to meet us at the airport.

  Mel says, "That place used to be cool, but it's a dump now. That asshole really let it go."

  Nick, Naomi, and I look at each other. We didn't think the place was a dump. We enjoyed our time there. But what do I know? I'm from Ohio. I'm not even from Malibu anymore. I'm from Cleveland… and from Csakanydoroszlo, Hungary.

  * * * *

  WE MEET MEL'S OTHER HOUSE GUESTS: His old friend Randy, Randy's friend Elizabeth, and Mel's new friend, Brad, his werewolf partner.

  We like them all immediately. Randy is in his early 60s, a writer and director, a religious man who gave the keynote speech at last years Prayer Breakfast in Washington.

  I like what Randy said there: "I'm not a philosopher. I'm not a preacher. I'm a storyteller. Like Jesus. As nearly as I can tell, that is my only similarity to Him. Actually, there is one other! I too have cried out, 'My God, why have you forsake
n me?'"

  His friend Elizabeth, in her early 40s, is smart and pretty with a New Age spirituality and warm manner. Brad, in his fifties, big and burly, was formerly a doctor at the Mayo Clinic and helped Mel recently when his dad, Hutton, needed medical care.

  And Luci is there with Annie and her husband, Phillip. Luci will only be here a few more days because, by court order, she has to go back to L.A. and be with her mother, Oksana.

  Luci sees Naomi and yells — "Nayo! Nayo! Nayo!" and comes running. Naomi hugs her warmly and Luci holds onto her. Annie smiles and says, "She's been waiting and waiting for you to get here — she's been talking about it!"

  And what about Joe the Owl — the miserable bugger with the broken, gravelly voice? I ask for maybe the hundredth time if I can kiss her on the top of her head and Luci looks at Joe the Owl seriously and says, "No."

  Elizabeth says to Naomi, "Oh my gosh, you're finally here! That's all we've been hearing about — Naomi's coming!"

  When I finally get Mel off alone — it isn't easy with all these people here — I tell him that I'm doing well on the script and that he'll have the first draft on February 15th.

  He says, "Fine. Cool Breeze." But he turns his face away from me.

  * * * *

  WE ALSO MEET KATA. She is the house manager and was the construction boss when Mel built the three houses on this estate.

  She is in her early 40s. Part German, part Persian, an immigrant to Costa Rica. She's attractive and smart as a whip. She makes us feel at home immediately.

  There are three houses on the estate. The main house, where Mel, Luci, Annie and Phillip, Randy and Elizabeth, and Brad are staying, and two smaller houses. Naomi, Nick, and I will stay in one of them, next to the house where Kata, her infant daughter, Ava, and some staff are staying. Two of the houses — Mel's and ours — have infinity pools. They are separated from each other by a hundred yards of jungle-like greenery and a cage for peacocks.

  Everything seems to hang loose. There is a Costa Rican house chef and we can show up for breakfast, lunch, or dinner… or not. And yes there are lots of monkeys in the trees and lots of parrots. The monkeys start doing their act at dawn. There are other houses on the hillside, tucked into thick foliage. One of them is the house Giselle Bundchen shared with Leonardo DiCaprio.