Dedication
To Naomi, Ava, and Dashiell, you give me purpose . . .
Contents
Dedication
Preface
Rehabilitation Hospital of Indiana 46254
Vancouver V6B 3A4
Vancouver V6B 0A1
North Vancouver “North Van” V7J 2X9
Windsor House “North Van” V7P 2M3
On Set Vancouver V5X 3X8
Vancouver V5T 1R1
Lower Lonsdale “North Van” V7M 3K7
Downtown Vancouver V6J 5L1
Hollywood 90068
North Hollywood 91601
Vancouver V5K 2H9
The Valley 91523
Van Nuys 91401
Burbank 91523
Salt Lake City 84103
Prospect Studios Los Feliz 90027
The Lot and FOX Studios Century City 90046
Bel Air 90077
FOX Private Jet New York 10019
Beverly Hills 90210
Chasen’s West Hollywood 90048
La Jolla Avenue West Hollywood 90069
Beverly Hills 90210
Spago West Hollywood 90069
The High Desert Kern County 93263
Torrance 90501
Amsterdam 1017 BV
Smashbox Studio Westwood 90024
Studio 8H New York 10112
St. Helena Napa Valley 94574
Perris 92571
Piccadilly Circus London W1J 7BX
Magic Mountain Valencia 91355
Tucson 85757
On the Set Van Nuys 91406
On the Set Van Nuys 91406
West Los Angeles 90024
Chicago 60601
Beverly Hilton Hotel Beverly Hills 90212
Montecito 93150
Detroit 48226
Beverly Hills 90210
Beverly Hills 90210
Van Nuys 91411
Sunset Strip West Hollywood 90069
Spelling Manor Holmby Hills 90024
Beverly Hills 9021OUT
Vancouver V6A 4H6
Franklin 37064
Toronto M9C 5K5
Ucluelet V0R 3AO
Santa Monica 91411
Via Marghera Rome 00185
Toronto M9C 5K5
New York 10012
Los Feliz 90068
New York 10112
6-8 Wellington Quay Dublin Dublin 2
Covent Garden London WC2H 9HB
Covent Garden London WC2H 9HB
Ibiza Sant Josep de sa Talaia 07817
Stockholm SE-106 91
Echo Park 90026
Ray Art Studios Canoga Park 91304
Tribeca 10013
Indianapolis Motor Speedway 46222
Outpost Estates Hollywood Hills 90068
Kentucky Speedway 41806
Rehabilitation Hospital of Indiana 46254
Jim and Cindy’s House Indianapolis 46251
Outpost Estates 90068
Baffin Island Iqaluit X0A 0H0
Victoria V8W 1B2
Spelling Manor Holmby Hills 90077
Shaftesbury Avenue London W1D 3AY
Atlantis Resort Nassau NAC: 8JNN2 M5CL8
Warner Bros. Set Burbank 91505
One&Only Ocean Club New Providence Island NAC: 8JPLG M5DDY
Battery Park City New York 10280
The Beverly Hilton Hotel Beverly Hills 90210
“Pleasantville” USA
Cedars-Sinai West Hollywood 90048
Rainbow Bridge
Warner Ranch Burbank 91522
South Kensington London SW7 5BD
“Pleasantville” USA
The Lot (Again) 90046
Wolfville BP4 1E8
Grimaldi Forum Monaco Monte Carlo 98000
Beverly Hills 90210
“Pleasantville” USA
Epilogue
Picture Section
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Preface
My friend the actor John Hurt used to say that people in the public eye have a public life, a private life, and a secret life. I’m not sure that’s true for me. Since I was barely out of my teens and began playing Brandon Walsh, wholesome heartthrob of Beverly Hills 90210, I’ve lived a much more public life than I ever wanted. It’s hard to keep big secrets in the fishbowl of fame.
I was always ambitious, but the goal was to become a successful working actor. I never imagined the level of fame starring on an iconic show would bring. Writing this book took me back very vividly to that time and place—I remembered all the fun, the camaraderie, the good times and the bad—plenty of it played out in public, much of it misrepresented, and, sure, some of it private . . . until now, anyway.
Still, I’ve never been one to spend much time looking in the rearview mirror. All my life I’ve been moving forward as fast as I could, looking for the next thing. So to write this book was not easy or done without plenty of hesitation and false starts.
Twenty years ago I “graduated” from high school on 90210 . . . pretend, of course, but a milestone nevertheless. And ten years ago I literally died and came back to life, slowly, painfully, and with a completely different attitude. I wanted to change my life . . . and I did . . . again. There have been all kinds of major changes—ups, downs, and hurdles—in my life since I arrived in Hollywood as a seventeen-year-old kid, full of boundless energy and a determination to succeed.
I still wake up every morning racing toward my next goal, full of energy, feeling young. Then I see the middle-aged guy in the mirror, the one with a wife and two little kids. The three of them are so all over my business I couldn’t have a secret life now if I wanted one! But every once in a while I look back, laugh, and shake my head, remembering. . . .
Rehabilitation Hospital
of Indiana
46254
I wake up in a strange room, looking at an unfamiliar ceiling—a not-infrequent occurrence. I feel a little woozy; I’m obviously under the influence of something—again, not exactly an unheard-of state for me. I hear the familiar gentle snore of my French bulldog, Swifty, and turn my head . . . painfully. In the near dark I can make out his familiar boxy form, curled up alongside my girlfriend, Naomi. Hmmm. Seeing them is a welcome surprise. But . . . where are we?
I try to sit up and can’t. I realize that I’m wearing a back brace and it’s keeping me from moving. I turn my head the other way and see a wheelchair next to my bed, along with an IV stand. A line from the IV bag runs straight into the crook of my elbow.
I struggle to lift my head just an inch or so; then I see my feet, wrapped in fluorescent green casts, resting like two huge misshapen blocks at the end of my bed. It’s beginning to sink in. I am in the hospital. I have clearly been in a bad accident. A shock of pure alarm shoots through my body at the thought of being paralyzed. I wiggle my toes with all my might and am vastly relieved when I see them move.
I EVENTUALLY FIGURED out that I have crashed my Infiniti Pro Series car in turn two at the Kentucky Speedway. Speed at impact: 187 mph. I had qualified second for the race that day. The crash happened during warm-up.
I had driven through a patch of Quick Dry, an absorbent material not unlike kitty litter, used to clean up oil and antifreeze on racetracks after accidents, a typical occurrence in racing. That’s all it was. An accident.
I had been coming to briefly and fading back out just as suddenly. Each time I gain consciousness I have no memory of waking up before. All I know is that I am now suddenly awake, confused, and in pain.
I find out I was in critical condition in a Trauma ICU in Kentucky before coming here to Indianapolis, Indiana. As I begin the painful physical process of putting my
body back together, I also begin the emotional journey of figuring out how I got to this place in my life. You have a lot of time to think lying in a hospital bed twenty-four hours a day.
I got everything in my life through my drive to be successful and my desire to be the best at everything I attempted. I had a fierce competitive spirit that brought me here . . . but this time, I had gone too far.
Vancouver
V6B 3A4
When I was five years old, I told my mother, “I want to be one of those people who live inside the television.”
Now, why I wanted to live inside the television set in that particular time and place—Canada, the 1970s—I can’t imagine. Kids’ programs included such gems as The Beachcombers, The Friendly Giant, Mr. Dress-up, and The Littlest Hobo. We got a couple of big American shows like Sesame Street and The Electric Company, but for the most part the programming was all ours. It didn’t matter; I watched them all and wished I was there. From as far back as I can remember, I had an innate fascination for and desire to be part of that world.
Fifteen years later my childhood wishes would be fulfilled. As the star of one of the most iconic American television shows of the late twentieth century, somebody, somewhere in the world is always watching me, no matter what the day or time. Playing Brandon Walsh on Beverly Hills 90210 has assured my place in pop culture for all time. I really will live inside the box—forever!
MY PARENTS MET as students at the University of Victoria, where my mother was a star performer in the drama department and my father built sets. He was also an outstanding rugby player, sailor, and all-around athlete. Both were quite artsy and liberal. Mom danced in the Royal Canadian Ballet before their marriage and continued to work as an actress occasionally after they moved to Vancouver and started a family. My sister, Justine, arrived first. Then I came along sixteen months later.
Mom’s agent was a woman named Ramona Beauchamp at the Ramona Beauchamp Agency in Vancouver. Ramona was one of the few prominent show business agents in the area—this was long before my hometown became known as Hollywood North. She signed both my sister and me, and one of her agents, Fiona Jackson, represented us. We were quickly booked for several print ads—not surprisingly, posing as brother and sister.
Probably due to my long straight hair, big blue eyes, and sweet face, I was frequently mistaken for a girl. When strangers would approach my mother to say something complimentary about her “little girls,” I would growl, “I’m not a girl!” and startle the hell out of them with my surprisingly deep voice. Still, it was the right look for the time: peace and love, hippie hair. I booked quite a few print and catalog jobs, which soon led to every kind of acting gig that was available in the tiny local industry at that time: mostly voice-overs and local television commercials. Justine had no desire to continue after doing a few shoots; I pestered my mother constantly for more work. She was by no means a stage mother; the desire was all mine. From where? Who can say? It was hardwired into me.
One afternoon Mom accompanied me to an audition for a movie at that monument to ’70s architecture, the Canadian Broadcast Corporation building in downtown Vancouver. By this time I was an old pro at auditioning. I went in and met the casting person, read my lines, and assured them that I was a strong swimmer (apparently a prerequisite for the part). Fortunately, Dad had had me in the water since before I could walk, and I could not only swim but was also a pretty good little sailor.
Maybe my aquatic skill was the deciding factor in winning the role; maybe it was that I resembled the actress who was to play my mother; maybe they just liked my reading. At the age of six I had already figured out there was a lot of luck and intangibles involved in landing any role at all, even for a tiny ad in the local paper. Many kids couldn’t stand the rejection of not landing a part. It only made me more determined. One year earlier, at the age of five, I had begun in earnest to will my dreams to come true; now the power of persistence had landed me my first break.
Vancouver
V6B 0A1
The CBC movie Stacy was about a woman with two young boys who suffered from bipolar disorder. In what was one of the dramatic high points of the film, Stacy suffered a breakdown and I, playing her young son, wandered off and drowned in the ocean. There was a long shot of me floating motionless, facedown in the water. As promised, this was no problem as I excelled at the dead man’s float.
Coincidentally, a neighbor who lived around the corner, an assistant director who was a friend of my mother’s, was working on this movie too. He offered to drive me back and forth to the set. As we turned onto the quiet road where the first day’s shooting was to take place, an ambulance went racing past us in the other direction, sirens wailing and lights flashing. I turned to watch it go by and then immediately forgot it in the excitement of reaching the set. The isolated house on the water was a beehive of activity; people in headsets were rushing around; there were huge lights and cords and rigging everywhere.
My neighbor parked his van in a makeshift parking lot where people were busily unloading more vans full of mysterious equipment and smiled at me. “Ready to go, Jason?” he asked, and the two of us began walking. A harried woman with a clipboard came racing up to us and said, panting, “Thank God you’re here!” In my six-year-old mind, I thought she was referring to me. Of course, she was talking to my neighbor. “We’ve got a big problem!”
“What is it?” my neighbor, the second assistant director, asked.
“The lead actress playing Stacy got here an hour ago and said she wanted to explore the house, get a feel for the place. I said fine, so we went inside, and walked around a bit.
“On the second floor, she walked out on the balcony, leaped off, and broke both her legs.”
“What?” I was immediately forgotten.
“That was our lead! They just took her away in an ambulance!”
“We have no star? What are we going to do?”
“I’m on it . . . I already reached out to the casting director. She called our second choice, who’s on her way. She’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Thank God!” The two assistant directors started walking toward the house, deep in conversation. I was completely enthralled. A crazy lady jumped off a balcony? And broke both her legs? And no one even missed a beat. Production kept moving right along!
Our neighbor remembered me after walking a few yards and called to me. “Come on, Jason. Come with us and we’ll get you squared away. It’s going to be a couple of hours.”
I ran to catch up. I could not have been happier with the way my day was going. Things got even better later on. I was given my own custom-made wet suit to wear under my clothes for my climactic scene. I felt very important and starlike. I had never worn a wet suit before, much less one made to measure.
I floated in the freezing water of the harbor in the middle of a Vancouver winter, a diver hovering just out of the frame for safety. I felt perfectly fine and toasty warm. But as the cameras started to roll and I leaned forward to put my head down for the dead man’s float, icy water gushed into my neckline and trickled all the way down to my toes inside my wet suit. Talk about cold. It was bitter! It wasn’t hard to remain motionless; my entire body went absolutely numb within seconds as my mind went blank. Fortunately, the director got the shot he needed in just two takes; I was probably only in the water for a couple of minutes and was immediately whisked into a warm towel and rubbed down and blow-dried back into warmth. That part was fun, too.
The showbiz lessons were starting early, and Stacy was the perfect example of the first and most important rule for an actor to absorb: Can’t get the job done? Next! The show must go on. Also, I could see that “stars” were not necessarily the most mentally stable and together people. Third, being an actor meant there were lots of cool things to do and perks to be won—like my very own wet suit.
I had only one thought as my friend drove me home late that afternoon. Man, I love this business!
North Vancouver
“North Van”
V7J 2X9
I wasn’t exaggerating when I promised the Stacy staff that I was comfortable in the water. A lifelong avid sailor who had grown up spending his free time at the Royal Victoria Yacht Club, my dad transferred his membership to the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club after he married, and he bought a twenty-four-foot sailboat. From the time I could walk, we were out there on weekends working on the boat and sailing and racing.
Boating was always a big part of our family life. Being on the water is something that I absolutely love to this day. Being under sail, no noise from the engine, having the wind move your boat through the water . . . it’s intoxicating. Eventually, my parents cobbled together enough money to buy a gorgeous new thirty-three-foot sailboat and we took an idyllic weeklong family vacation. The weather was simply spectacular, and everyone was happy. I recall it as pure joy. My sister and I were in heaven, swimming, fishing, playing in the sparkling water. Everyone was happy. Or so I remember.
Which made it quite a tremendous shock when my parents split up soon afterward. In fact, most of my memories are blank surrounding their actual divorce. There had not been any fighting or yelling or any signs of trouble; they were good at hiding their unhappiness from us. They reassured us both that it was nobody’s fault, that they still loved us. They did the best they could, but it was still devastating.
Dad moved to a bachelor apartment in the West End for a while. Mom looked for a full-time job and taught classes at Ramona’s agency on weekends. The beautiful new boat was sold. I lay in a sleeping bag on my dad’s living room floor on weekends, stunned at the sudden sweeping changes in my life. It was the ’70s, and divorce was rampant; families were breaking up everywhere. I was just one more kid among millions with a weekend dad and a broken heart.
Windsor House
“North Van”
V7P 2M3
Windsor House School was exactly what you would imagine a small school run by a hippie in early-1970s Canada to be. Windsor had been founded by an innovative woman named Helen, who taught in her own home; the school eventually expanded into a proper building with a bunch of teachers. But it stayed quite alternative and progressive; all the teachers were hippies as well, many of them musicians. This was right up my progressive mother’s alley; Justine and I were both enrolled there from kindergarten on.
Jason Priestley Page 1