Grateful American

by Gary Sinise

  I had my family with me in Utah: Moira, Sophie, Mac, plus Moira’s older sister, Lois, and her son, Boyd. One night Moira received a phone call from her twin sister, Amy, that their mother had passed away. Moira was devastated, and the following months were very hard on her and her sisters. They’d now lost both parents, as well as their older brother.

  I finished shooting, came back to California, and landed the role of the villain in a movie called Jack the Bear, featuring Danny DeVito and in a small supporting role a fifteen-year-old standout named Reese Witherspoon. MGM approved Horton’s script while I was working on Jack the Bear, so we started pre-production of Of Mice and Men while I was still filming with Danny. I got my first cell phone, a Motorola flip, and worked the phone between every take on Jack the Bear.

  Our date to begin shooting Of Mice and Men was slated for September 1991. Yet we had a problem. The story is set in California, and we needed a big field of barley. Where were we going to find a big field of barley in California in September? We searched in Montana—the first time I’d been there—and although it was past harvest and we didn’t find our growing barley field, something else caught me that would impact my future. Near Great Falls, out in the middle of nowhere, I was startled every so often to see huge concrete slabs surrounded by fencing. In the center of these slabs sat a giant iron cap, and underneath that cap were housed nuclear missiles, pointed in those days at the USSR. In later years, I would play a bunch of concerts at bases in Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, and Missouri. These bases are part of Air Force Global Strike Command, the guys who take care of our nuclear arsenals. I would always have mixed feelings when seeing nuclear weapons up close. The weapons protect us, yet they’re horrific, and we can never forget both facts of their existence. I hoped, then and now, as so many people do the world over, that they would never need to be used again.

  We continued our location scout and finally found a ranch just outside the Santa Ynez Valley near Santa Barbara, California, that had an old barn out back where we could build some bunkhouses and the other sets we’d need for a movie. The folks said that within six weeks they could grow us a wheat field that would work for all the barley scenes. We needed a river, so we scouted Acton, California, where an old movie ranch sits atop artesian wells. Ranch owners said they could dig down, water would come up, and they could flood the area to create a river effect. We decided to do all our interior shots on a sound stage in L.A. We cast the movie with a wonderful group of actors, including the great Ray Walston as Candy, Sherilyn Fenn as Curley’s wife, John Terry as Slim, Joe Morton as the ranch’s stable buck, Crooks, and my own dear Moira as the woman in the red dress.

  We started shooting, telling the story with simple, elegant, poetic shots, letting the actors do the work in front of the camera. I hired my dad to edit the film, and during shooting we had an editing room set up in the town of Solvang, California, near where we shot. At the end of each day, I’d head over to the editing room and watch the dailies, all the film we’d shot the day before. Dad would show me the material, and I’d give him some notes. Going back and forth from directing to acting felt challenging, but I knew the project well from Steppenwolf, and I felt confident with the material. While shooting, I hardly had to look at the script. We wrapped principal photography just before Thanksgiving 1991, and for the next several months we were in postproduction at offices we’d rented at CBS Studios in Studio City, California.

  Similar to what had happened with Miles from Home, the committee that selects movies for Cannes wanted to see this film for their May 1992 festival. I knew Of Mice and Men wouldn’t be a summer blockbuster, but I had high hopes that it would be well received and was thrilled when the festival called. It’s an artistic film, an acting movie, an American classic. Perfect for Cannes. They accepted it into competition. And just like last time, we edited and tweaked the movie right up to the moment we flew to France. Moira was pregnant with our third child when we went to Cannes this time, and I wondered with a chuckle what the French thought. Mon Dieu! Every time we see that Sinise fellow, his wife is pregnant.

  It wasn’t all fun and games. On April 29, 1992, not too long before we left for Cannes, jurors in Simi Valley delivered the verdict in the trial of the four white policemen accused of beating motorist Rodney King, an African American. Three of the accused were acquitted, while a mistrial was declared for the fourth. Racial tensions ran very high and exploded.

  The day the L.A. riots touched off, I was mixing the sound for Of Mice and Men at Sony Studios in Culver City. One of the technicians called me into the office, and there on his TV all hell was breaking loose. A helicopter was circling above a street where a truck driver named Reginald Denny had been pulled out of his vehicle and was being beaten by a mob at the intersection of Florence and Normandie. The cameras cut to other areas of the city, and stores were being looted and burned. Several other innocent motorists were attacked and beaten.

  The images were deeply frightening—and all this violence was happening not too far from where we were working. I told everyone we were shutting down and they should go home immediately. As I drove home, my eyes darted from left to right as I wondered if I, too, would be pulled from my vehicle and beaten. Anarchy reigned in Los Angeles, and police raced here and there. I wondered how I was going to protect my family if the violence reached our home. I was scared.

  For the next five days while the riots raged, I tried to work at home while watching the city burn on television. The California Army National Guard, the Seventh Infantry Division, and the First Marine Division were called in to help restore order, but for some time, mobs still roamed. In the end, sixty-three people were killed, 2,383 were injured, and more than 12,000 people were arrested. Property damage was estimated as high as $1 billion. Los Angeles would never be the same. I admit I was so consumed with my own work that year—directing, producing, and acting in my film—that I did not even know when the verdict was coming in the Rodney King case. What a shock. It was a tough time for our city and our country, and I’ll never forget what Rodney King himself asked during those terrible days of rage: “Can we all get along?”

  A week after the riots ended, we were finally able to go back to work to get the movie ready for the festival. We finished things up by adding the beautiful score written by Mark Isham. We left for Cannes a few days later. Of Mice and Men was screened toward the end of the festival, so by then everybody had viewed many films and had a lot to compare my movie with. My coproducer, Russ Smith, attended our screening, along with Malkovich and many of the MGM executives, including Alan Ladd Jr., the top guy at MGM. Moira was there. My mom and dad were there. The movie was screened in Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, a giant movie theater with a seating capacity of twenty-three hundred seats, all filled. On the way from the hotel to the theater, the streets were lined with cheering people. At the theater, the red carpet was packed with paparazzi and journalists. Everybody wore tuxedos or ball gowns. Flashbulbs popped everywhere. As a filmmaker, when your movie is being shown, you can’t stand in the back and pace, which is what I nervously felt like doing. You must sit in the middle of the theater, along with the production team, in the middle of the gigantic crowd. You hope the crowd enjoys the show. If they don’t, then you sit there and take your punishment, even if you get booed. And this was my first film as a producer. My second as a director. Only my third as an actor.

  The crowd and I watched the movie. It started just as I had envisioned it, on a train, inside a boxcar. We heard the clackity clack of the train going across the tracks. The story progressed, the movie finished, and the credits rolled, with the lights still down. The plot concludes tragically, not triumphantly, and it’s not a movie where you walk away feeling happy. Still, the story is deeply moving and powerful, and my hope was that after seeing the film, viewers might be motivated to do a little more to make sure people aren’t alone, abandoned, marginalized, or left on the fringes.

  When the credits began to roll, a little lull c
rept into the auditorium, a tense moment of silence. Sometimes the audience waits until the very end of the credits to show their feelings. Sometimes they make their decision with credits still rolling. I felt my skin crawl. Will the audience clap? Will they boo? I held my breath, waiting for the response.

  And then it happened.

  A dam burst. The entire room erupted into applause. Huge applause. With the credits still rolling, the audience clapped and clapped. One person stood. Then another. The entire theater rose to their feet. A standing ovation. The team and I stayed sitting in the middle of the crowd, and they brought the house lights up and shined a spotlight on us. The crowd continued to clap wildly. They cheered through the entire credits. Malkovich and I stood, took a bow, and waved. The credits ended, and nothing appeared on the screen. The audience continued to clap and cheer. Malkovich and I sat down and took a few moments, the audience continued to clap and cheer, then Russ, John, and I stood. I saw Tom Selleck standing off to one side in the crowd, clapping, cheering. I didn’t know him personally, but I could pick out his familiar face anywhere. He wore a white tux, and as I glanced over, Tom caught my eye and smiled and nodded as only Magnum, P.I., could do. The standing ovation went on and on. The noise in the room was deafening. Someone said later that the ovation lasted a full ten minutes. Finally, the clapping wound down, and I stood again and called to the crowd, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much!” Tears filled my eyes, and a wave of emotion nearly choked me. We had worked hard, and this was our moment of truth. It felt spectacular.

  You would think a huge standing ovation at Cannes would mean a studio would really get behind a picture, publicity-wise. At one point during the ovation, I’d looked over at Russ and quipped, “Wow, I’m so glad the MGM executives are here to see this. It will be really good for the film.” And Russ had quipped back, “Either that, or I think we just made a French film.” By that, he meant it was going to play well only in art houses. We both laughed ruefully.

  Sure enough, the movie opened October 2, 1992, in America and saw a small release, just 398 theaters total. I did a lot of press in the States, and then another promotional tour overseas where I went to Paris and London and other European cities where it was shown, but it never really took off, although the movie received excellent reviews wherever it went. The studio had made a marketing decision prior to the movie’s release. Whereas I thought we should have full-page ads for five weeks, they took out only one full-page ad on opening day. After that, nothing. To be sure, the studio executives were gracious. One of the main execs at MGM at the time (and daughter of the great filmmaker Sydney Pollack), Rebecca Pollack, was particularly kind toward the film. The execs considered it an artistic success, but I think they suspected the movie wasn’t going to make much money, so they weren’t going to spend much to market it. Columbia’s A River Runs Through It, starring Brad Pitt and directed by Robert Redford, came out seven days after Of Mice and Men, and although the stories were different, the heartland tone was similar. Both were considered rural movies with beautiful scenery, and conventional wisdom said both movies would fight for the same audience dollar. I thought our reviews were just as good as the reviews for A River Runs Through It, and I mentioned this to the studio executives, but a marketing decision had been made. A River Runs Through It went on to win an Oscar and earn $43 million. Of Mice and Men received a ten-minute standing ovation at Cannes but grossed just over $5 million.

  I don’t hold this against anybody. MGM was never “against” the movie. For MGM, it made sense to get a good artistic creation in the pipeline, but they knew Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men wasn’t going to be a blockbuster and make a bundle. Still, they were happy with the strong performances and exemplary reviews, and in the end, I’ve always been so grateful that they allowed me to make the movie that I wanted to make.

  The story of Of Mice and Men is universal. George and Lennie are two lonely souls who befriend each other in a harsh world. They have a dream of someday owning their own place to call home. We all want companionship. We all have a dream. We all deal with loneliness. These are timeless themes that move people; that’s what I wanted to be a part of. We succeeded in delivering that message.

  And I am happy to say that while it took a little time for us to reconnect, two of the first people I wanted to show the film to were my buddies Terry and Jeff. After exchanging messages that discussed our feelings about my making the film, I screened it for both of them, and they were supportive and proud. Any hurt feelings were set aside, and getting their thumbs-up was a great boost for me. I love these guys like brothers. But sometimes choices are made that send us in different directions. And I had decided to do that. Our work together has always been the greatest gift to me creatively. And our friendship, even more.

  The film has proved to have great staying power. Today, more than twenty-five years later, more people have seen our production of Of Mice and Men on DVD in high schools around the country than ever saw it in theaters. I still get letters from high school students thanking me for making the film. They’ve studied it in school, where Steinbeck’s great novel is still taught. Of Mice and Men is still a powerful and moving story and a film I’m proud of.

  I considered it a personal success too. On my first movie, I had made decisions tentatively, but with Of Mice and Men, it was the opposite. I felt very confident and knew exactly what I wanted to see on the screen. I’d succeeded in one of my main objectives—to act in a larger role in a movie that I also produced and directed. I’d followed my dreams, intuition, and heart, and worked hard to make my dreams a reality. It was a tremendous artistic challenge, and I’ll always be thankful for what I learned and for the self-confidence I gained spending that year in Steinbeck country.

  Six weeks before the opening of Of Mice and Men, our third child was due. Sophie had been born naturally, but Moira wanted epidurals after that. Mac came so quickly the epidural didn’t work. For the third child, the anesthesiologist was in the middle of putting the epidural in Moira’s back, when Baby announced that now was the time—and Baby would not wait.

  And there she was. Ella Jane Sinise. Beautiful.

  Born August 20, 1992, Ella was our smallest baby, and two weeks after her birth, we sat at an appointment with our pediatrician. She listened to Ella’s little heart and said, “I want you to go see a cardiologist right away. There’s something odd in Ella’s heartbeat.” I tell you, when a pediatrician says that, your life clouds with fear.

  We took Ella to the cardiologist, who ran all kinds of tests. We learned she’d been born with three holes in her heart, which frightened us greatly, but the cardiologist said sometimes these holes close on their own, so he wanted to wait awhile—a few years, in fact—before deciding whether any surgeries would be required. We lived on pins and needles the next several years.

  At five, Ella was small for her age. She didn’t seem to be growing as fast as our other children had. We then learned that two of the holes in Ella’s heart had closed on their own, but the third was too big and surgery was needed.

  We called everybody we knew. All the doctors. All the friends. Everybody who’d ever experienced anything like this. My agent even put me in touch with Sylvester Stallone, whose daughter had needed heart surgery when she was young. Sly said his daughter was doing very well, and he described the procedure for me. Ella’s condition wasn’t as complicated as his daughter’s, and that gave us some peace of mind. Still, our concerns continued. Dr. Alfredo Trento, the very gifted head of cardio-thoracic surgery at Cedars-Sinai, agreed to do the procedure.

  Early in the morning of the day of the operation, Moira, Ella, and I sat in the waiting room, waiting for the staff to come and get our little girl and take her back for the surgery. Ella sat on my lap and I held her closely, smoothing her blonde curls.

  “Daddy,” she said in a small voice. “When are they going to fix my heart?”

  “Soon,” I murmured. “Very soon, honey. You’ll be all better.”

  T
he nurse opened the doors to the waiting room and nodded to us. I carried Ella to the nurse and placed Ella in her arms and watched as they disappeared through the doors of the operating room. Moira and I stood there, stunned. I can still feel that moment of emptiness. When you hand your child to someone else, and she isn’t near you anymore, everything is out of your hands. Moira and I held each other. We paced. Then we sat on the couch again, trying to keep it together.

  Dr. Trento is a tall, highly educated man with a hearty smile and a grayish shock of hair—the best specialist in his profession, with a list of medical accomplishments on his bio that literally continues for more than forty-three pages. After Ella’s open-heart surgery, when Dr. Trento personally delivered the news that all went well, I wanted to hug him and give him effusive thanks. Instead, I choked up, very emotional, and all I could do was whisper, “You have amazing hands.”

  Dr. Trento looked at me intently and answered in his Italian accent, “Gary, it’s God. God puts his hands on me, and then I touch my patients with God’s hands.”

  Moira and I crept into the Intensive Care Unit where our little daughter lay. Ella had a tube in her neck and another tube in her chest. Machines surrounded her with blinking red lights. Lying in the hospital bed with a thin blanket to cover her, she looked so small, so vulnerable. She was sleeping, still groggy with anesthesia, and all we could do at first was stare at her while the fact sank in:

  She was going to be just fine.