Crazy for God (44 page)
Authors: Frank Schaeffer
After ABC watched the rough cut, they flew me to LA to re-cut the movie under their supervision. I recut with Candice Bergen’s
brother, a film editor with a reputation for being able to “save” movies. I still wanted to try to make the movie work, make my career succeed. And finishing the picture was my only chance of getting another job. But I wasn’t getting paid, not even a per diem. And I had never caught up financially from not paying myself when I directed
Wired.
But, as the Canadian producer said, “Your name will be on this piece of shit, so if you want someone to fuck it up even worse, then go the fuck home.”
brother, a film editor with a reputation for being able to “save” movies. I still wanted to try to make the movie work, make my career succeed. And finishing the picture was my only chance of getting another job. But I wasn’t getting paid, not even a per diem. And I had never caught up financially from not paying myself when I directed
Wired.
But, as the Canadian producer said, “Your name will be on this piece of shit, so if you want someone to fuck it up even worse, then go the fuck home.”
Then the really bad times began. I started to steal.
It was after I had written my first as-yet unpublished novel
Portofino.
I still went crazy. At Genie’s urging, I had started writing the book the year before I went to Canada. I began writing it on the back of an airline ticket envelope. I finished the first draft in about five months and found an agent. I had told no one besides Genie that I was writing. I read the new chapters out loud to her as I completed them. She laughed and loved it. The book was the first thing I had made since I quit painting that Genie really liked.
Portofino.
I still went crazy. At Genie’s urging, I had started writing the book the year before I went to Canada. I began writing it on the back of an airline ticket envelope. I finished the first draft in about five months and found an agent. I had told no one besides Genie that I was writing. I read the new chapters out loud to her as I completed them. She laughed and loved it. The book was the first thing I had made since I quit painting that Genie really liked.
Macmillan bought my novel. And then, except for some minimal editing exchanges carried on by mail, I more or less forgot the book. It wasn’t going to come out for almost a year. As I sank deep into the Canadian production, I hardly thought of the novel.
I was in LA, living in a tiny squalid rented room on Hollywood Boulevard near the Chinese Mann Theater, where my kids and I had watched so many movies back when I thought I was on the cusp of success. I was editing and reediting, and still trying to put together more movie deals.
The edit ended, but I didn’t dare go home. I felt as if my only hope was to stay in LA and do meetings, look for work, read more horrible scripts, anything but go home in total defeat. And then what? Get a job washing dishes? Genie was talking about getting a waitress job.
Of course I wasn’t sending any money home. And I didn’t want to ask Genie to deplete our savings by sending me money. The only cash I had on hand was reserved for gas. (I was driving the old Schaeffer Productions Honda. It had 230,000 miles on it and only worked in second gear and reverse.) I hadn’t paid the rent for two months.
I was convinced that I’d never earn another dime, that somehow I had to make our dwindling savings last forever, that my life was more or less over. I felt as if I was viewing a wasted life from the grave. But I was
not
going to pretend to reconvert to my evangelical faith and hook up with the old Jesus cash-cow again, no matter what, though it would have only taken two or three phone calls to line up a speaking engagement or two.
not
going to pretend to reconvert to my evangelical faith and hook up with the old Jesus cash-cow again, no matter what, though it would have only taken two or three phone calls to line up a speaking engagement or two.
This wasn’t a matter of high principle; I just couldn’t take the bullshit any more.
Long after the edit was done, I lived for the better part of four months by eating off the craft-services table in the editing suite. No one cared. By then, I was like some ghost that haunted the place. Maybe they thought I had become homeless. I ate doughnuts and stale cereal. When I craved protein, I shoplifted pork chops from Ralph’s grocery.
Most of the time I sat next to the phone in my room, looking at other people’s fingerprints on my yellow wall. When I figured that the producers, who rarely returned my calls, were on their way back to Beverly Hills, the Valley, or Santa Monica, from their Hollywood, Century City, and Westwood offices, I turned on my answering machine and went to Ralph’s.
Ralph’s, on Sunset Boulevard at La Brea, was a good place to shoplift. It was a five-minute walk from my room, down Alta Vista Boulevard. I always went the same way. I’d walk past rubber plants with dusty leaves and benches covered with
advertisements for the Jewish cemeteries. They were vandalized by people who misspelled their profanities.
advertisements for the Jewish cemeteries. They were vandalized by people who misspelled their profanities.
“Fuk Yous.”
“Deth.”
“Asole.”
The heavyset Mexican security guard at Ralph’s was no problem. He spent his time playing with his keys or fingering the mace strapped to his shiny belt. Once in a while he would do his security guard stuff and keep the homeless, who hung around the boarded-up, frozen yogurt bar across the street, from panhandling Ralph’s customers. But mostly he didn’t do anything. Anyway, he never bothered me. I was convinced it was because Jesus was protecting me, an odd, mad mixture of faith and larceny.
Besides, my Reeboks were new-looking and I kept my hair combed. When my Reeboks got dirty, I touched them up with typing white-out. Sometimes I would think about the fact that I was the same person Billy Zeoli had given company credit cards to, and who had flown my family all over America in a private plane during the seminars. Sometimes I’d wonder how Rich DeVos and the other evangelical billionaires that I’d raised millions of dollars from would view my present state. Mostly I just sank into a trance. I didn’t even have the energy to jack off.
Once in a while I’d fantasize that I’d re-re-reconvert, go back on the
700 Club,
cry, come home to Jesus, and even pull a Chuck Colson! He got out of jail after serving time for Water-gate, wrote a best-seller, founded a prison ministry, hired ghost writers (who wrote best-sellers for him), and he never looked back! He was even being hailed as the “next Francis Schaeffer” by
Christianity Today
magazine!
700 Club,
cry, come home to Jesus, and even pull a Chuck Colson! He got out of jail after serving time for Water-gate, wrote a best-seller, founded a prison ministry, hired ghost writers (who wrote best-sellers for him), and he never looked back! He was even being hailed as the “next Francis Schaeffer” by
Christianity Today
magazine!
I’d be tempted if some dire need came up, say I needed a new pair of shoelaces or a script copied. Then I’d catch a bit of Christian radio wafting out of some car window at a traffic
light, or spot Pat Robertson’s grinning face, or hear some street preacher ranting on the sidewalk. I’d remember that if it came down to it, I’d rather be arrested for shoplifting than ever be an evangelical leader again. There was a certain basic and decent honesty about stealing pork chops that selling God had lacked.
light, or spot Pat Robertson’s grinning face, or hear some street preacher ranting on the sidewalk. I’d remember that if it came down to it, I’d rather be arrested for shoplifting than ever be an evangelical leader again. There was a certain basic and decent honesty about stealing pork chops that selling God had lacked.
Even with two extra-thick cut pork chops stuffed into my underpants (the cold meat made my testicles ache), the guard didn’t seem to notice or care. I was a white guy. And for my neighborhood, Hollywood Boulevard at Curson, I looked fairly honest compared to the homeless crazies that hung around the sticky sidewalk and scrawled their names on the hacked trunks of dying palm trees.
I usually fried my chops. Then I’d add two drops of Liquid Smoke for flavor. I ate in front of my TV, which sat on the floor at the end of my mattress. I kept my electric frying pan, phone-answering machine, reading lamp, and pile of scripts next to the TV. I was seriously contemplating moving up to stealing steaks.
Once in a while—usually via relayed messages from Genie—I’d hear from Dr. Koop or Dr. Kennedy, or Lane Dennis (the publisher at Crossway), asking what I was doing. The messages seemed totally surreal and got farther apart. I fell out of touch with my old partner Jim. I was just too embarrassed to talk.
Meanwhile, I was offered a job directing
Halloween Four
(or was it
Five?
). Then somebody at Creative Artist’s Agency (CAA) said something about me directing a script I’d cowritten with Calder Willingham a few years before . . . more meetings. (High and mighty CAA were
his
agents, not mine.) Sandy Howard was about to be evicted from his apartment. I shoplifted a few more pork chops.
Halloween Four
(or
Five
) fell through. CAA didn’t call back. Sandy invited me for dinner. We ate a can of split pea soup. He was in even worse shape than me.
Halloween Four
(or was it
Five?
). Then somebody at Creative Artist’s Agency (CAA) said something about me directing a script I’d cowritten with Calder Willingham a few years before . . . more meetings. (High and mighty CAA were
his
agents, not mine.) Sandy Howard was about to be evicted from his apartment. I shoplifted a few more pork chops.
Halloween Four
(or
Five
) fell through. CAA didn’t call back. Sandy invited me for dinner. We ate a can of split pea soup. He was in even worse shape than me.
Then
Portofino
was published.
Portofino
was published.
PART IV
PEACE
61
I
had been hiding in plain sight. One person I met in Hollywood—Frank Gruber—became a best friend. He explains:
had been hiding in plain sight. One person I met in Hollywood—Frank Gruber—became a best friend. He explains:
I’m an entertainment lawyer and I met Frank Schaeffer sometime in the mid ’80s when a few long forgotten clients wanted to buy a screenplay Frank had commissioned. It was a cheesy horror story Frank had wanted to direct but was then willing to give up. We did the deal and nothing came of it. But then a couple years later Frank had another screenplay he had written and he wanted a Hollywood lawyer.
Frank remembered me from the other deal. He told me about his screenplay and I read it. It was a true story about Italians, both religious Catholics and Communist partisans, who save 92 Jewish orphans from the Germans. I read it on an airplane, and I remember being so moved, I teared up.
I also remember thinking it was amazing that someone could write a story about saving 92 Jews, and yet there was almost nothing about Jews in the script. It was all about Christian faith. That began my association with Frank Schaeffer.
The Foreigners
was one of those film projects that “almost get made.” But it had an effect on me, because it was the first time I worked so closely with a client that, after dealing with the ethical niceties being a lawyer requires, I became his producer/partner.
was one of those film projects that “almost get made.” But it had an effect on me, because it was the first time I worked so closely with a client that, after dealing with the ethical niceties being a lawyer requires, I became his producer/partner.
I’ll never forget the first time Frank visited in Santa Monica. We had a little guesthouse in the back and he stayed there and we worked on the screenplay. My son Henry was about three and he and Frank hit it off immediately, as Frank loves to read books to children.
The next big moment in our relationship came several years later when Frank asked me to read the manuscript for his first novel,
Portofino.
I was the first person, other than Frank’s wife, to read the book. Because those of Frank’s screenplays that I had read had been wildly in need of rewriting, I expected the manuscript to be a mess. But the opposite was true. I read the whole thing over a July 4 weekend, laughing out loud, and reading passages out loud to my wife, Janet. The published version of the book differs from what I read in the first draft by at most one percent.
Portofino.
I was the first person, other than Frank’s wife, to read the book. Because those of Frank’s screenplays that I had read had been wildly in need of rewriting, I expected the manuscript to be a mess. But the opposite was true. I read the whole thing over a July 4 weekend, laughing out loud, and reading passages out loud to my wife, Janet. The published version of the book differs from what I read in the first draft by at most one percent.
It was in connection with
Portofino
that I learned that Frank was not what he seemed to be when it came to religion and politics. Frank had told me vaguely (“hiding his light under a bushel” to the end) that his father had been a Protestant theologian, but after reading
Portofino
I learned that there was more to it than that.
Portofino
that I learned that Frank was not what he seemed to be when it came to religion and politics. Frank had told me vaguely (“hiding his light under a bushel” to the end) that his father had been a Protestant theologian, but after reading
Portofino
I learned that there was more to it than that.
His literary agent at the time mentioned casually that “of course a lot of Christian bookstores” might want to carry the book. Given
Portofino
’s jaundiced view of Christian fundamentalism, that surprised me, and that’s
when I learned that Frank’s father, Francis A. Schaeffer, was a famous evangelical, and his mother, Edith Schaeffer, was equally prominent.
Portofino
’s jaundiced view of Christian fundamentalism, that surprised me, and that’s
when I learned that Frank’s father, Francis A. Schaeffer, was a famous evangelical, and his mother, Edith Schaeffer, was equally prominent.
I like to think that Frank is still the boy, Calvin, in his novels, who is afraid that if he gives the English girl he loves a pamphlet about predestination, she will be “predestined” not to want to be with him any more. But then perhaps I’m one of the liberals Frank complains about who assume that anyone who lives near Boston, writes novels, and has good art on his walls has the same views they do. Maybe that intimidated him. As close as we became over the past twenty years as we wrote screenplays together and traveled to locations for films for which the money always seemed to disappear, as we read each other’s work, as we visited each other’s families, it took years for Frank to gain the confidence that I would still be his friend if he told me about his deep Christian faith.
As Frank grew to trust me more, and more freely shared his opinions, we began to enjoy our conflicts. I remember one trip to New York when I met Frank and Genie at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We were there to see the big Byzantine show they had in the late ’90s. In the cafeteria, we had a long argument about abortion rights. We were there to see the art, but we couldn’t stop arguing.
Portofino
got a rave six-column, half-page review in the
Los Angeles Times
by Richard Eder. It also got wonderful reviews in twenty or so other newspapers. I didn’t get one bad review in America (or in Great Britain when it was published there, or, to my knowledge, in the nine other countries where it was translated and published). And not one reviewer connected me
to either my family, to L’Abri, or to “Franky,” the author of those crazy right-wing screeds.
got a rave six-column, half-page review in the
Los Angeles Times
by Richard Eder. It also got wonderful reviews in twenty or so other newspapers. I didn’t get one bad review in America (or in Great Britain when it was published there, or, to my knowledge, in the nine other countries where it was translated and published). And not one reviewer connected me
to either my family, to L’Abri, or to “Franky,” the author of those crazy right-wing screeds.
At last I wasn’t making lame-ass excuses: “The budget got cut. . . .The producer put his girlfriend in the movie. . . . I never did like the script. . . .” I hadn’t felt so happy about anything I’d done professionally since I was nineteen and I walked into the Chante Pierre Gallery and saw my name in the catalogue and fifteen of my paintings framed and beautifully lit.
A few months later, I started writing a second novel,
Saving Grandma.
And though our financial situation was still dire, I didn’t feel broke any more. (In fact, I had never been as “broke” as I had imagined when sinking under my depression out in LA. My belief we were broke was a depression-fueled fantasy.) We were having financial troubles, but not anywhere near as extreme as I imagined. I was also no longer looking for those main-chance shortcuts, for the next steppingstone, rather than having the discipline and concentration to do what was right in front of me well.
Saving Grandma.
And though our financial situation was still dire, I didn’t feel broke any more. (In fact, I had never been as “broke” as I had imagined when sinking under my depression out in LA. My belief we were broke was a depression-fueled fantasy.) We were having financial troubles, but not anywhere near as extreme as I imagined. I was also no longer looking for those main-chance shortcuts, for the next steppingstone, rather than having the discipline and concentration to do what was right in front of me well.
At last I was
really working
at my writing. I found that I had stumbled on something I possessed the patience to do well. When I wrote fiction (and secular nonfiction), I didn’t run out of steam. It seemed normal to do ten, fifteen, or twenty drafts. Mr. Parke would have been pleased. I was finally bucking up, showing a bit of spine!
really working
at my writing. I found that I had stumbled on something I possessed the patience to do well. When I wrote fiction (and secular nonfiction), I didn’t run out of steam. It seemed normal to do ten, fifteen, or twenty drafts. Mr. Parke would have been pleased. I was finally bucking up, showing a bit of spine!
My learning curve was steep and slow. Since I never had much formal education, I learned by doing. My evangelical books were hastily written (or dictated). And they were merely propaganda. But at least I was forced to start a process where I learned to write a bit better with each project, a process that—when I began to take my writing seriously
as writing
—began to pay off. In any case, I was thirty-nine before I finally wrote something I was proud of.
as writing
—began to pay off. In any case, I was thirty-nine before I finally wrote something I was proud of.
I snapped out of my funk, turned down an offer to direct some crap picture in Hong Kong, framed the
L.A. Times
review, and changed my phone number. Since I had screwed up our money matters completely, Genie insisted on taking over our family’s finances. I should have begged her to do that many years before but was too proud to admit that there are things—many things—that I’m not good at.
L.A. Times
review, and changed my phone number. Since I had screwed up our money matters completely, Genie insisted on taking over our family’s finances. I should have begged her to do that many years before but was too proud to admit that there are things—many things—that I’m not good at.
Other books
Maestro by R. A. Salvatore
The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson
The Shaman: And other shadows by Manzetti, Alessandro
The Tree In Changing Light by Roger McDonald
My Expectation (My Escort Series Book 3) by Kia Carrington-Russell
Rival by Lacy Yager
The Vampire Council: Case File:1 by Steve Cunningham
Tara's Gold by Lisa Harris
The Conquering Tide by Ian W. Toll