I'm Not Dead... Yet! (12 page)

I met him at his home in Malibu, and when I knocked on the door, Barbra Streisand (who is much smaller than you would expect) opened it, smiled, and said “Hi, Robby. I’m Barbra.” After she took me to Peters, she brought us a tray of cookies while we talked.

Peters wanted me to star in the film he was developing, which had a very troubled script. If I signed on, the film would be green-lighted. He wooed me with the offer of co-producing and bringing in my father to work with me on a page-one rewrite. We all agreed.

A few weeks later, when my father had a heart ‘episode’ on a Friday and went to the emergency room, a cold, dispassionate Peters informed us that if he didn’t see my dad and me working at the studio on Saturday he would pull the script from us. So
this
is the Jon Peters everyone was talking about—Hollywood at its worst.

My dad and I should’ve pulled out of the film on the spot. But we didn’t discuss it because we each thought it was a great opportunity for the other. Father and son—what could be better?

When we were a few days behind in filming (because our director hadn’t a clue how to direct, just edit Ms. Streisand’s music videos), the most professional man on the set, our cinematographer, was fired—even though I lobbied and made every phone call I could begging them to keep the pros and get rid of the amateurs.

I still have visions of Jon Peters and the director tearing pages out of the script, crumpling them up and throwing them onto the street. Peters did everything he could to drive a wedge between me and my father and almost succeeded. He even banned my father from the set. I called my agent to tell him I wanted out, but he said I’d be sued for millions and be blackballed from the business if I abandoned the production.

There came a time when Jon Peters was playing so many cruel head games with me that I’d have to find private places near the set, a closet, an empty toilet, to literally break down. Sometimes I’d cry; sometimes I’d just punch the wall; sometimes I’d twitch uncontrollably and sometimes I’d freeze and stay in a mental limbo until I heard someone yelling my name to come back to to the set. I had absolutely no one to talk to.

When I wasn’t having a private nervous breakdown on the set (then getting my act together so no one saw me weak), I’d come home from work and I’d run and run, just like I’d been doing for most of my life.
Only during this film, it was the hills of San Francisco and I’d run until I’d vomit and couldn’t take another step. I didn’t know it was my heart that was causing me to vomit, I just thought I was in a living hell. But what else could I do? My fighting spirit took over, and I decided I had to do everything in my power to make the best film possible under the circumstances. It almost killed me.

One day, my job as an actor was to simply carry a wooden box with a monkey in it and sprint up a very steep street, running as fast as I could. The intent: my character had to get away from the cops. After running the hill, I would then turn the corner, which would signify the end of the shot, followed by the loud yell of ‘Cut!’ On ‘Action!’ (a command that brings a great deal of power and permission, no matter how meek the decibel or directive), I sprinted up the hill. 50 yards. 100 yards. I began to falter… even I believed in the fantasy of my Hollywood abs more than my mortal lungs and heart. I was becoming more and more oxygen deprived. On take three, my goal became simpler: merely run up the hill and ‘make it around that corner… come on, man, just make it around the corner…’

I began to black out, but until I disappeared around the corner, I kept thinking, ‘Don’t ruin the shot! Whatever you do, don’t ruin the shot!’ As my world began to spin, I made sure the monkey and the prop-box were safely on the sidewalk, then grabbed the first thing I could find to stop my fall—a parking meter. Sliding down the meter, I vomited. The trained voice in my head said, ‘Good: you didn’t ruin the shot, you didn’t hurt the monkey, and the prop box is safe. You did your job. I now give you permission to blackout.’

I stopped myself. ‘Wait. Where is the Second A.D.? He should be standing with a walkie-talkie right where I’m passing out. It’s his job to be here!’ (Forget about blacking out—we’re talking professionalism; somebody could steal the monkey!) ‘He needs to take care of the monkey, the prop box and clear pedestrians so no one ruins the shot,’ was my last thought.

As the blackness lifted in corneal sparkles, and dark spots littered my vision, I was at eye level with the sidewalk (nice looking sidewalk…). I saw my own vomit (pizza…). I still could not lift my head, but a pair of shoes entered my sight line. The Second A.D. at last?

“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Benson?” a strange voice asked. I could not speak. I did the only thing my motor function could handle: I signed my autograph.

Watching his sneakers leave, I heard the guy say, “Robby Benson! This is so cool. I can’t wait to show my mother!” Then I heard, “Was he nice?” coming from a young female. “No,” the guy quickly answered. “He didn’t even look at me. One of those stuck-up Hollywood assholes.”

Huh? Me? Well… I tried; I wrote my name. I couldn’t look up—I couldn’t lift my head. An asshole? Why?

Throughout my entire career my fans have been very considerate, compassionate people. But there is always... an exception.

By the time the Second A.D. came, I was able to stand. When he asked me if I was okay, I told him I had food poisoning and asked if we got the shot.

“Perfect,” he smiled.

‘Perfect,’ I thought. ‘See? I
can
control my destiny,’ I told myself.
My career is safe!

A few days later, we were shooting a scene on an oil tanker in the San Francisco Bay. The shot required a few stuntmen to jump about 40 feet off the tanker into the Bay. One stuntman balked. He said he didn’t think the stunt was safe and told the director he wouldn’t do the jump. ‘Are you kidding,’ I thought. Since I was co-producing the picture, and we needed the shot, I turned to him and said, “Take off your clothes.”

“Huh?”

“Take off your clothes. Let’s switch. I’ll do the jump.”

And I did. In street clothes and wearing boots, I jumped over 40 feet—which seemed to be an eternity. The water was freezing and the waves were huge; the current was powerful and I began to sink. I should’ve drowned. Sheer will got me to the awaiting tug boat. But maybe… just maybe… I didn’t want to make it to the tug boat. I look back and think of how selfish that last thought is—but as a very young man, with all this responsibility, whose father was humiliated by Jon Peters, I was completely alone and powerless to help the ones I loved. I only knew large choices, and death seemed like an option. I would do battle with this demon again. (And again…)

Valuable Life Lesson:
Never, ever work for Jon Peters.

Growing up, I was taught to ‘Never give up. Never. Ever.’ It’s a very healthy attitude. For every job I got, I’ll take a wild guess and say there were a hundred rejections in between. That’s actually a pretty decent batting average. And since I’m using baseball, I’ve been up at the plate, 3 and 2, 2 outs, bottom of the 9th, the bases loaded and we were down by three runs. The next pitch came and was in my sweet spot. I launched it over the centerfield fence for a grand slam and we won a game we should’ve lost. ‘Never give up.’

On the set or in the theater, attitude is contagious. A bad attitude can move through a show or a film like the plague. So attitude is something we should constantly do an internal check-up on—and make adjustments. The beautiful thing about an attitude change can be likened to the words, ‘Cut!’ and ‘Action!’ If the take was horrible, a new reality can begin with the next take when they call ‘Action!’ just moments later.

In other words, our attitude can change with a blink of the eye. It’s up to us. I awaken, I feel grumpy, I realize I’m lucky to be alive and I kiss Karla—my attitude has just done a 180 in a matter of seconds.

But if you realize that you cannot change your attitude—if you come to the conclusion that you don’t even
care
if you change your attitude—if you find yourself unable to jump-start any change in your attitude, you’ve got a serious problem and you should seek help.

My heart problems had me jumping through ‘mental hoops’ lined with barbed wire. This grief and torment is just as potent to a young guy who writes and acts for a living as someone who works in a law firm, a construction worker, a college student—anyone. It doesn’t matter. If you have heart problems, we’re on the same team.

I was the dummy who finally had to be hit with a 2x4 in order to face the fact that I was ill, that my heart was failing me, and it was healthy to find out why—and fix the problem. This is when I realized my situation. This is
not
when I chose to deal with it.