Jason Priestley (14 page)

Chuck Rosin, our show runner, had a heart attack. He would be okay and, with help, be able to finish the season, but he would not continue after the fifth season.

And Luke Perry was leaving the show.

Luke left the show ten episodes into the sixth season. When he told me he wasn't going to sign again, I was disappointed on both personal and professional levels. He was a very good friend, and we had experienced a lot together. I hated to see him go, though I could certainly understand that he was creatively frustrated and didn't want to become typecast. I directed Luke's final episode, a very dramatic show where Rebecca Gayheart's character was mistakenly killed by her father's hit men. I was going to really miss my friend.

P
laying the moral compass of the show, I was never going to get the big dramatic scenes. Brandon would never have the big crazy story arcs or drunken or drugging scenes (except for the U4EA episode, when Emily puts a hallucinogen in Brandon's drink, with disastrous results).

Every show like
90210
needs a moral anchor, and that was my character. Of course there were disagreements and creative conflict with the actors and the writers, but a certain amount of creative discord is healthy. We had just enough to keep everything interesting and everyone on their toes.

Aaron knew I was becoming restless with my role and looking to do something different. He told me, “You can be as involved as you want to be with this show.” He had previously been gracious enough to provide me with directing opportunities, but I had my chance to understand the full picture when I became a producer of the show on seasons six and seven. The cast were still in their college years, so we were able to continue many of the through lines that were still happening.

“Great,” I told him. “I'm going to be completely involved.” And I jumped in with both feet. I was going to learn from the master. How many people are given the opportunity to attend the Aaron Spelling School of Production? Once again, I tried to maximize every opportunity. Not to discount the old man, Aaron was very canny; he knew it would keep me around for another year or so. He was well aware that I was champing at the bit to do more.

And that's just what I did; I would produce the show in seasons six and seven and direct five episodes in each of those seasons as well. Those were busy seasons. I would lighten the load in season eight, only executive producing the show alongside Aaron.

W
hile I was acting as producer, one of my duties involved sitting in on casting meetings for the extensive list of guest stars who came through the show. Years before, I'd been the one to campaign for Stephanie Beacham to play Dylan's mother. Now I brought in my old buddy, Paul Johansson, to play John Sears, the head of a fraternity that Ian's character, Steve, was trying to join. He was perfect for this role: a big jock, just like he was in real life. Pauly Shore stopped by for a flash, playing an unruly bar patron—just like when we were kids on
21 Jump Street
. Was this typecasting?

One day we sat in a long casting session for the part of Carly Reynolds, a single mother of a young son to play Ian's love interest. A young woman named Hilary Swank was by far the best actress in the room; she was head and shoulders above everybody else we saw that day. I knew she would be the right fit, so it was surprising to me that I had to fight to have her brought back for a callback. Nobody else seemed to have seen what I saw. I forced the issue, and she came back to read for us again.

After her callback, the other producers still weren't convinced. We had seen every young actress in town, and, as far as I was concerned, it had been a waste of time. We had the perfect person ready and waiting. Finally, I convinced everybody—including Aaron. Besides being a very sweet girl, Hilary was extremely committed to her craft. Right from the start, her character was written for a one-season arc, so she left us after sixteen or so episodes. As devastating to her at the time as leaving the show might have been, it was obviously no reflection on her talent. She went right from us to the independent film
Boys Don't Cry,
and we all know what happened next.

Now that I was a producer on the show, I also wasn't afraid to take more chances as a director as well. Aaron had very specific tastes and liked things a certain way. But I was a young director, and I was trying to find my way and play with all the toys that were at my disposal. So I would imagine scenes and allow myself total creative freedom, and that would lead me to requesting all kinds of crazy equipment from our production manager, JP. Techno cranes, hot heads, huge packages of prime lenses, Cartoni heads—I would ask for them all.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there. What do you think this is?” I was definitely
that guy
on the show. JP would call me into his office and say, very confidentially, “Jason, the Cartoni head? Aaron doesn't like that. He hates Dutch angles—so don't do it.”

“Trust me. I got this, I got this.” I wasn't worried; I had my vision. I did a few Dutch angles—turning the camera to a 30- or 45-degree angle—only when I felt they were really needed for very specific shots. I loved them; they were popular back in the film noir days of the '30s and '40s. The first time I ever put a Dutch angle in, Aaron and I were sitting in his office together, side by side as usual, screening my episode. He did a double take when he saw that shot, then cocked his head and gave me a look.

“Hey, Jason . . . something's wrong with the TV!”

“Ahh, come on, Aaron. That worked!”

He shook his head, but he trusted me. He must have, because at the end of season seven, I directed probably the most famous episode in the history of
90210,
when Donna Martin finally lost her virginity. Awkward! I just looked at Aaron when he gave me the news. “Really, Aaron? Really? You're giving me this episode to direct?”

“Who else? Who else am I going to give it to?”

Oh, man. Kid gloves dealing with that situation! I was hyperconscious that this was Aaron's daughter, Aaron was my boss, and I must handle the situation respectfully. I did my best, even as I did such tasks as choosing Tori's costume, which was a bustier with garter belts . . . she put on quite a show for her “first time”!

Donna losing her virginity was a national obsession; the story line had taken on a life of its own. To be in charge of this particular episode was more ironic than anything else, as I had never figured out the huge fuss that Americans made about anything and everything to do with sex. Canada, along with the entire rest of the world, was far more open and liberal in this regard than the puritanical States. I could not relate at all to the big deal young people here made of losing their virginity. My bigger challenge was to figure out a way to make the encounter as erotic as possible without really showing anything.
90210
was seen by millions of young people and aired at 8:00
P.M
., so its content had to be G-rated. Sexual activity could only be implied.

As was our tradition, I took my director's cut over to Aaron's office to discuss it. I sat next to him and tried not to squirm as we watched an episode featuring his only daughter losing her virginity on-screen. I was beyond nervous. Aaron chewed on his pipe the whole time but said nothing. Finally, we came to the end—Donna and David are really going to do it! I cut to candles burning and the screen goes black for a moment before the titles started rolling. I waited with bated breath for Aaron to speak.

“Very tasteful, Jason, very tasteful,” Aaron finally pronounced. And that was that. He signed off on it. I was very glad that particular directing gig was over.

Aaron was a great showman. He taught me so many things, and one was the value of keeping it simple. That's where some of his greatest successes lay. He told simple stories, with pretty people in beautiful clothing, in aspirational locations . . . he had a regular formula he followed, and it worked for him. He lived by his rules producing television, and there was no arguing with his success.

Aaron had come back big. He was well into his sixties and already insanely rich when
90210
began, a time when I think a lot of industry people expected him to just hang up his hat. He had made one hell of a comeback, and I was honored to be a small part of it.

C
hristine and I had been fortunate for nearly five years to actually live a pretty normal life in our house in the hills. Everyone at the local grocery store knew me; same with the local deli and wine store. All the stores plus a dry cleaner were in one convenient location. It was a great little neighborhood, and when I stuck close to home I was in my own space, where no one cared who I was or what I did. There didn't tend to be packs of paparazzi chasing people around and camping outside their homes in those days, at least not outside our home. They would be at the clubs and restaurants, but they didn't stake people out the way photographers and TMZ do now.

The seventh season was ending—along with what had been a happy and rewarding relationship between Christine and me. Things had been unraveling for a while. It was clear we were drifting in opposite directions. Ultimately, Christine and I just wanted different things out of life. She was perfectly content with our arrangement—and don't get me wrong, we had a great life. Still, I knew that someday I wanted to have kids, and that was something she was not interested in. I knew I had to make some changes to my life in order to eventually have a family life, and while I was nowhere near ready for kids, I was ready to at least start considering the possibility.

A conversation I'd recently had with my friend Michael Budman was on my mind. Michael is one of the owners of the Canadian clothing company Roots and a brilliant businessman. He, like many of my friends, was considerably older than I; he told me one day that the best move he'd ever made was to wait until he was forty to have kids. “Your twenties are for fucking around; your thirties are for making money; your forties are for raising a family and devoting your life to your children,” he told me. Wow, write that one down and remember it. A road map to life right there . . . if you don't get derailed somewhere having too much fun.

The actual split with Christine happened just as summer hiatus began on
90210,
and it was extremely unsettling for me. She remained in our house for a few months until she could find something new, so I moved out and rented Peter Weller's place on the Sunset Strip while he was in Italy making a movie. I was living in this rented bachelor pad alone and starring on a hit TV show. This was really the first time I took advantage of that situation vis-à-vis dating, because up to that point I usually had a steady girlfriend. I didn't do a film on hiatus that summer. Instead, I found quite a few short-term girlfriends at the SkyBar in the Mondrian Hotel, which was very handily within walking distance.

My life on the eighth season of
90210
was quite active, to say the least, and for a while I was out every night. I can't lie—it was fun as hell, at least until the novelty wore off. But underneath all the fun and nights out and beautiful faces, I felt adrift. At sea. No bearings in this rented house and no one to come home to. I was searching for something new that year, and it was more than a bit unnerving. I had no compass. Eventually, Swifty and I returned to our house in the hills, but it wasn't the same. We were leading the bachelor life, but the reality wasn't as enjoyable as the idea of it.

At one point I flew to Las Vegas to see the guys from Barenaked Ladies play at the Hard Rock Hotel. After their performance, I jumped on the bus with them and rode with the band to San Francisco, where they had another gig. I slept in one of the coffins on the bus and had a great time catching up with everybody.

When we arrived in San Francisco, we pulled up in front of the Phoenix, a very rock-and-roll '50s-style hotel located in the heart of the Tenderloin District. I got off the bus and stood in front of the building with the driver, waiting for the rest of the guys. Ed, the lead singer, got off the bus and nodded approvingly. “Cool! The Phoenix! I fuckin' love this place!” he said, and hurried around the corner and into the lobby to register. Then Steven, the other lead singer, came off the bus. He took one look around the funky neighborhood and the old hotel and said, “The Phoenix. The charms of this place are lost on me.” He shuffled dispiritedly around the corner and out of sight.

There's a movie, right there!
is what I thought. I wished I had a camera. These two guys, who have known each other since high school, had been on the road together for fifteen years, and they could not be more diametrically opposed in everything . . . except for their music.

The seed of an idea was planted. Over the months it would change, grow, and expand and become close to an obsession.

A
ctors,” Aaron Spelling used to lament. “I put shoes on their feet and they walk away from me.” Aaron was very much a father figure. He had nurtured me and supported me and been my champion from day one; I knew I owed him a lot. We had been working together for years, extremely closely for the last three while I attended his impromptu “production school.” I was well aware of his feelings about the actors he had cast over the years, often in star-making roles, who left his shows to pursue other projects.

Still, it now felt inevitable that I, too, would leave
Beverly Hills 90210
. I loved and respected Aaron with all my heart, but I had to go. I'd gotten my first television series,
Sister Kate,
when I was nineteen years old, a time when most kids are fooling around in college. The kind of sudden and unexpected fame I achieved just a few years later on
90210
was a trauma. The potential was there to really harm me later in life, because fame can stop cold much of a person's development.