Jason Priestley (9 page)

One day Brian and I were in the middle of a scene when some hulking football player–type guys mouthed off nonstop as we tried to work. They were showing off for their friends, calling the actors names. I was a few years older than these guys, while at eighteen Brian was exactly their age, though neither of us came close to their size and bulk. One guy in particular would not shut up until he got a rise out of one of us. He went way past acceptable words and behavior, and I finally took the bait.

I turned around and started walking toward him. “I don't care how old you are, kid. You say that to me one more time and I'm going to put you in the hospital.” He started coming toward me; I grabbed his shirt, he grabbed mine, everyone on the crew jumped in to stop what was about to happen and what do you know . . . the next day we had security guards. Lots of them, all around us, all the time, from that point on. But it took a near brawl in the hallway. Nobody had even thought about security before. The rapidly increasing success of the show had caught everybody by surprise. Nobody had any idea of what we were dealing with back then; we were all in uncharted waters.

The show had its own publicist, and there were numerous FOX and Spelling publicists all over the place, but I felt that I needed someone who was minding my personal agenda. I wanted to capitalize on the increasing success of the show, of course, but I was already wary of getting typecast as Brandon. I made sure I had someone working primarily to keep me established as Jason Priestley, actor, not Brandon, though I would never get completely away from questions about the show. Eddie Michaels, my publicist, was young, just a few years older than me, but smart and aggressive and wouldn't take no for an answer.

It was a big, big deal when I was asked to appear on the
Late Night with David Letterman
show in November of 1991. Back then, teens weren't a big market. Someone like Dave had no interest in a “kid's show.” Adults didn't watch the show, so why would teens? David Letterman was an idol even then, especially among college students, who watched his show religiously. The man was a comedy icon and could be legendarily mean to guests he didn't like. He could get quite testy, so I was sweating backstage as I waited to be called to join him.

“Coming out next is young actor Jason Priestley. He's on this new show,
Beverly Hills 90210,
which is about . . . hmmm . . . it's about these rich kids . . . and they . . . What do they do? What exactly do these kids do?” he turned to Paul Shaffer.

I yelled from behind the curtain, “They have problems, Dave, lots of problems!” He cracked up.

“I see, I see, rich kids in Beverly Hills. I am sure they
do
have lots of problems. Bring Jason out here!”

Once I got onstage and sat down I felt much better. My fellow Canadian Paul made me feel relaxed, and Dave had already laughed, so I was in good shape. It was a fun visit.

Less than a month later, I was on the
Tonight Show
with Jay Leno.

T
he show and I were both on a roll. After a year and a half,
90210
was a bona fide hit, and I had just appeared on America's two most iconic talk shows. Time to celebrate! As a Canadian, I could ski practically before I could walk, and I'd always dreamed of skiing in Europe. To ski in Zermatt, Switzerland, in the shadow of the Matterhorn, was any skier's dream. Luke and Ian joined me during the holiday winter break, and we took off with plans to meet up with a couple more of our friends in Amsterdam for New Year's Eve.

The village of Zermatt is a perfect little Swiss storybook village. No cars are allowed, and everything is pulled by horse and sleigh . . . it's like walking into a fairy-tale illustration.

The show was not on the air in Switzerland, so the German-speaking natives couldn't have cared less who we were, but there were a few tourists in town making a fuss over us. Our rowdy behavior soon led all the staffers in our hotel and the local bars to call us the “crazy TV Americans.” Ian hooked up with a random American girl, so Luke and I gave him a hard time. “Had to come to Switzerland to find an American chick? Couldn't manage that back home?”

One night at the Grand Hotel Zermatterhof, we were walking through the grand old building, winding our way through lots of narrow little corridors and hallways. Literally every time we turned a corner it seemed, somebody plowed into Luke and knocked him down. There had already been plenty of beverages consumed at happy hour, so we might have been a little shaky to start. Still, we seemed to be directly in the path of every huge Austrian dude in town, all hurrying through the hotel, literally knocking him down on his ass and not even looking back. I was in the right place, somehow, and managed to stay out of their way. Finally, some old guy who was at least seventy years old came charging around the corner, and
boom!
, he knocked Luke over just as we were nearing the main entrance. My friend jumped up in the middle of the lobby with his fists up.

“Okay, listen up! One more old Austrian motherfucker knocks me down, we're gonna go!” he shouted. It was hilarious. I could not stop laughing. All hundred thirty pounds of him . . . ready to take on the whole country. . . . Instead, we just went to the bar and had another drink.

The concierge at the hotel told me about the availability of a private helicopter that flew from Zermatt to Geneva, where we then planned to catch a flight to Amsterdam to ring in New Year's Eve 1992. The show was a hit, we were all assured a job . . . so we were all suddenly blasé enough to say, sure, let's take chopper through the Alps at about $1,000 per passenger. Quite a change in status for a guy who hadn't had a television or full tank of gas only two short years earlier.

The quaint cobblestone lanes of Amsterdam are never easy to navigate, but on New Year's Eve, smack in the middle of the red-light district, it was so crowded we could barely move. Every single resident and all the tourists were out; every street was packed with people.

We took in the scene with wide eyes—it was hard to tell if this was a party or a war zone. Guys launched bottle rockets across the canals while others set off far too many exploding fireworks. I saw guys literally shoving quarter sticks of dynamite into empty Heineken bottles and throwing them into random groups of people. Everyone was behaving in a shockingly reckless and dangerous manner. It goes without saying that everyone was drunk and stoned, of course; that's just part of the Amsterdam experience. It was utter mad mayhem and an absolutely perfect scene for a bunch of young guys. We loved it!

As midnight approached, I got separated from Ian and Luke at some point and wound up standing by myself on a small bridge over a canal at midnight. I turned my face to the sky as it literally rained fire for minutes on end, the noise from the explosions rising to a deafening pitch as confetti and ashes blew all around me. I savored a moment of absolute, perfect happiness. I'd just skied the Alps for a week. I had reached my goal of becoming a successful working actor. Fame so far had been mostly fun, not terribly invasive. I had two good friends accompanying me—on two journeys:
90210
and this amazing trip. This vacation marked the last time any one of the three of us would travel around Europe—or anywhere else, pretty much—anonymously. It was our last hurrah.

B
ack in those more innocent days, mall appearances used to be commonplace for young performers. That's how many teen acts, in the music business especially, used to get their start. All of us cast members had made a series of trips to various megamalls across the country to promote the show in its first year. These personal appearances were effective: the crowds grew steadily bigger, and in the second year the show really caught fire. On one occasion, Luke, Shannen, and Jennie were completely taken by surprise when thousands of kids showed up to see them at a mall—they had expected a couple hundred at best. There was a near riot, and my friends were sneaked out of the building in a laundry cart.

My own publicity roll continued in the New Year . . . every time I turned around, I was talking to a reporter from
Bop
or
Teen Beat
or any one of the many, many magazines catering to young readers. In every single interview from that time, I'm smoking cigarettes and drinking in a bar . . . something every journalist made note of. Looking back, it's a little bit shocking to see so many of these incidents, all in print. Clearly, I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder. I was out to prove that I was nothing like the sanctimonious Brandon Walsh. I was going to show them. . . . Come with me . . . we're gonna get drunk and tear up the town! I'm Jason Priestley, not Brandon!

Perhaps this is why I got the tabloid reputation I did. There were all kinds of lurid stories about me being out of control . . . boozing it up in Hollywood . . . that Christian Slater took me to an AA meeting. “Jason's let success go to his head and he's been drinking like he's immortal,” a nameless source said. “He likes to go to bars that are dark and smoky.” Did I like dark and smoky bars? Sure, why not! But the rest of this kind of stuff was so ridiculous and false . . . I'd never met Christian Slater, I didn't go to a meeting, and I wasn't any more out of control than any other twenty-two-year-old guy.

I did, however, do myself plenty of harm with my own antics when doing press. Drinking hard during interviews probably wasn't a good idea, but, again, I wanted everyone to see I was
not
Brandon. “Jason likes to have a good time, but he doesn't have a drinking problem,” the reliable Eddie said. It was true.

Rolling Stone
scheduled a cover shoot for Luke, Shannen, and me in Los Angeles, to take place on a weekend because we were shooting all week long. I went out somewhere the Friday night before the shoot and wound up staying out very late. When I woke up the next morning I most definitely did not feel like going to a cover shoot—nor did I look like a cover boy! Fortunately, like every twenty-two-year-old, I had the ability to go out and get wild, stay out late, grab a few hours' sleep, then get up the next day and do what I had to do . . . looking fine. That's the great part of being twenty-two . . . for everyone!

Andrew Eccles, the famous celebrity photographer, met the three of us at a huge rented studio over in West L.A. on Pico Boulevard. He had all kinds of creative ideas. We played around with a bunch of concepts, like one of us pushing the others in a laundry cart in a nod to the recent riot, and all kinds of other stuff. In the end he went with a more traditional shot. It was a huge honor to be on the cover of
Rolling Stone
—that year we were in the company of other cover subjects including Bono, President Clinton, Michael Jackson, Tom Cruise, Nirvana, and Bruce Springsteen. I didn't have time to fully slow down and appreciate what a big deal it really was. It was immediately back to work and then on to the next big event.

The Golden Globe Awards, where film and television stars mingle together, really is one big long party, just as it appears on television. It's a full-on banquet, the fancy version of a rubber chicken dinner, and its reputation as a place where the stars get smashed is well earned. The bar is wide open, and by the time the last awards are presented, everyone in attendance has been sitting there for literally hours getting tanked.

In January of 1992, Luke and I were asked to present an award. The idea was to have the two teen idols from the hot new show nominated for Best Drama present an award.
Beverly Hills 90210
had caught on like wildfire in Europe, and the Globes, of course, were sponsored by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association.

Luke and I lived in different parts of town, so we arrived at the Golden Globes separately. I got dressed to the nines and was picked up in a limousine, walked the red carpet, and was interviewed and photographed by the international press. Back in those days, no fans showed up, just the press.

The show was running on Thursday nights at this time, up against
Cheers
and the popular block of NBC shows that had dominated the ratings for years. Apparently, we were giving the longtime favorite a run for its money. Luke and I got up from our table as the time to present drew near. We headed for the men's room before going backstage. Just as we were walking in, the door opened and there was Ted Danson walking out. He stopped and pointed very sternly at both of us. “You two. Knock it off! Just stop!” he said and walked away.

Luke and I were floored. “Dude, that was Ted Danson!” we kept saying to each other. That encounter was much more exciting than going onstage as presenters. I also got to meet Jodie Foster that night, who had just won for
Silence of the Lambs
. This was another real thrill for me, so much so that by the end of the night, it didn't even matter that we didn't win. It was such an unforgettable experience just to be there.

I
t was a truly golden time in the storied history of one of the greatest television series ever. No, not
90210
—
Saturday Night Live
! In addition to my fellow Canadians Mike Myers and Phil Hartman, there was Chris Rock, David Spade, Chris Farley, Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider, Al Franken, Victoria Jackson, and Julia Sweeney in the cast. Just a few weeks after presenting at the Globes, my show's producers gave me a week off to host
SNL,
the experience of a lifetime.

I made one quick stop in New York first, calling on publisher Jann Wenner at his office to see our cover of
Rolling Stone.
Jann had all kinds of motorcycle memorabilia around, and as I was very much into bikes, I mentioned that I rode. He lit up on that topic, very curious, asking me what kind of bike I had (Yamaha FZR600) and where I rode (all over). We planned a ride soon . . . that over the years turned into many. It was always great to find a true kindred spirit in the adventure-seeking department!