Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography (21 page)

I walk through a small security gate right off the sidewalk and step up to a comfortable home surrounded by tall hedges. I’m let inside and find a place in the corner of the living room, which is packed with various industry types. I see Meg Ryan, whom I know from her work with Tom Cruise in
Top Gun
. I see Stephen Stills from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. There is that great-looking guy I’ve been seeing at auditions named Alec Baldwin. I also recognize the producers from
Footloose
and a few others.

As we all mingle, Jane descends the staircase, passing a giant Warhol portrait of herself. She greets us and introduces her husband, Tom Hayden, an extremely smart and intense guy in the fashion of an über-left-wing Dustin Hoffman. Soon he will become the first person I know to drive an electric car.

Jane and Tom lead a lively and passionate discussion that is as far-ranging as it is partisan. There is talk of the grave threat of the nuclear-power industry (“the China Syndrome”), the impending, desperate need to disarm the military, and various paths toward a cleaner environment. Tom Hayden knows his way around fiery rhetoric and Jane Fonda is Jane Fonda for a reason; so when they finish, we are a whipped-up mob ready to storm the Bastille for any cause they want. I leave impressed with them both, Tom for his big brain and Jane for her passion and beauty. I have always had a crush on her and now it is off the scale.

Hollywood was (and is) a one-party town. Tom and Jane’s unique, well-oiled indoctrination machine operated with total air superiority, there being absolutely no opposing viewpoint (let alone megastar mouthpiece) anywhere within the industry. They had the monopoly on the newly budding nexus between politics and show business, and with their intellect and charisma, and I was thrilled to be included. As I said good-bye, Jane put her hand on my shoulder and fixed me with those icy blue eyes.

“Thanks for coming. There’s so much to be done together.”

*   *   *

Lack of privacy is the expected, if complicated, collateral damage of any career that takes off. As I navigate through the insanity, I am taken by surprise at what a burden it is on my family.

My brothers now have complete strangers in their faces, probing their business for good and ill. For every beach bunny who now chats them up, there’s someone else who is looking to use them to get to me, or as a message board for me. “Tell your brother he’s soooo hot,” or “Tell your brother he’s a fag.”

My grandparents, square Republicans living in the tiny town of Sidney, Ohio, awaken one night to find three teenage girls standing over their bed. “Is Rob Lowe here?” they ask—why they think I would be in my grandparents’ bed under any circumstances is just one of the oddities of the evening. Turns out the girls had broken into the house. This being the polite and nonconfrontational Midwest, no police are called and no parents either. Grandma makes them some coffee to sober them up and off they go.

Within a few weeks there is a “Goldilocks” incident at my new bachelor pad in Malibu. I am on the road somewhere when my mom and Steve hear the laughter of girls in the middle of the night and investigate to find two girls who have broken into my house and are fast asleep in my bed. They are also wearing my underwear.

And so it goes. My dad takes to unplugging the phone at night to avoid the incessant “Is Rob Lowe there?” calls. He now spends an inordinate amount of time at the law practice fending off inquiries from everyone from the
National Enquirer
to families of girls who want me to show up at their prom.

It only gets worse when I come home to visit. We spend a lot of time being chased by caravans of cars and roving packs of fans. We are careful not to eat in front of the plateglass window at our favorite diner, because the crowd could accidentally break through as they press against the glass. On a few occasions I have to leave via the rear exit and be taken home lying down in the back of a police car.

One summer Chad brings his best pal, Charlie Sheen, to Indiana, where we water-ski. The paper puts long-lens surveillance-type photos of us on the front page with copy stating that we’ve been “sighted in the area,” like convicts on the run or perhaps a group of Sasquatches.

Slowly we all begin to adjust to this level of scrutiny. For me, it just becomes a fact of life—neither good nor bad, because it’s almost always both. And as long as the upside is that my career continues to thrive, it’s a small price to pay.

*   *   *

Sexual Perversity in Chicago
is the best script I have yet read. Based on the classic play by the great David Mamet, it’s funny, moving, and romantic. For a while Jonathan Demme was going to direct, and my
Footloose
rival, Kevin Bacon, was going to star, but now the project is free and clear and the studio brings it to me.

Ed Zwick, a new young director, is now at the helm; this will be his film debut. Together, he and I begin searching for the three other main characters to round out this Chicago-based snapshot of sex, love, and commitment.

I am at my happiest moment of the decade. I am working on a major commercial movie that’s about something meaningful, is brilliantly written, and will demand a big-time romantic lead performance to carry it off. The role I will play of Danny is an Everyman, emblematic of any era: trying to rise at work, but stifled; wanting to break out on his own, but afraid; comforted by a best friend who he may have outgrown; and suddenly challenged by a one-night stand who he may love. The themes of the movie speak to me in a way that my other roles did not. Like my character, I, too, am beginning to feel that there may be more to life than tortured, on-again, off-again relationships on the one hand and commitment-free girl-chasing on the other. Danny’s journey will be a personal one for me as well.

But first, we need a girl. A girl who can stop traffic and break your heart while she’s doing it. This is a love story of the simplest, and therefore highest, order. Naturally we see every actress imaginable for the part of the sexy, smart, and practical Debbie.

I read with and then screen-test with all the actresses—Rebecca De Mornay, Mariel Hemingway, even my own on-again, off-again girlfriend, Melissa Gilbert. We see unknowns. We see them all.

Finally, it comes down to Mariel Hemingway, hot off of working with the master Bob Fosse and the great Robert Towne, and an unknown redhead named Melissa Leo.

I like them both. Mariel is awkward and sweet, with the vulnerability that made her so stunning in Woody Allen’s
Manhattan
still intact. She also towers over me, which I think is a cool and funny sight. Melissa Leo is totally different—wild and tough, she exudes an overt sexiness and a take-no-shit attitude. But I can’t get the studio to back her. She’s too much of an unknown and, in their eyes, not a traditional beauty. (So she would miss this opportunity to break out and would for years work steadily and under the radar. And today, some twenty-plus years later, she is finally being acclaimed for her great work in movies like
Frozen River
and
The Fighter
. As the saying goes, “Don’t leave before the miracle.”)

The director, Ed Zwick, wants to cast my old pal Demi Moore. I am against it. I feel the idea has already been played out with the success of
St. Elmo’s Fire
. But Demi tests with me and when we watch the footage, it’s hard to argue with the chemistry. Demi will play Debbie and she will kill.

Elizabeth Perkins gives the single best audition I have ever seen before or since. She will play Debbie’s smart-ass friend, Joan. Jim Belushi originated the role of Danny’s chauvinist, know-it-all best friend, Bernie, years before, back in Chicago. Although we read a multitude of “comedy” actors, including the notoriously hilarious David Caruso (I kid you not), Jim’s name had not been taken seriously. I think it was one of the producers who had been with
Sexual Perversity
since it was a play who insisted we meet Jim. So we did.

And that was that. There was no one else on the planet to compare.

In my opinion, Jim, Demi, and Elizabeth would never be better than they were in the newly named
About Last Night.
(The entertainment culture was still genteel enough then that the words “Sexual” and “Perversity” were banned in many publications.) Jim was the definitive comic embodiment of the male id run rampant, Elizabeth the brittle, yet empathetic, bitch on wheels for the ages, and Demi proved to be the best choice possible. Our personal history, and our mutual fondness for each other, were the basis for an honest and raw exploration of themes that we were both trying to understand. What is love? What is the value of sex? How do you find the courage for commitment? How do you know when it all comes together?

The shoot was emotional, tough, but exhilarating. The flak-suit sequence at the beginning of the movie is classic Mamet, requiring verbal precision that had not been required of me before. I found I loved the challenge and that I had a facility for the timing and type of dialogue that values specificity of language. Years later I would recognize the same requirements when I read
The West Wing
. Ed Zwick proved just the right master of tone for a movie that still makes me laugh and moves me today. It is my best work of this period of my life and a film that still has the power to make you laugh, swoon, and cry. Today,
About Last Night
is considered a classic. I’d put it up against any “date night” movie ever made.

It was around this time that I finally saw a movie about another romantic commitment-phobe,
Shampoo
, starring Warren Beatty. Between my journey playing Danny and seeing Warren isolated and devastated by his inability to recognize and embrace love, I began to question my own romantic relationships. Watching the ending of
Shampoo
was like being shown a possible preview of my own life. Without some major changes, I could be just like Warren’s character—drowning in fun and attention but devoid of love, alone on Christmas Eve.

But in the meantime, there was too much action available to this twenty-one-year-old male, so in spite of a new, quiet voice telling me where it could all lead, I was nowhere near ready to listen. Crank up the music!

*   *   *

The one-two punch of
St. Elmo’s Fire
and
About Last Night
has put me in the sweet spot of industry success, fan appreciation, and press coverage. But I know I need to use these hits to raise myself to the next level. Tom Cruise has been doing this beautifully and shows no signs of stopping. He has gone from the youthful appeal of
Risky Business
and
Top Gun
to working with Martin Scorsese and Paul Newman. He has transitioned, truly, into adult-themed films, in which he can work for the rest of his life. So I read tons of scripts a week, and at the mercy of the material available, I try to find ways to manage the stress of waiting for the Next Right Script.

In the meantime, I make a small, independent movie that will be one of the first films to premiere at Robert Redford’s fledgling film festival, Sundance. I play a developmentally challenged, and eventually suicidal, white-trash Texan.
Square Dance
also stars the great Jason Robards and Jane Alexander, but the film’s calling card is the lead-role debut of Winona Ryder. My poor, confused Rory is unaware that his love for Noni’s Gemma is doomed from the start. I am playing completely against my It-guy persona and will eventually receive some of the best reviews of my career and a Golden Globe nomination for best supporting actor.

I also use my downtime to travel to Massachusetts to do Chekhov’s
Three Sisters
at the prestigious Williamstown Theatre Festival. I will play Tuzenbach, the tragic lover, in a cast that includes theater heavyweights like Daniel Davis, Kate Burton, Roberta Maxwell, Stephen Collins, Amy Irving, and an actor who has always intrigued me, Christopher Walken.

The heat is unrelenting. It’s 102 degrees inside of Chris Walken’s black Cadillac. For some reason there is no air-conditioning. He also likes the windows rolled up. We are cruising the small town of Williamstown, looking for a place to eat and maybe drink.

It is the end of the first day’s rehearsal. I’ve thrown myself into this high-powered production to hone my stage chops. I don’t want to be one of the many movie stars who can’t hack it when it matters the most. It’s important to know you can make it all happen live, every night, without multiple takes and good editors propping you up. I’ve sort of forced myself onto Chris, knowing that with his level of talent, mystery, and, let’s face it, weirdness, if I didn’t befriend him stat, I might get too freaked out to ever do it.

So we bake in his Caddy.

“I saw. Your name. It’s good. It was on a list. Of the cast. I’m … glad it
was
you. I wasn’t sure. If it was true,” says Chris, scanning the street.

“I don’t. Drink anymore. I would eat a donut,” he says, spying a coffee shop and pulling over.

We are quite a sight getting out of this giant hearse among the summer tourists on the main drag. Within seconds people are milling around us and we have to abort our plans. People pound on the Caddy as we drive off.