Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography (29 page)

But now I’m sitting with him and David Spade at Barbarian’s Steak House after a long day on the set. Not surprisingly, Chris is a guy of huge appetites. The man has a shot of espresso before every close-up. Not before every scene, but every
take
. And so I shouldn’t be taken aback by his order at our dinner. But as Spade and I stare in disbelief, Farley eats two giant porterhouse steaks. On the table are those old-school, iced individual squares of butter. Chris places an entire square on top of
each bite of both his steaks.

Finally, I can take no more.

“Chris! What the hell!” I say, as he places another cube on top of another mouthful.

He giggles like a baby. “It needs a hat!”

Tommy Boy
is a hit and remains a favorite among teenage boys, who approach me to this day. It’s a movie with smarts and heart as well, and like
Wayne’s World
is as good or better than a lot of comedies of that genre made today. It also contains what might be my most-quoted line in movies: “Did you eat paint chips as a kid?”

Chris and I remain close until his death. As he struggles with his demons, I work to help him find his way. Like me, Chris has a distinct public image and knows that it is merely a fraction of who he is as a human being, much less as an actor. And like me, he wants to move beyond this obvious and lazy pigeonholing. The “Fat Guy” and the “Pretty Boy,” as it turns out, have a lot in common.

Unfortunately for Chris, he is unable to develop the muscle needed to say no to those who want him to remain the Funny Fat Goof. And, even though the concept of the movie makes him feel debased, he takes the Fat Goof role in
Beverly Hills Ninja
for a fortune, and is never the same. Within a year, he will go like his idol, dead from a drug overdose at the age of thirty-three. For me, it is a stark lesson that if you can’t get honest with yourself, if you can’t look yourself in the mirror, no matter how much money they pay you, or how much you are lauded, you are literally putting your life at risk.

*   *   *

I think most self-employed parents lose a bit of their drive when they have a newborn in the house. With the birth of my second son, Johnowen (Sheryl wanted Owen, I wanted John), I was way too fulfilled and happy as a young dad to keep the career accelerator pushed to the floor. In Santa Barbara, out of the rat race, Johnowen was the piece of the puzzle that completed the life I had always wanted but never imagined. Turns out I wasn’t going to be the Warren Beatty character from
Shampoo
, the cool, happening lady-killer at the center of the world (albeit a lonely one). I was instead just like most American men. In love with my wife, living in a normal town, and blessed beyond imagining with two precious, beautiful, and inspiring babies. The midwestern boy was back!

And after a string of workmanlike projects (some quite good, some quite bad), I was looking for a way to stop filming on remote locations and to build a different career where I wouldn’t miss out on my kids growing up.

I began to branch out, and to do more writing. I wrote and directed a short forty-minute movie for Showtime called
Desert’s Edge
. A harrowing black comedy, it was well received by critics and put me on the list of young writer-directors. I now spent my days talking to studios about directing instead of acting. But as my pal, mentor, and fellow actor-turned-director Jodie Foster wisely told me, “By the time material gets to a new director, all of the big directors with great taste have had their shot at it, all that’s left is crap. You’ll have to write your own material.” I took her advice and got to work. But like the mafia for Michael Corleone in the awful
Godfather III
, the life of the actor kept “pulling me back in.”

One afternoon Mike Myers hits a drive down the fairway. I shank mine to the rough. As we drive around looking for my errant shot, I’m making him laugh with a unique imitation I’ve been doing for years. Mike gets out his cell phone and calls his muse, his wife, Robin.

“Listen to this! Rob, do that impersonation for Robin,” he asks.

I take the phone and do my Robert Wagner voice.

“Hullo, how ya doin’,” I say, doing my best
Hart to Hart
.

I hear Robin laugh on the other end of the line, always a good sign.

“How funny is that!” says Mike. “He sounds just like RJ!”

We find my ball, finish our round, and I think nothing more about it. Two months later Mike calls.

“I’m sending you a secret script. I want your opinion. It’s called
Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me
.”

Sitting at my favorite Italian restaurant, I read it. It’s vintage Mike. A totally fresh concept, with inspired characters (most of whom Mike will play) and odd but hilarious jokes. And on page 14, I read the following screen direction: “Young Number Two (as played by Rob Lowe) enters Dr. Evil’s lair.”

Mike has taken my golf-course joke, made it a character, and, in case anyone had other ideas, wrote my name into the script!

“You maniac!” I tell him later. “You want me to do my little impression as a character?”

“Yes. Just like you did Arsenio Hall on
Saturday Night Live
. You will
nail
this.”

The shoot is a blast. Mike insists that music be played between takes. Whereas Coppola preferred opera and Elvis, Mike leans toward ’70s dance music like “Car Wash”; to this day the opening hand claps remind me of the shoot.

With
Austin Powers
, Mike Myers is a true auteur at the height of his powers (no pun intended). Watching him play Fat Bastard, Dr. Evil, and Austin Powers and craft on-the-spot lyrics to his Dr. Evil rap version of “Just the Two of Us” is possibly the most fun and unquestionably the most hilarious time I’ve ever had on a set. He’s making magic and everyone knows it. And I get my turn when I open my mouth as young Robert Wagner, and the crew assumes the real Robert Wagner is actually standing off the set and I’m lip-synching to him!

Mike can also be a great collaborator, and one day as we are shooting in the hollowed-out volcano lair, I have an idea. “Mike, how about if I get pissed at you and try and stand up to Dr. Evil. Maybe you end up bouncing the big globe off my head and taunt me like Robert Duvall in
The Great Santini
.” He loves the idea and we shoot it immediately, ad-libbing the dialogue. It stays in the final film and is one of my favorite scenes.

The Spy Who Shagged Me
is a monster success. By far the biggest movie I’ve ever been a part of, it cements my foothold in comedy.

To celebrate, Mike and Robin join Sheryl and me at the Canyon Ranch resort. When we visit the Myerses in their room, Mike asks Sheryl if she thinks the room is up to par.

“No. I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” asks Mike.

“Too much foot traffic outside,” says my wife, who knows about these things.

“‘Foot traffic’! I love you, Sheryl,” says Mike, howling. “You sound like Lovey Howell from
Gilligan’s Island
!”

So, the rest of the trip that’s what he called her: Lovey. And the name stuck. I call her that to this day.

One night, all sugared up on low-cal chocolate pudding, Mike gives me some advice.

“Rob, you have great stories. You’ve seen so much and can write, you
have
to do a book.”

“I never thought of that. I don’t know,” I say.

“You can and must. I’m never wrong about these things.”

*   *   *

Meanwhile, I’ve been following another mentor’s advice: As Jodie Foster suggested, I have just finished writing my first screenplay,
Union Pacific
. After my agents send it out, I get a call from Bill Paxton. Bill has done many movies for his longtime friend James Cameron, and he has an urgent message for me.

“I gave Jim Cameron your script. He read it and wants to talk to you about it!”

“Holy shit!” I say. Bill tells me that James will call me in ten minutes.

Union Pacific
is a road adventure in the vein of
Deliverance
. Two brothers, looking for the Last Great American Adventure, ride the rails like the heroes of Kerouac. But they get in way over their heads in the underground network of modern-day train hopping and come up against a vicious killer preying on the disenfranchised who populate this strange world. As a railroad special agent closes in, our heroes must confront the killer as they are all trapped on a runaway train.

The script has attracted some fans and I have been talking to a few of them about setting it up for me to direct, including Paula Wagner at Tom Cruise’s company and Lawrence Bender, the producer of
Pulp Fiction
. But James Cameron, having just made
Titanic
, is in a whole other league. He truly is “the king of the world.”

I pick the phone up on the first ring.

“Rob, it’s Jim Cameron.”

Cameron is generous with his praise, and when I hang up, I feel like I could retire and be artistically fulfilled forever. “Look, I read a lot,” Jim says to me. This
is
special, you are really onto something. Let me know what you do with it.”

After days of thought, I come up with a plan, because when you get cold-called by James Cameron, you have won the lottery and you had better cash that ticket. Jim is an auteur; he is unlikely to direct someone else’s material. And he rarely produces movies he doesn’t direct. So what am I left with, other than an amazing and generous show of support for my script, from the business’s most powerful man?

Then I remember another larger-than-life director, John Huston, who delivered a stunning acting turn in
Chinatown
. I wonder if Jim would ever want to act?
Union Pacific
has a prominent villain part, much like Huston’s (any other script similarities end there), and so, gathering my nerve, I call Cameron back.

“Hey, Jim. Would you ever consider starring in a movie?” I point out that, like Huston, he is now an icon and if he wanted, he could parlay that into yet another artistic experience, as both Sydney Pollack and François Truffaut did at certain points in their careers.

Having started his career in the art department (with Bill Paxton) with famed low-budget producer Roger Corman, Jim has worked at and mastered every possible job on a movie crew. Except for one.

“I’d like to know more about acting,” he says, and my heart leaps. “Can we do a screen test?”

I bring a skeleton crew to Lightstorm, Jim’s production offices. We set up in the large screening room. We will do two scenes and see how we feel about moving forward. As I work on the lighting setup, I wonder if anyone would guess that Cameron would take this kind of time to support a fledgling young director.

Like any actor worth anything, Jim comes prepared. He knows his lines and asks good questions. We work for about an hour or so. He has a tremendous presence (as all leaders do) and, above all, is just so
game.
I would love to work with him in any capacity, regardless of who’s directing who.

“I’ll look at the footage and then come show it to you,” I say, thanking him.

“Oh no, no, no, no. I believe an actor should sublimate himself before his director. I’ll come to you.”

A few days later, in Santa Barbara, we watch the screen test and talk. I tell him he was really good.

“I don’t know,” says Jim. “But I want to know more about what actors go through. Maybe I should give this a try.”

We agree that I will move forward with setting the movie up and, when that happens, we will decide.

“This could be really cool,” he says on his way out. “My next movie after
Titanic
’s gonna be four actors in a hotel room for the entire picture.”

I spend weeks talking to producers, financiers, and my producing partner on the movie, Gale Anne Hurd. It’s always one step forward, two steps back. There’s not enough action for the studios (it’s not expensive enough), and the indie crowd feels it has too
much
action (too expensive).
Union Pacific
will die of promise, the most dreaded thing you can be in Hollywood today: a middle-range-budgeted script with real action but also with real characters.

I thought I was going to direct a movie with James Cameron. He thought he was going to make
his
next movie about four people on one set, for a tiny budget. Instead, he wouldn’t make another movie as a director until
Avatar
. I also felt my acting career had stalled. I was rarely offered anything that energized me, although I worked constantly. And in spite of my setback on
Union Pacific
, there was clearly some traction for me as a writer-director. I began to mentally transition away from the life I had always known and worked so hard to achieve. I began to develop material, take pitch meetings, and otherwise begin down my new path as a filmmaker. But, as they say in sobriety, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.