The Man In the Rubber Mask (20 page)

At the end, the men in suits from NBC television, the broadcasters who were due to buy the show, and the men in suits from Universal who were due to make the show, all came up to meet me. I have never shaken so many hands in one evening, in costume. People queued up to have their picture taken with me. I stood next to a very rich man in a suit and pulled a face into a camera. He shook my hand and said, ‘You are going to be a major star here, Robert. Fantastic performance.'

I thanked him and saw Rob and Doug looking at me. ‘Bobby,' said Rob as he hugged me, ‘well done, we've done it man, it's fantastic.' Doug gave me a big hug, ‘Yeah, yeah, great, yeah,' he said. ‘Hey, are you the popular one tonight or what?'

Elvin Ivory walked up to me and embraced me, my head came up to his tummy button. ‘Robert Llewellyn, you were great, that was a really funny performance. Listen, the boss of NBC was in tonight, he loved it. I'm telling you, I've been in this business a long time. I'm telling you, this show is going to run, and you, Robert Llewellyn, are going to be a star.'

I thanked him, I thanked everyone. I was well brought up. I'm polite. Andrea came up to me and told me I had been clear for ten minutes and how come I hadn't run screaming into my dressing room. She couldn't believe what was going on, the whole studio was full of people embracing each other, patting each other on the back. Elvin was passing around peak caps with ‘I rode the
Red Dwarf
' embossed on the front. Champagne bottles popped open, Linwood gave me a plastic cup full. ‘Robert, what can I say?' he said. ‘You were really amazing. I can't tell you how proud I am to have worked with you. This show is going to run, I can feel it, man. And you were so good, so funny, you've worked so hard. It's incredible, man, did you hear that audience, they loved it, man. Hey, are you pleased I talked you into it?'

I told him I was very pleased, I drank my champagne and hugged the cast. We all kept hugging and kissing and drinking champagne for what seemed like ages. I eventually stumbled somewhat groggily back to my dressing room with Andrea. She peeled the mask off very quickly. There was a constant flow of people coming into the room: the cast, the director, Rob and Doug, Linwood. I was sitting in my Calvin Klein briefs with a rubber head on, looking like ET. No one minded. It was party time.

We all retired to the lobby of the hotel, waiters brought more and more champagne, Linwood and Rob and Doug seemed to have made up. Jeff Field was inviting me over to his house to ride his polo ponies. He came to England regularly to play polo, sometimes with Prince Charles. Jeff had been directing a series called
Night Court
for years. He was a seriously rich individual. He had that seriously rich way of sitting and talking.

Doug got up to go to the men's room at one point, and as he moved away you could just make out the squeak of his false leg. Linwood leaned over to Rob Grant and said in a sort of stage whisper which all of us could hear, ‘If the series goes ahead, we really should buy Doug a new leg.'

Rob's face was a picture of embarrassment and anger, everyone sat around feeling pretty awkward, Linwood seemed utterly oblivious to this.

Getting to bed took me ages, there were so many people to say goodbye to, so many people to promise to keep in touch with. It took me about an hour.

I collapsed with exhaustion at about three in the morning and crawled to bed, but not before we had all swapped numbers and addresses. Rob and Doug had to get up at eight and fly back to London to complete series 5 in England.

I was woken at nine the following morning when my phone rang.

‘Hi, Robert, this is Harvey Greenstein, I saw you last night in
Red Dwarf
. You were fantastic, I'm just ringing, really informally, to see if you have representation here.'

He was an agent, he was after my ass.

‘I've got an agent in London,' I said trying to speak through the dead vermin on my tongue. Being a very light drinker, I only have to sniff alcohol and I have the mother of all hangovers the following morning.

‘Sure, but you need someone to look out for you over here. Why don't we meet up for lunch and talk it over, in a completely informal way? Let's go to Musso and Franks.'

No sooner had I scribbled down some information about when and where I'd meet this guy, the phone rang again.

‘Hi, Robert, I was given your number by Mona, my name's Richard Williams, I saw you last night in
Red Dwarf
and I thought you were…'

After the third call, I asked reception to take messages and let me sleep. It was no good. My mind was racing with what was happening to me. As I was in the shower, I realised that I was potentially very hot property for an agent. I was an actor out on a limb with a ready-made income. They didn't have to do anything except increase my income, rake off their ten per cent and go out to lunch with me occasionally.

At the reception there were eight messages and five faxes waiting for me. I felt like a very important person all of a sudden. I needed to spend some time on my own to remind myself that I wasn't important at all. I am old enough to remember that I only feel important and special if people tell me I am. As soon as I'm alone, I remember the truth.

I threw my small bag into the vast cavern of my rumbling jeep and drove down the road ten miles or so to my favourite diner. It was crowded and busy and no one recognised me or told me I was great. I had a huge gut-busting breakfast with ten cups of coffee. I read all my faxes and messages, many of which were from London, where
The Reconstructed Heart
was receiving a lot of attention. I had to get back there to promote it. I had written articles for the
Guardian
,
The Times
and the
Daily Mail
. I filled in a questionnaire from
City Limits
magazine and sat back to think. However much I tried to remember that I wasn't important, and things were really just normal, I was being swept along with the thought that I was going to be rich and famous and live in America.

I handed the parking attendant my ticket outside the diner, he delivered my huge rumbler to the kerb, and I drove over the hill into Hollywood. I had a lunch appointment at Musso and Franks, an old-fashioned restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard. I was meeting Harvey Greenstein, the agent who had woken me up.

‘Robert,' said Harvey, ‘it's great to meet you, sit down, sit down.' Harvey was waiting for me at a table near the door, we moved to a small cubicle at the back.

‘Whaddaya want?' said a very old, tight-skinned waiter. I'm not sure if the waiters at Musso and Franks have the reputation for being very rude, but if they don't, I'm starting one. They are also very funny.

‘We'll have water, and a menu already,' said Harvey Greenstein, not phased at all. He turned back to me eagerly. ‘This is great, Robert, you are such a talented actor, you're a star in England, right?'

‘Well, no, to be honest I don't think I could claim that.'

‘Stop being so modest already. If you're not, it's their loss, because you are going to be massive here, the white Eddie Murphy, you are so funny, with your walks and your voices. Listen,' he said conspiratorially, ‘you will make so much money here with that kind of talent.'

‘Well, I don't know, I mean it was only a pilot.'

‘But what a pilot. Oi oi. It'll run, believe me. Tell me, what are you making on the show?'

I wasn't sure what to say, I still felt the natural British reticence when it came to talking about money. I didn't want to tell this man. He started throwing around ballpark figures, I eventually nodded when he came down as low as mine.

‘Oi, what are you doing, charity work?' he said happily. ‘You know what Ted Danson gets?'

I told him I knew it was a million an episode.

‘That's for one transmission, he gets 80 per cent for a repeat, Robert. I can guarantee that for the first year I will get you between fifty and seventy-five thousand dollars an ep. Okay, so this year that's six eps in a mid-season replacement, so you're looking at three hundred to four and a half hundred thousand dollars. That's just to start, then, next year, thirty-six episodes, we go in gentle, a hundred thou an ep, raising to a hundred fifty in summer. Now you're looking at about three and a half million a year.' He paused and stared into my eyes, presumably looking for signs of delight. He could sense my misgivings. ‘Pre-tax of course, I'm talking gross, but even after every deduction there is, you're walking away with two million bucks in your pocket. It's big money, Robert, and you just fell right in it. How did you do it, I'll tell you, with talent, that's what sells in this town.'

After lunch I left Harvey Greenstein on the pavement, waving at me furiously as I gunned my rumbler back over the hill. I was staying with Jane Leeves, in her apartment in Studio City. Her apartment has a spare room, we did not do anything kinky. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until the following day.

I went with Jane to see her agent, who also told me I was the greatest thing since sliced bread, but at least he was a little more legitimate sounding. He worked in a big black tower on Sunset Boulevard in a company called CAA. This was a huge agency that looked after thousands of actors.

‘So, you want to live in LA,' he said cheerfully.

‘Um, not really,' I said, ‘but if I have to I will.'

‘You have to, Robert, because that show is going to run.'

‘Right,' I said.

‘If you ever want to talk about representation, you know where I am, give me a call. I guess you've been chased a bit huh?' I nodded. ‘Don't worry about it, you'll do good. You are hot property now, Robert. This always happens when there's a new talent in town. This town is talent-hungry and you've got buckets to sell.'

On the way out to a restaurant that evening, Jane told me her agent never bullshitted, he was a straight down the line guy.

We met up with the rest of the cast in some really chi chi place, the name and location of which I can't remember. But the food was brilliant, the waiters were dead trendy and it cost a fortune. Jane and I arrived together and it was pretty clear everyone thought we had become an item. It was not so, Jane and I are good friends and that's it. Okay?

I was getting more and more calls from London, it was clear I had to get back. The following day I caught a plane to New York, first-class American Airlines, all paid for, by the way. I would have flown super bucket-shop economy, bring your own packed lunch. The food wasn't quite as good as Qantas, but there was plenty of it, and masses of room.

New York was snow-bound and bitterly cold. I stayed with old friends for two nights in their lovely house in upstate New York, spent a day with Chris Eigman in Manhattan; saw Boris Yeltsin arrive by helicopter at the Battery (by chance that is, I hadn't arranged it with Boris) and had a great meal at La Indochine restaurant with Chris. This is the place where drop-dead beautiful people queue to get a job as waitpersons because they are supposed to get spotted for movie parts. They were all drop-dead gorgeous, but I didn't think any of them were going to get a gig to be honest.

Chris woke me at the crack of doom the following morning with a cup of English tea. He had very kindly booked me a taxi to get me to the airport. The man driving the taxi was a Serb. He hated America, he wanted to go back to his own country but he couldn't afford it. I felt lucky and gave him a big tip. As he drove away it struck me that he might be from Brooklyn and love America, he might just hate British liberals.

I flew back to London first class, ahh. It was so luxurious and proper, so rich-feeling and special-making. I got on the Tube at Heathrow and headed for my small flat in Islington. The specialness and richness and glamour started to feel like old party clothes. I was back to normal, back to London; my pushbike, the rain, the homeless people, the telephone bills, the dust, the shopping that needed doing. Judy was still in Ethiopia. There was no one at my flat. It was warm, but hollow. There was a big pile of mail for me. None of the letters were from Hollywood. There was no contract, there was no demand for me to get on the next flight out there and start shooting the series.

Likewise my answer machine, many messages, none from Universal Television, none from some agent saying, ‘Bob, they want you to take Mel Gibson's part in
Lethal Weapon 3
.' Nothing. I made a cup of English tea and sat in silence, back to normal. It was alright really. I wasn't sad, I was just waiting to calm down again.

The irony light in the giant control room in the sky had been going on in my section for a long time; however, every now and then, when there is some heavy irony going down somewhere on earth, you get a break. There was no irony going through my mainframe as I sat in my kitchen. I was in an irony-free zone. It was only a temporary glitch, but while it lasted, it was very, very peaceful.

Universal Television presented NBC with the pilot later that year. It has its faults, but for a pilot I'd say it was pretty damned good. Linwood Boomer was fired, as were Chris Eigman and Hinton Battle. They recast both parts, with the Cat played by a woman. They never reshot the pilot, but they did shoot a short trailer for it, which I wasn't involved in. Rob and Doug went back to Los Angeles for about six weeks, trying to hustle up support for the project.