TALES FROM THE BARSTOOL
By: Clint Lien

My Adventures in Hollywood - Part II

So there I was, delivering scripts to a long list of players in the Hollywood machine. I was living in a dump and I had signed up for an acting class taught by Jeff Tambor. Jeff played Hank on the Larry Saunder show for years. He was a good acting teacher and while I haven't been in his class for a number of years, I draw from his lessons almost daily. I had no aspirations to be an actor but I thought the process might help my writing and who knows, maybe I could hook up with some cute little actress - make my five months in Hollywood memorable ones. But I get ahead of myself: first a few anecdotes.

I'd been in town less than a week and one night I decided to do something I had been avoiding for years, and that was to go see Oliver Stone's movie The Doors. Now I was a big Oliver Stone fan, big Val Kilmer fan, and an even bigger Doors fan - still am on all counts, but I did not want to watch the film because I was sure it would just depress me. I knew Stone and Kilmer would do brilliant work. They would capture the spirit of my creative mentor and I could sit for two and a half hours and watch him kill himself. I figured I could do without that. I'm not sure why I changed my mind, but when I saw that a new print of the movie was going to show one time only at midnight for the low price of five dollars I figured it sounded like a good way to spend an evening.

I had to catch a freeway to get to the theatre - you have to catch a freeway to get groceries in this town, but I found the Westwood theatre and paid my five bucks - me and about seven others. The place was empty. I loved the movie and was only bummed a little. I left the theatre at three in the morning and started home on the empty streets. Los Angeles stops at two in the morning. If you want "all night" you'll have to wait until I write about my adventures in New York - which haven't happened yet.

So there I am, driving down Wilshire boulevard in the middle of the night, feeling a bit high after watching the film - I always get amped after a good film. I've got my arm hanging out the window and I'm singing along to the Bare Naked Ladies when I feel a car pull up in the lane left of me. It slowed and kept pace. At that moment I regretted having no last will and testament. I didn't look over at the car, but I had a clear picture of four inner city youths with evil in mind. They saw my Canadian plates and knew I would not have a gun with me. I stopped singing. I was dead and I knew it. I was less than a mile from the freeway entrance, where I thought maybe I could outrun most other vehicles, as I had a nice car, and I thought it was my one chance for survival. I sped up a bit, not too much or else I'd reveal how truly frightened I was. I was sure wishing I had my window up but I knew to roll it up now would also be seen as an act of fear. I kept going. No matter what speed I went the car kept pace. I began to curse my cowardice. My grandfather had passed away ten years ago and I was sure right now he was shaking his head in shame at me. I cowboyed up and decided to look my tormentors in the eye. I was convinced it was going to be my last act. I slowly turned my head and couldn't believe what I saw. The guy in the passenger seat had both arms out the window. He was just staring at me. He wasn't an inner city youth. It was a middle-aged man with a big smile. It was Oliver Stone.

I was stunned. It must have shown. When he saw the look on my face he and the driver broke out in laughter. All I could think to say, because it didn't occur to me right away that they must have been at the theatre as well and seen me there, was "I just saw your -" I jacked my thumb back toward the theatre. "Yeah, it's the best movie I've made." The entrance to the freeway came up then and I took it while they kept going up Wilshire. It was truly a surreal moment. I've never met Oliver Stone since then but I'm looking forward to it. I wonder if he'll remember the moment. I suspect there were drugs and alcohol involved so probably not. I took it as some sort of sign from the gods.

Less than a week later I got another sign. I was delivering scripts. The next one in the pile was to go to a "George someone" on the Universal lot - bungalow 100. I discovered quickly getting onto the lots was easy - come with a package on the passenger seat and they send you right in with directions and a smile. The security guards on lots are helpful and pleasant. It feels like some kind of parallel dimension. So I pull up to the gate and give the guard my name and destination. He asks me to wait and gets on the phone. He talks for a long time, then tells me to follow the road until I hit a second check point where another guard will look after me. That was a first. I followed his instructions and met another station guard. He too got on the phone and spoke for quite a while. This was getting weird. Finally he hangs up and turns to me. "There's no one by that name at that office, but go down to the bungalow and another guard will meet you." I had never come across such security nor have I since. I drove another hundred meters through a wooded area until I came to the bungalow and it all became clear to me.

The bungalow looked like something from Bedrock. The sign outside said "Amblin Entertainment." I was at Steven Spielberg's office. A heavy-set woman in comfortable shoes met me outside the office. I knew she could beat me up with one arm. I was sure I was going to be turned around and told to never darken their door again. Instead she was very polite and guided me into the reception area where a pleasant young woman was determined to help me find George Whatshisname. She was looking through a directory but not having any luck, so she suggested I use the phone to call back to my office and see if they could help. She got on the other phone and put a call over to DreamWorks to see if they had our man over there.

My friend Jimmy Townsend answered the phone at the office. Jimmy had come to Hollywood years before me and he and I had hit it off immediately. So I'm on the phone with him waiting while he's thumbing through some papers trying to figure out the screw-up. There were some sliding glass doors leading into a little garden area outside and there were a group of people sitting around a wooden table out there. One of them had a baseball cap on and of course it was Steven (note we're on a first name basis now.) I couldn't believe it. There he was - one of the reasons I was in Hollywood. The man who had made Jaws. Right at that moment the meeting broke up and the small group made their way toward the sliding doors. Jimmy was rambling in my ear about the different possibilities concerning this script when Steven Spielberg walked into the room I was standing in. He bid adieu to the folks he had just sat down with and they all left. Then he turned to the receptionist, who was still on the phone on my behalf and she handed him some messages. He was standing less than two feet from me while he rifled through them. I whispered to Jimmy, "He's standing right beside me." "Who?" says Jimmy. "Him! Spielberg!" "NO WAY!" Jimmy shouts in my ear. At that moment Spielberg turns around, looks me in the eye and says "hello." I said "hi" in return - probably sounded like I was on lithium; then he walked out of the room. "Was that him?! Did he just say hello to you?!" Jimmy had heard the benediction. I'd been blessed by the Pope of Hollywood and I had a witness. "God, I can't believe it!! I've been in Hollywood for ten years and I've never met Spielberg! You're here less than a week and you meet Steven Spielberg and Oliver Stone!" I certainly had, and I must tell you the thought of those two meetings still brings a smile to my face. I've met many people since then, but those two moments in time will always be special.

While Steven Spielberg and Oliver Stone were big influences on me and continue to be, my main inspiration, the man whose work really got me thinking, was Quentin Tarantino. I've got a nice little story there as well, but later.

Dedicated to the memory of Irene Pillsworth. My Grandmother who will be missed by me always.

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