If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (33 page)

"Holy shit -- you're that guy in them
Evil Death
films. Say that
groovy
line."

Eventually, the Detex assignment spared me from the hell of Gate 2. This entailed walking the entire complex, an eleven-mile route, keypunching a handheld clock at specific locations and at specific times. This was all fine by me -- I'd rather walk for four hours in solitude than listen to the ramblings of Carnie Boy or our dope-smoking C.O., Sergeant Know Nothing.

Some mornings, after the shift, the bleary-eyed guards were gathered to attended "Terrorist Prevention" classes -- God forbid that beer should fall into enemy hands. Being a security guard was great for character studies, but it was time to move on.

Fortunately, the studio behind
Evil Dead II
was in search of a television version of the film, and we managed to weasel ourselves onto the payroll. I hung up my guard uniform the day I got the news.

Editing
Evil Dead II
for television was an absurd endeavor. The film, in its uncut state, races on through carnage and mayhem without so much as a second glance from my character and it all seems like a twisted Warner Bros. cartoon. Cutting the violence down, and lingering on my horrified expression, made the violence seem far more real and disturbing. Whatever the case, the film has never seen the light of network TV and most likely never will.

31

CA$HING IN ON THE CULT

Everyone's got to start somewhere -- Jack Nicholson, one of the most respected contemporary actors, got his start in a B movie,
The Terror,
in 1958. Steve McQueen, a personal favorite, hit the big screen in
The Blob,
and lest we forget, James Cameron, the man who brought you
Titanic,
the most successful film of all time, also made
Pirhana II.
I was happy to be in such good company as I began a run of B films following
Evil Dead II.

Scott Spiegel, now also living in LA, got his director's wings and shot a horror flick called
Intruder,
based on a Super-8 film we shot years before. I played a small role as a cop who surveys the aftermath of a night of carnage, and the actor who played my partner was Lawrence Bender, who went on to produce
Reservoir Dogs
and
Pulp Fiction
-- further supporting my theory that all roads lead to B movies.

Another project, this one in Michigan, was a science fiction film called
Moontrap,
and I was commissioned to play second fiddle to
Star Trek
's Walter Koenig. John Cameron was coproducing the film, so it was a great homecoming.

This job brought to mind an old adage I'd heard as a Detroit actor -- "If you want to work in Detroit, you have to leave." The idea behind it was simple: If you lived in Michigan, you weren't considered a
serious
actor -- I guess now that I lived in LA (for all of six months) I was "legit."

The challenge of
Moontrap
was to present a convincing tale which took place largely on the moon -- all within the confines of a Michigan warehouse. After much testing, Readi-Mix concrete powder was chosen as the best substitute for moon dirt. My favorite image of this film was a hand-crafted sign, posted at the edge of the set proclaiming: "No liquids!"

Later that year, an offer came through, in the nick of bank-balance time, to join the cast of a "horror/comedy" called
Sundown: A Vampire in Retreat --
destination: Utah.

As a kid, I used to pore over maps of the western states. The "lack" of humanity in Wyoming and Utah astounded me.
Is the Wild West still alive?
I'd ask myself. As I looked around the isolated town of Moab, Utah, the answer was,
Hell yes, it is.
Moab has since become the "mountain bike capital of the world," but in 1988, there wasn't an ATM machine in sight.

Having come to the attention of director Tony Hickox in the
Evil Dead
films, I was hired to play a descendant of Van Helsing, the legendary vampire hunter. Actors love to spin tales of long hours and backbreaking work on film sets, and I could bore you with that too, but this shoot was different -- I was paid to explore the howling wilderness of Utah.

Plagued with a character who appeared intermittently throughout the film, the production company didn't know what to do with me. There weren't enough days between shooting my scenes to let me go home, and it didn't make economic sense to shift scenes around to accommodate me, so they just kept me in Moab. On average, I worked two days a week for six blissful weeks.

B movies are a great crossroads where actors on their way up meet and work with actors on their way down --
Sundown
was a textbook case. David Carradine played the lead vampire and had starred in his own TV show,
Kung Fu,
back in the seventies, but since then, he has been in his share of exploitation films. I shared a van ride with David to the set one night. The driver was all excited, because he was a big fan.

Driver: Mr. Carradine, I just got to tell you this -- I still have my
Kung Fu
lunch box.

David: So do I -- the second season, I used to bring my lunch in it...

John Ireland, who played a puritanical vampire, had been in a number of A pictures, including the best picture of 1949,
All the King's Men.
I'll always regret not capitalizing on a chance meeting with him at a local restaurant. John was sitting at a table right next to me, but I was too shy to go over and introduce myself.

GET JOHN TRAVOLTA ON THE PHONE

Ironically, this immersion into cheesy genre flicks rekindled my interest in independent filmmaking.
If these morons can get money for their films, I
thought, so
can we.

The following three months led partner David Goodman and I on a trip down Nightmare Lane trying to finance
Man with the Screaming Brain
-- a sci-fi/horror flick that's basically
Body Heat
with a brain transplant.

During the
Evil Dead
experience, we met honest businessmen who were willing to gamble on hard work and ingenuity and it gave us a fair shot at success. This time around, our project became a magnet for every schmuck, loser, and blowhard in the Midwest.

Along the way, we pitched the project to anyone who would hear us -- and maybe that was the problem. Our search led us down some strange roads, and I'm not just talking metaphorically -- a pitch meeting with the scrap metal king of Detroit almost resulted in our untimely death.

Pulling into an industrial compound worthy of
Blade Runner,
we were met by a Doberman and an unstable security guard.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he demanded, as if we had ridden to the outskirts of his Western town, looking for trouble. With that, I reached into my briefcase to get a business card and I suddenly heard Goodman gasp.

Bruce: You said, "Bruce, put the briefcase down."

Dave: Right -- "Calm down. Put it down."

Bruce: But, see, I didn't know what you were talking about. I thought, "What is Goodman's problem, I was just getting a card?"

Dave: That's because you couldn't see his gun. I was staring down the barrel.

Unbeknownst to me, on Goodman's side of the car, the security guard pulled his piece and had it trained on us -- his twisted mind must have assumed that I was reaching for my six-shooter.

Our most absurd attempt to raise money was in the presence of a self-proclaimed venture capitalist. Goodman, upon laying eyes on this 350-pound character, nicknamed him "Jabba the Hut." The guy, for some reason, had a fixation with John Travolta.

Jabba: Do you think you could use John Travolta in it?

Bruce: Why do ask that?

Jabba: Because I know him. I can get John Travolta.

Goodman and I shared a look -- if this putz was so damned smart, why was he working above a pizza parlor in an office that looked like it was decorated by an agoraphobic?

Bruce: Hey, Dave, you know what? I think John Travolta could nail
Man with the Screaming Brain.

Dave: I think you're right. In fact, he's perfect.

Bruce: (to
Jabba)
Get John Travolta on the phone.

Jabba: What?

Bruce: Get him on the phone. He's a friend of yours, right?

Jabba: Well, I would need some advance notice.

Dave: Come on, let's close this deal.

Jabba: It's a time zone thing, really, I don't think...

Bruce: Hey, look -- tell you what. When you can deliver John Travolta, you give us a call.

Our frustration came to a head with a meeting that Goodman set up. The prospective investor was a widow, flush with cash. Dave insisted on running this pitch and it was fine by me, I was happy to take a breather.

During his spirited banter, I could see that the investor, Karen, was losing interest. Her eyes began to wander. I followed her gaze down toward Goodman's feet. What we both saw at the same time, was Goodman's calf-high basketball socks under his shorter, black dress socks.

In the middle of Goodman's spiel, Karen pointed at his ankles. "You have white socks on!"

The blood drained from Goodman's face and his pitch ground to a halt. On our way back down to the lobby, via the world's slowest elevator, Goodman had a strangely determined look on his face.

"What's the matter, Dave?" I asked. "You did fine. It wasn't you. She was never gonna invest in the first place."

"That's what pisses me off," he said through clenched teeth. "That
bitch..."

And with that, he hunched over like a sumo wrestler and squeezed out the most prolonged fart I had ever witnessed. Raising money for
Man with the Screaming Brain
was a little bit like being trapped in a slow-moving elevator after someone farted -- the ride took too long and the atmosphere was foul.