If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (53 page)

Acting with two very attractive women has many advantages -- professionally, it gave my character much to do, but as a man it wasn't bad either. Lucy Lawless is a striking woman, on camera and off. It was always fun to flirt with her as Autolycus, because I really didn't have to work that hard to get motivated.

One scene called for Autolycus to kiss Renee O'Connor, Xena's sidekick Gabrielle, on the lips. As a perfectionist, I insisted that the scene be shot over and over -- until we got it
just right.

I had never directed myself as an actor before. The episode
King of Assassins
provided that first opportunity, and I was excited to work with Sam Raimi's younger brother Ted again.

I'd known Ted since he was nine and even took him to cello lessons -- he still owes me five bucks for an impromptu stop at Dairy Queen. Ted was in many of our early Super-8 films and several of the features, but I never paid much attention to his overall game plan. Nothing made me happier than to see him wind up on
Xena
as the recurring character of Joxer -- King of Idiots.

Directing Ted was great, because I didn't have to go into lengthy explanations about what I hoped to accomplish -- I could use old Super-8 jargon and he was unfazed.

Bruce: Okay, Ted, after Gabrielle leaves, keep Shemping like you did in "Uncivil Warbirds" until I call
"noise."

Ted: Right...

Bruce: When you react, do that Larry thing, like in
A Plumbing We Will Go.

Ted: Yep...

Bruce: Then, I need you to vaso-glide left to reveal Xena behind you.

Ted: Gotcha.

During "King of Assassins," I realized that the Raimi Insanity Gene had successfully transferred through to Ted. He was an in-front-of-the-camera version of his brother Sam -- always full of ideas and ready to share a heightened sense of absurdity with the world. Ted's greatest asset is the ability to make a complete ass of himself on camera.

Aside from the usual grief, torment and agony, there are times in the film business when you can't help but feel like you're cheating the system. While other folks labor in their thankless jobs, thespians get to play hooky all day long and get paid for it.

An interesting dynamic evolves from wearing the two hats of director and actor. Aside from severe sleep deprivation, an odd sense of freedom exists. Amid the delirium, I found myself wandering around the set thinking,
I can basically do anything I want
... Of course, too much control has its own dark side, but I was happy to operate, albeit briefly, in a world with relaxed limitations.

50

FULL CIRCLE

Season #7 of
Hercules
was upon us. It had been a long haul, even for a relative newcomer like myself -- I had only worked on the show for five years. This was the longest I had ever worked on
anything,
other than raising a couple of groovy kids.

As could be eventually expected, the word came down from on high:
Herc
is dead -- the big guy was to walk off into the mythical land of heroes forever. A lethal combination of fragmented market share, increasing production costs and a general sense of creative exhaustion spelled the death toll for this successful show. Sad, yes, but it happens eventually to every TV show ever produced, and 111 episodes in this age of nano-second attention spans is huge. It was a great run and I'm glad to have my name on a mere eighteen episodes in various capacities.

I was given what I consider the prestigious job of directing the series finale. It was my responsibility to assist in tying up all the loose ends in a satisfying package. I was eager to help and quite excited by the challenge, but as you might expect, it was an experience ripe with irony.

For starters, the "last" episode wasn't even filmed last. Because this one involved tons of special effects, not to mention titans, Zeus and Hera -- plus all the brand-name players -- it needed a longer postproduction period.

The last shot I filmed as a director was not even with the main crew -- it was on a Saturday and Kevin Sorbo was nowhere in sight. The shot in question was an added angle of Atlas (you know, the guy with the world on his shoulders), crashing to the ground in slow motion. Afterward, there were no hugs or gifts -- I was calling "Cut! Print it!" while sprinting out to a cab so I could catch my flight home.

The last shot of the episode (and series) involved Kevin Sorbo and Michael Hurst walking away across a vista of sand and sea. In our desire for attractive light, we waited until the sun was precariously close to dropping below the horizon. Between virgin sand and a setting sun, it gave us only one chance to get this semi-epic crane shot. We rolled camera, and as our heroes walked across the untrammeled landscape, Mother Nature came through with a delightful ripple of wind across the sand dunes, lending an intangible elegance and beauty to our rushed shot. Five minutes later, the light was gone.

Technically, this would have been the time to pop the champagne and give a teary-eyed speech, but in all the rush to wrap equipment, it hadn't dawned on any of us.

Riding back across the sand dunes in a truck full of crew members, I couldn't decide whether to be elated or depressed. This was so typical of the film business, because you never get that big, on-set finale. The magic always seems to take place in front of the camera, while behind-the-scenes, where it all really comes together, it's one anticlimax after another.

It's always been like that --
Brisco
ended with an obscure shot on the Warner Bros. back lot, and since there was no way of knowing whether the show would be canceled or not, most of the cast and crew never took the time to say good-bye. This was a good reminder of why I should just kick back and enjoy the process, because perfect endings only happen in the movies.

If you hang around a TV show long enough, you're bound to witness a milestone or two. Since I started directing back in 1994, I have introduced main characters, killed them off, brought them back to life, and sent them into the netherworld of series cancellation.

Finally, the last episode to be filmed arrived, and I was grateful to be included as Autolycus. "Hercules, Tramps and Thieves" presented a new "last" something, almost every day -- the last read-through, the last scene with so-and-so, etc. As befits my theory of anticlimaxes, we were appropriately tormented by the New Zealand weather during our last day on location.

Fluffy clouds at sunrise transformed into a blanket of rain-spitting thunderheads at call time -- by lunch, the rain was sideways. Let me just go on record here by saying that the weather in Auckland, with regard to filming, should be held in contempt. Because the city of sails is situated on a narrow spindle of land, weather patterns aren't affected at all. Josh Becker summed it up rather well.

"It's like being on a raft in the middle of the ocean."

Personally, I have no problem with rain -- my Scottish heritage always kicks in during foul weather and I adopt an inexplicably positive attitude. Golfing with Kevin Sorbo during a nasty downpour one day, my game jumped up to a whole new level -- a chronic slice disappeared and my ball went as straight as a Mormon father of twelve.

The last shot I appeared in coincided with the last shot ever to be filmed for
Hercules.
In a Karmic turn of the wheel, it was also on the stage where I first worked and where Kevin had done his Jim Beam commercials from 1993. As the shot was set up, producers and office staff filed into the studio, and I could feel the anticipation mounting.

The frame consisted of a two-shot with Kevin and I bantering about the happy conclusion of the episode. At 6:55 P.M. exactly, July 22, 1999, Kevin spoke his last line: "Autolycus, I think you many have found your calling..."

What calling is that?
I asked myself.
Unemployed actor?

With that, Kevin walked out the doorway and director Charlie Siebert called, "Cut! Check the gate!"

While the camera assistant checked to make sure the film gate was free of dust, as they always do before a shot can be printed, a low buzz started in the room. Kevin hadn't come back through the doorway yet. I'm sure he was sharing some unknowable moment with himself off stage.

"The gate is
very
good," the assistant announced.

"Print it -- that's a wrap on
Hercules!"
Charlie yelled.

With that, the studio erupted in a sustained cheer. Rob Tapert and Eric Gruendemann gave fine, off-the-cuff summations about what we all had accomplished. Kevin emerged from backstage and shared, or rather
tried
to share some touching words of gratitude for all the hard work everyone had put in on the show.

I don't think Kevin would mind if I told you that he couldn't connect more than two sentences without choking up. He had been through a war of attrition and did the best he could to express complicated emotions. There is something beautiful about watching a 6'4", manly man cry like a new bride.

The company threw a big wrap party and, at least this time, I had a chance to say my good-byes properly -- albeit quickly. I brought my luggage to the party because I had to catch a cab to the airport in twenty minutes.