DRIVING ROBERT REDFORDAT ONE HUNDREDMILES PER HOUR

The move to California changed everything. Henry and Sophie each had their own bedroom. And a playroom. And a dead-end street to play on. Henry started preschool, and we dove right in. The beauty of it was that there were not only houses in LA, but also work. Within a week, I got offered the lead role in a comedy called The Boss’ Wife. The script was mediocre, and from my point of view, if they were asking me to be the lead actor, that meant (a) it had been turned down by all of the really good comedic leading men, (b) the director/writer was a tall, goofy Jewish guy who saw themselves in me, and (c) it was not going to be a hit movie. I hated to turn down work, so I told my agent I would do it only if they paid me the outrageous sum of two hundred thousand dollars (the most money I had ever made was eighty-five thousand dollars). Knowing they would never go for it, I threw the script in the garbage and felt good about my integrity.

When my agent called with the news that they had agreed to my terms, I had to fish the script out of the garbage, the cover now stained with baby food and peanut butter, the perfect symbol for the stain one gets from doing things just for the money. The movie was actually fun. Christopher Plummer played my boss (obviously a low point in his amazing career), and Martin Mull and Fisher Stevens became my friends as well. There was, once again, an awkward sex scene I had to do in a shower with a beautiful and wonderful model/actress named Arielle Dombasle. What made this one especially uncomfortable is that we did the scene in some makeshift set in a weird warehouse in the desert of Palm Springs, and as we shot it, ripping each other’s clothes off while making out furiously, we began to notice that our clothes were turning a very dark brown from the disgusting water they had rigged to the shower. They stopped filming to try to fix it, but they couldn’t figure out the problem, so we just shot the scene in the rusty water. I went home to Laure feeling dirty in so many ways.

Things got back on track when I got the part in one of my favorite movies, Born in East L.A. Cheech Marin wrote, directed, and starred in it as a Mexican American who gets trapped in Mexico without his passport and has to sneak back into America. I played a “coyote,” a human trafficker and a real asshole who lives in Tijuana and smuggles people across the border. True West had opened me up to finding the fun of playing a bad guy, but this was the first time I got to try it on film. The part fit like a glove, and we had a blast filming it, improvising and making each other laugh a lot. The toughest part was being away from the family. When I had a day off, I would hitch a ride in the van that drove the actual film back up from Tijuana to LA to be developed. The poor driver had to do that three-hour drive twice a day. There were a couple of times he was so tired that he started to fall asleep behind the wheel and let me do the driving—which was a big deal, for a Teamster to let one of the actors drive.

I will gladly bet you ten-to-one odds on ten dollars, dear reader (or listener, if you are enjoying this epic work as an audiobook), that you have never seen Robert Redford’s Milagro Beanfield War, one of the sweetest movies I have ever seen, let alone been in. And instead of sending me the ten dollars you now owe me, go buy, rent, or stream this movie. It is a great American story about a town of people whose anger at their lost land and lost rights comes to a boiling point when a farmer, his field dry because the water rights to his land have been taken, illegally taps into an irrigation pipe and his field begins to flourish. The town is inspired and rises up against the land developers and, like all good movies, righteousness wins the day. It is lyrical and funny and human, with incredible performances by Christopher Walken, Melanie Griffith, Sônia Braga, Rubén Blades, Chick Vennera, my old friend John Heard, and on and on and on. Watch this film! My agent got a call offering me the part of Herbie, a social work student who comes to the town of Milagro to do some kind of study but ends up joining the town in their fight against the land developers. Redford remembered me from my Ordinary People screen test and offered to put me in the company of one of the classiest troupes of actors ever assembled. My agent explained the “favored-nations” deal, that we would all be in New Mexico for five months and everyone would get sixty thousand dollars. The prestige of the film, working with Redford at last, and being so flattered that he had cast me alongside these other actors made me very proud and excited, but the “five months in New Mexico” part was a bit of a problem. When my agent conveyed my reservations, Redford stepped up to the plate for me again. Even though it was favored-nations, he had them include in my contract an airplane ticket every week so I would be able to go home and see my family. He was so thoughtful and generous, and off I went to New Mexico.

It turned out to be one of the greatest experiences of my life. Five months is a long time and the friendships I made were deep. Rubén Blades was a force of nature. I could barely compute the breadth of the life he was living—a phenomenal musician, political activist, an icon in Panama who was considered presidential material at the time, and a brilliant fucking actor on top of it all. So knowledgeable, and so fucking funny too. We saw each other for years afterward, but have since lost touch. (Rubén, if you’re reading this, call me.) Having my dearest friend John Heard on the set, who had taken me into his home and life from my first day in New York, was so sweet, and we got to hang out like old times. Sônia Braga lived next door to me and fed me lots of meals. Such a loving friend. I was a Mets fan, and that was the year that they won it all, with the spectacular Billy Buckner misplay, and I watched every inning of it in amazement, cheering loudly in my little room. I loved Chick Vennera, who played the central character of the farmer, Joe Mondragon. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders as a relatively unknown actor who Redford had chosen over Cheech Marin. I was rooting for Cheech when I found out he was up for the role, but Redford had a vision for the film and Chick was the person he saw. And he was right. After my near miss with Ordinary People, I know how Cheech must have felt not getting the part, but in the end, it is right there on film to see—each of Redford’s artistic choices coming together to create a masterpiece. One of the sweetest parts for me in the film was my character’s relationship with an old man in town, a man who speaks with angels and who takes me in. He was played by an amazing actor, Carlos Riquelme, who had a long career in the Mexican film industry. He gave such a tremendously funny, smart, sly, and innocent performance, and was such a loving person.

One fateful day, I had a big scene with Carlos. His character lived in a hut, and he was teaching me a prayer or something. It was a very good scene, and I was excited to finally get to do an intimate scene with him and get a chance to work closely with Bob (yes, I knew him well enough to now call Mr. Redford “Bob”). With so many characters and storylines, you really savor the moments when you get to do your thing. We rehearsed and started shooting and it was going well but at some point, Bob seemed a little annoyed with me. (He was not really annoyed at all, but that’s how it felt, because I wanted to be perfect.) We were between takes and I was just waiting for the next setup, not doing anything. And I think that was the problem—I wasn’t doing anything. Bob came over and asked me something that still rings in my ears today.

“Do you know what lens we are on?”

“What?”

“Do you know what lens we are on?”

“Um, no.”

“So how do you know how to perform the scene, if you don’t even know what the camera is seeing?” He came up close and framed my face with his hands, mimicking a close-up. “Are we here?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Are we wide?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because it is a totally different performance if the camera is seeing you here or here or here. If I am on a fifty millimeter from this distance, then I am seeing your whole body. Your body language, the scene, the atmosphere. But when I come here, on a one hundred and twenty millimeter, I am right on your face. You have to bring the whole performance into just right here. And I might come closer, right into here.” He framed just my eyes. “You have to carve out your performance for each shot, each take, and know what you are trying to do each and every moment for that particular shot. That is part of your job.”

I felt embarrassed, but also incredibly challenged. And I immediately got what he meant. It was the best film acting lesson I ever got, and the best directing lesson as well. It changed the way I have approached my work since then, understanding what each shot is, what the audience is seeing and feeling at all times, and using the framing of each shot to show a slightly different side to the character and story. I have passed Bob’s lesson on to many young actors myself. That’s what makes Bob “Robert Redford.” He is a master filmmaker both in front of and behind the camera, and he knows how to connect to an audience like no one else. Watch his performance in All Is Lost, a film with only one character, no dialogue, and shot under the toughest conditions imaginable. His artistry is on full display in that film, and his lessons are still with me in a very deep way.

I think he felt bad about challenging me, because as we were wrapping for the day and I was getting in the van to go back “home” to the condos, Bob came out to his car, the beautiful Porsche 911 he drove to work every day. He was kind and told me what a good job I had done in the scene, and I got to thank him for guiding me through it so well. I must have commented on how cool his car was, because the next thing I heard was, “Do you want to drive it?” It was one of those moments in my show business life where it feels like I might have lost consciousness, or have awakened in Oz. Before I knew it, I was behind the wheel of a Porsche 911, just me and Bob, speeding down the mountain road at eighty miles per hour.

I could tell he had second thoughts almost immediately. Followed quickly by third, fourth, and fifth thoughts. But he was determined to really let me experience this engineering marvel and challenge me for the second time today, in a wholly unexpected way. The way home from the set is on the High Road to Taos, a spectacularly beautiful, twisty mountain road from Taos to Santa Fe, and I drove it so fucking fast! It was completely exhilarating! Very intimate, these race cars. There were only two seats in the whole car. Just me and Bob in a tuna can, screaming down the High Road to Taos. Bob looked like any dad might, white knuckles gripping the door handle, feet pressing through the floorboards, and a forced smile plastered on his face, which did not conceal the terror and nausea I could see coursing through his body. But he kept encouraging me to go faster, explaining the aerodynamic theory about how in a Porsche, going faster into the curves actually helps push the car into the ground and hug the road. Or something like that. (My knowledge of cars is basically pedals and steering wheels.) I like to go fast but not do anything dangerous, but this was a once in a lifetime chance, and anyway, to quote Rain Man, “I’m an excellent driver.” Shifting up and down, Bob taught me how to listen to the engine, roaring so perfectly, running up the rpms so high. The car hugged the road like there was glue on the tires. It felt like one tiny, wrong tug on the wheel would send us flying off the side of the mountain. But he told me to push it, and I did. I have to say, that was a lot of pressure. Not only were our lives on the line, but one wrong flick of the wrist and I would forever be known as the idiot who killed Robert Redford. Not the legacy I was hoping for. At the bottom of the mountain, there was a good long stretch of straight highway and for the first and only time in my life, I drove a car at a hundred miles an hour. I have never forgotten how sick he looked, and it still makes me laugh. He never did invite me to drive it again, but I was able to bring this American (and personal) treasure back to my condo parking lot, safe and sound and beating the vans with the cast by about a half an hour (I win!). Robert Redford is an artist and a talent of the highest magnitude and, on top of that, has done enormous things in his epic life for the environment, the film industry, promoting art, Native American culture, and on and on. And I just want it to be known that a lot of that would not have happened if I wasn’t such an excellent driver, a God Behind the Wheel. You’re welcome, world!

Crazily, a year or so after the shoot, the film was finished and premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, 1990. I was in Rome, in the middle of shooting a terrible underwater monster movie that starred Peter Weller, a major flop called Leviathan. Peter’s character in our movie was similar to his RoboCop character, only stiffer and less human. I played the part of “Six Pack” (obviously nicknamed for his beer consumption, not his ab muscles), a disgruntled underwater miner with a weird hairdo and a ridiculously bad facial hair configuration. I got a call inviting me to the Cannes Film festival for the opening of Milagro. It was going to be me, Redford, Sônia Braga, and Melanie Griffith (cue “One of these things is not like the other” again). Like the idea of a Hollywood Screen Test, the Cannes Film Festival was something I had only vaguely heard about in movies I’d seen about Hollywood. I stayed at the Carlton Hotel, right on the French Riviera, and it was a crazy show-business atmosphere of actresses, producers, financiers, paparazzi, and swag. I did a bunch of interviews to publicize the movie, and all my expenses were paid by the studio, so I was having the time of my life. The day of the premiere, I was told to report to another hotel, a much nicer hotel, where Bob, Sônia, and Melanie were staying. I was waiting in the lobby when they suddenly appeared, on the move with an entourage of security. They pulled me in with them and off we went. Let the chase begin.

Bob was the biggest, handsomest, coolest movie star and director on the planet, and this was the center of the publicity machine. It was like being with the Beatles. They took us on a freight elevator, through the kitchen and an underground tunnel to a parking garage. The four of us got into a limo. As soon as the limo left the garage, the chase was on. Racing in a harrowing fashion through the streets of Cannes, paparazzi on motorcycles butted up against the window trying to get a photograph. It was quite terrifying—not only the physical danger, but to get a small glimpse at what Bob’s life was like. He is such a humble, thoughtful artist, and so successful, and this is the price? Just insane. Weirdly, I feel like I got the tiniest taste of Princess Diana’s final moments and really, thank God we came out alive. The driver was insanely good (although Bob knew my driving skills, so I hope he was comforted that I was ready to jump in if needed). We left the narrow roads and screeched into and through another underground lot. I had no idea where we were or where we were going. When the car finally stopped and we got out, we had somehow landed right at the red carpet, with hundreds of photographers snapping our picture. We climbed the red carpeted stairway to a platform and turned to see a sea of tens of thousands of people, fans, chanting and cheering in a deafening roar for Bob and the beautiful Sônia and Melanie. And there I was, somehow right next to them all, in a terrible rented tuxedo and my Six Pack style, saying to myself, “You’d better enjoy this because this will never ever happen again.” And I was right; it never has.

Now what are the chances of having two death-defying car rides with the worldwide legend, Robert Redford himself, and living to tell the tale? Crazy, right?