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Show Page4 May 26, 1995 Ete. Former ‘thirtysomething’ Writer Stahl Tells His Story in ‘Midnight By AmyWallace (c) 1995, Los Angeles Times HOLLYWOOD — It’s been morethana yearsince Jerry Stahl last forced heroin into his veins. But the former $5,000-a-week television writer, who once put words in the mouthsof Hope, Michael and the rest of the yuppie crew from ‘‘thirtysomething,”’ still sees Los Angeles through a junkie's eyes. The reminders are everywhere. Every day, when Stahl goesto the Los Angeles neighborhood of Echo Park to pick up his 6-yearold daughter at school, he passes a corner where he used to buy drugs. Not far away, in Silver Lake, is a cash machine where he once withdrew moneyfrom someoneelse’s accountto feed his habit. Laurel Canyon? That’s where he switched, briefly, from heroin to cocaine and sabotaged his dream job — a chance to work with director David Lynch — by not finishing a “Twin Peaks” script he'd promisedto write. As Stahl talks about his new memoir about addiction and survival, he is not far from thepast. “(I'd) get high in the car or a gas station bathroom.Or,if I was feeling peckish, the bathroom of Ship’s, a Denny’s, Canter’s or any of Hollywood's other equally sterling 24-hour venues,” Stahl, 41, writes in “Permanent Midnight,” his devastating tale of hitting bottom with a needle in his arm. “To this day, should anyonerequireit, I could give the ultimate toiiet tour of Hollywood.” Theline is vintage Stahl — raw and unexpectedly funny. Throughout his wrenching book, humorcrops up in several places whereatfirst it does not seem to belong. On the faceof it, for example, it may not seem comical that Stahl once shot so much cocaine and heroin (a mixture known as a “speedball”’) that he hallucinated that the furry puppet star of the sitcom “Alf” was clawing at his locked door. One thing is sure: The story Stahltells is so painful in places that readers will be grateful for his sharp sarcasm,his ironic wit and his well-honed sense of the weird. Without them, certainly, Stahl would likely have given up long ago — andhis readers would be tempted to do the same. No one fares worse in Stahl’s story than the author himself. This is a man whoonce tookhis infant daughterinto a dark,filthy heroin den in the middle of the night. This is a man who plundered his then-wife’s bank account, stole prescription painkillers out of friends’ medicine cabinets, and continued injecting poison even after doctors said it might mean the amputation of both his arms. “Whenyouare the kind of person who uses peopleandlies, nobody around you gets elevated. The worst thing that can be said about a lot of peopleis that they knew me,” Stahlsays flatly, without self-pity. “You can either spendyourlife trying to actlikeit didn't happen, Or you can lay it all out and the people whoareleft speaking to you are yourfriends.” Stahl’s decision to “lay it all out” — to trace a 20-yearhistory of self-abuse so destructive that doctors predict his liver won't survive this century — caused him to take a hard look backward. The book takes readers to the place Stahl learned to get stoned on daily basis, a tony Pennsylvania prep school wherethis son of a Pittsburgh public servant mingled, uncomfortably, with “the sonsof the ruling class.” Stahl married into the industry that would eventually have him scribbling for the biggest television showsof the 1980s. Living in Los Angeles, where he was writing a monthly column for Los Angeles magazine, he met a British woman who worked asa script reader for a producer who made TV movies. The woman’s green card was aboutto expire; she offered to pay Stahl $3,000 to get hitched. This was how things happened to Stahl. Opportunities presented themselves and he took them. Drugs? He took them too. — Associated Press It’s been more than a year since Jerry Stahl last forced heroin into his veins. But the former $5,000-a-week television writer, who once put words in the mouths of Hope, Michael and therest of the yuppte crew from “thirtysomething,”still sees Los Angeles through a junkie’s eyes. Heteils his story in “Permanent Midnight.” Books By Mary HigginsClark: Millions Are Reading Every Gory Detail By Chris Kaltenbach (c) 1995, The Baltimore Sun Mary Higgins Clark loves sweating the details. She’ll call the White House to find out what color gloves the waiters wear at state dinners (it’s upto thefirst lady), ask the Coast Guard where a body dumped off Monomoy Island near Cape Cod would most likely wash up (Martha's Vineyard), or consult with a plastic surgeon about shards of glass ground into the skin (‘don’t say it didn’t penetrate the dermis, say the glass didn’t penetrate deeply,” the doctor advised her. “If it didn’t penetrate the dermis, there’s no need to go to a plastic surgeon.”’) “T love working the details,” the doyenne of American suspense novels says over iced tea in her Washington hotel room.“You don’t wantanyoneelse doing it for you. I really get so mad whenwriters don’t pay attention to the details.” In the course of an hourlong conversation that runs the gamut from herIrish Catholic upbringing to the plot of her next book, Clark, 63, shrugs off attempts to analyze what makes herone of America’s most successful mystery writers. In fact, she seems not overly enthusiastic about her workuntil the subject turns to her knack for detail. Then her voice grows louder. Her eyes widen. Her hands strike the air for emphasis. You can talk about what makes people buy my booksall you want, her manner says, or what separates mefrom the thousands of other mystery/suspense writers struggling to find an audience. But I'd rather talk about the obstetrician who insisted an embryois not “implanted in” the mother's womb, but rather “transferred to.” Foralmost 20 years, the New York native has been turning outbestsellers with almost clocklike regularity. A million copies of her latest novel, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” have already been printed — and wasn’t evenreleased until Monday. Undera 19$2 contract with Simon & Schuster, she earns $1 million per book. Not badfora secretarial school graduate and former stewardess who turned to full-time writing only after her husband, airline executive Warren F. Clark, died unexpectedly in 1964 andleft herto raise five children.Herfirst book, a biographical novel based on thelife of George and Martha Washington, was published in 1969 — andrelegated immediately to the remainderbins. Her next effort, a mystery/suspense novel entitled “Where Are the Children?” for which Clark was paid $3,000, was a different matter altogether. In it, a mother wrongly convicted of killing her two young children gets out of prison and remarries — only to have her children from that second marriage vanish mysteriously. After the paperback rights were sold for $100,000 (the book has since gone through more than 70 printings), she turned out novel No. 2, “A Stranger is Watching.” That one made hera millionaire, and neither she nor her fans have looked back. “T’m really very grateful,” she says. “I know so many writers whoget beautifully reviewed, and nothing happens.It’s very discouraging. One of my friends, she’s older, she said to me, ‘Mary,I’ve written 26 books, every one of them beautifully reviewed, and there isn’t one of them in print.’ That hurts. That really does hurt.” Clark is largely unfamiliar with that sortof pain. Her novels haveinitial printings of a million — putting her a notch below the rarefied air breathed by the Grishamsof the world,butstill in pretty exclusive company. Even her older books are printed 100,000 at a time. And whileshe’s hardly a darling ofcritics — most seem to regard herasa lightweight who does what she does well enough, but withouta lot of substance or flair — Clark has avoided the savagery with which other high-profile authors such as Tom Clancy are sometimes attacked. She just keeps on writing her books and watching as a million or so readers gobble them up. She can’t really say why. Sure, breakneck pacing helps. Certainly, it doesn’t hurt that her chapters are rarely more than two or three pages long. Of course, people appreciate herattention to detail. Asked what makes her a good writer, Clark replies withouthesitation. It’s a gift. mean,I can't sing a note.If I had Enrico Caruso to teach meto hit middle-C onkey, it would never happen. But Ihavea gift for storytelling. That was whatI was givenat the cradle. Can’t sing, os"t dance, can’t sew, but can tell a sto- es’:Laughs With Lewis Making a Mountain Out of a Mole Hill By Glenn Lovell Knight-Ridder Newspapers What's the old line abouttelling a joke? If you have to stop and explain it, it probably ain’t funny. There’s a lot of explaining that goes on in Peter Chelsom’s “Funny Bones,” starring Oliver Platt as a failed Las Vegas comic who goesin searchof his comedy roots in the ticky-tacky seaside resort of Blackpool, England. There's also a lecture about born “joke men” vs. mechanics who know how toput together a decent joke. It’s delivered by Jerry Lewis, who must hold a Ph.D. in pratfalling. Lewis, who seems to be everywhere these days, plays Platt’s father, a legendary comic named George Fawkes. Much later, a retired Blackpool comic named Thomas Parker breaks an 11-year silence to say something profound about comedy being a double-edged sword, capable of inflicting as muchpain as pleasure for the person blessed with funny bones. Yes, there’s a lot of holding forth on the price of cracking wise. And, yes, talking about funny turns out to be very unfunny. Let merephrase that: “Funny Bones,” for all its off-beat antics and quirky secondary players, is excruciatingly unfunny, like bad music-hall burlesque like juggling stiffs in the city By Jay Boyar OrlandoSentinel Talent — Associated Press Tommy Fawkes (Oliver Platt) is a struggling second-generation stage comedian who bombs in Vegas and returns to England and comes across the Parker Brothers, Bruno, Thomas and Jack. morgue(yes, that’s here too) .. like unchecked Jerry Lewis in buckteeth doing his impression of a crazed Japanese chef or gardener. Actually, Lewis does mug his way through a coupleofscenes, one in Vegas and onein Blackpool, where he places tonguein cheek and makeslike a big ape clinging to a miniature tower. This obvious King Kongreference is one of several in a movie that attempts to define stand-up shenanigans metaphorically. In Chelsom's eyes, the clown or comic is always perched atop a toweror a ship's mastor a circus ladder. He's the guy who bares his soul to the world and, in the process, teeters precariously between catastrophe and triumph, raspberries and wild applause. Mixing a bad caper comedy (involving French drug dealers and a British Fu Manchuplayed by Oliver Reed) and a poignant character study, Chelsom proves he’s either the most audacious film maker around or the most arrogant and out-ofcontrol. After his “Hear My Song,” one of the most unexpected and whimsical imports of recent years, I'd like to give Chelsom the benefit of the doubt and write off “Funny Bones” as a crazed flight of fancy by someone who has, momentarily, lost his balance,like the sad andsuicidal Jack. isn’t really so rare among moviestars, but judgment certainlyis. Having demonstrated the formerin “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” Hugh Grant has gone on to showa lot of the latter by choosing to appear in an understated little comedy with a very bigtitle, “The Englishman Who Went Upa Hill but Came Down a Mountain.” Grantplaysthetitle role, one of a pair of English map makers who travel the British countryside ona mission during the first World War. What theyare uptois technical androutine. Orrather,it is until they get to thelittle Welsh village of Ffynnon Garw. The town’s inhabitants are phenomenally proud of the local mountain, which they consider to be the “first” in Wales. Thatis, it’s the first mountain that invaders historically have encountered, the mountain that defeated those enemies, the mountainthathas,in a sense, helped Wales to remain Welsh. Naturally, the villagers are upset when their landmarkis found to be not quite high enoughofficially to merit mountain status. So they decide to build it up — a bucketof dirt at a time — while scheming to hold the cartographers in town long enough for a proper remeasuring. To the outsiders, of course, the locals seem to be making a mountain out of a molehill — or, at least, out of a hill. But when a community doesn't have a major sports franchise, local pride can take weird forms. Much of the film's quirky humor comes from the discrepancy between theinsignificance of the issue at hand andthe vast importance that the villagers attach to it. Preferring wry humorto belly laughs, Welsh writer-director Christopher Mongertells a modest shaggy-dog story that he has said is based on a family legend. In the world of movies, this one is more ofa hill than a mountain, but it’s a hill of sustained wit. “The Englishman” possesses a storybook atmosphere and an offcenter appeal reminiscent of Bill Forsyth’s “Gregory's Girl” and “Comfort and Joy” (although Mongeris not as accomplished as the Scottish filmmaker). If “The Englishman” is too offbeat to become giant hit, Grant is still shrewd to appearin it. His role allows him to develop the most entertaining aspects of his emerging movie persona. Asin ‘Four Weddings,” the actor is very funny in a rather passive way. Playing Reginald, the unassuming young cartographer, he tends to stammer and smile nervously while everyone else tries to influence him about one thing or another. Grant's scenes with Ian MeNiece,whoplays George, Reginald’s senior partner in surveying, are especiallyhilarious, partly becauseof the physical contrast between the two men. At first glance, the slender Reginald and the portly George look like Holmes and Watsonalthoughit’s George who wears the deerstalker cap. And where Reginald is affabie almost to a fault, George turns out to be determined — and even somewhat stern — whenit comes to professional matters. Much of what's fun aboutthis film are the eccentric people of the town, including the one who goes after Reginald, a winsome young womanplayed with a saucy flair by Tara Fitzgerald (‘Hear My Song”). “Everything looks better when it's wet, don’t you think?” she asks him — ostensibly referring to the countryside. Among the villagers, the main mountainboosters are old Reverend Jones and Morgan the innkeeper — men whose mutual loathing is exceeded only by their pride in their town. As the elderly clergyman, Kenneth Griffith is loaded with fire and brimstone, almost all of it aimed directly at Morgan, who takes great delight in tweaking the reverend's pretensions. Filmmaker Monger(“Just Like a Woman,” “Waiting for the Light”) is no whiz when it comes to movingthe camera around, But the gingerbread homes of the Welsh countryside are so lovely — wet or dry — that their charm comes through anyway. The directoralso captures the charm of his cast — especially Grant. The English actor goes into this movie a star and comesout an even brighter one. Tim Roth Plays Archibald Cunningham, the Man You Love to Hate,in “Robnor | Archibald Cunningham is the | kind of arch-villain you love to | hatp, and Tim Roth is the actor for | | thejjob. | Koth's spooky performance as thig heartless, deceilful fop over- shaxiows nearly everything else in nationwide,it created a buzz that even Roth’s appearances in Quentin Tarantino's “Pulp Fiction”(as 4 desperate restaurant thief) and epee Dogs” (as an underir cop) failed to match. is character is just outra- Pn said the 33-year-old British/actor by phone from Los) An- F hael Caton-Jones’ Scottish | geles. “He made megiggle Reona Roy," starring Liam “You look at old portraits of pson as the 18th-century Scotthese duelists, and they look like i: ch rebel of the title and Jessica really ugly drag queens. We went Lange as his wife, They mony bethe Aclist stars, for that, You can just let go with halBOs Salata sealing your mannerisms and behavior on a part like this.” xsies: a swordfighting hitman whose powdered wigs and fey manner pide a lethal fighting | “Syn the move fis released Best-known for his more intro- spective ive as Vincent Van Gogh in aris Altman's “Vincent and Theo"iad Guilden- stern in Tom Stoppard’s movie of “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead,” Roth never worried about going over-the-top with Cunningham, though he did look for nuances in the character. “This is the kind of big film where you can really let off steam, but I also wanted to show glimpses of what's truly underneath,” he said. “Subtlety is there, but in a dif- ferent form. Every so often you can lift up a little corner andlet the audience know what's really happening. There's a performance going on, someone pre- The Cunningham character does not sppear in Disney's 1954 film “Rob Roy,” based on the samestory of a Scottish rebel’s resistance to a vindictive landowner in 1712. While neither movieis as fanciful as Walter Scott's novel “Rob Roy,” they're so different from each other that elon like Pagesyapfeter separate ere i “It's not a Roth. “The movie heed is bad guys, aJove story and a bit of a Western. he hadn't worked with Caton-Jones before, they bebuddies in London “I think Michael was very keen to get me forthis,” he said. “He could have offered it to a star, and hereally had to do sometalking to get meinvolved,” Roth once attended art school and planned to be a sculptor, but he caughtthe acting bug as a teenager, playing the leading role ina musical-stage version of “Dracula,”” He was a skinhead in his first British TV film, “Made in Britain,” following it up with Mike Leigh's “Meantime,” in which he played someone “simple, quiet and withdrawn.” He was 21 when he made his big-screen debutas a boyish killer in Stephen Frears' 1983 geoener movie “The Hit.” | | |
