Big Al called from Pattaya this week, while I was in Bangkok getting a pension paper notarized at the American embassy. At age fifty the Thai government issued a year-long retirement visa for foreign citizens over fifty-five. Americans had no need to show that they had $20,000 in the bank to receive this boon. No more visa runs to Cambodia or Maalysia every three momnths, although I love Penang on the Malacca Straits.
“Oliver Stone is directing a movie about the My Lai massacre. They’re looking for guys your age. Why don’t you go for an audition?” The former MMA fighter had been cast as a murderer. He had the look.
It was only 2pm. I called the casting director. He said come over to their office. Twenty minutes later I was filling out a form. Age, height, weight. I only lied about the last one.
“Have you had any film experience?” The casting director asked, while handing me an army jacket for a head shoot.
“I’ve been in a couple of films.”
Two to be exact. The first was THE LAST SONG directed by Dennis Berry in France. My leads were Scott Renderer and Gabrielle Lazure. I was cast as a thug and wore a brand-new Cerutti suit, which I kept after the wrap=. Scott instructed me on how to act in front of the camera.
“Do everything slower than you normally would, don’t look into the camera, and never stop until the director says, “Cut.”
My main scene was brutalizing Gabrielle in a hotel room. I threw the frail blonde on the bed and held her down, while threatening her with my fist. Dennis Berry said my acting was natural and this despite my never having hit a woman in my life.
Gabrielle and I later had an affair in Paris.
She confessed I had really scared her that day.
Maybe I was a good actor, however I didn’t get another chance to perform before the camera until my cousin Sherri visited New York. She was a porno starlet and a foot fetish director wanted her to do a quick video. They needed a man who would let her grind a high hell into his groin. I was $300 short on my rent. The director promised he wouldn’t shoot my face. The entire movie took less than an hour.
A friend later said he had seen me in this movie, but didn’t say another word after I asked if he was into that stuff.
I didn’t mention this XXX appearance to Oliver Stone’s casting director, then again it didn’t really matter, since PINKVILLE was shut down my the writer’s strike. No Hollywood movies anywhere. I wouldn’t get to meet Bruce Willis, the leading man,. Not that I care a fig about bald actors or crossing union lines.
The casting director emailed his thanks for having shown up and like that my second coming into the movies was over. No fame. No glory. Of course XXX films aren’t included in the strike, so lights camera action and “I’m ready for my scene, Mr. DeMille.”