Midnight Movie

by Tobe Hooper

  TO: Church_Warren@LTDLaw.com

  SUBJECT: My film debut

  DATE: March 18, 2009

  Good morning, Mr. Busy Lawyer Man—

  Thanks for not writing back. As usual. You bastard.

  Since I last e-mailed you—an e-mail that, I should re-remind you, you didn’t answer—I’ve been thinking about Tobe. Do you recall when I shot that movie with him when we were, what, 15? 16?

  I remember that script wasn’t much to write home about—there was a whole lot of “I’m going to kill you, you terrible man” and “How could you do that to my girlfriend?” and “Let’s cut him off at the pass”—but he was a kid, and how many kids back then knew how to write dialogue? (For that matter, how many adults right now know how to write dialogue?) He told me that if I didn’t like what was on the page, I should feel free to change it up so it sounded more natural, like it was something that I’d actually say. The problem was, I was about as good an improviser as he was a screenwriter, so what was originally “How could you do that to my girlfriend?” became “How dare you do that to my girlfriend?” It dawned on me that we wouldn’t be winning any Oscars.

  But I will say that, amateurish as it was, the screenplay made sense: Hapless man (played by me) meets zombie … hapless man becomes zombie … hapless man tries to turn loving girlfriend into zombie … hapless man’s innate goodness sublimates zombie-ian tendencies … hapless man turns girlfriend into zombie, and they live happily ever after. Or, I suppose, they’re undead happily ever after.

  We shot it as written, and even though Tobe kept telling me to mess with the words, I did my part mostly verbatim. I might’ve tried to stretch if I hadn’t been covered in this god-awful zombie slime for the entire shoot. He never told me what that shit was made of. All I know is it stunk like, well, like shit, and when it got above 85 degrees, it congealed. I know you remember that part of it, because you used to rag on me about A) how bad I smelled, and B) how much time I spent in the shower. Does this ring a bell?—“HEY, ASSHOLE, YOU’VE BEEN IN THE CRAPPER FOR AN HOUR, AND I CAN STILL SMELL YOU OUT HERE! ARE YOU WASHING UP OR JERKING OFF?!” Brotherly love at its finest … you dick.

  I remember getting hurt a couple of times. Not badly, just some bumps, bruises, and cuts. The worst was when we were shooting this scene at a makeshift swamp he’d created in his backyard. I was attacking my girlfriend, who was played by Helen Leary (remember her? That cheerleader girl? My God, she was hot), and she was fighting back with a scimitar that Tobe fashioned out of two yardsticks, aluminum foil, and Elmer’s glue. She gouged me in my neck, and some of Tobe’s shit-slime rubbed up on it, and it stung like crazy. I went into Tobe’s house, washed it on up, splashed some whiskey on it, and went back to work. We were already behind schedule and over budget (LOL), and we did what we had to do.

  So yeah, that was my first film experience. What with the slime, and the heat, and the long hours, and the badly choreographed alligator attack (Jesus, I haven’t thought about that stinking alligator in years), and the nonexistent salary, it prepared me for Hollywood better than any acting class ever would’ve.

  The funny thing is, I never saw the damn movie. It should be a trip.

  Love,

  Gary

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  I’ve met who-knows-how-many celebrity types, and aside from the time when I interviewed Jessica Alba at a photo shoot that she spent most of wearing only a thong and what could best be described as pasties, I’ve never once gotten tongue-tied. Stick me in a room with George Clooney or Meryl Streep, and I’m fine. Stick me in a room—or a parking lot—with Tobe Hooper, and that’s another story.

  I pulled my bike into the Cove lot, and there he was, the man himself, a big, fat smile on his mug, chatting with a short, balding guy. I didn’t want to bother them, so when I saw Janine Daltrey sitting on the trunk of her car a few feet away from Tobe, I wandered on over.

  Janine, who, as usual, was looking beautiful, gave me a kiss on the cheek, then patted the trunk and said, “Pull up a chair. How’s it going? How’s the band?” I knew her only a little bit—she was more friendly with my drummer, Theo—but I always liked her, partly because when she asked you a question, she actually listened to the answer, which is something that isn’t always common in my circle of friends. Another reason I liked her: She was fucking hot.

  I told her, “Okay, I guess. Actually, not really okay. Our last gig was pretty sucky. Our bassist, Jamal, canceled at the last minute, so Theo and I had to do a White Stripes guitar/drums duo thing. It didn’t suck as badly as it could’ve, I guess, but it still did suck.” Then I went on and on about a couple movies I’d recently screened, but I’m certain I didn’t say anything noteworthy, because by that point, I was trying to listen to Tobe’s conversation.

  Janine saw right through me. She said, “Erick, go talk to the guy. He’s perfectly nice. He won’t bite you.” I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move. Finally, she jumped off the car, grabbed me by my elbow, pulled me up from the trunk, hauled me over, and said, “Tobe Hooper, Erick Laughlin. Erick Laughlin, Tobe Hooper. Tobe, Erick here is a film reviewer and a musician. You two should have plenty to talk about.”

  Tobe stuck out his hand and said, “Music and flicks. A man right after my own heart. Pleasure to meet you. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but could we jaw after the movie? I’m catching up with my old pal Gary here.”

  I shook his hand and said, “Are we talking Gary as in Gary Church?”

  Gary said, “My man, if you know my name, you must really be a serious film nerd.”

  I said, “Well, I am. But that’s not it. I saw Destiny Express yesterday. You were the guy.”

  Gary nodded and said, “I was the guy.” Then he laughed, looked at Tobe, and said, “Thing is, I don’t know what guy that was, exactly.”

  Tobe laughed. “Me neither. How about that, Erick: You know more about this piece-of-shit movie than either the star or the director.” He paused, then asked, “Is it a piece of shit?”

  Talk about a loaded question. If I said, No, it’s not a piece of shit, it’s an interesting little film, they’d think I was a moron after they saw it, because, for the most part, it was a piece of shit. But if I said, Yes, it is a piece of shit, I’d totally offend one of my favorite directors.

  Tobe said, “Well, I guess I have my answer.”

  I said, “I didn’t say anything.”

  Tobe said, “The answer lies in your silence, my new friend. After the flick, I’ll buy you a beer, and you can tell me what you thought the smelliest part of that turd was.” Then he clapped me on the shoulder and went back to chatting with Gary.

  Just then, Dave Cranford, the meathead who manages the Cove—who, for some unexplainable reason, Janine dated for several months—called out to Janine, “Hey, blondie, get your ass in here! It’s time!”

  She called back, “There’s nobody here, David! Relax!”

  He said, “Just get in here!”

  She whispered to me, “Diiiiick,” then yelled to him, “On my way, muffin!” She took my hand and dragged me along with her. “I’m not facing this shit by myself. I’m hiring you to be my escort for the night.”

  I said, “Yeah? What am I getting paid?”

  She said, “My undying gratitude. And that’s priceless.”

  http://andidaltrey.blogspot.com

  Andi-Licious

  The Useless Musings of Sophomoric

  Sophomore Andrea Daltrey

  FRIDAY, MARCH 31

  I HATE THE COVE, BUT I’LL SEE YOU THERE!

  My sister invited me to a SXSW movie screening at the Cove tonight and I’m going even though the Cove is the crappiest place in the known universe. But I have nothing else to do, so what the heck. Maybe I’ll meet somebody. But then the question becomes, who will I meet at the crappiest place in the known universe that’ll be worth meeting? Another question is, what kind of movie will they be showing there? Like, what kind of movies do they show at the crappiest place in the known
universe? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be lame but I’m going anyhow, because it’s better than sitting in my room watching the Discovery Channel and waiting for the phone to ring.

  Hmmm, what should I wear? Maybe that low-cut thing Janine got me, because she’s always going on about how I should quit hiding my bod because it’s smokin’. (She’s the one with the smokin’ bod.) I don’t know, whatever, it’s boiling outside, and I’m sure the Cove doesn’t have the air conditioner on, so maybe I’m better off dressing lightly anyhow.

  Details to follow tomorrow …

  JANINE DALTREY:

  So Erick and I are on our way into the club, and, shock of shocks, my little sister Andrea rolls up, rocking a low-cut top and some low-hanging jean shorts. I gave her a wolf whistle and said, “Somebody’s on the prowl tonight.”

  She gave me a hug and said, “This is the crappiest place in the known universe. I’m not prowling.”

  Now, Andrea was a girl who needed to prowl. If you saw her walking down the street, you’d totally think, Sexpot. She had a Barbie doll figure, you know, huge boobs, and a tiny waist, and a big butt … and that butt swayed like a pendulum. Andi got gawked at all the time, but she was so oblivious about that kind of thing that she didn’t even realize it. Me, I can tell in a heartbeat when some guy is checking me out.

  Here’s the thing: Andi was a virgin. She’d had boyfriends, and I know for a fact that she’d been to second base, and I have a hunch that she went to third, even though she’d never confirmed it. She gave her high school squeeze a hand job, but apparently that traumatized her so badly that she hadn’t touched a cock since. Most every other girl in Texas who wasn’t a Catholic was fucking by the age of fourteen—myself included—but Andi was different. She was either saving herself, or she wasn’t into sex. She just looked like she was into sex.

  Ever since we were kids, like from when I was sixteen and she was fourteen, I told her that she could talk to me about anything, and if she had any questions, she should ask, no matter how stupid or embarrassing she thought it might be. She took me up on it exactly once, and it was her first day at college. We were in her crappy little dorm room, and I was helping her unpack all her clothes, then, out of nowhere, she asked me, “How do I know if I’ve had an orgasm?”

  I told her, “If you have to ask, sweetie, you probably haven’t had one.”

  She said, “I definitely haven’t. But if it happens, how’ll I know?”

  I asked her, “Do you know where your clitoris is?”

  She said, “Yeah.”

  I said, “Have you, um, experimented with it?”

  She said, “Not really.”

  I said, “Okay, here’s your assignment. Each night for the next week, diddle around down there for a few minutes and get back to me. You might figure it out for yourself.”

  And that was the last time I discussed sex with little Andrea Daltrey.

  She asked me if she could sit with me by the door while I sold tickets, and I told her, “Why? Don’t you want to mingle with everybody?”

  By then, there were probably a couple dozen guys on the scene, none of whom looked like Andi’s type. Actually, I didn’t know what Andi’s type was, but I did know that these guys weren’t it. I had a hunch she wasn’t into the men of Comic-Con.

  There were only two girls there, and they were clinging on to their boyfriends for dear life; they both looked miserable, like they’d been dragged there against their will. The single guys seemed to be jazzed up about the movie, so even if there were some prospects there for Andi, they probably wouldn’t be able to tear themselves away from the screen.

  Andi’s clueless when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex, but she’s a sharp cookie in every other venue of her life. She looked at the crowd and said, “Seriously, sis, this is nerd central.” She pointed to a guy wearing a Texas Chainsaw Massacre T-shirt, carrying a plastic chainsaw, and said, “Like I’m going to let that guy ruin me for my future husband.”

  I said, “You have a point. But you could stand some ruining.” I flicked the top of her left boob, then said, “And with those, you can find somebody to ruin you easily.”

  She smacked my hand away and said, “Just for that, you’re buying me a beer.”

  I told her, “It’s Black Strap or nothing.”

  She blew out a big puff of air, then said, “My God, I hate the Cove.”

  TOBE HOOPER:

  I don’t get out much. Being in is crazy enough, so who needs out?

  Before all that Game shit went down, my typical day probably would have sounded like a snooze to the regular nine-to-fiver. Actually, it probably would have sounded like a snooze to a ten-to-sixer, or an eleven-to-sevener, or a midnight-to-nooner: wake up; shit; eat; smoke my one butt for the day; watch two movies; eat; watch another movie; maybe write, maybe not; eat; sleep; repeat. For a dude like me, that’s a lot of day.

  The only times I got sociable, truly sociable, were when I was making a movie or doing a signing at a horror convention. On a film set, behind the camera, communication is king, and if you can’t get your vision across to your DP, or your lighting guy, or your second-unit director, you’re fucked. As for in front of the camera, that’s another story. Sometimes actors don’t want to communicate. I’ll take a malleable amateur who’s eager to learn something, who takes a big-picture view of the project, and who doesn’t bitch about the size of their trailer over a megastar any day of the week. You might not end up with a perfect performance, but at least it’ll be real, and if something’s real, then the horror is more horrifying.

  As for those movie and comic conventions, suffice it to say that when I want to, I can work a room with the best of them.

  Since I’m not out in the real world all that often, I have very little sense of how the real world feels about me. Even when I do get out, it’s not like I’m recognizable—the only directors that the general public recognizes are the bigmouths like Marty Scorsese, or Woody Allen, or Spike Lee—and that’s fine with me. I offer the world what I offer the world: scary flicks. I’m not trying to make a grand statement or anything. I want to entertain, and I do that best from behind the camera, not in front.

  So when I was out in front of the Cove jawing with Gary, and all these folks started wandering over, and introducing themselves, and asking me to sign their Chainsaw DVDs, and quizzing me about what I’m working on, and wondering what the hell Destiny Express was about, I was pretty shocked, and—I’m not going to lie here—flattered. I don’t seek one-on-one acceptance, but when I get it—especially if it’s unsolicited—it feels pretty good.

  FROM: 3105151842@verizon.net

  TO: Church_Warren@LTDLaw.com

  So I’m standing in the parking lot of this dive bar in Austin, bored as all get-out, waiting for the fancy-schmancy Destiny Express screening, and my man Tobe is getting mobbed—that is, if you can call 30 people a mob. Obviously he has a following, but I’ve never had visual confirmation of said following. It’s needless to say the crowd is as geeked out as your typical paranormal crowd, and it’s also needless to say that it’s 99.9999 percent male. If you see Emma, tell her she doesn’t have to worry about me getting a taste of strange.

  Despite their obvious Tobe worship, these people look relatively sane … LOL. I’m looking at one young gentleman who, way back in the day, we’d have called a preppy. He has the perfectly coiffed coif, and a pink Izod shirt, and Top-Siders, which I didn’t even know they made anymore. And there’re a couple of white kids who evidently wish like hell that they were black, what with their shirts that hang down to here, and their shorts that hang down to there, and their strategically placed tattoos and piercings. Then there’re a couple of old fogies … like us! Well, more an old fogy like you: They look like boring, slightly overweight lawyers. Again, LOL.

  These people aren’t letting Tobe go, so I’m going into this dump of a bar and getting myself a brew. Apparently all they have is Black Strap. Gross. Anyhoo, I’ll text you a report after the fli
ck.

  SENT FROM MY VERIZON BLACKBERRY

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  I was leaning against the wall, staring at the stars, enjoying the breeze, and trying to not stare at Andrea Daltrey’s breasts when I felt a tap on my shoulder and smelled a waft of luncheon meat. That’s right, you guessed it, it was my old pal Dude McGee.

  He giggled this weird, high-pitched giggle and said, “Glad to see you made it, Erick, Earache, Erick the Half a Bee, Erich von Stroheim.”

  I grunted a nonanswer.

  He said, “I’m kind of surprised you’re here. Wasn’t twice through the movie enough?”

  I leaned away from him. He made me feel dirty. I said, “I’m here for the Q and A.”

  McGee nodded. “Ah. The Q and A. I’m here for that, too. Lots of Q’s, I have.”

  I said, “Like what?”

  He belched—surprise, surprise—then said, “Like how did he make such a masterpiece at such a tender age?”

  I asked him, “You think it’s a masterpiece?”

  He said, “Of sorts.”

  I said, “What’s your favorite scene?”

  He said, “Oh, I don’t have one. They’re all good.”

  I said, “Okay, what’s the scariest moment?”

  He said, “They’re allllll scary.”

  I said, “I was pretty impressed that he was able to get such a nice color scheme.”