Singing to a Bulldog

by Anson Williams

  Brian had talked to Holmes about making Crabb a better place, and Holmes had told him that he should lead. Brian thought that was crazy advice, but Holmes said, “I got a feelin’,” practically the same words that Willie had once told me. He convinced Brian to put together an election and run. Holmes made his living by selling junk; he used all of his savings, $150, to finance Brian’s campaign. Numerous candidates ran for mayor, and it was no secret that many felt an eleven-year-old boy running was an embarrassing joke. When Brian got discouraged, Holmes reminded him to go with his feelins, and that the purpose of life was to “go down proud.” Brian won the election, but it was a bittersweet victory for him because days later Holmes passed away from a heart attack.

  As mayor, Brian made Crabb a better place. He arranged for Houston to repair roads, he created a volunteer emergency medical and security service; it was amazing to see what a selfless leader could accomplish. For me, Brian’s story was a microcosm for Washington—the progress our country could make if we followed the goals of our founding fathers without personal agendas.

  Brian and his family let me option the rights to Brian’s story. Ron and I were executive producers, and we sold The Lone Star Kid to a PBS show called Wonderworks. They aired amazing films that lifted the human spirit and made them on a shoestring budget. I cowrote the screenplay, and soon after we were given a green light to film. Our casting budget was small, so we planned to hire mostly unknown actors. We found Chad Sheets, who was brilliant as Brian Zimmerman, and we were fortunate to get Charlie Daniels to play the antagonist, the man who ran against Brian. (In actuality, seven people ran against him, but we thought it best dramatically to just have one.) Charlie was fantastic in the role, and he also wrote two songs and the entire film score for free. On a wing and a prayer, we sent James Earl Jones the script to consider the part of Holmes. Even though the budget only allowed minimum scale, James said yes, and brought our project up to a whole new level.

  I couldn’t help but write Holmes very much like Willie. Even though I had never met him, to my mind they had the same voice and heart. Then the first day James worked, it was as if he reincarnated Willie. He had a bit of a southern tone to his delivery . . . but he was Willie. We filmed in McDade, Texas, but were able to bring in Brian and a lot of Crabb’s residents for cameos. It was a quick eight-day shoot, and we made a wonderful movie. It got great promotion and aired to excellent reviews. It also won numerous awards, and brought well-deserved attention to Brian and his achievements.

  Afterward, I wondered if anyone understood the underlying message of the film. I found out when Poland was transitioning into a democracy. PBS informed me that the Polish constitutional committee had requested a copy of The Lone Star Kid to screen. They felt the film represented the purest example of democracy. I was speechless. My grandmother had escaped Poland before World War I, and now I was a small part of its rebirth. I thought back to the first day I met Willie and he said to me, “You gonna do somethin’ great in life. Just a feelin’ I got.”

  Well, I discovered that it takes a joining together of noble hearts to do something great. Without Holmes, Brian would never have run for mayor; and without Willie, I would have never done the film.

  On a sad note, Brian Zimmerman passed away from a heart attack on September 6, 1996. He was 24 years old. Chad Sheets, the actor who portrayed him, passed away after a battle with cancer on December 24, 1998. He was 26 years old. Both were leaders born in August, and both did “go down proud,” making the world a better place.

  The Worst Script Ever

  “You need surprises. Dey wake you up.”

  One evening, Fred, the owner of Leonard’s, surprised all of his workers with a free movie night. The film was Harper, starring Paul Newman. It was playing across town at the California Theater in Burbank. Fred was generous: He provided a bus for transportation and let all of us buy whatever snacks we wanted. Willie, stuffing down popcorn smothered with butter, was the most excited. He loved Paul Newman, and would go on and on about him. “Some people’s just posed to be seen by everbody. Dey gots dat thing.”

  The first day I worked with Henry Winkler, it was so clear that he had that something that connected him to every­body. Most recently, I recognized it when I directed the talented Shailene Woodley in The Secret Life of the American Teenager. She truly “gots dat thing.”

  A movie that was a smash hit while we were making Happy Days was Star Wars. Garry Marshall’s ten-year-old son, Scotty, saw it and asked his dad to do a Happy Days episode with an alien in it. A Martian episode. Garry thought that it was a fun idea and assigned one of his staff to write the script. We had a pretty set schedule during a normal workweek. Mondays we’d have a cast reading of that week’s script, and then a reading of the following week’s script so that the writers could get a jump on it. The Monday that we had the first reading of the Martian script “Mork From Ork” is memorable to me, because to say it stunk is too kind. It was the worst script of the entire run of the show, and nothing was even a close second. We all complained, but Garry assured us that it would be fine after they had a chance to rewrite.

  The following Monday was the shooting week of the “Mork” episode. Again we read it, and again it was horrid. No one wanted to be part of it, but what could we do? The show had to be shot. A character actor was cast as Mork. He was terrible. Actually, it wasn’t his fault; the part was not actable. This actor was so embarrassed by that Wednesday’s rehearsal that he walked off the set, never to return. He had quit and this presented a huge problem: Thursday was camera-blocking day, and Friday we had to shoot the show in front of a live audience. Garry called an emergency meeting on the set and asked if any of us knew of a funny actor who was available. Al Molinaro, who played Al on the show, said that there was a guy in his Harvey Lembeck improvisational class who might work; it turned out Garry’s sister, Ronnie, who was in casting, knew him, too, and agreed. Garry cast him sight unseen, and we all went home counting the hours for this episode to be over, done, finished. The actor’s name was Robin Williams.

  When I got to the stage the next day, I felt a sense of excitement—like a powerful energy—even before I opened the door. This was puzzling, because I was headed in to block the Worst Script Ever. Then I opened the door and was amazed to see every writer for Happy Days huddled around the set. You have to understand: It was camera-blocking day. This is the time we worked on the mechanics of setting the camera shots for a live audience show. There was never a writer present, and yet on this day every one of them was there. And looking thrilled.

  What’s going on? I wondered.

  Jerry Paris, our director, ran up to me saying, “He’s a genius! He’s a genius!”

  I joined the crowd of writers and there was Robin Williams, rehearsing and improvising the entire show by the millisecond. I watched him instantaneously create “Nanu, Nanu!” the Orkan greeting, sit on his head, and on and on. The writers were furiously writing down all that he invented. Robin was electrifying, a true genius, and all I could think was, “Man, he’s got a lot of ‘dat thing’!”

  It turned out that what was the worst Happy Days episode on Wednesday turned into the best by Friday night, all because of the brilliance of Robin Williams. At the end of the show the audience went wild. They must have given Robin an uninterrupted ten-minute standing ovation. I had never, ever witnessed such a spontaneous explosion of connection between a performer and an audience. Truly, a superstar was born.

  Time, place, and genius took Robin onto the world’s stage. He fits his own creative mold, not anyone else’s. If he hadn’t found a vehicle where he could invent, would he have ever been truly discovered?

  Robin is one of the nicest people that I’ve ever worked with, a sensitive and caring man.* As soon as the “Mork” show was ready, Garry Marshall took clips of Robin’s performance and put them together with clips of Pam Dawber, from an unsold pilot that he had produced, and created a prese
ntation for a series entitled Mork and Mindy. Fred Silverman, president of ABC, bought thirteen episodes and the rest is history. Willie used to say, “You need surprises. Dey wake you up.” Robin Williams sure woke me up and taught me that there is always something that can be made out of whatever hand you are dealt. “Some people’s just ’posed to be seen by everbody. Dey gots dat thing.”

  *As this book was going to press, the world lost the great genius Robin Williams. Robin was put on this earth to wake us up. His comedy made us laugh, but more importantly, made us think. His enormous talent, widespread generosity and deep compassion went far beyond a physical body. His spirit will live on and continue to inspire people. I am so thankful to have known him.

  I’d Be Bothered with Me Too

  “Dere’s people dat help you and den go away . . .

  dey important.”

  The year was 1964 and I was in junior high school. President Kennedy had been assassinated five months prior, and people were still feeling the tragic loss of Camelot. My friend Jeff Schredder and I were on Easter break, and we wanted to go to the Teenage Fair. It was a yearly event held at the Hollywood Palladium in Los Angeles. It was fun and uplifting and catered to teenagers with current trend booths, rides, and music acts. Jeff and I were driven there by his mom and dropped off.

  We escaped from the sad mood of the country into the feel-good vibe of the event. The duo Sonny & Cher and the group Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons were both scheduled to perform. Jeff and I watched as Sonny & Cher sang a few of their current hits. I thought they were gimmicky, but entertaining. After their short concert, we ate our way through the fair, going on rides and having a great time.

  After a few hours, we headed back to the stage just in time for Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. We were lucky enough to stand right down front. Frankie came out and lit up the early evening. He was amazing. Toward the end of his show, he took a moment and talked about President Kennedy. I was close enough to see tears in his eyes and I felt them spring to mine. He then closed the show with a heartfelt ballad. When he stepped off of the stage, he passed right by me. Then he stopped and turned back, placing his hand on my shoulder. I was hurting, and without saying one word, he took some of my grief at the loss of the president away. He then disappeared backstage. Willie would say, “Dere’s people dat help you and den go away . . . dey important.” It took me years to understand what he meant.

  * * *

  After I got a record deal with Chelsea Records (the same label that David Cassidy was signed to) Garry was instrumental in letting “the band” (it never got a name) premiere whatever single we decided to release on Happy Days. There were big challenges along the way. One was finding the right songs; the other was learning how to record them.

  Luckily, for the first challenge we had a huge advantage: Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, the team that wrote the Happy Days theme song (as well as some of the greatest songs ever written: “Killing Me Softly,” “I Got A Name,” and “Ready To Take A Chance Again” are a few) came on board to write for me. What an experience it was to work with these two legends! They were geniuses; no other word can describe their talent.

  As for the second challenge, Charlie Calello was hired as my producer. Charlie not only produced Frankie Valli, the man who touched my heart (and my shoulder!) when I was a teen, but also Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond, Bruce Springsteen—his list was incredible. We had a few rehearsals to help me find my recording voice (I’m still looking) and then I went into the studio. I have to admit that I was quite intimidated by Charlie. He was the best who worked with the best, and I truly felt that I had no reason to be behind that microphone.

  The first night we didn’t get a thing recorded, I was just too insecure. I became fifteen again, ready to fail and lose. The next night wasn’t any better, and I could tell that Charlie was bothered. I didn’t blame him. I’d be bothered with me too. Finally Charlie called for a meal break. He said they’d bring food into the studio so that the rest of us (all the technical people who were watching me blow it) didn’t have to leave, and then he took off on an errand. I had no appetite, and wandered over to an adjoining studio to be by myself. My recording career was dead and buried before it was even born. After sulking for about 30 minutes, I felt a hand on my shoulder. There was something oddly familiar, something echoing back in time. I turned around and there was Frankie Valli! “Charlie asked me to come down and see if I could maybe help you a bit,” he said.

  I was dumbfounded. It turned out that Charlie was not only Frankie’s producer, but also his best friend. Charlie hadn’t been bothered by my lack of ability; he was bothered by the unnecessary stress that I was putting myself through. So he had called Frankie to see if he could help me out, and that he did. Frankie gestured to all of the people in the other room. “Forget they’re there,” he suggested. “Picture that one girl you care about and sing just to her. Get everything else out of your mind.” He went on to give me a master’s degree in recording in less than 20 minutes.

  An assistant walked in, letting me know that it was time to get back to work. Frankie said that he would hang out for a bit.

  This time in the studio everything went great. I recorded a few takes and then Charlie had me come into the booth. I could tell that everybody was thrilled at my improvement. Frankie was gone. Charlie said that he had to do something with one of his kids. I never saw Frankie again, and I never got the chance to tell him that we had met once before. Maybe he remembered? All I know for certain is that I finally understood what Willie was trying to tell me when he said, “Dere’s people dat help you and den go away . . . dey important.” He wanted me to be open for charmed teachers. For people like Frankie Valli. For those chosen few who come into your life briefly, when you need help, so that you can move forward.

  Hi, I’m Brad Pitt

  “All dat matters is dey good dat goes on after you gone.”

  You can tell a lot about a person’s character by how much they give of themselves. Do they take the time for others, have an open heart, and give before they take? Selfish salesmen and customers at the store bothered Willie; he would call them “de users.” He felt deeply that living a self-serving, limited life hurt everyone and everything around you. He was a pay-it-forward kind of man—to him, this was the meaning and purpose of our existence. Willie lived his life walking this walk; you reading this book, in fact, is Willie paying it forward. He told me many times, “All dat matters is dey good dat goes on after you gone. Don’t never forget dat, boy.” He taught me to be aware of exceptional people, the ones who do move humanity to a better place.

  After I got on the approved list I was able to build a successful career directing television. Steven Bochco gave me a big break, hiring me to direct LA Law, and Jay Tarses hired me to direct The Slap Maxwell Story. In turn, these two shows opened up several more directing opportunities, including movies of the week for NBC. Then my agent called one day with an offer for a new Fox series titled Glory Days, created by a very talented writer-producer, Patrick Hasburgh. He had also created 21 Jump Street and discovered Johnny Depp. Glory Days was about high school and college friends, recently graduated, starting their separate careers while trying to preserve their close friendships. The show was picked up for six episodes, and Patrick wanted me to direct two. The cast was young, talented and unknown. It filmed in Vancouver, Canada.

  I accepted the job, and a few weeks later landed in the largest city in British Columbia, home of the Vancouver Canucks. I thought Vancouver was a stunning city, but my first day of filming was spent shooting outside scenes in a car that was being towed by an open camera truck with the crew and me on it. The film crew was extraordinary but the weather was horrible—freezing rain and hail. We toughed it out as we drove on slick streets getting pummeled by needle-sharp precipitation. The three actors we were filming did a good job, but they were a bit immature and not taking their work seriously enough. They also compl
ained a lot about the cold, even though they (unlike the crew and I) had space heaters, blankets, and thermals. At the end of the day, the weather had gone through every layer of clothing that I had on; my skin and body were so numb that when I took a hot shower, I couldn’t even feel the water. It was going to be a hell of a tough shoot.

  The next day was cold, but happily the freezing rain and hail had stopped. I had a few more outside scenes to direct at the Vancouver Zoo before we could all move inside to the studio. I arrived early and was getting some coffee when a young actor came up to me and said, “Hi, I’m Brad Pitt.”

  Brad and another actor were working that morning. Brad wanted to go over some ideas that he had for the scenes, including dialogue suggestions. It was obvious to me that Brad had spent a great deal of time working on his part and also studying the entire script. To say I was impressed is an understatement; I thought his suggestions were spot-on and not only improved his character, but other characters as well. While we were filming outside, he didn’t ask for a coat between takes. He used the cold to add to the realness of the scene. Brad also had that X factor on camera—the kind that goes far beyond good looks and charisma. He had a God-given gift of connection.

  As I mentioned before, the other cast members were good, but immature. They were not as prepared or committed as he was. What I found even more impressive was his heart. I noticed that Brad was always available (on the set or in his trailer) to talk to his colleagues, most of whom were insecure, and going through daily childish ups and downs. I knew he was calming them down and helping to relieve their anxieties. Not only did he help them, he also helped the show. A paying-it-forward type of guy. That is Brad Pitt.