Burt Reynolds is a fucking legend. His performance in the films Smokey and the Bandit, The Longest Yard, Deliverance, and Boogie Nights shaped an entire generation of men. Every kid in my neighborhood loved him, and so did the moms, and so did the dads—many of whom grew Bandit mustaches. Burt was funny, dramatic, and tough, and he had a twinkle in his eye. And if that wasn’t enough, he also did his own stunts. Burt had the quality that all of the great movie stars have: Men wanted to be him, and women wanted to be with him. All of this combined to make Burt the biggest fucking movie star in the world for a good chunk of the seventies.
When we made Super Troopers, I told my crew that if we did it right, the film would be tough, real, and funny—it would be a tonal cousin to Smokey and the Bandit. My mustache and attitude in Super Troopers are all taken from Burt. One hundred percent.
So when I told Warner Bros. that I would make The Dukes of Hazzard only if Burt Reynolds played Boss Hogg, I meant it. I put my ass on the line for my hero, and when he agreed to play the role, it was literally a dream come true.
But let me be clear. I’m not naïve. Burt has a reputation for being tough on directors. That anti-authority streak we all love in The Bandit? That wasn’t acting. That’s the real Burt. And on a movie set, the director is the authority. I knew that going in, but when an actor is perfect for a part, I don’t care what their offscreen reputation is. As long as they can deliver on-screen, I’m good.
Here’s the other thing that complicated our relationship. When Warner Bros. approached him to play Boss Hogg, Burt said, “Sure. Happy to. As long as I can direct the picture.” Burt had directed some films in his day, and I get it—the Bandit, directing The Dukes of Hazzard? I’d see that. But Warner Bros. talked him out of the idea, and Burt signed up anyway.
My experience with Burt on Dukes was amazing, hilarious, and, often, chummy. On set, Burt would regale us with a seemingly endless fountain of epic show-business stories. Like the time in the seventies when he was in a New York City nightclub with the offensive line of the New York Jets. In the next booth over, an Italian American guy was sandwiched between the four hottest women in the club. Burt kept looking over, hoping they’d notice him, but the women only had eyes for the Italian. Annoyed, Burt finally walked over and just started hitting on the women, totally ignoring the guy because, as Burt puts it, “The hell with him. I’m Burt fucking Reynolds.” After a couple of minutes, the Italian guy had had enough and started talking shit to Burt. Feeling no pain and unwilling to back down in front of the women, Burt challenged the Italian guy to a fight.
Out they spilled onto Forty-Sixth Street on that cold winter night, both drunk and ready to brawl. Burt said they circled awhile, fists up and trading insults. Then, the Italian guy threw a punch. When the punch hit Burt’s jaw, he said he had one clear thought: Uh-oh. This guy is strong. But, remember, Burt played halfback at Florida State. So he’s a tough motherfucker too. The men traded punches for two painful, sweaty, exhausting minutes, and Burt couldn’t figure out how the Italian guy was keeping up—Who is this fucking guy? Exhausted, Burt put his hands up. “I’m tired. Can we take a break, pal?”
The Italian guy smiled. “Sure. Why not?”
Feeling like the guy had earned it, Burt extended his hand. “Hey, I’m Burt Reynolds.”
The Italian extended his hand. “I’m Mario Andretti. Nice to meet you.” That was the beginning of Burt’s friendship with one of the greatest race-car drivers in the world.
As good as Burt’s stories are, it’s his style of storytelling that demands your undivided attention. Burt starts a story with his normal speaking voice but then gets progressively quieter as the story continues, so that at the climax of the story, he’s actually whispering, which forces you to lean in so close that your ear is almost touching his lips. It’s an incredibly effective way to get people’s attention—especially when executed by the master.
There’s a special place in America’s heart for actors who do their own stunts. Whether it’s Steve McQueen, Jackie Chan, or the great Burt Reynolds, doing his or her own stunts lends an actor a dose of real toughness. Times have changed, though, because in today’s Hollywood, unless you’re part of the Jackass crew, you’re usually not allowed to do your own stunts. One reason is that visual effects have become so sophisticated that it has kind of become unnecessary. And the other is that studios don’t want to risk a production shutdown from an unnecessary actor injury. But in the seventies, Burt became famous for doing his own driving and fighting in Smokey and the Bandit, for really playing football in The Longest Yard, and for doing his own stunts in the movie about stuntmen called Hooper. Of course, there was a price to pay: physical pain, specifically back injury. Put simply, the man’s back hurt, which I knew before he arrived in Louisiana.
We had been shooting for a few weeks when Burt arrived in Baton Rouge. In his first scene, Boss Hogg pays a visit to the Duke boys, who are locked up in an Atlanta jail. The scene was five pages long and Burt had huge chunks of dialogue. After I ran a rehearsal, it became clear that Burt didn’t have the best grasp of his lines yet. Maybe he thought he could do what he did on Smokey and the Bandit and improvise. Burt told me that the Smokey and the Bandit script was only sixty pages long (a typical script is 120 pages), and he, Jackie Gleason, Sally Field, and Jerry Reed improvised the rest to brilliant results. But that wasn’t possible in this scene, as Boss Hogg’s lines advanced the story in relevant ways and also set up some decent jokes. I needed Burt to at least get close to his scripted lines.
One of the main jobs of a film director is to make the actors look good. We set camera angles that are the most flattering, we choose clothes that make them look their best, and we give them advice on how to maximize their performance. And when an actor shows up not quite knowing their lines, there are ways to make sure that their performance doesn’t suffer. The best trick is just repetition—if actors do enough takes, eventually they’ll perform their lines well. Then it’s just a matter of spending the time in the edit room and cutting together the best reads of each line. Yes, it can be a lot of cutting, but the actor will look good and the audience will feel that the actor they love is amazing in the movie. And that’s the whole point—directors are there to make the actors look good.
That day, I decided repetition was the solution. So we were doing a lot of takes, but still not making much progress, and Burt was getting annoyed. So I reached into my bag of tricks and asked Kevin, our second assistant director, to make cue cards with Burt’s lines written on them. This would shorten things for sure. But Burt didn’t love having cue cards on his first day, and he let me know it. Talk about a lousy start to our relationship. We didn’t “fight” that day, but there was tension in the air, which was a bummer because, in case it’s unclear, Burt Reynolds is one of my heroes. Eventually, something clicked and he figured out the words and started drilling it. And in the final film, Burt’s performance in the scene is both great and hilarious.
And best of all, the next day, Burt showed up knowing every line. He was the great Burt Reynolds I had grown up with—smart, funny, and sly. I couldn’t have been happier.
But the day after that, he didn’t know his lines again. So we had to shoot a lot of takes. Shooting a lot of takes was fine for me, but it was annoying the shit out of Burt, whose back was hurting.
It went like this the whole shoot, alternating between Burt knowing his lines and drilling his performance, and not, and then having to shoot a lot of takes to make it great. I even offered to run lines with him after work, but he said it wasn’t necessary.
Compounding the problem was Burt’s back pain, which was why he wanted to shoot fewer takes. So, my choice was to either shoot a performance that wouldn’t deliver the Burt Reynolds America loved, or shoot more takes, knowing my hero’s back was hurting. I chose the latter. We’d go back and forth, with Burt yelling at me for shooting too many takes, and me countering with, “Just trying
to make it good, sir!”
He would then fire back with, “Goddamn it! Roll film!” And we’d shoot another take.
There’s a scene in Dukes where Uncle Jesse argues with Boss Hogg in his office and then punches him, sending Hogg flying over a desk. Here was my choice: Either hire a stuntman to double Burt and do the backward flip over the desk, or let Burt do the flip himself. Since Burt was nearly seventy and had an injured back, I made the decision to hire the stuntman. For a million reasons, it felt like the right thing to do. I knew Burt might be annoyed, but I did it anyway because I was trying to protect him. And, no, I didn’t tell him. Because I knew he would say that he wanted to do the stunt, even though it was unnecessary. Honestly, I didn’t want to put him on the spot.
I decided to shoot the stunt first to get it out of the way. When we were done, I would bring Burt in to shoot the dialogue. I positioned the camera behind the desk and told Willie to say his final line and then throw a stage punch at the stuntman, who would then throw himself backward over the desk. This was a big moment for the stuntman, because all stuntmen revere Burt. They feel like he’s one of them. And now this guy was getting a chance to do something that almost no one else has ever done. He was going to double the great Burt Reynolds.
The stuntman, who was dressed in Boss Hogg’s white suit and wig, did the stunt four times, and the result was brutal, chaotic, and fantastic. This dude flat-out nailed it. Now it was time to call Burt to set so we could shoot the dialogue. I flipped the camera around so it was now facing Burt. And when he arrived, I told him what I needed: Willie was going to throw his fake punch, and then all Burt had to do was jerk his head. In the edit, once Burt jerked his head, I’d cut behind him to the stuntman flipping over the desk.
Burt cocked his head. “Stuntman?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a pretty gnarly stunt and I didn’t want to risk you hurting your back anymore, so . . .” Burt just stared at me. Trying to fill in the awkward silence, I said, “Burt, the flip went great. The stuntman really nailed it.” I pointed to the stuntman, who waved.
Burt didn’t even look at the guy. He just whispered, “But I’m Burt Reynolds.”
“Burt, I made the decision because of your back.”
He exhaled. “Let me see the stunt.”
I said, “Yeah, okay. Roll playback on the stunt, guys.” Burt made his way to a monitor and sat down on an apple box, his face inches from the screen. Willie and I, along with the stuntman, folded in behind Burt to watch the stunt as well. I eyed the stuntman, who was smiling. I knew he really wanted to impress Burt.
We rolled take one, where the stuntman flipped backward over the desk. It was a good take, but Burt just sighed. “Take two!” This one was better, even more violent. Burt shook his head. “Three!” We rolled take three, which was even better than the last, but Burt just covered his eyes, exhaled, and whispered, “Four.” I looked at the stuntman, trying to reassure him, but he looked shell-shocked, in his white suit and white Boss Hogg wig. Take four was big, with the stuntman going over the desk and taking everything with him (the lamp, phone, everything). You can’t do it better than that. But it didn’t matter. Burt stood up and screamed, “Roll camera!” even though actors don’t have the authority to do that. As Burt strode off, I looked at Willie, who smiled and winked.
With the camera facing Burt, Willie said his line and threw his stage punch. Then Burt threw his almost-seventy-year-old body over the desk, taking everything with him. I winced. That looked great, but it had to be painful. Burt stood up, looking at me. “Any notes, Orson?” He’d taken to calling me “Orson” after, of course, Mr. Welles. I said, “Burt, that was great. I think we’ve got it—”
He cut me off. “I need another one.” Take two was fantastic and brutal—frankly perfect. And I told him so, but he shook me off. “I can do better.” I looked at Willie, who winced.
Take three was even better than two—nasty. When Burt looked over, I tried a different strategy. “What do you think, Burt? Do you think we’ve got it?” But he just scowled.
“I’m not feeling it yet.” He was right. Take four of this legend flipping backward over the desk was his best take. This time, he stood up, punched the air, and yelled, “Now, that’s how you get punched over a desk!”
And then this happened . . .
A few weeks later, we were shooting the climactic rally race in which Bo Duke races in the General Lee. We needed to shoot aerial shots of the cars crossing the finish line, so we hired a camera helicopter for the day. At the finish line, on the dais, were local dignitaries including Boss Hogg and the governor, played by the great Joe Don Baker. As I was climbing into the helicopter, my AD Artist Robinson’s deep southern drawl came over the walkie. “Boss, Burt’s back is hurting. Can he go home?”
I answered quickly. “Of course. Put the stand-in in Hogg’s white suit and tell Burt to have a great afternoon.” Then I jumped into the helicopter and we flew around for three hours, shooting wide shots of cars racing and crowds cheering. From the helicopter, I could see the stand-in, in Boss Hogg’s white suit, waving. All was good.
But here’s what happened on the ground: Artist approached Burt and said, “Burt, we’re good. You can take the rest of the day off.” Apparently, Burt smiled and started walking off the dais. Next, Artist approached Joe Don Baker. “Joe Don, you can go. Have a nice day.”
But Joe Don just shrugged. “Ah, what the hell? I’ll stay.”
When Burt heard that, he stopped and said, “I’ll stay too.” Now, to be clear, there was zero need for either of them to be there that day. There were thousands of extras on the ground, and you can’t recognize faces from the height we were flying. My hunch is that Burt respected Joe Don and decided that he wanted to do the right thing and be there for his fellow actor. So that stand-in in the white suit wasn’t a stand-in at all. It was the too-small-to-be-recognizable-from-a-helicopter Burt Reynolds, waving at cars whizzing by for three hours.
The next morning, we were getting ready to shoot a scene with Burt and Jessica. Jess was on set, but Burt was a no-show. “Where’s Burt?” I asked.
Artist radioed to his second AD, “Kevin, where’s Burt?” About fifty yards away, I saw Kevin, the second AD, speak into his walkie. After about a minute, a production assistant, or PA, whispered something to Kevin. Then I watched a worried-looking Kevin make a beeline for Artist, whispering in his ear.
Finally, Artist walked over to me and Billy Gerber. “Boss, Burt won’t come out of his trailer. Says he wants to see you, Billy, me, and Kevin in his trailer now.”
“Why?” I asked.
Artist shrugged. “Probably has something to do with you flying around for three hours while he stood around onstage yesterday.”
“But I said he could go . . .”
Artist put his hands up. “Oh, I know. I told him.” Then, smiling: “But he stayed.”
The PA who delivered the Burt news led the four of us on the half-mile walk across the fairgrounds to Burt’s trailer, where he knocked. “Mr. Reynolds?” he said meekly. Silence. We looked at one another, not sure what to do. So the kid knocked again.
Wham! The door flew open. And there was Burt, wearing his white Boss Hogg pants, white shoes, and a white tank top. Apparently, he’d only gone through partial hair and makeup, since the sides of his hair were white but the middle was black. “Get the fuck in here!” he roared. So we filed in: me, Billy, Artist, Kevin, and the confused PA, who frankly just got caught up in the shuffle.
Burt sat down and we formed a standing semicircle around him. To say he was pissed is a preposterous understatement. He was frothing mad, spitting mad . . . at me. “You know, I’ve directed a couple of pictures in my day, and one thing I learned is that there’s not a lens on the planet that can see my face from a fucking helicopter!”
Trying to calm him, I said, “I know, but Burt, I said you could lea—”
&n
bsp; Stabbing a finger at me, he shouted, “Shut the fuck up! Learn when to shut up! You know I’ve done a lot of stunts in my life! In my life, before you showed up in Hollywood, Orson! And you know what? My back hurts! And for you to think it’s okay to fly around in a fucking helicopter while I stand around for three fucking hours is bullshit!”
Artist piped up. “No offense, Burt, but I did say you could go.”
Burt ignored that and moved on. “What is this fucking movie anyway? I mean, how many fucking takes do we have to do?!”
I exhaled. “I’m shooting the minimum number of takes we need—”
“I learned how to act from a man named Jimmy Stewart!” Burt growled. “Is that good enough for you?! Is it?!” I wasn’t sure how to respond. Then there was a knock on the door. “COME IN!” Burt bellowed. The door opened and we all turned to see a nurse meekly enter, and she was carrying a little black bag. She stood there for a moment, feeling the tension. Burt motioned her over. “Let’s do it!” The nurse tiptoed over to Burt and pulled out a syringe, which she started filling with liquid. Simultaneously, Burt stood, turned away from us, pulled down his white pants and underwear, and bent over. The nurse injected Burt, and he pulled his pants back up and shouted, “Now, get out!” The nurse exited and Burt sat back down, but he now seemed to have lost his train of thought. “Painkillers.” Grumble. “Mmmph. They say Demerol is as good as Percocet. It isn’t!” Then, quietly: “It isn’t. Now, I like Percodan. But it’s harder to get . . .” Long silence. I swear to God, the next sixty seconds was a monologue on the efficacies of various painkillers. The pain shot was really taking effect, and Burt was mostly mumbling. Me, Billy, Artist, Kevin, and the PA were now all looking at one another like, Now what? Personally, I was on the edge of nervous laughter, because having one of my childhood heroes ream me out, while on painkillers, ranks as one of the highlights of my life. Soon the haze started to lift and Burt’s intensity returned. “I should have directed this fuckin’ picture! I could’ve made a good movie!”
Mustache Shenanigans Page 21
