Then he started going around the room pointing. First at Billy Gerber—“I like you, Billy.” Next was Artist: “I like you too.” Next Burt stabbed a finger at second AD Kevin: “I don’t like you!” (Kevin’s job was to tell him what time to come in every day.) When Burt swept his finger right, he looked momentarily confused as he eyed the random PA. “I don’t know . . . you?” But then he moved quickly to me: “But I don’t like you! I saw your movie—Super Dooper Pooper Scooper! You want to see a real movie? Watch this!” Burt grabbed a DVD case off the table and Frisbee’d it at me, hitting me in the chest. I caught it and looked down at the label quickly before Burt stood up screaming, “Now, get the fuck out!”
As we filed out, I tried to salvage things: “Burt, I’m sorry that—”
He stepped toward me, grunting low, “I said get out!” So I left.
As we were walking away from Burt’s trailer, Artist said, “Boss, I would never let another man talk to me like that.”
I shrugged. “Artist, we have a week left. I need him in the rest of the movie. What was I supposed to do? Fight him? The dude’s almost seventy and a tough seventy at that.”
Artist nodded. “Well, what do you want to do now?” I didn’t have an answer for that.
Then Billy asked, “What movie did he give you?”
I held up the DVD. Printed on the cover was the title: Burt Reynolds—Why My Back Hurts. I swear this is true. The five of us went to my trailer and popped in the DVD. And let me say this. It was amazing. It was five minutes of footage of every stunt Burt Reynolds has ever done . . . set to classical music. There were shots of Burt, as the Bandit, speeding in his black Trans Am and crashing. There were shots of him running with the football and being brutally tackled in The Longest Yard. There was a shot of Burt leaping off a second-story building and grabbing on to a tree branch, only to have the branch snap and send him crashing to the ground. There were bar fights, kicked-in doors, being thrown over tables, Burt and a guy fighting, rolling ass over teakettle down a huge hill. When it ended, I looked around at everyone, and do you know what they were doing? Smiling. And so was I. And the only thought running through my head was, Man, if Burt Reynolds isn’t the coolest motherfucker on the planet, I don’t know who is.
When we came out of the trailer, we heard over the walkie that Burt was walking to set. Back on set, Burt was all smiles, and he absolutely nailed the scene. He knew every line, was charming and funny and cool.
And this awesome version of Burt continued through the whole last week of the shoot. Meanwhile, nobody said anything about what had happened in the trailer. Burt and I just pretended it had never happened.
There was one small blip. On the last day, Burt was having trouble remembering a line. After a couple of tries, he snapped, “Goddamned stupid Indian!” (Pause.) “Not you! Me! You’re an Indian, but I’m the other kind of Indian!” I learned in that moment that Burt is part Native American.
—
On the last day, we shot a big scene in the Dukes’ barn. Everyone was there—Burt, Willie, Johnny Knoxville, Seann William Scott, and Jessica Simpson. When the scene ended, the movie was over and we started hugging, saying our good-byes.
When Burt saw me, he put his arms out and pulled me in for the tightest hug ever. Burt put his lips right next to my ear and whispered fiercely, “Will you ever forgive me? Will you ever forgive me?” It was cool, amazing, emotional, and hilarious. I felt like I was in the movie Deliverance.
And that’s why I love Burt Reynolds. He’s a passionate, hilarious, crazy badass who I fucking admire. And maybe sometimes artists have to be a little crazy to channel whatever it is that makes them great. I went into the film loving the legend. And I still love him and love his performance as Boss Hogg. He’s brooding, evil, funny, and charming. It’s everything I had hoped for. And as far as this story goes, I hope to God he’s not mad at me for telling it. Will you ever forgive me, Burt? Will you ever forgive me?
The Dukes of Hazzard had a huge opening weekend. It grossed more than $30 million, making it the number one movie at the box office. The film would go on to make Warner Bros. close to $200 million worldwide. And while that was great, it did take some critical lumps. Why? It’s a good film, and I tried as hard on it as I did on my other films. But the press was ready to pounce. Whether it was the Confederate flag, or Jessica, or the fact that the studios had developed a bad habit of making every seventies and eighties TV show into a movie, the press was drooling for a failure that didn’t come. Don’t get me wrong. I understand the sentiment. There are too many TV show–inspired films and too many superhero movies and too many remakes.
When the dust settled, I sat down with studio head Jeff Robinov, who offered me a production deal. He said Warner Bros. wanted to be in the Jay Chandrasekhar business. I told him that it was really Broken Lizard’s jokes that fueled The Dukes of Hazzard and that the deal should be with all of us. He agreed and, just like that, Broken Lizard had offices on the Warner Bros. lot.
CHAPTER 15
—
Jackass Number Two: The Story Behind the High-Wire Act That Was My Collaboration with Johnny Knoxville and the Jackass Crew
I was in my Laurel Canyon house one morning when the phone rang. It was my friend Johnny Knoxville, and he had a question: Would I consider being in the sequel to Jackass? My danger-warning alarm started ringing. During the making of The Dukes of Hazzard, Johnny and I had become good pals, but I didn’t trust him. Well, I trusted him, but a friendship with Johnny required being on guard at all times because of a game he played with his Jackass pals that included sudden, unexpected punches to the balls. (Apparently, the game originated when Spike Jonze and he used to surprise-break dinner plates over each other’s heads in restaurants.)
After Johnny drilled my nuts a couple of times, and I returned the favor a few more, we both moved to phase two of the game, which was to cover one’s nuts (out of respect) when in the presence of the other. Look at any photograph from Dukes and you’ll see both of us with our hands in this “defensive position.”
When Seann William Scott made the mistake of going into a porta potty on the Dukes set, Johnny sprinted up and mercilessly rocked it back and forth, almost tipping it. Seann came out laughing, but rattled. After that, everyone just pissed next to the porta potties. The lesson with Knoxville was clear: Watch your back.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued, because I was a massive Jackass fan. I remember watching the first film at the Beverly Center. Holy shit. I was blown away, screaming with laughter. I went again two days later and loved it just as much. Afterward, I went into a creative funk, telling Heffernan that it didn’t matter what we did. Nothing prewritten would ever be as purely funny as Jackass.
So on the phone that morning, I asked Johnny what he had in mind. The “stunts” in Jackass required being willing to risk bodily injury. I was probably willing to do that, though I was aware of how beat-up the Jackass guys were from their years of comedic violence.
Johnny, who had never ridden a motorcycle before, once attempted to pull a backflip on a motocross bike. This required hitting the ramp at forty miles per hour. On the way up, Johnny was supposed to pull back on the handlebars, which would induce a backflip. He was unsuccessful on his first five attempts. On take six, he pulled back on the handlebars, but the bike didn’t flip. Instead, Johnny separated from the bike at its peak and fell, landing hard on his back. Then the bike landed on him, with the handlebars slamming brutally into his crotch. When I saw him a few weeks later, he jokingly told me that he “broke his dick,” which was half true. Yes, he did have to piss through a catheter for the next two and a half years, but he was still able to have sex and father two more children.
Johnny told me to come over to his house, where he would explain what he had in mind for the sequel. I drove east on Mulholland Drive to his Beachwood Canyon home, where he was waiting with filmmaker and Jackass
collaborator Spike Jonze. Spike is one of my favorite filmmakers, a real innovator. Though I love all of his films, my favorite is Being John Malkovich. It’s a stunningly original film that would never get made in today’s retread-obsessed Hollywood.
Knoxville handed me a coffee as he recounted a story from the night before when he had urinated into a beer can, chilled it, and then used his ten-year-old daughter to deliver the “beer” to his friend. When the friend took a sip of cold urine, Johnny and his daughter cracked up, big-time. Beware the spawn of Jackass. I eyed my coffee as Johnny started in. “Do you know who Ehren McGhehey is?”
“I do,” I said. “Danger Ehren.” Ehren was in the Jackass crew and was famous for attempting some of their more dangerous feats, which had caused him to lose a couple of teeth in the process.
The “stunt” they wanted to talk about was called “Terror Taxi,” and Ehren was going to be the star of it. In the bit, Ehren would dress in a Middle Eastern robe and checked headdress while sporting a glued-on human-hair beard. Next, he would strap on a fake dynamite vest and call a cab to take him to the Burbank Airport, where hidden cameras would capture him dicking around with passengers, flashing his dynamite vest, and making jokes about blowing up airplanes.
If you are shocked, you know how I felt. As it was 2005, anyone dressed like Yasir Arafat who showed up at the airport with a dynamite vest was going to be shot on sight. When Ehren raised this concern, Spike, Johnny, and Jackass director Jeff Tremaine assured him that the FBI was aware of the gag and would make sure that no harm came to him. Ehren agreed, but since the first part of the gag required him to make plane-bombing jokes with the cabdriver, Ehren had another concern. What if the cabdriver has a gun? But he was told that the cab company was also in on the gag. While the cabdriver would be totally oblivious, the cab company had promised that the driver they sent would under no circumstances be carrying a gun. Satisfied, Ehren consented, and the wheels were set in motion.
What Ehren did not know was that he would never make it to the Burbank Airport. Instead, he was the mark in an elaborate con. The Jackass crew was double-crossing him by making the cabdriver a plant whose job it would be to flip the script on the unwittingly clueless Danger Ehren.
Knoxville smiled. “We want you to be the cabdriver.” They described how they hoped the con would go: Once in the cab, Ehren would start harassing the cabdriver (me) by making sexual jokes about my wife. This was supposed to make me angry. Then he would move on to jokes about hating America and blowing up planes, which would make me even angrier. When he finally flashed his dynamite vest, I was supposed to screech the cab down a preorganized alley before coming to a stop in a walled-in courtyard. Then I was told to turn around and punch him square in the mouth, with the goal being to stun him. Next, I would pull a fake gun, and drag the stunned Ehren out of the cab and onto the ground. Finally, in order to establish animal dominance over him, I was supposed to hard-stomp him several times before shoving the gun in his face and forcing him into the trunk.
Johnny smiled. “Easy, right?”
I shifted in my seat. As a brown guy, I had made it a policy not to mess around with jokes related to terrorism. I’d heard enough stories about Indians getting beaten when they were mistaken for Middle Easterners. In fact, it had once almost happened to me in Boston. But in this bit, I was kind of the terrorist-thwarting hero, so maybe? Plus, I was sitting across from two guys I admired the fuck out of—two guys whose artistic/comic taste I trusted—because while Knoxville may seem crazy, the man is a true artist.
Jeff Tremaine, Jackass’s director, recounted a story about the opening scene of Jackass Number Two. Their goal was to re-create the conditions of a firing squad, so Johnny would be blindfolded and smoking a cigarette while wearing a red shirt and standing in a bullring. When a furious, full-grown bull was let loose, the hope was that it would lower its horns and run over Knoxville. And in take one, that’s what it did. The bull hit Johnny in the legs, flipping him ass over teakettle. It was perfect. Afterward, the elated Jackass crew ran in to congratulate their fearless leader. But when Johnny stood up, he noticed that the end of his cigarette was wet. It had been drizzling that morning, and Johnny was worried that the rain had snuffed out his cigarette before the bull had hit him. Jeff said he thought that the cigarette was still smoking and, regardless, the take was fucking perfect, so all good. When Johnny watched the playback, he was right—the cigarette was snuffed out by a raindrop seconds before the bull made contact. To Knoxville, the snuffed-out cigarette meant that the firing squad vibe had not been achieved. So he said, “We have to do it again.” So they reblindfolded him, lit a new cigarette, and loosed the bull a second time. The fourteen-hundred-pound bull hit Johnny’s legs, flipping him into the air like a rag doll—again. That’s the take that’s in the movie.
Still, I was worried. What if this whole thing was an elaborate triple cross of me? What if I was the lamb, and Knoxville, Spike, and Ehren were setting me up for the slaughter? I brought this up to Knoxville, who said that he understood why I was worried, but he promised that he was being straight up with me. Of course he would say that. Knowing I was never going to be totally assured, I said, “I don’t believe you, but fuck it. I’m in.”
On the day of the shoot, I arrived at Knoxville’s house early for wardrobe. On the rack were two choices: a billowy authentic Indian outfit and an American one. Knoxville and Spike chose the American one because they felt it would draw less attention to me. I wondered aloud, Ehren was roughly thirty. Wasn’t there a decent chance he had seen one of my movies? Maybe I should do an Indian accent to throw him off the trail. But Knoxville said that he wanted Ehren to be the only one doing a fake accent. He wanted contrast. Plus, he said, “Don’t worry about Ehren recognizing you. He is so wrapped up in trying to do a Middle Eastern accent that he won’t even notice you. And try not to laugh, because his accent is fucking terrible!”
Next, I got in the cab and drove the prearranged route five times to make sure I didn’t fuck up. There would be a follow van, which the Jackass guys would ride in, that was outfitted with monitors so they could watch the feed from the hidden cameras. Finally, Jackass director of photography Dimitry Elyashkevich, who would also be in “Arab garb,” would accompany Ehren and would also be holding a camera.
Before I left, Jeff Tremaine took me aside and told me that the FBI would be following the prank at a distance. If the cab went within a mile of the Burbank Airport, the FBI would force the car to the side and end the gag. “So, whatever you do, stay the fuck away from the airport.” The FBI didn’t trust Knoxville either.
At the last minute, Knoxville decided that it would be funnier if I bitch-slapped Ehren instead of punching him. I was relieved, because punching felt too violent. Spike said slapping was fine, but I needed to slap him hard. Ehren needs to feel dominated. He needs to be the beta dog ceding control to the alpha.
Lurking nearby was a hairdresser who was holding an electric razor and a ziplock bag. I waved her off. “I’m wearing a hat, so I don’t need my hair done.”
“No, Johnny asked me to get your pubic hair,” she said.
Across the room, Knoxville perked up. “Oh yeah, Ehren’s beard is going to be made out of our pubic hair. Any chance we can get some of yours? And can we film it?” This fuckin’ guy.
The cameraman recorded me shaving my pubic hair in the bathroom, and now it was time . . .
I picked up Ehren and Dimitry in the cab, and off we went. Ehren started in with his horrible “Middle Eastern” accent, making fun of my wife’s boobs, while I pretended to get mad at him. Then Ehren started talking shit about America and making cracks about blowing up planes. So I got angrier. Though he hadn’t shown me his dynamite vest yet, I figured it was time to pull into the alley anyway. But in all of the excitement, I had gotten lost and made a wrong turn. Worse still, I was now driving right by the Burbank Airport. Oh fuck!
Ehren noticed and y
elled, “Hey, there’s the airport!” But I just floored it, hoping to outrun any FBI cars that might be about to take us out. Finally, I found the alley. Ehren was freaking out that I was clearly not going to the airport. When I pulled into the walled-in courtyard, he really started losing it. On the roofs of the buildings were police snipers, who were there in the event that Johnny Knoxville was pulling a fast one. I screeched to a stop, turned around, and—Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! I slapped him in the face eight or ten times, hard.
Panicked, he threw money at me, trying to buy his way out. But I kept hitting him, so he showed his dynamite vest and threatened to “blow us up right now!”
I grabbed my fake gun, jumped out of the car, yanked open the back door, dragged him onto the ground, and kicked him a couple of times, hard. He had dropped his accent altogether and was now saying, “I’ve got a bomb, dude!” He got up, so I slapped him again, using the gun to force him to the ground. He was panicking, totally breaking character and screaming at the Jackass guys, who were now out of the follow van, “This guy’s got a fucking gun, dumb shits!”
I popped the trunk, shoved the gun in his face, and, channeling every cop show I had ever seen, screamed, “Get in the fucking trunk!” He didn’t want to, but Dimitry, who was there to help me, said, “Ehren, do what he says, he’s got a fucking gun.” So he did. Ehren got into the trunk. Wham! I slammed it shut. Holy shit! This thing had worked!
Then came the offscreen theater, as Dimitry and two other Jackass crew members, Brandon “Bam” Margera and Preston Lacy, ran in to try to talk me out of my gun, explaining that they were just filming a movie. Someone ran in with two wooden blocks, slamming them together, making the exact sound of gunshots. Then Bam screamed that he was shot! See, these guys are artists.
Mustache Shenanigans Page 22
