I decided to send another note to Christian. I told him about our Society for the Appreciation for Obscure British Actors (yes, I did momentarily wonder if he’d be pissed off that we considered him “obscure”) and explained that even though his films were not commercial successes, we were promoting lots of chatter on the Internet—particularly on the movie discussion boards of AOL and CompuServe—about overlooked actors. And Christian was a growing topic, especially once Newsies was eventually released on video.
A couple of months later, I received another letter from Christian, explaining that he was busy with a new film, Little Women, which was going to shoot in Victoria, British Columbia. He was playing the headstrong boy-next-door, Laurie, opposite Winona Ryder’s Jo March. “Perhaps,” Christian wrote, “you’ve heard of the book?”
Though my friend was annoyed that Christian had still not replied to her letters, she was thrilled that there was a line of communication developing. She and I continued to work diligently on the Internet, posting news about The Prince of Jutland and Little Women to anyone asking about Christian Bale. And, of course, we told everyone to rent Empire of the Sun, Treasure Island, Newsies, or Swing Kids. The Christian Bale folders on AOL and CompuServe were multiplying and becoming very active.
So Laurie and I decided to prepare a marketing proposal to help Christian take advantage of this growing online activity. It was a comprehensive marketing plan that would use the Internet to alert his fans to his upcoming movies and to check out what was available at the video store. If he authorized it, CCBALE (Cinemaphiles for Christian Bale Appreciation, Laud, and Encouragement) would be the first official online presence for any actor.
A month after we sent out the marketing proposal, there was a voice mail message waiting for me. The voice was a deep, rumbling basso; a rich, theatrical English accent.
“Hello? I . . . am . . . David Bale. I am Christian Bale’s father. I understand that you have been writing to my son. Would you be kind enough to ring us? Yes, ring us at our Manhattan Beach number.”
I replayed the message a number of times before calling Laurie.
“If this is your idea of a joke . . .” I began.
Even Laurie was surprised. No one was expecting a phone call in response to the marketing proposal. A curt rejection letter from the agent? Maybe. A letter asking for more details? Possibly. But definitely not this booming, possibly threatening voice on the phone.
What I remembered the most about the evening when I first called David Bale was that I had to wrap a towel around my head like a turban. I was nervous and sweat was pouring down my forehead. My hair was soaked as I anxiously practiced dialing the number. I had spent several hours analyzing David’s voice mail and I was worried that maybe Christian’s dad was not at all pleased about my correspondence with his son. On my desk beside the phone, I had a copy of the marketing proposal and a pen ready to take notes.
After I nervously dialed the long-distance number, I still was not quite prepared to hear that same big, booming voice immediately answer.
“Hullo?”
“Yes, hi, hello. Mr. Bale? It’s Harrison Cheung from Toronto, Canada, returning your call . . .”
“Why yes, hullo-hullo! Delighted to talk to you, at last, Harrison! Delighted! We’ve read your wonderful proposal and your bio! Apparently a fellow Englishman, I see!” He laughed thunderously.
I moved the phone away from my ear, taken aback by David’s volume.
“Yes, Mr. Bale, I was actually born in Scotland. Glasgow.”
“Aye, Glaskie!” David roared. “Amazing! Cheung? Now, that’s a Chinese name, is it not, Harrison?”
“Yes, my parents are from Hong Kong.”
“Noble people, the Chinese! Noble! Hong Kong is an extraordinary place! Honor and integrity abound in your culture and heritage! Be proud! Be very proud!”
“Thank you, Mr. Bale.”
“Please, call me David! I’m glad you called. You see, Christian and I are fascinated with your proposal, Harrison. Intrigued! We’d like to discuss this at length with you. Using the Internet for publicity is a brilliant idea, brilliant! Do you ever come down to Los Angeles at all?”
“Me? Well, I haven’t been to L.A. in a while. I was there—”
“Well, we’ll have to have you down! Christian is finishing up in Canada—say, that’s where you are, isn’t it? Canada! Beautiful country! My father trained in Canada with the RAF. Christian’s in Victoria making Little Women there with Winona Ryder! Then, he’s off to England to visit his mum and he’ll be back in L.A. after that. We’ll ring you so we can figure out when’s the best time to meet.
“I’m so glad we got in touch. I know you and Christian will get along very well, indeed! A godsend! A Chinese Scotsman! From Glasgow of all places! Oh dear, look at the time! I’m terribly sorry but I’m running late for an appointment. Good talking to you, Harrison! Good-bye!”
And with that, David hung up. It was like the aftermath of a tornado. My towel was soaked through.
For the next few months, I kept thinking about Christian and his unusual father., According to Christian’s official bio at the time, David Bale was a former pilot and now Christian’s manager. There wasn’t much more. As the weeks passed, I wondered if David had forgotten about our proposal. I debated calling again.
I finally heard again from David in the form of a lengthy fax, apologizing for the long lapse in communication. “I’ve been terribly ill. But by way of explanation,” he wrote, “I’m including a letter from my doctor.” The third page of the fax was a letter from a Dr. Charles Crummer, outlining David’s heart problems and requesting people’s—particularly bill collectors’—forbearance. This was my first indication of just how bizarre David’s behavior could be. He signed off, saying that he would be in touch soon.
By the end of November, David finally called.
“Hullo-hullo! Harrison! It’s David Bale.”
“Hi, David! How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you. Say, listen. Christian is coming back to L.A. for the premiere of Little Women. We’d like you to come to the premiere. We can talk about your proposal. How does that sound? Have you ever been to a Hollywood movie premiere?”
“No . . .” I tried to sound nonchalant, but in my head I was screaming, A Hollywood movie premiere? Are you kidding?
“It’s great fun. Now, do you have a nice suit? You need to dress up for these things.”
“Oh, yes, of course . . .”
“Wonderful. The premiere will be Sunday, December the 11th. Why don’t you come down on Saturday and stay until Monday? How does that sound?”
“December 11th? That’s next weekend.”
“Yes, please say you can make it. I’ve booked you in a nice English hotel near us. Barnabey’s. You’ll love it. It’s like an old English inn. We can go for a pint and talk about your marvelous proposal. Do you drink?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“Smart lad! Good boy! It’s an evil, a sin really. But I’m long past redemption.” David chuckled. “And Christian—he drives Americans mad because he simply cannot get drunk. My son can drink pint after pint and he cannot get drunk! It’s absolutely amazing, his constitution!”
By the time David had blown through his invitation and hung up, I had made up my mind to go. How could I pass up an invitation to a Hollywood premiere?
I left Toronto on a cold, miserable December morning, and stepped off the plane to the exotic scents of Los Angeles. I could smell jasmine in the air when I stepped outside the Arrivals at four o’clock in the afternoon. I gave the taxi driver the address to Barnabey’s Hotel in Manhattan Beach and was surprised at how close it was to the airport. Just half a mile south on Sepulveda Boulevard, Barnabey’s sat at the corner of Rosecrans, across from the Manhattan Village Mall. From the outside, the hotel didn’t look particularly impressive—rows and rows of faded pink shuttered windows on a two-storey building facing the street.
On the inside,
though, the hotel was an amazing replica of a Victorian manor—paneled walls, a plush red parlor. I felt as though I had stepped into Professor Higgins’s house from My Fair Lady. I checked into my elaborately decorated room, admiring the four-poster bed.
I promptly called David, but no one was home. I left a message that I had arrived, and settled in to wait.
After an hour, I decided to go across Sepulveda for a bite of dinner. Airlines still served meals in those days but the portions were notoriously small and I was famished. I had a quick bite at the California Pizza Kitchen and hurried back to Barnabey’s to find a message waiting for me.
“Welcome to L.A.! Giving Christian his dinner. Shall ring again soon.”
I had missed the call.
Another half hour passed before I heard a knock at the door. Nervously, I peered through the peephole. I opened the door and found myself staring up at a giant of a man. David Bale was an extremely tall man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Adam West, the actor who played Batman in the 1960s TV series. Tanned, with a deeply lined face and graying hair, David wore a blue denim shirt and black trousers. He smiled broadly, shook hands, and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose.
“Hullo, Harrison! At last we meet! Look at you! Definitely Chinese! Come, my car is outside.”
We headed out to David’s VW Jetta.
“Christian just arrived last night from London and he is still a bit peevish,” David said. “Atrabilious. Pay him no mind. It’s just jet lag.”
“Oh.” I was impressed and a little intimidated by David’s vocabulary.
“But he is looking forward to meeting you, Harrison. He’s talked about nothing else all day. Absolutely nothing else!”
We drove just a few blocks from Barnabey’s, and made our way onto Oak Avenue, a tree-lined street that didn’t have sidewalks, making the line of large homes look as if they were on a remote country lane. It was December in L.A. and each house was garnished with enough Christmas lights to guide an airplane for landing and displayed holiday flags with figures of Santa, snowmen, and reindeer.
David made a hard turn into a driveway, and I got my first glimpse of The House of Bale. It looked like an overgrown two-story villa, large, colorful, and sun-bleached. The faded stucco walls, arched and recessed entryway, and slate tile roof seemed homey, and not foreboding. A balcony, painted steel gray and looking like something Evita would stand on, jutted prominently from the second floor. The front yard was wild with tropical plants, flowering bird-of-paradises, orchids, and vines threatening to grow across the stone walkway. Randomly placed throughout the front yard were assorted bowls of what looked like cat food. A giant mature palm tree marked a natural barrier from one neighbor, while a high hedge bordered the other neighbor’s yard. Overall the effect was definitely more shabby than chic.
“Welcome to our home!” David had jumped out of the car and was making his way quickly to the front door.
I hurried to keep up; David was already across the yard and fiddling with his key at the door. Stealing a quick glance up at the house’s façade, I thought I saw a dark figure at the window at the balcony, but it could have just been my imagination making shapes out of the curtains shifting in the breeze.
By contrast to the house’s striking exterior, the inside of the house was a disaster. I first noticed the sharp smell of cat litter. A dirty wall-to-wall gray Berber carpet had clearly seen too much traffic. As if on cue, two cats raced by. A staircase was immediately to the right of the front entrance; each step had a pair of shoes or a pile of scripts. The bannister was covered with sticky notes. In the corner was a small fireplace. A large golden retriever, in obvious need of a bath, was sitting in front of the fireplace, its tail thumping in welcome. I heard a scrabbling noise and saw a Jack Russell terrier racing down the stairs. The little dog ran straight to me, sniffed my leg, and then ran back upstairs.
“That’s Mojo checking you out,” David explained. “He’s Christian’s dog. Over by the fire is Codger. They’re both rescue dogs. Do you like dogs? We’ve always had dogs ever since Christian was a baby!”
David beckoned me down the hall to the kitchen. It was a fascinating place. Books, more scripts, and unfinished plates of food were piled on one counter. There were word and phrase magnets on the fridge where someone apparently spelled out their creativity. “He hates to be kept waiting” read one line across the fridge.
Empty cans of dog food were arranged on another countertop. I noticed a line of ants marching steadily from a windowsill to the cans. A large butcher-block kitchen table was covered with boxes and papers and dirty mugs with used teabags still in them. A small moldy block of cheese sat on the table. Although there was an old dishwasher, the sink was piled with dirty plates—it looked like someone loved ketchup.
David directed me to sit at the kitchen table while he put on a kettle.
“Tea?”
“No thanks.”
“We love Manhattan Beach. My son, Christian, loves the water. We’re just a walk away from the beach. You can go to the pier and go surfing or swimming or ride a bicycle on the trails, if you like.”
Mojo suddenly ran into the room. He ran to me and put his paws up on my leg.
David laughed. “There’s Mojo! There’s a boy! Christian named him from The Doors song “Mr. Mojo Rising”? Christian found him. Poor little guy, love him! He had been wandering on the streets of North Hollywood for weeks! His little paws were bleeding from running on the asphalt! Christian stopped his car and chased little Mojo down until the poor little thing could run no more. Then, Christian scooped him up into his arms and brought him home. He wrapped those poor little paws up and nursed Mojo back to health.”
I looked at Mojo’s eager brown eyes. He seemed like a very happy little dog. Mojo jumped down, rolled over on his back, and looked up with a silly doggy grin, his tongue lolling and tiny white paws waving in the air.
David was thrilled.
“Will you look at that, Harrison? He likes you! He trusts you! Animals can sense these things! No animal would expose its stomach to a potential predator!”
I playfully grabbed at Mojo’s paws and rubbed his round belly, thankful for the vote of confidence.
“Christian and I are very involved in animal rights. Do you eat meat?”
“Uh, yes.”
David’s face crumpled.
“What a shame! We can cure you of that illness. Eating meat is a mortal sin, Harrison! How can you eat the flesh of animals to save your own life? That’s just wrong! Dead wrong! ‘Thou shall not kill,’ remember? Did you know that human teeth were never designed to chew meat? Only fruits, nuts, and vegetables! Fruits, nuts, and vegetables! Our teeth are flat! Like our gentle cousins, the gorillas.”
I nodded politely. I normally didn’t like being lectured about my eating habits but David’s charm was irresistible. I got the sense that he might’ve said the same thing to anyone.
“Ah, here comes Christian now.” David turned eagerly to face approaching footsteps. I followed his look, eager for my first glimpse of the young actor.
A lean, lanky figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. Good-looking with short-cropped brown hair, his angular face was immediately recognizable. Though he was tall, standing next to his giant of a father, Christian looked short, almost elfin. Wearing a tight white T-shirt and baggy cargo pants, his skinny body arched slightly with poor posture. His long pale arms were dotted with freckles and moles. English complexion, I thought. He seemed tense, almost uncomfortable. His brow was ever so slightly knitted, and his lips were pursed as if he were sucking a sour candy or pretending to be a duck. With his oddly tentative stance at the doorway, he looked like a moody male model, impatiently waiting for his turn down the runway.
Father and son were both staring at me now. David was grinning expectantly. Christian was not.
David made the introductions.
“Christian, this is Harrison, come all the way to visit us from Canada! And this, of course, is my son [sm
all pause for dramatic effect] Christian Bale!”
“Hi.” I stood up to shake his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Christian mumbled something in reply and we shook hands. I was surprised to hear that his voice was so light and high-pitched. In the movies, his voice sounded a little deeper. And with his refined, almost delicate facial features, I was also surprised that Christian’s hands were rough and calloused and his fingernails were chewed to the quick.
Christian turned to his father.
“What does a guy have to do around here to get a clean towel?”
“What? Oh dear! Oh dear!” David scurried to another part of the kitchen toward a small laundry nook. “No worries, Moosh, there are some clean towels in the dryer!” He pulled a couple of gray towels from the dryer and handed them to his son.
Moosh was an odd nickname that I had never heard before. I chalked it up to something English.
Christian grabbed one towel and turned his attention back to me, staring with his penetrating hazel eyes with all the thrill of a botanist examining some new kind of weed.
David jumped in, presumably to cover for Christian’s obvious silence: “Harrison, are you hungry? Would you like some chowder? A neighbor down the street made us this huge pot of homemade—”
“I thought she made the chowder for me,” Christian interrupted.
“Yes, Moosh. But there’s plenty left. You already had a couple of bowls, so I didn’t think you’d want more.”
“I might want more later, Dad.” Christian glared at his father and I decided to look out the back door that led to a kidney-shaped swimming pool.
“Of course, Son, of course! There’s plenty of chowder for you! Plenty!” By the sound of David’s voice, he was clearly used to calming Christian.
“I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t you want to sit and chat with Harrison?” David pointed to the kitchen table. A copy of my marketing proposal was on the table.
“No, I need to take a shower, Dad. If I had had a clean towel in my bathroom, I wouldn’t be keeping our guest waiting, would I?” At that, Christian turned and marched back upstairs. For a moment, there was an awkward silence but David brought over a mug of tea.
Christian Bale Page 9
