So That Happened

by Jon Cryer

  When Neil showed up he leaped right in, already up to speed on the music and most of the staging already. Somehow, while shooting How I Met Your Mother, he managed to prepare meticulously. He and I had never worked together before, but he was just as I imagined: effortlessly charming and dedicated. He made it all look maddeningly easy.

  Every now and then I’d look at Martha and Stephen and notice that the three of us all had a similar deer-in-the-headlights expression as we struggled to adjust to the idea that we were doing this show for real. In those kinds of situations sometimes a performer will half-ass it, sort of signal to everyone that this is not what they signed on for, that this wasn’t going to be them at their best. But not this bunch. Even though several other cast members were in the same boat as we were in terms of their expectations, every single one of us was committed. We were going to put on a show! If a bunch of eleven-year-old Jewish kids from Long Island could put on Jesus Christ Superstar! in two weeks at Stagedoor Manor, then dammit, we could put on Company.

  The show had become a hot ticket; all four performances sold out near instantaneously. I was informed that there was another hot ticket in town, Charlie’s “Violent Torpedo” live show was to play Radio City Music Hall on the same night that we had our second performance.

  Now whenever the paps saw me, they’d ask: “You gonna see Charlie’s show?” and “Is he gonna see yours?” Which struck me as kind of a funny idea as I don’t think he’s much of a Sondheim guy.

  At my mom’s place, my daughter, Daisy, had come down with a stubborn lung infection. And even though she loved spending time with her grandma, it was becoming clear that she and my wife would have to head back to LA. My workdays had been grueling, and I was having a hard time assimilating my dialogue, so I was not as attentive to our sick daughter as I should have been. Now it would just be my mom and I, like it was when I made my Broadway debut some twenty-seven years before.

  As the night of our first performance arrived, we got our dressing room assignments at Avery Fisher. I found out I’d be roomies with Stephen Colbert. And to answer the question on everybody’s mind: boxers.

  Our first and only dress rehearsal was distinctive for another reason. It would mark the first time the whole cast was in the same room at the same time. It was bumpy as hell. This was not one of those everything-just-came-together moments; the fact that we’d never performed as an ensemble was very apparent. Afterward Lonny introduced Stephen Sondheim to the cast. Turns out, he’d been watching the dress rehearsal but hadn’t wanted to be a distraction. He was vaguely complimentary, stressed the need for lyrical crispness, and then was gone as mysteriously as he’d arrived. I spent that evening doing lip exercises. I intended to be lyrically extra crispy.

  Our first performance was marked by the occasional jarring imperfection. But we got through it. My “Sorry/Grateful” was shaky, but I enunciated it within an inch of its life.

  After the show Elaine Stritch, who had originated the role of Joanne, now played by Patti LuPone, came backstage and hugged me like we were old friends. She asked if I was okay, then gravely intoned, “If you see Charlie, tell him I’m worried about him.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  As I exited the stage door at Avery Fisher, there were the cameras.

  “Have you seen Charlie?! Are you going to Radio City?!”

  “Are you still a troll?!”

  “If you saw Charlie, what would you say?!”

  Elaine Stritch is worried about you almost came out of my mouth. But in a gesture I was becoming adept at, I walked past without comment.

  On Friday night, as we arrived at the theater a half hour before showtime for our second performance, New York media was abuzz with Charlie Sheen anticipation. Word was that he’d gotten his act together out of town. That he’d worked on his show and that this one at Radio City was going to be the turning point of his tour.

  Company began with its opening number, fittingly titled “Company,” at eight p.m. sharp; meanwhile ticket holders at Radio City were still milling about in the lobby buying T-shirts emblazoned with Sheen catchphrases such as “I’m Not Bipolar” and “#Winning!” As I managed to nail my part in “Sorry/Grateful” with unusual confidence, downtown Charlie took the stage about a half hour late.

  He opened with a joke about being back in New York: “Surprise! I’m not staying at the fucking Plaza Hotel!” and got a big laugh. But a mere five minutes later, as Christina Hendricks, Chryssie Whitehead, and Anika Noni Rose were singing “You Could Drive a Person Crazy” at Avery Fisher to enraptured applause, the crowd at Radio City began turning on Charlie. He’d started by telling his side of the story about the prostitute who had accused him of assault at the Plaza, but was now meandering conversationally.

  The heckling and catcalls commenced at low volume but only increased as it became clear that Charlie had no show. He was just rambling on the audience’s dime. And even worse, he no longer seemed like the fuck-’em-all provocateur he’d been hyped as. By the time Neil was bringing down the house with “Marry Me a Little” on Sixty-sixth Street, hoots of “BOR-ing” could be heard on Fifty-first.

  As we were starting the second act with a show-stopping “Side by Side by Side,” over at Radio City, Charlie’s act was not yet over, but patrons were streaming up the aisles toward the exits anyway.

  A heckler howled one last zinger before hitting the lobby: “This is the worst thing I’ve seen, ever!” and added only somewhat hyperbolically, “This is worse than Chernobyl!”

  That second night of Company, we had our everything-just-came-together moment at exactly the right time. The response was euphoric. If I thought the applause at Conan was something, this was another beast entirely. When you throw twenty-seven hundred New Yorkers Neil Patrick Harris, Patti LuPone, and Stephen Colbert singing Sondheim with the New York Philharmonic, you get an ovation that registers on the Richter scale for a ten-block radius. Backstage after the show, Stephen Sondheim appeared to be beaming. I have to imagine that it’s wonderful to hear that particular reaction to a musical you wrote more than forty years ago. I was glad that this was the performance he’d come to see.

  I was on a high. As I made my way out the stage door and headed to Broadway to hail a cab back to my mother’s apartment, a group of five guys spotted me.

  “That’s Alan Harper! That’s that guy! Hey, Two and a Half Men!” one of them shouted while urgently pointing.

  They approached and surrounded me. I murmured polite hellos. I noticed two of them had “Violent Torpedo” tour T-shirts.

  “You gonna party with Charlie tonight?!” one of them barked at me.

  The other yelled, “We just saw Charlie! You’re gonna party with him, right?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he demanded, “Here, give me a picture!” He wrapped his arm around my neck and brought up a smartphone to take a selfie. As he posed I could smell something sweet and powerfully alcoholic on his breath; he was missing a couple teeth up front as well.

  He got off a photo, then released me to show the picture to his friends “I got him! I fuckin’ got him!”

  I turned to keep walking uptown and heard him shout after me: “Fuck you, Two and a Half Men! Fuck you! You fuckin’ homo!”

  And then let out a banshee wail of “WINNING!!!”

  Chapter 27

  React to the Good Part

  The text from Chuck Lorre read, Lee and I have gotten together, and we may not be done yet. That’s Lee Aronsohn, who cocreated and co-ran Two and a Half Men with Chuck.

  I wrote back, Well, I hope Charlie’s okay.

  Chuck’s reply: But I said we may not be done yet. React to the good part!

  Yes, it was great to hear that the guys who’d invented this wonderful role for me were angling to continue giving the character things to say and do, but I was unsure. Since they were being cryptic, I didn’t know if that meant
Charlie was coming back, or there’d be a spinoff with Alan, or what. Alan Harper’s a genuinely funny character, but I’m not sure I’d want to watch a show centered completely on that guy. Taking another flawed, hapless sitcom icon as an example, would you tune in to a series focused solely on George Costanza?

  When I got back from New York, I had to call Chuck and pick his brain on this. “Where do you think we can go?” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “we thought, we’ve got to find somebody with that same Teflon charm, whom people love no matter what. Lee and I talked back and forth, back and forth. ‘Who could possibly do this?’ Then we thought of Hugh Grant.”

  I burst out laughing. “Well, of course Hugh Grant! But come on, Chuck, you’re not going to get Hugh Grant!”

  “He’s flying in next week,” Chuck said. “Would you want to meet with him?”

  * * *

  Ballsy choice, I thought.

  Hugh’s an international star, blessed with great comic timing, and, like somebody we all knew, could win back hearts, minds, and box office after consorting with a prostitute. As I drove up to Peter Roth’s house for the meeting with Hugh, Chuck, Lee, and Two and a Half Men producers Eddie Gorodetsky and Jim Patterson, I also thought about the live-theater aspect of filming—was Hugh much of a theater guy? Then again, his payday would be incredible, surely. Landing Hugh Grant would be a serious coup.

  I had learned that the character for Hugh would be an incredibly charming Brit who tells Alan he works for the British consulate and is looking for a place to stay so he can be near his daughter at USC. Alan, needing a renter or he’ll have to sell the Malibu house in the wake of his brother’s death, quickly says, “Welcome, roomie!” only to discover that the man’s a fraud, but a damned charismatic one. He can pay his rent, though, so Alan’s stuck with him, and eventually the two grow to like each other.

  I suggested making Hugh’s character an eccentric, like that British boyfriend of my mom’s who used to walk around the house naked. Chuck seemed to take a liking to the idea.

  As I parked, I texted Chuck and suggested that if Hugh agreed to do the show, Chuck should let me know by texting some cool code phrase like ‘The Eagle has landed’ or something.

  I like it, he sent back.

  Walking into Peter’s house, I still wasn’t convinced Hugh would even be there, but he was. Chuck had prepared two scenes for Hugh and me to read, but I could tell Hugh had questions about the character he was going to play. Chuck, meanwhile, looked to me to sell him on what doing a show like this entails.

  “First of all, Hugh,” I said, as we sat ourselves down at Peter’s dining table, “it’s the best job for an actor in show business, because you get to build a character over many episodes. You get real interaction with the writers, and you have input as things constantly change. As a way of life it’s great, because the hours work for someone with a family.”

  But as I said all this, I could tell Hugh was hesitant about the open-endedness of the character—of the whole process in fact, that it wasn’t strictly defined yet. Here was a movie actor used to getting a screenplay with everything he’d need for the character in it. Even British television shows—usually only six episodes to a season—are typically written all in advance, and by one person. As we threw our ideas to him, including the naked gag, he’d respond well, but then settle back into a reserve I took to be apprehension. He also admitted openly to anxiety issues about performing, which, as you now know, I had too. I offered him tips, and he was incredibly gracious.

  Overall, Hugh was in good humor, friendly and appreciative of everyone’s interest, but after he left and Chuck asked me what I thought, I told him, “I’m not sure he’s going to say yes, but who knows? Maybe it’s a deal he wants to make.”

  “Well, we have a plan B,” Chuck said.

  “Maybe it’s time to think about plan B,” I said. “Who is it?”

  “Les Moonves wants me to consider Ashton Kutcher.”

  Uneasy looks went around the table.

  Chuck continued. “I don’t know a lot about his work, but I know he played an idiot on That ’70s Show. It’s the only thing of his I’ve seen, and that character doesn’t interest me.”

  My first reaction was concern. We’d gotten so much comedic mileage on the show from having two main characters who were both facing the dilemmas of middle age but responding in different ways, that I just didn’t see what would be the new dynamic. I didn’t know how our roles would relate. But the more I thought about it, the more open I got.

  “People loved him on that show,” I said. “He’s comfortable with doing sitcoms. And he’s got a sense of humor.”

  I informed Chuck, Lee, Jim, and Ed that Ashton had been the architect of one of the most inspired pranks I’d ever seen on television—the now legendary episode of Punk’d featuring Beyoncé unwittingly destroying the Christmas gifts of a gaggle of orphans. Even my meager retelling of it had them laughing.

  The prospect on our minds at the moment, though, was the English movie star who’d just driven away. We had all been just a bunch of men, standing in front of a charming Brit, asking him to love us. (What, you don’t like Notting Hill? Have a heart, people.)

  * * *

  Checking in with the rumor mill again, this time around they were saying that Charlie had been chastened by his firing, that the continuing rants were just bluster, and that his reps were desperately trying to arrange a peace summit for Charlie and Chuck. Charlie was supposedly looking to apologize, and there were many who felt that there had to be a way to get Charlie back on the show.

  Meanwhile, there hadn’t been a peep in the media about our British visitor. I waited on tenterhooks for his reply.

  * * *

  I received a single-word text from Chuck the next morning: Yes.

  I sent back, Really?!??

  He answered, Really. Negotiations start now.

  What about our cool code phrase? U blew it! I whined.

  I forgot. What was it?

  “The Eagle has landed.” Jesus.

  Right, right. Sorry.

  By nine a.m. the next morning, I’d gotten definitive word: The negotiations were successful; Hugh Grant and I would be the stars of Two and a Half Men going forward. I sat back and tried to get used to the idea.

  Then, at eleven fifteen a.m., I got a call from Chuck.

  “He’s not doing it. The deal was done, but he changed his mind.”

  That was a real whiplash day.

  * * *

  The other surprising thing I found out that day was that my mom’s doorman had heard about the Hugh deal falling through before I did. As it turns out, Mom’s doorman often knows things before any of us do. Many a time Gretchen Cryer has strolled out of her building to be greeted by Ronnie Clemmons providing an update on my life—Sheen madness updates, renegotiation bulletins—as reported in the tabloids or the trades or on the Internet or from a band of traveling Gypsies.

  Needless to say, Mom has occasionally called me after these briefings, slightly appalled that I haven’t clued her in first. But what can I say? This is the age we live in. And yet, aren’t you pleased to know that my mother’s building, once a way station for petty criminals, is now fancy enough to have a doorman?

  And that building gossip Norma Vogelstein has been reincarnated as one of them?

  * * *

  When word hit the media that efforts to replace Charlie were very real, he responded quickly. His public statement began: “Good Luck, Chuck, my fans may tune in for a minute, but at the end of the day, no one cares about your feeble show without me. Shame on you.” He was aggrieved, unrepentant, furious, and near delusional. He reminded Chuck that the show that had made them both rich had been based on his “awesome life,” and continued, “You sad, silly fool. A-hole pussy loser. Put on the gloves, you low-rent, nutless sociopath; I’ll beat your chickenshit soul in
a courtroom into a state of gratitude. A state of surrender.” He finished the missive as hatefully as he began: “Wow, I’m sure your children are so proud of you. You can teach ’em how to be a stupid bitch. A narcissist. A coward. A loser. A spineless rat. I’m out here with my fans every night. The message is crystal clear: No Charlie Sheen. No show.”

  So much for “chastened.” It made me sick to my stomach. It was all over. There would be no turning back. According to Charlie, he’d done it all by himself. He was the only one who mattered. He’d just insulted me and everyone else who’d ever worked on our show. The same one that had given him a chance at rebirth, and had made him the highest-paid actor in television.

  For a moment I thought about what this must have felt like for Chuck. He had thought for all the world that he and Charlie were friends, and that he was simply trying to help his friend find his way out of addiction.

  * * *

  Pursuing Ashton felt like the next step. Although I’d been defending him the previous day, one thing was bothering me: the age difference. How could Alan relate to this young, superhandsome guy? What would unite us?

  But then Chuck watched all of Ashton’s movies, and called me up with the sound of possibility in his voice. “You know what? I think he’s got something that might work. I had this idea about a very damaged, emotionally handicapped guy who’s a famous sitcom actor. Alan saves him from a suicide attempt, and becomes his assistant or something like that.” It sounded like a) the Teddy Z premise all over again, but also b) maybe a slight reference to a previous cast member? “He’s not going to be Charlie Sheen,” said Chuck. “He’s not an asshole.”

  Then Chuck met individually with Ashton, and called me even more energized. “I love this guy!” he said. “He’s great. He’s funny, supersmart, and gets it. I don’t want to do the sitcom idea anymore. I want him to be an Internet billionaire.”