Midnight Movie: A Novel

by Alan Goldsher, Tobe Hooper

  I said, “I agree, Tobe. Wholeheartedly.”

  He said, “Glad to hear it, man. So. I like your plan. Let’s go round up the Destiny Express crew. Such as it is.”

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  I said, “Sweet. When? Where? How?”

  He said, “It shouldn’t be hard. You saw the credits, there were only, what, six people who worked on it? And one of them is me. And one of them is dead.”

  I asked him, “Are you in touch with any of these folks?”

  He said, “Nope. Haven’t been for years. Shit. Maybe it will be hard.”

  I said, “Tobe, it took me three phone calls and ten minutes to get your home phone number. Trust me, it won’t be hard.”

  HELEN LEARY (housewife, Portland, ME):

  I had a little bit of a crush on Tobe Hooper. But just a little bit. It might’ve been a bigger one, but he was … different. And different is sometimes scary.

  I think part of the reason I was into Tobe was because he wasn’t into me. He was into movies, and there was something so cool about that. I also thought his single-mindedness was sexy. Not that I knew much about sexy back then, but you get the point.

  We didn’t travel in the same circles. I was more of the prototypical popular girl, you know, a cheerleader, editor of the yearbook, that sort of thing. Tobe and I never had a serious conversation—we were always cordial toward one another but not friendly to the point that we’d talk for real. Which is why I was so surprised when he asked me to be in his movie.

  TOBE HOOPER:

  A million actresses out here ooze sex, but unless you’re a casting director who wants to get laid, that doesn’t mean much in terms of the creative process, such as it is. But Helen Leary wasn’t like that. Helen oozed it, an indefinable something that made you want to screw her, then marry her, then have babies with her, then screw her some more. She was the ultimate in Madonna/whore, and brother, back in the day, I wanted a piece of that.

  Now, I wasn’t what you would call a ladies’ man or anything, but I did have one thing to offer: my filmmaking skills. When I was in high school, you didn’t have all these little pishers running around with their camcorders like they do today, making their magnum opuses, and inviting their friends along for the ride. Back then, knowing a thing or two about film meant something.

  So instead of asking Helen out on a date, I asked her to be in my flick.

  HELEN LEARY:

  I won’t lie to you. I’d dreamed about being an actress. But what teenage girl in Austin, circa 1959, didn’t? Who didn’t want to get out of stupid Texas and do something with her life other than get married at twenty-one, have a baby at twenty-two, have another one at twenty-three, then one at twenty-four, then hang it up? Who wouldn’t want to go to Hollywood and meet Lee Marvin, and Marlon Brando, and Steve McQueen? So when Tobe asked me to do his movie, I didn’t hesitate for a second. My thinking was, Lots of people all over the world make real, true movies. Why not Tobe? He might just be obsessed enough to make it work.

  Even then, he was a pro. He made me feel comfortable, and talented, and pretty, and relaxed, and as I learned during my brief, less-than-successful film career, that’s not something that every director brings to the table.

  When Tobe reached out to me in the midst of all that Game mess, I sure hoped it was because he wanted me to be in his next movie. If nothing else, seeing him would take my mind off the fact that my oldest son had become a zombie.

  TOBE HOOPER:

  We flew to Maine the next day. Helen was waiting for us on her doorstep.

  She looked beautiful, and she lived in a beautiful house in a beautiful town, and she had a handsome husband, and two handsome sons, and one beautiful daughter. No surprise there.

  She seemed happy enough to see me, but she didn’t exactly welcome Erick with open arms.

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  Tobe was nervous and tongue-tied—something I never would’ve imagined from him—so I took the lead. I asked Helen, “Do you remember making a movie with Tobe?”

  She snapped, “Of course I do.”

  I asked her, “Did you ever see it?”

  She said, “As a matter of fact, I did not. I wasn’t even sure it was actually finished.” Still very snippy.

  Tobe piped up. “Helen, Erick’s a nice dude. Maybe you could answer his questions a little, I don’t know, nicer or something.”

  She seemed to soften, then said, “To be honest, Tobe, I was hoping to spend some time alone with you.”

  Tobe said, “Helen, I would like nothing better. I mean, back in high school, I’d have crawled over a mile of glass just to get a sniff of your neck.”

  Helen blushed, then said, “Why, Tobe Hooper, you dog. I have to admit, I had a little thing for you, too.”

  I said, “Guys, I hate to break up this lovefest, but we’re kind of in a rush here.”

  Helen said, “But I thought you might be able to stay for dinner.”

  Tobe said, “Sweetheart, I’d like nothing more than to run away with you to an island where none of this Game crap is going down, but me and Erick here, we’re on a mission.”

  Helen said, “What kind of mission?”

  I said, “A mission to save the world.”

  HELEN LEARY:

  While Erick gave me the Destiny Express backstory and his theory—that maybe the movie somehow launched the Game—Tobe just sat there and stared into my face with an expression that made it clear they weren’t messing around with me.

  I said, “Why’re you coming to me? What do you think I have to offer?”

  Tobe said, “No clue. We were hoping you could come up with something.”

  I said, “What do you mean ‘something’?”

  Tobe said, “Something about the shoot. Or about me. Or about anything weird.”

  I said, “Okay, let me think.” I closed my eyes, and shut off my brain, and tried to transport myself back to that summer, tried to recall whether anything odd happened during the shoot. And then it came to me. “Remember when we were doing the alligator scene?”

  Tobe said, “I don’t remember a damn thing about shooting that damn movie.”

  I said, “Well it was really, really hot out. Gary was covered with makeup, just covered, and he kept saying he was going to pass out, and you kept saying, ‘You’re fine, you’re fine, drink some water, you’re fine. Next shot, next shot, we’re on the clock, we’re on the clock.’ ”

  Erick said, “Sounds like you were already in training to be an indie director.”

  Tobe laughed without humor, then said, “Yeah, that’s definitely the kind of thing I’d say on a set, no question.”

  I said, “That fake alligator was amazing, Tobe. You made it yourself. I remember you stole a bunch of leather jackets from some clothing store or another.” Then, out of nowhere, it all came crashing back to me. I hadn’t thought about that movie in decades, but all of a sudden, I was back in Austin, sweating, rushing around, and, frankly, a bit frightened. I could practically smell it. “And then you sewed all the jackets together and stuffed it with roadkill.”

  Tobe said, “I did what, now?”

  I said, “You and the cameraman; what was his name?”

  Erick said, “Darren Allen.”

  I said, “Right, Darren, that nerdy kid who lived across the street from you. The quiet one. And there was one other guy who was around sometimes.”

  Erick said, “William Marron. He did the special effects.”

  I said, “My God, it’s like Old Home Week. Wow. Right. Billy Marron. He was a piece of work.” I asked Erick, “How do you know so much about this?”

  He said, “Mrs. Leary, I’ve watched Destiny Express, what, ten or eleven times now. And I’ve only seen Citizen Kane twice, if that means anything.”

  Tobe said, “And at the end of the fifth inning, the score is Citizen Kane two, Citizen Crap ten or eleven.”

  Erick ignored him and said, “I know that movie better than Tobe does.”

  Tobe said to
me, “Hell, Helen, this kid knows The Texas Chainsaw Massacre better than I do.”

  I said, “At any rate, it was a Sunday afternoon, and I specifically remember what day it was because I thought it was funny I was going to shoot an alligator attack in a swamp right after I got out of church. I showed up before everybody else, which was weird, because Tobe was always the one waiting. Gary came next, and then here come Tobe and Darren, hauling this fake gator, looking like they were two cats who’d eaten a dozen canaries. They plopped the thing down right in front of me, then Tobe said, ‘What do you think?’ ”

  Tobe asked, “What did you think, Helen?”

  I said, “Looks-wise, it was really impressive. If you were even ten yards away, you might’ve thought it was real. But good Lord, that thing reeked. I remember I asked why it smelled so bad, and Billy gave me this weird laugh. Then you told me about the roadkill.”

  Erick said, “Do you remember specifically what he told you about the roadkill?”

  I laughed a little bit, then said, “Unfortunately, Erick, it’s all coming back to me.”

  Tobe said, “Why’s that unfortunate, Helen?”

  I said, “Because you two had apparently wandered up and down the highway for five hours, carrying a shovel and five shopping bags and scooping up every dead possum, and raccoon, and rabbit, and squirrel you could find. And then I guess you used that to stuff the leather jackets with.”

  Tobe said, “Man, I was committed.”

  I said, “You should’ve been committed.”

  Erick said, “What could the point of that have possibly been?”

  Tobe said, “The point of me being committed?”

  Erick said, “No, the point of the roadkill.”

  I said, “I believe it was actually Billy’s idea. I think he said something along the lines of ‘The stench of death will add a certain sense of verisimilitude.’”

  Tobe chuckled, then said, “That sounds like the kind of thing Billy would say. He was always using those fifty-cent words.”

  Erick said, “Did it? Did the, um, stench of death make it seem more real?”

  I said, “Probably, but I can’t tell you for sure. My screams were probably louder.”

  Erick said, “That’s important. Fay Wray had been making movies for over ten years before she did King Kong. Her screaming probably added another twenty years onto her career.”

  Tobe said, “Good screams make for good cinema. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.”

  Erick asked me, “Do you remember any other weird stuff like that? Like did you shoot a scene on an Indian burial ground or something?”

  Tobe snapped his fingers and said, “Now, that’s an excellent idea. Erick, do you think you can help me find one of those for my next project?”

  Erick gave him a funny look and said, “What, a burial ground?”

  Tobe said, “Yeah, man, you could be my location scout. Fuck it, I’ll even give you an EP credit.”

  Erick said, “You are kidding.” When Tobe didn’t answer, he said, “Aren’t you?”

  Tobe just shrugged.

  I said, “I guess in some ways, nothing’s changed.” Erick said, “What do you mean?”

  I said, “I mean that even back then, Tobe was full of weird ideas. And when he got enthusiastic about something, he’d go for it. He’d do whatever he could to make it better. And grosser.”

  Erick asked, “Like what?”

  Then Tobe said, “Yeah? Like what?”

  It was on the tip of my brain … or I guess the tip of my nose. I said, “Okay, I remember you covered Gary with crap.”

  Tobe gave me a look and said, “I did?”

  I said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We were in Billy’s backyard, and we were doing another scene where Gary attacks me, and Billy had done up Gary perfectly. He looked so creepy. Like in those old movies, before special effects got all expensive, you could almost always see, I don’t know, the zipper in the back of the gorilla costume or something, which would make it seem less scary. But whatever Billy did to Gary was creepy even in person. It probably looked even creepier on the screen.”

  Erick said, “It did.”

  I said, “I’m not surprised.” Then I turned to Tobe and said, “So Billy’d spent all this time putting on Gary’s zombie makeup, and you said it wasn’t nasty enough, and you two got into this big argument, right out in the backyard. Poor Gary was sitting there all covered with zombie goop, and you and Billy were going on, and on, and on, and finally you told him you’d take care of it yourself, then you stomped off and disappeared for a half an hour and came back with a big bag of cow shit, and you told him to rub it on his legs.”

  Erick asked, “What did he say?”

  I said, “I don’t remember. But he did it. What the heck were you thinking, Tobe?”

  Erick said to Tobe, “I bet you wanted your actors to spend the entire movie looking like they were about to puke. Am I right?”

  Tobe said, “Who knows what the hell was going on inside of my little fucked-up brain. But it sure sounds like my thought process, doesn’t it?”

  Erick said, “It kind of does, Tobe. It kind of does.”

  TOBE HOOPER:

  We didn’t know what we were looking for from Helen, but then again, if we knew what we were looking for, we wouldn’t have been looking in the first place. Frankly, she wasn’t of much use; she didn’t really remember much beyond the dead animals and the shit. Weird, no doubt, but it didn’t explain how my piece-of-crapola movie could’ve launched an epidemic. We bullshitted for a while, then we split, because we had a flight to catch. I told her I’d be in touch, and she said that would be nice. And she was right. It would.

  In the cab on the way to the airport, Erick asked me if I had any thoughts. I said, “Okay, maybe I wasn’t the most sympathetic director in the world. But I don’t think some feces and some roadkill would cause any problems. Do you?”

  Erick said, “Who knows? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that movies can have a negative physical and metaphysical effect on the viewer …”

  I said, “Which they can’t.”

  Erick said, “Right. Of course. Which they can’t. But let’s say they can. Has there been anybody in the history of cinema who used shit and roadkill like you did in Destiny Express?

  I said, “John Waters had one of his actors eat shit in Pink Flamingos, and nothing happened.”

  Erick said, “True. Maybe we should go talk to John.”

  I said, “Nah. Me and John, we have issues.”

  Erick said, “Like what?”

  I said, “Like Odorama.”

  Erick said, “What’s Odorama?”

  I said, “Just an idea I came up with that he used before I did.”

  Erick asked, “Did he steal it from you?”

  I said, “Nah. He just got there first.”

  Erick said, “Have you ever spoken to him about it?”

  I said, “Doesn’t matter. Let’s focus, here. So in answer to your question, as far as I know, nobody in the history of cinema has used shit and roadkill like I did in Destiny Express.”

  Erick said, “So maybe if you use shit and roadkill in a movie, something’ll happen.”

  I said, “Like it’ll cause any man who sees it to come blue? That’s insane, man. Can we stop talking about this for a while?”

  I must’ve sounded pissed, because Erick said, “We can stop talking altogether, if you want.”

  Until we landed at LaGuardia, we said a grand total of six words to each other.

  CLAIRE CRAFT (senior editor, Vanity Fair magazine, New York City):

  Tobe Hooper and I weren’t friends before I shot that movie with him back when I was sixteen, and we weren’t friends after, but I still kept tabs on him throughout the years. Even though he was far from my favorite person in the world, he was still the hometown boy who made good, so I couldn’t help but be, I don’t know, intrigued is the word. I suppose.

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  Tobe d
idn’t want to speak with Claire on the phone, and when I called her up at her office, I guess I could understand why.

  When I finally got through to her, I introduced myself as the film critic for the Austin Chronicle, figuring she’d be more willing to speak with a fellow writer than some random dude off the street. When I went on to explain my connection with Tobe, she hissed, “Jesus. That fucker.” And yet she agreed to see us right away. Go figure.

  CLAIRE CRAFT:

  I was in love with Scott Frost, and it wasn’t just some little-girl puppy love thing, it was the real deal. He treated me like gold, and he was handsome, and smart, and as fine of a boy as he was, he was going to be that much better of a man. He was young, but he was a good one, and having been through God-knows-how-many pseudo—love affairs with God-knows-how-many bad ones, I can speak with authority on that.

  Of course I had no idea at the time that Scott had impregnated a college girl. I didn’t find out until five years after I left Austin, and knowing what I knew about him by that point, I can’t say I was surprised. Let’s just say that Scott liked the ladies.

  Intellectually, I realized it wasn’t Tobe’s fault Scott got killed by that red Corvette. And from what I’ve learned after many, many years of therapy, it would’ve been healthier for me to have embraced Tobe right after it happened, to have grieved with him, rather than harbor all that anger and resentment for all those years. But, you know, easier said than done.

  I didn’t know how I’d react when I saw Tobe. Would I be angry? Forgiving? Ambivalent? Scared? I had no clue, and I was nervous.

  TOBE HOOPER:

  First of all, Claire looked amazing. She could’ve passed for forty-five. I’m sure part of it was genetics—I remember her mom was pretty hot—and part of it was many trips to the gym. I’m also damn sure there was some plastic surgery involved.