Coreyography: A Memoir (12 page)

“
The Goonies
is the biggest movie Warner Brothers has going, it’s way bigger than my movie. We’re practically an independent. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

I was stunned. Pee-wee Herman didn’t want
me
to waste
my
time. This was truly incredible.

As it turned out, I couldn’t do the film; I was way too busy with
The Goonies
. But I did go over and visit his set on several occasions, which I loved; it was like one big life-sized cartoon.
Pee-wee’s Big Adventure
went on to become a beloved cult classic, paving the way for his Emmy-winning kids show. Of course, at the time, nobody knew—could have known—that it would be that big. But I did. Pee-wee Herman, as silly as it sounds, felt like my own private discovery. I was only twelve, but I knew Pee-wee Herman was going to be huge.

*   *   *

Not long after
my run-in with Paul Reubens, I was in the school trailer, working away with the other
Goonies
cast members, when we were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. We had a delivery, a giant cardboard box addressed to all the kids in the cast. Inside were seven satin jackets, emblazoned with the words “The Jacksons Victory Tour.” I realized, right then, that my dreams were about to come true.

The Victory Tour was, not surprisingly, the biggest thing happening in music. I had been hounding Steven for tickets, as well as calling in to KIIS-FM hoping to win one of their daily giveaways, but a box of tour jackets from Michael Jackson was beyond even my wildest dreams. The tickets came soon after that, along with an invitation to meet Michael after the show. I believe there were sixteen passes in total; enough for the principle cast and one of each cast members’ parents, our two on-set tutors, and Mark Marshall, Steven’s assistant at the time. Mark was used to wrangling child actors, so it seemed only natural that he would lead us all on the trek to Dodger Stadium. It would be one of the last times all six Jackson brothers performed together; it was December 1984, the final stop of the six-month tour.

At that point, the only concert I had ever been to was to see Styx at the Forum, around the time “Mr. Roboto” started climbing the charts. The Victory Tour was something else entirely. You could feel the energy of the crowd pulse through you in waves—even from our seats all the way at the back of the stadium. We were in the nosebleed section, so high up that the Jacksons looked like ants on the stage. But it didn’t matter. I had dreamed of this moment. Then, as I sat there in a sea of more than fifty thousand fans, waiting anxiously for the lights to go down, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. Two rows back was Ricky Schroder.

At the time—just a few years after his star-making turn in Franco Zeffirelli’s 1979 remake of
The Champ
—Ricky Schroder was, arguably, the biggest kid actor in the business. I had actually been up for the role of TJ, the son of ex-champion boxer Billy Flynn (played by Jon Voight), and had spent a ton of time preparing. My mother desperately wanted that role for me, but I wound up losing out. For months I wanted to know, who’s the kid that got that part? When the film premiered (and Ricky Schroder won a Golden Globe, at age ten, for New Star of the Year in a Motion Picture, an award that is no longer given out), I sat in the theater thinking, man, this kid is amazing. What a brilliant performance. The scene at the end? All that crying? I was totally impressed.

As an actor, crying on cue was easily my biggest fear. I felt as though I had managed to fool everyone around me, to make them think that I was good at my job—at least up until that point. But after watching that performance, I knew there was no way I could have done anything so intense and meaningful as
The Champ
. In fact, I couldn’t believe that
any
kid my age had managed to pull that off. I figured he was probably one of those kids who went to acting class every day, probably a graduate of Stella Adler—hell, he was probably
method
—but I still had oodles of respect for him. So when I turned around in my seat at the back of Dodger Stadium, I had to laugh. At least we had better seats than Ricky Schroder.

The rest of the concert is mostly a blur to me now; what I remember most was how desperately I wanted it to be over. That’s when it would happen—that’s when I would meet Michael. But as the lights came on and the stadium started to empty out, there was a sudden change of plans: Michael would go back to his hotel. It was suggested that we would meet him there. As we filed back on the bus, however, word came that we were going home. This was not the plan. We were supposed to go to the show, then Michael and I would meet, and then we would become friends. What in the hell had happened?

Back at Warner Brothers on Monday morning, I wasted no time finding out. Who knew what Michael would be up to next? Maybe he would go off to tour another part of the world. Maybe he would go into seclusion to work on his next album. I was not going to let this chance slip through my fingers, so as soon as I got to set, I ran right up to Steven Spielberg.

“What happened? We didn’t get to meet Michael!”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry about that.”

“What? Why are
you
sorry?”

“Well, I didn’t think it was appropriate. Michael wanted to invite everyone back to his hotel room, but I told him no.”

I stared at him.

“I thought it would be a little overwhelming,” Steven continued. “All sixteen of you, stuffed into his hotel. He’s just finished a pretty major tour, you know. He’s probably pretty tired.”

I scoffed. Michael Jackson—I ridiculously assumed—did not get tired.

“Corey?” Steven said, obviously sensing my frustration. “I do have some good news.” He waited a moment, until I had picked my head up and looked him in the eye. “He’s going to come to set.”

“When?”

“Not sure yet. We’re looking at a day two weeks from now, but it’s not a hundred percent. Check back with me next week.”

I did check back with him the following week, and every day after that. But every time I asked, something unexpected had “come up” or Michael’s schedule had changed. I was afraid I had been duped, that maybe the meeting would never happen. I was constantly in a state of agitation, the excitement and anticipation rumbling below the surface, but I was afraid to get my hopes up. I had been disappointed so many times before.

*   *   *

Like most days
on set, I had been running back and forth between Dick’s and Steven’s soundstages. Over on 12, Steven was working on second-unit shots in the caves under the Fratelli’s restaurant, while Dick was busy preparing for the reveal of One-Eyed Willie’s pirate ship back on stage 16, a massive (and expensive) undertaking.

The pirate ship was an actual full-scale working set. There was the main deck, with the plank and the sails, and below, an empty hall filled with canons and skeletons as well as the captain’s quarters, where the remains of One-Eyed Willie sat amid mountains of treasure. We weren’t supposed to see the ship, however, until that exact moment in the film—after we slide down the water chutes and land in the middle of a lagoon. In order to ensure the most authentic reactions from a cast full of kids, the production designers built an entire lagoon right inside stage 16, erected huge walls around it, and strung a sort of clothing line along the top, up by the rafters, from which they hung a giant black nylon curtain. Outside the curtain was stationed a security guard, who granted access to set only after checking your very official photo ID.

Later they would fill the lagoon with water, adding in some sort of chemical dye to turn it royal blue. I don’t know what the hell was in that stuff; you didn’t even have to be
in
the water, just spending a day on the set was enough to turn your boogers blue. Same goes for the pirate treasure. All of those glittering jewels and coins were dusted with some sort of fake gold plating; but the plating would sweat and then turn black. After a full day shooting on that stage, you’d have black stuff coming out your nose. Basically, we wound up with different colored snot depending on where we’d spent the day shooting. I don’t know where they found that dye, but it was probably not the healthiest stuff.

I was just finishing up another mandated twenty minutes in the school trailer when a production assistant showed up, summoning me to Steven’s set. We were working on the scene where the Goonies start yanking on the town water pipes until I yell out, “Reverse pressure!” Then, the blast from an exploding water main blows open a secret passageway, leading us to the remains of Chester Copperpot. In terms of plot, this marks the true beginning of our journey; it’s the halfway point between the “real world” and total fantasy. In particular, Steven was ready to work on the delivery of my line; the camera would slowly pan toward my face, then speed up, ending on a tight close-up. This is a signature Spielberg move; he’s utilized it in most of his movies.

Steven took his seat behind the camera, which was rigged to a dolly track, and I took my place on top of an apple box so I could pretend that I was actually hanging from the elevated pipes. We did a few takes—I swung from the pipes, the camera zoomed in on my face, I yelled my line, “Reeevvveerrseee preeessssuuuuree!”—but Steven just wasn’t getting the reaction from me that he wanted. Finally, he brought production to a grinding halt.

“Listen,” he said, once he’d left the comfort of his chair and come to speak to me privately, “I need a certain look from you, a certain expression on your face. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I have something to tell you. And as soon as I tell you, I’m going to say ‘action,’ and we’re going to zoom in tight on your face.”

He returned to his spot behind the camera. “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” I said.

“Okay. Today’s the day, Corey. Michael Jackson is coming to set.” As promised, he immediately followed this up with “Action!” And it worked—that’s the very take they ended up using.

*   *   *

Waiting for Michael
to arrive was agony. I have no idea what I was supposed to have been studying in school that day; I certainly couldn’t concentrate. Mostly I just prayed that his schedule wouldn’t change again, that he wouldn’t back out at the last minute.

Whenever I had a break, I would run across the lot to Steven’s set, because it seemed like the most likely place for Michael to show up. I watched as Sean, Ke, Jeff, and Steven worked on a scene in one of the caves, positioned all the way at the back of stage 15. I was standing near the mouth of the cave, letting my imagination wander, when I suddenly felt a chill. My skin broke out in goose bumps. It was him. I could
feel
it. I turned around slowly and there, all the way at the other end of the stage, was Michael Jackson, walking directly toward me with his longtime head of security, Bill Bray.

It was like he had stepped right out of a music video—he had the black military jacket with the giant gold buttons, the glittery belt buckle, the penny loafers, and the exposed white socks. (Later, I would realize that I had also noticed his smell. Michael always doused himself in cologne; in those days it was Giorgio Beverly Hills. I hounded my grandmother until she took me to a fragrance store and I was able to take home a free sample.) I took off at a full sprint from my spot outside the cave—halfway there I managed to get my composure; I didn’t want his bodyguard to think I was about to bum rush him—until I was standing right at his feet. That’s when I realized I had no idea what to say. I was standing there, right under his nose, right in front of his face, and then I stuttered. “Um … excuse me? Are you Michael Jackson?”

He looked down at me from behind those giant Ray Ban aviators, tinted so dark you couldn’t see his eyeballs at all, and said, very quietly, in that famous falsetto, “Yeah, who are you?”

“I’m Corey Feldman,” I said. “I’m a Goonie.”

“Oh, hi, Corey. How ya doing?”

I felt a smile creep across my face, squeaked out another “Hi,” and then sort of scampered off so I could watch him more comfortably from afar. I had made the introduction, we had finally, officially, met, but I was too nervous to say much else. I hovered close, and watched as Michael said hello to Steven, as they gave each other a hug, as a production assistant sidled over and offered to get him something to drink.

“Apple juice,” he said. “I’d love some Apple juice, please.”

Huh. He didn’t ask for a Coke, or a water, or anything I would have considered a remotely adult sort of beverage. That’s interesting, I thought. He seemed—I don’t know—relatable.

*   *   *

All that afternoon,
I was back and forth between stages, in and out of the school trailer. I couldn’t just follow Michael around; I still had responsibilities on set. Finally, I was summoned back to Steven’s stage, this time to film the scene where we match the skull key to a set of “triple stones” on the wall of the cave.

Someone had set up a director’s chair for Michael. After we finished blocking the scene, Steven went over and sat down next to him. As I stood in the cave, idly chatting with Sean and Jeff, I noticed that Steven and Michael were laughing, joking, and whispering to each other. Then, Michael was pointing directly at me. Suddenly, Steven was ushering me over.

“Did you have a different haircut in
Gremlins
?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

Steven turned to Michael. “Well, there you go. You were right.”

“I knew it!” Michael laughed. And then something incredible happened—Michael turned and spoke to me. “Corey, you were so great in that movie.”

“You saw it?”

“Oh, yeah. My brothers and I used to get out early from rehearsals for the Victory Tour so we could watch it over and over. We used to sneak in and sit in the back of the theater. That was my favorite movie that whole summer.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah! You were so good. I think you’re one of the best kid actors in the world. I think you’re the next Marlon Brando.”

The greatest entertainer in the world had just told me he thought I was good. I almost fainted.