If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (62 page)

Amazingly, several weeks later, I got a call from this intrepid reporter saying that he had not only contacted Gary, but he arranged for lunch at the Little Dutch Restaurant (an old haunt during the filming), and a trip to the cabin.

The idea was to hook up with Gary "somewhere off the road" outside of Morristown. I was driving in from Nashville that morning and had to hustle to make the one o'clock rendezvous. In actuality, it wasn't hard to spot Gary. He was, without a doubt, the only person driving a canary yellow Dodge Viper in Morristown, Tennessee.

Gary was in good spirits, had taken good care of himself and, most importantly, kept his entrepreneurial spirit alive and well. His latest endeavor was an auto body painter's color palate. Essentially, it's a simple device that helps them match new coats of paint with original auto body colors.

Obscure as it may sound, Gary was starting to sell his invention to mainstream auto supply stores and had his own sweatshop set up in the headquarters of the family business. In all, Gary kept enough plates in the air to maintain a high quality of life in rural Tennessee.

Lunch at the Little Dutch, a restaurant symbolic of much more than a couple of meals twenty-two years ago, was very enjoyable. Gary brought along his new lady friend and we dredged up the old war stories for over an hour. It was interesting to hear Gary's perspective on the
Evil Dead
experience so many years later. More than anything, I was shocked at how much I had forgotten of the whole experience.

The true mission of the day was to visit the original cabin site. Granted, it had been burned to the ground since 1982, but that wasn't the point. I just wanted to stop by, take a few pictures, and pay my respects.

Heading east from Morristown on 11E, we turned right on Kidwell Ridge Road, took another right on... hey, wait a minute, that's too much information! Sorry, but I'd hate to contribute to the delinquency of a minor by encouraging further plunder of this semi-secret place.

I had been to the cabin location two previous times: once when it was still intact and once when it had burned to the ground, but the surrounding woods were outrageously overgrown each time, and I never got the full effect. The latest visit was, by far, the spookiest because it finally coincided with the time of year when the film was shot. As a result, the access road, the surrounding woods, and the cabin site all looked exactly like they did in 1979. Vegetation had died off, and the "swamp grass," as we called it, was bent and dried in exactly the same manner.

What differed was the scale of things. The images in my mind were all bigger, but the present-day reality was smaller, less defined. The driveway wasn't as long or steep, the woods weren't as foreboding or thick, and the cabin location wasn't as far removed from civilization as it had been in my memory. Still, it was a thrill to go back for a look around. Memories were plentiful, and most of them were good.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

All epic journeys must end, and this one sputtered to a halt with a makeup book signing in Miami. The first attempt, scheduled for September 14, had been canceled for obvious reasons.

At other signings, I never gave much thought to what the turnout would be, but the competition that rainy night, November 4, 2001, was fierce: Game Seven of the World Series, the Emmy Awards, and Hurricane Michelle. I'd love to say that we ended the tour with a sellout, slam-dunk event in Miami, but we didn't. It was a very "quiet" night as a result, and everyone went home early. As in movies, so in publishing, sometimes you take one on the "chin."

I never went to my twenty-year high school reunion because it coincided with the first episode I ever did as a guest star on the TV show
Ellen.
The logistics gods were simply against making both possible, so I opted for employment -- the only choice an actor can make -- and never gave it a second thought.

I'm happy to report, however, that six years later, my reunion experience finally came to fruition during the twenty-year anniversary of the film that started this whole mess. Anchor Bay Releasing, the Michigan-based distribution company, hosted a screening that coincided with the theatrical re-release of
Evil Dead --
complete with a much-needed audio/visual facelift.

Staged in Royal Oak, Michigan (my birthplace by coincidence), the screening and subsequent party took place in and around the Main Theater, downtown. A mainstay of my childhood, the spruced-up theater was a perfect place to re-launch the flick. Ironically, this sleepy Detroit suburb, known in my youth as "Royal Joke," has since transformed itself into a hip place, complete with franchise stores, cool bars, and trendy, dare I say pricey, restaurants.

Miraculously, Anchor Bay located each of the five cast members and even Tom Sullivan, our make-up guru. Professionally, I had not worked with the
Evil Dead
actors in two decades, and had spoken with them only sporadically since, but as we all assembled at the Anchor Bay offices to prepare for the evening, none of us could keep from smiling. Regardless of what had happened in between, we all shared the same unforgettable "first film" experience.

Within fifteen minutes, I was kicking Ellen Sandweiss under the table and referring to her as "Ellen Sandflies" as I did in high school, and we fell back into familiar patter, like old pals, for the rest of the evening.

The thing that really struck me about the event, as we interacted with a hoard of
Evil Dead
fans, was how dumbfounded the other cast members were by the following this crude horror flick from their distant past had since gained. I wasn't surprised in the least, having tracked its success the entire time, but you could tell by the look on the faces of Betsy, Ellen, Theresa, Rich, and Tom as they stepped out of the white stretch limo for a grand entrance -- this was all pretty new.

The screening went as expected. I had seen the film so many times that I knew exactly when the audience reactions would come, so it was way more fun to watch the next generation, like my nephew Colin, scream and laugh their asses off.

Afterward, the cast and crew assembled to field questions. It came out that Ellen Sandweiss, Betsy Baker, and Teresa Tilly had recently formed their own subgroup called "Ladies of the
Evil Dead,"
and were taking their act on the road to conventions across the land. Tom Sullivan, for his part, had jumped back into the game as well, doing appearances and makeup demonstrations.

Rich Demanincor, known in the film as Hal Delrich, was the only sensible one of the bunch. Now working as a bidder for a local contractor in Michigan, Rich summed up his feelings when he introduced himself:

"Hi folks, I'm Rich Demanincor and none of this hoopla means anything to me... I have a real job."

He said it with a smile and the audience roared with laughter. I must say, as someone who is perhaps too close to these films, I appreciated his healthy perspective.

One of the amazing things about motion pictures is that they never go away, they just sit on a shelf somewhere until someone can dream up a new way to present them in theaters, on TV, DVD, or via some completely new technology. In the
Evil Dead
case, I chuckle about the irony that my first film performance, when I was the
least
experienced, would more or less get the most attention.

I suspect that the name Bruce Campbell will always have an asterisk next to it in movie compilation books: * "that
Evil Dead
guy." Whatever the case, I'm glad that the hardworking people behind the scenes, who put in long hours on the
Evil Dead
films, will be recognized as well by the newfound popularity. I'm equally pleased that fans around the world still seem to enjoy those ridiculous films -- even if fanatically so.

That particular weekend turned into an endless party of sorts -- to the extent that my mostly white, Dean Martin-like tuxedo had to be rented for two consecutive nights. The second event, less celebrated, but of no less significance, was to salute and celebrate the completion of an independent film I produced,
Hatred of a Minute.

Representing the next generation of poor bastards who go the distance with a totally "off the grid" film, Mike Kallio, the former boy wonder (I say that because from concept to completion of his film, seven years elapsed) introduced his psychological thriller to the world. Response was better than I had hoped, and the film might yet find an audience.

On behalf of all struggling filmmakers everywhere, especially in Michigan, I salute Mike and any other sap who can suck it up long enough to finish their film, sell it, and carve out a niche in the big bad world of moviemaking.

WHERE ARE THEY NOW? "THE BOYS" IN 2002

Until the sequel to
Chins
comes out, I'll leave you with a quick rundown of what my fellow filmmaking friends, those colorful supporting characters in the book, are up to these days:

Mike Ditz -- the man who took the picture on the cover of the book and every other photograph of my childhood, moved to Los Angeles about the time I departed to Oregon (the incidents were not related, Mike). Today, Mike is married to a schoolteacher and still makes his living as a professional photographer.

Scott Spiegel -- lives in the Hollywood hills in an old monastery and is prepping his next directorial effort, presumably for those Miramax/Dimension fellows he's been working with for several years now. Cool beans, Scotty -- now, where's my cameo?

John Cameron -- is a married man with a great kid named Jack (he's my godson so I'm allowed to gush) and a groovy wife, Halley. These days, John is busier than ever in Hollywood, most notably by co-producing the recent works of the Coen brothers, with whom he has enjoyed a long affiliation.

Josh Becker -- is my new neighbor. I spoke so highly of where I live in Oregon that Josh decided to give it a try. He now lives a mile and a half away -- closer than when we grew up in Michigan -- and we conspire often about the next film adventure.

Rob Tapert -- aka "Mr. TV Producer." Since hitting two home runs with
Hercules: The Legendary Journeys,
and then
Xena: Warrior Princess,
Rob followed up with a show I worked on (and will defend to the end) called
Jack of All Trades.
It was short-lived, but by Hollywood averages, Rob is still ahead of the game as he pitches new TV ideas to the marketplace.