If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (63 page)

Sam Raimi -- Please refer to him as the new Hollywood Poo-Bah. Sam's latest epic,
Spider-Man,
smashed a slew of box office records, including those for single-day, weekend (114 million), the coveted fastest-to-100-million mark (3 days), the best
second
weekend ever and the fastest-to-200 million -- a mere nine days. Whoa, Spidey -- slow down!

Back in Ferndale, Michigan, Sam used to joke about one day having a film rank #1 in
Variety Magazine
for the week. I think this former low-budget wunderkind will have the last laugh when he finds himself on top of the Hollywood heap more than once in the very near future.

PARTING THOUGHTS

The book tour came to symbolize the end of an era -- and I'm not talking about the American way of life -- I'm talking about my laundry bag. Before I eulogize this nylon sack, I'll give you some background: during the post-production of first
Evil Dead
in New York City, Sam Raimi, Rob Tapert, and I lived in a small apartment on 60th between 1st and York Street, and it was this neighborhood where I bought the purple nylon laundry sack. Once a week, for the next several months, I'd drop off my nasties, spend the day making scary sounds in a dark studio, then pick up my "fluffed" and "folded" laundry in the evening. For the next twenty years, that simple bag, with a fading "Campbell" scrawled in magic marker across its length, accompanied me around the world. It's a stupid attachment, I know, but for me it forever symbolized the independent filmmaking spirit, the excitement of going to the big city and finding my fortune.

I'm speaking about the purple bag in the past tense because, sadly, during the filming of
Serving Sara
in Dallas last year, my dear wife Ida unwittingly delivered a death blow to "the old soldier." Carrying a heavy load of clothes to a Laundromat, she opted to drag the bag on the sidewalk part of the way. What resulted was a fatal road rash, decimating all support in the most critical part of the bag -- the bottom.

Deep in denial, I bought a new yellow nylon laundry bag, but still attempted to use the crippled one on short, light-laundry business trips. Near the end of the book tour, outside of Albany, New York, Mr. Purple lost the will to carry anything, and I had to put him down.

Born in New York, dragged to death in Texas, that little nylon bag lived a full and varied life. Mr. Purple, may you carry only fresh, clean clothes up there in nylon laundry bag heaven. So long, old friend, you've served me well.

After hawking
If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor
from June 8 to November 4, 2001, crisscrossing the country one too many times for my own good, I now understand why rock 'n' roll band members become disoriented on long tours, lose track of days, and trash their hotel rooms.

But in spite of my incessant whining, I'd be a fool and an ingrate to deny that it was a great time to be traveling, to reassure myself that we weren't going to fall apart as a country any time soon. And, as always, I enjoyed visiting your cities, dear reader, for some in-person, off-the-record shenanigans.

And just so you know, because of your support (and bulging wallets),
Chins
jumped on and off the "extended"
New York Times
bestseller list eight times during its release, peaking at #19.

For that, and everything else, you have my sincere thanks.

Bruce Campbell
May 2002

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A hundred years ago, a guy named John Hodgeman contacted me by e-mail.

"Ever thought about writing a book?" he wrote.

John, it turned out, was a literary agent in New York.

"Yeah, right," I answered. "Another actor writes a lame-ass book. Snoresville, baby."

John refused to back off, based on a series of rants and anecdotes I had posted on my website. He was convinced that if I could put together a "demo" book, a publisher would step up to the plate.

From here, we cut to Cannes, France, about a month later. I was walking through the lobby of the hoity-toity Carleton Hotel, searching for a business associate, when a Dutch fellow collared me.

"Mr. Campbell, I have an excellent screenplay for you to star in."

I was in Cannes for the film festival, so hawking projects like this happens about five times every nano-second.

"Uhhh, sure pal..." I responded with a smile and accepted his manuscript.

Later, while sipping a nine-dollar 7-Up, I thumbed through the incomprehensible manuscript. It would make a terrible film, but the backside of this permanently bound document would be perfect to use to jot down a jumble of my memories, incidents and anecdotes. I hope I run into that Dutch guy again because I'll tell him, with all sincerity, that I got a lot out of his script.

However, I realized that if a book was going to be made of all this, I had to clear out the cobwebs, get organized, and break open the proverbial cookie jar...

In my attic, I rummaged through high school era diaries, old business logs and photographs. A more complete picture began to form, but it wasn't until I paid a visit to buddy Scott Spiegel's apartment that it all came into sharp focus. Scott, for as long as I've known him, has never thrown out a script, a letter, a ticket stub -- nothing.

Sifting through these artifacts whipped my mental pot into a frenzy and fresh stories sprung to life. With a combination of excitement and trepidation, I proceeded to write a "Cliff Notes" version of this book.

To jazz up the look of it, I enlisted my trustworthy assistant, Craig Sanborn. He's one of those infuriatingly computer-literate guys who can master a new software program in minutes. This ability, combined with a good sense of art direction, made Craig an integral part of this book.

We let technology assist us in this new medium. Multiple software and hardware purchases later, we kicked out a ninety-page proposal that was distributed to about a dozen publishers in the New York.

As expected, fifty percent of the prospective buyers fell away immediately. Writing a book about the "unglamorous" side of Hollywood was about as exciting to some publishers as a mom-and-pop soda shop would be to a Fortune 500 company.

Still, a few curious publishers dangled in uncertainty and a meet-the-press trip to the Big Apple followed. Fifty percent of the fifty percent fell away upon meeting in person (must have been my aftershave), and we were left with but a brave few.

St. Martin's Press, in their wisdom/foolishness decided to give me a shot on this tale of Hollywood's unrecognized lower middle class.

Once a contract was signed, and the celebrations tapered off, I was left with the realization that
I actually had to write the damn thing.
A year was provided to piece it all together and the first six months flew by without a blink.

Hey, I'm a busy actor,
I told myself.
I'll get to it...

Eventually, a deadline loomed and I had to get my doughy butt in gear. In compiling this book, I relied upon the good graces of many folks -- in particular, my old pals from the Michigan "daze." In order to jolt our collective memories, I interviewed most of them, much like a cub reporter. It was great to rehash the stories and challenges of the past, and I owe a great deal of thanks to Jan Holbrook for wading through the eighteen tapes, transcribing hours of nonsequiturs, inside jokes and unexplained laughter.

Because my day job as an actor kept me very busy during this time, I wrote this book in my "spare" time. During film shoots, it meant knuckling down after 7:00 in the evening or on weekends. Airplanes also provided a fine opportunity to get writing done. As a captive passenger, there was often no better way to pass those one-, three-, five-, or twelve-hour flights than to crack open my Dell Laptop and peck away until its double battery was drained.

In case it's of any interest at all, this book was concocted in two hemispheres and on three continents. Hand-written musings were hammered into a structure from a groovy bachelor pad in Paris and at my former home in Los Angeles, California. The lion's share of the real work was assembled in countless hotels, apartments and townhouses in and around Auckland, New Zealand -- not to mention my trailer on set.

I can't tell you how often I shouted to an assistant director, "Okay, okay -- I'll be right there," as I typed the last few thoughts before dashing out to torment Hercules or Xena.

Chapters were refined in enough cities to choke a Rand McNally guide, including Detroit, Minneapolis, Ontario, Cherry Hill, Tulsa, Austin, Dallas, Medford, New York City, Wilmington, as well as the countries of Mexico, Costa Rica, Canada, Australia, and Africa.

The purpose of this list is not to name-drop on a global scale, but rather to illustrate how this book came to be in my near-gypsy existence. As much as I would have enjoyed writing in some idyllic locale, undisturbed for months on end, it simply wasn't in the cards.

I also want to thank my editor, Barry Neville, for forcing this book down the throat of Thomas Dunne Books. I wasn't privy to the back-room arm-twisting, but I'm sure it cost Barry dearly.