Still Me (36 page)

So it went until the spring of '95. Dana auditioned for a number of projects in New York. I got up at six most mornings to train Buck before a full day in my office, often putting business aside to take Will to Water Babies or Gymboree in Mount Kisco. We launched the
Sea Angel
as usual in early April, and even went sailing one weekend in a snowstorm. My good friends the Halmis of Hallmark Entertainment offered me the lead in
Kidnapped
, to be shot in Ireland. Dana and I held each other close one night and decided that Ireland would be a perfect place to conceive our second child. Matthew and Al could come over from London and perhaps bring friends along, too. When we returned to Bedford in the fall, I would direct my first project for the big screen, a romantic comedy called
Tell Me True.
Our plans for the year were falling into place beautifully. Then one evening in May I went downstairs to fill out an entry form. The following Friday we were off to Culpeper.

Chapter 10

At home in Bedford I began a routine of exercising in the morning and doing office work in the afternoon. I was approached by Senator Jeffords of Vermont about an amendment to a bill in the Senate that would raise lifetime insurance caps from $1 million to $10 million. The Jeffords amendment was attached to the Kennedy-Kassebaum bill, which provided insurance coverage for individuals with preexisting conditions and portability, meaning that you would still be insured if you changed jobs. I wrote a letter to every senator explaining that the increased insurance caps would not be a hardship on employers; the cost (approximately nine dollars a year per worker in a medium-size company) could be split between management and the employees. Businesses employing fewer than twenty people would be exempt, and the legislation would not go into effect until 2004.

I spent over a month on this issue, giving interviews and making follow-up calls, trying to keep the amendment alive. Finally we were able to bring it to a vote. Jeffords had expected support from about eighteen of his colleagues. When the roll call was taken, the tally was forty-two votes in favor. Even though we lost, the margin was much smaller than expected, which meant that the issue could be reintroduced later, either attached to other health care legislation or as a separate bill.

I also worked on several approaches to increase funding for research at the NIH. I appealed to President Clinton, reiterating the thrust of my speech at the Democratic Convention: that spending a reasonable amount now on good science would save billions in the long run. I joined forces with Senators Tom Harkin and Arlen Specter to propose legislation that would require companies that offer health care insurance to donate one penny of every premium paid by the consumer to research. The conservative estimate was that this “tax” would generate $24 billion a year. When Harkin and Specter called for a sense of the Senate on the bill, the result was 98 to 0 in favor. Gratified by this response, they called for an official vote. It was defeated 65 to 33. To my mind this was a perfect example of the duplicity of most politicians. They know what's right, but when pressured by a powerful special interest group such as the insurance lobby, they fail to vote their consciences. The latest proposal for raising research money is to impose a tax of $1.50 on cigarettes, a measure that is more likely to pass because it's safer for the politicians now that public opinion is running against the tobacco companies.

During the first few months of 1996, the combination of being home with my family, working on these political issues, preparing for my appearance at the Oscars, and maintaining my health kept me extremely busy. Even though I'd decided not to go back into rehab for an all-out attempt to wean off the ventilator, I still breathed on my own nearly every morning. By February I could manage ninety minutes off the hose before becoming too exhausted to continue.

Gradually Dana and I assembled a staff of nurses and aides to provide me with the twenty-four-hour care I needed and to allow us a more normal family life. A psychologist at Kessler once said to me, “Don't turn your wife into your nurse or your mother.” We considered ourselves very lucky to be able to follow that advice; in many cases the patient's spouse has to become the primary caregiver, and the stress on the marriage is intense.

I was adjusting reasonably well, but in spite of all this activity I longed for some kind of creative outlet. In early April, Michael Fuchs, the former CEO of Home Box Office, came to the rescue. We had been friends since the early days of The Creative Coalition, when he lent his support to our fledgling organization and gave us office space in the HBO building. He had built HBO into the pre-eminent cable company by developing exceptional material, taking risks with his programming, and drawing talent away from films and the other networks.

Michael joined my friend and former agent Andrea Eastman and her husband, Richard, for a social dinner with Dana and me one evening. He had recently been fired in a shake-up at Time Warner, HBO's parent company. He had to leave a number of scripts behind, including one that was nearly ready for production called
In the Gloaming.
Michael knew of my interest in directing; in fact, I had been slated to direct
Family Album
for HBO several years earlier, but the executives and I could not agree on casting, so I bowed out and the film was never made. Now, even as he was being shown the door, he pitched
Gloaming
as an ideal project for my directorial debut.

Colin Callender, the executive in charge of HBO films produced on the East Coast; Keri Putnam, his second in command; the producer Fred Zollo; and Will Scheffer, who had adapted the screenplay from a story in
The New Yorker
, all descended on our house in Bedford one afternoon in early May. I think they needed reassurance; I doubt any of them had ever considered hiring a vent-dependent, quadriplegic first-time director. Meanwhile, I had my own agenda: I had read the script, and while I liked the premise very much, I felt there were a number of problems that needed to be addressed.

As soon as they were comfortably arranged in my living room, I launched the meeting by stating that I was grateful for their interest and felt that this would be the perfect project for me, both in terms of the emotional content of the story and the logistics of undertaking the production. (My experience at auditioning had taught, me that it helps to take charge.) Then I risked losing the job immediately by stating bluntly that I thought the script needed a substantial rewrite—the father lacked dimension, the mother-and-son relationship was inappropriately romantic, and there were too many clichés about the gay lifestyle. I half-expected the team would make a quick exit; instead, I learned later that my direct approach had given them confidence in me. Will Scheffer volunteered to start work immediately. After the executives left, we had a quick lunch, then turned to page 1 and began to revise. I was very grateful that he was so willing to consider my ideas. Many writers are defensive about their work, especially when they've already been told it's brilliant.

In the Gloaming
is the story of Danny, a young man suffering from AIDS who comes home to die. His return has a profound effect on his family, particularly his mother. After a long period of estrangement, a new bond forms between them. His father and younger sister, who have never accepted Danny's homosexuality, have a much more difficult time. During the last four months of his life, Danny helps to bring about healing and reconciliation in his dysfunctional family.

The first important task was to reexamine Danny's character. I felt that in the original script he was too sarcastic, bitter, and judgmental about his family. It seemed to me that a quiet dignity would make him much more sympathetic. Perhaps I felt a strong connection with Danny because of my own experience. After having nearly died twice, I felt no anger toward any of my relatives, even those with whom I'd had difficult relationships. I felt no need for “justice” or retribution. Issues in my two families that had troubled me for years now seemed much less significant.

I suggested to Will that when Danny gets his mother to talk about her life in a series of conversations in the twilight, his motivation is to understand rather than to criticize. Our working relationship was deeply satisfying. Will seemed genuinely affected by all I had learned and experienced in the past year. We spent the last two weeks in May working together in Williamstown. By June 1 we had a script that we were both proud of, and we had no reservations about showing it to anyone.

The rest of the summer was spent fighting the Casting Wars. My primary concerns were (a) to find first-rate actors, and (b) to create a believable family. HBO was sympathetic, but they also wanted to cast big-name actors who are seldom, if ever, seen on TV. For the first few days as we bandied names around, I hoped this wouldn't be a repeat of my experience with
Family Album.
Many first-time directors are so eager to get their films made that they cave in on casting. I felt strongly that if directing was going to be my second career, I didn't want it to begin with serious compromises.

Whenever HBO and I reached an impasse, I offered to step down. We did agree that no one could play the mother better than Glenn Close. I reached her on location in Australia, and she accepted the part within twenty-four hours of reading the script. I was thrilled, but then I was asked to approach Gene Hackman to play the father. Notwithstanding his tremendous talent (and our friendship that dated back to
Superman I
), I simply could not imagine Gene and Glenn as a married couple. I tried to convince HBO that Janet and Martin had to be about the same age or there would be no logic to the story, and their reconciliation at the end would not be effective.

The Name Game went on for nearly three months, more time than it takes to cast many big-budget feature films. After Glenn was cast there were endless discussions about every role with the exception of the one played by Whoopi Goldberg. I called her on the set of
Ghosts of Mississippi
to discuss the part and make sure she understood it was just a cameo. She asked only one question: “Am I a maid?” I replied, “No, you're a nurse.” I offered to overnight a script, but she said it wasn't necessary and signed on immediately.

By late August I was fairly exhausted by the struggle, but we had signed up the perfect cast. I had gotten my first choice for every role. I was grateful that actors of the caliber of Glenn, Robert Sean Leonard, Bridget Fonda, David Strathairn, and Whoopi had decided to trust me, and was very glad I had sent them a polished script rather than a work in progress.

The crew fell into place much more easily than the cast under the capable supervision of our line producer, Nellie Nugiel, who ran the day-to-day logistics of the shoot. I hired my cousin Nick Childs to be my assistant, which raised some eyebrows until the executives discovered he was more than qualified for the job; then they made him postproduction supervisor as well. Fred Elmes, a superbly versatile director of photography who had worked several times with David Lynch, loved the script and quickly agreed to join us. Glenn's daughter Annie and my son Will were cast as young Bridget and Robert in the opening credit sequence—a little harmless nepotism. We found the ideal location, a house in Pound Ridge, just ten minutes from my home. Andy Jackness and his crew decorated it perfectly. By the third week of September everything was set to go.

We began with a table reading of the script at our production offices in Bedford Hills. The night before I lay awake thinking of moments in my life when I'd been in a position of leadership. I remembered screaming at my crews during my racing days as a young teenager and the humiliation of the Seamanship/Sportsmanship Award. I recalled a couple of directors who had frustrated me with their inability to communicate. I thought about Jim Ivory's skill at being “in the moment.” I had learned how important it is to lead but also to get out of the way.

Now it was my turn. As I wheeled into position at the head of the table, all eyes turned toward me. This was it. We had assembled an exceptional group of artists on both sides of the camera, and I eagerly looked forward to the gifts they would bring to our film. We turned to page 1 and began.

The night before shooting Glenn threw a party for the whole company and made a very moving speech, saying that she was delighted to be part of this new adventure in my life. I felt tremendous warmth and support from everyone in the room. That night I was able to go home and sleep soundly instead of staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

The next morning Nick drove me to the set in my van, making sure to arrive fifteen minutes early. (I made a point of being early every day so no one would worry about me.) Neil Stutzer, our accessibility adviser, designed a forty-foot ramp that extended from the sidewalk to the front porch. This was my entrance to the set, but it had to be taken apart when we shot exteriors, then reassembled so I could leave the house at the end of the day. Once I was inside I parked myself in front of a monitor; the script supervisor, my nurse, Nick Childs, the producers, and visitors from HBO would soon join me in what came to be known as Video Village.

We began each day by reading the first scene to be shot as soon as the actors were made up and dressed. The crew was ready with the lighting because we set the actors' positions each evening before going home. Working with the art department during preproduction in early September, I had gone into every room, both upstairs and down, to make decisions about the placement of furniture and possible camera positions. This involved lifts, ramps, and my occasional transfer into a seventeen-inch-wide aisle chair so that I could negotiate the narrow hallways. I had to be strapped in with my arms crossed, my knees tied together, and my head bound to the back of the headrest with tight Velcro straps so that I wouldn't slump side-sideways out of the chair if I had a bad spasm. I often joked that looked like Gary Gilmore and suggested that they pin a big red heart on my chest and shoot me. Once I was strapped in I usually quoted his famous final words: “Let's do it,” whereupon the grips would carry me upstairs or wherever I needed to go.