Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography (19 page)

Joe Tremaine runs one of the leading dance studios in Los Angeles. I’m in the back row of one of his beginning classes, brushing up on my old moves from the days of John Kenley and Peanut Butter and Jelly.
Footloose
’s director, Herbert Ross, has given strict instructions that I come ready to bust a move for his screen tests. The lead in the movie is a star-making part and everyone wants it. I’m going to have to will my way through this dance audition/screen test somehow and then hope my acting can do the rest. But here in the stifling, crowded dance studio, I see that I’m never gonna be John Travolta. But I’m not one to give up—you never know what’s in the cards.

The movie’s producers are Craig Zadan and Neil Meron. They are lobbying for me to get the part and coaching me through the process. In spite of my low-level dance skills, as I walk onto the soundstage at Paramount Studios, I know I have a shot. Herb Ross addresses the assembled group of actors. There are a couple guys I recognize, but no one famous. I take that as a good sign.

“Hello, fellas,” he says, looking a little like Roy Scheider as Bob Fosse. “We will be learning a full routine today to ‘Rockin’ the Paradise’ by Styx. You have an hour to learn the steps, then we will do the number and make our cuts.”

Wow. This is just like
A Chorus Line
, I think. All around me people are doing intense stretches and otherwise warming up their “instruments.” I figure I ought to do the same, so I do some calisthenics I remember from my fifth-grade soccer team. The choreographer goes through the routine and I actually follow along pretty well. My time at Joe Tremaine’s dance studio is paying off.

Eventually the director returns, followed by the producers and a phalanx of studio executives, all in Armani power suits. They sit in a line of folding chairs facing us. We shuffle in place nervously.

The choreographer counts off “One, two, three!” and the speakers blast the opening bars of the song. All twenty of us go into the routine. I know better than to think—that would just mess me up—so I trust instead and … holy shit, it’s working! Out of the corner of my eye, I see one guy stumble. Another loses his place completely. But I can also see that some of these guys are smokin’ it.

The routine ends with a big running dive to the knees and a stage slide across the floor. I decide I’ll make up with enthusiasm what I lack in technique. The big finish approaches. I explode into a sprint, leap as high as I possibly can, and come down on my knees hard, skidding a good ten feet across the floor. There is a grotesque
pop
that can be heard over the music, and my right knee explodes in pain. Within seconds it is the size of a butterball turkey. I look up at the director and black out.

I didn’t get the part in
Footloose
. I
did
get a torn meniscus and an assurance that they weren’t going to cast an actor anyway; they’ll go with a pro dancer. I get driven home to rehab my knee. A week later, they hire Kevin Bacon, an actor.

Meanwhile, back on the continent, Roman Polanski still isn’t ready. He has recast Jack Nicholson’s part of Captain Red with Walter Matthau. Talk about a different way to go! While I’m a fan of Mr. Matthau, I’m having a hard time envisioning him as a dangerous, daring swashbuckler. But I’m sure the legendary Polanski sees something I don’t, so I remain patient.

Meanwhile, MGM, the studio that is making the hockey movie, is relentlessly trying to get me on board. And when a big studio pulls out the guns for a charm offensive, it’s hard not to be swayed. I reread the script, looking for something I can bring to the role, and begin a series of talks with the young director, Peter Markle. Turns out he played junior hockey and knows the world inside out. His passion gets me interested.

Almost eight weeks after my screen test in Paris, I take the bull by the horns and call Polanski myself. If he personally tells me to hang tough, I will. I leave a message at his home. After waiting another two weeks with no return phone call, I say yes to
Youngblood
and good-bye to
Pirates
.

Roman would eventually make the movie with Walter Matthau. An unknown French actor who looked exactly like me would play my part. It would be neither Mr. Polanski’s nor Mr. Matthau’s high-water mark—
Pirates
would sink without a trace. So much for career planning.

With principal photography six weeks away, it’s time to tackle the single biggest challenge of making
Youngblood
: I can’t skate. I mean, not even a little bit. There is talk of wheeling me around the ice on a platform and only shooting me from the knees up, but I veto it. I remember the Ron Howard motorcycle disaster too well. I will instead embark on an intense six-week training regimen. The studio hires a power-skating coach and a hockey coach. A physical trainer is given the challenge of adding fifteen pounds to my still-scrawny teen frame. The crash course will be so intense that I am relocated to a small apartment a block from the rink where I will train. This is my daily schedule:

It’s a brutal, physically painful ordeal. But after six weeks of it, I’m bigger and stronger, and can skate like the wind. The
Youngblood
preparation program got me hooked on physical challenges, adrenaline sports, and daily training, all of which have been a big part of my life ever since. Every movie gives you a gift. This was
Youngblood
’s.

I keep hearing about another movie in the casting stage that’s getting a lot of attention,
St. Elmo’s Fire
. I’m already in preproduction on
Youngblood
and exhausted by its rigors, so I haven’t really tracked this script as it became a hot commodity among other young actors. And suddenly, young actors are everywhere. Studios are filling their pipelines with material by and for people under twenty-five like never before. They’ve seen enough promise in the performances of
Taps
,
The Outsiders
,
Caddyshack
,
Risky Business
, and
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
. It seems like there are new opportunities and new actors appearing daily. In this Wild West gold rush, even industry insiders can’t keep track of what’s what or who’s who. This youth movement is so conspicuous, it’s begging for a “catchall” label or category to describe all these new faces making their mark.

Columbia, the studio making
St. Elmo’s Fire,
wants me in the movie. The director and producers, for whatever reason, do not. My agents convince me to read the script and I immediately fall in love with the part of Billy Hicks, the lovable, debauched, sax-playing ladies’ man. The studio brass twists the director’s arm and he agrees to meet me as a courtesy. But he has made it clear that I’m not “right” for the part of Billy, though he
might
consider me for the square, rigid yuppie, Alex. Coming off the movie
D.C. Cab
, starring Mr. T, he sees this as an opportunity to step up his game, so he’s being very protective of his vision.

A meeting is scheduled quickly, before I leave for location for
Youngblood
. I know the director’s feelings about me playing Billy and I have no interest in the other role, so I hatch a plan.

I meet the director, Joel Schumacher, on a late spring afternoon. I’ve been out on the town the night before and am feeling pretty shot. I make no attempt to hide it. In fact, I bring a six-pack of Corona with me to the meeting. Mr. Schumacher clearly thinks I’m not wild or dangerous enough to play this part. I’m going to show him otherwise.

The sun is blinding as I blink through watery eyes. I’m looking for Building 125 on the Columbia lot. The guard at the gate has been less than helpful.

“Follow the blue line to the red line. Make two rights. Then follow the blue line again until you get to the western back lot. Then go to the water tower, where you will pick up the
dotted
green line to its intersection with the yellow line that wraps around the commissary. Your meeting will be on the left.”

After a few steps, I’m lost. I look for someone to help me and see an extraordinary sight. It’s a girl in a see-through sundress, backlit, revealing a gorgeous body. She has long, light brown hair that she has tied up and over (completely covering) a straw cowboy hat. It’s a look I’ve never seen before or since. She is standing about twenty yards away, looking right at me. We lock eyes. Before I can ask her for help with directions, she steps between buildings and is gone.

Eventually I find Joel Schumacher’s office. I’m very punctual by habit but this time I’m glad I’m late; it will have the desired effect. I wander in, holding my six-pack. Joel is a stylish, funny, smart, and sometimes bitchy man who dresses like a Ralph Lauren model. We hit it off at once. He is bemused as I pound a beer and regale him with semiaccurate stories of wild nights on the town. I know he is looking for recklessness and a big sense of fun in this character, so I give it to him. At all costs, I don’t want him to think of me for the yuppie, square role.

Soon, the beer is taking effect.

“Joel, I’m sorry. I need to use the men’s room.”

“Just use the one here in my office. I have to step out for a phone call, anyway.”

Joel goes to make his call and as I’m getting some relief from pounding my Coronas, suddenly the door to the bathroom opens.

“Oh, hi,” says the beautiful girl in the sundress.

“Um. Hi,” I say, stunned,

“Joel told me to come on in. I didn’t know anyone was in here. Sorry,” she says, without seeming sorry at all. She smiles winningly. And then, in a one-in-a-million voice: “I’m Demi.”

With that, she and I were off to the races. Demi Moore at nineteen was a study in charisma and raw talent—a wild child with bona fides. It was obvious she was perfect to play the sexy, troubled, and magnetic Jules. She and I sat on Joel’s couch, talking like we’d known each other forever. Joel said very little; he was assessing whether we would make a good on-screen couple.