Crane (27 page)

In July 1986 I was summoned to John Candy’s homestead in woodsy Mandeville Canyon in Brentwood. The spread was three acres of precious Los Angeles real estate. There was a four-bedroom mock-Tudor home, a swimming pool, a tennis court, and two guesthouses—one for living and one that doubled as pottery studio and workout room. Standing resolutely by the swimming pool was a seven-foot replica of the Statue of Liberty.

John and I met in his small office upstairs in the main house. He sat behind his desk playing the role of the executive. I was unsure why I was there. Did he want me to do another article, coordinate some live event, or maybe just walk his dogs?

John had an old-time, old-school publicist named Paul Flaherty (no relation to his
SCTV
colleague Joe Flaherty), who had been around Hollywood for decades. He expended minimal effort on John’s career while maximizing time on the links at the Bel-Air Country Club. John and Paul were a mismatch—the old 9-to-5 Hollywood versus the new 24/7 Hollywood. They were, at the very least, a generation apart, whereas only a year separated John and me. For quite some time I had been arranging way more publicity for John than his salaried publicist had.

John came straight to the point. “Would you handle publicity for me on a tour I’m going to be doing in August?”

My face flushed. I had visions of Derek Taylor, who handled PR for the Beatles. I didn’t want to appear too eager. I was going to milk the moment. After all, I had a busy writing schedule. I would also have to check with Kari. “Yes,” I answered in about two seconds, ever the master negotiator.

“It’ll be two weeks in New York, Toronto, and British Columbia,” said Candy in his most businesslike manner, with not a hint of Johnny LaRue.

I would be John’s lean, mean, publicity machine. Okay, not so lean, but I would be the guy who ran interference for, and stood between, the “talent” and the world at large.

“It’s for a movie called
Armed and Dangerous,
” John continued. “Eugene [Levy] is in it with me and he’s going to join us in New York and Toronto.” He stared at me. “Seventy-five hundred okay?”

“For two weeks? Yeah,” I said, with as much reserve as I could muster. “Thanks for thinking of me, John. This will be fun.”

I drove home and excitedly detailed the arrangement without mentioning my new pay scale to Kari. She took it all in, then asked, “How much are you being paid, or are you doing this as a favor to John?” She was sure this was pro bono work.

I gave her my best poker face. “Seventy-five hundred,” I answered, suppressing a Jack Nicholson–sized smile.

I could see her brain immediately tallying up all the bills that would be paid. She smiled as big a smile as I had. For her I knew it was a win-win. We could catch up on some outstanding debts, and she could have two calm weeks in the house by herself. I pointed out that if all went well this could be the start of a new career that involved something as novel as a regular paycheck.

But first things first. We had to go see the epic. Kari and I attended a screening of
Armed and Dangerous
at the Burbank Studios. The film starred John, Eugene Levy, and a pert newcomer named Meg Ryan. The script, written by Harold Ramis of
Animal House, Caddyshack,
and
Stripes
fame together with Second City’s Peter Torokvei, was originally destined to be a vehicle for John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd. After Belushi’s untimely death, Aykroyd tried to hook up with Bill Murray for the film, but instead they made
Ghostbusters.
As the script gathered dust, other actors like Jim Belushi came and went. It wasn’t until Ron Howard’s
Splash
with Tom Hanks, Candy, and Levy made sizable waves that Columbia Pictures declared “Surf’s up” to
Armed and Dangerous.
The studio hoped the
SCTV
and
Splash
juju would generate enough interest in B-listers Candy and Levy to ride the curl to a big payday. When the lights came up in the screening room, I squeezed Kari’s hand as we silently exchanged looks. The movie was not funny. Even John Candy’s genial personality was unable to save the sophomoric script and idiotic plot—
Armed and Dangerous
was a total wipeout.

Nonetheless, I waxed up my enthusiasm as point man for John. In my initial conversations with the Columbia Pictures publicity department, I quickly understood why I was onboard the SS
Candy.
The studio’s department consisted of a crash of crusty publicists from the ’50s and ’60s who didn’t know what to do with a commodity like John Candy. Their reference points were Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck. They had no idea what John could bring to the publicity table and seemingly had no interest in trying to find out. I had the feeling that the old-wave veterans I spoke to didn’t know about or couldn’t be bothered with
SCTV.
John,
who always had a good sense of the room, lost his patience very quickly in this case. Columbia was running the show, but it was my job to shield John from the uncreative, antiquated ideas of publicity that were being pushed in his direction. The Columbia flacks pitched inappropriate or worn-out newspaper, magazine, and radio reporters. These were people who were used to making a call to Walter Winchell or Louella Parsons for an interview with their star, then retiring to their three-martini lunches.
Saturday Night Live, Rolling Stone,
and
David Letterman
were alien to them. I quickly earned Columbia’s enmity as I turned down one lame venue after another. I felt I should be wearing Kevlar when moving John from point A to B. I arranged MTV,
Spin
magazine, and
Late Night with David Letterman
interviews and appearances.

Sometimes after a writer had interviewed John, I would call him or her to politely clarify a point or to ask for a deletion. Often, in an effort to massage the situation, I would offer some unique piece of information or extend an invitation to a party or screening that involved John. I knew what kind of perks would be persuasive or soothing to writers, and John always appreciated that my dad had been an actor and that I had grown up around the business. He liked that I had been on the other side of the table asking the questions. He trusted me to look out for his best interests, which I always did.

The studio desperately wanted John to appear on one of the big morning television programs,
Today
or
Good Morning America.
I explained that he would not be at his best at those ungodly early hours, and that John felt late night was where his audience was anyway. He loved Johnny Carson but was absolutely petrified at the notion of appearing on
The Tonight Show.
He felt comfortable with David Letterman, who admired
SCTV
and its cast. I liaised with Columbia Pictures regarding which venues were compatible with Mr. Candy’s performing sensibilities, which fit and which didn’t. Those in the publicity department couldn’t go over my head because John didn’t want to talk to them. That only increased Columbia’s animosity toward me, but at the same time it increased my leverage. I dug in my heels to assure that John would be in his comfort zone. I reasoned that it was John who would be on camera or in front of the microphone, not some nitwit publicist who had once lunched with Hedda Hopper. If John were uncomfortable, the interview he did wouldn’t be worth the tape that recorded it.

While I wasn’t responsible for moving amplifiers and guitars around,
I was in charge of safely transferring a larger-than-life, rock ’n’ roll–like persona from home to limousine, limo to plane, plane to limo, and limo to hotel. Everyone seemed to recognize and love John Candy. Camouflage was out of the question. We checked into Le Parker Meridien on West Fifty-sixth and met up with Eugene Levy. He was as unsure of the Columbia publicity team as we were.

My first piece of business was to get John together with
Spin
writer Glenn O’Brien. Then Eugene and John went to MTV, where the studio was abuzz with excitement. John and Eugene were hilarious together, playing off their Second City improvisational skills. Their promo appearances were much funnier than the actual movie was. They deserved better. I kept the New York minions of Columbia Pictures at arm’s length, and I knew full well that in their field reports they would take credit for all of the arranged press. I didn’t care. I was making money for hanging out with two
SCTV
stars in New York City.

The next night, Candy, Levy, and I were chauffeured from the hotel to the NBC Studios at Rockefeller Plaza, home of
Saturday Night Live
and
Today
and the former location of
Tomorrow
with Tom Snyder and the legendary
Tonight Show
with Messrs. Allen, Paar, and Carson. Normal folk could have walked the six short blocks in a third of the time it took to go in the town car. Walking into 30 Rock, I was struck by the astounding memory of my dad filling in as guest host for Johnny Carson on
The Tonight Show.
He occupied Johnny’s chair for three nights in 1968 while Johnny staged a contract negotiation sickout. My dad loved being king of New York for the few nights he spent in the number one media hub of the planet, and while he may have had the notion that taking over Carson’s desk might not be a bad permanent gig, he knew Johnny had no intention of leaving
The Tonight Show
and CBS was not about to cut Colonel Hogan loose. Not at that point, anyway.

Kari and I were big fans of David Letterman’s show, and our favorite moment, hands down, was an appearance by John Candy entering stage right with his hair done up ridiculously like Dave’s preceding guest, actress Nastassja Kinski. No one made reference to it. Not Dave, not John, not Dave’s number two, Paul Shaffer, and it made the segment increasingly silly and hilarious as the interview progressed. Paul Shaffer, John’s fellow Canadian, was not only old friends with many of the cast members of
SCTV
but had worked with Eugene Levy in a Toronto production of
Godspell
years earlier. When we entered Studio 6A, we were taken directly
to Shaffer’s dressing room. Lit joint in hand, he welcomed us with a wide grin. Paul, John, and Eugene immediately fell into reminiscences of Toronto while the joint circumnavigated the room. I now understood why Paul was so goofily funny night after night.

The next morning, John and Eugene were interviewed together by a couple of New York newspapers. They behaved like musicians, riffing off each other, filling in when one or the other temporarily ran out of bits. They were quite capable of performing solo, but they preferred a group dynamic. They enjoyed the give-and-take, the improv, and they especially liked making each other laugh. We blew out of New York before Columbia Pictures publicity department could again raise the specter of appearing on morning television. John and Eugene were night people, a product of all those years doing two shows a night on the Second City stage.

There was a collective sigh of relief aboard our Air Canada shuttle to Toronto, the capital of Candy and Levy’s beginnings and numerous triumphs. Once in the air neckties were loosened, cigarettes lit, cocktails ordered. These guys felt they were going home. While the intense media heat of New York was behind them, the home fires presented their own dangers. The locals expected, almost demanded, face time with their native sons and national heroes. When John and Eugene walked through the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Yorkville, people literally screamed with delight.
SCTV
catchphrases were yelled out, and cameras flashed as I herded them into an elevator for a ride up to meet the press. Local radio, the
Sun
and
Star
newspapers, and yes, AM Canada, all wanted time with Harry the Guy with the Snake on his Face and Earl Camembert. John was more accommodating with media requests in Toronto because of the wild reverence he felt from his fellow Canadians. He tolerated people and situations that were much more intrusive than he would have in the States. This place, these people, even the oxygen were different. Maybe this was how the Beatles felt about Liverpool.

As a favor to a local producer John had worked with, he accepted a guest appearance on a low-budget, single-camera fishing-show television pilot that was to be shot on Vancouver Island. The host of the show was a National Hockey League beast named Tiger Williams. He had amassed the most penalty minutes in history over the course of his bruised and bruising career. John figured it wasn’t too far out of our way home, and it would be a relaxing end to our whirlwind publicity tour to chill out for a
few days in beautiful British Columbia. I thought of my dad and our Fellini Excursions. This would be my first with John.

We said good-bye to Eugene Levy and flew (“Did you drove or did you flew?”) to Vancouver, where we exchanged an Air Canada jet for a four-seat puddle jumper to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. I felt like one of the
Apocalypse Now
team heading deep into unknown territory to find Brando’s lost waistline. We were collected at the landing strip and driven to a remote fishing lodge. Tiger and the small crew expressed amazement that a heavyweight movie star was appearing in their flyweight production.

During the next day’s shoot, things went swimmingly; John and Tiger swapped stories and spent hours together in a motorboat pursuing the big catch while being videotaped. This was an
SCTV
’s Gil Fisher, the Fishin’ Musician segment but without the irony. At night, with the cameras off and nothing but crickets for entertainment, the booze flowed like Niagara Falls. Celebrating the first day of filming, Tiger drank a couple of fish tank’s worth and went berserk swinging a hockey stick at a crew member with whom he’d had a difference of opinion. John and I kept our distance, but the next night John also got royally tanked and started beating himself up for ever accepting the invitation to this land that time forgot. I sensed John had trouble saying no, especially north of the 49th parallel.

The next morning at 6:00, I had the delicate and unenviable assignment of waking the slumbering bear. I had made an executive decision. We were getting the hell out of there! As far as I was concerned, the producer had two days of footage in the can and was trying to power-play John into a third day of shooting, which would have meant a third night of god knows what. I told the producer he had plenty to work with—the shoot had gone well—and John was in no shape to spend the day out on a fishing vessel. In addition to which Columbia needed him back in Los Angeles. The producer valiantly attempted an end run but I blocked him, quietly procuring a car, throwing John’s bags in the back, and loading John inside. John’s head was hurting, and the bumpy ride back to the landing strip where our aircraft awaited seemed as though it took hours, if not days. The producer was pissed at me but I took the hit. It was all part of the job. When John stopped seeing triple, he thanked me for getting him safely out of Tigerland. The fishing show pilot was never sold.