Easy Street (the Hard Way): A Memoir (44 page)

A drunk walks out of a bar and puts a dime in a parking meter, and the thing hits sixty, and he says, “Oh my God, I lost a hundred pounds!” No, it’s not stand-up comedy. My north star, my beacon, my one abiding source of comfort through the best and the worst of times was the stories, the listening to and the telling of stories. And even though my liaison with storytelling started out more as a cure, a salve for a compendium of misaligned, outsized attributes that always seemed to short-circuit any peace in my real life, stories, for me, while remaining the one constant theme, also became so much more. Because with each coming of age, with each passing milestone, with total unease and confusion finally giving way to tidbits of clarity and the ability to give myself a break, stories not only just stayed with me; my love for them intensified. And my relationship with them, though growing less codependent, became more and more sublime. Because what started out as a means to escape eventually became this highly anointed endeavor, this ultra-exclusive club in which really cool, really smart people who I admired fell all over themselves to achieve membership.

Ultimately, it dawned on me: blessed are the storytellers, because they can bridge oceans, marshal great forces, inspire and instruct, transcend all limits, transform hearts and minds. They can break down barriers and be the common thread for disparate humanities, reaching across distant borders. They can provide for that commonality I talked about earlier, and like the perfect note in a masterpiece of music, when heard the world over, they can resonate at a vibration all can hear with identical clarity. That is the “collective consciousness” and, to my mind, “the holy grail.” It explains why music looms so large in our workaday lives, even though the bean-counters dismiss it as “non-essential.”
And painting. And dance. And, yes, for sure, movies! To traffic in a universe that is constantly in search of that universal truth, that perfect note . . . there is a nobility in that.

It was my dad who was my first storyteller, and he was a great one. And with all the dudes he dug, from the guys who made
Gunga Din
to the guy who wrote
For Whom the Bell Tolls
, he was showing me that as shitty as any of his days might have been, coming home at night to “those guys” was the great equalizer. They elevated the proceedings and gave it joy and meaning, imparting a knowledge that other guys were trying to figure out the same shit as he was, which in and of itself is a comfort. Yes, we all live, and we all die. We all get sick, and some of us get well. Some of us have money, and some of us don’t. But we all are human. I aspire to wanting to make the recognition of that undisputable fact the main theme of my life. I am in search of that perfect note that is so fundamental, so primal that it holds identical value for everyone, from the poorest man in Zambia to the most anointed in Xanadu. That, to me, is a calling. Because it is helpful. Know how I know? ’Cuz I’ve seen how it’s touched me. I’ve looked into the eyes of people who are simply desperate to share with me what one of my movies meant to them; I’ve seen how it has touched them. For there is only one place on God’s little acre where we find true and real commonality—in our humanness. And the moment you truly see that you are not the first, not the only, not some freak for feeling what you’re feeling, then darkness is replaced by light and loneliness is replaced by peace, gratitude, and community!

I’m here to tell you that from the year 2000 onward, by using the tools that were taught to me and the blessings that were bestowed on me, whether earned or unearned, I saw this succession of one dream after another becoming real. To the point at which I can’t even articulate a thank you profound enough to begin to measure up to the magnificence that has become my life. All I can do is look for little ways—little ways to show my gratitude, my appreciation, my disbelief that, considering where I started, this is where I ended up. I can’t save the
world. Nor would I ever be foolish enough to try. But I do love people, and I love to be able to think that dreams and reality can be fused, because I have been a witness to it. And I’m not in some panacea state in which I am exaggerating or romanticizing. I share all this as if to say, “Here’s what I’ve seen. Here’s what it looked like when it all started. Here’s what it looks like now. This part of the curve was good, and this part sucked, not only from my point of view but also from a global point of view.” And at the end of the day the only real choice I have regarding what to do with all this knowledge, all this perspective, all this goodwill is what I choose to do about it. Because I need to find a way to show my appreciation. It’s time to take the advice I gave to my kids: stop waiting for the studios, the networks, or even for the government to do it.

The great dramatists have forever and always been ahead of the curve at illuminating the values that were worth aspiring to and, in turn, those that spelled chaos and destruction, be it in our literature, our theater, or our movie houses, and they managed to teach these immutable lessons while entertaining—no small feat. But today, when all the “smart money” is betting on special-effects action movies and movies that can be made into friggin’ rides at amusement parks, the business of doing the kind of storytelling that truly enriches the human condition is becoming more and more marginalized. And the more thin and one-dimensional the premises for these flicks seem to get, the more money they seem to throw at them. I mean, when you spend $200 million to make a movie, you better fucking make a billion dollars in profit. And in order to do that, you better make the stupidest piece of shit you can fucking make because you’re really going to want to attract every fucking body you can, in this universe and the next. Anybody can do that. That’s just P. T. Barnum, man. That’s just like, “How much shit can we throw up against the wall to get these rubes to unload fourteen bucks a ticket? Twenty-one if you throw in 3D or IMAX!” So where there was once nuance and sophistication, big ideas seeping with style, you now only have spectacle, which doesn’t leave a whole lotta room for the David Leans, the Alfred Hitchcocks, the John
Fords, the Frank Capras, and the Akira Kurosawas. The new corporate movie moguls are sipping champagne and dancing on their graves.

So please forgive me if I seem to take some of this shit personally. ’Cuz to my way of thinking—and trust me when I tell ya I am prepared to be the
only
muthafucka thinking like this—I gotta feel as though I’m working on something every day that kind of keeps all the right conversations alive. Whatever happens after I die, hey, it’s none of my fucking business. All I know is I’m going to do everything I can while I’m here to say, “This shit is not okay. The complete marginalization of the little guy is not okay. The guy on whose back this country was built and run—it’s not okay to fuck with that guy. He needs to be respected. He needs to be celebrated and loved and nurtured.” From that little two-bedroom flat I was born into, I know how hard it is to keep a fucking family sustained. I know a rigged system when I see one. I know what kind of cynicism is bred from pure greed, from the accumulation of wealth at all costs, no matter how wealthy you are to begin with. From corporations trying to break their own records while they break the backs of workers, of veterans, of the elderly, who’ve only invested their whole adult fucking lives just trying to simply be good Americans. And if some Romney-minded muthafucka wantsta tell me free enterprise trumps compassion, generosity, the simple dictum that the luckiest need to be the first among the spreading of the luck, then bring it, muthafucka! I’m right fucking here!

I am far and away not the first among us to pronounce how fortunate we are to witness the emergence of this new Pope. He is the embodiment of those sentiments. And although I don’t physically kneel in that particular church, I kneel with all my heart to his core teachings. And, further, I remain one of the dwindling masses who thank God to live in a world where Barack Obama can be the heart and soul of this country I love so much. Because he is a man who has spent all of his political capital just adjudicating for the common man, and in the face of every single thing they could throw at him, he remains calm, classy, and incredibly humorous—one of the greatest political wits since JFK—all this in the face of
the
worst, most blatant racism along with
the highest degree of disrespect for the title Commander-in-Chief I have seen in my lifetime, a title our founders granted to him. Men and women have left their blood in a shitload of dark and lonely places so you can disagree with me about this, but let’s be clear: no one should confuse that right with the dignity and the sanctity of an office that came as a result of two fair and democratic elections. I am a fan. He has managed to maintain his poise, his grace, and, most importantly, his vision in the face of profound ugliness. It cannot be lost on us that he is the Jackie Robinson of executive politics. And like Jackie, he never complained, never engaged with the haters, never took his eye off the ball. What he did do is finally begin a worldwide discussion about a whole lotta shit that nobody wants to talk about, chief among them being the redistribution of resources. I’m not going to say wealth, because I don’t mind wealth as either a concept or a fact; I just mind what one chooses to do with it. Because with great power comes great responsibility. Don’t tell me you’re a pious person—just show me. Don’t hide behind some empty nonexistent spiritualism because, like
Elmer Gantry
says, “Ya can’t go to church on Sunday and cheat at business all through the week!” Spiritual? Gimme a fuckin’ break. You better know if you’re truly spiritual or not, ’cuz I got news for ya: God does! And there comes a moment in every muthafucka’s life when the ability to buy a first-class seat to the other side ain’t no longer negotiable!

So after all is said and done and when all the dust finally settles, what I truly believe would be the best use of my last fifteen, twenty years on this Earth, or whatever time God chooses to give me, is to reclaim and rededicate the simple beautiful things in this life that no amount of money can buy. And I am convinced that this can only come about by appealing to people’s better angels, their deeper longings to be part of something bigger than even themselves, where they have a seat at the table, a voice that money can’t drown out, a knowledge that they are giving their children the best lives they can. And this means that in order to put some skin in the game, I better be willing to make an investment I can afford. I may not pull it off, but I’m good with that.

I’m calling this little venture of mine Wing and a Prayer Pictures. And in what will come as no surprise, we’re gonna make movies. In fact, I’m betting we’re gonna make the best damn movie company since MG-fucking-M. ’Cuz I’m betting on the artist. I’m betting on the storyteller. I’m betting on the folks out there—just plain, ordinary folks who want something a little smarter, a little classier. Something that truly engages their better angels. And by the time this book is published, I’m betting we’ll be well under way. ’Cuz I just can’t give my kids and my kids’ friends a bunch of shit that says, “Ain’t nuthin’ ’less you got some skin in the game!” I gotta walk the walk! I gotta pave a parking lot and put up a paradise. ’Cuz if not me, then who?! And if not now . . . well, you know what I’m sayin’. Fuck waiting for the world to change you; you start by trying to change it. And if you are pure of heart and your intentions are good, you can’t lose. Even if nothing happens, you can’t lose. Because whether you are successful or not, what better way is there to spend your one and only life than working every day purely from passion, love, respect, and awe?

Oh, and by the way, just so I get off on the right foot, here’s a little tip for all you talent out there: make sure your people show you everything that is offered. There’s a rule at my management company that my whole team is cool with: if a script comes in with an offer for me, no matter what they think of it, whether they think it’s good for me or not, they send it so I can make
my own
decision about whether I do the project. As talent, if ya wanna keep watching the movie business get more and more mediocre, then keep leaving it to your agents, your managers, and your fucking lawyers to make your decisions for you! But if you do that, I better not ever hear you complain how shitty the movie business is, ’cuz you ain’t part of the solution; you’re part of the problem. ’Cuz you can bet dollars to donuts you ain’t seeing the good stuff, ’cuz they don’t wantcha to, ’cuz there ain’t no
money
in it for ’em. So yeah, if my theory holds any water and it’s true that our beautiful culture is truly
de
volving, believe me when I tell ya, there’s plenty of blame to go around.

Listen, man, righteous indignation aside, ain’t nothing gonna ever happen by just identifying the problem—the walk is in need of being walked. I’d love to suggest that every artist who’s coming out of school, every journalist, every actor, every musician, and every dancer stand up and say, “No, this ain’t art, this contributes nothing to our culture.” It’s possible. The only thing that’s getting in the way of it are market forces. That’s all it is. Ever. ’Cuz I submit to you that there’s just as many Bob Dylans, Stevie Wonders, and Joni Mitchells getting born every day as there ever was. The only thing that separates an artist like that and us knowing about an artist like that are market forces. So we got to change the hearts and minds of people. We gotta wake people up. We can’t keep going down this road where we allow ourselves to be completely desensitized and buy into the fact that fucking Coca-Cola is good for us and a Romney-type is a great leader, all because of billions of marketing dollars that tell us he is. While, if he had pulled it off, a couple of hundred people would have gotten
much, much
richer during his eight years in office while the rest of us would go fuck ourselves.

No one person is going to be able to change the world. No one gesture is going to be able to change the world. But if enough of you decide, “I’m not gonna buy into any of the paradigms, any of the edifices that only worship false idols,” well, then, maybe we can turn this ship around and start sailing to higher ground. I’m hoping this book at least starts a conversation in places where it might not have started before. And if it doesn’t, who gives a fuck? I’m gonna die anyway. Shit, we all are. All I’m sayin’ is: here’s what I see. You agree with me, you don’t agree with me—whatever, no problem. But hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And look, if ya don’t like my version of the good, the bad, and the ugly, then go find your own. Just don’t settle. Your life is worth more than that. And as far as I can tell, you only get one.