Heaven and Mel (Kindle Single) (4 page)

She said he was schizophrenic. I thought, because her command of the English language was a shaky, that she'd used the wrong word. The word she was looking for was "paranoid."

There was no doubt that he was racist. He said "niggers" were going to rape Oksana and he also used the word "wetbacks."

I thought that if you analyzed these tapes closely, another word she used described the way he sounded more accurately: "monster."

* * * *

WHEN THE MEL/OKSANA TAPES
exploded on the Internet, Steve McEveety suggested that we approach Mel to direct "Guadalupe."

I thought poor Steve had suffered one too many Satanic attacks and had been mentally wounded by the Devil.

But the next day he sent me an email that seemed to indicate he was still sane:

"I was just messing with you about Mel. Now may not be the best time to put out a press release that he is making
any
movie. I am sure I mentioned to you in the past my opinion that the Devil was being so frustrated with his inability to destroy 'The Passion' and that his only recourse was to destroy the creator. I think Mel just succeeded in putting the nail in the coffin."

Then Steve sent me another email: "I just saw a photo of Mel wearing a Blessed Virgin Mary medal in Us Magazine. What a sadness this whole situation is. For Mel, of course, but also potentially for our movie. But we are in Mary's hands."

That phrase — "potentially for our movie" — meant to me that Steve was still considering his friend and former partner — who was now appearing on T-Shirts in L.A. that said, "I deserve to be blown" — as the director of my script about Our Lady of Guadalupe.

* * * *

MY SCRIPT WAS BACK ON THE SHELF
and nothing was happening when Steve McEveety again suggested Mel as our director.

The worldwide "Mel Tapes" explosion was settling down a bit. Polls were showing that a majority of Americans sided with Mel, not Oksana.

I didn't understand how that was possible. Mel never denied that it was
his
voice on the tapes, but I guessed that people thought he'd been tricked… or that Oksana had somehow done him terribly wrong… or that Oksana had somehow edited the tapes to make him look bad.

Steve's argument was that this was actually the
perfect
time for Mel to direct Our Lady's movie. It would be — and would also be viewed by the public as — penance for the putrid things he'd said on the tapes.

In other words, all the threats and the abuse and the demented talk about blow jobs and the racist remarks had empowered (M-Powered?) Mel to have the credentials to direct the Blessed Virgin's movie.

Steve also felt, as a longtime friend of Mel's, that Mel personally could lose himself in this project, cleanse himself of Oksana, and redeem himself through Our Lady for his Oksana-related sins. "Guadalupe" would be Mel Gibson's catharsis and redemption.

The Blessed Mother would hold Mel in her arms!

"Let's send him the script and see what he says," Steve said. "Then we'll talk to Mel about it. But see what you think. I won't make any decisions about our director without your consent."

"He's a great director," Steve said. "Look at "Apocalypto." Look how good it is." I agreed with that: "Braveheart," "The Passion of the Christ," and "Apocalypto" were visceral and powerful movies.

But… good Lord! We were about to send Mel Gibson, foul-mouthed and sex-crazed star of the Oksana tapes a script that had made the sun spin!

This may have been Christian filmmaking, but I knew we were still deep in the bowels of Hollywood.

I felt, though, that there was no way the Blessed Mother would allow Mel Gibson to direct a movie about her.

I said this to Steve and he said, "Hey, she allowed
you
, of all people, Mr. Basic Instinct, to write her script. That turned out pretty well, didn't it?"

* * * *

STEVE AND I GOT NO ANSWER
from Mel about Guadalupe for more than a month, and I had a trip planned with Naomi and our seventeen-year-old son, Joe Jr., to L.A. to see my old friend Sly Stallone.

I had made two films with Sly and we were talking about a third. I took Joe to the meeting with Sly who was, as I knew he would be, great with Joe. He gave him a big hug and encouraged him in his studies. I had known Sly for more than thirty years and thought he was one of Hollywood's classiest acts, proof that you could be a warm, generous guy and still get to the top.

I had a day to spare before we went home, and I called Alan Nierob, my former publicist, Mel's present publicist, and asked to have a drink with him at our hotel. I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know whether Alan, or for that matter Mel, had read what I had written about them in my book "Crossbearer."

Alan met me at the Four Seasons, and was happy to see me. Either he hadn't read "Crossbearer," or he had some reason not to let me know that he had. I told him that Mel had had my "Guadalupe" script for a month and I asked if I could meet Mel and talk about it. Alan said, "I don't see why not, Mel's in town" and said he'd try to set up a meeting for the next day. Alan and I hugged, Hollywood style, at the end of our meeting.

Mel's assistant, Nick Guerra, called a few hours later. The meeting was set for 2:00 the next day at Mel's office on Wilshire Boulevard.

My son Joe, suddenly starstruck after meeting Sly, asked if he could come to the meeting with Mel too.

"What the hell," I said, "why not?" Joe was overjoyed.

I called and told Steve about the meeting with Mel. He said, "You'll like him. He's a piece of work like you."

* * * *

MY SON JOE AND I SHOWED UP
at the appointed time and Nick Guerra, whom I immediately liked, walked us back to Mel's office.

Mel's office was cluttered and, in Hollywood terms, small. It reeked of cigarette smoke. I'd become sensitive to cigarette smoke since I had stopped smoking ten years ago. Mel sat in a chair in front of windows. A door was open leading to what looked like a small patio. The room, badly hazed from the smoke, seemed dark.

Mel got up and grinned as we shook hands. He wasn't expecting my son and I introduced him. Mel was friendly. He asked Joe the usual questions: What was he going to do with his life? How was he doing in school? Was he studying?

As they talked, I checked Mel out. He was wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt. His complexion was gray, probably a result of all the cigarettes that he smoked and the fact that he didn't drink anymore. He was balding: The once-thick mane was gone. His features had somehow coarsened. The matinee idol was now gone; he had the face of a character actor now, perhaps the face of a villain. The striking blue eyes were still striking, but somehow lifeless. He wore the silver Blessed Mother medal around his neck.

I glanced around his office. Its gloom may have partly been caused by the fact that it seemed to need a good dusting. There were religious icons everywhere as well as crucifixes. To the right of his desk was a table arranged to look like a kind of altar. Atop it I saw candles, bibles, and what looked like old missals.

I thanked him for the meeting and spending time with Joe and I told my starstruck son, as tenderly as possible, to wait for me outside in the reception area. Joe grinned and shook hands with Mel and Mel and I grinned at each other as Joe left the office.

"Teenagers," Mel said.

"I know," I smiled.

"So do I," Mel smiled. We laughed a little and sat down.

* * * *

HE TOOK A WINSTON
from a pack on his desk and said, "I'm sorry," and he opened the door leading to the patio further. He lit up.

"It's okay," I said. "I smoked for more than forty years."

"How did you quit?" he asked.

"Throat cancer," I told him.

"Oh God," he said. "I just can't quit."

"Have you tried?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, I've tried a lot."

"Well it's the toughest thing I've ever done. It was much worse than quitting drinking."

"Well, I've quit drinking," Mel said.

I said, "Then you can quit smoking, too."

"Do you think?" he said.

"Absolutely."

He smiled and so did I. He took long drags on his cigarette and tried very hard, I noticed, to blow the smoke out the door. I was touched by the gesture.

And we began to talk more fluidly, with less strain.

I asked him about my "Guadalupe" script.

He said: "I'm not going to direct it. I like your script and I like McSweety" — I'd learn that Mel had a nickname for everyone. "But I've got a Guadalupe script myself that I've been developing — it's completely different, it's contemporary, but it's still the same subject.

Then he repeated it: "I really do like your script, though."

I thanked him.

"McSweety is the best line producer in the business, but he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground about producing." Mel added, "I wish you luck, though."

* * * *

HE NOTICED THE ST. BENEDICT MEDAL
that I was wearing around my neck and asked to see it. He looked at it with approval and I asked to see the Blessed Virgin medal that he was wearing.

He said, "I know all about Benedict. He was a good dude."

He asked me if I went to church and I told him about Holy Angels and about our parish priest, Father Dan Schlegel, and how much I liked and respected him.

Mel lit up another Winston as soon as he finished the first one and I saw now that he was a chain smoker, just like I had been for so many years. This time he made less of an effort to blow the smoke out the door. I started to cough a little bit and cleared my throat.

"Geez, I'm sorry," Mel said.

"It's okay," I said, and Mel kept smoking.

"How old is your priest?" Mel asked.

"In his forties somewhere."

"He's not really a priest then."

I didn't understand.

"Any priest who came after Vatican II in the Sixties isn't a real priest," Mel said.

I still didn't understand.

"That's when the church got ruined," he said. "Read Bella Dodd."

"Who's Bella Dodd?" I'd never heard of Bella Dodd.

"She's a former Commie who testified about the Commies taking over the Catholic Church."

I said, "Really?"

Mel said, "Yeah. Google her. Get her book on Amazon. She spills the whole story."

* * * *

HE WAS PLEASANT AND FRIENDLY
, but he lit up another cigarette and now I really started coughing. I knew I had to get up and leave this room soon and breathe some fresh air.

He saw that I was uncomfortable but he kept smoking… and apologizing.

I got up and we shook hands and I thanked him for making time to talk to me, and as I headed out of his office, he walked with me and we passed his little makeshift altar. I stopped and said, "Those books are really beautiful."

He picked up an old black leather St. Joseph missal with bright red borders and piping and handed it to me.

"Check it out," Mel said. "That's a real one. Pre-1962, pre-Vatican II.

I held it and looked at it and said, "It's really beautiful," and handed it back to him.

He wouldn't take it. "No, no," he said. "Take it. It's yours."

"I can't take this," I said, touched, "this is a beautiful and valuable book."

"Take it," he said. "Read it. See the faith as it really is. Before the Vatican put all of their bullshit into it."

"Okay," I smiled, "Thank you. Really. Thank you. But then you have to take this… "

I reached into my pocket for the small stone with a cross emblazoned on it that I'd gotten from the shrine of San Juan Capistrano. As I was looking for it in my pocket, I accidentally pulled out my rosary.

Mel said, "Ah! The dreaded beads!"

He laughed and so did I and I handed him the stone with the cross on it. He took it, seemed to like it, looked me in the eye and said, "Thanks."

He put his arm around by shoulder and started walking me out of his office.

* * * *

MY SON JOE
sat in the reception area, waiting for me.

Mel and I shook hands again and so did Mel and Joe.

"He's a great looking kid," Mel said to me. He turned to Joe and said, "You should act."

I could tell how excited Joe was that Mel Gibson, movie star, had just told him he should act.

Mel grinned and said, "I should know, I used to be Mel Gibson." He waved, and walked away.

My son was still beaming as we went down in the elevator.

"So," I said to my son. "What did you think?"

"I really liked him," Joe said.

"Yeah," I told him, not believing that I was saying this, "I did too."

We looked at each other.

"He's an actor," I said, "of course we liked him."

Joe said, "Do you think he was acting?" He looked almost alarmed at the possibility.

I laughed. I said, "The really good actors don't even know when they're acting."

My son had a banner Hollywood experience. He met Sly, he met Mel, he met M. Night Shyamalan in a restaurant, he saw Apollo Ono in another restaurant, and one bright sunny day on Rodeo Drive, he watched his mother, behind the wheel of our rental car, almost hit a little man who was jaywalking.

"Who is this idiot who thinks he owns Rodeo Drive?" Naomi said. Then we noticed who the little man was that Naomi had almost struck: Al Pacino.

* * * *

AT MEL'S DIRECTION
, I looked up Bella V. Dodd. She was a former high-ranking official of the American Communist Party.

In the early fifties she told HUAC, the notorious Red-baiting un-American activities committee: "In the 1930s we put eleven hundred men into the priesthood in order to destroy the church from within. Right now they are in the highest places in the church."

She told a friend of hers that when she was an active Communist Party member she had dealt with four cardinals within the Vatican who "were working for us."

Communism was dead and buried. The greatest crises in the Catholic Church today had to do with pedophilia and homophobia. Mel was still worried about The Commies.

* * * *