Jason Priestley (3 page)

By that time I was working steadily and traveling to Los Angeles to meet with agents.

I was laser focused on the new life that would be mine in less than one year. Most of my friends were looking forward to enjoying a great senior year and preparing for college. Of course, my training didn't end with June, but the time I spent with June and in June's class changed the way I thought about acting. My path was set. I was a working actor already. I knew then that a move to Los Angeles was in the offing for me. It was just a question of when.

I
enrolled in night classes at June's school and was soon completely immersed in her training. I knew very little about Method acting, and even less about improvisation. June's course involved a tremendous amount of improv exercises that threw me at first, but which I soon came to enjoy. We did lots of one-on-one and group improvs; I found them all to be incredibly beneficial. This training forced me to learn to think much more quickly on my feet, as well as how to be more naturally reactive in the moment.

Who should show up in acting class right around the time I joined but my buddy from the infamous Fletcher's Meats commercial, Bernie. Immediately, we were thick as thieves again, playing off each other at improvs, laughing, telling jokes, having a blast. There were other teenagers in our class as well as middle-aged moms, kids, and retirees: a full spectrum of ages. This wide cross section of people made our interactions very dynamic. June made sure everybody was matched with the right partner and groups to get the most out of the experience. She was an inspiring teacher and pushed me hard to excel. Every minute I spent in her class was valuable.

IN THE FALL
of my senior year, Fiona called me to alert me of a new FOX show called
21 Jump Street
that had begun production in Vancouver. I auditioned for one of the first-season shows and was cast in an episode called “Mean Streets and Pastel Houses.” The show was about the punk rock scene and a group of disaffected middle-class kids who fall under the spell of an evil but charismatic punk rocker. I played a kid who called himself Tober—short for October, “the time of year when everything dies,” as one of my lines read.

The company was shooting late at night in a local park. I parked my motorcycle on the street and walked over to where I saw a few guys I knew from around the Vancouver acting scene. We were all waiting to be told what to do when a young guy in a studded black leather jacket walked right up to me and said, “Hey, how are you doing? I'm John,” and stuck his hand out.

We shook as he asked my name. “Jason, great. The director's on his way over and we're gonna get this thing going here in a few minutes. Need some coffee? It's right over there. Sound good?”

It was very cool that the star of the show was so warm and gracious. The way he greeted me that first night of work made quite an impression. Johnny Depp was a polite, friendly, all-around great guy. I was a high school kid, feeling a little uneasy my first time on a new set. Having the star of the show, the guy who was number one on the call sheet, come right up to me, ask my name, and shake hands set an example I appreciated and try to emulate to this day.

Shortly, I was sent over to the makeup trailer. I had long hair at the time—actually, I had a mullet going—so it took a while to slick it all down and refashion it into a faux Mohawk. This is something that would never happen today; producers and audiences demand authenticity. Now an actor would have to shave his head and wear a real Mohawk for that part. But fortunately, this was the 1980s, and my beloved mullet was spared.

As I sat in the hair chair being prepped, the trailer door opened and one of the most stunning girls I had ever seen walked in and plopped herself down in the makeup chair. She was young, as were all the cast members in this show about undercover police officers, but clearly a bit older than I was. Holly Robinson was the only female regular on
21 Jump Street
. I could not take my eyes off her. Our eyes met in the mirror, and I smiled. She smiled back, then quickly looked away.

A production assistant rushed into the trailer and handed Holly some new script pages. “Freddy's done some last-minute rewrites to your scenes,” he said, and rushed back out.

“Of course he has,” Holly murmured and shook her head, rolling her eyes just a bit, but only kiddingly. Freddy was Fredric Forrest, the actor who played the captain on the show for the first six episodes before being recast with Steven Williams. Apparently, last-minute rewriting took place quite frequently. Holly and I made some small talk about Vancouver and there was an obvious attraction between us. When my complicated hairstyle was done and I was summoned to the set, I made some lame comment about hoping to see her later and exited.
Smooth.

The crew had the scene all set up and ready to go. I sat in the backseat of a car, taking a last deep breath, when all of a sudden the door popped open and director Jim Whitmore jumped in, shoved me over, and sat down beside me. He looked me straight in the eye and demanded, “What the fuck is going on with you? Why the fuck are you saying this line? What the fuck is really happening? How the fuck are you feeling, and why? I want you to ask yourself . . . WHY!?” He didn't wait for an answer. He scrambled back over me and out of the car, slammed the door, ran to his camera, and called “
Action!
”

I sat there in shock, in my punk getup and fake Mohawk, wondering what the hell had just happened. He certainly got my attention . . . and a genuine reaction. I had never met a director like Jim before. The two of us really connected on that show. He energized me and inspired me—so much so that years later, on
90210,
I recommended that he come and direct an episode. One episode became eleven episodes, and we worked together for years. I even got Jim to act in an episode I was directing. He was a talented and all-around good guy.

Shooting that episode of
21 Jump Street
was one of most fun weeks of my life. I became friendly with Johnny and his stand-in, Bruce Corkham. Johnny was at a great place in his career—a young star on the rise, for sure, dating another rising star, the stunningly beautiful Sherilyn Fenn. His fame was still quite new and he was still able to walk around Vancouver and live normally without being mobbed or needing security. He definitely had that 1980s bad-boy look down to a tee: off the set he always dressed in jeans, a black leather jacket, a bandanna, and combat boots.

Johnny was not a guy who talked much, but he had some good stories when he got going. He had recently finished shooting
Platoon,
where he'd been basically one of the “kids” on the set observing Tom Berenger and Willem Dafoe. He told us all about how exotic shooting in the Philippines had been, how hot and tropical the weather. As another “kid,” for real, I couldn't get enough of these work stories.

The week was tiring, as we shot all night and then I headed off to class every morning, but no sleep was a small price to pay. I soon learned that Holly had a boyfriend—of course she did—but that was okay for now. I had to return to high school.

I
made several trips down to Los Angeles to see Frank Levy. Frank was a producer as well as a manager. He had visited Vancouver during the winter of 1986 to produce a movie starring Ed Asner, a family Christmas film in which Ed played Santa Claus.

“Kid, you've got something,” he had told me. “Come out to L.A. and I'll introduce you to some people. If you move to L.A., you can take a real shot at becoming an actor.” He had a special corporate rate for his clients to stay at the Beverly Garland Hotel . . . I think it was $69 a night.

I went on some auditions and met with some of the agents Frank recommended. The reception was good. Frank and I made serious plans for my move as soon as I finished school. If there was one thing I loved about Los Angeles, it was the weather. If there was one thing that surprised me, it was how spread out the city was. Immediately after graduation ceremonies, it was time to move to L.A. But first I had one more acting job—another guest appearance on
21 Jump Street
.

Vancouver in those days was a very small town, acting-wise. Every young person in the business passed through the
21 Jump Street
set at one point or another. This episode was about the perils of underage drinking—in particular, teenage drunk-driving accidents. I played a cool high school kid with a truly impressive mullet. Pauly Shore appeared in a featured role as a hard-partying teenager named TJ, dancing around a table in a bar waving a pool cue.

Holly and I did not have any scenes together, but I found out that she no longer had a boyfriend. On the set she gave me her number and casually said that I should give her a call sometime. Holly was twenty-two and I was seventeen. I was beyond psyched. I called; we set a date, and on the appointed night I rode my motorcycle downtown and met her for dinner. One date and I was hooked. I could not wait to see her again.

We had a couple more dates and I was falling hard, but the new life that I'd spent the past two years preparing for was beckoning. I sold my bike, packed up my possessions, and boarded a plane to L.A. It was time to see what I was made of.

S
eventeen years old, a brand-new high school diploma in my back pocket, and raring to go. No more room at the Beverly Garland Hotel for me; I was a resident, not a visitor! My manager, Frank, helped set me up in a small place in Oakwood Gardens on Barham Boulevard, an apartment complex where all the newly single dads and out-of-work actors in L.A. came to live. Another young actor from Canada whom Frank managed, Paul Johansson, was also renting there, so at least I had one friend in the building.

Frank himself lived only a couple of miles away but a world apart from our drab housing. His house was in a gorgeous part of Toluca Lake, filled with tasteful, beautiful homes on large grassy lots. Kids rode bikes and frolicked with their dogs on perfect green lawns in what could have easily passed as a movie set for the ideal American neighborhood. I marveled at the beautiful suburban neighborhoods in the San Fernando Valley and the endless sunshine.

I found an iffy car rental place way out in the Valley that was happy to rent a car to a seventeen-year-old Canadian kid. My red Yugo cost something like $19 a week, so I was happy with it, and my new place was fine. I didn't spend a whole lot of time at home anyway. My first couple of weeks I spent quite a few nights on the phone with Holly, who kept asking, “When are you coming back to Vancouver?” After one of these calls, I dialed her back and said, “Fuck it, I'm coming this weekend.” I could not wait another second to see her again. I bought a plane ticket and headed back to my hometown.

When I landed at the airport, Holly picked me up in a shiny red Porsche 944 that was as dazzling as her smile. I jumped in with my overnight bag, and we headed to the charming turn-of-the-century Georgian house she rented in Shaughnessy. There had been plenty of buildup on our phone calls. There wasn't much talking that weekend, but we got to know each other intimately. I never wanted to leave. But come Monday morning she had to be on set, and I had to return to L.A. to try to find a job. The irony that I had lived in Vancouver my entire life was not lost on me. But what the hell . . . I began flying back to see her as often as I possibly could. That's what you do when you're young: buy plane tickets when you don't have any money, fly three hours to see your girl for one night, then turn around and fly right back to L.A., smiling the whole time. Why wouldn't I do that every chance I got?

Luckily, Holly came home to L.A. as often as she could. Her schedule on
21 Jump Street
allowed her to spend a decent amount of time in Los Angeles. Right from the start I was seriously overmatched . . . what was I thinking? Holly was five years older; a beautiful, accomplished young woman who had lived in Paris and worked all over the world. She was interested in a relationship with me? I was like a deer in the headlights. I gave it my best shot, believe me. What I lacked in knowledge and experience I certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

Holly's mother, Dolores, a talent manager, and her brother, Matt, probably wondered about Holly's unusual choice for a boyfriend, but they were gracious and wonderful people who immediately embraced me. Holly and her mom had just bought a house in a Beverly Hills–adjacent neighborhood that needed some fixing up. I headed over there on weekends to help them remodel and paint. The Robinsons welcomed me into their family, pretty much, and for a Canadian kid newly dumped in Los Angeles, the friendship and warmth they offered was invaluable.

Sometimes, conveniently for our romance, I had to return to work in Vancouver. In the fall of 1987, I booked an episode of
MacGyver
there. The star, Richard Dean Anderson, was a delightful guy; originally from Minnesota, he remained very down-to-earth despite the popularity of the show. He was ridiculously handsome—the George Clooney of his day. He was the hottest star on television, never married, who dated an endless string of models and actresses, each more stunning than the last. Still, no one managed to tie him down. He had charm to spare plus a great sense of humor about the show and the way his character was always able to save the day with a book of matches and a pipe cleaner . . . or whatever he happened to have on hand that week.

Once again, I arrived on set to find my old friend Bernie. We were cast as best friends, the teenage sons of MacGyver's childhood friends. In our episode, entitled “Blood Brothers,” Bernie got in way over his head with drugs, and gang members came after him. I played the loyal friend who tried to help and took a bullet for my efforts—though MacGyver saved me in the end, of course. “Dude, tell me what you're doing!” Bernie said the minute we had time to talk.