Chapter 2 - Rocco
Chapter 2
Rocco
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Isteel myself, lifting my chin higher as I walk through the studio doors this morning. An act because I’m nervous, and that nervousness is uncharacteristic. Unsettling.
I’m never nervous, not on set, because I’m damn good at what I do. That’s not immodesty; it’s just the facts.
I’ve been working on sets since I was a blob of a human. I had a director yell at me during a diaper commercial to not suck my thumb when I was still nonverbal—an anecdote my mom’s always loved to share with anyone who will listen, mostly because I apparently had a poop-tacular diaper blowout in retaliation. I’d been dropped from the arms of an A-list celebrity onto a hard stage floor for being “too damn precocious for anyone’s good,” feeding them lines when I was eight. I’d even withstood a body slam sack from professional football player Warren Sapp. That one’s a long story. I’ve endured it all with thick skin, wiseass remarks, and a natural-born ability to charm everyone, at least eventually, from babies on up to nonagenarians. Enemies included, and I’ve had more than a few, mostly on their terms. Everyone in this town does—at least if you’ve had even a modicum of success.
Last night, though, I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut my brain off. Because I kept hearing Beatrix’s words on loop:
Adequate. Good enough.
That condescending clap clap clap.
It’s not like I haven’t had worse insults lobbed at me. Critics have had a field day with some of my movies—usually the blockbusters that gross the most ludicrous amounts of millions. Easier to take with a grain of salt, maybe a shot of tequila for added numbing.
Though it’s been less easy as I’ve gotten older. Harder to tune out. No matter how fine the tequila.
An aging teen heartthrob who made good through his twenties . . .
But what now? What next?
I’ve cruised through so many years on autopilot for the paycheck, and my bank account is more loaded than any one person deserves in a lifetime. Hell, a few lifetimes. There’s got to be more than that to this whole acting life. More to me. And if I really try with this role, really nail it, hopefully I’m closer to finding what that more might be.
So far, with the glaring exception of Beatrix, everyone here has been encouraging. Lanie. Producers. Other members of the cast. Even the crew’s been generous with praise.
And I know it, too, I feel it. Or I thought I did. That this is without a doubt my best work yet. The deepest, most vulnerable. I fully acknowledge that I’ve been in some seriously shit movies with seriously shit roles. This is different. As different as it gets.
I want Beatrix to recognize that, too. It’s the story of her father, her life. Her approval feels like the ultimate thumbs-up. And the need for that validation, from her . . . it burns me.
The cameras start shooting again, and I hang toward the back, waiting. Maisy’s in the middle of a single push-in shot where she’s deep in retrospection about William. It’s a long piece of dialogue, packed to the brim with loads of messy emotions. I’m watching, but I can’t seem to focus on what Maisy’s saying. I’ve read it over in the script so many times and heard her in the wide shot, but I’m too busy studying Beatrix from across the room to catch Maisy’s performance this time. The thoughtful frown on her face as she closes her eyes, listens rather than watches.
Lanie calls the scene. I start toward Beatrix’s chair, weaving through clumps of cast and crew, losing sight of her as I’m pulled into a few stop-and-chats along the way. She should be expecting me after last night’s text; a necessity, since she mostly evades me. At least when she isn’t directing not-so-subtle jabs my way. I’m not actually needed on set today, but I figured it would give me the best chance to talk to Beatrix before January. Pick her brain for more intel. She might not be my biggest fan, but we both want the same thing: for William to come across as true as can be.
I extricate myself from an uninspired exchange about the weather and spot Beatrix again, talking to Maisy, the two of them deep in conversation as I approach. The expression on Beatrix’s face is so earnest, so passionate, I can’t help but pause mid-step for a beat, just to take her in. She’s always hard to look away from—a fact that’s exceptionally aggravating to me. Steel gray eyes that never cease to pin me down with their cool intensity. Pale skin, a few rogue freckles she never tries to cover up. Long, wavy brown hair that’s usually swept into a haphazard knot on her head, most often with a pen or straw or whatever object she finds lying around set. Her wardrobe, at least at work, is a combination of black jeans—tight black jeans, seemingly custom made to mold to her every curve—and plain dark shirts, like she’s trying her best to blend in with the crew, to not call attention to herself. It does the opposite, though, at least for me. Makes the rest of her features pop in high-def.
She’s got one of those faces, too—a face that makes you feel like you know someone, deep down. Like an itch at the back of my brain I can’t scratch, which only adds to this mess I’m in with her jabs and backhanded compliments. Let’s be real, I’d take a few literal backhanders over the arrows she slings straight at my ego.
I step up beside her now, as close as I can without risking her wrath. Though it’s hard to predict what will rub her the wrong way, as most everything I do seems to cause further disdain. She doesn’t notice me; she’s all eyes on Maisy. Which is fair, because today feels like Maisy’s potential breakout moment as an actress if she gets it right—the scene where she’s circling through everything her dear dad’s been accused of, what she knows and what she can’t know for certain, all the stories and rumors taking her town, the nation, by storm. Maisy’s got a unicorn arrangement, having the real-life person she’s portraying standing right next to her, filling in backstory and motive for emotions. A once-in-a-career opportunity to wholly embody her role.
“In this moment, my father had become someone I couldn’t trust, couldn’t recognize, just like that,” Beatrix says, snapping her fingers. She glances at me sideways, then immediately looks away. “The one figure in my life I’d never doubted, and suddenly I was forced to question everything.” She moves in closer to Maisy, saying something else, too quietly for me to hear. It happens so quickly then that it’s hard to discern who initiates, but they embrace, holding each other tight.
“Wow,” Maisy says, head pressed against Beatrix’s shoulder. “That must have been so intense. I totally get how you felt—well, as much as possible, not being you, of course—and appreciate the pep talk. I swear, I’ll do you proud!”
“I know you will,” Beatrix replies. Sweetly.
Seriously, though, is this a joke? Why can’t I have the same kind of relationship with Beatrix? Not necessarily the hugging bit—or maybe a tiny hug would be nice, sure, though that’s beside the point—but that deeper character connection. Why is Maisy afforded unfettered access into her brain, but I can only get a salty “you did fine, I suppose”?
Their pep talk works some kind of miracle, because Maisy’s back on set, cameras rolling, and this time I can’t take my eyes off her. No one can. The scene is beautiful and wrenching, filled with a depth and commitment to the part I hadn’t seen yet from this YouTuber wannabe star. Okay, that’s maybe harsh . . . this young aspiring actress.
But still, if Beatrix could give that much boost, I want to hit the next level, too. That’s the whole reason I took this job. To show the world—my family, too, my little brother Rudy—I’m more than a twelve-pack of abs and a stubbled jawline.
Beatrix and I have yet to say a word to one another by the time they break for lunch. Food first. Conversation second. I need to refuel. And while Michelin-starred social media reviews may be one of my snobbier hobbies, there’s something about on-set catering that’s always really done it for me. I’ve been chasing the Whiz of Riz catering breakfast tacos and cheesesteaks since I moved to LA. This set has got particularly great service, and today’s pre-holiday meal has been heavily publicized as an arroz con pollo treat—or arroz con tofurkey if you’re not into eating birds.
I grab the classic option and spot Beatrix already eating alone and looking as pleasant as she gets. I feel like the new kid at school, working myself up to ask if anyone’s sitting at her table, but then opt instead to take the bolder route—or maybe more cowardly—and just plop myself down next to her.
“I have to say,” I start right in, “you clearly gave Maisy something special to work with for that scene today. She totally shined. Maybe even turned into a real actress, right before our eyes.”
Beatrix doesn’t look up from her plate—she went for the tofurkey, I note. She only nods, seemingly immersed in forking up some rice. A theme by now. A stonewaller is always going to stonewall.
“Sorry I texted so late last night. I just had such a great day shooting and getting into the character, really being your dad. Or, no . . . not being your dad, but you know what I mean. No one can be him. That came out weird.”
Nothing. It’s like I’m not even here. I give up, take a few bites of chicken. Wait it out. As she finishes chewing on some squeaky fake meat, she finally turns to look at me.
“I’m intentionally helping you by being standoffish. Just like I was with my dad—the man you’re currently trying so hard to embody. It’s called method acting. And besides, how could I tell you how my dad felt? I cut him off, remember? So alternatively, I’m using my previous behaviors to try and capture a similar effect for you, that’s all.”
Yikes. Does that even make sense, or is she just riding me again? I can’t process fast enough to decide.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my fork down. “I’m not trying to push. I just want to make sure I’m getting the role right—that it translates for you. I tried asking yesterday, but . . . wasn’t sure I got a full read? Lanie pulled me away before we could talk more. So. Yeah. Here I am.”
There’s another beat of silence, though Beatrix has a look on her face that makes me think there’s some kind of pity statement incoming.
Which is apt because I’ve possibly never felt more pitiful in my life.
“Well, Rocco,” she starts, then lets out a loud exhale. In case I couldn’t already sense just how trying this was for her. How trying I am. “I understand your inclination to want to impress me or to, I don’t know, make me feel like I’m back in the ’90s, I do. But this isn’t about me. It’s about the story, and I need you to recognize that. I’m not here to give my approval. I’m here to make sure this story is told properly.” With that, she quickly stands, picking up her half-full plate. “If you can’t figure out my father by reading the script and his books and by doing your own digging online, then I’m not sure what else I can give you.”
My mind instinctually races to figure out some kind of retort. Something snarky that lets her know I don’t need to be treated this way. That’d be my typical go-to, hackles raised. Instead, though, in a flash of inspiration—or maybe maturity at thirty-seven years young—my brain tells me to belly up.
“Have coffee with me after Christmas. Please? I just want to talk. Genuinely. Not a psychiatrist-on-the-couch kind of talk, but a deeper dive into what you loved and lost with your father. There are some big scenes coming up post-holidays, and I want to make sure I step up to the plate.”
Beatrix looks confused, angry, stoic. Like she’s shapeshifting right in front of me. It’s hard to predict what kind of reaction might rain down on me next.
“Okay,” she says finally, with a nod so affirmative that a few kernels of rice shake off her plate. “Coffee. The twenty-seventh. Is that commitment enough for you to leave me alone today? To maybe even . . . escort yourself home, seeing as you’re not on the call sheet?”
Nobody . . . I mean nobody . . . has spoken to me like this on set, ever. Well, maybe my mom when I was a punk-ass kid. But since becoming of legal age, not a single person on any set has been so blunt and curt with me.
It’s equal parts infuriating and intriguing.
“I’ll take that coffee date and leave, just as soon as this food is off my plate. You can stay here and finish. Please. I’ll move if I’m keeping you from eating your fake meat.”
“Tofurkey is delicious, thank you, and I say that as a non-vegetarian. But to answer your question—yes, if you dine elsewhere, I’ll be much more inclined to sit back down.” She smiles then, possibly the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of bad fake smiles in my day, on set and off. “Thanks for the talk, Rocco. Hope you have a merry Christmas.”
I stand, though I feel unbalanced by the arctic chill. And that face . . . I’m struck by the feeling again—there’s just something so familiar about it. The pout. The judging eyes. The nose crinkle intended to look tough, though the end result has a strange charm to it. Déjà vu? Something from a dream? A nightmare? Whatever it is, it’s somehow calming and alarming at the same time.
“Did we work together before?” I ask, because curiosity gets the best of me. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like I . . . know you? Shit, you weren’t the script supervisor on Rockets to Russia were you? Because I was really in a bad place with my publicist at the time. Outside baggage. And it wasn’t the script, it was the dialogue!”
She avoids my gaze, speaking instead to her tofurkey. “I was never a script supervisor, but I did read about your unruly performance in some tabloids at the time.” She looks up to finally meet my eyes, only to flash me a smug, holier-than-thou grin.
I’m silent for a few seconds too long before blurting out, “Hope your Christmas is, uh . . . merry and bright, too.”
Damn. Beatrix Noel. What is her deal?
Brushing off that question would certainly be the easier route.
But I chose to be here, chose this movie, for a reason, didn’tI?
I chose the challenge.
* * *
My little brother Rudy and his fiancée Lucy—usually New Yorkers—are in the last weeks of a joint residency in LA for their comedy show, Spiked Lemonade. A hit in Brooklyn, celebrating horribly awkward dating stories by turning them into comedy gold, relocated temporarily to the West Coast for a few months. I’d offered up my home for their stay—it’s stupidly big for one person—but they’d passed. Because they’re newly engaged and eager for some alone time, Rudy had said, letting me down gently. More than that, though, I suspect my brother wanted to prove he could do his own thing. Pay his own way. Which I respect. We’d gone our different directions after a childhood acting together on the screen; I kept on with show biz, rode it to the top. And Rudy, he picked college on the East Coast and his own more creative routes from there: music and comedy and whatever else would pay the bills. Spiked Lemonade feels like the payoff he’s been working so damn hard for.
So, a rental in Venice for him and Lucy it is.
We’re all staying put out here for the holiday, our first California Christmas together—much to my parents’ chagrin, since we’ll be missing their annual Christmas Eve dinner extravaganza in Jersey. But I’m buying their forgiveness by treating the whole family to a week in Turks and Caicos when the movie wraps. My parents and Rudy and Lucy, some aunts and uncles, a few cousins, even ninety-four-year-old Great Uncle Alfred—with his plus one, a woman thirty years his junior. An icon for bachelors everywhere.
I promised Rudy and Lucy I’d meet up with them post-show tonight to kick off our holiday. It’s been great, having my little bro back in town—especially after spending too many of our adult years barely speaking, thanks to a jackass move I made on his first great love back in the day. A life choice and era I try to avoid thinking about as much as possible. But we’ve both been busy, passing ships since I started shooting Murder in the Books.
I pull up to a hipster bar across the street from their comedy venue in Silver Lake. It has all the accoutrements my brother Rudy most enjoys, the kind of rock-and-roll dive bar that’s not afraid to sell merch with the bar name—Angelenos Inc., in a spiky punk-rock font—surrounded by totally trademarked and licensed ’80s and ’90s popstar photos. How did he manage a steady gig across the street from such a dream watering hole?
Rudy and Lucy are posted up when I walk in, laughing and nuzzling shoulders, a couple of empties already on the high-top table. I used to want that kind of connection, too, before it became clear I was better suited for the bachelor life. An Uncle Alfred protégée. But seeing the two of them together, those goofy grins—I could almost be tempted to swing back toward my initial path.
Almost.
“Rocco! You dirty sonofabitch! Willing to hang, but always too busy to come to the actual show.” Rudy looks at me with his puppy-dog brown eyes and gives a pointed frown to expel his marked displeasure that I, yet again, missed their show. Rudy and I played twins on Black Hole Sons, a funny shtick because we couldn’t look more different; I got an extra six inches and the Italian genes from Dad, and he got freckles and red hair, courtesy of our Irish mother. But our facial expressions, the way we show ourselves to the world—that’s where I always see the sibling link.
“You know,” Lucy chimes in, “you might even find a love match there? We had at least two connections in the audience tonight. Nothing says, ‘let’s grab a drink’ more than hearing about the most comically nightmarish first dates.” Lucy’s smile makes everyone smile, gives a nice serotonin boost. Works on me every time, no matter how shit the day. Tonight included. It’s her whole vibe, really; like a modern-day Lucille Ball, her looks, humor, charisma. Except she’s got dark brown hair—my brother’s the only redhead in their relationship.
“I know, I know . . . I really wanted to come, but I had a long day on set.” Great, Rocco. Open with a half lie. The full truth is that Beatrix had me too flustered to appreciate a comedy show. But I might as well dive right into the work mess—maybe they can help me figure Beatrix out. I’m usually good at reading people; it’s an actor’s gift. But in this case, I’m failing. Miserably.
“Right, your DAD project!” Rudy chuckles. “Sorry, can’t help myself, it’s just so wild to picture you as a dad. I mean, sure, you’re old enough, and you very well might have kids somewhere, but you sure as shit don’t know ‘em.”
My little brother seems prepped to engage in a very Jersey-style ball-busting session. It’d usually bounce right off of me, a big brother superpower, but he’s hitting my anxieties right to the core. I’m not a dad—I’ve always been supremely careful about that. No visible protection, no deal, no matter how tempting. Nothing against dads, of course. I have a great dad of my own, I respect the hell out of dads, but no, I am not dad material by any stretch of anyone’s imagination, especially my own. Nor have I tried to step into a pair of dad shoes before this role. There’s no going back once you’ve crossed that age barrier. Once a dad, always a dad, at least in Hollywood’s eyes.
Worth that leap, for this movie. The right kind of game-changer.
At least, that’s what I thought when I’d signed on. Hopefully still true.
I take a second, collect myself with a few deep breaths—my very Irish and semi-woo-woo spiritual mom was always big on teaching us meditative strategies when we were kids on set—and dive in. “Speaking of the dad gig, the writer, Beatrix—it’s her life the movie’s based on, her dad I’m playing—she’s just . . . dogging all my scenes. Crushing my confidence at every turn. It’s unreal.” Wow. I feel epically whiny just saying it. Petulant. No matter how true it may be. And yet I continue. “Also, it’s bizarre—she looks so familiar to me, but . . . I’m pretty sure I’ve never met her before. I did ask if we’d worked together, and she shot me down. I’m not too classy to admit I may have been a bit of a hit with the ladies on set, particularly in my younger years. But the way she despises me, it’s like I’ve wronged her in ten lifetimes before this one.”
“Let’s be real, brother,” Rudy says, grinning widely. “You’ve encountered far too many faces in your life to remember every single one. Especially when it comes to women.”
Lucy elbows him for me. Though Rudy’s not wrong—I’ve been a serial dater for too many years to keep a pristine mental Rolodex.
My problem has always been projecting other people’s feelings without any actual consultation. I just go on instinct. Which, in my late teens and twenties—and sure, thirties, too—has amounted to a long run of four-to-five date stretches. Abrupt endings based on my own insecurities, hyper analyzing what’s gone wrong in the past. Instead of working on myself, I choose casual. Jump ship before anyone gets in too deep.
There was only ever one true outlier.
Rudy takes a long swig of beer, then puts the bottle down and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Back to the larger issue here. So you aren’t getting the customary awe and rapt applause you so dearly desire? That’s the problem?”
I’m considering rubbing my knuckles over his scalp when Lucy steps in, verbally this time, reading the room like she does so well. “Rudy, I think Rocco’s looking for some real advice here. The show’s over. Save it for later, my love.”
Rudy backs off immediately—Lucy has that effect on him. I knew from the first time I met her that Lucy was the one. He needs someone checking him now and again, or else he becomes more of a jaded, self-proclaimed “realist.” A slippery slope that can easily lead into asshole territory. That didn’t change in our years apart; some things never do, apparently.
“Listen,” I continue, “I’ve tried everything to get her to warm up. That YouTuber . . . excuse me, actress . . . who’s playing Beatrix in the movie gets all the good notes, though. The feelings. The vibes. The context. And me? I get nothing. Which, yeah, it’s her character, her role, she gets it better. But surely she still has some workable insights for me? She lived with the man her whole childhood, and all she could give me is that my biggest scene so far was adequate. Who says that?”
Lucy’s lightning fast with a response—like she can’t tell me how it is quick enough. “Maybe the kind of person who wrote a movie about a deeply traumatic point in her life? Full stop. Of course she’s going to mentor the person in her role. I know nothing about the script, but I’ve got enough information to see you’re making this way more about yourself than you should be. You’re an amazing actor. Trust in that. Without pushing Beatrix to hand over more than she’s ready or willing to about her past. She doesn’t owe you that.”
True. But also: ouch.
“Yeah, bro,” Rudy chimes in, “let’s be real. You’ve never needed anyone else to tell you how great you are—you just took a script and owned it. Whether you were playing a total jock who just so happened to save the planet with spectacular abs, or a bumbling convenience store clerk who accidently locked the serial killer in the walk-in freezer while you were busy making out with a customer. I mean, they weren’t complex characters, but you made it work. Always.”
I can’t help but laugh, even if there’s a sting to it, too. “Both of those movies made a lot of money, thank you, and the bumbling clerk had plenty of substance! Remember the scene where I had to comfort the woman pinned by the slushie machine? Deep stuff, if you ask me.”
“If you’d let me finish, brosef, I was trying to say that ten times out of ten, you had the right read and proper motivation. Why are you letting her get the best of you?”
“Because . . .” I scramble, desperate to get this right—for them, and for me. “It’s her life, and I genuinely want her to be happy with my work. It’s an audience of one for me right now. Beatrix had such a tough past with her dad, and I want to make damn certain I’m capturing the moments and feelings to her liking. She deserves that, you know?”
Well, huh. That felt . . . honest. Am I growing into a more nurturing father type after all? Or at least a more empathetic actor who’s thinking beyond his own performance? The critics, the award nominations.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Rocco.
More likely, the truth is somewhere in the middle; my ego is still strong, no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise. But there’s more than ego. At least in this case.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I asked to meet for coffee next week. One more solid try to see if she’ll open up more, give notes on how I can improve. Be the best William I can be.”
“I think,” Rudy starts, slowly, like he’s talking to a small child, “that all sounds . . . nice. But you need to leave your baggage at the door. Don’t play the ol’ Rocco Me-Me-Me game. Take a page from our playbook,” he says, nodding at Lucy. “In a platonic way, but still. The Lucy-putting-Rudy-in-his-place lesson. Be a listener, not just a talker. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and me—I’d be feeling the same way in your spot. I just have this fine lady here who helps me to step outside myself.”
Lucy wraps her arms around Rudy’s shoulders, hugs him tight. It really is kind of endearing. I don’t want to gag, at least.
“He’s right, Rocco. I’m sure she’s still working everything through, and to see it all play out like this must take a heavy toll. Imagine watching your worst private moments relived in that way?” Lucy shudders, downs the dregs of her whiskey. “Not that it compares, but I wouldn’t need to see our first date on the big screen. Or a small screen, for that matter.” She and Rudy exchange a long, loaded glance. Their first date in Brooklyn: a reading from an old psychic who ended up dying right there on her stage with them, in the midst of an epic prophecy about their bond. Their potential as a couple. A happy ending in that it kept them together despite the odds, sure, riddling through her prophecy as a team. Discovering their comedy show together. But a bizarre and traumatic start to any relationship.
I can’t help but think about Rudy and our past now, too. Much as I like to avoid it.
The way I broke his heart when I stole his (semi, not quite) ex-girlfriend away back in ’99. Piper Bell. Our co-star from Black Hole Sons. The show that put all three of us on the Hollywood map. We were so young during those love triangle days, but still. Old enough to know what we wanted. Rudy and Piper, they’d been together for years—the Teen Beat It Couple of the late ’90s. Then Rudy left Hollywood for school, and Piper and I stayed behind in LA to make our stars rise higher, and . . . well, I’d loved her secretly for years, too, and when she gave me an inch, we took the rest of the mile together. Kept on running after that. Imploded everything between me and Rudy for far longer than the flash-and-burn courtship lasted. It was only last year, Rudy finding Lucy, a potential fresh start for his love life and his career, a visit to LA to sort through everything, that we really reunited. Had the hard brother talks that’d been so many years in the making. He’d flown out here for a gig that ultimately wasn’t meant to be, work-wise at least; the trip here, the time together, it’s what saved him and me. Gave us the good sense and life perspective we both needed. A nice brotherly kick in the ass.
I’d give up my whole bank account to never see any of that past on a screen. I think about the thousands of other ways I’ve been a jackass since, the things people in my life have put up with, especially those who care about me most.
Family—it’s complicated on all sides. Beatrix and I can both speak to that.
We spend the rest of the night recounting embarrassing stories from our childhoods. I’m not trying to audition for their show—though I do vow to catch the grand finale in January—but I am putting my best comedy foot forward in a desperate attempt to cheer myself up for the holidays. It works, thankfully. Lucy’s laughing hard at ridiculous stories Rudy’s neglected to tell her, probably because he’s the butt of almost every joke. He takes it like a champ, though. For a little brother, he certainly knows the right time to give his big brother the spotlight. Even if that big brother gets too much spotlight as it is. I would do the same for him, though, always. He was right.
We are cut from the same cloth.
And if he can learn, do better, maybe I can, too.