Shooting The Marrying Man was difficult. At times, it was awful. There were some good scenes, the cast was great, and I thought the story of Harry Karl made for a good movie. But the production was overshadowed by the ongoing battle between Kim and Disney, as Kim attempted to exert yet more control over the movie than Disney was prepared to allow. One day, Jeffrey Katzenberg, who was in charge of the studio at the time, asked me to come to his office. Once I was there, he wasted no time informing me that it was their studio, their money, and their movie. Actors were employees and expected to do their jobs and create as little trouble as possible. “I can get the guard at the gate to play your role. It makes no difference to me. The film itself is the star,” he exhorted.
At the time, I was offended. Years later, I found his honesty refreshing. Less than a year after The Marrying Man (and Dick Tracy, as well), Katzenberg published his infamous memo shellacking pretty much the entire industry for their profligate spending and overall bad decision-making. That memo meant, among other things, that a lot of people in the town were overpaid and some of them unrealistically so. The reaction to that was, at best, somewhat mixed. Within a few years, however, Katzenberg’s memo was viewed as prescient. Eventually, Katzenberg offered me work voicing animated characters in films like Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa and Boss Baby, and I’ve enjoyed working with him again.
During The Marrying Man, however, an article appeared in the movie magazine Premiere. The story, which painted Kim as an out-of-control brat, was largely fiction. It read as if Disney’s PR people had faxed it to Susan Lyne, the chilly editor of the magazine. I knew that the article’s oft-quoted anecdote about Kim insisting on only Evian water for washing her hair was false, but that lie would follow her for years. By this time, we were dating. Naturally, I tried to take up for Kim. My publicist at the time told me, “Who do you think Premiere is beholden to, a couple of actors who make a movie or two a year? Or to a major studio that releases twenty or twenty-five pictures every year?” The piece made us look like two spoiled, ridiculous children. I can only begin to imagine what was being said off the record to the media. An important die was cast during that film, as I began to think that defending Kim from any and all trouble was becoming my job.
When the film ended and I was scheduled to pack up my rented house and go home to New York, Kim invited me to move in with her. As the Premiere magazine piece broke, Mace Neufeld, the producer of Red October, called me. Every inch the old guard Hollywood type, he offered little small talk before he got down to cases. “Get rid of her,” he said. I was standing in the living room of Kim’s house. Instinctively, I lowered my voice, for fear that she would hear me. I replied with something stupid like, “What do you mean, get rid of her?” Neufeld shared his views on my choice of girlfriends. “There are a lot of women out there for you,” Mace said. “When the timing is right, then of course you’ll want that. But this is a very important period of your life. You’ve got to get rid of her because she’s just gonna pull you down.” But like it would for any man who believed he was in love, that suggestion went in one ear and out the other. I thanked Mace and hung up.
Years later, I realized that Mace had been telling me the cardinal rule of Hollywood stardom: that you must make it the most important part of your life, above all else. Take the example of Tom Cruise. I don’t know exactly what Scientology offers, but I have speculated from time to time about what its followers derive from their commitment. In Cruise’s case, I’ve asked myself, “What could Tom possibly want or need that he doesn’t already have?” He is talented, handsome, and rich. He is admired by everyone he works with. He is a cornerstone of latter-twentieth-century movie history. And to top it off, he seems genuinely happy. Does Scientology function as some kind of coach that not only gives permission to its flock to unabashedly pursue their dreams, but demands that you go for it, without apology, keeping your focus on yourself and your goals?
I didn’t quite see my career that way. My obligations to my family and to a woman I had invested so much in prevented me from placing my work above everything. Also, Kim presented herself as a pure, uncompromising iconoclast. There were many things she might have done to advance her own career. Instead, she dismissed the many sexed-up roles, and a lot of money, that were thrust at her while she hoped for something better. She lived in a modest house in a modest neighborhood, abjuring a self-conscious lifestyle. As attractive as those qualities seemed, however, there were other things about her that I wish I had given more weight to when we first started dating, such as her reflexive reliance upon “advisers” who often wrongly urged her either toward or away from conflict in her life and work. (This would become abundantly clear down the line when divorce lawyers were involved, but at the time it rang only faint alarm bells.) However, as I was developing my own sense of cynicism about the industry, Kim’s lack of pretentiousness was like oxygen. She didn’t always go about her business in the smartest way, but Kim knew that Hollywood was full of shit and that, unless you were going to go all in, the less seriously you took it, the happier you’d be.
In 1991, my mother developed breast cancer, a diagnosis that would eventually bring her as much joy and triumph as an advocate for victims of the disease as it initially brought her illness and fear. A lifelong believer in Western medicine, my mother never met a pill she didn’t like in her quest to combat her many aches and pains. She was falling apart and she was frightened and overwhelmed. Although my relationship with my mom had never been that deep, I had begun to take more of an interest in her health and well-being. On Saturday nights (I worked most Friday nights), as I was heading out for the evening in whatever city I was in, I felt a pang of sadness for her and would call and chat with her, knowing that her house was empty and that she was alone. A lifelong Jeopardy! watcher who wanted me to invite Alex Trebek over for dinner, she could always be found in bed in the evening, the TV blaring away. She’d watch Magnum, P.I. or Law & Order. Later, when NCIS was added to the rotation, she would ask why I wasn’t on that show. “I just love that Mark Harmon!” she would sigh. I imagined Alex Trebek, Mariska Hargitay, and Mark Harmon all at my mom’s dinner table. She’d be in heaven.