Phil Hartman I: A Friend in Need
Sometime in the 1990's:
The last time I saw Phil Hartman we were lining up to see a movie in Sherman Oaks. Phil was already a star, he'd been on Saturday Night Live for most of the eight seasons he eventually booked there, and I had just crawled up from the couch at a friend's place where I was crashing for a few weeks. I got in line behind him - surprised that he'd be there like everyone else, patiently waiting his turn to have his ticket torn and stepping into another line for popcorn, not expecting any special treatment, and not one to avoid crowds and screen films at home. That was Phil. At least the Phil I knew.
He was a big guy, broad shouldered with a thick neck and scruffy reddish hair. Quietly minding his own business, he had just been standing there when I dutifully got into line behind him and even as recognition dawned for a while I did nothing but stare at his back. I'd been in self-imposed exile and now seeing him I was inside the light of the life I'd had owned before my fortunes had fallen, and down I went as if I were tumbling off a cliff with every image of that time together clearly toppling alongside me. We shuffled forward toward the entrance and I hesitated, feeling shy. Hair unkempt, I'd twisted it into a quick elastic for a trip out into the world from the depths of self-pity where I'd been holed up for months trying to sort out the mess my life had become. We were worlds apart by then, even though only a year or so had passed since we'd last had dinner together. It seemed forever. After a moment of indecisiveness, the ridiculousness of it all got to me and I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, a broad smile of recognition lighting up his face.
"Well, hello there," he drawled. He always sounded like he was imitating Jack Benny and the familiarity of it was wrenching. He turned his body halfway toward me, I reached out to touch his arm and then I saw her.
Brynn. She stepped into view and snaked her hand onto his other arm, big-ass Valley wedding rings flashing. With a firm grip she started to pull him back. Hey!
She gave me a cold glance, and her grip tightened.
"Brynn, you remember......" but she cut him off. "Sweetheart, we have to go," she said firmly.
Not like the last time. Then you had to be polite. To pay attention.
Phil was still the same. His good-natured charm never wavered, even when she was pulling on him, her tendrils like the Lady of The Lake.
My face must have been pale, no makeup, no glamour. I'd thrown jeans and a hoodie on at the last minute and pulled what I had around me tighter. It was a fall night and the snap! in the air made us all withdraw a little, watch the cold ground. Not the friendliest of nights. For a moment we stood eye to eye - a shadow of our past keeping just the ghost of a placemark held fast by shared memories.
"Come on!" Brynn said with a hiss. He shrugged and smiled apologetically. You don't belong. This town can be like that.
She had me to rights and there was nothing I could do. He turned away and they moved ahead of me in line as if we had never met, never been friends, never, never, never.
Welcome to Hollywood.
Several years earlier:
If I told you that I really wanted to quit the business you'd have laughed at me because I was still just a kid and nowhere near being burned out. It was the fear of being burned out, of seeing raspy-voiced women in production jobs at the studio who had become pack-a-day smokers and looked as if they hadn't slept in weeks. I'd been working at MGM as a television production coordinator for a year. A year and one month when I decided to marry Michael, a writer with a movie deal, and throw my romantic dreams out the window. Jaded and fearful I felt so much older than I was and I didn't realize how much growing up I still had to do. I wanted to make films, not hackneyed television series with the kind of actors who back then could never, ever transition like they do now to making films. This was the ebb of the era populated by the likes of Michael Landon and James Brolin, of big-haired women with long red nails who populated nighttime soaps about rich Texans and fictitious Vineyards, and who had big enough shoulder pads and enough makeup to, as the song goes, "make a monkey look good."
During our whirlwind engagement and wedding plans Phil Hartman came into our lives. He was Paul Reuben's (Pee-Wee Herman) friend from The Groundlings, where they had enjoyed local success as comic performers before teaming up with Michael to write Pee-wee's Big Adventure on spec for Paramount. To me Phil was old, probably around 36 (wow, so very old) and had been knocking around the business for so long that even he had given up hope of ever really making it. That's what made Phil so interesting and endearing, because he was really, really talented. A brilliant comic and spot-on mimic with a quick wit, he had the kind of goofy charm and insatiable need to make people laugh that quickly made him your inseperable companion and tour guide for the love of living.
When Phil and I realized we were both Canadians, our bond was securely formed and I quickly fell in love with the joy he brought into our world.
Next: Our Philly, Part II
The last time I saw Phil Hartman we were lining up to see a movie in Sherman Oaks. Phil was already a star, he'd been on Saturday Night Live for most of the eight seasons he eventually booked there, and I had just crawled up from the couch at a friend's place where I was crashing for a few weeks. I got in line behind him - surprised that he'd be there like everyone else, patiently waiting his turn to have his ticket torn and stepping into another line for popcorn, not expecting any special treatment, and not one to avoid crowds and screen films at home. That was Phil. At least the Phil I knew.
He was a big guy, broad shouldered with a thick neck and scruffy reddish hair. Quietly minding his own business, he had just been standing there when I dutifully got into line behind him and even as recognition dawned for a while I did nothing but stare at his back. I'd been in self-imposed exile and now seeing him I was inside the light of the life I'd had owned before my fortunes had fallen, and down I went as if I were tumbling off a cliff with every image of that time together clearly toppling alongside me. We shuffled forward toward the entrance and I hesitated, feeling shy. Hair unkempt, I'd twisted it into a quick elastic for a trip out into the world from the depths of self-pity where I'd been holed up for months trying to sort out the mess my life had become. We were worlds apart by then, even though only a year or so had passed since we'd last had dinner together. It seemed forever. After a moment of indecisiveness, the ridiculousness of it all got to me and I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, a broad smile of recognition lighting up his face.
"Well, hello there," he drawled. He always sounded like he was imitating Jack Benny and the familiarity of it was wrenching. He turned his body halfway toward me, I reached out to touch his arm and then I saw her.
Brynn. She stepped into view and snaked her hand onto his other arm, big-ass Valley wedding rings flashing. With a firm grip she started to pull him back. Hey!
She gave me a cold glance, and her grip tightened.
"Brynn, you remember......" but she cut him off. "Sweetheart, we have to go," she said firmly.
Not like the last time. Then you had to be polite. To pay attention.
Phil was still the same. His good-natured charm never wavered, even when she was pulling on him, her tendrils like the Lady of The Lake.
My face must have been pale, no makeup, no glamour. I'd thrown jeans and a hoodie on at the last minute and pulled what I had around me tighter. It was a fall night and the snap! in the air made us all withdraw a little, watch the cold ground. Not the friendliest of nights. For a moment we stood eye to eye - a shadow of our past keeping just the ghost of a placemark held fast by shared memories.
"Come on!" Brynn said with a hiss. He shrugged and smiled apologetically. You don't belong. This town can be like that.
She had me to rights and there was nothing I could do. He turned away and they moved ahead of me in line as if we had never met, never been friends, never, never, never.
Welcome to Hollywood.
Several years earlier:
If I told you that I really wanted to quit the business you'd have laughed at me because I was still just a kid and nowhere near being burned out. It was the fear of being burned out, of seeing raspy-voiced women in production jobs at the studio who had become pack-a-day smokers and looked as if they hadn't slept in weeks. I'd been working at MGM as a television production coordinator for a year. A year and one month when I decided to marry Michael, a writer with a movie deal, and throw my romantic dreams out the window. Jaded and fearful I felt so much older than I was and I didn't realize how much growing up I still had to do. I wanted to make films, not hackneyed television series with the kind of actors who back then could never, ever transition like they do now to making films. This was the ebb of the era populated by the likes of Michael Landon and James Brolin, of big-haired women with long red nails who populated nighttime soaps about rich Texans and fictitious Vineyards, and who had big enough shoulder pads and enough makeup to, as the song goes, "make a monkey look good."
During our whirlwind engagement and wedding plans Phil Hartman came into our lives. He was Paul Reuben's (Pee-Wee Herman) friend from The Groundlings, where they had enjoyed local success as comic performers before teaming up with Michael to write Pee-wee's Big Adventure on spec for Paramount. To me Phil was old, probably around 36 (wow, so very old) and had been knocking around the business for so long that even he had given up hope of ever really making it. That's what made Phil so interesting and endearing, because he was really, really talented. A brilliant comic and spot-on mimic with a quick wit, he had the kind of goofy charm and insatiable need to make people laugh that quickly made him your inseperable companion and tour guide for the love of living.
When Phil and I realized we were both Canadians, our bond was securely formed and I quickly fell in love with the joy he brought into our world.
Next: Our Philly, Part II
posted by vallie at 2:34 PM
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