Eric Roberts VI: The Dark Prince

Miss Lonelyhearts took place in the 1940's so the expense and time constructing and dressing sets and creating authentic wardrobe for a large cast was enormous, made even more difficult by the miniscule budget and volunteer crew. I'm not certain of the actual bottom line but I think it was in the neighborhood of $20K, more than likely agumented by the personal finances of the two principal AFI students, Michael Dinner and Lydia Woodward, for whom this project meant a serious jumpstart into the industry. They knew early on that PBS was interested in purchasing the finished project and since this was unusual for a student film everyone was looking to make the most of the exposure.

We were shooting the newspaper office scenes where Miss Lonelyhearts worked for several days in one of downtown Los Angeles' historical treasures, the Million Dollar Building. This architectural landmark, like all the original buildings in the downtown district was in a state of near-abandon and disrepair. Preferring the newer steel and glass towers on Flower Street, no major business would lease space in these dilapidated dinasours so it wasn't hard to find a portion of a floor that had been sitting empty for years. It was perfect for our needs because the space required very little set design as the office partitions, doors and signage had remained unchanged since the building had been constructed in 1918. Later I discovered the penthouse had once housed the offices of William Mullholland (his exploits as head of the Metropolitan Water District were made infamous in Chinatown). But as we lugged equipment and racks of clothes up and down the tiny, cranky elevator, it was testament to the decline of a great urban metropolis that had once been the center of this city's power before Hollywood's influence brought the limelight to the Westside and virtually gutted the life out of the old city.

While the art department was busy painting the walls and bringing in desks, telephones and slatted wooden chairs to dress the sets I wandered down to the Million Dollar Theatre housed on the main floor of the building. The grand, elegant facade in old movie palace proportions had been boarded up with cheap wooden false store-fronts and garish signage for luggage and wholesale jewlery. But once inside this magnificent orpheum-style theatre built by Sid Grauman (of Grauman's Chinese Theatre fame) the ornate tilework, murals, carved statues and velvet trimmings were still visible, if badly degraded. I felt, as I often did when I saw these old treasures, that Los Angeles had become disconnected from its past at a price and had embraced a transient culture reflected in Hollywood's obsessive quest for all that was 'new', 'hot', and 'young.'

During this time Eric seemed to become more and more withdrawn and our hourly talks dwindled down to sporatic bursts of conversation during which he seemed to be on automatic pilot. Everyone began to notice his change in behavior and speculation grew as to the cause. Then strange rumors surfaced that he was having troubles with his heretofore unmentioned 'girlfriend', Sandy Dennis, a reclusive semi-retired actress of a certain age which we thought were too crazy to be true. Although details were sketchy we were told that he was living with her and dozens of cats in a remote Long Island house and things were falling apart in his absence. Everyone was buzzing about it before long because although Dennis was an extraordinarily talented actress from the 60's (Up The Down Staircase, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and my favorite, The Fox), Eric was 26 and Sandy was.... closing in on 50 and reportedly as crazy as a loon. Even so, in some ways it made sense because her trademark style as an actor was one of memorable vulnerability, a hesitant way of speaking with fluttering hands, which always sounded organically spoken rather than memorized lines. There was something about Eric that mirrored this willingness to bare all in his performances, to become totally immersed in and to choose roles that brought out his vulnerability and fragility.

It seemed that Eric had a lot more going on in his complicated life than met the eye, but I took this information in stride, never considering the nutty Sandy Dennis as serious competition, so I decided that I would try to be supportive and understanding. Big mistake. The moment I mentioned her name he gave me such an evil look that I withered and disappeared, confused and hurt. In that moment I saw something that actually scared me and for the rest of the day I avoided him. As he sat in his makeup chair, darkness all around save for the pool of light a halo on his still figure, I was torn between compassion and frustration. We had become close enough that his erratic and dramatic mood shifts were too stark a contrast to the sweet, innocent person I had come to really like. It was troubling, and that night I came home to my roomate and confided in her that I was worried about Eric Roberts.

"I think there's something seriously wrong with the guy", I told her and the more she asked for details the more convinced I became he was about to implode. But when I listened to the set gossip, no-one seemed to agree with me - they just thought he was focused on his work and didn't want to break character off the set.

That afternoon as we were getting ready to shoot the last day at the office set we heard a tremendous ruckous outside and rushed to the windows. To our amazement a caravan of huge production trucks came rolling down Broadway Avenue and came to a stop outside the building, people spilling out to busily secure all the sidestreets. Our producer sent a scout downstairs to find out what was going on and she came back to tell us that Ridley Scott and company had arrived to set up an elaborate outdoor set for a new film they were making with Harrison Ford: the futuristic outdoor street scenes from Blade Runner were all shot outside our building while we were creating our tiny project in its very large shadow. It was the first time most of us had seen a production of this magnitude closeup (including huge rain machines that blanketed an entire block during takes). When I see this film I know that, just off camera, we were all watching the action from fourth floor windows overlooking the scene.

Despite all this activity I still had long stretches of down time and in the wee hours of the night I decided to write Eric a letter and let him know that I was on his side, that everything was going to work out, and that some day he would be back at his ranch, riding his horses. I shyly added that I hoped I was still invited to join him for a night out under the clear sky of stars he had described to me so vividly on one of our imaginary vacations. I signed the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and when he was on the set, slipped it into his script at the makeup table.

I was standing with a group of people later in the darkened litter of equipment and costume racks when Eric came marching up to me, his face a mask of contempt. Slowly he pulled out the letter, which he had obviously read, from his script. Without a word he he opened it up, held it at arms length and slowly, very slowly, ripped it into little pieces and let them fall to the floor. Everyone stood in a frozen tableau, looking from him to me, saying nothing. Then after a moment of pure, tortured silence, he turned on his heel and walked away.

We never spoke again.

Next week: My predictions about Eric start to prove true.

Photo: Eric Roberts on the set of Miss Lonleyhearts. Author's collection.