Eric Roberts VII: Bitter Fruit

We were well into the shooting schedule when other people began noticing Eric's strange behavior. But, it was reasoned, he was at the emotional heart of Nathaniel West's dark story as it relentlessly explored the downward spiral of a sensitive, empathetic young man overtaken by the depression and helplessness of others. In some ways we were all caught up in the powerful energy as the tale came to life through our careful ministrations; it was as if we were coaxing the demons to rise up inside a cold, empty stage, jostling about in the firelight of our own making, underestimating its ability to feed on us.

The sun shone in Los Angeles but each day we were immersed in the private worlds of Miss Lonelyheart's desperate readers we were pulled further and further away from the beauty outside and it was hard to keep a sense of balance. Eric's mood had shifted into a state of dark introspection and he communicated only with the director and a few of his fellow actors. We had a strong, seasoned cast assembled with the strength of Eric's name in the lead including veteran Arthur Hill, Conchata Ferrell, (of L.A. Law fame and currently starring in Two and a Half Men), and a young Greg Itzin, who is known to 24 fans as last season's President Logan. Hill had been a last-minute replacement - the original actor, another well-known veteran of television supporting roles, had been summarily dismissed after he had difficulty remembering his lines. We thought it amazing that our little production had the luxury of firing a name actor mid-stream (with useless shots in the can) but nothing about this project seemed like a student film. Producer Lydia Woodward (pictured above) and director Michael Dinner were determined to wring every last production value and cast performance out of all of us and no-one was exempt.

We had a crushing schedule, long hours and early calls to the set. Soon it became apparent that something was seriously messing up our lead actor. He was in almost every scene of the film so demands on his time (and our dependence on him) were beginning to become worriesome. He was late for makeup calls in the morning and occasionally became belligerent over small things, storming off to cool down. Whispers began floating around that he was doing copious amounts of weed or pills, or drinking, or who knows what else, depending on the source. And another tidbit of information surfaced soon afterward: he was sleeping with someone in the camera department. She was a quiet girl with a mane of luxurious red hair, who liked to wear overalls and generally kept to herself. Her calm demeanor and professional attitude made it difficult to figure out if the rumors were true. She certainly never showed any undue attention to Eric, but after the word spread we noticed that they always left the set together, discreetly of course, and the pieces began falling into place.

Cast and crew hook-ups are common, and although they are often innocent and a natural result of weeks or months together in a life bubble of sorts, some of them are outside someone's marriage and that's why the film business is tough on commited couples. It's the nature of the work, an intense focus on a common goal, the emotionally charged climate of creating faux relationships onscreen, hours with nothing to do but talk and develop friendships, and the need to let off steam after long days spent in arduous, or tedious work together. Most importantly, rather like a giant support group or a platoon we have to trust each other completely. It's an inter-dependant organism for the life of the film, and all decisions, from the highest level about the direction of performances and the development of the visual canvas to showing up on time, delivering as promised, and devoting all of one's available energy to the core is what fosters this quickened connection. Even more so on location where hotel living adds to the sense of unreality. I once knew a perfectly rational makeup artist who had a blazingly hot and very secret rendevous every night with the star of their film. He was 15 years her junior and once the film was over they never saw each other again but for a few weeks she had the undivided attention of a major hearthrob. Despite the pain of withdrawal that followed, who wouldn't have traded places with her?

As far as Eric's personal life was concerned I was quickly out of the loop and this news about the camera girl, plus the rumors about Sandy Dennis made me as much of an onlooker as the rest. It now seemed surreal that we'd even had a budding friendship, he'd become so alien and distant. When Eric and I worked on a party scene together (which explains my formal dress in the photos) we didn't speak, or even look at each other.

Near the end of the shoot everyone was tired and cranky, made no easier by Eric's erratic behavior and a growing sense of fiction come to life. It doesn't seem strange to me anymore but all my memories of those days are in the black and white shades and textures of the film. We were living in the deep shadows and stark contrast of cinematographer Juan Ruiz Anchia, who was a promising Spanish transplant, and the set design of Tom Walsh, who constructed unrelenting visuals of the worn, greasy, lonely rooms where the forgotten lived.

It began to feel like a nightmare.

We were nearing the end of the shoot, with a few important scenes still to do when we were setting up for a party scene and no-one could find Eric. An eerie silence descended on the set as we all sat down on apple boxes and waited. By lunch it was apparent that he had disappeared. Lydia and Michael were conferring and although the rest of us were waxing between disbelief and disgust (mixed in with a dash of purient tabloid curosity), they stayed amazingly calm.

Their film was about to implode.

Next: The mystery of Eric's disappearance.

Photo: Lydia Woodward on the set of Miss Lonelyearts. Author's collection