I Lied To Hollywood

 
My Dad had many talents. He could write, teach, take photos, and execute all the home improvements (I was often the ladder holder until I slowly grew in the ranks, and he taught me how to work on electrical components and how to solder copper piping for plumbing, among other things, this is also why I love power washing so much), he made spaghetti sauce from scratch, and the best sausage and pepper subs ever. He was always wearing painted clothes or covered in paint from some project. He was always learning new things and hopped from one mania to another. Sometimes it was Shakespeare, boxing, ceremonial carpets from different cultures, learning new technologies (he was an early Apple believer), and quantum physics toward the end of his life. I also have this trait of obsessing over something until I feel that I've learned/done all I can.

One of the things he enjoyed was movies. Good ones. My sister and I have seen all the classics, and he would periodically leave with my mom to run some errands and say, "Whatever you do, DON'T WATCH A CLOCKWORK ORANGE WHILE WE ARE GONE." and he would shake the tape at us and leave. So, naturally, that is precisely what we did. He knew some movies with historical significance we couldn't watch together with him, but he thought they were necessary to see. I still laugh at the story he tells about going to see the movie "Psycho" as a kid and how bored he was, rolling his eyes for the first 47 minutes of the movie, and then Norman Bates got busy with the butcher knife, and he was just sitting there slack-jawed.

It made an impact on him, and he was obsessed with movies from that point on. Not just the stories but how scenes are put together, what made a good script, what made a shitty script, who would be a better actor for this part, etc. For fun, he started writing his screenplays. There are a bunch. One is about the murder of Stanford White, one of the most revered architects in New York City, where he was from. Another one was about the murder of Jesse James. He had another about the Shirt Tale Gang, a 19th-century street gang from the 5 Points slum in Manhattan (he was so mad when the "Gangs of New York" came out. I'm biased, but he would have been a better script for Scorsese.)  He was always working these stories out in his mind, always at the library researching everything. I still have many of his books marked for factual inspiration for his stories. He would give us updates at the dinner table each night, sometimes, he got stuck, and we would talk through how to get a character to do something or make a decision. My mom was a good editor. She could tell what parts needed to stay and which needed to go. Sometimes the answers to the missing pieces of the story came to him in dreams. He would just sit typing and channel from somewhere. I asked from where, and he often said the words just wrote themselves. Maybe they did. 

He eventually got an agent and had a screenplay optioned with a studio, which means that he contracted with them for a year, and they shopped his script around, and he couldn't send it to other studios. He was well-known in some of the Oregon film groups, but he didn't have much success getting any of his scripts picked up. He was disappointed, and these scripts were (are) GOOD. Sometimes I watch a movie and think, "He could have written this and made it a decent movie.". We're all critics, aren't we (but some terrible movies get made, how and why, I do not know).

So, while he was working on his screenplays, I was doing my work in tandem, and I didn't know that our worlds would coalesce. I used to run an events department in a college here in Portland. I had many responsibilities and a lot of freedom to figure things out on my own, which I loved. Part of my job was to be the site representative for any movie shoots that Hollywood brought our way. The college has the same architecture as many of the older Ivy League colleges, with many bricks and archways. It's beautiful.

One day, my boss called me and said he needed me to give a tour to a group looking for a place to film. I was a little pissed, it was lunchtime, but I agreed and headed over to where the group was. I shook everyone's hand, including Sean Penn's. I DIED. DIED. He's one of my favorite actors (other than Robert Duvall). If you have never seen the movie "At Close Range," rent it now. I gave them all the tour. They were looking for a spot like Emory University for a film they were working on called "Into the Wild." I made small talk. They were all very friendly. At one point, Mr. Penn pulled out a cigarette and asked a passing student for a light. The student looked blankly at him and said, "I don't smoke." It was interesting to see this major movie star's interaction with a college student who loved their lungs and didn't know who he was.

We got the call that they wanted to contract and film a few weeks later. So, we got the ball rolling, and they shot in the fall. But graduation is in the spring in the screenplay, so they were spray painting the trees green. It was a full-scale production, with hundreds of people for a graduation scene (we had to run 850 people through hair/makeup to make them look like they were living in the 1980s, with so much blue eye shadow). I said I would manage the shoot, but I needed a radio to be allowed on all channels and 24/7 access to craft services (the snack truck, oh man, those were good breakfast burritos). There were movie star trailers and a golf cart that shuttled Mr. Penn around, and I worked closely with the Unit Production manager (John) and Sean (we were on a first-name basis). I felt like I fit right in. I loved the action.

It was a three-day shoot, so I called my parents and told them to come to the college and see the magic happen. I spent the morning arguing with Sean and John about cranes and making sure they were using double plywood on the grass (I didn't want the weight of the condor crane to crack the irrigation lines, the things we don't think of, right? All these small details. Grounds would have murdered me). My parents showed up with their bulldog Dorie. Everyone was on break, and I stood at the back of the field. We could see Sean across the stage, looking things over for the next scene. And then, he looked over at me and saw me hug my parents. He hopped off the stage and came right over. Of course, Dorie had no manners (bulldogs are the best) and jumped all over him, and I introduced him to my parents. He was so nice to them, something I am eternally grateful to him for. My Dad had cancer at this time, although I didn't know it, and now I know how meaningful it was for him. My Dad said, "Hey, do you have an Oscar she can chew on?" It was a perfect moment. I'd never seen my dad so nervous/excited. 

Later on, my dad called me.

"Honey, I have an idea. No one wants to read a screenplay written by some old guy like me. Why don't we put your name on my three best scripts, and you can try to hand them off to someone as your own."

"Well, ok!" I said, thinking of how, who, and when and trying to figure out the timing. I wanted this to happen for him so badly, and I honored this favor for him, although I try to think of myself as honest. He brought them over, and I had them in my office. On the last day of the shoot, as we were all saying our goodbyes (Sean gave me a Carhartt jacket, which is all he wears), I walked over to my friend John (we were friends by this point, the two soldiers making things happen "Beth - every second we waste costs $5,000!" Etc.) and told him that I didn't tell him this earlier, I didn't want to impose, but I was dabbling in screenwriting. He seemed surprised but told me he would look at them.

That night, John called. He was in awe, and he loved them all. He asked me to meet him for dinner to talk through ideas and get to know me and my history a little more. Who was this 27-year-old girl with an obsession with boxing and New York City in the 1800s? Right? So, I called my dad, panicking. He came over and walked me through his thought processes for each story, why he told the story a certain way, what his research materials were, and what his motives were for writing each one, and I tried to bone up on as much NY history as I could.

I met John for dinner. We had a great time. And he told me he wanted to give them another read and would be in touch. Whew. The following week, he called. A month later, he called. He wanted to fly me to LA that weekend to "meet some people" and try to get something going. I panicked again, and my dad also panicked. We both decided it was too soon, and we had to make a plan. I just wasn't ready. And I was lying! I'm not a liar, but I could tell how tickled my dad was, so things kept going. In September and October, my dad emailed me all of his scripts and all his plotline ideas. Now I know why. He knew he was dying. He was trusting me with his last gift to everyone – his screenplays.

On December 3rd, a Monday, my dad passed away from cancer. I don't remember a lot from those months, but I was still getting calls from John, and I didn't know what to say or do. So, I just stopped responding. 

I got a text a few months (s?) later, and John said he was in Portland and wanted to meet. At this point, I knew I had to come clean. So, I called my mom and sister, and we discussed it. They agreed that I had to be honest; hopefully, he would see that this was the last adventure for a dying man. I texted him, explaining what had happened and that I understood if he didn't want to talk to me again.
On the contrary, he invited me to dinner with him and his girlfriend. I was a wreck, so I dragged my sister with me. We met, ate, cried, and explained the whole story to him. God bless John Kelly; he was not mad. He was so kind to these two women whose hearts were broken. We kept in touch over the years, giving life updates, and I keep up with his continued work. He's a machine. 

I will never forget his kindness. He could have been so mad and felt so betrayed, but he just listened as we told him about our Father. I've never lied to anyone like that, but I would do anything for my dad. It was one of our best adventures. In one of his last emails to me, he said:
 
I originally wrote The Handkerchief, The Captive (about Stanford White), and The American as a trilogy.  I needed to connect all three scripts, so I wrote a short postscript.  Of all the millions of words I've written, this page-and-a-half gave me the most pleasure, and it's what I'm most proud of. 

You now have everything I have.
 
The post-script is only two pages, but the words are magical. I cry every time I read them.
 
I think there are probably ten screenplays ready, and then I have pages of plotline ideas. He was teaching me the ins and outs of screenwriting that fall in 2007. I still have the books. 

I occasionally send them out. I tried to work with smaller companies (back when you could send screenplays to Amazon and Netflix). I have more time now to shop them around again...but when I send them out, they always have the name Charles E. Martin listed as the writer.
 
I now have everything he had. I think, in his own way, the words.
You now have everything I have.
 
Those words were his way of saying goodbye. They are his way of saying I love you. They are his way of saying that our adventure together is not over. Maybe someone will read these words and help that adventure continue.

*2023 updates for my closest coming soon. <3