Hollywood Monster Read online

  HOLLYWOOD MONSTER

  HOLLYWOOD MONSTER

  A WALK DOWN ELM STREET WITH THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS

  ROBERT ENGLUND

  WITH ALAN GOLDSHER

  WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY

  WES CRAVEN AND TOBE HOOPER

  Pocket Books

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  Copyright © 2009 by Robert Englund

  Freddy Krueger Glove from A Nightmare on Elm Street used courtesy of

  New Line Productions, Inc. © MMIX New Line Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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  First Pocket Books hardcover edition October 2009

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  Designed by Renata Di Biase

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Englund, Robert

  Hollywood monster : a walk down Elm Street with the man of your dreams /

  Robert Englund with Alan Goldsher ; with introductions by Wes Craven and

  Tobe Hooper.

  p. cm.

  1. Englund, Robert. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. I. Title.

  PN2287.E545A3 2009

  791.4302’8092—dc22

  [B] 2009026576

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5048-1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6325-2 (ebook)

  HOLLYWOOD MONSTER

  INTRODUCTION

  BY WES CRAVEN

  I FIRST MET ROBERT ENGLUND WHILE casting for the actor to play my archvillain, Freddy Krueger, in A Nightmare on Elm Street. At that time, I didn’t know exactly what Freddy would look like, or sound like, or even act like. I just knew I wanted him to be evil, and smart. The devil’s not stupid. That’s what makes him scary.

  I was leaning toward finding someone old. An old, evil man who delighted in the torment of children—reveled in the destruction of innocence itself. And he needed to be physically intimidating, of course.

  So I was looking at old stuntmen.

  It wasn’t working out well. I was discovering that stuntmen were not particularly drawn to being cruel, nor did they get enthusiastic about taking delight in murdering children. Same for older men. They, like the stuntmen, had seen a lot of life, knew how fragile it was, and just couldn’t put themselves into such a state of mind. Too uncomfortable.

  Then in walked Robert.

  I’D SEEN HIM IN his role of Willie, the friendly alien in the television movie V, and in the subsequent miniseries of the same name. A nice, sympathetic alien, with twinkling eyes and an earnest, almost shy personality. And Robert pretty much looked like that. Friendly, chatty, brimming with humor and energy. That’s not Freddy Krueger, I told myself inwardly. He’s too nice. And young.

  But what overwhelmed my doubts was Robert’s enthusiasm for the role, his unabashed eagerness to play someone really evil. He saw the role, and the script as a whole, pretty much as I saw it, as some kind of black comedy, and as the telling of a story about iconic figures locked in the eternal human struggle between good and evil—a modern myth, disguised as a scare-the-pants-off-you horror movie. Robert got it.

  And he got the role.

  WHAT FOLLOWED WAS PURE pleasure on my part, and pure hard work on Robert’s. For openers, Freddy wasn’t a man without dermatological problems. In his past incarnation, while still on earth, he’d been burned alive by the equivalent of a lynch mob and was horribly scarred. The mask of scar tissue would give him both the power of the typically masked villain—such as Jason, and Michael Myers, and a multitude of others—but it would also allow him the freedom of expression that a rigid mask would not. Unfortunately for Robert, that meant three hours in the makeup chair every morning before he even got a chance to act. And the stuff stayed on all day. Try eating lunch through latex sometime.

  It’s not pleasant.

  But once he was on camera, Robert Englund disappeared, and this strange, powerful, wickedly funny, and terrifyingly dangerous man emerged: Freddy Krueger. And from that moment on until the makeup was pulled off at day’s end, Freddy ruled the set. Into the basic character I’d invented, Robert poured a host of improvisations—wisecracks and scary stances and poses, and a chilling sort of creeping walk that just made your blood run cold.

  It was astonishing to watch, and I knew right away that the picture and the villain that brought it to life were going to be classics.

  BUT ROBERT HAD ANOTHER surprising side as well: the gentle, affable, and patient star—and that’s what he quickly became, a star—a man who liked kids and didn’t mind signing endless autographs, or doing other things that took him far out of his way, just to spread happiness their way. I’ll tell you a story.

  Once a psychiatrist wrote me. He had a young patient who had heard of Freddy Krueger and was having nightmares about him. I really wanted to help, so I got in touch with Robert and asked if he would say a few words to the kid into a vidcam. Not only did Robert do that, but he did it while he was being put into, and then out of, his Freddy makeup, describing each step of the way how Freddy was nothing more than latex and glue, and nothing to be worried about.

  Shortly after I mailed the tape to the doctor, I received a letter in return. The youngster was not only cured, he wanted to watch a Freddy movie!

  Over the years I’ve spent many hours with Robert, especially in foreign cities for film festivals, and have constantly marveled at the scope of his celebrity. He’s recognized everywhere, and the huge grins that spread across people’s faces when they see him are priceless. Robert Englund is one of those rare walking contradictions: scary as heck when he’s working; and delightful, witty, and erudite when he’s not—and he always makes time for the fans who are eager to shake his hand.

  So long as he does it without the glove.

  INTRODUCTION

  BY TOBE HOOPER

  IN 1974, NOT TOO LONG AFTER I SHOT THE Texas Chain Saw Massacre, I was checking out a movie at an art theater—at least that’s what they called ’em around Austin, Texas, college campuses, art theaters; I don’t know what they called ’em in New York or wherever—called Buster and Billie. It starred some hot guy and a good-looking girl, and they were great, but there was this little albino costar, a high-powered fireball of mischief and energy. I watched this man smoke up the screen and thought, Who the hell is this? The energy that he has, the passion, the verisimilitude, the chops, man, this cat is great!

  That was the first time I ever saw Robert Englund. And, man, I hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

  A COUPLE YEARS LATER, I was in a casting session for a movie I was directing called Eaten Alive. I was wrapping up a rambling conversation with the great character actor Neville Brand, during which time he convinced me that he should play the lead, when in walked Robert, and I thought, Farrrrrrr out. It’s that guy. It’s the albino from that art movie. It’s Robert fucking Englund. After Ne
ville took off, I told Robert, “Man, I’m a big fan of yours. But I’m also becoming a big fan of the casting director who sent me you and Neville.” Robert read a few lines from the script, then we talked about Buster and Billie, and we vibed, so there wasn’t any of that Let-Me-See-Other-People-And-I’ll-Get-Back-To-You bullshit. I didn’t need to waste his time. I didn’t need to waste my breath. He had the part before he left the room.

  The thing about Robert as an actor is, he’ll always offer you eight hundred different choices for each scene, but even if you agree on something Tuesday night, he’ll come to work on Wednesday morning with eight hundred more ideas. He’s so in the moment, and when the space or atmosphere changes, Robert changes right with it, and that makes for great filmmaking.

  ROBERT WAS A DELIGHT to work with from the first second, unbelievably inventive, as much of a fireball as I could’ve hoped for. But as energetic as he was, his subtlety was what consistently blew me away. In one scene—and this was a tiny moment, but it’s these sorts of tiny moments that turn a movie into art—he shuffled his feet and kicked some dust up onto Neville’s pants, as if he were a dog who’d just taken a piss and wanted to cover it up. Only about three seconds of screen time, but it was the most unique fucking thing I’d ever seen, and the best part about Robert is that he brings all kinds of unique fucking things to each of his characters. Now I like unique fucking things, so Robert and I became fast friends. We’re both movie guys, and this was a moment in time when film could rightly be called art, so we always had plenty to talk about, and our discussions were a lot farther out and cooler than your typical movie-set conversation. I suspect that people would’ve been surprised had they known that Mr. Chainsaw Massacre and Freddy Krueger spent an inordinate amount of time chatting about Greek mythology and Fellini.

  Twenty years after Eaten Alive—that’s twenty fucking years, dear readers—I brought my old friend aboard to star in The Mangler, a movie that in spite of a grueling shoot in South Africa ended up being one of my favorites.

  Robert’s character, Bill Gartley, walked with crutches and leg braces, and even though he had to hobble around the set for eighteen hours a day, Robert wasn’t at all fazed, even when he had to do his own stunts. In one scene, Robert was supposed to get hit with a lamp, then do a cartwheel and end up out of frame. To allow him to really go for it, we had a couple of people standing off to the side, ready to catch him, because if he’d have fallen at the speed he was moving, he’d have been dead. After we shot the stunt a couple of times, I watched it in my monitor, trying to decide whether I wanted to try it again. I was all lost in my head when I heard a puppy dog whimpering over my left shoulder. I turned around, and there’s Robert. “I think my wig is fucked,” he said. “I think my makeup is fucked. And to make things even worse, when they caught me after my cartwheel, they put me on the concrete floor, and this big Teamster stepped on my head.” He pointed at his face. “And look at this.” One of his eyes was hanging from its socket, and the other was gushing tears. Now, the eye hanging from the socket was fake, of course, but it was still stunning, and all I could do was laugh. That movie was a bitch to make— we accidentally spilled a shitload of fake blood, and one of our key grips was electrocuted on three separate occasions—and if Robert hadn’t graciously hauled ten-some-odd cartons of Marlboros with him from the States, I don’t know if I would’ve been able to make it through the film with my sanity intact.

  IN THE HORROR PANTHEON, there’s Frankenstein, there’s Dracula, there’s Michael Myers, there’s my main man Leatherface, and there’s Freddy Krueger. Freddy’s right up there in the Fucked-Up Shit Hall of Fame, and that’s almost all Robert. Most of these other literal and figurative monsters are completely hidden and unrecognizable under a mask, but Robert’s right out there for the world to see, oozing blisters and all. This is a small batch of people we’re talking about here, dear readers: Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney, and Robert Englund—and I’m honored that this fireball graced my film sets. And I can’t wait to work with him again, so I can deposit more Robert Englund memories in my memory bank.

  CHAPTER 1

  NIGHTMARE #1:

  Zanita MacMillan was the most beautiful girl in the sixth grade. Like most of the other boys on the playground, I had a crush on her. Zanita would visit me in my dreams and my preadolescent fantasies. Eventually she showed up as the heroine in my recurring Cold War nightmare. The nightmare always ended with my head cradled in Zanita’s lap, a thin trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth, and hordes of North Korean Communists replete with long winter jackets, combat boots, and army-issue hats, earflaps up, emblazoned with a single red star in the center, overrunning the playground. In the nightmare, I had fought to the end and was wounded and dying. The enemy soldiers swarmed over the school fences, commandeered the elementary school rooftops, and slowly advanced on Zanita and me as we huddled against the handball court. This was either the product of too many war movies or too many drop-and-cover drills. It recurred for years. And years. And years.

  STEPHANIE WAS THE BELLE OF THE BALL, the most popular girl in my junior high school. She was pretty, and sweet, and I had a tiny bit of a crush on her, so when I found out she was involved with a semiprofessional children’s theater in the San Fernando Valley called the Teenage Drama Workshop, I was intrigued. If acting was cool to the cutest eighth-grade girl in the Valley, that was good enough for me, so when she invited me to check out a show, I couldn’t refuse.

  Turned out this Teenage Drama Workshop was a big deal, more than just some rinky-dink community theater, and featured child actors from all over the country, some of whom ultimately became professionals. The first time I went to see Stephanie perform, for instance, I was struck dumb by her young, brunette costar, Sharon Hugueny. Sharon, who, come the early 1960s, became a teen heartthrob and appeared in films and on television with the likes of Troy Donahue, Sandra Dee, and Peter Fonda, was a knockout, and I was smitten. If I could meet girls like Stephanie and Sharon while hanging around this theater workshop, well, the stage sounded like the place to be.

  The following summer, I offered the Workshop my services, such as they were; having never acted before, I figured I’d start out at the bottom of the totem pole, maybe work as an usher, or a behind-the-scenes, backstage helper. Although they didn’t need me to do the grunt work, they did let me audition. As it turned out, I landed most of the male leads. I’d never taken a single acting class, and there I was, in the Valley, fronting an entire cast, getting boiled as Hansel in Hansel and Gretel, and experiencing for the first time the application of special effects makeup as Pinocchio. (Who knew this would be the first of thousands of makeup sessions I would endure over the years?) However, Pinocchio’s elongated nose was far easier to apply, not to mention it was infinitely less itchy than Freddy Krueger’s prolonged makeup process.

  I went to the Workshop hoping to meet girls, and despite having zero stage experience, I won role after role after role. But I shouldn’t have been surprised that I took to it so quickly. Where I grew up, movies and movie people were everywhere; we’d even see Clark Gable in the local grocery store. As a kid I stood transfixed, watching cowboy stuntmen do horse falls on the RKO backlot behind my house. My uncles were television editors and allowed me to visit the sets of the hit shows they were working on. It was, as they say, in my blood.

  MY MOM AND DAD weren’t stage parents by any means; they themselves had nothing to do with the film industry. My father, Kent, was an executive at Lockheed Aircraft; it wasn’t the most glamorous job in California, but he loved it. Before Lockheed, my father had worked for Hughes Aircraft. One morning, well before the sun had even risen, Dad went to work at Burbank Airfield. One of the hangar doors was wide-open, and parked in front of the hangar was a luxurious roadster. The car door had been left open, so Dad glanced in and was treated to a view of a gorgeous woman in a cocktail dress, curled up in the back, happily snoring away. Nonplussed, he walked into the hangar and there was Howard Hughes, one o
f the richest men in the world, sitting in the cockpit of one of his planes messing around with the wing-flap controls, a goofy smile plastered on his face, looking like a little kid playing with a new toy. (Personally, if I were Howard, I’d have been more interested in messing around with the girl in the limo, but that’s just me.)

  My mother, Janis, was a stay-at-home mom, but she’d previously led quite the adventurous life. She met Dad in Rio de Janeiro during World War II while they were both teaching the Brazilian air force how to fly their new aircraft. Mom grew up in the same neighborhood with the Little Rascals and King Kong’s girlfriend, Fay Wray, and roomed with future film starlets in college. She wasn’t in the movie industry, but she was definitely surrounded by it.

  Mom loved good books, Dad loved jazz, and they both loved going to the movies, exploring the California coast, and making yearly trips to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Every other week, the movie theater near our house in Encino ran preview screenings of upcoming films, so twice a month Mom and Dad took me to see the latest and greatest movies that Hollywood had to offer, some of which became classics (e.g., On the Waterfront, Guns of Navarone, and Anatomy of a Murder), and some of which didn’t (e.g., I don’t remember the titles, because, well, they were stinkers). My parents would drag me along whether or not the content was “appropriate” for little Robbie Englund—some of this grown-up fare intrigued, frightened, or confused the shit out of me, frankly, which undoubtedly played a role in my eventual appreciation for dark material.