Psycomic - 11.24.01
Friday Afternoon with the Ma-Sheen
Mosier and I go, with script in-hand (which is a first, because we haven't given any potentially prospective actors the script yet), to the CBS/Radford Studio Lot, where Charlie Sheen is shooting Spin City. We're met in the parking lot by his assistant, who leads us to Ma-Sheen's dressing room, where the man who was quoted in a 1994 interview in Movieline as warning against sleeping with any co-star whose "...pussy smells like her butthole..." watches baseball.
Ma-Sheen smiles at us, and we just about melt.
We exchange pleasantries, and sit down, mere feet from a guy who once defined the Hollywood fast lane; the only person in the world Ben Affleck would rather be than himself (ask him; he'll tell you). But a few moments into our convo, it's clear that we're no longer gazing upon that Charlie Sheen. That Charlie Sheen is gone. Reformed, some would say. This is the new Charlie Sheen. The Spin City Charlie Sheen. The on-his-best-behavior Charlie Sheen. And while that's probably good for the life-expectancy of Chuck himself, celebrity journalism has lost one of its bright, shining stars in the process.
But no man can be a ticking bomb forever. Sooner or later, we all grow up. And you know what this grown-up Chuck Sheen says to me?
Indeed, I do. Too much. In fact, I'm smoking when he says this (which is probably why he said it)
"I didn't think you were a smoker, because of that whole anti-smoking tirade in Clerks."
The man, apparently, knows of my work. Either that or he'd just watched the first flick, in an effort to familiarize himself with the guys intruding upon his between-takes down-time (there is a VCR and DVD player there in the room to support this theory). Regardless, I'm a tickled Japanese schoolgirl in that moment.
Scooter and I fill Chuck Sheen in on what Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back is (or isn't, depending on who you're talking to), and hand him a script. He says he'll read it this weekend, and then excuses himself to go back to a Spin City rehearsal. We shake the hand of the Mighty Ma-Sheen, and head to our car, musing about the odds of him agreeing to do the flick. The role is that of a buffoon, so it's not a guarantee he'll warm to the material at all. But we chuckle about meeting Chuckles all the same, and erect elaborate "What-If?" scenarios in which Sheen does our movie and winds up falling off whatever wagon he's on because of the Jason Mewes influence. This carries us for a good two hours, as Mosier and I are easily amused.
Back at the hotel, our casting mistress Christine Sheaks fills us in on Heather Graham: she's in another country, so we're not going to meet her out here. Bob Weinstein wants to send her the script and an offer, but I want to hold out until I've met Amy Smart and Kate Hudson. It looks like Amy's coming to L.A. from Vegas on Sunday, but the Kate meeting has suddenly taken an unexpected turn.
It seems she's suddenly switched representation, leaving her old agency for CAA. The good news is she's now repped by the same agent who reps Ben and Matt. The bad news is we've received word from that agent that Kate will no longer meet with us in NYC. We're to simply make her an offer.
Making an offer means exactly what it sounds like: you tell the actor the part is theirs, if they so desire, and you quote a salary figure. No meet-and-greet or audition is necessary. You're just that sure the actor is ideal for the role; so sure, that during the time the offer is extended, no one else is considered for the part.
Now this is strange. We were scheduled to meet Kate in New York the following week, but we're suddenly being told that the meeting will not happen. Mosier starts looking into it, as I ready myself for a meet-and-greet with Selma Blair.
I'm a Selma Blair fan. She was the only person worth watching in Cruel Intentions, as far as I'm concerned. I've read a few articles about her, and I've seen her interviewed on the KTLA Morning News on a prior trip to L.A., when she was tub-thumping for the WB show Zoe... (which was formerly Zoe Bean, and then Zoe, Duncan, Jack, and Jane). She seems interesting, so I'm way into this meet-and-greet. As it's Friday night around six, I imagine it'll last a mere half hour, because I'm almost certain Selma must have something better to do with her Friday night.
I'm wrong. Selma has nothing to do, so she sits around with me and Mosier for two hours and change. When my wife comes downstairs looking for me (as I've been gone far longer than I said I would be, and she suspects I may have run off with Selma), she joins us, and we sit around for another couple of hours. Why?
Because Selma's a true hoot. All I do is mock her (affectionately, mind you), and all she does is take it. We hit it off so incredibly well, that I consider adopting her. She's funny, self-effacing, quick, and honest (i.e.: gossipy, although, you've gotta drag it out of her). I want to make a movie with Selma Blair. I want to make a couple movies with her. She's good people.
During our multiple-hour gab-session, she talks about just finishing up on Todd Solondz's new movie, her proclivity to break up with boyfriends simply by moving to another state, and the actors and actresses she's worked with. When I bring up the Cruel Intentions power triumvirate of Sara Michelle Geller, Ryan Philipe, and (Greasy) Reese Witherspoon, Selma's tight-lipped. After much cajoling, however, she finally lets a few stories slip that make this tubby bitch's catty grin spread all the way to the back of his head. They're dishy tales of young Hollywood - so dishy I wish I can relate them here. However, they're not my stories to tell, so I can't go into them. Suffice it to say that Selma, not me, should be given a column.
However, the subject of (Greasy) Reese Witherspoon elicits great interest from me, particulary when Selma informs us that she's been to where (Greasy) Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Philipe live. I suddenly seize upon an idea so delicious, so asinine and juvenile, that it almost makes the idea of making Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back seem Kissinger-statesman-like in comparison.
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The Unholy Tale of Greasy Resse Witherspoon - 12.1.00
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Our Cover is Blown - 11.17.00