Read Online Coreyography: A Memoir by Corey Feldman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Corey Feldman
Tags: Non-Fiction
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Hollywood Squares, Laugh-In, and Solid Gold ), made her seem larger than life. And Wayland, I quickly realized, was one of the sweetest men I had ever met. On breaks during filming he would invite me back to his dressing room and show me how he operated the sticks to move Madame’s hands and head, how he transformed his own voice to create something entirely new. At home I had a little stuffed monkey with Velcro hands and feet. It reminded me of Madame, so one day I decided to bring it in to show off to my new friend.
“Can I borrow that?” he asked me.
A few days later, he brought it back to set, completely restyled to look like one of his puppets, complete with the little sticks to move the monkey’s hands and feet.
“I gave him an upgrade,” Wayland said when he showed me. “Now he works just like Madame.”
I was elated. The great Wayland Flowers had made me a puppet. But when I showed it to my mother, she harrumphed.
“Wayland Flowers is gay,” she told me.
I didn’t know what that meant, of course, but it wouldn’t really have mattered if I did. Practically no one in the entertainment industry was “out” back in the early ’80s.
“How do you know he’s gay ?” I asked.
“ Trust me, ” she said. “I just know.”
Wayland was the first in a series of older men in the industry to take me under his wing. The second was an actor named Joe Penny, who guest-starred with me in an episode of Lottery!, a short-lived show about two guys who travel the country presenting lottery winnings to strangers and watching how the money changes their lives. I played a troubled kid (a role I was starting to get cast in a lot), and I remember that at the end of filming, Joe Penny gave me his phone number. “Call me anytime,” he told me, “if you ever want to catch a ball game.”
Joe and I spoke on the phone several times over the next few months. He gave me career advice. We talked about what kinds of roles I might take. He was someone I could actually trust. I didn’t have many people like that in my life.
My grandparents, however, were not impressed.
“Why is this grown man giving you his number?” my grandmother asked me, when she caught me up late, talking on the phone. “It’s not normal, Corey. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Joe just wants to be my friend,” I told her. “This is how Hollywood works. The older guys reach out to the kids.” That was how I saw it and, eventually, that’s how my family saw it, too. The more adult males I befriended, the less strange it started to seem.
* * *
As production on Madame’s Place dragged on, I started to become more and more concerned about E.T. I hadn’t heard a peep in months—not from my agent, not from the casting director, not from MGM, not from anyone. Nada. And then finally, on a rainy, otherwise uneventful afternoon, Steven called me at home.
“Hey, Corey,” he said. “How ya doin’?”
“When are we getting started?” I blurted out. “I’ve been waiting and waiting!”
I could hear Steven breathing on the other end of the line and, immediately, my heart sank. I could already tell, this was not going to be the call I had been hoping for.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I have some sad news. As you know, we’ve been working on rewrites, and the last one we did was major. It was an overhaul. Bottom line: your character has been cut down to nothing. If you want one of the small parts, one of the friends, you’re welcome to it. But I think you’re a leading role kind of guy. My advice to you is to wait for the next one.”
“What’s the next one?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know yet. But I give you my word, Corey. Whatever it is, you’ll be in it.”
Losing E.T. was agony. When it opened, in the summer of 1982, it became another instant record-smashing blockbuster as well as a critical darling, and—by the following year—the highest grossing film of all time. Billboards lined the boulevards of
“Can I borrow that?” he asked me.
A few days later, he brought it back to set, completely restyled to look like one of his puppets, complete with the little sticks to move the monkey’s hands and feet.
“I gave him an upgrade,” Wayland said when he showed me. “Now he works just like Madame.”
I was elated. The great Wayland Flowers had made me a puppet. But when I showed it to my mother, she harrumphed.
“Wayland Flowers is gay,” she told me.
I didn’t know what that meant, of course, but it wouldn’t really have mattered if I did. Practically no one in the entertainment industry was “out” back in the early ’80s.
“How do you know he’s gay ?” I asked.
“ Trust me, ” she said. “I just know.”
Wayland was the first in a series of older men in the industry to take me under his wing. The second was an actor named Joe Penny, who guest-starred with me in an episode of Lottery!, a short-lived show about two guys who travel the country presenting lottery winnings to strangers and watching how the money changes their lives. I played a troubled kid (a role I was starting to get cast in a lot), and I remember that at the end of filming, Joe Penny gave me his phone number. “Call me anytime,” he told me, “if you ever want to catch a ball game.”
Joe and I spoke on the phone several times over the next few months. He gave me career advice. We talked about what kinds of roles I might take. He was someone I could actually trust. I didn’t have many people like that in my life.
My grandparents, however, were not impressed.
“Why is this grown man giving you his number?” my grandmother asked me, when she caught me up late, talking on the phone. “It’s not normal, Corey. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Joe just wants to be my friend,” I told her. “This is how Hollywood works. The older guys reach out to the kids.” That was how I saw it and, eventually, that’s how my family saw it, too. The more adult males I befriended, the less strange it started to seem.
* * *
As production on Madame’s Place dragged on, I started to become more and more concerned about E.T. I hadn’t heard a peep in months—not from my agent, not from the casting director, not from MGM, not from anyone. Nada. And then finally, on a rainy, otherwise uneventful afternoon, Steven called me at home.
“Hey, Corey,” he said. “How ya doin’?”
“When are we getting started?” I blurted out. “I’ve been waiting and waiting!”
I could hear Steven breathing on the other end of the line and, immediately, my heart sank. I could already tell, this was not going to be the call I had been hoping for.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I have some sad news. As you know, we’ve been working on rewrites, and the last one we did was major. It was an overhaul. Bottom line: your character has been cut down to nothing. If you want one of the small parts, one of the friends, you’re welcome to it. But I think you’re a leading role kind of guy. My advice to you is to wait for the next one.”
“What’s the next one?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know yet. But I give you my word, Corey. Whatever it is, you’ll be in it.”
Losing E.T. was agony. When it opened, in the summer of 1982, it became another instant record-smashing blockbuster as well as a critical darling, and—by the following year—the highest grossing film of all time. Billboards lined the boulevards of
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