give my hand a forgiving squeeze. I didn’t watch the film. Instead, as young Chaucer scribbled in his garret during the opening sequence, I scanned the theater looking for Johnny Mars’s enormous head. It wasn’t hard to spot—it towered like a giraffe’s over everybody else’s in the VIP section. I spent the next hour drilling holes with my eyes into the back of his skull.
Mars was one of those stars, like Robert De Niro and Adam Sandler, who never gave interviews. But a lot was written about him anyway. I know, because after he stolemy girlfriend, I read everything. Just to torture myself. He had a classic action star origin tale. He was born in Alaska, the son of a lumberjack. Moved to Hollywood when he was twenty, where he found work on construction crews that helped build movie sets at the studios. One day while sawing two-by-fours on the Paramount lot, he got tapped on the shoulder by a casting director. Next thing he knows, he’s got a nonspeaking role in
Cyborg Prophecies
, playing a mute robot. Over the next ten years, the roles got progressively bigger (he played a speaking robot in
Cyborg Prophecies 2
, and a hockey star turned prison inmate in
Penalty Box
), until his big break came at thirty, when he got cast as hard-drinking, hard-driving, hard-quipping FBI agent Jack Montana, the role that shot him to the very top of the action A-list. He’d been playing the part, off and on, for more than fifteen years.
The funny thing about Mars, however, was that even though he commanded the adoration of the masses, even though he was a millionaire many times over, even though he could have any woman he wanted (including the only one
I
wanted), he wasn’t satisfied. The ranch in Wyoming, the penthouse on the Upper West Side, the private jets and personal chefs and chauffeur-driven limos—it wasn’t enough. More than all of that, more than anything else, he wanted to be taken seriously.
Ironically, the same things that helped make him an action star—the soaring height, the huge muscular build, the growling voice so rumbling it could set off car alarms—also made him a difficult fit for more serious parts. He was actually a pretty decent actor, but who’s going to buy a six-foot-three, 245-pound Willy Loman? Still, Marsrefused to give up. He was always throwing himself into roles he had no business playing. Macbeth, Ishmael, Jean Valjean. I hated his guts, but there was still a smidgen of fan left inside me. I couldn’t help but grudgingly admire his tenacity. He was determined to prove his acting chops, even though all anybody really wanted to watch him do was push bad guys off monuments and out of airplanes and make jokes about the first step being a doozy.
When I finally pulled my eyes from the back of Mars’s head, Julia Ormond was up on the screen in a suit of armor, kissing Kenneth Branagh. I had no idea why. I hadn’t been following the plot. I looked over at Lacy, who was smiling in a daze, a Twizzler dangling from her mouth. She was clearly entranced by the film. Then I looked for the nearest exit.
“Lacy,” I whispered in her ear. No response. “Lacy,” I repeated a little louder.
“Mmm?” she answered.
“I have to go.” It was true. I couldn’t stand another minute of looking at Johnny Mars in his VIP seat, his big beefy arm wrapped around my dainty Samantha’s shoulders. But Lacy gave me a look like she’d caught me molesting that kitten I had strangled earlier.
“What?” she asked, her voice rising in anger. “Are you nuts!” The couple in the row in front of us turned around and glared. “What about the party afterward?” Lacy went on, ignoring the commotion we were starting to cause. “You have to take me to the premiere party! I want to meet Kenneth Branagh!”
“You can still go,” I whispered, reaching into my breast pocket for the party tickets and stuffing them into her lap.“You can still have fun. I just can’t be here right now. I’m really
Mars was one of those stars, like Robert De Niro and Adam Sandler, who never gave interviews. But a lot was written about him anyway. I know, because after he stolemy girlfriend, I read everything. Just to torture myself. He had a classic action star origin tale. He was born in Alaska, the son of a lumberjack. Moved to Hollywood when he was twenty, where he found work on construction crews that helped build movie sets at the studios. One day while sawing two-by-fours on the Paramount lot, he got tapped on the shoulder by a casting director. Next thing he knows, he’s got a nonspeaking role in
Cyborg Prophecies
, playing a mute robot. Over the next ten years, the roles got progressively bigger (he played a speaking robot in
Cyborg Prophecies 2
, and a hockey star turned prison inmate in
Penalty Box
), until his big break came at thirty, when he got cast as hard-drinking, hard-driving, hard-quipping FBI agent Jack Montana, the role that shot him to the very top of the action A-list. He’d been playing the part, off and on, for more than fifteen years.
The funny thing about Mars, however, was that even though he commanded the adoration of the masses, even though he was a millionaire many times over, even though he could have any woman he wanted (including the only one
I
wanted), he wasn’t satisfied. The ranch in Wyoming, the penthouse on the Upper West Side, the private jets and personal chefs and chauffeur-driven limos—it wasn’t enough. More than all of that, more than anything else, he wanted to be taken seriously.
Ironically, the same things that helped make him an action star—the soaring height, the huge muscular build, the growling voice so rumbling it could set off car alarms—also made him a difficult fit for more serious parts. He was actually a pretty decent actor, but who’s going to buy a six-foot-three, 245-pound Willy Loman? Still, Marsrefused to give up. He was always throwing himself into roles he had no business playing. Macbeth, Ishmael, Jean Valjean. I hated his guts, but there was still a smidgen of fan left inside me. I couldn’t help but grudgingly admire his tenacity. He was determined to prove his acting chops, even though all anybody really wanted to watch him do was push bad guys off monuments and out of airplanes and make jokes about the first step being a doozy.
When I finally pulled my eyes from the back of Mars’s head, Julia Ormond was up on the screen in a suit of armor, kissing Kenneth Branagh. I had no idea why. I hadn’t been following the plot. I looked over at Lacy, who was smiling in a daze, a Twizzler dangling from her mouth. She was clearly entranced by the film. Then I looked for the nearest exit.
“Lacy,” I whispered in her ear. No response. “Lacy,” I repeated a little louder.
“Mmm?” she answered.
“I have to go.” It was true. I couldn’t stand another minute of looking at Johnny Mars in his VIP seat, his big beefy arm wrapped around my dainty Samantha’s shoulders. But Lacy gave me a look like she’d caught me molesting that kitten I had strangled earlier.
“What?” she asked, her voice rising in anger. “Are you nuts!” The couple in the row in front of us turned around and glared. “What about the party afterward?” Lacy went on, ignoring the commotion we were starting to cause. “You have to take me to the premiere party! I want to meet Kenneth Branagh!”
“You can still go,” I whispered, reaching into my breast pocket for the party tickets and stuffing them into her lap.“You can still have fun. I just can’t be here right now. I’m really
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