Greg Olear's Blog, page 8
July 9, 2011
Achtung, Baby!
June 6, 2011
I Discovered You, Bradley Cooper
…but then there was this group called the Nomadic Theatre troupe, and I kind of felt like okay, I can jive with these guys, so I auditioned for some plays and I played Azolan, the servant in Dangerous Liaisons, was the first thing I had done…
—Bradley Cooper, NPR's Fresh Air, May 25, 2011
I discovered Bradley Cooper.
Really, I did.
I cast him (or rather we cast him—my friend and co-director Brian Rath and I) in the first play he ever did, a Nomadic Theatre production of Christopher Hampton's Les Liaisons Dangereuses, staged in the spring of 1995 at our mutual alma mater, Georgetown University.
I've been loath to disclose this piece of Greg Olear trivia because a) discovering the actor who played Face in the A-Team movie is not in quite the same strata as discovering a new planet or the cure for cancer; b) unlike Jessica Anya Blau's full-frontal encounter with Smurf-schlonged Hollywood Leading Man X (who had, at the time, about the same Q rating Cooper does right now), there's not much to the story; and c) as Ouisa so eloquently puts it in Six Degrees of Separation (written, incidentally, by John Guare, another Georgetown alumnus), "Let's not be starfuckers."
But the situation has changed. Bradley Cooper's sudden and unavoidable ubiquity has forced my hand. I can't seem to escape him. Consider:
>> Last weekend, The Hangover II established a new box office record for live-action comedy, and has now grossed some $200 million—or about $200 million more than our play grossed.
>> My father-in-law's therapeutic herbal remedy company, Herbasway Laboratories, wrangled a tie-in with the aforementioned film to promote one of its signature products, the "hangover helper" Last Round (it really works, by the way; if your ambition is to be a literary lush, I recommend you give it a whirl), so even he has been singing the praises of said bohunk.
>> Cooper has once again dished about his formative experience in our play, this time to NPR, and thus his celebrated name has been a constant in my Facebook feed.
>> I found, while packing up the old house two weeks ago, photographic evidence of our association (see below).
The time has come to tell the tale. Starfucker I must be.
* * *
Let me set the stage.
Georgetown is known for producing politicians (Bill Clinton) and NBA centers (Patrick Ewing). But my alma mater is, and always has been, a sneaky arts school. Among its notable alumni are The Exorcist author William Peter Blatty, Guare, Arrested Development creator Mitchell Hurwitz, Fugazi guitarist Guy Picciotto, and acting legend John Barrymore.
Overlapping my time on campus were the Memento screenwriter Jonathan Nolan; the Emmy-winning director Michael Sucsy; my friend Dave Berman, who plays the assistant coroner on CSI (and who would have been in the play if he weren't studying abroad that semester); comedian Mike Birbiglia; Vertical Horizon's Matt Scannell; and the playwright/TV writer/comic book writer Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, my friend and sometime mentor, who was hired a few months ago to re-work the script of Spiderman: The Musical.
For a school of nascent lawyers and diplomats, not too shabby.
In 1995, there were two drama companies on campus: the venerable and stuffy Mask & Bauble, and Nomadic Theatre, the young upstart known for breezy comedies like Dracula: The Musical (in which I played Van Helsing my freshman year). The two enjoyed a friendly rivalry, and it was our ambition crush M&B and establish Nomadic as top dog. To do this, we needed to stage an ambitious play, and stage it well.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses fit the bill. A demanding and difficult play, it is three solid hours of precise dialogue, ornate costumes (which we avoided by setting the action in the 1920s; men in tuxedos, women in gowns), and swordplay. The lead, Valmont—John Malkovich in the movie—is on stage for most of those three hours, almost never stops talking, and dies after an extensively choreographed swordfight. It's not an easy part to pull off.
But we had the man for the job: our friend Bandar al-Hejin, a gifted actor who was also stunningly handsome. He'd smoldered his way through a production of Rope the year before, establishing his bona fides theatrical and heartthrob. We selected the play with Bandar in mind.
Madame de Merteuil, the Glenn Close part, is critical to the success of the show; for the play to succeed, we had to find someone who could go toe to toe with Bandar. Fortunately, we did: despite having to audition with a talentless schmuck in leather pants who handed out headshots, and who made it clear that he was the son of some Hollywood director we'd never heard of and therefore the Second Coming of Brad Pitt—as soon as he left the room, Brian tore up his headshot and screamed, "Fuck him!"—Lucy Ellenbogen dazzled in her try-out, and only got better as the play went along.
Rounding out the talented and attractive cast were Lucy Barzun Donnelly (who won an Emmy and a Golden Globe last year for producing Grey Gardens), Noelle Coates, Destiny Lopez, Maggie Kemper, Alexia Paul, Roman Kindrachuk, and Brady Richards, one of my best friends (who, among his many other talents, fashions Beer Buckles).
Azolan, a secondary part, is Valmont's valet: his servant, but also his confidante, his comic straight man, his partner in crime. A fin de siècle DSK like Valmont, we decided, would employ someone young and handsome as a wingman. That's what we were looking for at the audition.
We narrowed it down to two actors: Oliver, a Mask & Bauble veteran who delivered the lines with saucy aplomb; and a sophomore transfer student who'd never been on stage before in his life. He was a bit wooden, the newcomer, a bit stiff, but we liked that; we didn't want Azolan upstaging—or, worse, trying unsuccessfully to upstage—Valmont. We felt a guy this raw would deliver the lines, many of them jokes, without acting like a stand-up comic.
Plus, he was a good complement to our lead. Bandar was dark and handsome, slender and on the short side. The new guy was tall, more filled in, and blonde. And he was good-looking. Fantabulously, jaw-droppingly, pinch-yourself, hot-as-all-get-out good-looking. So we went with him.
Our decision proved prudent. The new guy was the perfect Azolan. He did indeed deliver his lines well, never attempted to upstage Bandar, and remained as fantabulously, jaw-droppingly, pinch-yourself, hot-as-all-get-out good-looking as he'd been at the audition.
The new guy's name, as I'm sure you've guessed, was Bradley Cooper.
* * *
The spring of 1995 was only Cooper's second semester at Georgetown. A sophomore, he'd transferred from a school in Pennsylvania with his girlfriend, who was just as comely as he was (in my recollection, she looked a lot like a young Courteney Cox—curious, given his recent not-so-dangerous liaison with Jennifer Aniston), and, it seemed to me, more worldly. They reminded me of the Bulgarian couple in Casablanca: attractive, optimistic, decidedly un-jaded.
As for me, I graduated in December of 1994, a semester early, and was only hanging around to direct the play, forestall gainful employment, and prepare my liver for the graduation week of drunken debauchery known as Senior Disorientation. So I did not know Cooper well.
He struck me as pleasant, quiet, polite, and shy (I realize this is not unlike how neighbors describe serial killers). He had a certain wide-eyed quality that was endearing, but he was also a bit aloof, perhaps because I was older and, as a director, something of an authority figure (one who threw good parties and made rehearsals fun, but an authority figure just the same).
In his recent NPR interview, he hinted at another reason for his aloofness:
"I also didn't feel at all comfortable with the theater crowd when I was in high school. I never felt any connection to those students and so too was it true at Georgetown," Cooper said. "I had nothing in common with them. Maybe I was intimidated by them."
So we'll go with that. He was intimidated by me (and probably by Brian even more, Brian being the "bad cop" of our directorial duo). Because, you know, I'm so intimidating.
I saw him only once after that semester, at a theatre event for students and alumni a year or two later. He showed up with , Wes's kid brother (Bottle Rocket was out by then) and eventual art director, who had cast him in a student film called, if memory serves, The Ant Colony, and coaxed a nuanced performance out of him that hinted at what was to come. Cooper wore a purple-and-blue pinstriped three-piece suit, and his hair was slicked back like Pat Riley's. Gone was the wooden gait that had gotten him cast in Les Liaisons Dangereuses; now he strutted like John Travolta, not arrogantly but confidently. In other words, like a movie star.
He'd gone as Hollywood as it was possible to go within the collegial confines of the Healy Gates. He would wind up going all the way there.
We watched with interest as he guested on Sex in the City and was sodomized in Wet Hot American Summer. We shook our heads every time Alias came on.
When he nabbed the "Ralph Bellamy" part in Wedding Crashers, we were astonished. A guy we actually knew—a guy Brady still traded emails with; a guy I once implored to project—was in a major role in a major comedy!
But it didn't stop there: The Hangover, Renée Zellweger, He's Just Not That into You, Jennifer Aniston, The Hangover II.
It hasn't stopped yet. It just keeps on going.
The A-Team? Try the A-list.
It's kind of amazing.
* * *
Would Bradley Cooper have made it this far if we'd opted for Oliver as Azolan—if, in other words, we were lesser casting agents and directors? Of course. Much as we'd like to believe otherwise, he does not owe his success to us, his intimidators. We're not like the guy from the Human League song.
Would he make a good Asher Krug? Absolutely (although it must be said: Bandar would, too).
Would it kill him to note that the play responsible for exciting his acting bug was co-directed by a novelist who has a new book out in the fall? Evidently. Or, more likely, this pesky detail has escaped his matinee idol's attention. Can't say I blame him.
Nevertheless, it's refreshing to hear that, unlike that fateful night in Vegas—and now, one night in Bangkok—Cooper hasn't forgotten his time in our play.
May 31, 2011
Dramatis Personae: BEA Edition
This is a partial list of everyone I met, hung out with, exchanged cards with, worked with, or stalked during the various events at last week's Book Expo America. This is not an exhaustive list; I'm sure there are people I'm omitting, and I already feel bad about it.
With that disclaimer, here is the list, in alphabetical order:
ADAM WILSON
Editor at The Faster Times, and author of the forthcoming Flatscreen, which sounds fantastic. Hung out with him at the swankier-than-swank Authors Guild cocktail party.
ALISON SKAPINETZ
Blogs at Alison's Book Marks. Met her at the Harper blogger party at Bill's Gay Nineties. Like me, is from Jersey. Like me, is half Italian. Like my wife, had just taken her kids on a field trip to the Crayola Factory.
ANDY SHAFFER
AKA Evil Wylie. Author of Great Philosophers Who Failed At Love, which, unlike The Financial Lives of the Poets, really is about philosophers who failed at love. His line of "Evil" Christmas cards was featured on Colbert. Wore heart-shaped Disney glasses on his head. Is from Iowa. Does not seem like he's from Iowa. Very funny.
BETH FISH
Nom de plume of [real name redacted]. Blogs at Beth Fish Reads.
CAROLINE KENNEDY
The biggest name on the docket, it says here, but she was a no-show. The official reason is that a family matter compelled her to bow out, but I think it was a conspiracy involving the Mafia, the CIA, and Fidel Castro.
COLLEEN GORMAN
Blogs at Books in the City, which is one of the best-designed book blog sites out there. Spends the holidays in Dallas, so maybe she's also in on the aforementioned conspiracy.
DAWN RENNERT
Is too fond of books. Has four kids, whom she left home with her husband for BEA. In a related story, she looked very relaxed whenever I saw her.
DAVID GUTOWSKI
AKA Largehearted Boy. Wanted to meet him, but our paths, alas, did not cross.
DIANE LaRUE
Blogs at BookChickDi. At the party at Bill's Gay Nineties, I mistakenly called her blog BookLadyDi, which would not be nearly as interesting, unless you're into royal gossip and "Goodbye English Rose."
DIANA SPECHLER
One of the featured authors at Monday's Harper blogger event (the day after her TNB chat). Author of Skinny. Just a super nice person (real-person nice, not car-salesman nice). Wish we could have spent more time talking shop.
ELISSA SCHAPPELL
Author of the forthcoming Blueprints for Building Better Girls, a collection of inter-related stories that has one of the best titles going. Has more literary bona fides than you can shake a stick at, were you moved to shake a stick at literary bona fides. Met her at the Authors Guild party.
ERICA BARMASH
Perennial marketeer extraordinaire. Taker of vitamins.
JASON CHAMBERS
Managing editor at the increasingly-misnomered Three Guys One Book. Is launching a new venture called LitBreaker, a literary and pop culture ad network. Can totally pull off a white hat.
JASON RICE
He's tall, and he has cool glasses.
JEN SCHULKIND
My excellent editor and companion-in-wandering around Javits. Waited with me to meet Russell Banks. Texted me showtimes for Bridesmaids.
JENNIFER HART
AKA Book Club Girl. Harper's marketing director and associate publisher. New Jersey apologist.
JIM LEYRITZ
Former New York Yankee playoff hero who has written a book about the financial meltdown in Iceland. Just kidding! He wrote a book about his time with the Bronx Bombers. Spotted him on the NJ Transit platform in Madison.
JOHN LITHGOW
Keynote speaker at the Authors Guild dinner. Saw him at the cocktail party. Tried to play New York cool, but when I held the door for him, felt it would be rude to not say hello. Told him he was great on Colbert. Kept bumping into him for the rest of the party—when I went to the men's room, for one thing—and again at BEA. Got to be sort of funny. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was stalking me.
JOSEPH PAPA
My publicist and handler for the autograph table. Thought an event was open bar; ordered two Champagne cocktails. It wasn't; cost him $38. Was a bit shaken when the insane person came by the table (I used to recruit at job fairs, so I'm used to insane people).
JULIANNE MOORE
Walked by her on the way to my table; saw the back of her more-brown-than-red head. She's small, and was folded up under the table like she was trying to vanish.
KIT STEINKELLNER
Blogs at Books Are My Boyfriends. Big fan of TNB. Was wearing a really cool dress.
LAUREN CERAND
Invited me to the Authors Guild cocktail party, which was awesome, and then did one better by introducing me to people when I showed up by myself, parched, early, and feeling quite out of place. As art deco swanky as the Edison Ballroom is, her outfit was even swankier.
LORI HETTLER
Longtime supporter of Yours Truly. Blogs at The Next Best Book Blog. Mastermind of The Next Best Book Club at Goodreads. First in line at the Fathermucker signing session. Introduced me to a lot of cool bloggers. Even nicer in person than she is online.
MARY SASSO
Harper's marketing coordinator, which means she does the dirty work. Did a great job putting my stuff together. The lollipops turned out great!
MATTHEW NORMAN
Author of the very funny Domestic Violets, which drops in August. Lives in Baltimore. Is very tall.
MEGAN ABBOTT
One of the few American writers at the Quais du Polar festival I attended in March, in Lyon, France—and we were both at BEA, on the same day, at almost the same time slot, promoting two different books. Unlike in Lyon, the book she signed(The End of Everything) is in English, and is next in my stack.
MICHAEL FUSCO
Art director who designed the invitations for the Authors Guild event. Emma Straub's husband, and the designer of the awesome book jacket for Other People We Married. Hung out with me at the Authors Guild party.
MOLLIE GLICK
My intrepid agent, who went with me to the Harpers party at The Park (her dog we left at the office).
RACHEL MANWILL
Blogs at Home Between Pages. Distinguishing mark: tattoo on her neck.
REBECCA COLEMAN
Author of The Kingdom of Childhood. Waited in line for a signed copy of Fathermucker; seemed surprised when I waited in line for a signed copy of her book.
ROB SPILLMAN
Editor of Tin House. Wearer of the coolest shirt-and-tie combo at the Authors Guild party.
RUSSELL BANKS
One of my favorite authors. I waited in line for a signed galley of his new one, Lost Memory of Skin. I actually said, "Hi, Russell; big fan," like I was calling a sports radio talk show or something.
T. OLMSTED
BookSexy. Huge Colbert fan. Has tastes very similar to mine (guess how she feels about Franzen?).
TALIA CARNER
Author of Jerusalem Maiden, which sounds terrific...and releases today. Very elegant.
VANESSA VESELKA
Author of Zazen, which I'm reading now, and which is as superb as advertised. Has a tattoo of the New York Public Library lion on her arm. Met her at Javits, and again at Bill's Gay Nineties. Inspired my wife and I to eat dinner at Veselka, our favorite restaurant in the East Village, after the party.
May 20, 2011
It's (Arthur) Miller Time: Why Hollywood Starlets Should Date Writers
As a longtime reader of US Weekly, I have observed that unmarried female celebrities—I speak of the Lindsay Lohans and Britney Spearses, the Kirsten Dunsts and Jessica Biehls, the Cameron Diazes and Sandra Bullocks, and various and sundry Kardashian, Hilton, and Olsen sisters—when sourcing potential mates, tend to cast their lines in the same shallow and fetid pond. Their men are either:
a) rock stars (John Mayer, Pete Wentz, Justin Timberlake),
b) athletes (A-Rod, Tony Romo, Reggie Bush),
c) actors (Bradley Cooper, Jake Gyllenhaal, Ryan Philippe),
d) millionaire playboys (Harry Morton, Cy Waits, François-Henri Pinault),
e) agents/managers (Jordan Bratman, Jason Trawick, Jim Toth), or
f) Brody Jenner.
Not only is the aforementioned pool puddle-sized, but the school of fish swimming in it is exclusive to the point of incest. Aniston, that notorious angler, throws back a Mayer (perhaps because he was too small?), only to have him netted by Jessica Simpson. Madonna tosses an A-Rod back into the water, and he finds himself hooked by Cameron Diaz. And on it goes. But the truth is, none of these guys is a good catch.
These ladies remind me of the owners of professional football teams, who keep hiring the same underwhelming coaches over and over again, valuing their sideline experience more than their career winning percentage. Both keep tapping the same losers to fill their vacancies.
The leads, as Shelley Levene would have it, are weak.
It's gotten to the point where dudes who are not rock stars, athletes, actors, millionaire playboys, agents, managers, or Brody Jenner assume that these A-list babes are unavailable, even if they are, in fact, very much on the market. The ESPN writer Bill Simmons reported that a glaringly dateless Anne Hathaway attended a Los Angeles wedding recently, and none of the single guys in attendance had the stones to hit on her.
What's a girl to do?
It seems to me that these young actress types who find themselves on the path to Anistonian spinsterhood—I'm talking to you, Anne Hathaway!—would do well to look for more fertile fishing grounds.
If you want to find a quality man, ladies, what you need to do is date a writer. A real writer, I might add, not Ethan Hawke or James Franco. We will not ignore you at a wedding, Anne; not only are you beautiful and talented and kind, but you are named Anne Hathaway, and we happen to know that the last writer who married a woman named Anne Hathaway did pretty well for himself.
Although the marriage of the man of letters to the beauty of the silver screen is somewhat out of fashion, it's not like there isn't a precedent. Marilyn Monroe was married to Arthur Miller; by most accounts, this was her happiest nuptual union. Why? Because when it comes to traits you want in a spouse, the profound emotional depth and mordant wit required to write a play as sublime as Death of a Salesman trumps the preternatural hand-eye coordination and rugged constitution it takes to hit in 56 straight games.
As precedents go, moreover, you could do worse; Marilyn Monroe is only the single most iconic film actress of all time.
But don't take her word for it. Here are eight reasons why, when seeking love, Hollywood's single ladies should look not to the A-list at the Chateau Marmont, but the best-seller list at the New York Times:
1. Our work schedule is easily adaptable to yours.
If you're dating a rock star, athlete, actor, millionaire playboy, or agent/manager, your boyfriend has a demanding schedule that requires him to spend many nights of the year away from home. (Note: this does not apply to Brody Jenner). Absence may make the heart grow fonder, as the old saw goes, but that burgeoning fondness is usually for the cute chick who's where your boyfriend is, and not you. Writers, conversely, can work anywhere. We can accompany you to the four-month film shoot in Romania, or the press junket in Tokyo, or the wedding in Lake Como. This is because…
2. We don't go on tour.
"Book tour" is really a euphemism for "a handful of readings at bookstores within an hour's drive of where we live, spread out over a few weekends the month the novel releases." We're home. A lot. And we're all too happy to procrastinate by hanging out with you and slinging gossip about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Furthermore, because we don't go on tour…
3. We don't have groupies.
Some of us may have middle-aged housewives who have had a few too many glasses of chardonnay at the Wednesday book club meeting, true, and God bless them. But they can't hold a candle (or a Kindle) to you.
4. We're not constantly looking to upgrade.
If we're married to Jennifer Aniston, we're going to teach her the meaning of the word uxorious (and probably a lot of other big words, too). We're not going to worry about her Q rating, or what her next film project is, or how the marriage affects our "brand," and we're certainly not going to leave her for Angelina Jolie. Now, if Jolie came calling, we'd at least be tempted; we're not made of stone. But she won't come calling, because…
5. Our job doesn't involve getting naked and having simulated sex with beautiful naked women.
A good actor whose character is supposed to fall in obsessive love with Mila Kunis will fall in obsessive love with her in real life, especially if he spends a few days lying in bed with her, wearing only flesh-colored briefs, nibbling at her earlobes and neck, tweaking her supple nipples, and plunging his tongue down her quivering throat. When a writer gets naked and has simulated sex with Mila Kunis, instead of employing as a prop the actual person of Mila Kunis, he uses his hand.
6. We're not materialistic.
Unless we are Stephen King or Tom Clancy or the guy who wrote A Series of Unfortunate Events, we do not have, and will never have, more dough than you. (We're not net-worthy!) The only portfolios we own are stuffed with pages of old manuscripts. But we're not gold-diggers, either. Unlike K-Fed or that ex-third-string football player you might be engaged to, if your name is Jessica Simpson, we pull our own weight. And we add something to the equation that money can't buy, namely…
7. We make you seem smart.
Put it this way: What makes you sound more like a woman of substance when you introduce your beau at a dinner party? Choose one: a) "This is my boyfriend, the recovering heroin addict who used to play bass in Mötley Crüe. He has a new memoir out," or, b) "This is my boyfriend, the National Book Award winner who used to be the president of PEN. He has a new novel out." If you want people to take you seriously, Denise Richards, the first thing you have to do is eighty-six your Nikki Sixx and find yourself a Nick Flynn (No one thinks Lili Taylor is a space cadet, and it's not just because she didn't play one in Starship Troopers. Coincidence? I think not!).
But the most compelling reason to date a writer is…
8. We're loyal.
We may know drama, but we want to write about it, not live with it. If Justin Timberlake were a funny-albeit-overrated novelist and not a funny-albeit-overrated pop star, he would not leave you hanging, Jessica Biehl; he'd lock that down; he'd like it and then he'd put a ring on it. Amanda Peet and Brooke Shields are both married to writers. It's no coincidence that when they appear in the tabloids, the headlines say things like aren't these babies cute and look at the happy mommies. Writers are so faithful, in fact, that I can't think of a single single major straight author. Which tells you all you need to know.
—Greg Olear is The Nervous Breakdown's senior editor and the author of the novels Totally Killer and Fathermucker. He is happily married, so buzz off.
May 9, 2011
Harper (Paperback)'s Index: Fathermucker by the Numbers
April 23, 2011
Featuring…Zoë Brock
She had an interesting childhood. [...]
April 18, 2011
Les pensées inexprimés, ou, Tweets I'd've Tweeted Had I Tweeted in France
March 26, 2011
March 25, 2011
Featuring…Angela Tung
Growing up, she was neither a Beautiful Girl nor a Gang Girl.
She has lousy taste in music, but impeccable [...]
