"When something like this happens, you are lost."
The first time I cried over someone I did not personally know, I was sixteen. I was at the mall, and had just heard that Fritz Leiber was dead. I sat on a hard bench and sniffled quietly because I had never gotten to tell him how his stories had inspired and comforted me. And I cried, too, for Fafhrd and Mouser, tireless companions, now gone into the limbo for characters whose authors have died.
Until Tuesday, that was the only time I'd shed actual tears for someone I'd never met.
I'm thirty. I'm a grown-up, past all that. That kind of grief is really for those still young enough to have heroes.
But evidently I'm not still too old to cry miserably over someone I don't know and would never have met.
Poor Heath. I feel just terrible for him. His life had gotten rough; he was having major trouble with stress and, apparently, insomnia. Whether he meant to overdose or not, I certainly understand wanting to escape. I understand needing anti-anxiety meds and sleeping pills to cope. It doesn't mean a person is weak, it just means the world is hard.
It's a shame. I am not the sort to confuse an actor with his roles, or with the roles I've assigned him. I don't do the hero worship thing, and I don't investigate actors' personal lives. That didn't stop Heath from being very dear to me. You watch someone for nigh on ten years, you get attached.
He was appealing in Roar; I noticed him, but he was so skinny, and far too young. It was A Knight's Tale before I fell in love. I was hardly alone. As soon as William rode over that hilltop, every woman in the theater made this little "Unnnh!" noise. The lady next to us sank down in her seat, and her knees fell to each side in completely thoughtless invitation. God knows what I did. Heath affected people that way. An unconscious sexuality hovered about him, less innocent than just primal. That's what snagged me, I admit it. I stayed for the spark that promised brilliance, but he had me by the panties before he had me by the heart.
There was a time, about seven years back, when I was in a very dark place; hours-long panic attacks several times a day, insomnia, depression. A Knight's Tale was a silly movie, but it was safety, comfort. I could not have a panic attack while watching it, and no matter how miserable I was, it could make me laugh. I know that movie by heart because I watched it every day for a year or more, sometimes two or three times, and I wish I could thank him for the comfort it brought. I wish I had written that embarrassing fan letter.
No other actor's death, none, could have upset me this much. I didn't just love him because he was nice to look at; it wasn't only a lust thing. It was gratitude, for all the pleasure his performances had brought me. It was respect and admiration; he was going to be a real actor someday. Losing anyone else I fan on about would have been easier for me.
I will miss the work he will not do, the way I will miss all those unwritten Fafhrd and Mouser stories Like Leiber and his work, Heath and his movies became a part of my mental landscape.
I used Heath a lot when I had to cast a character, writing or roleplaying. It's dorky to admit that, I know, but it's impossible for me to write about someone if I don't know what they look like, and Heath was so versatile. He was not pretty, really; he was handsome in a strange and animal way, like a young lion, and his face became more interesting every year. In recent years, he'd even learned the trick of hiding his handsomeness, as so many attractive actors never do. Once I saw him do that, I believed he could have done anything.
Yes, other actors will win me over. It's not like I have a finite supply of fangirling. I'm just sorry I won't get to see what would have happened if he'd had more time. I remember an interview where he was talking about his role in the Patriot, and as he discussed it, it went from "my character" and "Gabriel" to "me" and "I." He rang the bell in every role. He spoke -- and acted -- with such candor. Hard not to respect that. Hard not to love it. Hard not to miss it.
I remember another interview where they asked him about filming Roar. He was just a teenager; he'd never done anything like it before. He said it was a glorious time, riding around on horses, playing with swords, getting dirty and sweaty and bruised. Every boy's dream.
He was sick of being cast as the blond boy, the good boy. I know he wanted to become the bad boy, the villain, he wanted to get away from all that hero stuff. I don't blame him. The shiny armor gets heavy. But that's the picture I have of him. I've got it stuck in the back of my notebook, for fuck's sake, like a teenage girl, and I've moved it faithfully from folder to folder for . . . five years now. Can't bring myself to remove it. Who else could possibly take his place?
I'd like to think of him as an eternal half-wild teenager, bruised and dirty and full of joy. Such a hereafter would be good enough for me. But tempting as it is to talk of a better place full of swords and horses, I don't know that I believe in an afterlife. It may be that whatever he gets beyond this is in how we remember him.
For me, that's as I first really noticed him. Somewhere in my head, he's always going to be riding a fleabitten horse over that damn hilltop, with his disastrous blond hair aglow from the sun. I'm thirty, but I don't think I'll ever be too old for that.
The world is too hard a place to live without bad boys and heroes. It would have righteously sucked without him.
Until Tuesday, that was the only time I'd shed actual tears for someone I'd never met.
I'm thirty. I'm a grown-up, past all that. That kind of grief is really for those still young enough to have heroes.
But evidently I'm not still too old to cry miserably over someone I don't know and would never have met.
Poor Heath. I feel just terrible for him. His life had gotten rough; he was having major trouble with stress and, apparently, insomnia. Whether he meant to overdose or not, I certainly understand wanting to escape. I understand needing anti-anxiety meds and sleeping pills to cope. It doesn't mean a person is weak, it just means the world is hard.
It's a shame. I am not the sort to confuse an actor with his roles, or with the roles I've assigned him. I don't do the hero worship thing, and I don't investigate actors' personal lives. That didn't stop Heath from being very dear to me. You watch someone for nigh on ten years, you get attached.
He was appealing in Roar; I noticed him, but he was so skinny, and far too young. It was A Knight's Tale before I fell in love. I was hardly alone. As soon as William rode over that hilltop, every woman in the theater made this little "Unnnh!" noise. The lady next to us sank down in her seat, and her knees fell to each side in completely thoughtless invitation. God knows what I did. Heath affected people that way. An unconscious sexuality hovered about him, less innocent than just primal. That's what snagged me, I admit it. I stayed for the spark that promised brilliance, but he had me by the panties before he had me by the heart.
There was a time, about seven years back, when I was in a very dark place; hours-long panic attacks several times a day, insomnia, depression. A Knight's Tale was a silly movie, but it was safety, comfort. I could not have a panic attack while watching it, and no matter how miserable I was, it could make me laugh. I know that movie by heart because I watched it every day for a year or more, sometimes two or three times, and I wish I could thank him for the comfort it brought. I wish I had written that embarrassing fan letter.
No other actor's death, none, could have upset me this much. I didn't just love him because he was nice to look at; it wasn't only a lust thing. It was gratitude, for all the pleasure his performances had brought me. It was respect and admiration; he was going to be a real actor someday. Losing anyone else I fan on about would have been easier for me.
I will miss the work he will not do, the way I will miss all those unwritten Fafhrd and Mouser stories Like Leiber and his work, Heath and his movies became a part of my mental landscape.
I used Heath a lot when I had to cast a character, writing or roleplaying. It's dorky to admit that, I know, but it's impossible for me to write about someone if I don't know what they look like, and Heath was so versatile. He was not pretty, really; he was handsome in a strange and animal way, like a young lion, and his face became more interesting every year. In recent years, he'd even learned the trick of hiding his handsomeness, as so many attractive actors never do. Once I saw him do that, I believed he could have done anything.
Yes, other actors will win me over. It's not like I have a finite supply of fangirling. I'm just sorry I won't get to see what would have happened if he'd had more time. I remember an interview where he was talking about his role in the Patriot, and as he discussed it, it went from "my character" and "Gabriel" to "me" and "I." He rang the bell in every role. He spoke -- and acted -- with such candor. Hard not to respect that. Hard not to love it. Hard not to miss it.
I remember another interview where they asked him about filming Roar. He was just a teenager; he'd never done anything like it before. He said it was a glorious time, riding around on horses, playing with swords, getting dirty and sweaty and bruised. Every boy's dream.
He was sick of being cast as the blond boy, the good boy. I know he wanted to become the bad boy, the villain, he wanted to get away from all that hero stuff. I don't blame him. The shiny armor gets heavy. But that's the picture I have of him. I've got it stuck in the back of my notebook, for fuck's sake, like a teenage girl, and I've moved it faithfully from folder to folder for . . . five years now. Can't bring myself to remove it. Who else could possibly take his place?
I'd like to think of him as an eternal half-wild teenager, bruised and dirty and full of joy. Such a hereafter would be good enough for me. But tempting as it is to talk of a better place full of swords and horses, I don't know that I believe in an afterlife. It may be that whatever he gets beyond this is in how we remember him.
For me, that's as I first really noticed him. Somewhere in my head, he's always going to be riding a fleabitten horse over that damn hilltop, with his disastrous blond hair aglow from the sun. I'm thirty, but I don't think I'll ever be too old for that.
The world is too hard a place to live without bad boys and heroes. It would have righteously sucked without him.