a pointless anecdote
I now have a shirt that reads, "When the Inuit go fishing, they don't look for fish." (Because it's two -- two -- two shows in one!)
I'm on the first set of rewrites for my House script, in the stage where smoke is puffing out your ears symbolizing either deep inner thought or (more likely) my forlorn yet passionate desire to somehow keep this thing below the sort of page count that makes War and Peace look like a haiku. As a temporary escape, I've decided to tell you my Jensen Ackles anecdote.
When I worked on Dark Angel I created a character, one of Max's missing siblings, who as a child was the mythmaker of the group. He kept them from losing faith in themselves by telling stories in the darkness of the dormitory, stories with heroes and spirits and demons, and now that Max is all grown up and the group is scattered and in hiding, she finds that people are being murdered according to the mythological details of those childhood stories. Her beloved storyteller has grown into a serial killer.
This was a tough role to cast. You needed someone you could believe was a genetically engineered human; who could, when necessary, radiate both intelligence and menace; who could be scary one minute, and who could give you a lump in the throat the next from his sheer vulnerability when he admits to Max that he's broken and begs her to kill him.
I sat in casting as actor after actor came in. It was one of those evenings when you listen to the words of the script and wonder how they can sound this horrifyingly bad -- dear god, am I truly that wretched a writer? Then Mr. Ackles walked in. The first scene involved his character sitting handcuffed as he tries to convince Max to let him go. It was tonally challenging, because although he's cuffed, you have to have the impression he's extremely dangerous -- that in fact just listening to him is dangerous because he'll screw with you psychologically. "Mind if I sit on the floor?" he asked calmly, in the voice of one who's worked it all out ahead of time. He put his arms behind his back, did that scene, and wow. Young Hannibal Lecter, hello! Then he did the death scene, made my eyes tear up, walked calmly out, and we looked at each other. This was exactly the character I'd envisioned. It was clear to me that if anybody else got this role, I would have to commit ritual suicide.
Fortunately everyone else wanted him -- except one highly placed producer. Now, although Hollywood as an entity has issues with women, my personal experience on writing staffs has been almost uniformly positive. This producer happened to be an extremely rare exception -- and it's not that he was in any way meanspirited; he was a perfectly nice guy, kind and gentle, but sometimes your head snapped back just listening to him. He was upset by the fact that the people in casting that night had been mostly women; that we all liked Jensen Ackles; and that he was a good-looking actor. Because, clearly, that must be what was influencing us. "Something very disturbing was going on in that room," he insisted.
Leaving his opinion of our emotionality aside, I asked what his issues were with Ackles -- hadn't that been a terrific reading? He admitted the reading was fine, but -- "He doesn't have muscles." "What?" "He doesn't have muscles, he doesn't look like a soldier. If he was genetically designed to be a soldier, wouldn't they make him strong?" My head spun for a moment. I said, "Our heroine is Jessica Alba." And yes, she'd worked out pretty hard for this role, but she was still a slender-looking, gorgeous young woman, who was usually shorter and much lighter than the men we regularly showed her throwing around with such abandon. I said, "Clearly whatever genetic manipulation was going on involves strength that's not determined by the sheer volume of the muscle." I'd reached this conclusion the moment I saw the pilot, and thought it was unarguable, given what we'd been portraying on screen for the past season. But he had a reply to that: "She's a girl," he said -- clearly bewildered that I would even bring this up.
Sigh. But the angels smiled for a moment, Jensen Ackles got the role, and though my script was rewritten it did still retain a certain amount of what I'd been going for. The direction was tight, the acting full-throttle, and the episode was so well-received that the series was sold for a second year on the idea of "more like this!"
I, however, had moved on to Smallville the following year. There, we discussed casting for one of the early guest roles. "Jensen Ackles!" I said. The executive producers went away, returned, and I was told with compassion, "I'm sorry, Doris. He's just been booked for the year." "Really? Where?" "Dark Angel." Yes. The producer who'd been so opposed to him? After seeing his work in that episode, he hired Jensen as a regular. And apparently he also made him bulk up -- because boys need muscle. I said, "But we killed him!" "He's back as a clone."
Damn you, science fiction, and your wicked genre ways! Someday, Jensen Ackles, I muttered. Time passed and I found myself on the second season of Tru Calling. We had a character, a medical student, whom we first meet as a sort of golden boy -- a nice guy, funny, the sort who tries to do the right thing. Brilliant, but with some self-esteem issues that have kept him from his full potential. Tru and he become friends, and as time passes, they start to become more deeply involved. Then, partway through the season, he dies; and Tru, who's had enough of death, resolves to stay awake until someone somewhere asks for help and her day rewinds -- thereby allowing her to save Jensen as well. (Yes, shockingly, he ended up with the name Jensen. I think it was my sheer repetition doing subconscious work.) I'm going to quote here from an earlier post:
==============
But Jensen's soul is already committed -- it can't return, but his body, memories, and the habits of his personality continue after the time he "died." The idea was that over the course of the arc we would gradually see anomalies of character develop -- unsettling moments, as the imprint of Jensen's personality disintegrates, at the same time it becomes fascinated with death, in an almost wistful way. This would be pretty damned creepy, coming as it does alongside Tru's growing physical intimacy with him. Jane Espenson wrote a beautifully disturbing scene that I'm sorry you'll never get a chance to see -- on one level, it's just Tru and Jensen talking on the sofa during a movie, and on another level, oooooh.
As the arc plays out, we hear the jarring comments he'll occasionally make, the way the things that used to mean something to him -- like his need for his father's respect -- are just no longer vulnerabilities. We see scenes that suggest a growing involvement with violence, in an unsettling but ambiguous way, so Tru can't be sure it's there or not. Till one morning Tru wakes in bed with Jensen and goes about her day, which rewinds over the murder of Jensen's father. Just before the rewind she learns that not only did Jensen do it, he's been behind a string of recent killings (born of his fascination with learning about the thing he's apparently been barred from -- i.e., death). She rewinds -- and wakes up in bed next to him, knowing now that he's a monster.
And that she created him. This was once a young man who won her with his generosity and understanding, his good humor and sweetness. He's still bright, he's still clever, there's no evidence against him. And he'll be creating a lot more victims, starting on this rewind day with his father -- unless she takes the responsibility for putting an end to him. So she finally turns to the person with experience in ending people's lives: Jack.
===============
Now, obviously this was going to be the kind of role where you can't count on a pretty face to pull you through. (And sometimes there's pressure to go with a pretty face, even when the necessary screen power is not behind it. This doesn't make sense, because it means the audience will never spark to that role the way they should, but sometimes executives think the fact they can promote the show using a particular actor's name makes up for that. The unfortunate truth that you can get people to watch once, just long enough to drive them away permanently if the goods aren't there, doesn't always sway the decisionmakers.) We needed someone who could say long words as though they know what those words mean -- and I'm not being sarcastic here; that's harder than you think. But someone who could also be funny. And sweet. And boy-next-door. Oh, and also turn on a dime and scare the beejeezus out of you.
"Jensen Ackles!" I said, pretty much every time the subject of casting came up. But the process ground on a bit slower than we anticipated, and one day I was informed -- again, with compassion -- "We're too late; he's booked elsewhere." I asked where. "Smallville," they said. Smallville? Those bastards, how dare they listen to me? Who told them to respect my opinion? This was clearly my fate -- to make so much noise about Jensen Ackles at any show I'm on that they'll grab him first chance they get, which will inevitably be when I'm at my next show trying to get him. One of the writers, hearing this news, turned to me and asked, "Are you solely responsible for this guy's career?"
The answer to that would be no. Clearly he doesn't need my help, but you have to admit that the aura of Ackles doom I bring to each production is amusing, at least. At the time I said to myself, sour-grapes fashion, "Well, I hope that Smallville role is as interesting and layered as this one will be," and went on with life.
As it turned out, we were fortunate at Tru. Eric Christian Olsen took on the role, and it was clear from the very first look at his reel that we were in safe hands. (In fact, when I first saw his work I had that sense of awe I always feel in the presence of good acting, because it is so very much something I cannot do. Really, I have no idea what button actors push to suddenly convey, "This is real," but I know it when I see it, the way Robert Graves says you know a true poem when you hear one. Recently I was talking with a medical consultant and mentioned that I'd just come out of a read-through of a script. "It's always cool to hear the script at a read-through," I said. "Why?" he asked. I was surprised at the question. "Because they do that magic actor thing," I said. Why else?) In any case, I'm sorry you never got to see the character's turnaround, because I have no doubt he would have been compelling.
And as it turns out, since the show was cancelled mid-season, maybe Smallville was the better bet after all.
And now I'm at House, and surrounded by such talent that it would be the height of ungraciousness to do more than note that Mr. Ackles has a show of his own this coming season. And while it's not mine, I'm forced to admit that that might not stop it from being, well... good.
I'm on the first set of rewrites for my House script, in the stage where smoke is puffing out your ears symbolizing either deep inner thought or (more likely) my forlorn yet passionate desire to somehow keep this thing below the sort of page count that makes War and Peace look like a haiku. As a temporary escape, I've decided to tell you my Jensen Ackles anecdote.
When I worked on Dark Angel I created a character, one of Max's missing siblings, who as a child was the mythmaker of the group. He kept them from losing faith in themselves by telling stories in the darkness of the dormitory, stories with heroes and spirits and demons, and now that Max is all grown up and the group is scattered and in hiding, she finds that people are being murdered according to the mythological details of those childhood stories. Her beloved storyteller has grown into a serial killer.
This was a tough role to cast. You needed someone you could believe was a genetically engineered human; who could, when necessary, radiate both intelligence and menace; who could be scary one minute, and who could give you a lump in the throat the next from his sheer vulnerability when he admits to Max that he's broken and begs her to kill him.
I sat in casting as actor after actor came in. It was one of those evenings when you listen to the words of the script and wonder how they can sound this horrifyingly bad -- dear god, am I truly that wretched a writer? Then Mr. Ackles walked in. The first scene involved his character sitting handcuffed as he tries to convince Max to let him go. It was tonally challenging, because although he's cuffed, you have to have the impression he's extremely dangerous -- that in fact just listening to him is dangerous because he'll screw with you psychologically. "Mind if I sit on the floor?" he asked calmly, in the voice of one who's worked it all out ahead of time. He put his arms behind his back, did that scene, and wow. Young Hannibal Lecter, hello! Then he did the death scene, made my eyes tear up, walked calmly out, and we looked at each other. This was exactly the character I'd envisioned. It was clear to me that if anybody else got this role, I would have to commit ritual suicide.
Fortunately everyone else wanted him -- except one highly placed producer. Now, although Hollywood as an entity has issues with women, my personal experience on writing staffs has been almost uniformly positive. This producer happened to be an extremely rare exception -- and it's not that he was in any way meanspirited; he was a perfectly nice guy, kind and gentle, but sometimes your head snapped back just listening to him. He was upset by the fact that the people in casting that night had been mostly women; that we all liked Jensen Ackles; and that he was a good-looking actor. Because, clearly, that must be what was influencing us. "Something very disturbing was going on in that room," he insisted.
Leaving his opinion of our emotionality aside, I asked what his issues were with Ackles -- hadn't that been a terrific reading? He admitted the reading was fine, but -- "He doesn't have muscles." "What?" "He doesn't have muscles, he doesn't look like a soldier. If he was genetically designed to be a soldier, wouldn't they make him strong?" My head spun for a moment. I said, "Our heroine is Jessica Alba." And yes, she'd worked out pretty hard for this role, but she was still a slender-looking, gorgeous young woman, who was usually shorter and much lighter than the men we regularly showed her throwing around with such abandon. I said, "Clearly whatever genetic manipulation was going on involves strength that's not determined by the sheer volume of the muscle." I'd reached this conclusion the moment I saw the pilot, and thought it was unarguable, given what we'd been portraying on screen for the past season. But he had a reply to that: "She's a girl," he said -- clearly bewildered that I would even bring this up.
Sigh. But the angels smiled for a moment, Jensen Ackles got the role, and though my script was rewritten it did still retain a certain amount of what I'd been going for. The direction was tight, the acting full-throttle, and the episode was so well-received that the series was sold for a second year on the idea of "more like this!"
I, however, had moved on to Smallville the following year. There, we discussed casting for one of the early guest roles. "Jensen Ackles!" I said. The executive producers went away, returned, and I was told with compassion, "I'm sorry, Doris. He's just been booked for the year." "Really? Where?" "Dark Angel." Yes. The producer who'd been so opposed to him? After seeing his work in that episode, he hired Jensen as a regular. And apparently he also made him bulk up -- because boys need muscle. I said, "But we killed him!" "He's back as a clone."
Damn you, science fiction, and your wicked genre ways! Someday, Jensen Ackles, I muttered. Time passed and I found myself on the second season of Tru Calling. We had a character, a medical student, whom we first meet as a sort of golden boy -- a nice guy, funny, the sort who tries to do the right thing. Brilliant, but with some self-esteem issues that have kept him from his full potential. Tru and he become friends, and as time passes, they start to become more deeply involved. Then, partway through the season, he dies; and Tru, who's had enough of death, resolves to stay awake until someone somewhere asks for help and her day rewinds -- thereby allowing her to save Jensen as well. (Yes, shockingly, he ended up with the name Jensen. I think it was my sheer repetition doing subconscious work.) I'm going to quote here from an earlier post:
==============
But Jensen's soul is already committed -- it can't return, but his body, memories, and the habits of his personality continue after the time he "died." The idea was that over the course of the arc we would gradually see anomalies of character develop -- unsettling moments, as the imprint of Jensen's personality disintegrates, at the same time it becomes fascinated with death, in an almost wistful way. This would be pretty damned creepy, coming as it does alongside Tru's growing physical intimacy with him. Jane Espenson wrote a beautifully disturbing scene that I'm sorry you'll never get a chance to see -- on one level, it's just Tru and Jensen talking on the sofa during a movie, and on another level, oooooh.
As the arc plays out, we hear the jarring comments he'll occasionally make, the way the things that used to mean something to him -- like his need for his father's respect -- are just no longer vulnerabilities. We see scenes that suggest a growing involvement with violence, in an unsettling but ambiguous way, so Tru can't be sure it's there or not. Till one morning Tru wakes in bed with Jensen and goes about her day, which rewinds over the murder of Jensen's father. Just before the rewind she learns that not only did Jensen do it, he's been behind a string of recent killings (born of his fascination with learning about the thing he's apparently been barred from -- i.e., death). She rewinds -- and wakes up in bed next to him, knowing now that he's a monster.
And that she created him. This was once a young man who won her with his generosity and understanding, his good humor and sweetness. He's still bright, he's still clever, there's no evidence against him. And he'll be creating a lot more victims, starting on this rewind day with his father -- unless she takes the responsibility for putting an end to him. So she finally turns to the person with experience in ending people's lives: Jack.
===============
Now, obviously this was going to be the kind of role where you can't count on a pretty face to pull you through. (And sometimes there's pressure to go with a pretty face, even when the necessary screen power is not behind it. This doesn't make sense, because it means the audience will never spark to that role the way they should, but sometimes executives think the fact they can promote the show using a particular actor's name makes up for that. The unfortunate truth that you can get people to watch once, just long enough to drive them away permanently if the goods aren't there, doesn't always sway the decisionmakers.) We needed someone who could say long words as though they know what those words mean -- and I'm not being sarcastic here; that's harder than you think. But someone who could also be funny. And sweet. And boy-next-door. Oh, and also turn on a dime and scare the beejeezus out of you.
"Jensen Ackles!" I said, pretty much every time the subject of casting came up. But the process ground on a bit slower than we anticipated, and one day I was informed -- again, with compassion -- "We're too late; he's booked elsewhere." I asked where. "Smallville," they said. Smallville? Those bastards, how dare they listen to me? Who told them to respect my opinion? This was clearly my fate -- to make so much noise about Jensen Ackles at any show I'm on that they'll grab him first chance they get, which will inevitably be when I'm at my next show trying to get him. One of the writers, hearing this news, turned to me and asked, "Are you solely responsible for this guy's career?"
The answer to that would be no. Clearly he doesn't need my help, but you have to admit that the aura of Ackles doom I bring to each production is amusing, at least. At the time I said to myself, sour-grapes fashion, "Well, I hope that Smallville role is as interesting and layered as this one will be," and went on with life.
As it turned out, we were fortunate at Tru. Eric Christian Olsen took on the role, and it was clear from the very first look at his reel that we were in safe hands. (In fact, when I first saw his work I had that sense of awe I always feel in the presence of good acting, because it is so very much something I cannot do. Really, I have no idea what button actors push to suddenly convey, "This is real," but I know it when I see it, the way Robert Graves says you know a true poem when you hear one. Recently I was talking with a medical consultant and mentioned that I'd just come out of a read-through of a script. "It's always cool to hear the script at a read-through," I said. "Why?" he asked. I was surprised at the question. "Because they do that magic actor thing," I said. Why else?) In any case, I'm sorry you never got to see the character's turnaround, because I have no doubt he would have been compelling.
And as it turns out, since the show was cancelled mid-season, maybe Smallville was the better bet after all.
And now I'm at House, and surrounded by such talent that it would be the height of ungraciousness to do more than note that Mr. Ackles has a show of his own this coming season. And while it's not mine, I'm forced to admit that that might not stop it from being, well... good.