This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the very real person, Russell Crowe. No insult or invasion of his privacy is intended, but rather, it is a
way of expressing the author's delight in his work and his manliness.
I do not know Mr. Crowe, nor any of the other real people mentioned in this story. I am speculating on what took place during the events of this film being made, based on statements made by Mr. Crowe after the fact.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

CONFIDENTIAL

I spent months gettin' ready to film LA Confidential. I worked out for hours with free weights, on the stairmaster, on any number of torture devices, plus I ran my guts out every day. I bulked up - seriously bulked up - for the part of Bud White because the director, Curtis Hanson, the author of the book and screenplay, James Ellroy, and I all felt that Bud should look like an ex-football player, real blocky, as if he was burstin' out of his clothes. In other words, the exact opposite of any of the roles I'd done so far.

After I gained about 20 pounds I looked like the Incredible Hulk in comparison to how I'd looked in my last film. I felt hulkish too. I felt downright clumsy at first because I wasn't used to my arms and legs and my body being thicker. Bigger thighs made me walk different. Bigger arms meant my arms swung differently. A thicker midsection made me feel fat until I got used to the idea it was muscle, not flab. I had to get new jeans, new shirts, new underwear - hell, the only clothes that still fit were my socks and my old, baggy flannies. I wasn't so sure I liked bein' the Michelin Man, frankly. Plus, I was bench pressin' 220 lbs, which was more than I weighed - that was scary, mate. What if I dropped the damned barbells? Splat.

I also spent an equal amount of time gettin' into the head of the character. I read the book, then read it again trying to become Bud White, see things from the perspective of this brutish guy who isn't nearly as dumb as he looks. Then there was the accent - I got the part speaking in my natural accent, but since Bud White was from Los Angeles, I had to learn to speak in as real an Angeleno accent as I could get. It was really hard work changin' every inflection, learnin' how to not drop my fuckin' g's like I do when I don't have to impress anyone with my diction. It was harder still learnin' how to say things like "tamaytah" instead of "tomahto", "mayd" instead of "myde" - like learnin' to speak Martian. But I did it.

Los Angeles isn't my favorite town in the world. I'd rather be just about anywhere else, frankly, but the film was going to be shot there, so that was where I settled in. I had a fairly nice room at what I'll call the XYZ Hotel (for reasons which I'll get to later), and I told myself I'd make the best of it. Right off, there was trouble.

It wasn't anything to do with Curtis, or the other actors, the script or anything like that. What happened was, I was bein' somehow left out of the loop. We filmed for two days and on the third day I got there before my call time, only to find everyone chattin' about the rushes they'd watched half an hour earlier. Nobody had told me we'd be able to see rushes that morning if we came early. I could see Curtis was embarrassed - somebody had dropped the ball - and he apologized up one side and down the other for it. I shrugged it off, but then it happened again.

Then there was the mix-up with the script updates. Everybody gets updates to their scripts - hell, sometimes almost hourly - and I was gettin' left out of that, too. As that "Twilight Zone" bloke would say, "picture, if you will. . ." me and whoever else was in the scene goin' about our jobs, cameras rollin', and Jamie, or Guy or Kim sayin' what they're supposed to and here comes Fred Nerk sayin' something that was changed two revisions ago. The first time it happened, Curtis laughed. The second time, on a different scene the same day, he just looked puzzled. The third time, the bloke was peeved, and I was completely embarrassed, not to mention that I felt like an amateur when everyone gave me the fish-eyed look.

Curtis walked over to my chair and looked at my script. "Russ," he said, thumbing through the pages, "you don't have any of the changes. What's up?"

"I'm not getting them," I said, truthfully. "Maybe some other bloke named 'Crowe' is gettin' my stuff," I tried to joke, but I could see that he was irritated. "I honestly don't understand it," I said.

Curtis saw to it that I got the script changes after that - he made sure by havin' Guy give me copies of his pages. So every time we got new revisions, one or the other of us would go huntin' a copier to make another set. It was a pain the ass, but much less than standin' on the set in the middle of a take ruined because one of the Aussie blokes didn't know what his line was supposed to be.

Things settled down for a bit, then one day I spent an hour in Make-up gettin' bruises painted on my face because we were filming some stuff after Exley and White had their big fight near the end of the film. I wondered where Guy was, but thought he must have had an earlier call and had already been made up. I got to the set only to find out those weren't the scenes we were doing at all. I had to go back, get the make-up off, get redone with regular stuff and get back to the set, all while they worked around me. I was beginnin' to think it was a conspiracy.

I suppose none of this sounds earth shaking, but imagine me, in what I thought was gonna be my first really quality film, working for a director I respected, with a script that just blew my mind, and there I was goin' through this silly-assed farce with the script and the make-up. Then there was the cock-up the day we were supposed to shoot scenes with Bud and Lynn Bracken in bed, havin' a nice intimate pillow talk. Unfortunately, I had pages that showed we were shooting scenes where Bud was unshaven and filthy from crawling under a house with some dead bodies. That's what the make-up folks had, too. So I arrived on the set, right on time, unshaven and lookin' like I'd just crawled out from under, well, a house with dead bodies under the floor. It's a good thing they don't have smell-o-vision, and the dirt was all special effects, but still, I looked like somebody had dumped a dustbin over my head.

Kim, bless her for her sense of humor, took one look at my expression - I must've looked confused as hell - and just started laughing. She had to go sit down, actually, she laughed so much. Curtis just looked at me and shook his head. "Wrong scene, Crowe," he says, and thank God, he laughed too. I, on the other hand, was madder than a cut snake at that point.

"The joke isn't funny anymore," I announced to nobody in particular. I grabbed up a towel and started wiping the fake mud and dirt off my face, then realized I had to shave as well. "Damn it!" I threw the towel down and marched back to the make-up department to get redone. Then I had to go to Wardrobe and get clean clothes. When I finally got back to the set, Kim was sitting in the bed, grinning from ear to ear. "I do like you better clean," she said with a giggle, "but you're supposed to be in bed, naked, for this scene, Russell."

I looked around. Curtis had his hands up, laughing, wearin' this look of "what else, Lord?" The crew were either grinning or pretending to look elsewhere. I took of my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. I unknotted my tie and laid it over the jacket. Kim was smirking, one eyebrow raised. She is such a classy lady - and with a wicked sense of humor, too. "Maybe we should play striptease music," she said, tryin' to be helpful.

"Don't even go there," I warned her, and took off my shirt, undershirt and, with an apologetic grin, my pants. I hated those pants anyway, damned baggy, pleated fuckers. I kicked off the shoes, took off my socks and just stood there in my boxers. "Er, Curtis? I think I'm ready."

"Get in the bed next to her," was all he said. I was real happy with his self-restraint. I climbed into the bed and got into position next to Kim, sliding down so I had my head on the pillow, looking over at her, and she was propped up a little higher, looking down at me with her chin propped on her hand. "Nice aftershave," she murmured.

I flashed her a look - it was whatever the make-up bloke had and I wasn't sure I liked it, but if Kim did, that was fine. I always try to find out what my co-star likes as far as cologne and the like, because if we're gonna have to spend hours in bed filming love scenes, I should at least try to make it as pleasant as possible for the lady. So I usually ask them their preferences, but somehow, with all the nonsense that was happening on the film so far, I hadn't gotten around to it. I also make sure to brush my teeth right before those scenes, gargle and not eat a heavily spiced meal before hand. I wouldn't want to have to kiss a relative stranger if her perfume or her breath or her personal hygiene turned my stomach, so I always make an extra effort not to drive the sheila screamin' off the set. "Thanks," I told her, "I have no bloody idea what it is."

Thank God and an actress who knew what she was doin' - the scenes in bed went smooth as silk. Of course, kissing and gettin' kissed by Kim Basinger isn't exactly torture, y'know? But doing a scene like that isn't really as much erotic as it is nerve-wracking because you've got the cameraman, the lighting guys, the sound men, the PA, probably the continuity person, and the Lord knows who else all hangin' over the bed the whole time you're supposed to be in the throes of passion, or having an intimate discussion or whatever. Besides, Kim was married then and her husband wasn't exactly a bloke I'd want to cross by gettin' too enthused in a make-out scene with his wife, if you know what I mean.

Between Kim bein' so nice, and for once I got my page updates, that day went real well. I went back to the hotel and got stopped by the hotel detective as I was gettin' in the elevator. "Mr. Crowe," he called out, "I wonder if I can have a word with you?"

I hadn't a clue what it was about, but I followed him into his office. He had me sit down in a chair, got out a thick folder of some sort of papers, and called in the manager. "What is this?" I asked, finally realizin' that something was going on. I had been up since 4 a.m. It was then past 8 in the evening, and I was rooted. Imagine my pleasure when the manager tells me, "Mr. Crowe, this is somewhat awkward, but, it seems there's a problem with your bill."

"Yeah?" I was stumped.

"Yes," the manager says, "Er, we were told to bill the studio making your film - a standard arrangement, I might add - and they paid the first bills, but now they've - well - they've reversed their payment."

"Reversed their payment? What is that, in plain English, mate, I've had a long day." I just wanted to eat dinner and sleep, at that point, which wasn't gonna happen if I got riled up.

The bloke nods, lookin' real upset, "They, uh, they took the money back. When I called to rectify the problem, they told me you were responsible for all your charges."

"Me?!?!" I was floored. "Me personally?" I was also damn near destitute because I'd just bought more property around my farm and was adding on to the house for my mum and dad. Stupid of me to have my funds all tied up, but that's the way it usually is for me - my money just flies out of my account. The pay packet for this film was going to give the old bank account a real nice plumping up, though.

"I'm afraid so," the manager said. I could tell he was uncomfortable. Hell, I was uncomfortable - I was furious, for one thing, and embarrassed for another.

"I need to call somebody and find out what's going on," I finally said. "I'd prefer to do it from my room, then come back down here."

"Er, you can't." Now he was looking really uncomfortable.

"And that would be because?" You know how when you get to a stage of anger everything kind of fades and your own body seems to belong to someone else? That was how I felt right then.

"Because your room isn't your room any more."

"Mate," I said to him, leanin' forward and resting my hands on his desk, "you'd better be takin' the piss out of me." I could see he hadn't a clue what I meant, so I clarified it for him. "You'd best be kidding me."

"Um, no, I'm not. We had the housekeeping staff pack your things - they're in our locked store room, quite safe. Until you can pay the outstanding charges, I'm afraid we can't let you have a room."

I leaned back in my chair, absorbin' all this. Finally I asked if I could use their phone to call a couple of people to get this straightened out. "Local calls," I said when they looked at me funny. They filed out and left me alone. They left the folder of papers on the desk so I looked - hell, it was my file, right? - the total amount of the bills they were talkin' about was unreal. I almost fell off the chair. It was for four weeks of room charges, room service, laundry, etc. I had to laugh - in the old days in Sydney it was more than I'd made in a year of waitin' tables, buskin' on the streets, etc. I got out my day planner and picked up the phone.

Naturally, nobody was in since it was almost nine in the evening by then. I got hold of Curtis' answering machine at his house and left him a long message, tryin' not to sound too angry, then I left a voice mail for my American agent, and, just for the hell of it, I called my agent in Sydney. It was morning there, and she about fainted when she heard my voice, and when I told her what was goin' on, she was really upset. She said she'd see what she could do, but I didn't hold out a lot of hope. I sat there for a few minutes, with everything just closin' in on me, and wondered if my return ticket to Sydney was still good, or if they'd managed to rescind that, too.

That was when it hit me. Okay, I'm a slow study. I remembered Curtis bein' upset about somebody's reaction to him casting me as White in the first place. Somebody in production at the studio hadn't wanted an Aussie, first off, and hadn't wanted me in particular because they didn't think I was physically suited to the role. Hell, if they'd only seen "The Sum of Us" or "Proof", and thought that was how I still looked, they were right. However, all they had to do was walk their lazy ass down to the set to see me and they'd have known. Man, they wanted me gone and they were goin' to drive me to go, then claim I was uncooperative or some such rubbish and there went any good roles down the toilet.

I got up and paced around, smokin' like a fiend, until the manager stuck his head back in the door. "Any luck?" The guy was real polite, I'll give him that, and real embarrassed as well. I didn't go off on him, but I was ready to do something crazy - scream, cry, throw stuff, punch the wall - any or all at the same time.

"No, mate," I said. I picked up my day planner and walked out of the office. "Look," I asked him, "can I get some of my stuff out of your storage room? I need some of my clothes if I find someplace to bunk tonight."

"Sure," he said - and he could have told me no fuckin' way - so I got my duffle, which they had packed - rearranged it so I had underwear, socks, a clean shirt and my jeans - and walked outside. I had no bloody idea where I was goin' to sleep. I was hungry, tired, upset and mortified. I walked about three blocks, turned around and walked back to see if any of my calls might have gotten a response. Nothing. I turned to walk out of the lobby again and there was Jamie Cromwell just comin' in and the studio car waiting at the curb.

I sprinted out and talked to the driver, who agreed to take me back to the studio. I had a trailer there with a bed in it, I would just bloody well sleep there. He even drove through a fast food place on the way and lent me five bucks for some food once he heard my tale of woe. So that was how I came to spend the night on the set, in my little trailer, eatin' fast food and tryin' to sleep, worried about what the hell was goin' on. About midnight, one of the security blokes came and got me to take a phone call. Seems the driver had told his boss, who had told someone else, and somebody who was drivin' Curtis, Kim and her husband, and somebody else to some big do had told Curtis and that's who was on the phone.

I almost broke down when I heard his voice. I told him what had happened and that I was spendin' the night in my trailer. He promised to straighten it all out and I felt a lot better when we hung up. I was at least able to sleep a bit, but I was so wrought up that I couldn't keep my food down, so it was a pretty unpleasant night, all things considered. I don't think I ever felt so alone as I did that night in my trailer, in the middle of Make Believe Land, sick and tired and confused. Even havin' a sheila to fuss over me then wouldn't have helped, which is just as well, cause I didn't have a woman in my life at that point, either. Man, I was a miserable bastard that night.

I was sittin' in the trailer, tryin' to learn my lines for the day - if they were even the right fuckin' lines - when Curtis came knockin' on the door in the morning. "Man," he said, comin' inside. "It looks like a disaster area in here."

It did - there were empty ciggies packs, full ashtrays, some empty soda bottles, my clothes from the night before strewn all over the place, and just a general mess. In other words, it looked like my normal habitat, but he had no way of knowing what a slob I am. Anyway, he promised to get to the bottom of what was happening, and dragged me out of my cave to get some food at the craft tables, which were already set up and goin' with coffee and breakfast. He made sure I had food, then took off, I guess to find out what was going on. I ate, made sure it was gonna stay down by doin' some slow breathing and meditation - hell, who am I kidding? I ate, closed my eyes and prayed, "God, don't let me chunder my guts up again," and He didn't.

Guy Pearce came up just then and poked me on the shoulder, "Prayin' for divine guidance?" he asked, not knowing what was goin' on. I opened my eyes and groaned, "You don't know the half of it." I told him about it. He couldn't believe it at first. "They reversed your hotel charges? You spent the night here?" Of course he was comfortably set up in the same hotel with his wife, so he'd been in hog heaven the night before.

"Yeah, I bloody well did, and it looks like I might be doin' that for the foreseeable future, or until they straighten this out." I got out of my chair, stretched my weary self, and trudged over to Make-up to get done up for the day. The lady took one look at me and, I'll give her credit, she didn't exactly scream in dismay, but she gulped once or twice. "Just trowel on a lot of pancake, dear," I told her. She did.

When I got to the set, hopin' I had the right costume, make-up and pages, Curtis wasn't back yet, so I went to my trailer and gathered up some of my trash from the night before. One of the PA's came to fetch me, so I went back out to the set and there was Curtis, looking like Zeus about to cast a major thunderbolt or two. "Oh, shit," I muttered to myself. "This doesn't look good."

He came over and drew me to one side. "Okay, I've talked to half a dozen people about this. The best I can come up with is, somebody doesn't want you in this part, and the order went down from him to cut off your money, do the dirty trick with the hotel, and so forth. I've left a call for him, but he's not in yet. Until then, Russell, I don't want you spending another night in that damned trailer, so I'm taking you to the hotel tonight, and I'm going to arrange to pay your charges there myself until I get this mess straightened out."

I was floored - second time in 24 hours, and I don't floor easily. Well, if a sheila wants me on the floor, I've been known to oblige her, but all kidding aside, I was just struck dumb by his generosity. He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder - which was nice because I couldn't have said a word right then if my life had depended on it - and walked off to get started. I mean - the bloke had his own agenda, y'know? And it was a pretty full plate for him, but he had spent lot of effort on my behalf, and was gonna take on my expenses out of his own pocket - it just blew me away.

I had to be alone for about half an hour - I was too wrought up to be any good to anybody right then - which was luckily not a problem since they didn't want me for another hour or so anyhow. By the time I got myself under control, I was ready to go to work. I just wanted to roll over and do whatever Curtis said - the bloke walked on water, as far as I was concerned.

True to his word, he gave me a lift to the hotel in his car when we wrapped for the day, and he had already had his assistant call them and make arrangements about my charges. "I don't want anyone questioning Mr. Crowe about his bill again, understood?" he said to the manager. It was understood - they had my things taken up to the room, brought me my dinner hot and on time, and were generally apologetic and kind. Curtis - well, he was a prince. After I'd thanked him about ten times, he told me to eat, rest and he'd see me in the morning.

At least I slept halfway decently that night. When I got to the studio the next day, he came in and told me about this bastard in the higher ups who didn't want me in the role of Bud White was gonna meet with him at noon. "I am going to straighten this out, Russ, I don't want you to worry about it any more, okay?" He wouldn't tell me who the person was, though. Probably a good thing, knowin' my temper.

I don't know exactly what Curtis had to promise, or what strings he pulled, or whose arms he twisted, I just know I didn't have any more problems about my hotel bill. I do know he paid for a lot of stuff for me out of his own funds, and he couldn't have been nicer or more matter-of-fact about it. If the bloke had asked me to walk across the Hollywood Freeway at high noon, naked, I would have done it. I mean - he deserved that kind of response from me after bein' such a gentleman.

I did my damnedest for him. I think my work in that film is pretty fuckin' good - not the best in it - Kevin and Kim just blew me away - but I made a huge effort to be cooperative with Curtis and Jim Ellroy - and I'm really proud of how Bud White turned out.

After the film wrapped, I found out who it was at the studio who caused the whole mess. I even went to see the bloke, or tried to, but was informed by his tight-assed harpy of a secretary that he wasn't in for me and wasn't ever going to be available to me. I wrote him a note, "You owe me an apology for this," but the bastard never has even said a word by way of excusing himself. Until he does, I have nothing good to say about the man.

Curtis, however, I would work for in a heart beat. If he wanted me to play a midget rolling over Niagara Falls in a barrel, I would do it, no questions asked. It's such a pleasure to know a man with integrity, especially in a business like the one I'm fool enough to be in, where integrity is a foreign word.

I went home when we wrapped, then got tapped to play Jeffrey Wigand, in The Insider, and through that, got the part in Gladiator. The rest, as they say, is history.

I'm about out of tape here, and Lynnie is yellin' at me to get my lazy ass in gear because we're goin' to ride out and have lunch by the stream with Kitty, so I'll end it by sayin' I'm a lucky bastard to have everything I have now, but if it hadn't been for blokes like Curtis Hanson, none of it would have happened.

Now, I'm gonna go eat a nice lunch with my beautiful wife and my gorgeous little sheila, and think about how lucky I am. Have a nice day.