Easy Street (the Hard Way): A Memoir (40 page)

Of course, we ultimately cobbled out a deal, and a few months later, we were all off to Prague, with me getting ready to make the transition to become Hellboy. The great Rick Baker of
Beauty and the Beast
and countless other incredible masterworks was brought on board to create to the best of his ability the elements it would take to transform Ron Perlman’s physicality into Mike Mignola’s creation. And speaking of Mike, you can bet that before I left for Prague I dug out those comic books Guillermo had given me years before and immersed myself into the visual and poetic world Mike had given way to, finally understanding Guillermo’s fascination with it.

As described in the title of Mignola’s kickoff introduction to the Hellboy Saga, our hero is summoned to Earth in an epic occult ceremony conducted by the Hitler Regime as the ultimate seed of destruction, with an irrevocable destiny of being the instrument that eventually leads to the end of the world. And, as in the oracle of Greek tragedy, this destiny of his is nonnegotiable. So there is the element of certainty that this Hellspawn will deliver this result—that is, until he is found at the moment of his birth by the benevolent Professor Broome and lovingly raised and nurtured to develop pure goodness with which to utilize his formidable skills and abilities. So now you have a character at odds with himself, and the fascination of watching him is witnessing the struggle playing out as to which of these conflicting proclivities will win out at the end of the day, when the big shit hits the fan.

The road to Prague, though scintillatingly magical and majestic as this insane miracle Guillermo spent seven years in pulling off, was not without its hiccups and speed bumps, many of which exemplified the similarities between me and the distinctly underachieving ways of this most unique of superheroes—underachieving-ness being the quality that charmed me the most.

The first such example came when it was pointed out to me that, although we were still eight or nine months from the start of filming, Rick Baker needed all of that lead time to create the customized pieces that would become the defining physicality of our hero, and that would include his superhuman, muscle-ridden, ripped-to-the-tits torso. I realize that I run the risk of ruining the illusion for all you
Hellboy
fans who were absolutely convinced that those were my actual biceps and eight-packs, but trust me, even a god-like specimen like myself needs a touch of enhancing. So I needed to report to Rick’s shop for a series of body castings so as to begin the process of building the pieces. The problem was that, like every other time I find myself “between engagements,” I was fifty-five pounds overweight—and happy as a clam!

Well, obviously that first trip to Rick’s and all those castings proved to be a colossal waste of time and money, ’cuz no matter how many muscles Rick’s design included, they were essentially gonna be applied onto an extremely obese muthafucka. So I got my first call from Guillermo: “Excuse me, Roncito, but Rick can’t use any of the stuff from that last session. In fact, Rick is not going to be able to use anything until you are a great deal smaller. How long do you need?”

I said, “Give me a month, and we’ll do it again.” He agreed.

I go in a month later, and I’ve lost a whopping four pounds. So while they are applying all the plaster of Paris to create the body cast, I am holding my breath and sucking in my stomach to the point of cramping. But, indeed, nothing I did could make up for the bitch tits that were prominently displayed where there should have been pectoralis majors—
minors
even. Needless to say, the next day the phone rang again: “Ronaldo, you’re fucking killing me here. I give you the month, and you lose FOUR FUCKING POUNDS?” We clearly were about to have our first fight.

I said, “What is this bullshit about having to be ready nine fucking months before the fucking camera rolls? When the time comes to play Hellboy, I’ll be fucking ready. That’s the way it’s always been, and, Godammit, that’s the way it is now! Godammit!”

“Yes, but Ronaldo, excuse me, but—do you mind if I call you fat boy?—you do realize Rick is trying to turn you into a god, but he needs time.”

To which I ran out of defensive answers and said, “If you insist on hitting me with logic, we’re not gonna get anywhere. Godammit! Gimme another month.”

At this point I just flat-out stopped eating. My breath smelled like the Russian Army at the battle of Stalingrad, but I did manage to lose about 20 pounds, just enough so they could see the effort and feel sorry for me enough to stop bombarding me with what a piece of shit I was. When the cameras finally did roll I was 205 pounds, a full 55 pounds lighter than I was when the process started. But poor Guillermo did get a front-row seat to what degenerative behavior looks like close up. But, gentleman that he is, he only reminds me of that little incident every time I see him. The little devil.

Once in Prague, and as filming was about to get under way, the atmosphere was stupendous. Guillermo had assembled a dream team of artists to surround, support, and utilize in bringing his formidable imagery to life, with a cast that remain among my favorite, both professionally and personally, to this day—Selma Blair, John Hurt, Doug Jones, Jeffrey Tambor, Rupert Evans, Biddy Hodson, Karel Roden, Brian Steele, to name a few. And although the big man poured everything he had into the making of this movie and demanding no less from the rest of us, looking back, I feel that we never really got out of the honeymoon period. That set was as joyous, bright, warm, and fun as any ever and always, and the spirit Guillermo exerted in sticking to his guns to make the movie
he
saw fit to make characterized the entire proceeding in its magical realism.

Hellboy
opened to great reviews, with a staggering 93 percent positive, most of which were downright raves. To no one’s surprise, Guillermo had made a kick-ass tent-pole action flick, but he fused it with art-house sensitivity, integrity, and intimacy. All the people who mattered to me took notice. The box office was strong; we were number one on opening weekend and hung around the top ten for a few
weeks. Internationally we were even stronger, with DVD and VOD through the roof—all in all something to be quite proud of. And although the numbers are incredibly important in terms of measures of success, what I take with me everywhere and for always are the opinions and comments of all those for whom I have deep admiration. On that level
Hellboy
was a blockbuster of uncommon proportion, one that trafficked more in human values than on technological achievements. Because at the end of the day the thing that truly separates my friend Guillermo del Toro from the pack is his heart and what comes seeping out of it as it relates to his view of humanity. There are no numbers to measure that!

There was a validation following
Hellboy I
that was palpable. One could sense I was, although not quite there yet, ever closer to a seat at the grown-up table. It certainly felt like a personal triumph, what with all the elements of the stuff that dreams are made of converging to make it possible. I sure was proud of that movie. And to this day I find that the people who dug it,
really
dug it.

The prospects for a
Hellboy II
were not automatic, not slam-dunk status. For although the first one did just fine at the end of the day, the box office didn’t dictate that a sequel was mandated, as they sometimes are with these comic book titles that break box office records. But we had our fair share of angels lurking about that would turn uncertainty into downright enthusiasm. One such angel came with the name Scott Bernstein, an executive who had been in charge of the
Hellboy I
production while he was at Revolution Studios and had moved to a high-level executive gig at Universal, the original scene of the crime, bringing with him a deep and abiding enthusiasm for the title and for Guillermo’s prospect of making cinematic history with it. So the discussion gathered steam.

Meanwhile, Guillermo
was
off making
real
cinematic history: when he left Spain two years hence, he carried with him his unabashed masterpiece,
Pan’s Labyrinth
, which not only I but also 135 of the top movie critics around the world called the greatest movie of 2006 and among the greatest of all time. It definitely goes in
my
top hundred!
Talk about a game-changer! This was one of those movies—Spielberg has a couple, as does Scorsese, Coppola, Capra, Kurisawa, Ford, Sturgess, Hawkes, Wilder and Wyler, Stevens, Chaplin, and Hitchcock—whereby if it had been the
only
movie they ever made, they would still go down in history as the greatest the art form had ever known. Guillermo returned from Spain a little like Charlton Heston does in
The Ten Commandments
: hair a little whiter, wisdom a million miles bigger. You could see it on him. He had done something earth-shattering, and it was singular, original, and gorgeous. Imagine what the guy who starred in his
next
movie would look like.

Well, as fate would have it, that next guy was me, ’cuz his next movie was
Hellboy II: The Golden Army.
Yes, between the backstairs maneuverings of Scott Bernstein and Larry Gordon, this little miracle took wing, this time for Universal, the studio that had owned the franchise in the first place but just couldn’t see their way clear to make it sans movie star.

Although it is always exciting when a real movie comes together, when it is a Guillermo del Toro movie one is making because of popular demand, the excitement is heightened. There was nothing that could top the unimaginable fact of
Hellboy I
. By the second film we were old hands who would lovingly reassemble and once again endeavor to make magic that would cause lasting and memorable cinematic moments for our faithful and stalwart hero. But the newness of the proceedings was replaced by something else. All the same, there are
some
things that
never
change.

Like the call I got the minute the film was green-lit saying that Rick Baker would not be returning to create the makeup but that the amazing Mike Elizalde would take the reins, even including some touches and refinements of his own. An appointment was scheduled for my body cast for the top of the following week. The phone call I got from my dear friend Guillermo following that first body cast this time did not start out with the name “Roncito.” Oh no! Roncito was replaced by something like, “You fat tub of shit . . .” Yup; it was nine months
before principal photography was to commence, and I was the exact weight I was when
Hellboy I
started. Ya’d think these muthafuckas would learn! Anyway, if ya wanna hear the rest of the story, just turn back a few pages to the
HB I
version and add a lot more cursing.

Suffice it to say, the extended honeymoon that characterized the entire experience of the
HB I
shoot evolved into something much different for the sequel. There was, for my part at least and maybe even Guillermo’s, a manic drive to top ourselves, to prove to the world that this fragile second chance of ours was not undeserved. There wasn’t as much joy on the set. Don’t get me wrong: after Disneyland, a Guillermo del Toro set is the happiest place on earth, so the setting was not devoid of lots and lots of laughter, wonder, and discovery. But there was a grind to it that took a toll on us and, in fact, on everyone concerned. During the seven-month shoot, with six-day weeks and no time to ever charge the battery, Guillermo, the entire crew, and I came away bowed, maybe even a little bit broken. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed, but there was a definite price paid. For my money, we
did
surpass the first movie—I mean, not by much, because the first movie was really good. But I gotta give the edge to
Hellboy II
.

The net result was almost identical: reviews that were love letters, big love from the filmmaking community at large, but a box office that, though profitable, was made slightly anemic, mostly because of a set of decisions by some people at the top, most of whom are no longer there, that worked to our detriment, such as the decision to open the movie one week before
Dark Knight
, the second Batman movie and the final Heath Ledger performance. This was a decision that, though we opened with killer numbers, far and away finishing a resounding first, led to being obliterated a week later. All this is what makes the prospects for a third and final film such a heavy lift. Gone is the unabashed passion of any studio to relive these circumstances. In fact, the one thing that keeps the conversation alive, at least in my mind, is the fact that we owe it to the fans to complete this trilogy, to fulfill the promise that was made in the first film and set the stage for
at the end of the second. Maybe there weren’t as many fans as those who showed up for
Iron Man
or
Thor
, but show up they did, and with at least as identical a passion. They are invested, these fans of ours. They are owed. And so I fight. Stay tuned!

(CHAPTER 23)

Mudville

By the time you read this,
Hand of God
, a pilot I made for Amazon, will have already aired. The original movement to bring this project to reality began with four players: Ben Watkins, who wrote this as a spec script out of true passion for the subject matter; Marc Forster, the incomparable filmmaker of uncommon brilliance who, prior to this, had never done television before; Brian Wilkins, my brilliant manager, who masterminded the search for the perfect vehicle to follow
Sons of Anarchy
, and myself. We came together out of a mutual devotion to Ben’s brave and original screenwriting but also out of a mutual respect for one another. In the process of finding a buyer for this project our regard for one another grew precipitously, to the point at which we were actually finishing each other’s sentences. We loved each other’s combinations of determination and humility and how quickly each of us was to pay close attention to the others’ opinions and ideas. It was, in very short order, a thing of beauty.