Be Careful What You Wish For
From the age of five when his parents took him to see Andrew Lloyd Webber's classic musical Cats on Broadway, Matt Denning dreamed of becoming an actor. While most of his childhood friends idolized either athletes or rock stars, Matt's heroes were Al Pacino, Jack Nicholson, Dustin Hoffman and Robert DeNiro. One of his favorite pastimes as a child was impersonating his favorite stage, motion picture and television actors in front of his bedroom mirror, acting out their most famous lead roles with imaginary supporting actors.
While still in elementary school, young Matt auditioned for and won leading parts in several school plays, and when he entered high school, he joined the drama club.
By their junior year, most of Matt's classmates had already applied to colleges and decided upon their future careers. Not surprisingly, no one tried to discourage Richard Rubinstein from going to Duke University and becoming a doctor, nor did they try to dissuade Susan Weaver from her goal of attending Harvard in pursuit of a law degree or Jimmy Chung from applying to M.I.T. to study robotics. Yet when Matt announced that he was going to New York to take acting lessons, everyone, from his parents and friends to his teachers and guidance counselors, attempted to talk him out of it.
"Why?" he demanded to know. "What's wrong with becoming an actor?"
"Because your chances of supporting yourself by acting are almost nil," his father replied. "Countless men and women follow that dream to poverty and heartache."
"So you're suggesting I give up my dreams because I might fail?"
"No. You needn't give them up completely; just aim a little lower. Why not go to college and study filmmaking or set design? Or become a special effects technician?"
"Don't you think those people face some pretty stiff competition, too?"
"Probably. But I'm sure they don't face nearly as much as those in front of the camera."
"But I don't want to spend my life editing film or sitting behind a computer for hours trying to resurrect the dinosaurs. I want to be a stage actor and perform in front of a live audience."
Despite everyone's objections and well-meant advice, Matt was determined to pursue his dream. Two weeks after graduating high school, he left Ipswich, Massachusetts, and headed south on Interstate 95 toward New York.
* * *
The first few years he spent in the city Matt worked a number of full- and part-time jobs to make ends meet. He waited tables, cleaned office buildings, parked cars, bagged groceries and drove delivery trucks. Despite his hectic work schedule, he managed to make time to attend his acting classes as well as to go on dozens of auditions. Yet despite his good looks and natural talent, Matt had been turned down for every role.
"I just don't get it," he complained to his agent. "All I hear from them is that I'm too old, too young, too thin, too tall, too cute—whatever that means—too wholesome looking or too straight looking. It's like no one pays attention to my acting ability, just my appearance."
"Welcome to show business," his agent laughed. "It's an industry built on make-believe and illusion. Image is everything. There are probably thousands of actors with the talent to play any given role. The trick to casting is in choosing an actor with the right image for the part."
Eventually, Matt's persistence paid off, and he landed a small role in a musical starring Blaise Sherwood, a popular Hollywood star who wanted to prove to the world that she was more than a pretty face by appearing in the "legitimate" theater. Blaise, who was fast approaching forty and currently between husbands, eyed the handsome young actor with interest, and during the long weeks of rehearsal, Matt and Blaise saw a good deal of each other both on and off the stage.
The play opened to rave reviews, and Matt savored the modest success it brought him. Even more, he enjoyed the lifestyle Blaise introduced him to: the fashionable penthouse apartment, the designer clothes, the expensive restaurants and, most of all, the recognition of the public. Everywhere Blaise went she was surrounded by adoring fans, reporters and photographers.
"Sometimes these people can be so annoying," she confided to Matt one night as the two of them slowly waded through a group of star-struck fans seeking her autograph outside the theater door. "But then other times it feels so damned good to know how much they all love you. It's the world's greatest boost to an ailing ego."
Thirteen weeks after the play opened, Blaise Sherwood announced that she was leaving the show and returning to Hollywood.
"What about us?" Matt asked, foolishly believing the actress had real feelings for him.
"Come on, honey. Try to understand my predicament. I'm a movie star, not a stage actress. I don't want to remain in New York forever playing the same part day in and day out."
"I could go back to Hollywood with you," he suggested hopefully.
Blaise looked closely at him, examining his dark hair, blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. Then she let her eyes travel down past his broad shoulders and well-defined chest to his amazing abs and narrow, muscular waist. He was quite a catch, even by Hollywood standards, where gorgeous men and women seemed to grow on trees like oranges.
"You know, you just might like it on the West Coast," she said with a smile and placed her hands on his bare chest.
Several weeks after Blaise returned to Hollywood, she agreed to star in a romantic comedy that was to be shot on location in Seattle. Matt wanted to accompany her to Washington, but Blaise had set up several meetings for him with talented but virtually unknown producers.
"If nothing comes of these meetings, I'll fly up to Seattle and spend some time with you," he said.
Blaise, however, had already set her eye on her new co-star and didn't want Matt getting in the way of her pursuit of him.
"As much as I'm going to miss you, darling, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be around the set."
"Why not?" he asked, his feelings hurt by her rejection.
"Working in front of a camera requires a great deal of concentration, and you, my darling boy," she said, smiling seductively to soften the blow, "are too great a distraction."
"Okay. I guess I'll survive here without you until your movie is done. And if your friends have nothing for me, I'll start making the rounds of the casting offices."
Whether it was Blaise's influence or his own abilities that got him the starring role in a low-budget horror film, Matt wasn't sure—and, quite frankly, he didn't care. A part was a part, and it didn't matter to him how he got it.
* * *
"Have you ever seen Romeo and Juliet?" the director asked his leading man the day rehearsals began. "I'm talking about the 1996 version with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes in the starring roles."
"Yeah, I saw it," Matt replied.
"That's what we're going for with this movie. It's called The Deal, and it's a modern retelling of Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus. In our version, you play a struggling rock singer who sells his soul to the devil."
"Sounds like fun. There's just one problem: I can't sing or play a musical instrument."
"Neither can most rock stars. Don't worry, we've got a great score and some very loud musicians to drown you out. Besides, the girls will be so busy swooning over you, they won't notice if you can sing or act."
Many thespians would no doubt be offended by so quick a dismissal of their talent and by being treated like the proverbial piece of meat; Matt Denning was not one of them, however—at least not at this stage in his life. To him, integrity was something that came with an established career, a long list of credits and a few million in the bank; but a hungry young actor could not be too thin-skinned where his first film was concerned.
While preparing for his role, Matt decided to let his hair grow, so that by the time shooting began, he would look more like a rock and roll star. He spent weeks learning his lines and rehearsing the songs. Much to everyone's surprise, his singing didn't sound too bad.
"You're no Mick Jagger or Paul McCartney," the director said with a laugh, "but you can play a believable rock star."
"Thank you," Matt said.
The associate producer had arranged for a group of local high school students to appear as extras in the movie. Predictably, the young girls blushed, giggled and cast longing stares at Matt whenever he was on the set.
"Just think: you can have your pick of any one of those young beauties," the director said, nodding toward the teenagers.
"You've got to be joking, right? They're just kids."
"Oh? And how old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
Matt nodded and smiled. It had only been six years since he himself was a high school student. How much he had changed in that short period! Back then, he had wanted to be a stage actor, but since he relocated to the West Coast, his dreams and aspirations changed. Now he wanted to be a movie star, to live in sunny Los Angeles, to have reporters and photographers waiting outside his home, to have fans clamoring for his autograph, to drive a sports car and to date beautiful, successful women such as Blaise Sherwood. Matt had once longed to be Laurence Olivier, but now he sought to follow in the footsteps of Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and Tom Cruise.
* * *
One evening after shooting on the film was completed for the day, Matt was driving back to Blaise's Malibu beach house when he decided to stop off at a small bar along the way. He was still feeling the exhilaration of a good day on the set and didn't want to return to an empty house. Upon entering, he walked up to the bar, ordered a drink and started talking to the man next to him.
"I'll bet you're an actor," the man said after they exchanged the usual small talk.
"How could you tell?" Matt asked.
"You look like an actor."
Matt laughed at the man's response.
"And just what does an actor look like?"
"Like a man who drives a Ferrari, has a bevy of beautiful blondes at his disposal and lives in a mansion in Brentwood," the man joked.
"Well, I'm not quite there yet."
The man became more serious.
"What have you appeared in? Maybe I've seen you."
"Actually, I just got here from New York, and I'm in the process of making my first film."
"Starring role?"
"Yup," Matt said proudly.
"I thought so. I'll bet in another two or three years, you'll be as popular with moviegoers as Matt Damon and Ben Affleck."
"That would be great," Matt said wistfully, "but the movie I'm making is no Good Will Hunting. It's just a low-budget horror film."
"Hey, what's wrong with that? Low-budget movies sometimes make it big. Take Star Wars, for instance. I'll bet Harrison Ford never dreamed his role as Han Solo would catapult him to international stardom."
"That's what I'd like: to have this movie make me the next Harrison Ford."
"What's the movie about? Not another one of those slasher films, I hope."
"No. It's a modern retelling of Doctor Faustus in which I play a rock singer who sells his soul to the devil to become famous."
"It sounds like you might have a hit on your hands, after all. The retelling of a Christopher Marlowe drama is not exactly in the same category as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Killer Klowns from Outer Space."
"You're familiar with Marlowe?"
"Only with the Doctor Faustus play, I'm afraid. It's both a brilliant work and an excellent topic of conversation."
Matt assumed the man was joking.
"I've never been with a group of people that sat around talking about Marlowe's play."
"No, not the play itself, but rather the idea of selling one's soul to the devil. The next time you're at a party, ask your companions if they would be willing to sell their souls to achieve their dreams. You'd be surprised at the answers you'll get."
"I can't speak for anyone else," Matt said, "but I'd be willing to sell mine."
"Really? For what?"
"To be a star like Johnny Depp or Robert Redford."
"But I'd say you're only in your early twenties. You'd be losing several years of your life if you were suddenly Johnny Depp, more if you were Robert Redford."
"Okay, so I'd want to be as successful as they are, but still be young."
"See. If you were to make a deal with the devil, you'd have to be very specific in detailing exactly what you'd expect to gain out of the bargain. Try again."
"I'd want to be a successful actor, young, handsome and popular with women."
"You'd want fame, naturally."
"Of course," Matt agreed jokingly. "I'd want everyone to know and remember my name."
The stranger chuckled heartily and ordered another round of drinks for Matt and himself.
"Then let's drink and seal the bargain," he said, raising his glass in the air.
Matt, who was caught up in the man's good humor and the effects of the alcohol, laughed and clinked his shot glass against his companion's.
"You've got yourself a deal."
* * *
Matt arrived on the set the following day, suffering from a dreadful hangover. He took one look at the huge amplifiers and bright klieg lights and downed two more extra-strength Excedrin. Why couldn't they be shooting a nice, quiet, romantic love scene and not one of his band performing at a live concert?
"Places everyone!" the director's assistant yelled.
Matt walked up on stage and stood in front of the lead singer's microphone, shielding his eyes from the blinding lights.
"Are you okay, Matt?" the director asked.
"Yeah, just a slight hangover. I don't suppose we could lose the amplifiers today and keep the lights down."
"You're supposed to be the frontman of a heavy metal band, not a string quartet."
The musicians began playing and despite his throbbing head, Matt managed to get through the lyrics of the song.
"Cut!" the director called, signaling the end of the take.
The music suddenly died and the lights dimmed. Matt, his eyes trying to adjust to the drastic change in lighting, took a few steps forward and fell off the stage.
"Somebody, call a doctor," the director cried, as a crowd of concerned costars, technicians and extras gathered around the unconscious actor.
When Matt came to, his eyes were still trying to adjust to the dim light. His headache was finally gone, but there was a sharp pain in his leg.
I must have broken it when I fell off the stage, he thought.
He tried to stand, but the pain was too great and he let out an agonized scream.
"Be quiet, John!" someone urgently whispered. "The cavalry's right outside."
Matt's eyes tried to focus on the man standing next to him.
"Who are you?"
"What do you mean, who am I? Are you feeling all right, John?"
"My name isn't ...."
A shout from outside interrupted him.
"Give yourselves up and come out, or we'll set the barn on fire and force you out."
Matt looked around in panic. What was he doing in a barn? Who was the man next to him?
"What the hell's going on?" he asked.
But Matt's companion was headed for the barn door with his hands raised above his head.
"I'm innocent," the stranger called. "I swear it. I didn't shoot anyone."
Matt stayed where he was, afraid to move. Suddenly, the straw at the back of the barn was engulfed in flames. He couldn't remain inside; he would surely burn to death. Terrified, he hobbled painfully toward the door. Outside, in the darkness, he could make out several men dressed in Civil War-era uniforms.
"Hey, guys, I think I wandered onto the wrong set," he called.
A shot rang out, and Matt fell to the ground in excruciating pain. Rough hands picked him up, and he was carried to the porch of a nearby farmhouse where a man in the uniform of the Sixteenth New York Cavalry appeared above him.
"Hello again, Matt."
The voice sounded familiar. Matt took a good look at the soldier's face. It was the man he'd met in the bar the previous night, the one who claimed to be familiar with Christopher Marlowe's play.
"What are you doing here?" Matt asked. "Are you an extra on this picture?"
"This is no movie set. You're not in Hollywood; you're in Bowling Green, Virginia. Remember our little bargain? I've come to collect."
"No," Matt moaned as his tenuous hold on consciousness was slipping away. "You cheated. I didn't get what I bargained for."
"Untrue," the devil insisted. "You said, and I quote, 'I'd want to be a successful actor, young, handsome and popular with women.' I said, 'You'd want fame, naturally.' And you replied, 'Of course. I'd want everyone to know and remember my name.' You got exactly what you asked for."
"No, no. You tricked me," Matt argued weakly as he felt his life drawing to an end, "I would never have sold my soul to become John Wilkes Booth."
Salem, when you wished you were a white cat, you forgot to include your tail.
