Robin Chapman Too: I'll Have Some Hammer With My Fill-up Please: A Letter From Hollywood by Steve Latshaw

Guest Post from Hollywood
by Steve Latshaw

Fred "the Hammer" Williamson, in a recent photo.

Robin writes: Steve Latshaw has been working in the film business since I knew him at WESH-TV in Orlando. It didn't take him long to see that his fortunes could be found out Hollywood way, and off he zoomed to California, where he, in very short order, became a successful screenwriter. One of the interesting things about living where he does, surrounded by the stuff that dreams are made of, is that you see the most interesting people, even when you're just runnin' around ... )

Only in Hollywood
by
Steve Latshaw

I had a weird celebrity sighting the other day. This happens a lot in Hollywood, particularly in Toluca Lake, which is my part of the woods.

I live near Warner Brothers Studios, the Original Bob’s Big Boy (the one the Beatles visited in 1965) and the Lakeside Country Club, a golf course where Hollywood types like Bob Hope, Forrest Tucker, Mickey Rooney and famed Los Angeles KMPC-AM disc jockey Dick Whittinghill used to hang. It’s all very old Hollywood, even though it is technically on the Valley side of the hill, in Burbank ( mostly) and even though they call it Toluca Lake. The lake in Toluca is actually also the lake in Lakeside Country Club. In the old W.C. Fields short The Dentist (1932), you can see Fields, in a fit of rage, toss his caddy right into it.

W.C. Fields having a quiet chat with his caddy in The Dentist, on the shores of lovely Toluca Lake.

So, I was filling up the gas tank at my neighborhood Chevron in Toluca Lake... ooh ... here’s another place to digress. In the Jerry Lewis movie The Errand Boy (1961) you can see Jerry himself, in a convertible, on Riverside, drive character actress Kathleen Freeman right in front of that Chevron, before turning into the Lakeside Car Wash, wherein much comedy ensues. The car wash still looks the same. The Chevron does not: in 1961 it looked like it would fit on the set of Mayberry RFD. Had a fruit stand in front. Today it’s all steel and glass and convenience store with ultra modern pumps and giant iced buckets of Red Bull energy drink.

So anyway, here we are, some forty-eight years after Jerry and Kathleen drive past that Chevron on Riverside and I’m there, pumping the fuel into my trusty Toyota Tundra pickup. And who should be fueling at the pump next to me? Why, Fred “The Hammer” Williamson, it was.

Fred "the Hammer" Williamson in the eponymous movie Hammer.

This man is one of the greatest and longest-running action heroes in movie history. Starting as a football player; then a football player in the 1970 movie M.A.S.H. (he also directed the football sequences); then star of lots of TV shows including "Julia" (1969-71) where he played Diahann Carroll’s boyfriend. Shortly thereafter, he became an international action star in such classic Blaxploitation films as Hammer (1972), Black Caesar (1973), That Man Bolt (1973), Hell Up In Harlem (1973), Three The Hard Way (1974), and all-star epics like Take A Hard Ride (1975) and the Italian World War II classic, Inglorious Bastards (1978)--Quentin Tarantino’s remake of that one is about to hit theaters.

The big guy in Robert Altman's M.A.S.H.

Fred Williamson continues to ride at the top of the star list and today, is the closest thing to John Wayne we have in movies. More recent viewers may remember his recent turns in From Dusk Till Dawn (1996) (as the cigar-chomping Vietnam vet turned vampire) and the 2004 film version of Starsky & Hutch. By the way, he got that “Hammer” nickname because he came down on his opponents like one.

Promo photo From Dusk Till Dawn.

So there he is next to me, filling up his red Hummer. For a moment, I think about calling him Fred “The Hummer” Williamson but sense that he might just kick my ass for that crack. But then I remember I still have a connection to this movie icon. Thanks to my pal and mentor, director Fred Olen Ray, I once had the opportunity to write a couple of Fred Williamson movies. One was called Submerged (2000), and involved the intentional crash-landing of a private plane in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The movie was filled with intrigue and spies and (as you can imagine) lots of water. Fred played the driving U.S. Navy Commander who leads the effort to rescue the downed plane.

The other movie was a pure action-fest--a shoot-‘em-up filled with every war movie cliché I could think of. It was called Active Stealth (1999) and starred Fred as an Army Ranger Colonel opposite Daniel Baldwin.

Williamson with Daniel Baldwin in Active Stealth.

And so my mind wanders … back to 1999 and a day on the set of that film. I got to enjoy lunch with Mr. Fred Williamson and Mr. Fred Ray out at the old Van Nuys airport (it was doing military duty as an Army Ranger base). Fred Williamson has also been the director of many of his films—so it made for a memorable meal, just listening to The Two Freds top each other with stories about how they had “stolen shots” (getting film scenes without the proper permits) and pulled off amazing cinematic tricks for no money and in very little time.

Fred in his Blaxploitation period, a very successful one it was, too.

So back to the other day, and Fred Williamson and me buying gas at the Chevron. I paid for mine inside, then came out looking for him, feeling compelled to just say “Hi!” Unfortunately, he was back in his Hummer and gone before I had a chance. Oh, well.

So, not fifteen minutes later, I drove down the street to the Toluca Ralph's shopping center and went to Starbucks for coffee-to-go-with the cigars I was planning on smoking during the morning's road trip up the Coast.

Great minds think alike. I'll be darned if Fred "the Hammer" wasn't in Starbucks too, sitting down, relaxing with a coffee. An associate was with him, going over details on an upcoming film project.

I ordered my Venti-whatever-the-hell-you’ve-got-in-the-pot-for-under-$2.00, then hovered near Fred and his companion. I was waiting for a lull in their conversation so I could say something clever and cool.

So here comes the lull: Fred turns and sips his coffee, then sees me. He's got to be in his late sixties (editor’s note: he was born in 1938) but easily looks ten to fifteen years younger, in person.

An awkward silence ensues, so I speak.

STEVE: Mr. Williamson?

(This is how old school polite the guy is... he's in a tan suit, no tie—and I'm in road trip shorts and a black t-shirt. But HE stands right up, respectful to ME, if you can believe it, and shakes my hand).

FRED: Why, yes. What can I do for you?
(I go on.)

STEVE: My name is Steve Latshaw. A few years back I wrote a couple of your films.

FRED: Really? Which ones?

STEVE: Well, one of them was called Active Stealth.

He grinned at the recollection. Obviously he was fond of the film. He had a damned good part. Or maybe he was pretending to remember it. Nice of him, either way.

FRED: Yes... I remember. Good movie. I played an army officer. Captain Reynolds.

I pause for a minute, suddenly not remembering what the hell I was going to say. I’m taken aback by the guy’s graciousness. I’m still a punk movie geek from the Midwest corn fields. He doesn’t have to be nice to me, let alone stand up to hear me chatter. But he has. And he does. So I better say something.

So I went on to talk about how he, Fred Williamson, had taught me an important writing lesson earlier in my career. Back in April of 1999, the first day on the Active Stealth set, I had been introduced as the writer to Mr. Williamson by producer Andrew Stevens. Andrew, son of Stella (she’s in the original Nutty Professor (1963) with Jerry Lewis and Girls! Girls! Girls! (1962), with Elvis). Andrew himself is a former actor (The Bastard (1978)) and had now become a successful producer. On this picture, he was doing double duty as producer/actor, as a favor to the unit. And everyone liked to have him around because it was always a bet to see how fast Andrew could get through his lines. Nearly always in one take.

Anyway, we were standing outside the 20th Century stages, off Highway 170 in the Valley, where there was a standing submarine set. That set, crowded as it was, was being used as both the bridge of Captain Stevens' aircraft carrier (you can also enjoy this set and this footage in the recent Wesley Snipes feature The Marksman (2005)) and as Williamson's communications room. Anyway, Andrew introduces me to Fred “the Hammer” as the movie’s writer. Fred raises an eyebrow. Andrew grins and walks away.

Fred eyes me for a minute. Then he says: “You’re the writer, eh? I want to talk to you.” He quickly pulls me aside.

“Mr. Latshaw, have you read this script?”

I try to make a joke. “I’m hoping to get around to that…”

Fred hands me his “sides”—a miniature printout of his scenes and lines for that day. He points to a particularly wordy paragraph I’d written. “Read that. Out loud. All at once, without taking a breath. Like a cold reading.”

Cold readings are auditions where the auditioning actor has never seen the script. Ever.

So I clear my throat and read the dialog. Wow. It was like a never-ending compound sentence, a paragraph long. And it felt like I’d never read it before. What part of my ass had I pulled this from? Cold reading, Latshaw. Camera… speed… ACTION!

So I read this:

"You stop interfering with the progress of the insertion phase and provide the requested air support for my ground team or I will run this up the chain to central command so fast it will make your stars and bars spin and you lose your breakfast on a regular and most annoying basis."

You get the idea. Anyway, I stumble through it, gasping for breath, looking and sounding nothing like a hard-as-nails military officer. And sounding everything like the novice writer I was.

I nodded. “Um,” (I cleared my burning throat). “ Too many words.”

He nodded back. "You screwed it up. Me, I’m up there on the set, camera in my face. I can’t afford to screw it up. I have to say that line, perfectly, while the crew is waiting and we are burning film."

He went on to good-naturedly recommend I read all of my dialog out loud to myself, first, last and always, before locking the script.

“Read every line out loud. It may read OK in the script but saying the words gives you a sense of how they feel, where the actor has to breathe, etc. Just read them out. And if you still like them, then leave them in.”

I nodded, listening carefully, wishing I’d been taking notes. And then, surprisingly, he said some nice things about the script and his character. He liked the twists and turns and thought I had a lot of talent. And then Andrew returned. Fred patted me on the back and they headed back to set, as Andrew began chattering away about something, as usual, a mile-a-minute.

So back to the future. Back to Present Day, Starbucks, Toluca Lake, Pass Avenue. Saturday. I’m still standing there with Fred Williamson. I tell him this story and he laughs, remembering the encounter, remembering those heavyweight lines.

I told him I'd promised myself I'd thank him if I ever ran into him again. He laughed again and said, "It worked for you, then? You learned something?"

I nodded. "Yes. I learned something. And thanks. A great pleasure meeting you again."

He smiled. "Me, too. Take care."

A nice and unexpected little moment. Only in Hollywood.