Brave Page 13

  There was another big to-do on the set when Holly Marie Combs cut her bangs. The studio feared people wouldn’t recognize her. That’s how dumb they think you audiences are. If a character changes their set look in any way, audiences won’t know who they are looking at. I wish you could all be flies on the wall when studio executives and producers talk about you all. Believe me, you are looked at as sheep with no minds of your own.

  I’d become almost a sheep myself, and I was losing my mind. Day after day, month after month, year after year, my brain space being eaten up by dense dialogue that’s just slightly different from the previous episode, will do that to you. Eight to ten pages a day. I was having the same conversation that I had had in the episode a week before, but with the guest stars slightly altered. You could’ve interchanged anything I said in almost any episode with any other episode. That was the part that just made me insane. It was prison for my mind. I was starting to lose my grip on my sanity. And I was so very lonely.

  Sometimes to amuse myself I left the set at the end of the day with the fake blood still on my face or a giant wound, and I’d stop at the grocery store on my way home. I would do it to test the public, to see how they reacted to a wounded woman. Nobody asked to help me. Not once. They would just avoid eye contact and look down at the floor. It gave me great insight into the invisibility of an abused woman. Note to society: you should always ask if a woman needs help if they look abused. Do the right thing. Be bold and be brave.

  I’ve always liked to conduct social experiments. I think it was my way of keeping sane and entertaining my mind, which was just atrophying during this period. I could feel my mind dying, and I didn’t know what to do. I was too tired, too lonely, and too sad to do anything about it.

  I made it a point to not involve myself in petty set politics. I think sometimes when people have led coddled lives, they like to create drama—it makes them feel like something’s happening, something’s going on. But I had had real drama, real problems. I refused to create nonexistent problems to give my life a sense of faux importance.

  Only one female director was hired in the entire five years I was there, and the crew sank her. This was a show about three young women, and they had not in all the time I was there had a female director. But the mostly male crew, I think without even realizing what they were doing—they just cut the female director’s legs out from under her. The crew would snicker in disrespect when she would direct them. I can’t imagine it was a pleasant working environment. I feel horribly about not fighting for her more, but I didn’t fully understand the dynamics of what was happening. My character was too busy talking to leprechauns to have the time.

  Anytime on that show that I said I really liked a director, if it was someone from outside of the Spelling all-average, all-white male mob, which was very rare, they never returned. If I said I hated somebody, they would return for sure. There was one director we had, whom I was so excited to work with until I met him. The day he showed up to direct we were in my fourth or maybe fifth year on the show, and the show could direct itself. It was a well-oiled machine.

  So in the first rehearsal of the day, after walking from point A to point B, I exited right. It’s not a hugely important decision, and the new director hadn’t given any direction as to whether to exit right or left. But he exploded. He yelled: “You idiot. You do not cross in front of my camera! YOU DO NOT CROSS IN FRONT OF MY CAMERA!” He kept yelling. The man had a meltdown. His voice reverberated off the walls. I was in shock. He kept yelling and now started cursing me out. Bitch. Idiot. Bitch.

  This was exactly one minute or so after we said good morning to each other. It was 7:30 a.m. No one shut him down. Not one person on the almost all-male crew, not one producer, not the assistant director. Men I had worked on the set with for years. Why? Because the director, even if there for only thirty minutes, was a guy and I was a young woman.

  I was thinking, Excuse me, I don’t even fucking know you. You’re in my house. Yet you feel so comfortable and assured in your place in this firmament of male directors that you’re going to do this to me? I told the producers: “I will never work with that man again.” They assured me he wouldn’t be allowed to verbally abuse me again.

  Guess who was back two months later. This is just a minor note in the screamer directors I’ve endured. Hollywood is known for screamers and belittlers, and their abuse gets a pass. I’ve never seen or heard a male actor be abused on a set. It’s time for people in any workplace to do what they can when another is being bullied and terrorized; it’s time to stand up for those around you. If you do not, you will be called out, you will be shamed, you will be dragged.

  It was just another example of a man getting a free pass. Can you imagine in the first hour of your new boss’s day he screams at you in front of everyone and not one person steps up? Maybe you can. I hope not, for your sake. There is no excuse for abuse. Not ever. Being screamed at aggressively is something the body takes in and it’s jarring and traumatic. But you know, go put your short skirt back on and say the lines, little lady, ’cause you’re an actress so you better take it.

  Yes, there are other industries where there is screaming, but you have to understand, there is zero federal oversight in Hollywood.

  It’s hard to reconcile the sweet little old man I met—Aaron Spelling—with all the decades of sexist media he’d produced and put out into the world. Credit for that sexist media also goes to the people he surrounded himself with: the executives, all male; the writers, mostly male; the head writer, male. On a female-driven show, of course. What made all of the sexism on the set even more galling was the fact that the show was carried by women, made for a female audience. Because they know how to get into young women’s minds, for sure. There is a completely understandable outcry over whitewashing, casting white actors to play roles that were in the source material meant to be for a person of color. Why is there no outcry over men telling women’s stories? There should be; it’s not like they do it well. They do it so it’s just good enough. I’m bored of good enough and I know the public is too.

  During year two of Charmed I decided to go to hypnotherapy. I found the repetitive days so opposite to my natural rhythms that I became sick over and over. And it was at times a very stressful environment. I started to have panic attacks because of everything I was pushing down. We filmed in a place called Woodland Hills. Simply seeing the word wood was enough to make my heart race and my palms go sweaty. I was sick about four or five times a season. We would shoot twenty-two or twenty-three episodes. On hour-long TV, you are essentially shooting half of a feature film in eight days. The pace was grueling. Two years in a row I had 102-degree fevers and got dropped into giant trash cans, in a stunt, always on the days that I was the most ill. That is the only time I allowed myself to feel sorry for myself. Part of my being a hard-ass on myself for my whole life really kind of hurt me in the long run. The exhaustion was real and raw. Twelve to sixteen hours a day for about five years straight in a wash, rinse, repeat environment unlike any I’d known. Kind of like being in a really fancy factory, like working on an assembly line of sorts.

  One day, three of the Charmed producer men strolled up to my trailer to inform me that my one friend on set, Sam, had been fired after being caught smoking weed on a school bus set. Sam was cool, not the usual Spelling crew member, with his dreads and his real smile. I was genuinely saddened because Sam was the only one I could sense was like me. But I said it was for the best, his soul needed to be free. I couldn’t help smiling as I asked the producers, “So if I smoke weed on the set, will you fire me? Could I be free?” Their response wiped the smile off my face. “We will garnish your wages for all time, no matter where you go. We will take your money, and we will ruin you and you will never work again.” All said with extremely straight faces because they were not fucking around. Fuck. This Hollywood detour of mine took me down the wrong alley. I sure did meet a dangerous crowd. Only these were rich white men on studio lots, not in a bac
k alley.

  It’s a particularly terrifying thing to have men tell you that you’re going to be punished so badly you will never be hired again. But that’s the pervasive attitude in Hollywood: “Don’t step out of line, little girl. We can just point to the next one right after you.” There is a constant stream of young and damaged women flowing into Hollywood.

  If you are reading this book because of Charmed, thank you for being a fan of the show and my character. I respect you and I honor you. I know it’s brought a lot of joy to a lot of people. I was glad to be of service. I am glad something really good was coming from what, for me, was a very difficult time. When I say anything that’s negative about the show, you have to understand I’m speaking about my personal experience. Not Paige Matthews, my character, but me, Rose. But you can always find good in most situations and so that is what I choose to focus on. There is much that I’m proud of from this period. For a long time Charmed was—and might still be—the longest-running female-driven hour-long show in history. I wish we got more credit for that, because it’s important.

  In 2006, as Charmed came to an end, I returned to a changed media world. When I left society five years before to do the show, celebrity culture was different. The gossip websites now ruled. The paparazzi were now insanely aggressive. The tabloid magazines were drunk with profiting off Lindsay Lohan’s antics and Britney Spears’s troubles. And if you were well known, you were hunted, not just by the paparazzi; the public at large became something to fear. Every stranger with a phone became a potential informant. It was the first time people started posting online where you were, what you were saying, what you were doing. Everybody was reporting on anyone well known and you didn’t know where the enemy was because it was no longer just the paparazzi or the gossip columnist. It was everybody. I was forced to live a life where I didn’t say anything, I didn’t do anything, lest I be branded a bad girl. Most were so freaked out by people reporting false items, they just stayed hidden. At least that’s what I did.

  I was overwhelmed by the media’s new world order. There was no Instagram to speak for yourself, so if lies and smears were written, they were taken as fact. And, wow, was I smeared.

  Even in a place that’s supposed to feel safe—your work environment—I felt hunted and objectified. Just walking back and forth to the set on the Paramount studios lot was stressful; there’d be a long train cart, packed with tourists, all pointing at once and taking my photo. It was like: “There’s the actor in her natural habitat. Please don’t feed the actor.” To be the one on the other side of the hunter’s camera felt vulnerable as hell.

  I decided to escape America for a bit, thinking the hunting would be less prevalent. I got chased out of the Vatican once by about thirty German tourists. I shouldn’t have been at the Vatican that day, I was so sick, but I had desperately wanted to see it. I clung on to the old stone buildings trying to get away, and then finally, the crowd caught up to me. I was cornered. I flattened myself against the wall. I remember thinking, We’re at the Vatican. Isn’t seeing Michelangelo’s work more important than someone on television? I was sweating and scared. I was being jostled as someone pushed through the crowd, I thought to help me. Instead a man grabbed my hair and yanked a small clump out. I screamed and pushed, but I wasn’t being let out of the circle. When they surrounded me, it was like a wild pack of dogs. I couldn’t see their faces because they had their cameras pointed at me, the flashes blinding me. I could only see hands as I got pushed sideways and back, white circles where people’s leering faces were. I felt as if I were being eaten alive.

  People need to respect boundaries. Just because you see someone you feel you know, does NOT mean you get to harass them or touch them. The person you think you know owes you the same as any human does, which is nothing more than politeness. So be polite, be respectful, do not surround, do not grab, do not clutch, do not push. Be civilized and you will usually get that in return.

  What I experienced in that crowd of “fans” was traumatic and assaultive. I had a small bald patch where my hair had been pulled out. These kinds of situations happened frequently.

  Fame is something so many think they want, but the reality is something hard for them to see. The next thing many say is “you made money” as if money equals happiness. As if money equals safety. As if money equals peace. I would also say do not make your value system mine. When I finished Charmed, I was told by my then publicist: “If you need to step out the door and there’s a camera anywhere, you better have someone come dress you and do your makeup.” God forbid you show your actual style. God forbid you go to a store like every other person and put on something that represents who you are. God forbid you wear something more than once like a normal human does.

  Hollywood publicists, whom you’re told you must have and who cost around $6,000 per month, tell you what you should act like, look like, talk like—how you should respond to the press. They prey on fear and manipulate actors by threatening: “Oh, the studio will be really upset with you if you don’t do this.” They are a key part of the machine that keeps you in line. The kicker is you’re paying them to fuck with your head.

  In classic Hollywood times, publicists were the people who covered up what the stars did. Now, the stars don’t even really do that much, not like they did back then, because they’ve been so trained to not do anything. God forbid the public find out you’re human.

  So in any case, after Charmed, my very expensive publicist told me I needed a very expensive stylist. I should’ve asked, Why am I paying somebody to put their idea of what I am on me? I didn’t have a stylist during my pre-Charmed era, and I seemed to manage fine; what has changed? But my brain had been twisted for so long I no longer had an internal compass.

  When a stylist is paid to come put a look on you, their main goal is to make you attractive to the male species. It’s a very stereotypical idea of what is sexy, what is hot, what is fuckable. But it is not cool and, boy, did stylists do a number on me. I was made to look like a plastic weirdo. And I paid a lot of money to look like a plastic weirdo.

  The bizarre thing about the industry is: you were discovered because you were unique. What was special about you when you were discovered, they do their damnedest to remove, not unlike what traditional society does to children. When I was discovered, I had a raw quality and my own style; at the end of my career it was Barbie hair and beauty pageant looks. Then, every photo of me was photoshopped. Meanwhile everyone online was telling me how ugly I was. Then I’d go to work and play other people. You need all your faculties to be in a semidenial stage in order to survive it. Things that are abnormal become the norm, up is down.

  And that is how I got lost from myself. I bought my first piece of “important” art at the height of my “fame.” The piece is of a woman who looks like a ghost, which represented what I felt like at the time. Just lost behind this haze of objectification and misunderstanding.

  I had gotten lost from myself, terribly, terribly lost.

  DESTRUCTION

  One night in Cannes, France, wearing the most beautiful Dolce & Gabbana red lace dress, I went to a party. A huge, glamorous party where I knew no one. I ended up sitting on a couch by myself because I tend to get shy in large crowds. I noticed a man sitting on the opposite couch, also by himself. He was wearing a black suit and a black cowboy hat. We were both there for some time, the two loners at a party.

  There are some moments that you regret for the rest of your life. This is one of them.

  I think I made a joke about how we were two fancy-dressed losers sitting alone at a party, and we both laughed. We started talking, and I realized he was a famous director. Goddamn, he was handsome. He had many hit movies under his belt and at the time was riding a career high.

  He said, “Come sit next to me on the couch.” I said honestly, “No, I don’t want to be seen as an actress sucking up to a director.” Much like how a cult works, in Hollywood you’re not meant to talk to someone whose status is higher than
yours. And even though I was a star of a huge hit TV series, I had to watch out, lest I be branded a whore actress.

  He asked me my age and I fibbed about it; I think I told him I was twenty-eight. I was thirty-one at this point. I was deep in the grips of Hollywood conditioning. The thing is, I was always playing roles that were younger, at least five years younger, which amplified my twisted perception of aging. You have done something wrong! You have lived! You start feeling crazier with each birthday that passes.

  For me it was Fear with a capital F. Fear of the Future. Deep down, I was scared of where I would be in life at whatever age I wasn’t yet. I was so fucked up by the Cult of Thought in Hollywood that I channeled my fear into trying to control the aging process. I wanted to freeze myself in time. Like so many in Hollywood. And it wasn’t just my head that was telling me to; it was makeup artists, hairdressers, stylists, agents, managers, you name it . . . They want you to stay as young looking as possible for as long as possible so they can make more money off you. The human woman me has her own aging crap to deal with, but the actress me had a literal multibillion-dollar corporation built off her face and body. People are depending on your face to put food into their mouths and pay off their car loans. Women in general have the media world telling them not to age, but we in the public eye are being handed direct hotlines to people who can supposedly freeze us and are very encouraged to do so. And we have the money to do it. And we so often hate ourselves; our photos are as manipulated as our minds. We get the message we are not enough times a million. We are marketed to you the public as something to be envied, our looks that make you love and hate us. In the long tradition of Hollywood, one of its messages is “Don’t you wish you could look like us?” At least until we go overboard with cosmetic fixes, then you start clucking and making fun of us. Being an actress, you are in front of a mirror for far more time than is healthy; having to consider everything about your face in relation to it being okay to be seen by the entire world is definitely not healthy; to have your teeth be five feet tall is not healthy. Ugh, it’ll all fuck you up. I know, it did me. There are reasons actresses go overboard; for me it was like cutting. I hated what I had become and I wanted to destroy it.