Newsgroup: it.fan.stephen-king
Titolo: The Green Mile Journal (Lungo e in inglese)

Ecco qui il diario del miglio verde. È lunghino, ma... credo ne valga
la pena.
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7/1/98 - TABLE READ:
Table read-through in Fairbanks Gym at Warner Bros. Hollywood.
Present: Tom Hanks (Paul Edge-comb), David Morse (Brutal), Bonnie Hunt
(Jan Edgecomb), Michael Clarke Duncan (John Coffey), James Cromwell
(Warden Hal Moores), Harry Dean Stanton (Toots), Michael Jeter (Del),
Sam Rockwell (Wild Bill), Barry Pepper (Dean Stanton), Frank Darabont
(Director), David Valdez (Ex-ec. Prod.), Mali Finn (Casting), Various
Castle Rock Reps, Assistants ... and me (Percy Wetmore). 
I have to keep running to the bathroom every hour or so to pinch
myself and make sure I'm not dreaming. 
7/20/98 -- 7/24/98 WEEK ONE: 
We shoot on The Green Mile - death row -- so called because the floor
leading from the inmates' cells to "Ol' Sparky" (the electric chair)
is the color of faded limes. The set is amazing. It's a virtual
penitentiary. You can almost feel the real ghosts of 1930s prisoners
and guards in the faux cells and corridors. The production designer is
Terence Marsh who won Oscars for such films as Dr. Zhivago and Oliver.
We shoot the scene where John Coffey is brought to the mile. Michael
Clarke Duncan is HUGE (check him out in Armageddon). His arms are big
as tree stumps. We all look like dwarves next to Coffey (especially
little ol' 5'6'' me!). 
Tom Hanks seems like the nicest guy in the world -- friendly, funny,
and totally accessible. David Morse is a soft-spoken, gentle giant.
Barry Pepper (who also played the young sniper in Saving Pri-vate
Ryan) is a joy to be around. Jeffrey DeMunn (playing Harry
Terwilliger) is charming as hell. Frank Darabont - our fearless
director -- knows exactly what he wants. It's a thrill to watch him at
work setting up shots and monitoring the action on the video screen.
He's like an impish, cherubic boy. His eyes sparkle with excitement
and he laughs easily when something strikes him funny. Frank sets the
tone. The cast and crew seem to respect and work well with him. 
The first day goes well. It's a monstrous scene with a bazillion
different sequences and shots. We're scheduled to shoot this initial
scene over the next four or five days and, at most, it'll equal about
five minutes of actual screen time (ever wonder why it takes three or
four months to shoot a two hour movie, folks??). 
I fall asleep at night happily exhausted and dream of beating
prisoners with my night stick (heh-heh). Get thee behind me, Percy... 
7/27/98 -- 7/31/98 WEEK TWO: 
Conversation with David Morse about one of my favorite films, The
Crossing Guard (Morse is bril-liant in this movie. It's an
awe-inspiring performance): he tells me how cool it was to work with
Jack Nicholson and how generous Jack was to cast and crew. 
And speaking of generosity... Tom Hanks blows me away. He's the
consummate professional. In the midst of massive publicity for Saving
Private Ryan, he works ong and hard with us and then, takes off to do
The Tonight Show, etc. But here's the kicker: he's invited to put his
hand/footprints in the famous Grauman's Chinese Theatre starwalk on
Hollywood Blvd. He works, like, five hours with us on The Green Mile
and then -- on his lunch break -- runs over to Grauman's Chinese to do
the print thing and comes back to work (with cement dust fresh on the
soles of his shoes) to do off camera li-nes for my on-camera scene.
Jeffrey DeMunn (who worked on the X-Files movie) said that the crew
had dubbed Duchovny "David-get- my-stand-in-to-do-it-Duchovny" and
here's Tom- two-time-Oscar-winner-Hanks rushing back to the set, after
one of the most prestigious honors in our profes-sion, to dive back
into work and read off- camera for me. The guy is an inspiration.
(Hey, David ... how 'bout a slice of Uncle Tom's humble pie? The diva
Duchovny rumors are starting to bum me out... ) 
I screw up my back chasing that damn "Mr. Jingles" (the mouse) up and
down the corridor about a million times; it's debilitating enough for
four or five visits to the ol' chiropractor over the next few weeks. 
Whacked back be damned. It's a thrill to be acting with the likes of
Hanks, Morse, and this amazing cast and crew. 
I fall asleep at night and dream of squishing mice under my boots
(heh-heh). 
8/3/98 - 8/7/98 WEEK THREE 
On Monday morning, the first thing I do when I see Hanks is fall to my
knees and grovel at his feet (literally). He says, "What? Whatt?? What
did I do?" I say, "I just saw Saving Private Ryan this wee-kend. You
are God." I also heap buku accolades on Barry Pepper for his solid
performance in Saving Private Ryan and Lois Burwell, our lovely key
makeup artist, who did the makeup for Saving Private Ryan (and won an
Oscar for her makeup in Braveheart). 
We move from the mile into the execution chamber to film Bitterbuck's
execution. Graham Greene (who starred with Kevin Costner in Dances
With Wolves) plays "Arlen Bitterbuck". 
Harry Dean Stanton joins us. He's quirky as hell and perfect for the
role of "Toot-Toot". Harry's been in the business forever. I think he
made his first film in 1946. He's a relic. 
The actor playing "Jack Van Hay" turns out to be Bill McKinney who
played the Hillbilly in Delive-rance who rapes Ned Beatty and makes
him "squeal like a pig". So, the big joke on the set is imagi-ning
Jack Van Hay behind the execution room partition saying: "Percy, yew
got a purdy mouth" and then hearing me squealing like the proverbial
pig. 
Bitterbuck is eventually executed. Graham Greene is wrapped. Cast and
crew applaud him. He says (ever the jokester), "It's been fun. Next
time, let's shoot up in Canada and call it "The Green Kilo-meter."
Everybody laughs. 
At the end of the week, a sushi chef comes to the set and Tom Hanks
treats the entire cast and crew to fresh sushi. 
Whatta guy. 
I fall asleep at night and dream about squishing spicy tuna and
yellowtail sashimi under my boots (???). 
8/10/98 - 8/14/98 WEEK FOUR 
David Valdez, the executive producer, has my undying respect. The guy
is Clint Eastwood's partner. He's made a ton of films. He's the
sweetest guy in the world. David always has a smile for everyone and
if he's ever stressed out, he never looks it. He appears as if he's
doing exactly what God put him on earth to do and enjoying every
minute of it. David runs a tight ship and yet this is the happiest,
most stressless, most inviting film set I've ever been on. I was
talking with one of the crew members who was lamenting a particular
movie project of the past and defined it as "a total nightmare" where
the cast and crew were "utterly miserable" and couldn't wait for the
thing to be over. He said, "and as the saying goes, 'a fish rots from
the head down' "(meaning, of course, that the executive producer sets
the tone on a movie set and that that particular exec. prod. was the
head of a rotten fish...). -- Well, if the saying holds true, then
David Valdez is a rainbow trout, very much alive, and I'm grateful to
be swimming in his creative waters. I have to resist the urge to give
him a big fat hug every time I see him. 
More of me chasing the mouse down the mile. This time, I work with
second unit (or "the mouse crew" as I like to call them...). They film
me stomping and leaping down the corridor and then they film the mouse
(Mr. Jingles) scurrying down the corridor and will eventually
transpose the images and -- voila -- seamless illusion: Percy attempts
to stomp Mr. Jingles who appears to be a boot heel away from
squashed-rodent-hell. The special mouse visual FX wizard is Charlie
Gibson who supervi-sed the mouse FX on Mouse Hunt. 
There are actually a dozen or so mice playing "Mr. Jingles". Each
mouse is trained to do a different "stunt" -- scurry to the left,
scurry to the right, stand still, etc. They're cute as hell and poop
all over the place. Barry Pepper, Jeffrey DeMunn, and I start a volley
of Mr. Jingle puns, "That Mr. Jingles is the cheesiest actor on the
set... I heard Mr. Jingles has a micer trailer than the rest of us...
Rumor has it, Mr. Jingles barely squeaked through his audition and got
the part by a whisker..." 
At the end of a very long week with just about everyone battling head
colds and sore throats, etc., Hanks brings in a chef and treats the
cast and crew to Dim Sum. He promises something special eve-ry Friday
night. I say, "Hey, Tom, how 'bout strippers and booze next Friday?"
(heh-heh). --Nearing midnight, it's down to me, Tom, and Michael Jeter
(and as sick as Tom is with the dregs of a linge-ring ear infection,
he stays to do Jeter's off-camera lines...). Between takes, I keep Tom
amused with my Michael-Clarke-Duncan-as- John-Coffey impersonation.
The deep, booming, bassy voice coming out of my small frame cracks him
up. 
I had one of those surreal, dreamlike, goose-fleshy moments the other
day. The prop mistress was setting up the cast chairs at one point and
there was my chair with my name inscribed on the chair-back smack dab
between Tom Hanks and David Morse's chairs. It's as if time stopped
for a moment. I blinked my eyes and thought: I've been dreaming this
image for years and here it is right in front of me. 
Row row row your boat 
Gently down the stream 
Merrily merrily merrily merrily 
Life is but a dream 
8/17/98 - 8/21/98 WEEK FIVE 
Sam Rockwell joins the mile for the scene where Billy goes crazy and
attacks Dean. I ask Sam how he's been. He says he's been chomping at
the bit to jump into The Green Mile and the skin of "Wild Bill". Sam
is immediately likable. He's a solid actor, too (check out a quirky,
magical, little movie called Box of Moonlight. Sam rocks in it...) 
The fight scene involves several different shots, choreography, and
stunt doubles. Barry Pepper takes a hell of a beating. By the end of
the second day, he's got an ice-pack on his neck, cuts and abrasions
galore, and an excedrin headache from getting his head accidentally
conked on a desk. 
Tom Hanks plays getting kicked in the groin quite painfully
believably. OUCH! 
Sean Penn visits the set. He's friends with David Morse having
directed David in two separate films. I want to tell Sean how The
Crossing Guard rocked my world, but he comes and goes before I have
the opportunity to meet him. 
Rumor has it Stephen King may visit us in September. 
I fall asleep at night and dream of pulling a chained Sean Penn down
"The Green Mile" while yelling the line, "Dead man walking!" Frank
Darabont yells, "CUT!" and says, "wrong movie, Doug."
8/24/98 -8/28/98 WEEK SIX: 
We shoot the scene where the guards rehearse Delacroix's execution.
It's Harry Dean Stanton's last day. He seems cranky. Not sure why
(Maybe from being under that hot, black, execution hood for a great
deal of the time...). They request Harry in the make-up/hair trailer
for a haircut. The 2nd A.D. returns to say that Harry doesn't think
it's necessary for another haircut as he's just gonna be under that
"blasted hood" for the entire scene. Nina Paskowitz, our hair stylist
(who I also worked with on Skip Chaser's, by the by, shares an amused
look with the other stylist and make-up artists. Apparen-tly, they've
been no strangers to Harry Dean Stanton's quirky moods and temperament
over the past few weeks. Nina shrugs and says, "Okay. I'll talk to
Frank. See what he says." 
At one point, on my way to make-up, I stop at Harry Dean's trailer to
ask him if he'd be kind enough to sign my script. He says "Sure.
(Beat) Hmm... now I have to think of something witty to write." I
laugh and say, "Okay, Harry. I gotta go to make-up. You think of
something witty to write and I'll stop by after." I leave Harry
staring off into space thinking of something witty. --Finished with
make-up, I stop by Harry's trailer to pick up my script. I find Harry
still staring off in space. "Think of so-mething witty, Harry?", I
ask. "No," he says (frustrated, apparently, by his temporary lack of
wit), "I'm still thinking." I give him an easy out, "You can just sign
it if you want, Har." (Truth be told, I would have been happy with
just a signature as I was hoping to get everybody on the title page
and, well, it's a huge cast...) Harry says, "Ah, fuck it. I can't
think of anything. I'll just write..." and he proceeds to scribble: 
For Doug: Don't apply Percy's tactics to your career. 
Harry Dean Stanton. 
I think he's done and begin reaching for my script, but... Harry keeps
writing... 
P.S. On second thought it might be just right for Hollywood. (HA) 
All in all, Harry's witty quip takes up one-fourth of the entire
script page.--I retrieve my script and say, "Thanks, Harry." Harry
Dean Stanton gives me an impish smile, his eyes glinting with
self-satisfaction and says, "Don't mention it." 
Michael Clarke Duncan's sister visits the set. Much to Michael's
chagrin, she shows me and Tom Hanks a photo of a six-year-old Michael
posing in a party dress. We have a good laugh at Michael's expense
(I'm dying to borrow the pic, make copies, and distribute them to cast
and crew! Heh-heh...). 
On Friday, we rehearse the sequence where Billy attacks Percy. Tom has
an In-and-Out Burger truck drive onto the lot and treats the cast and
crew to In-and-Out burgers. For those non-Californians out there,
In-'N-Out Burger is a fast food franchise that, according to most
California meat eaters, serves THEE BEST HAMBURGERS in the world!--I
tease Tom in the make-up trailer and say, "Hey, Hanks--In-and-Out is
fine for carnivores, but what about the vegetarians on the set?" He
says, "Or-der a hamburger, hold the burger." 
Wisecracker. 
Purely by coincidence, Michael Jeter wears his In-'N-Out Burger
T-shirt that evening. 
I fall asleep and dream of In-'N-Out Burgers sizzling to well done
perfection on the seat of ol' Sparky...
8/31/98 -- 9/4/98 WEEK SEVEN: 
So, Barry Pepper gets his ass kicked two weeks ago during the Wild
Bill- attacks-Dean scene, Sam Rockwell gets his kicked last week
during the Wild Bill-gets-thrown-in-the-restraint-room (again and
again) scenes, and this week it's my turn. 
It's another involved scene in which Billy grabs me through his cell
bars, terrorizes me, eventually lets me go (at the prompting of the
other guards and their drawn weapons), whereby I bolt to the ot-her
side of the mile -- scared to death -- piss my pants (literally) and
then, under the embarrassing scrutiny of my peers, taunting of Wild
Bill, and derisive laughter of Del, threaten the guards with their
jobs (if they talk about the incident to anyone), threaten that little
"French fried faggot" Del, and storm off the mile. 
It's a challenging scene for me because I need to ride a rollercoaster
of emotions -- from joviality to surprise, terror, humiliation,
embarrassment, and anger -- and attempt to drum them up organically
take after take. There are a total of seven characters in the sequence
and we need to capture the sce-ne from a bazillion angles, groupings,
establishings, close-ups, etc. All in all, it takes a good twelve
hours to shoot. I try and pace myself as best I can, but still feel
compelled to apologize to Sam when, at the tail end of the day, my
well is practically dry and I'm virtually out of juice when it's time
for his coverage. Sam's a good sport about it and commends me for
accessing as much as I did during the course of a trying day. 
Frank wraps the rest of the cast and I stick around for some "pee
acting". I'm rigged with a catheter-type tube running down my pant leg
and secured to my ankle with tape. The flow of "pee solution" is
turned "on" and "off" by a technician standing just off-camera. It's
an involved bit of business becau-se the pee needs to stream in a
specific direction and puddle on the floor perfectly. Also, the whole
guacamole needs to be timed to coincide with a camera push-in. On top
of that, my shoes and the floor need to be wiped-up and dried-off
between each take and, of course, it takes several takes to get it
right. At one point, an exasperated Frank says, "Jesus Christ, less
pee, less, less. I need it to drip more. It's splashing down like he's
a horse or something." I laugh and say, " Well, Frank, I am kinda hung
like a horse." (heh-heh). As tired as we all are, pee jokes run
rampant throughout the evening. Right before an umpteenth take I say,
"Can we hold the roll? I have to pee." and, "Hey, I'm really starting
to get pissed here." At one point, I manage to illicit laughter from
even the most hu-morless and cranky crew members a la booming Arnold
Schwarzeneggar - voice, "I AM THE URI-NATOR. HASTA LA PEE-STA, BABY." 
By day's end, I'm an exhausted mess, hoarse from screaming, scratched
to hell from Sam's Wild
Bill-Freddy-Kruger-esque-razor-sharp-gnarly-nails, and soaked from
faux pee. 
The next day's shoot is a breeze in comparison. It's the scene where I
am simply reading a book in Paul's office... and thank goodness I
don't have any dialogue because my voice is shot. The name of the
author printed on the binder of the book I'm reading is "R. Bachman"
which is Frank's ingenious little touch and should prove to illicit
chuckles from die hard Stephen King fans who watch the film (For those
out of the Stephen King loop: "Richard Bachman" is the fictional
author Mr. King wrote under for many of his earlier novels...) 
I fall asleep at night and dream of pissing like the proverbial
racehorse.
9/7/98 -- 9/11/98 WEEK EIGHT: 
Mouse mashing time. We shoot the scene where I squash poor Mr. Jingles
under my big, bad boot. All I can think about is my Grandma. After she
saw A Time To Kill, Granny was convinced that I had taken up smoking
no matter how many times I promised her that those were faux
cigarettes and that my character, Pete Willard, was the smoker, not
me. I'm anticipating a distressed phone call from Grandma after The
Green Mile comes out saying, "Dougie, how could you step on that cute,
little mouse??" -- Maureen Farley, our ever diligent prop mistress,
places her coveted fake Mr. Jin-gles on the floor before each take and
warns me not to really squash it because she needs to keep it intact
for future scenes. I keep Maureen properly irked and on her toes by
pretending to actually squish the faux mouse before almost every take.
By now, Maureen is somewhat immune to my devi-lish- Percy-antics, but
I can still illicit a stern look or warning glance from her now and
then (tee-hee). 
The big joke of the week, however, is at my expense, but it demands
that I fill in those of you unfa-miliar with what I've come to dub my
"conightmair experience". In a nutshell: I spent six-and-a-half
miserable weeks as nothing more than a glorified extra on the set of a
movie called ConAir in the role of "one of the cons". Not only were my
scenes with John Malkovich cut from the script, but I had to share a
tiny, smelly honeywagon with another con named Mongo who is about as
big as Mi-chael Clarke Duncan (who, by the way, is the pivotal
instigator of this story...). I have no lines. No material. 
Nothing. 
I'm basically background fodder -- just one of the dozen or so cons
sitting chained and bound to my seat in that hot, claustrophobic,
miserable airplane for twelve to thirteen hours a day. I could go on
and on about my hellacious time on the set of ConAir, but you get the
picture. Without a doubt, it was one of thee worst experiences of my
career to date. Now, despite the misery (or should I say, because of
it), I've always prided myself in successfully editing myself out of
ConAir as sort of sweet retribution to the awful affair. In the few
scenes where I am seen in the background for a fleeting se-cond or
two, I managed to avoid the camera at all costs and in imaginative
ways; bending down to tie my shoe, turning around to look at another
con so that my back is to the lens, hiding behind Mal-kovich, etc. In
fact, you'd be hard pressed to find me in the dang film even if you
look for me... or so I thought... 
Fast forward to The Green Mile. Michael Clarke Duncan loves action
flicks. He adores them. One of his favorite action flicks is ConAir
(he even owns a copy, fer cryin' out loud...). Michael's trailer is
situated directly across from mine. One particular day, I hear
Michael's booming laughter coming from inside his trailer. Then I
hear, "Doug! Doug! Come here, man!" (more booming laughter). I step
into Michael's trailer. He's watching ConAir on his T.V. and doubled
over in fits of laughter. He points to the screen. "Look at you, man!
Ha! Ha! I found you!! Ha! Ha! Look at you trying to hide from the
camera and shit! Ha! In every scene you're in! Look at you!! Ha! Ha!
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Michael rewinds and fast forwards to every
scene I happened to be caught in despite my brief (two, maybe
three-second) blink-and-you-miss-me sequences, but Michael found 'em
(Hell, he's pro-bably seen the movie eighteen times so far...). So,
apparently, I made Michael Clarke Duncan's day. Over the course of the
week, 
he manages to tell the entire cast and crew about my ConAir debacle
and how I tried to avoid the camera at all costs. At on point, his
trailer is jammed with the likes of Hanks, Morse, Pepper, De-Munn, and
Jeter for a "Doug- Hutchison-ConAir-Marathon". The entire trailer is
rocked with laughter. I'm teased to death. "Hey, Doug, nice work in
ConAir." "Hey, Doug, saw you in ConAir, man. Whatta performance."
"Hey, Doug, Oscar-worthy stuff in ConAir, buddy." "The way you tur-ned
your back to the camera in that one scene... wow". ...and so on.
Nina-the-hairdresser presents me with a giant, cardboard ConAir
collage with the caption "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMil-le"
printed in bold letters at the top. The collage is made up of several
still frames pulled from the vi-deo. They're all me avoiding the
camera in one way or another. 
Even as you read this, I contemplate my revenge on Michael Clarke
Duncan. 
We move into the execution chamber where Tom Hanks and David Morse
slam me (literally) into Ol' Sparky, hold me down, and coerce me (via
threats) to promise to leave the penitentiary for a diffe-rent job,
post Del's execution. If I thought I'd gotten my ass kicked two weeks
ago during the Billy-attacks- Percy scene, I was sorely (pun intended)
mistaken. After a bazillion takes of Hanks and Morse manhandling me in
the arms of that rigid, hardwood, solid oak electric chair, I'm a
sopping, scratched-to-hell, multi-bruised mess. David keeps
apologizing for accidentally boxing me in the ear and banging my head
on the back of Ol' Sparky. I tell him not to worry about it and I must
be a ma-sochist because, despite the pain, I attempt to provoke David
before each take by shoving him as hard as I can. Truth be told, I
want the scene to work and I don't want Morse or Hanks to pull their
punches and treat me with kid's gloves for fear of hurting me. I want
them to beat me up. So, the bruises I discover all over my body over
the next couple days (despite the protective pads the stunt
coordinator strapped beneath my uniform) are no one's fault but my
own. 
Tom treats cast and crew to pizza. I save my slices for after the
Paul-and- Brutal-manhandle-Percy scene as not to barf all over Tom and
David. 
Before I leave the set, Lois Burwell places her amazing healing hands
on my neck and shoulders. 
That night I have a nightmare that I'm back on the set of ConAir. John
Malkovich and Nicholas Cage are slamming me into an airplane seat and
screaming, "Goddamn it, Percy, stop avoiding the camera, you little
shit!!" while Ving Rhames (or was that Michael Clarke Duncan??)
bellows with laughter in the background... Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Ha!... 
PS: The tentative release date for The Green Mile is the third week in
July, You should start seeing trailers and promos around Xmas.
9/14/98 -- 9/18/98 WEEK NINE: 
We remain in the death chamber for Del's execution. It takes the
entire week to shoot and involves about forty extras (the witnesses),
lightning flashes, rain, smoke, fire, a mechanical "Del dummy" and a
team of puppeteers to work it. Frank controls the lightning box which
sits next to him at the mo-nitors. He looks like an excited, flushed
Frankenstein commanding lightning at the flip of a switch. 
James Cromwell joins the team. I'm happy to see him and tell him so.
There was a rumor that we may have lost James due to schedule
conflicts (as he's also shooting a film called The General's Daughter
with John Travolta). James is a tall striking man with sharp, handsome
features and twinkling eyes (well, you know... you've seen Babe...).
All the women in the hair and make-up trailer have a crush on him. He
also has the patience of a saint. Over the course of his first five
days on The Green Mile, James basically stands on the sidelines as
Warden Hal Moores to witness Delacroix's ex-ecution. He'll have a lot
more to chew on later, but this week is comprised of endless standing,
ob-serving, breathing smoke, and trying to avoid being trampled by an
exodus of panicked witnesses. 
At one point, Frank comes up to Hanks and says, "Hey, Tom, there's
this guy here; says he knows you?" We all turn around to see a smiling
Steven Spielberg standing near the monitors. Hanks and Pepper run over
to greet him (having relationship with Spielberg via Saving Private
Ryan, of cour-se...). The rest of us hover around the periphery
twittering with excitement and dazzled by the pre-sence of THE KING OF
HOLLYWOOD (I mean, this is Steven Freakin' Spielberg, folks!). Try as
I might to remain cool, calm, and collected, my palms start sweating
and my mouth is dry. No matter how many times I see my heroes in the
flesh and remind myself that they're human beings who, like the rest
of us, eat, sleep, shit, and watch Oprah (well, okay, some of us don't
watch Oprah...), I still turn into a blubbering idiot around them. I
recall how nervous I was meeting and auditioning for Frank Darabont
and how my heart raced when I met David Morse and Tom Hanks at our
initial read- through two months ago. In retrospect, now that I've had
the pleasure of getting to know these guys, my initial jitters in
meeting them make me smile. Why in the world was I such a nervous
wreck?? Nevertheless, when Tom introduces me to Steven Spielberg, I
feel like a stammering idiot and suddenly the English language seems
beyond comprehension. I blurt out something about how much Saving
Private Ryan blew me away and welcome him to the set. We talk a bit
about The Green Mile and what an awesome script it is. Spielberg is
friendly and in no way as intimidating as the hub-bub swirling around
the mythos of his reputation as THE KING OF HOLLYWOOD. He hangs out on
the set for a few hours. Later in the day, Frank puts Spielberg in the
electric chair and affixes the steel electrode cap atop his head.
Steven pops a cigar into his mouth and places his glasses askew on the
bridge of his nose. We, the guards, gather around with Frank. The set
photographer, Ralph Nel-son, snaps a volley of pictures of us
surrounding THE KING OF HOLLYWOOD -- crowned with the death cap and
throned in the wooden arms of Ol' Sparky. 
Okay, so here I've been racking my brain and heart for a way to
express my deepest gratitude to Tom Hanks for being so dang generous
and inspirational and fun during this Green Mile adventure thus far
and for being... well... just for being Tom Hanks... when: I walk into
my trailer and there's a package sitting on my desk. It's a note and
gift from Tom. The note Reads: 
Doug,
Your confidence and enthusiasm is an inspiration to me during our long
walk
down the Green Mile.
To time well spent-
Tom
The gift is a silver Swiss Aero pocketwatch. Inscribed on the front
is: 
"Percy" 
The Green Mile 
E Block 
Cold Mountain -- 1998 
It's truly one of the most beautiful gifts I've ever received. Back on
the set, I give Tom a big ol' hug and tell him how much the watch
means to me. Apparently, Tom graced Jeffrey, David, and Barry with
gifts as well, as I observe them thanking him too. 
So much for trying to beat the Babe Ruth of generosity at his own game
(actually, I still intend to gi-ve him a token of my appreciation...
but what in the heck does one give Tom Hanks??). 
A word about extras: Bless their enduring, patient, hardworking
spirits. I have never been an extra (unless you count Conightmair...),
but I'm here to tell you that it's mostly hard, tedious, unglamorous
work. Extras are often treated like cattle on movie and TV sets. Even
the term "extras" implies so-mething additional to or not as important
as the main players. Extras are instructed not to fraternize with or
talk to the cast (rumor has it that on the set of My Best Friend's
Wedding, Julia Roberts insi-sted the extras not even look at her
between takes...). At lunch, extras have to wait until everyone else
gets their food first before getting in line. They don't have the
luxury of a trailer or honeywagon and are made to wait in a "holding
area" (often a cafeteria or tent or parking lot...) until they are
needed on set. 
For the most part, the forty-plus extras playing witnesses on The
Green Mile are treated like human beings and made to feel like part of
the family. I attribute this primarily to Frank who directs them
respectfully and thanks them repeatedly for their contribution. Still,
the scene is demanding. The witnesses have to be wet from rain, thus
they're sprayed with water before each take. Rain drips from holes in
the execution chamber roof and onto witnesses unlucky enough to sit
directly beneath them. After a dozen or so takes, these folks are
fairly soaked to the bone (can you imagine what the extras endured on
Titanic???). At the tail end of the scene, the witnesses are directed
to run toward the doors in a mad, panicked rush to exit the chamber.
The floor is extremely slippery from rain. The room is smoky as hell.
The wooden fold-up chairs topple over during every exodus. Some of the
witnesses are elderly -- in their sixties and seventies. I worry
someone's going to trip and fall and twist an ankle or something, but,
thankfully, the witnesses avoid injury and do a bang-up job take after
take. 
About midweek, I've delivered my "execution speech" a bazillion times:
Percy: Eduard Delacroix, you have beencondemned to die by a jury of
your peers, sentence impo-sed by a judg in good standing in this
state. You have anything to say before sentence is carried out?
Del's lines and then: 
Percy:
Electricity shall now be passed through your body until you are dead,
in accordance with state law. have mercy on your soul. 
In between setups, I ask the extras playing witnesses if they're as
sick of hearing my lines as I am saying them. There's laughter and a
collective "Yes!". When I ask if anyone can recite my speech, though,
no one can do it. So I strike a proposal: anyone who can stand up and
recite my Percy- ex-ecution-lines verbatim gets a crisp ten dollar
bill. That night, I get no takers, so I tell everyone to study the
lines and we'll have the contest on the following day. -- The next
morning, we begin the competition. Unbeknownst to me, Hanks has had
giant cue cards constructed with the execution speech printed on them
in bold, black magic marker. He holds them up behind me as I pick the
first volunteer. The witnesses unwittingly expose Tom's prank by
laughing out loud. I turn around to catch Tom trying to discard the
giant cue card. The gig is up. I scold Tom for cheating. Everyone
laughs and applauds Tom's attempts. The contest ensues during the
course of the day (with me kee-ping a wary eye on Hanks and his
damnable cue cards...) and only two out of about a dozen conte-stants
recite the speech verbatim and collect the prize. Each volunteer,
however, win or not, is col-lectively applauded for their efforts by
cast and crew. 
Friday night is Tom Hanks' sushi night two. It's as delicious and
appreciated as it was six Friday nights ago. 
I fall asleep at night and dream of Steven Spielberg standing in the
rain and reciting my execution speech over and over and over again as
Tom Hanks holds up giant cue cards that read: 
Life is like a box of chocolates. 
You never know what you're gonna get.
9/21/98 -- 9/25/98 WEEK TEN: 
Perhaps my character's name should be changed to Percy Bruisemore. I'm
getting my ass whipped in this movie! Every week is a different
chapter in Percy abuse. I walk onto the set and Frank says, "Ready for
some more abuse, Pal?" I say, "It's what I live for, Frank. Let's do
it." --In reading the script five months ago, I realized I was in for
some grabbing, banging, hitting, slamming, slapping, punching, tying,
gagging, pushing, and various forms of degradation and humiliation,
but what I did-n't consider was how many bazillion takes it would take
to shoot each abuse-Percy-scene (ouch, a thousand times, ouch...)! 
Remind me to do, like, Enchanted April II or something for my next
project. 
This week's brutality is a scene involving Hanks, Morse, and DeMunn
ganging up on me, forcing me into a straight jacket, gagging me with a
hanky, slapping a swatch of tape over my mouth, dragging me down the
corridor, throwing me into the restraint room, and locking me inside.
The entire se-quence takes three days to shoot. Just another
thirty-six hours on The Mean Mile, folks. 
When Stephen King arrives it really is as if a King is among us. The
fanfare is electric. The air crac-kles with excitement. The entire set
is abuzz with anticipation of meeting THE KING and, hopefully, getting
a book or script signed by him. --My first impression of King is: he's
so tall. My second im-pression is: he's so thin. I had had an image in
my head of Stephen King as he's appeared in the publi-city shots used
in many of his novels and, for some reason, he seemed heavier, fuller,
in those pho-tos. Maybe it was the Grizzly Adams-esque salt-and-pepper
beard and mustache that he doesn't sport anymore, but THE KING appears
more gaunt than bearish when I see him on the mile in the throes of
conversation with Michael Clarke Duncan (then again, anyone next to
McD would appear less than beefy...). 
Ernie Malik, our PR Rep., introduces me to Stephen King. It's like
meeting God.. I mean, this guy created Percy Wetmore. In fact, the
very world we're living, the very prison we're standing in, the ve-ry
words our characters utter are sole products of Stephen King's fertile
imagination. Before I can even thank him for conceiving me, though,
THE KING is whisked away and swallowed up by a frenzy of more fevered
fans, photo flashbulbs, and rolling TV cameras. 
Frank has a birthday cake prepared for THE KING. The icing is green
and the design is a cover re-plica of book four, "The Bad Death of
Delacroix," in the six-part serial series of The Green Mile. We all
sing "Happy Birthday" to Stephen as the lighted cake is wheeled on a
cart down the mile. After the song, King jokingly yells, "Gosh. You
really do like me!" and Frank responds tongue-in-cheek, "Of course we
do, Stephen. We all have jobs because of you!" --Someone yells, "Make
a wish!" Ste-phen King wishes that our movie is a huge success and
sweeps the academy awards in 2000. He clo-ses his eyes, draws a deep
breath of air and -- call me superstitious, but I'm holding my breath
hoping he blows all the candles out so his wish comes true -- blows
out all the candles to thunderous applau-se. Frank hands THE KING a
knife and asks him to do the honor of cutting the first piece. Stephen
sinks the blade dramatically into Eduard Delacroix's "face" and says,
"Die, Delacroix, die!" Everyone laughs and the caterer serves Green
Mile cake all around. 
My mama and her husband, Kone, fly down from Seattle for a short
visit. I take them to the set. They're beside themselves with
excitement; especially Mama who has lived vicariously through the ups
and downs, highs and lows, successes and disappointments of my
rollercoaster career. Mama prayed for and agonized with me, for
example, during my audition process for The Green Mile and burst into
tears when, after seven weeks of waiting to find out if the part was
mine, I finally called her with the news. My mother has supported me
through thick and thin and so it's a thrill to have the opportunity of
sharing a slice of this dream with her. --On the ride to the studio,
Mama announces that she has a list of friends back in Seattle who want
autographed pics of Tom Hanks. I tell her that we'll give the list to
Tom's assistant, Amy McKenzie, because Tom is inundated with requests
ad nauseum and doesn't need to be burdened on the set while he's
working. Once in the make-up trailer, I introduce Mama and Kone all
around. Mama beelines for Hanks and -- protocol be damned -- pro-ceeds
to list all her friends who are dying for his autographed pic
including a particular friend's se-ven-year-old-boy named Vinnie who
"absolutely adores" him. Puckish Tom doesn't miss a beat. He launches
into a hilarious run-on monologue that goes something like, "Sure I'll
just sign the picture 'Dear Vinnie, I'm happy you adore me because I
am adorable blah blah blah and I appreciate that you buy all of my
movies on VHS and DVD and, gee, keep up the awesome adoration of me
blah blah blah, and, gosh, I am a famous movie star who makes lots of
money for just goofing off and don't you think you should be
worshipping teachers and doctors and firemen, instead, blah blah blah
and...'" --Tom continues firing off his
what-I'll-write-on-my-picture-to-Vinnie monologue and has the entire
make-up trailer in stitches. Afterwards, he says, "Or maybe I should
just write, 'Dear Vinnie, obey your parents. Love, Tom.'" Then, on his
way out, he turns to Mama and says, "Of course I'd be delighted to
sign pictures for your friends. Get me the list and I'll have them for
you by the end of the day." 
If there was an Oscar for making-moms-feel-welcome, Tom Hanks would
win one. 
Barry Pepper and Michael Clarke Duncan would be nominated too. When
Barry is introduced to Mama, he gives her a big hug and welcomes her
to the mile. Afterwards, Mama says, "He's so good looking. I like
him." (Ah, Bar, you hearthrobber, you...). Michael Clarke Duncan picks
up my tiny 4'11'' mother and cradles her in his massive arms for a
picture I must get a copy of for my scrapbook. 
On the set, Mama sits in my chair next to Frank and watches as Hanks,
Morse, and DeMunn bind me in the straightjacket and hustle me into the
restraint room. In between a take I yell, "Help Mama! So, you see how
they're abusing your son??" Mama announces, "I just wish I had had one
of those (Re: straightjacket) when you were a boy.". Everyone laughs. 
Very funny, Mama. 
My mother and Kone are welcomed with open arms on The Green Mile. I
am, once again, overwhelmed by the collective generosity of spirit on
this set from cast and crew alike. 
At the end of the week, Frank presents me with a gift. It's a framed
black- and-white photo of him and The Green Mile guards in our
circa-1930s uniforms 
standing around Steven Spielberg in the electric chair. I look at
myself in the photograph (standing next to Tom Hanks, Frank Darabont
behind me, my left hand on Spielberg's right arm, and David Morse,
Jeffrey DeMunn and Barry Pepper smiling from the other side of Ol'
Sparky...) and I see a little boy -- dressing up, playing
make-believe, standing next to his heroes, imagining big things --
merging with the man, years later, today, holding the ghost of his
childhood in grateful arms. 
That same, night, Tom treats cast and crew to rootbeer
floats...provoking...delicious... ...sweet... ...dreams...
..ZZZZzzzzzzz...
9/28/98-10/2/98 WEEK ELEVEN: 
We move over to stage #4 to shoot the "access tunnel" scenes. This is
where the executed bodies are taken, cleaned up, prepared, and then
wheeled –via tunnel—outside the penitentiary where an am-bulance
awaits to transport them to the morgue. Once again, I marvel at
Terence Marsh and crew’s amazing set design and construction. Inside
the tunnel it feels dank and murky. Our voices seem to bounce and echo
off the faux brick walls. I can almost hear the subterranean drips and
whispering scutters of rodents down here in the bowels of Cold
Mountain. 
Percy abuses of the week: 
Brutal throws me a punch and warden Hal Moores calls me a "Peckerwood"
and "Little Asshole". I have the physical abuse thing down to a
science by now. One here-we-go-again look to our stunt coordinator,
Jeff Imada, and he’s got the spine, elbow, knee, and shin pads at the
ready for strapping onto respective body parts. --The verbal abuse
from James Cromwell, however, is harder to prepare for and stomach.
All I can think is: Christ, that's that loveable, charming Farmer
Hoggett from Babe towering over me and calling me a Little Asshole. It
is surreal. 
My brother, Erik, flies down from Seattle to visit. I take him to the
set. He brings his camera and we take snaps of each other in the
electric chair. Being the younger sibling who used to endure non-stop
teasing and abuse from his older brother when we were kids (For
example, one time I clothes-pinned all ten of his fingers to the
backyard clothesline and left him out there bawling for Mama.
Heh-heh-heh…), Erik watches with unreserved glee the scene where I get
pummeled by David Morse. In fact, he actually cheers David on,
encouraging him to pack his punches a little harder. Wise-ass. I gotta
stop bringing family members to the Mile! Just kidding, of course…
Erik, like Mama, has been a staunch supporter of me and the ol' career
(despite taking crap from me as a kid) so its sweet divina-tion that
he gets to watch big brother Percy-cuted on the set. ---In fact, I’m
curiously tempted to even let him clothespin me to ol’ Sparky if he
wants. 
Tom Hanks’ lovely wife, Rita Wilson, visits the set. She’s a welcome
breath of fresh air down in the dirty, dark, dank depths
(alliteration, anyone?) of the access tunnel. Rita rushes straight for
Tom. He lights up and one thing is crystal-clear: he's very much in
love. They catch-up and then Tom introdu-ces Rita around. I must have
a big, goofy grin plastered all over my Percy face, because I’m
thrilled to meet the "Mrs." She is delightful. As Rita converses with
Frank, I lean over to Tom and say, "She’s adorable." Tom replies,
"Don’t I know it. Yep, I scored big time." Rita eventually pulls up an
apple box and sits in the tunnel just a foot or two from the action.
We plunge back into the scene and for the first time ever, Tom botches
his lines –Twice! I think: I’ll be damned; even Tom Hanks can get
nervous and flustered. The Oscars, the Emmy, the Tonight Show, the
speeches, interviews, and other big ‘star stuff’--maybe they're all a
piece of cake compared to a partner, the person who mat-ters most,
sitting on an apple box a mere foot away, watching you do your thing. 
At one point, I ask James Cromwell to sign my Green Mile script and
copy of Babe. On the script he writes: 
Doug, 
From one Peckerwood to another,
all the best.
On Babe, he writes: 
To Doug, 
Hold on to the Dream.
I am James. I certainly am.
10/2-10/9 WEEK TWELVE 
It's come to the point, dear readers, that I need to begin reluctantly
editing my exploits so I don't un-ravel the story's end and spoil all
the fun for those who haven't read the book. We've been, for the most
part, shooting in sequence and this week's scenes are exploding with
surprise twists and turns that reveal The Green Mile's shocking (pun
intended) conclusion. 
I will report this: Percy abuse (suprise, suprise) abounds. The way I
figure, if this acting thing ever dries ups, I can always do stunt
work or make a fairly lucrative living in the Hollywood S&M scene at
PERCY'S HOUSE OF PAIN--In one particular sequence, Tom Hanks has to
slap me hard enough to knock me over. Tom, bless his heart, is
reluctant to hurt me any more than necessary. We consult prior to the
scene and he asks, "So, how are we gonna do this slap thing?" I reply,
"Tom, don't wor-ry about it. Hit me as hard as ya need to. Make it
look good. Just try not to box my ear." Cameras roll. Tom unwinds and
unwittingly delivers a slap so hard, I see stars! He feels awful.
Despite my efforts to slough it off, I guess Tom's hand-print on the
left side of my face speaks for itself. He in-stinctively pulls his
punches in the following takes and delivers slaps a mosquito would
survive. 
Jeffrey Demunn's good friend, Veronica Hamel, visits the set. She's
even more beautiful in person than I remember her on Hillstreet Blues.
I tell her so. Veronica seems flattered and asks, jokingly, if I'm
married. (at least I think it's a joke....) 
A guest of Frank's, Quentin Tarantino, visits the Mile and hangs with
us for hours. He's friendly, excitable, and loves a good cigar. Out by
the trailers, Michael Clarke Duncan snags me to snap a few photos of
him and Tarantino. Afterwards, the three of us talk Pulp Fiction.
Tarantino shares a story about how Sam Jackson, at his final call-back
for the film, was mistaken for Laurence Fishbourne by an embarrassed
exec. I tell Tarantino about the time our 2nd. camera assistant, Chuck
Katz, taped "Ving Rhames" up on Michael Clarke Duncan's trailer door
as a practical joke and how I followed MCD around all day with a video
cam addressing him as "Mr. Rhames". I think it's hilarious. Taran-tino
laughs. MCD bellows good-naturedly and then, when Tarantino's not
looking, promptly punches me in the shoulder just for good measure.
Ow. 
At the end of a very long week, Hanks treats one and all to yet
another array of sumptuous sushi and, after wrap, David Valdez has
beer and champagne waiting for the cast and crew. 
Next week, we leave the Mile behind temporarily and fly to Nashville,
Tennessee, for location exte-riors, etc. Everyone seems anxious for a
change of pace. I'm sure Nashville will offer adventures, but I'm
gonna miss that shiny, green, linoleum floor, those hollow cells, and
Ol' Sparky. 
In a way, I feel like I'm leaving home. 
I fall asleep at night and dream that I'm gagged and bound. Quentin
Tarantino slaps me--hard!--across the face and Michael Clarke Duncan
yells: "PERCY, I'M GONNA GET MEDIEVAL ON YO' ASS! 
(or was that Ving Rhames...??)
10/12/98 -- 10/16/98 WEEK THIRTEEN: 
I've never had the luxury of flying in a private jet before, so when
Tom Hanks invites me to travel to Nashville via his, well, I'm honored
as hell and just about as excited as a child's first time to
Disney-land. All aboard: Tom Hanks, Michael Clarke Duncan, Jeffrey
DeMunn, Brent Briscoe (playing guard Bill Dodge), Dan Striepeke (Tom's
make-up artist), Barry Pepper, his wife, Cindy, and me. The best way I
can describe the thing is: a limo ride in the sky. The aircraft is
designed to carry about a dozen passengers comfortably. I sit near the
back opposite MCD. Barry, Cindy and Brent share the center unit around
a table. Jeffrey and Dan recline in seats up front and Tom relaxes on
a couch near the front as well. Our flight attendant keeps the merlot,
Heinekens, sodas, and mineral waters flowing. Before takeoff, she
shows MCD the library of vids available for private viewing. I can't
re-sist: 
Me: Any porn? 
Attendant: Um ... sorry, no. 
MCD: You would ask that. 
Me: Hey, when I have my private jet someday, it's gonna be stocked
with porn, okay? 
Jeffrey: Why doesn't that surprise me? 
Me: And how 'bout a Jacuzzi? Can you have a Jacuzzi on a private jet?
And a masseuse? And a sushi chef? And...? 
Hey, if you're gonna dream, dream BIG. Know what I'm sayin'? 
The flight from Burbank to Nashville is approx. four hours. The ride
is sans turbulence, sans noise, and smooth as silk. MCD kicks back
with earphones and watches Assassin (the boy loves action, folks...)
on the portable 6"x6" TV screen attached to his seat. Every now and
again I glance over and catch him excitedly cheering on Sylvester
Stallone. Barry, Cindy, and Brent share in conversation. Tom reads a
magazine. The cover story is something like, "The 25 Top Influential
Men in Holly-wood". I have no doubt he's somewhere in those pages and
on that list. I can't see Jeffrey and Dan from my vantage point, but
Jeffrey's warmhearted laughter floats through the cabin every now and
then. 
I have a gift for Tom and decide to present it to him shortly after
takeoff. It's a 2"x2" rubber mon-key-face puppet that can be
manipulated (via finger holes in the back of its head) into a
menagerie of different expressions. Lemme explain: Back in 1987, I
acted in my first film; a not-so-very-great mo-vie called Fresh Horses
starring Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy. The film was pretty much
critically panned (I recall one scathing review entitled: "Fresh
Horsesh#t"... ouch...). As mediocre as Fresh Horses turned out,
though, there are some redeeming factors. It sure looks great thanks
to a-ward-winning cinematographer, Fred Murphy, and actor Viggo
Mortenson plays a small part in the role of "Green". Viggo is a
helluva an actor and I'm pleased to see him climbing into the ranks of
meatier, starring roles these days. Anyway, one day while on location
in Kentucky, I witnessed Vig-go on the set, sitting in a chair,
playing with said 2"x2" rubber monkey-face puppet. He appeared to be
conversing with the thing. When I asked what the heck he was doing,
Viggo replied, "I'm working with my acting coach. This (re:
monkey-face) is the consummate film actor. It's brilliant. Every
subtle nuance, even just a mere raise of an eyebrow, evokes a
completely different expression / emotion. Watch." Viggo manipulated
Monkey-face into several varieties of hysterical expressions that had
me floored. Admittedly, Monkey- face was the epitome of acting
brilliance. It was a friggin' rubber si-mian Marlon Brando. I was so
impressed, that Viggo was compelled to pass his coveted Monkey-face
mentor on to me. As Viggo handed Monkey-face over, he said solemnly,
"Act well, my son." I, the awed student, felt like Luke Skywalker
accepting some sacred talisman from Obi-Wan Kenobi. --Okay, fast
forward eleven years to The Green Mile. A week ago, I was sharing the
Monkey- face story with David Morse who acted with Viggo in Indian
Runner (a Sean Penn directed flick). The following day, I brought the
puppet onto the set to show David and the boys. Hanks got a particular
charge out of Monkey-face and manipulated some priceless personas from
the thing. Handing it back to me, he said, "My kids would love this. I
could entertain them for hours. Where can I get one?" I didn't know.
But I sure as hell scoured Hollywood to try and find one. No luck.
Viggo Mortenson must have given me the last existing Monkey-face in
the world. It seemed destined that it was now my turn to pass it on.
-- I give Tom Monkey-face and a card (with monkeys on the front)
wherein I wrote: 
Here's to hours of 
monkeying around 
with the kids. 
Tom's delighted. 
As I sit in the plane sipping merlot and gazing out intermittently at
Charmin- esque clouds in a baby-blue sky, I have a curiously morbid
thought: what if this thing goes down and we all die in the crash
(what would happen to the movie??)? On the heels of that speculation,
I'm filled with a Jeff-Bridges- in-Fearless-like Zen calmness. If we
crashed, Castle Rock and our loved ones would suffer the loss; but on
a purely selfish note, if I was killed this very moment, I'd die a
happy man in the midst of my dream. And what a way to go. Y'know? 
Fortunately, the jet lands safely and we are all shuttled to our
hotels in downtown Nashville. We shoot exteriors at The Old Tennessee
State Prison. Built in 1898 from convict labor, the penitentiary
became so overcrowded over the years that at one point, the
claustrophobic 9'x6' cells (meant for two prisoners) were shared by
three, sometimes four inmates. With no air- conditioning or decent
cross-breeze, the prison became a virtual hothouse in the sweltering
southern summers. The Pen was also home to one of the first electric
chairs ever built. When a death row inmate was executed, all
electricity was shut down and the prison plunged into a silent,
ominous darkness. In a building adja-cent to the penitentiary, a giant
generator would eventually hum to life sending the necessary cur-rents
to juice up Ol' Sparky. --Around 1987, a full-scale prison riot ensued
injuring several inmates and two guards. Shortly thereafter, the near
century-old Pen became too difficult and expensive for the state to
maintain. It was more cost effective to transfer prisoners to newer,
contemporary faciliti-es. By 1991, The Old Tennessee State Prison was
completely evacuated and has stood empty ever since. It was used in
the movie Alcatraz and, more recently, for Sharon Stone's film, Last
Dance. The Old State Prison was also considered for Shawshank
Redemption, but Frank and crew shot at a pe-nitentiary in Ohio
instead. 
Approached from the winding access road, The Old Tennessee State
Prison resembles more a gothic castle or fortress than a penitentiary.
It's actually, for lack of a better description, quite breathtaking.
In fact, from a distance, with its cathedral-esque spires and giant
arch windows, the prison seems less intimidating than compelling. It's
a beautiful piece of architecture. Apparently, the original red brick
exterior has been painted an ashen beige color to give the prison more
of an institutional texture for The Green Mile (using 44,000 gallons
of paint for the job!). 
Out on the grounds, hundreds of extras are dressed in circa 1930s
black-and- white zebra-striped chain gang uniforms. Ankles bound by
heavy duty leg irons, they toil the fields with pickaxes and shovels.
Mules pull plows and wagons of rocks and dirt. More extras, dressed in
guard garb, tote ri-fles and ride on horses under the hot sun. Old
Model-Ts sit in the parking lot. It's as if we've stepped through a
time warp. 
Frank is in his glory running around and shouting direction through a
megaphone. The past three months on the mile were directorially
challenging, but it must be an extra rush to orchestrate such huge
exterior shots with hundreds of extras and crane cameras swooping down
into the action, etc. Moving from the intimacy of the studio to the
great outdoors of a location, suddenly it feels like we're shooting a
BIG HOLLYWOOD PRODUCTION (and I know Franks just been chomping at the
bit to use his beloved megaphone!). 
As for my part, the first day consists of riding back and forth and
back and forth for several hours in the "Cold Mountain State
Penitentiary" paddy wagon as we establish transporting John Coffey to
"E" block. After shooting in a semblance of sequence over the past
twelve weeks, it's quite an adjustment to crank back the wheels of
time in my head and place myself at the very beginning of The Green
Mile. It feels like a day and forever ago that I was leading a chained
Michael Clarke Dun-can down the "E" block corridor and yelling out my
first lines of dialogue, "Dead man walking!" --I'm here to tell ya,
though, that after months of the Percy abuse, it's damn refreshing to
ride around in a paddy wagon all friggin' day... damn refreshing... 
I fall asleep at night and dream that I'm traveling somewhere in my
own private jet. Watching a porn flick on TV, I'm momentarily
distracted by thousands of convicts outside my window and far down in
the fields below. They're wearing black-and-white zebra-striped chain
gang uniforms and swinging pickaxes. At one point, they all look up at
me simultaneously and their heads are a sea of grinning 2"x2" rubber
Monkey-faces(!).
10/19/98 -- 10/23/98 WEEK FOURTEEN: 
Sam Rockwell and I explore The Old Tennessee State Prison's death row
cellblock. There's the bad smell of an unkempt zoo inside -- dankness,
urine and funk. We walk into one of the several tiny claustrophobic
cells. Within, are two steel-frame twin bunks bolted to the floor and
wall (one on top of the other) and an open, lidless, stainless steel
toilet. That's it. No windows. No light. No view but for the crumbling
stained limestone wall across the corridor. I swear, if I had to live
in that place for more than a week, I'd forge a handmade shank and
stab myself to death or pray that my execution came Godspeed. To heck
with stays, delays, and life imprisonment. Step into one of those
cells for but a brief moment and all you want is out. --Way down at
the far end of the block, is the execution chamber. The chair is gone,
but its foundation remains as does the ventilation shaft above and the
stenciled wire-attachment instructions on the wall that spell out
"head, left leg, back", etc. As I stand on the concrete foundation
where the chair stood, I imagine the dark ghosts of the executed
swirling around the room. The feeling in here is heavy. I have a pit
in my stomach and a sour taste in the back of my throat. It's almost
as if I can feel the remnant currents of fear and the lingering dregs
of death in this place. It's creepy as hell. 
Outside and under the sun, prison exterior shots continue. Poor Sam
has to sit in the back of "The Cold Mountain Penitentiary" paddy wagon
and breathe endless exhaust fumes as we speed down a dirt road take
after ever lovin' take. The paddy's no limo, and Sam, butt planted on
a splintery woo-den bench in the back, endures some bone-rattling
impact as we bounce over potholes, rocks, and gravel. To make matters
worse, later in the day, I keep threatening to spike Sam's drool
mixture (a concoction of raw egg and petroleum jelly) with a dash or
two of Tabasco sauce (heh-heh). Each time Lois hands him the paper
cup, Sam throws me a suspicious look and then carefully sniffs and
inspects the drool before taking his obligatory gulpful. 
As the day winds down, I witness a glorious, orangey sunset melting
into the pink horizon just beyond the prison grounds and think: the
inmates here couldnt've seen this. The walls are too high. To never
enjoy a sunset again -- imagine that. 
Leaving the set one evening, George, the local guard posted at the
entrance of the prison, stops me and says, "Hey, are you who I think
you are?" I reply, "I don't know. Who do you think I am?" George's
eyes go sly and he says, "You're Percy, aren't you?" I smile and say,
"Caught me." After formal introductions, George produces his paperback
copy of The Green Mile for my autograph and then invites me to tour
the Riverbend Maximum Security Prison. George offers to arrange it
with the warden if I'm interested. I am. 
Riverbend Max-Sec Prison is hell on Earth. Just the sheer
institutional cold order of the place is enough to send chills up the
spine. The prison is true to title: it's maximum secured alright. Not
one, but two 12'-high fences run the circumference of the Pen. Spirals
of razor-wire are coiled around the tops. Just in case you're an
attempted escapee who's superhumanly able to bound over two fences
topped with razor blades, there are underground motion detectors
between fences one and two that, when triggered, set off alarms. In
the main security station, officers can zero in on your every move via
an electronic "map" whereupon you are a flashing red light. If you
have any brilliant notions of escaping in the back of a prison laundry
truck (like you often see in the movies...), your chances are slim to
none. An officer scans every vehicle exiting the Pen with a "heartbeat
detector" that, I'm in-formed, is sensitive enough to pick up the
minute heartbeat of a mouse. And how much does this high-tech security
cost the good taxpayers of Tennessee State? Approximately $36,000. a
year per inmate. There are a total of 714 prisoners currently at
Riverbend (you do the math). All of them are doing time for hard-core
crimes and are considered "high-risk inmates". Ninety-six are on death
row. The cons spend twenty-three hours a day locked inside their
9'x12' dorm-like cubicles. They're al-lowed one hour per day to spend
outside in a large cage. 
Captain Dan Strickland and his fellow officers are my gracious tour
guides. They seem genuinely excited to have a "celebrity" at their
facility. Captain Dan, who is admittedly a huge X-Files fan, ap-pears
particularly pleased as punch to meet and walk "Tooms" through his
workplace. The Captain is very un- 
Percy-like. In fact, he blows any
Hollywood-tough-ass-screw-boss-stereotype right out of the water.
Captain Dan seems a genuine, soft-spoken, compassionate and
fair-minded family man. There's no swagger in his walk, no throwing
his weight around and no apparent desire to glorify his position or
rank. He works in a prison and deals with 714 hard-core convicts every
day. That's what he does. It's his job. Period. I ask the Captain if
it ever gets hairy in here with uncooperative, unruly prisoners. He
replies matter- of-factly, "Oh yeah," and then relates a recent
incident where a violent inmate, who had to be restrained, viscously
spat in Dan's face. When asked how an officer deals with convicts
spitting in his face, the Captain shrugs and says, "You wipe it off,
take a deep breath, and move on." Restraining violent cons, putting
out inmate-instigated fires, searching cells for and confiscating
ma-keshift weapons, enduring repeated verbal abuse, watching your back
-- it's all in a day's work for the officers at Riverbend Max-Sec
Prison. At Forty-three, Captain Dan Strickland has been in the prison
business for twenty-three years and, besides the spitting incident,
has fortunately avoided any major physical harm and life-threatening
situations to date. Knock on wood. 
Despite the hostile atmosphere and possibility of violence, the
correctional officers at Riverbend ap-pear to enjoy their work.
There's a good share of joking, teasing and laughter between them. If
this jovial camaraderie seems a bit strange or unusual for such a
serious place, I'm quickly reminded by one of the officers that "You
gotta keep your sense of humor in here. Otherwise, it can get damn
de-pressing." --I'm politely corrected by another officer that they
are, indeed, "officers" when I mi-stakenly use the term "guard". Oops.
I apologize and attempt a nice save by reminding them that I'm in
Green Mile mode where, six decades ago, the term was "prison guard,"
y'know. The Riverbend officers graciously let my faux pas slide. 
Touring the execution chamber, despite coaxing and chiding from
George-The- Old-State-Pen guard, I can't consent to sit in the
electric chair and get my picture taken. It seems, in an odd sense,
somehow disrespectful. I mean, The Green Mile's fiction, folks. This
is the real McCoy. Call me a wimp, but I just can't park my butt in
that chair and say "cheese". It gives me the willies. I sense, though,
that my reluctance is somewhat disappointing to my hosts (and
extremely un-Percy of me, I might add), so I agree to stand next to
the chair and take pics with the others who seem to have no qualms at
all about sitting and smiling in the arms of Ol' Sparky. 
I fall asleep at night and dream that I'm strapped into the electric
chair. George-the-guard stands be-fore me and says, "Who the hell do
you think you are??" I reply in a cold sweat, "I'm... I'm Percy. Percy
Wetmore." George morphs into a slobbering, grinning, drooling,
Sam-Rockwell-as-Wild-Bill who yells, "Whew! Sho' is gettin' hot in
here!!" and proceeds to shake a bottle of Tabasco sauce all over
me(!).
10/26/98 -- 10/30/98 WEEK FIFTEEN: 
After two weeks in Nashville with a light work load and way too much
time on my hands (I mean, you can only go to so many strip clubs with
Michael Clarke Duncan, y'know?), I'm hankering to get back to
Hollywood if even for a few brief days. Hanks satisfies my hankerin'
(heh-heh) by offering me a seat on his private jet to fly back to L.A.
with him, Bonnie Hunt and Dan Striepeke. I gratefully accept. 
Bonnie Hunt should be a mom. Besides her incredible quick wit and
sparkling sense of humor, Bon-nie has an innate mothering instinct
that both endears her and makes everyone around her feel, well, taken
care of. She can walk into a room and one feels immediately embraced
by her inclusive energy and disarmed by her charm. Bonnie's a
cornucopia of funny stories and anecdotes about her adventu-res in
showbiz. On the way to the airstrip, she entertains Dan and me with a
story about how she on-ce auditioned with Michael Keaton. All through
the audition, as she was reading with Keaton, Bon-nie had to stifle
gags because, as she puts it, "Michael smelled like shit!". She
couldn't wait for the meeting to end so she could get the hell out of
the room and away from smelly Keaton. In her car on the way home,
Bonnie claims Keaton smelled so bad that she was still catching whiffs
of that pun-gent stink when she looked down to discover a smear of
dog-doo on her shoe. Mortified, Bonnie realized it wasn't Keaton, but
her that smelled like shit in the audition! 
On the jet back to our hiatus in Hollywood, Tom keeps us amused with
humorous tales from his ad-ventures on Turner & Hooch and Dragnet.
After dinner, I kick back for a nap and Bonnie -- in mega mom mode --
fluffs my pillow and tucks me in under a warm blanket (okay, she's too
young to be my mom, but maybe I can adopt Bonnie as my surrogate
overprotective sister...). 
A few days back home in familiar surroundings and sleeping in my own
bed, etc., is a slice of heaven. I pack my partner/sweetheart,
Kathleen, in my return flight bag to Nashville. I'm delighted she can
join me and, once again, thrilled for the opportunity to share Green
Mile dreams with a loved one. Kathleen's been my right hand over the
past three and a half months while I've been busy on the mile. Her
support and hard work have been invaluable (in fact, if not for
Kathleen -- who types out and submits my journal to the website --,
you wouldn't be reading this excerpt, right now...). --A virgin to
private jets, Kathleen's as tickled pink about flying HanksAir for her
first time as I was. We have a happy and safe flight back to Nashville
with Tom, Bonnie and Dan. After a sumptuous Chinese buf-fet dinner,
Bonnie puts on her maternal apron and helps the flight attendant clean
up the dishes. 
Continuing filming at The Old Tennessee State Prison, I meet Bailey
and Evanne Drucker, the two adorable blonde-haired angels playing the
"Detterick girls". Bailey and Evanne are sisters. The girls are six or
seven-years-old and cute as buttons. When I introduce myself as the
actor playing "Percy," Bailey scrunches up her nose and says, "Oh,
you're the guy who steps on the mouse. You're bad.". I try to defend
myself. "Hey, I just step on a measly mouse, 'fer cryin' out loud, Sam
Rockwell's playing the real bad guy." Bailey throws a look at her
sister. They're not buying it. Stepping on Mr. Jingles is, apparently,
a hard-core crime amongst the kiddies. I guess it's a little like
squashing Mic-key Mouse or killing Kermit-The-Frog or bludgeoning
Barney to death. I'm sure I can kiss a guest appearance on Sesame
Street good-bye once The Green Mile comes out (maybe Beavis & Butthead
will have me, though...). 
Wrapping it up at the prison, I bid farewell to George-the-guard and
ask how everyone's doing at ol' Riverbend. George informs me that
Captain Dan Strickland is in the hospital after being assaulted by an
inmate. I'm rocked by the news. I try to contact the Captain via
phone. After a series of attempts, I finally hear from Captain Dan. He
fills me in on what happened. Apparently, after ordering a
strip-search on a particularly malevolent con who set fire to his bed,
the good Captain turned to exit the cell and the inmate rushed him and
jumped on his back. Dan was sent smashing into the wall and onto the
floor before the other officers could react and intervene. The Captain
was rushed to the ho-spital and treated for back and neck injuries and
eventually sent home where he's recovering on sick-leave. --We both
marvel at how, just last week, Captain Dan informed me that in
twenty-three years as a prison official he'd never been physically
assaulted by an inmate. I express relief that the incident hadn't been
worse and that the good Captain is blessedly alive to tell the tale.
God forbid the con had had a shank. 
Life is like a box of chocolates.
11/2/98 -- 11/6/98 WEEK SIXTEEN: 
Gary Sinise plays a cameo in the role of Burt Hammersmith, the
prosecuting attorney at John Cof-fey's trial. He has one scene with
Hanks wherein he extrapolates about the unpredictability of violent
nature. It's an engaging speech and I can't think of anyone better
than Sinise to chew it up. He's one of my favorite actors. --I met
Sinise years ago when I auditioned for him for Of Mice and Men. I'm
sure he wouldn't remember me. As it turned out, he did. In between
camera setups on a breathtaking Tennessee farmland location, Tom Hanks
introduces me to Sinise. We converse: 
Sinise: I swear I know you from somewhere. 
Me: I auditioned for Of Mice and Men. 
Sinise: That's it. The role of "Curly," right? 
Me: Yep. 
Sinise: I remember. You were good. 
Tom pipes in with a dash of puck: 
Hanks: So, Gar, why didn't ya cast him, huh? 
[TOM!!?] 
Before day's end, I ask Sinise to sign my script. He writes: 
Doug,
Hopefully, someday, we'll
be in a scene together.
Good luck, Buddy!
-Gary Sinise
As Gary hands back my script, Hanks gives me a basset hound look and
says: 
Hanks: Don't you want me to sign your script, too? 
Me: (tongue-in-cheek): Not really. 
Hanks: (acting hurt) Well, why not? 
Me: C'mon, Tom. You sign a bazillion autographs. Do you really need to
do another one? 
Hanks: Well, I'd like to... 
Me: Oh, geez, alright, if it'll make you happy. Here. 
I hand my script to Tom. He scribbles something and gives it back. I
read what he wrote. It's unbe-lievably touching: 
To Doug –
I have learned from you.
Your great admirer,
-Tom Hanks 
Wow. 
I mean: WOW. 
Kathleen and I go to see a double feature of Apt Pupil and What Dreams
May Come at the Nashville Regal 27 Cinemas (that's twenty-seven movie
screens, folks...). After loading up on popcorn and so-das at the
concession counter, we walk down the lengthy corridor toward our
designated theater. On either side of us are posters for current and
upcoming films. I'm tickled pink to pass movie ads for my fellow Green
Milers... The Negotiator (hey, David Morse is in that...), The X-Files
Movie (hey, Jeffrey DeMunn's in that...), Enemy of the State (hey,
Barry Pepper's in that...), Soldier (hey, David Tattersal -- our
brilliant DP -- shot that...), Babe 2 (hey, James Cromwell...), You've
Got Mail (the-re's Tom). --Now, lemme reveal something for you out
there who've never had the blessing/curse of climbing up that
struggling-actor-ladder-of- hope. There have been countless times
during my jour-ney when I've walked into a movie theater, looked at
poster ads, watched teasers for upcoming fea-tures, wanting (and not
yet having) my name/face on said posters/previews/movies. It's not a
grand thing to admit, but filmgoing was often a manic-depressive,
schizophrenic, teeter-totter experience for me (I'm gonna be up on
that screen someday...I'll never be up on that screen someday... I'm
gon-na be... I'll never be... I'm gonna... I'll... never... be...).
Apparently, I've not been alone. Other strug-glers, wannabes, and
hopefuls have thrashed in those longing waters too. I read an
interview, for example, where a pre-Silence of the Lambs Anthony
Hopkins confessed that he used to drive down Sunset Blvd., look up at
all those movie billboards not featuring him and inwardly scream,
"WHEN IS IT MY TURN???! -- Well, after many years of persistence,
perseverance, patience, phaith (the four "P"s of dream-chasing) and
grappling with those damnable dragons of doubt, I can now,
re-freshingly, walk through movie theaters and relish the experience
without reserve. Soon, posters for The Green Mile (hey, Doug
Hutchison's in that...) will grace the walls and I can look at them
with a tickle of pink and inwardly scream, "YES!" 
But, for now, back to work (or play -- depending on your
perspective...)... 
Our last location is The Middle Tennessee Mental Health Institute, an
ancient, abandoned psychiatric hospital that sits on acres of
beautiful, manicured land on the periphery of Nashville. Like The Old
State Penitentiary, The Institute exudes a gothic, ghostly atmosphere.
Under a steel-gray sky, the empty, faded red-bricked, bar-windowed
buildings appear haunting, hollow, and forgotten. The weather has
turned a chilly November and adds to the Shining-esque ambiance of the
place. You can see your breath. The oak tree leaves scattered among
the institute's expansive lawns lie rusty, yellow and dead. The season
of change is upon us. We're near the end. 
The Middle Tennessee Health Institute serves as a Green Mile setting
for "Briar Ridge Mental Ho-spital" where guards -- Dean, Harry and
Percy --pick up a drooling "Wild Bill" Wharton to transfer him to
"Cold Mountain Penitentiary". The day's shooting is accelerated and
fierce since, if we can fi-nish everything and wrap before sundown, we
can all travel back to Hollywood a day earlier than planned (and,
after a month on location, everyone is pining to go home...). --Sam
Rockwell, as it turns out, suffers the brunt of discomfort, today. For
a good chunk of the shoot, he stands naked-as-a- jaybird under a
flimsy hospital gown opened and split up the back (and I'm here to
tell ya: it's dang cold in that nut house, y'all...). Sam's a trooper,
though, and doesn't even complain when he has to disrobe completely
(nice derriere, Sambo...) so we can redress him in his sporty
zebra-striped jailbird duds. --Despite the impending rush of the day,
there's still allotted time for some clowning around when Sam drips
stringy gobs of drool onto Barry Pepper as Barry stoops down in an
attempt to dress said drooler. During his close-up, Barry's hat is
splotched with puddles of goo much to the chagrin of hands-on dresser,
Lis Bothwell, who has to anti-drool Barry's uniform between takes. Lis
is not amused, but Jeffrey, Sam, Barry and I are punch-drunk with
giggles and every time our poor put-upon dresser exclaims, "It's not
funny, guys," we laugh that much harder. 
By miracle of The Green Mile Gods, we manage to meet our deadline and
wrap out before sundown. 
We'll return to Hollywood for our last leg of shooting on the mile... 
I fall asleep at night and dream I'm walking down The Green Mile
corridor. On either side of me, be-hind the bars and in the cells, are
various ads for movies past, present, and future. I pass one cell with
a poster for Silence of the Lambs. Anthony Hopkins is in there, too.
He beckons me to come "closer...closer..." and, as I walk toward him,
Hopkins pulls Mr. Jingles out of his mouth (!). He hands the mouse to
me and says: 
"Mice dream, kid."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
--
Saluti, Kap
ALM Corp. Vaccagher Inside!
Transcendency Div. - Managing Director
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Firma progettata in collaborazione con Tagz e PP

the Green Mile journal is copyright protected to DarkwaterI Inc. and
should not have been posted here without permission of the author
Doug Hutchison. The journal is on Doug's official site at
www.doughutchison.com
.
Please do not repost the journal on any news groups or websites
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Please do not repost the journal on any news groups or websites
Mi hanno fatto un cazziatone... Perň sono stati gentili...
Chiedo a scusa anche qui per la violazione involontaria del
Copyright...
--
Saluti, Kap
ALM Corp. Vaccagher Inside!
Transcendency Div. - Managing Director
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*Press any key except... no, No, NO, NOT THAT ONE!


Copyright...
Chiedo scusa anche io, soprattutto a te...pero' adesso il sito funziona, e
ci sono anche le ultime due settimane :)))
Ciao
Stefania

dr2...@my-dejanews.com
 ha scritto nel messaggio
<MEGA-CAZZIATONE>
Raga , d'ora in avanti evitiamo di pubblicare qualsiasi cosa protetta da
copyright...il cazziatone potrebbe essere moooolto piu' pesante se le opere
suddette fossero in vendita  (tipo che il diario lo vendevano in rete a tot
$)...
Se avete qualcosa di interessante da proporre , fate come ha fatto Stefania
: ditelo sul NG e mandatelo in mail a chi fosse interessato...
Ciao
Lars
            Lars Ulrich
"Row row row your boat
 Gently down the stream
 Merrily merrily merrily merrily
 Life is but a dream "
 THE FOURHORSEMEN STILL RIDE AND KICK ASS
                   GODS OF METAL dalle 14 in poi...
Sabato 5 Giugno METALLICA -DEATH- FEAR FACTORY
Domenica 6 Giugno MOTORHEAD -MANOWAR- ANGRA
             AreaEstiva-FORUM-Assago/Milano
            -  CLIFF IS ALWAYS BETWEEN US -

: ditelo sul NG e mandatelo in mail a chi fosse interessato...
Č colpa mia che non sapevo fosse coperto da copyright...
Se ho fatto tutto giusto, ho eliminato il messaggio da dejanews...
--
Saluti, Kap
ALM Corp. Vaccagher Inside!
Transcendency Div. - Managing Director
**********************************************************************
*Press any key except... no, No, NO, NOT THAT ONE!


Se ho fatto tutto giusto, ho eliminato il messaggio da dejanews...
Non ci sono riuscito. Qualcuno sa come fare per eliminare un messaggio
da Dejanews di un mittente con un indirizzo di posta falso?
--
Saluti, Kap
ALM Corp. Vaccagher Inside!
Transcendency Div. - Managing Director
**********************************************************************
*Press any key except... no, No, NO, NOT THAT ONE!
