Brushes With Greatness, Part 2: Show Me Your Middle Finger

Posted by Barry M. Grey Dec 19, 2008

Interviewing celebrities can be fun. Well, sometimes.

Oh, it's usually cordial. But remember that the friendly rapport, bonhomie and spirit of connection last as long as a feathery white dandelion in the summer breeze.

It doesn't really take much to reveal a celebrity's real face.

Jasmine Guy

Remember the Cosby Show spinoff A Different World?After it left the air in the mid-90s, Jasmine Guy -- who'd starred in the latter -- was still able to parlay her celebrity into occasional TV guest shots.

I needed to interview her about something or other -- who the hell remembers?

She refused a formal request for a sit-down; her publicist told my talent booker at E! that we could catch up with the wildly popular Miss Guy at some red carpet event.

Not an ideal arrangement, but we agreed anyway.

Meantime, another producer on an unrelated project asked if I could put a couple of questions to Miss Guy on her behalf. I said sure, no problem.

The Big Night arrived. Miss Guy's quintessentially arrogant publicist stuck her nose high in the air when I introduced myself. I hated that crap, but I was used to the bad behavior of these self-important gatekeepers.

I casually mentioned to her the innocuous, unrelated questions from the other producer.

This propelled the woman into an eye-bulging, fire-breathing, Deathstar-obliterating fit. How dare I "spring" this on her? Who did I think I was? What did I think I was trying to pull? Ad nauseum.

It was everything I could do not to roll my eyes and laugh out loud.

Just then, another functionary arrived with the illustrious Miss Guy Herself. The Star would not shake my hand. Nor make eye contact. No acknowledgement at all.

The publicist briefed her on the outrageous request for three additional, harmless, un-vetted questions on an unrelated subject.

Miss Guy's face was a mask of pure contempt. She still refused to acknowledge me, even though I stood inches from her and gazed directly into her rage-filled eyes.

The two women stood there weighing the whole awful situation, as if I didn't 'exist. Finally, the publicist spoke for her fabulously talented charge: "Your questions are fine. The others are out."

Michael Keaton

It's1998. I'm at the actor's ranch in Montana. My two-man freelance video crew is setting up for a lengthy interview. Keaton pulls me out of the house, onto an adjoining deck.

I reassure the anxious star I have are no shocker questions.

Then he reveals what's really on his mind:

Was I going to reveal his age?

I explained that early in the show, narration would state he was born in Pittsburgh in 1951. That sent Michael Keaton into full freakout mode.

Why, he asked with an edge in his voice, did I need to reveal the year?

Because, I said meekly -- concerned he'd pull the plug on the interview -- it's my job to tell someone's life story. How can I do that if I don't even mention a subject's year of birth? Besides, if I didn't, my supervisor surely would ask why such a salient fact wasn't in the script.

Steam rose from his collar. His eyes became cauldrons of blood. I envisioned him burying me in a remote patch of the ranch's lower 40.

I wondered why, other than pure unadulterated vanity, did he care?

After 10 minutes of thrust and parry, he finally explained he was up for a role he really wanted -- but if the producer learned his age (47 at the time), he'd lose any shot at the part.

To placate him and salvage the interview, I promised to ask my boss about dropping 1951 altogether.

The interview proceeded. But he was tight-lipped, high-strung, wary, vaguely hostile.

Once back in L.A., he called me personally to again lobby against 1951 -- which, for celebrities, is nearly unheard of. The guy just wouldn't quit.

That same week, I telephoned my Montana-based cameraman,. He said the minute I'd left Keaton's ranch, Michael heaved a big sigh of relief, remarked, "Okay, the schmuck is gone. Now we can relax," and invited the crew to hang out. Which they did.

Putz. I had done everything possible to put Keaton at ease, with the sole exception I couldn't promise to compromise my show by omitting a fundamental bit of information.

And in the show, the audience learned Michael Keaton was born in Pittsburgh. In 1951.

Actually, Keaton should be grateful to me. I've never mentioned to anyone that, up close, his hair plugs looked really obvious and kind of stupid.

David Crosby

While still at E!, I went to the Shrine Auditorium one morning to shoot a piece about preparations for that year's Grammy Awards.

We were grabbing all kinds of random shots. Sitting on steps outside the entrance were two people engaged in a warm, thoughtful conversation. I asked my cameraman to quietly get a grab shot of the two -- David Crosby and Bonnie Raitt.

Figured it'd be a nice image to include in the piece; they obviously were on a break between rehearsals.

Before I knew it, Crosby began ranting. I turned to find he was raging at me! We media types are all the same, he screeched. Had no respect for peoples' privacy, he bellowed. Who the f--- did we think we were?, he raged.

The only thing missing was white foam around his mouth.

I calmly explained we just wanted a shot of them together, that we meant no harm and weren't going to use any audio.

But Crosby had that Charles Manson look in his eyes. If witnesses hadn't been around, I'm convinced he would've tried to deck me. Unless, of course, he was packing heat...

Having previously interviewed Bonnie Raitt, I knew she was extremely insecure about her looks. I wondered if Crosby was being Sir Walter Raleigh -- protecting her against infidels who would put her un-made-up face and hair on TV.

I called off my shooter and tried to apologize. Crosby was having none of it, threatening to have us forcibly removed from the property.

Putz.