On the set of 'The Canyons' in Los Angeles last summer: Amanda Brooks, Lindsay Lohan and Paul Schrader. Credit Jeff Minton for The New York Times Lindsay Lohan moves through the Chateau Marmont as if she owns the place, but in a debtor-prison kind of way. She’ll soon owe the hotel $46,000. Heads turn subtly as she slinks toward a table to meet a young producer and an old director. The actress’s mother, Dina Lohan, sits at the next table. Mom sweeps blond hair behind her ear and tries to eavesdrop. A few tables away, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man patiently waits for the actress.
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He has a stack of presents for her. Lohan sits down, smiles and skips the small talk. “Hi, how are you? I won’t play Cynthia.
I want to play Tara, the lead.” Braxton Pope and Paul Schrader nod happily. They’d been tipped off by her agent that this was how it was going to go. They tell her that sounds like a great idea. Schrader thinks she’s perfect for the role. Not everyone agrees.
Schrader wrote “Raging Bull” and “Taxi Driver” and has directed 17 films. Still, some fear Lohan will end him. There have been house arrests, car crashes and ingested white powders. His own daughter begs him not to use her. A casting-director friend stops their conversation whenever he mentions her name. And then there’s the film’s explicit subject matter.
Full nudity and lots of sex. Definitely NC-17. His wife, the actress Mary Beth Hurt, didn’t even finish the script, dismissing it as pornography after 50 pages.
She couldn’t understand why he wanted it so badly. But Schrader was running out of chances. His last major opportunity was about a decade ago, when he was picked to direct a reboot of “The Exorcist.” He told an interviewer, “If I don’t completely screw that up, it might be possible for me to end my career standing on my own feet rather than groveling for coins.” A few months later, he was replaced by the blockbuster director Renny Harlin, who reshot the film.
Renny Harlin! Schrader is now 65 and still begging for coins.
Advertisement Pope, dressed in a checked shirt and skinny tie, looks like a producer. His fingers are constantly, frantically, scanning his iPhone. In the fall of 2011, he connected Schrader with Bret Easton Ellis, whose grisly satires brought him early notoriety and who had lately turned to screenwriting. The three were set to make “Bait,” a shark thriller, based on a screenplay Ellis wrote, but the Spanish financing vaporized. Schrader suggested they do something on the cheap that didn’t look cheap.
Pope worked his connections with Lohan’s agent, and that’s why she is sitting here on this spring day. Ellis is noticeably absent, holed up less than a mile away waging one of his frequent Twitter wars.
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(He has mounted social-media jihads against David Foster Wallace, J. Salinger and Kathryn Bigelow.) He thinks Lohan is wrong for the part, especially if she’s cast opposite the porn star he courted online. But he spent all his capital getting his man cast. Also, his condo is under water. Ellis will give in. Schrader, Pope and Lohan talk details. The film, “The Canyons,” has a microbudget, maybe $250,000.
Ellis, Pope and Schrader are putting up $30,000 apiece. The rest will be raised on Kickstarter with promises of cameos, script reviews and — for the low, low price of $10,000 — the money clip that Robert DeNiro gave Schrader on the set of “Taxi Driver.” There will be no studio looking over their shoulders offering idiot notes.
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The actress will get $100 a day and an equal share of the profits, but no vote in decision-making. This last clause is nonnegotiable.
Schrader goes over some ground rules; no trailers on set and one contractually obligated, four-way sex scene. Oh, another thing, Schrader adds: he will not try to sleep with her. This was probably a more relevant point in 1982, but no matter. Lohan stands up and says goodbye, telling everyone how excited she is to be working with them. She leaves the restaurant, followed by her mother and the mysterious man with the presents. Back at the table, Pope straightens his tie and exhales.
Guide officiel final fantasy 13. He turns to Schrader and asks a simple question. “What do you think?” Schrader knows he should be terrified, but he’s as giddy as the son of dour Calvinists can be. “I think this is going to work.” If Schrader wasn’t worried about Lohan’s reputation, it might be because he is familiar with dysfunction. As a boy, his mother showed him what hell felt like by shoving a needle into his thumb.
His father lobbied to prevent “The Last Temptation of Christ,” a film his son wrote, from playing in their hometown, Grand Rapids, Mich. After his father died, Schrader found that he owned VHS tapes of all of his films, but none of them had been opened. In his 20s, Schrader slept with a gun under his pillow because he could fall asleep only if he knew there was a way out. Now he never travels without thousands of dollars in the currency of half a dozen countries. Schrader is convinced he can manage Lohan.
He thinks he has seen it all. Thirty years ago, he directed an alcoholic George C. Scott in “Hardcore.” One day, Scott wouldn’t come out of his trailer. He called Schrader into his booze-soaked sanctuary.
Advertisement Schrader could talk a good game, but it was Pope who would have to implement the plan. Pope suggested making “The Canyons” the most open film ever. There would be daily Facebook updates, and the cast would be made up entirely of actors selected from audition tapes sent to the movie’s Web site.
Pope argued that this populist approach could be applied to financing as well. He explained Kickstarter to Schrader: all they had to do was come up with some good prizes, and kids of all ages would pledge money online to be associated with artist outlaws like Schrader and Ellis. Soon, the film was offering donors a Schrader script-critique for $5,001 and a week working out with Ellis and his trainer for $3,000. In a month, they raised more than $150,000. Ellis cranked out a first draft in six weeks. He had recently become fascinated with James Deen, a 26-year-old known as the Porn Star Next Door. Deen, whose real name is Bryan Matthew Sevilla, is the Jewish son of Pasadena rocket scientists — really.
His 4,000 films have gained him a cult of female fans because he is well endowed and sensitive. But Ellis didn’t see Deen as harmless. He wrote the script with Deen in his head for the role of Christian, a classic Ellis sociopathic trust-funder, convinced there “was a devil behind the Jewish boy-next-door cute guy.” Ellis’s Christian liked to bring men and women to his Malibu mansion for sex with Tara, his emotionally and economically dependent girlfriend. Christian and Tara would be caught in a sordid triangle with Ryan, a not-bright but cunning pretty-boy actor. There would be sex and a murder and more sex.
Ellis and Deen exchanged flirty tweets as he wrote and the two met for dinner at Soho House in Los Angeles. Afterward, Ellis was even more convinced that Deen was perfect for Christian.
Schrader had his doubts, concerned about trying to break bad habits learned over thousands of porn movies. Ellis countered that the other actors read the part with a certain campiness; only Deen read it with the correct malevolence.
Eventually, Schrader showed tapes of the three finalists to his wife at their upstate New York home. Hurt told her husband that Deen was the one. Around the same time, Pope reached out to Lohan. Ellis was skeptical, afraid of the melodrama Lohan would bring to the project. But Pope and Schrader reminded Ellis of what he said in an essay for The Daily Beast the previous year: “Do Americans really want manners?
Empire courtesy? They want reality, no matter how crazy the celeb who brings it on has become.” Ellis was riffing on Charlie Sheen, but it could have been Lohan. The first child of a drug-abusing, felonious stock trader and a failed dancer, Lohan survived her Long Island childhood, moved to Hollywood and became America’s newest sweetheart with winning turns in “The Parent Trap” and “Mean Girls.” She cut an album that went platinum. In 2006, she was the best thing in Robert Altman’s “Prairie Home Companion.” The future was hers to write.
Then — as the voice-over in an “E! True Hollywood Story” would put it — it all fell apart. Big-budget films need insurance in case an actress dies or becomes incapacitated and can’t go on with a role. Lohan’s misadventures made her uninsurable, her work dried up and she settled in as a generation’s snarky punch line.
But Pope thought the talent was still there. (She would make it through “Liz and Dick,” a Lifetime movie, with the paramedics having to be called only once during the shoot. This was progress.) Besides, “The Canyons” was so low-budget that they didn’t need insurance. If she disappeared, Pope, Ellis and Schrader would simply lose their stake. Advertisement Lohan helped her cause by agreeing to a screen test. You could see playing Tara wouldn’t be a stretch for her.
The large green eyes that read cute a decade ago now conveyed cornered desperation. Of course, casting two known quantities blew up the anyone-can-win, D.I.Y. Ethos of the project, but nobody asked for his money back. A few months after the Chateau Marmont meeting, the cast gathered at Prettybird studios in Culver City for the first read-through of the script. At the head of the table was Schrader, with Ellis to his left. Pope sat at the far end.
The actors filtered in and took their seats. There was just one missing: Lohan. Schrader welcomed everyone and then opened with: “Lindsay said she couldn’t make it today, and I told her that was fine, but I have an actress in Paris waiting by the phone.” He paused, and the room tittered. “She’s on her way.” Killing time, Deen kept looking at his phone.
Meanwhile, Nolan Funk — a pompadoured Canadian cast to play the weak link in the film’s love triangle — scrunched his brow and read the script quietly to himself. About 20 minutes later, Lohan arrived with a tiny assistant in tow. She smiled nervously and took her seat, adjusting her floral peasant shirt, rattling her bangles. “Hi, everybody.” Schrader gave her an impatient paternal look and then started talking about the film. But Ellis and Funk were distracted. Across the table, Funk could see that his name had been crossed out in Lohan’s script and underneath were the names of three or four actors as possible replacements.
Ellis saw that Deen’s name also had a line through it. Lohan’s private doubts did not diminish her public enthusiasm. She had a thousand thoughts on Tara. Schrader mentioned the character was a failed actress. “Rejection for an actress is formative.” Lohan snorted a laugh. “Well, it’s nothing like going to jail, I can tell you that.” The usually poker-faced Ellis cracked a wry smile.
“Well, that’s also formative.” Schrader mentioned that he was still trying to cast a psychiatrist, a small but pivotal role. The screenwriter: Bret Easton Ellis. Credit Jeff Minton for The New York Times Around 3, Schrader said that was enough for the day. Lohan bolted out of her chair and headed outside for a smoke. She was quite pale, her skin not on speaking terms with daylight.
But she was excited to be working. “I’ve missed this so much,” she said between puffs.
Her voice was a nicotine-soaked rasp. “I’m in a good place now. I mean it’s Bret Easton Ellis and Paul Schrader! It’s a dream. When it’s done, I want to go somewhere far away, maybe Africa. But right now all I want to do is work, work.” Lohan oozed adrenaline and chattered on with a self-lacerating sense of humor. (She owns coasters that say, “I used to worry, but now I have a pill for that.”) She talked of a recent photo shoot where she was asked to wear stripes.
She shifted into her best Joan Rivers imitation. “I said, ‘Hello, stripes after jail, so not a good idea!’ ” A few minutes later, she said goodbye and hobbled in heels toward her rented Porsche. Then she disappeared for a few days.
Filming was scheduled to start in less than a week, so Schrader arranged for Deen and Lohan to meet him at Prettybird to map out the movie’s sex scenes. Lohan canceled the first day but promised she’d be there the next morning, a Sunday. She never showed. Schrader and Pope texted and left messages on her phone. There was no answer. Schrader thought about what he should do.
Right now, he had the upper hand; there really was an actress waiting in Paris. But once they started shooting, he’d lose the power. Lohan could hold the entire production hostage. So he fired her. He went back to his room at the Orlando Hotel in Beverly Hills and left it to Pope to deliver the bad news.
Pope finally reached Lohan, telling her she was done. Lohan began to cry and begged for another chance.
Pope told her that Schrader had made up his mind. Advertisement Lohan headed for the Orlando.
She pounded on doors until she found Schrader’s room. As she banged on his door, she texted him manically. Schrader could hear her crying but wouldn’t let her in. He texted her instead. “Lindsay, go home.” The hotel manager rang up to ask if he should call the cops. Schrader told him no and sat down on his bed.
Lohan stayed out in the hall sobbing for another 90 minutes before she finally left. Eventually, the director called Pope and asked him to gather everyone at Prettybird to watch Lohan’s and the French actress’s screen tests again. Everyone agreed that Lohan was exponentially better. Schrader decided he’d give her one more chance.
Some in the production thought this was Schrader’s endgame all along: a strategy to get her back in line. That night, Pope, Lohan and Schrader met at the Churchill, a bar at the Orlando. A waiter brought them drinks — coffee for Lohan, a Manhattan for Schrader, a vodka soda for Pope.
A pall settled over the table. Finally, Schrader picked up his glass. “I need a drink!” Lohan laughed and wiped tears from her eyes.
She explained that she missed the meeting at Prettybird because she had been discussing the script with Nolan Funk until 3 a.m. And then took a sleeping pill. Schrader laid down the law: one more meltdown, and she was gone. If she thought she was unhirable now, wait until he threw her off a microbudget. Schrader thought Lohan’s weakness wasn’t drugs — although he counseled her on the math of when to take sleep aids — but fear of being alone. She needed people and chaos around her 24/7. The idea of being by herself scared the hell out of her.
The next day, Lohan arrived relatively on time for a makeup test. She sat behind a table with a can of Sprite, looked into the camera and flashed a wholesome smile that would not have been out of place in the world’s best soda commercial. Schrader grabbed my arm and pointed at Lohan’s image. That’s why we put up with all the crap. You can shoot bad movies with actresses who are always on time. The rest is just noise.”. Advertisement But there was always noise.
A few days later, filming started at 3 a.m. At the plush bar attached to the Chateau Marmont, which Pope had scored free. It wasn’t an easy first day. The scene was the opening six minutes of the movie, and there was too much exposition and not enough action.
But Pope had another concern. “Her makeup looks like it’s from a different movie.” It was true; Lohan’s visage had a Kabuki quality to it. She had chosen to wear layers of mascara and catlike eye makeup with black lines pointing out toward her ears. Before the shoot, Pope showed Lohan Polaroids of her looking beautiful with minimal makeup.
“Look, our interest is in making you look great,” Pope told her. “You look beautiful with just a little makeup.” But Lohan was trying to put her pixieish Disney days behind her and thought the Courtney Love approach made her look hip. Pope let it go.
There were only so many battles you could fight. The trick of “The Canyons” was to make a $250,000 movie look like a $10 million movie. Fortunately, Schrader’s reputation inspired the kinds of donations someone straight out of film school was unlikely to get. One Kickstarter donor gave $10,000 to the production and another $10,000 to a designer so that Schrader could use his beautiful house in the Malibu hills for filming. It was a significant break; the house was a stately pleasure dome with giant picture windows, a stairway leading to a pool and a sweeping view to the sea. The leading man: James Deen.
Credit Jeff Minton for The New York Times It quickly became the most dependable player in the film after James Deen. On the first day of shooting in Malibu, Deen aw-shucked his way around the predominantly male crew. He wasn’t a big man; maybe 5-8 and 150 pounds, but they regarded him with wonder. At lunch, a crew member asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Man, how many women have you had sex with?” Deen just laughed and sheepishly scratched his head. “Dude, I have no idea. Seriously.” Deen has worked in all aspects of porn: producing, directing and acting.
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As a teenager, he learned to be comfortable performing for a crowd by “getting freaky” with a girl in front of his friends before moving into another room, as a way of getting comfortable with having sex in public. Once he began working, he took pride in being professional: he was never late, and his behavior was always fastidious.
(He could be seen on set making sure the garbage bags were correctly hugging the trash-can lids.) But there was a certain loneliness about him. He told me that his lawyer, a bearded Gandalfian figure, was one of his best friends. On the “Canyons” set, he was the sole cast member who never had pals stop.
Advertisement Only Lohan had a visitor on that first Malibu day. It was Steve Honig, her publicist, a stubby, bald man in a denim shirt. He told Schrader having a reporter on set was unacceptable.
Schrader told Honig that he understood and that if he wanted to pull Lohan from the movie, he should do so. Honig backed down. Honig and I talked for a few minutes while the crew waited for the marine layer to lift. “I don’t want this to be all about Lindsay being late,” Honig said.
“Actresses are always late. Julia Roberts is late.” A few hours later, the production broke for lunch. Lohan announced she wanted to grab a bite somewhere on the Pacific Coast Highway.
This concerned Pope and Schrader — they could monitor her only as long as they could see her — so they dispatched the co-producer, Ricky Horne Jr., to chauffeur Honig, Lohan and her assistants to wherever they wanted to go. Horne drove them down the hill, pausing at a security gate. That’s when his passengers did a jailbreak, jumping out of his car.
Honig frantically pushed buttons until the gate opened and the four of them dashed for Lohan’s assistant’s car. Horne sat, baffled for a moment, before heading back up the hill and briefing Schrader. The director was furious. “O.K., she’s lost the privilege of leaving for lunch. She stays here.” Lohan returned, only 15 minutes late, emerging from makeup to an angry Schrader. They spent much of the afternoon arguing about continuity. “Lindsay, you held the cigarette up in the last take, now you have it down.
Let’s do it again.” Lohan sighed. Now that shooting had begun, she had the power. “Sorry, Paul, I guess you’ll have to fire me again.” By midweek, Schrader and Lohan were locked in battle.
One afternoon, he shot some of the lead-up to the movie’s pivotal sex scene. Lohan wasn’t happy. “You signed the contract. You knew this was coming!” Another hour passed, and Lohan eventually moved to the bed but wouldn’t remove her robe. Schrader worried that the early-morning sunlight would begin streaming through the house. He thought of sending everyone home. But then he realized that there was one thing he hadn’t yet tried.
He stripped off all of his clothes. Naked, he walked toward Lohan.
“Lins, I want you to be comfortable. C’mon, let’s do this.” Lohan shrieked.
“Paul!” Pope heard the scream and ran up from downstairs. He turned a corner, and there was a naked Schrader. Pope let out a “whoa” and slowly backed out of the room. But then a funny thing happened. Lohan dropped her robe.
Schrader shouted action, and they filmed the scene in one 14-minute take. About halfway through, Lohan looked directly into the camera and flashed a dirty, demented smile at Schrader. He smiled back. A few minutes later, Schrader yelled cut. The crew packed up. Pope went to check on Lohan. He noticed that she and Gavin had been drinking, which was understandable for a young woman shooting a sex scene with three porn stars.
Quietly, Pope told Lohan that he could get her a driver to take her home. But she refused, jumped into her Porsche and headed down the dark, narrow road toward the P.C.H. They all hoped they would still have a lead actress in the morning. The next evening, around 6 p.m., Lohan barreled back up the hill.
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It was the last day the production had the Malibu house, and there were still two essential scenes left. The first one was the movie’s emotional payoff: Tara leaving Christian and Christian letting her go in exchange for a lethal favor. The scene was to be shot at “magic hour,” the hour before sunset, and as usual, Lohan was running late. It had been an endless week of switching day for night, and everyone was on edge, including Deen. He had reached his limit with Lohan. During rehearsal, Deen and Schrader argued loudly over how Deen was playing the scene.
After Deen remarked for the fourth time that he disagreed with how the scene unfolded, Schrader screamed at him. “James expletive Deen, play the scene as I goddamn tell you.” The two stepped outside and talked for a minute and came back in with sheepish grins. (Later Deen told me, “We yelled at each other because we couldn’t yell at the person we both wanted to yell at.”) Lohan shook her head disapprovingly at Deen. Advertisement “That’s unprofessional to treat your director like that. Just very disrespectful.” The light faded while Lohan gave a running commentary on how the scene should be played, which happened to be the exact opposite of what Schrader wanted.
She finally stopped talking and turned to the director. “Paul, how do you want to play this?” Schrader sighed. “I was hoping to direct the scene, but it’s apparent that you’re not going to let me. Let’s skip it. It’s too late, the light is lost.” Pope rushed in and put his arm on Schrader’s shoulder. “Let’s give it a shot.” Miraculously, the cameras rolled, and all the tension, all the ego, all the incoherence exploded into the film’s most riveting scene: Deen, cold and evil; Lohan, vulnerable and afraid.
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All that remained was to get a close-up of Deen touching Lohan’s face with a blood-streaked finger. Only half of Lohan’s face would be in the shot. Most actresses would pop in some Visine to well their eyes with tears and be done with it.
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Instead, Lohan went back to her room, and everyone waited. I was standing by her door, and soon I could hear her crying. It began quietly, almost a whimper, but rose to a guttural howl. It was the sobbing of a child lost in the woods. She came out of her room, and I watched the shot on a monitor. Now, without the garish makeup, Lohan looked sadly beautiful, and it was easy to see why men like Schrader were willing to put their lives in her hands.
The camera rolled, and Deen moved in slowly to touch her face. Then Schrader cursed. “That blood looks completely fake. It’s supposed to look hours old, and it looks fresh. We’ll have to fix it in post. We’re done.” After dinner, Lohan emerged changed — wobbly and happy, a playful smile on her face. Schrader tried to talk her through the next scene — a confrontation with Christian over his possibly criminal behavior — but she kept stumbling and giggling, missing her mark by a wide margin.
Schrader told everyone to take 15 minutes. He turned to me and shrugged. “If she wants to treat this like ‘The Real Housewives’ of Beverly Hills, I’ll shoot it like ‘The Real Housewives.’ ”. The cameo: Gus Van Sant. Credit Jeff Minton for The New York Times She exhaled, stubbed out her cigarette and came back inside. Schrader shot the scene for another hour, cursing under his breath as Lohan eye-rolled him from the staircase. Lohan asked for a quick makeup break and retreated to her room.
Schrader popped in for a word and then came out with a mischievous look on his face. “Do you know that iPhone app that makes explosions?” He held up the phone and showed me some footage he’d just shot of Lohan having her makeup redone. Then he pushed a button, and a Bruckheimer-quality explosion blew his star into a million tiny pieces. Schrader smiled for the first time all night. He started talking about “The Misfits,” a 1961 film written by Arthur Miller and directed by John Huston.
The film featured the final performances of both Clark Gable and Marilyn Monroe. The shoot was torturous, 50 days morphing into 90, with Monroe spending a week in the hospital during filming. “We’re making ‘The Misfits’ on a microbudget,” Schrader joked. He scratched his head and arched his eyebrows.
“But here’s the thing: ‘The Misfits’ is actually a great film.” Schrader was getting cocky. For all his disputes with Lohan, filming was on schedule; Lohan hadn’t missed any days.
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