There and Back Again by Sean Astin with Joe Layden

than a paycheck. We’re talking about a man who is larger than life, a true Hollywood icon whose body of work is so substantial that it demands to be taken seriously. No amount of tawdry tabloid gossip or even the occasional Ishtar (which I actually liked) can diminish or overshadow his accomplishments. Warren is an artist, actor, businessman, director, producer, writer. He is a filmmaker in the most complete sense of the word. His acting credits alone are enough to merit a lifetime achievement award: Bonnie and Clyde, Shampoo, Reds, Heaven Can Wait, Bugsy , just to name a few. But he’s often the driving creative and entrepreneurial force behind these films as well, which places him in a very different category. As with Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg, and a handful of other filmmakers, Warren’s is a meeting you show up for, regardless of the circumstances in your own life. The opportunity to work with him or for him is something no actor (no smart actor, anyway) would summarily dismiss. To her credit, my then William Morris agent, Samantha Crisp, recognized that fact, and so she set it up.
    That’s how I came to find myself in a big suite at Warren’s Beverly Glenn offices, sitting on a sofa, hands folded, calmly but eagerly waiting to meet the man and discuss his latest project, a movie about an offbeat politician called Bulworth . I knew almost nothing about the project; as is typical with Warren’s films, it was shrouded in secrecy. I’d been told that he was interested in having me play the part of a character named Gary C-Span, who was some sort of roving journalist assigned to document the travels of Warren’s titular character. I hadn’t seen a word of the script, didn’t even know if there was a script. I knew only that Warren had supposedly expressed an interest in having me sign on. Why? I wasn’t sure. Because of my work in Encino Man? Unlikely. Rudy? A better guess was that he was at least marginally impressed that my short film had been nominated for an Academy Award. I’m sure that represented a type of validation in the eyes of someone like Warren; at the very least, it might have momentarily prodded him into looking in my direction with a sense of curiosity.
    In just about every way imaginable, Warren met my expectations, which is not to say that working on Bulworth was a wholly positive experience. It was, however, an experience I’m proud to have endured, one that meets the standard for Hollywood extremism. Our first meeting was, in my mind, one of those classic Hollywood introductions. Warren entered the room wearing sweatpants and a fanny pack, and despite the casual look, the disheveled hair, the stubble on his chin, he carried himself with a decidedly regal air, like a princely pauperish genius—like a man who knows he’s a megalomaniac and sees nothing wrong with that description. In other words, exactly what you’d expect of Warren Beatty.
    My goal was to harness whatever nervousness I felt and project an image of an honest, earnest, open-faced ideologue, which wasn’t hard to do since that’s pretty much the way I am. And he loved it; he just soaked me in, told me right away that he could use that persona in his movie, which I found genuinely exciting. Toward the end of the meeting, though, he really piqued my interest.
    â€œI’m going to want you to do some writing,” Warren said.
    â€œWhat kind of writing?”
    He smiled. “You know … things.”
    Cryptic as that was, I was intrigued. Would I be contributing to the script? Working on future projects? No matter. I wanted in. But there was one thing that concerned me.
    â€œI’ll do whatever you want,” I said, “but I have to be honest. I can’t sign on without reading the script.”
    Warren shrugged. “Fine. You can go in the other room there and read the script, but you should know that there’s really no part for you yet.