I Watched Dustin Hoffman Go Down On A Biohazard Suit

while Kevin Spacey pretended to laugh.

On the set of the movie Outbreak, in 1995, in a blimp-big soundstage on the Warner Brothers lot, Spacey and Rene Russo were already in their suits to shoot a scene about a biohazard gone hazardous, and before Hoffman put his helmet on,

he went down on the rubber space between its rubber legs in front of the other two and me and some crew. Spacey laughed too hard. Russo pretended to be amused.

I was there to write about Hoffman because the movie’s unit publicist, my pal Rob Harris, thought that Hoffman and the cover of GQ would be a good match. At 58, Hoffman, I knew, was kind of a stretch magazine-sales wise, but pools, and sushi, and full access were enough to pitch the big editor, who said he had someone else in mind for that cover, but he wasn’t sure, so sure, if I had total access, go on out there, but don’t book a private room on a cross-country train this time, which I did sometimes.

But flying into the cool Deco terminal in Long Beach was always fun, too. Arriving in L.A. is always fun no matter how you do it. So is leaving.

*

The morning of the thing with the biohazard suit I’d met Hoffman at 7 in the make-up trailer. For more than an hour, we talked about lots of things while a charming young makeup woman (there’s no other kind) made him look better and younger. He was tightly wound, and seemed to be playing Dustin Hoffman the whole time.

He joked a lot, more than a lot, flashed the Hoffman ironic grin. The people in the trailer laughed a lot. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember that it was nothing earthshaking, or even anything-shaking. But I’d gotten enough to weave a tale, which is all it’s about: Gather enough words, pay attention to detail, assemble them into a long soft caption to accompany the art. Stay away from anything scary on cover stories.

I do remember thinking that for both of us, the interview had seemed like an enjoyable enough time, a success as these things go. I don’t think I particularly liked him, but maybe my memory has been influenced by how creepy and smarmy and diffident and elusive and cowardly he was in 2017 when John Oliver questioned him in the wake of wide accusations of Hoffman’s serious sexual improprieties, really sketchy stuff.

Then Rene Russo invited me into her trailer at lunch to offer me an oatmeal cookie from the batch she’d made for the cast. She was lovely and talked at some point about god or something biblical. I didn’t ask her what she thought of Hoffman’s antic, because she was a polite person and would have just laughed and said how funny a guy Dustin was.

*

The next morning, I arrived on the set to hear Hoffman yelling at Rob about 50 yards away, at the other end of the enormous soundstage. It went on for about five minutes. Then Rob, came over and told me that Hoffman was paranoid about all these questions I’d asked. Usually when I did that job I just got people to converse about stuff, and all the others seemed to like to. I guess Hoffman didn’t like whatever direction he thought I was going in, not knowing I’m not clever enough to do that. Rob said not to worry, he’d take care of it.

I called the office and told Lisa that it wasn’t looking good. She said not to worry, sorry she hadn’t called, but the Big Editor had decided to go with the other much younger guy for the cover so I could come home.

Yes! I went back to Marina del Rey and had margaritas at Cabo Cantina, next to my weird hotel that Bill Murray had recommended, a block from Venice Beach, which is a large, wide, soulless beach without any oceanfront character, just a place for water to lap because it has to come to the shore somewhere, but ocean-beach wise, the beach of Venice Beach is kind of like the Motel 6 version of sandy waterfront. I’d like to understand L.A., but I can’t.

(I told Rob it was off, and he understood. A few years later he had me on the set of Perfect Storm for a Mark Wahlberg cover story, which involved sushi and sake and sake and sushi on La Cienega and him describing all the crazy-intense shit he’d done as a kid in Dorchester, and a wonderful time was had by all, and then I got to go home again.)