I woke up early that Sunday morning, and lay in bed for awhile, asking myself “Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to go stand in a crowd, in front of a theater, all day long, in the off-chance that I might actually catch a glimpse of a celebrity I only know from TV and the movies? Could I really be that foolish?” The answer was, yes, I could. This wasn’t just any celebrity. This was Johnny Depp. Enough said. I’d been dreaming for 15 years of seeing him in person. The premiere for Once Upon A Time in Mexico seemed to be the perfect opportunity.
I still might have talked myself out of it if it weren’t for the fact that he was making an appearance the week after the infamous Dumb Puppy remark had become the big story, and the media and airwaves were still full of anti-Depp sentiment and cries for boycotts. Only a month or so earlier, the entire country had seemed to fall in love with him, when Pirates of the Carribean became the surprise hit of the summer, and he its most acclaimed star. Now it seemed that our fickle country had turned on him. I wanted to be there, so that at least one voice in the crowd would be yelling for him, not against him.
As I was getting ready to go, I caught my reflection in the mirror. There I was taking extra care with my hair and makeup, trying my best not to look like the Before photo in a makeover ad. What foolishness was this? As if there was a real possibility that he might see me in the crowd! I sighed, stopped messing with my hair, grabbed my son’s backpack, and took off for Manhattan.
I had a long train ride to reflect on the futility of my quest. Even if I did manage to get close enough to see him, my eyesight was so bad I’d probably need someone in the crowd to point him out to me. Then I reminded myself, this wasn’t about me. This was about him. I felt sure that all the hate-filled rhetoric of the last few days must have hurt him. Even if I was at a distance, maybe my voice would carry and he would know that there were still people in America who loved him. Probably for that reason alone, I didn’t turn around. I got off the train and headed for the theater.
Not knowing what to expect, I got there at 9 in the morning, worried that there might already be a huge crowd. An equally dreadful thought was that no one would be there at all. Maybe the boycott movement was going to be successful. My heart fell a little when I got to the theater and saw just a handful of people there. They certainly didn’t look like Johnny Depp fans. They were guys in their late 20’s or 30’s, dressed like blue collar workers and sitting around on little portable stools. Could these be Desperado groupies? or maybe right-wing activists who couldn’t wait to spoil the premiere? I finally worked up the nerve to go up to them and ask if they were there for the premiere.
As it turned out, they were journalists, “second tier” as they described it, from smaller independent newspapers. They did not merit an invitation to the premiere, so they had to take their chances in the crowd same as everyone else. The way they explained it to me, they would be the ones nearest to the red carpet, about 10 people deep. Every one of them was at least 10 inches taller than me, and they didn’t hesitate to tell me that it was pretty much hopeless for ordinary fans to get close enough to see anything. So I would at best be staring at the backside of one of them during the whole event. OK, I thought to myself, it’s still worth it; I can still shout out something when he goes by, so I ignored their discouraging words and went off to find some breakfast.
While I was walking around, I had a thought. Wait a minute, if they can have portable stools, why can’t I? And if I stood on mine, wouldn’t I be able to see over their heads? Congratulating myself on my ingenuity, I finally located a small stepstool at a hardware store, which I then had to haul around for the rest of the day.
When I returned, stepstool in hand, there were still only a few journalists sitting around. They were a sour bunch, exchanging bad celebrity stories with each other. To listen to them, all celebrities are jerks and not worth writing about. Maybe they were just bitter about the lack of invitations. They were ruining my mood so I went across the street to Barnes & Nobles, to kill some time and have a cup of coffee. I found a copy of Premiere Magazine with Johnny’s picture on the cover. That alone was enough to make my day. In my neighborhood you couldn’t find magazines like that. There was a long, wonderful interview with Robert Rodriguez which talked alot about Johnny and for awhile I forgot all about the theater.
Luckily, there was a window near my table from which I could see the theater, and around noon I noticed that a few more people were beginning to show up. I panicked and ran back to the theater. Mostly it was just more grouchy journalists, but there was one lady standing off by herself, looking as if she were waiting for a taxi, but never moving from her spot.
I stood watching her for awhile. Clearly she wasn’t waiting for a taxi. She didn’t fit my mental image of what a fan looked like. She looked just like a typical housewife from the suburbs. My curiosity finally got the best of me and I walked up to her.
“Are you here for the premiere?” I asked. She gave me a strange look, as if to say, do you really expect I would tell you if I was? Then her expression softened; she took cautious pity on me, and said yes, she was. At last, a fan! I thought. She wasn’t a particularly big Johnny Depp fan. She was pretty much an equal opportunity fan. She had an enormous book with her (smart lady had one of those backpacks you can wheel about; essential equipment for my next premiere) that was filled with pictures and autographs from other premieres, appearances at the David Letterman show, and so forth. Her favorite celebrity was George Clooney, and she kept telling me stories about the countless times she’d met him. I kept trying to steer her back to stories about Johnny, whom she’d met a couple of times. She spoke fondly of him, as if he was one of her favorite kids. It’s hard for old ladies like us to look at him and remember he’s in our age bracket.
As Denise began to trust me, she opened up and began to tell me what to expect as the day wore on. She told me about the different types of people who go to these things: the second tier journalists (yes, they are bitter), the autograph hackers, who elbow in front of you to get autographs to sell on Ebay (they are one of the lowest life forms according to her), the security people who get to feel important for one day, and arbitrarily exercise their authority by making people move from point A to point B for no apparent reason, just because they can. And then there are people like Denise, who go to these things on a regular basis, get to know the stars, and each other, and learn the secrets of how to get a good spot. “Stick close to me,” she said, “and we’ll probably get close enough to see him.”
I wasn’t expecting to hear this, and a tiny glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon. Could it be I might actually get close enough to see him? But what about the 10-deep journalists in front of the crowd? Denise dismissed this news with a wave of her hand. “They wish,” she said.
All through the afternoon, people began showing up, and everybody was going up to everybody else, with anxious faces, asking if they were there for the premiere. Denise whispered to me “tell them no; you don’t want a big crowd here, do you?” but I cracked easily when faced with the hopeful eyes of young girls hoping for the same thing as me, just a glimpse of their favorite man. People from the Johnny Depp Zone board who’d seen my post about going to the premiere were trying to find me and each other. As we connected, I was amazed to see that Johnny’s fans spanned several generations, but at that moment we might as well all have been schoolgirls, nervous and giggling about our prospects of seeing Johnny.
The security guys stayed true to form, and began trying to disperse us, as Denise warned me they would. First they came out and said the premiere was closed to the public (Duh!) and then they told us that there would be big partitions placed around the red carpet so that onlookers would not be able to see a thing. That turned out to be partly true. They erected the partitions along the length of the red carpet, but left open areas at both ends. One end was at the street. The other was at the theater door.
They came over to us periodically and said we weren’t allowed to stand there. “Forget it, you’re not going to be able to see a thing; you all should just go home,” they told us. Denise smiled and nodded at whatever they told us. When they said we had to move, we moved (a few feet from wherever we’d been standing before). “Don’t get mad, and try to be as cooperative as possible without actually doing what they want, which is to leave,” she said.
If they got angry enough, they could throw somebody out. But with us hovering around just outside the allowable boundaries, they really couldn’t do a thing.
Denise and the other girls and women that had collected around us were all busy swapping stories by then. We didn’t really mind where we were standing, as long as we could keep an eye on that red carpet and the two potential spots where a crowd might be allowed to stand. The afternoon seemed to zip by, and all of a sudden I was looking up to see a huge crowd all around us. It was about 5 in the afternoon, and things were starting to heat up. Denise then went into her steely, determined mode. We were going to get a good spot by sheer willpower.
The crowd was quite large by now, and everyone was still being kept at a distance as they put the finishing touches on the red carpet. There were the stands for the “real” journalists and photographers, the ones who get to interview the stars as they walk down the carpet. The huge partitions were up as promised, not to shut out the crowd, but to provide a backdrop for the photos that would be seen later by the rest of the world. The ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO logo was plastered all over place; we’d forgotten all about the movie. All we could think about was whether Johnny would really show, and of course, would we be able to see him if he did.
There were lots of rumors swirling around the crowd, saying that Johnny’s handlers didn’t want him to come, that the studio was afraid Johnny was going to draw the wrong kind of publicity to their movie, that threats had been made against him, and on and on. Our group remained steadfastly optimistic (I was too scared to tell everyone else that I’d probably jinxed the whole event by showing up.)
Denise, using instincts that had been fine-tuned by her vast premiere experience, had picked a particular spot for us to wait. It was where the limos would most likely drive up to let the stars out. If we couldn’t get next to the red carpet, we might still be able to see people getting out of the limos. One member of our group was a brash young Orlando Bloom fan named Robin from Long Island. She had been dragged along by her best friend, who was the Johnny fan. Not a bit nervous, since the stakes were not so high for her, she decided to go talk to the security guards and find out if we were ever going to be allowed to move in closer. Denise was not so sure this was a good idea; we all looked at her anxiously as she boldy walked up to one of the guards.
We’ll never know what she said, exactly, but whatever it was, it worked, because she waved us over. We rushed over to her side before the rest of the crowd had time to react. I ended up with only one person between me and the red carpet. Of course that person was alot taller than me. But I had my stepstool, which had not endeared me to the people who were standing near me, as it kept bumping into their legs. One girl in particular seemed very pushy and out of sorts that she was not right in front. Denise whispered to me that she was “one of those” autograph hounds. “Don’t give her an inch,” she warned.
Just as we were settling in, feeling thrilled and smug to have landed such a good spot, the security team decided to do the Arbitrary Move from Point A to Point B. We were shocked; they wanted the crowd to move over to the other side of the red carpet, by the theater door that the stars would enter. My heart fell, but Denise grabbed my hand and pulled me along after her. We didn’t push, we just persisted, and somehow by sheer luck, we ended up right by the door, with no one at all standing in front of us.
Oh my God, I thought to myself. If he does come, he’ll pass right by me. This can’t be happening. Surely he was going to be a no-show. I didn’t have this kind of luck. Ever. And if he did come, maybe the security guards would be blocking our view. They kept standing right in front of Denise and me, as if to say “You didn’t really think we were gonna let you see him, did you?” Where did these massive guys come from? They each seemed the size of a small elephant.
And suddenly, without fanfare, the stars started to arrive. On the other end of the red carpet from where we were standing, we could hear screams every time a limo door opened. The red carpet was lined with reporters and guys with cameras the size of bazookas. The stars were supposed to slowly work their way down the line, then pass by us to enter the theater.
The first star in was Cheech Marin. He stayed talking to the reporters for what seemed like an eternity. The crowd waited, and I listened to my stomach churning. Other stars were queueing up behind Cheech, so almost reluctantly he left the media and came over to the crowd. He got an enthusiastic welcome (I was happy to see that, because I didn’t think he was all that well known). He seemed very pleased to be signing photographs. When he got to Denise and me, I held out my Premiere magazine open to a picture of him. “I’m from San Antonio” I told him. “Really?” he acted delighted to hear this. He signed, but not where I wanted him to. My plan was to have everyone sign next to a photograph of themselves. He signed right on Salma Hayek’s picture. Oh well, I wasn’t going to complain.
Cheech seemed like such a nice and approachable star, he sort of broke the ice for me. I thought, I can do this. I can talk to stars, ask for autographs, and if Johnny comes–well my stomach dropped to my knees just thinking about that. He wasn’t merely a star, or a celebrity. He was in a category all by himself. A special man, even beyond his talent and good looks. The thought of him being a foot or two away from him was–impossible. There was no way this was really going to happen.
The other stars started to come over to the crowd. Antonio Banderas and his wife Melanie, who looked absolutely haggard (Denise assured me it was just from being in Broadway shows every night, but it was hard to believe either of them could have ever been seen as glamorous), Enrique Iglesias (who got the best response up till then from the crowd), and Salma Hayek, who astounded me. She was so tiny, but so perfectly porportioned you would never know it. She looked more beautiful in real life than her photographs, and she was beaming, happy to see the crowd and sign the autographs. I got my collection; Antonio on his picture, Salma across the page since Cheech had messed up my plan, Enrique was the only one who rushed by too fast to sign (that’s ok, I wasn’t much of a fan of his anyway.)
Robert Rodriguez was one of the last to come through. I was thrilled to see him (alot of the people in the crowd had no idea who he was). He was so incredibly tall compared to all the diminutive Hispanic stars and celebrities that had been filing past us. He had on a big white cowboy hat and was grinning like a kid in a candy store. He was apparently loving every minute of this.
“I’m from San Antonio” I told him when he got in front of us. He was as delighted by this news as Cheech had been. What was it about being from there? Did people feel the same way about Detroit? Then I told him that I’d seen el Mariachi (I was under the delusion then that I was perhaps the only one in the country who had actually seen that movie) and he seemed happy to hear that too. “Really?” he gave me a big smile as he signed the magazine.
And now the crowd was getting restless and murmuring. The official time of the preview, 7 o’clock, had arrived, and still no Johnny. This was it, then, all the hype and excitement and the star that everybody had come for was not coming. I tried to be philosophical about it. I couldn’t blame him for not showing up, after the nasty week he’d had. I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to step foot in America again.
Then the screams started up on the other end. The noise level was 10 times louder than it had been before. People who could see all the way down to where the limos were confirmed it for us; Johnny and Vanessa had arrived.
There went my stomach. All my insides, as a matter of fact. At some point in the very near future, he was going to be walking right there, where Antonio and Salma and Robert had been. But it would be different this time. It would be Johnny. I couldn’t believe it. I had to be dreaming.
We could barely make out his features behind the cameras and reporters. Everyone was clustered around him, microphones thrust in his face, everyone most likely asking the same question; what did he have to say about the Dumb Puppy remark? We could only catch a glimpse of his hair now and then, from behind a cameraman’s shoulder, or an elbow peeking out of the crowd around him.
Speaking of crowds, the people behind Denise and me were starting to slowly push us forward, which was ok to a point, but the security guards had already threatened to disperse us if the barricades were pushed down. Miss Autograph Hound was next to me; annoyingly enough she had managed to get a prime spot, and had each star signing as many glossy photos as she could. My heart went out to the true fan who should have been standing there instead of her.
Vanessa emerged from the crowd of photographers and came by us. I don’t think anyone actually asked for an autograph, but the crowd was friendly, and she was dazzling. As petite as Salma, her hair done up in a bun and some colorful gypsyish outfit on. She was smiling and waved to us as she greeted us in English. I was secretly relieved that the crowd had not turned hostile on her. I’d already stopped worrying about any unfriendliness to Johnny. This was clearly a pro-Johnny crowd.
The sight of her stirred up the crowd, who began to scream for Johnny. A TV reporter came up right to me, stuck a microphone in my face, and said “Who did you come here to see?” I screamed along with everyone else “JOHHHHNNNNYYY!!!” “And who is it you love?” “JOOOOHHHHHHNNNYYY!!!” I think the TV audience got it the first time, lady.
After what seemed like another eternity but was probably only half as long as the time Cheech had taken, Johnny approached the crowd. It was in a frenzy by now. In the midst of the noise and confusion, Johnny appeared absolutely serene, almost bemused by the commotion. His hair kept falling into his face as he bent over to sign autographs, with a slight smile on his face which we could see now and then behind the hair. His hair was something glorious, picking up the light from the theater and giving it almost a halo effect. He moved through the crowd, gracefully and almost humbly, looking nothing like what you would expect a star standing in front of his adoring fans would look like. As he got closer, I saw a look of exhaustion and perhaps a tinge of sadness in his face. Because of the fact that Vanessa had gone in before him, I imagined to myself that they were having a fight, and was a bit startled when I saw the pictures of them together afterwards. More likely his sadness came from the brutal treatment he’d been getting from the press.
Now he was standing in front of me; the moment that I was sure would never come had arrived. I was surprised how tall he was; his features are so delicate, and his build so slight, he seems smaller than he actually is. I took a deep breath and said the words I’d rehearsed to myself, over and over in the days before the premiere, only they were words I’d expected to shout from the back of the crowd. Now I was telling him to his face. “America loves you, Johnny,” I said. It probably would have sounded better from in back of the crowd. But it made him smile. For the first time since he’d approached the fans, he smiled, and said “Thank you.” I didn’t know what to do next. I hadn’t rehearsed anything beyond that. I just held up my magazine stupidly and he signed the cover, right on the picture of the Blind Gunman. “No, thank you!” I said, and I looked up at him.
Our eyes met, and for a moment were locked onto each other. He seemed to look deep inside me. No longer the shy, unassuming guy who looked like he wished he’d snuck in the back way, he became shaman-like, using some strange power to reach into me searchingly. What he was trying to find I will never know. His eyes were an amazing shade of green, which as any fan of his would know is not his eye color at all. They seemed to be illuminated from within. I was paralyzed under his gaze, like an animal being mesmerized by a cobra. It was a power that was almost frightening. And it probably only lasted a few seconds. But it seemed to last much longer. Then the spell was broken as his handlers whisked him into the theater.
I was still reeling as the people around me, mostly the group I had been with all day, clamored around me. “He talked to you! You made him smile!” They were flabbergasted. I suppose, since he had barely looked up before then, that it was a remarkable reaction from him, but I was too dazed to think about it yet. I was just starting to realize that the girl standing behind me had been pounding on my back almost the entire time (she apologized, saying “I couldn’t help it, I was so excited!”) Everyone was talking about how beautiful he looked. Like Salma, he was much more beautiful in real life than in his photos, but where Salma had been a vivacious woman, full of life, his was an ethereal beauty, almost as if he wasn’t there at all, and had only left a shadow of himself for us to look at. I kept hearing people say “I want to touch his hair.” His hair was the focal point, the most tangible part of the beautiful aura surrounding him.
A few people had left; curious bystanders were coming up to take their place. The crowd was still buzzing when the doors opened and Johnny came back out. It had only been about 10 minutes since he’d gone in. His longtime fans knew he would do this; instead of heading for his limo, he went back to his fans and patiently began signing autographs again.
I held back this time, partly because I felt like I’d had my chance, and it was time for other fans to get close to him, and partly because I wanted to get as good a look as I could of him. I had a camera along, but I’d given up trying to take pictures. I didn’t want to remember the night through a photograph. I wanted to burn it into my memory. I memorized the hair, that slight smile that he has, the way he kept looking down bashfully as he signed. There was something else I saw, something disturbing. The crowd, which I had paid no mind to before, had become a greedy, grasping monster that was reaching out with dozens of arms to get an autograph, or simply touch him, trying to tap into his life force somehow. I had a strong desire to rush over there, and tell everyone to leave him alone. How he could tolerate it I don’t know. Yet he seemed happiest when he was with his fans. I guess he must have grown inured to it by now.
When he’d disappeared into his limo, I decided it was time to go. I’d been away from my son all day long and it was a long trip back home. Denise, who had been next to me the entire time, decided she was going to stay awhile longer. Later, she was rewarded with a hug and a kiss from him, when he made a third appearance. When I found this out later I was mad at myself, naturally, for not staying longer, but even so I felt incredibly fortunate to have had the chance to meet him. I walked–no, I floated back to the train station. I must have had a big idiotic grin on my face, because a number of people I passed by looked at me and smiled. One guy even laughed. I was too happy to care if I looked ridiculous. I knew I was going to treasure this day for the rest of my life.
Cassady’s website: https://www.matrixrevealed.com/JohnnyDepp/
