Lenny Dykstra, the controversial former major leaguer and ex-con, once unfurled an epic tale to me over a long lunch at the Polo Lounge about his toxic bromance with Charlie Sheen. Sometime between telling of his own supposed post-incarceration hustle as a gigolo to Beverly Hills grandmas and theorizing an actor he knew had hired someone to kill someone else in their social circle (the actor later denied this), Dykstra spoke of his expectation that my imminent coverage for one of the entertainment industry trades would finally greenlight a long-hoped-for multipart streaming special about his colorful life, yielding a plum payday.
“There are so many people to interview, from prison guards to my [private plane] pilots,” he promised.
On another occasion, Heidi Fleiss, the infamous Hollywood madam turned animal-rights activist, vented to me about a powerful movie financier several years ago at her ramshackle property in the remote Nevada desert. She said this old friend had reneged on a deal to contribute to her bird sanctuary in exchange for help in quietly paying off his prostitution debts. She’d sought out a release valve in the press after he’d allegedly threatened her when she pushed for recompense.
“‘You live out there in the middle of nowhere,’” she recounted him telling her. “‘Accidents happen all the time.’”
Soon after we spoke, she recanted. Maybe she got her money, or he got to her. Was she exploiter or exploited? On my phantasmagoric beat as an investigative journalist at The Hollywood Reporter — the Dream Factory, the Land of Make-Believe — I’ve found that little is known for certain.
For years I’ve encountered challenging subjects, attempting to render and decipher some semblance of fraught inner lives, from Fleiss to Woody Allen’s apparent Manhattan muse who couldn’t decide if she was his groomed teenage victim, to L.A.’s enigmatic blonde-bombshell billboard queen Angelyne, who denied the dark details of her painful history because they didn’t suit her. I’ve covered their stories but doubt I’ve come close to apprehending the fullness of them.
Nominally, my job is the acquisition, organization and consideration of facts. But really, it’s about navigating fictions. Some are intentional. Mostly they’re accidental, incidental, parenthetical, subliminal. When stories arrive from the newsroom tip line, they’re frequently conspiratorial.
Everyone has their own narrative. They believe in them, promote them and stick to them. Which is fine. After all, it’s how they get by. Except, of course, when those narratives conflict with each other. That’s where I come in.
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The late film producer and studio head Bob Evans liked to say that there are three sides to every story: yours, mine and the truth. “No one is lying,” he added. In my experience, the emotional truth tends to override the literal one. Just about everyone needs to be the hero of their own tale, and the rest settle for anti-hero. They want to be considered on the side of good, or — at worst — thought of as misunderstood.
This pattern persists no matter the specifics. The eccentric son of an ailing TV sitcom icon insists he hasn’t been a negligent caretaker. No, he’s a selfless steward. The charismatic head of an acting conservatory who some members contend has turned into a cult leader isn’t abusive. Instead, she’s an unsung savior. The celebrated trainer of on-screen horses didn’t mistreat his steeds. You’ve just got to believe him: he’s been framed in an orchestrated campaign.
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This being Hollywood, there’s an additional complication — how the inevitable pitching affects the plotting. These real dramas, mostly tragic, can’t help but be shaped by the rush to capitalize on turning them into the bestselling tell-all book, the chart-topping podcast, the prestige unscripted limited docuseries, the based-on-a-true-story feature film.
In my line of work, you need to be flexible, allowing for people’s illusions and delusions — especially when they’re in the spotlight. This can be a path to understanding.
Or not. Many people don’t quite know who they are. (Sometimes, when you’re reporting, they’re already dead.) Many motivations are unaccountable. (Sometimes they’re all too obvious, yet still unsatisfying.) Many situations, regardless of the probing, will remain a murk. (Sometimes it’s best to simply accept this.)
That’s real life, the frustrating kind of narrative, with no clear arcs or resolutions. Luckily, when questions can’t be answered, fiction offers its own portal.
Fiction’s capaciousness allows for inquiries beyond the bounds of investigative reporting. It attracts and absolves the richest, trickiest explorations. This was ratified for me when writing my debut novel, In Pursuit of Beauty, about a journalist’s mind games with an incarcerated Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.
Sam Shepard had a line in one of his plays about Hollywood’s self-mythologizers, the L.A. creatives who conjure the pop mythologies for everyone else. “People here have become the people they’re pretending to be.” This is both factually and emotionally true. Whether or not they realize it, people increasingly think of themselves as fictions. That’s why fiction itself remains ever more essential to understanding humanity.
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In Pursuit of Beauty comes out July 1 and is available for preorder now, wherever books are sold.
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