Penn on Fire

I've Appeared on Broadway, in movies and on TV, so some people think I'm an actor.

I'm not. I'm a comedian, a magician, a performer. If I do play someone, it's only one character: Penn, of Penn & Teller. I play him in interviews with David Let-terman; I even played him pretending to be a drug dealer on Miami Vice.

But that's not really acting--I never studied acting and never wanted to be an actor. So it's no surprise that I'm not particularly good at it. Yet my agents still have me audition for roles, and I do so gladly: It's good money, it's fun and you get to meet cool people. Why let a little thing like lack of skill stop me?

Since I don't act, when I audition I like to be honest--with a little swagger. I say, "Listen to the way I'm talking right now. Look at the way I look right now. If this is exactly what you want the character to be, hire me. If you want even the slightest adjustment, the most minuscule change in this personality, may I suggest you hire an actor? Because I can't act."

And the amazing thing is, I get parts. Wacky business I'm in, huh?

Anyway, I gave this little speech to a friend--writer-producer Thania St. John--and her partners when they were looking to cast VR, a pilot they were doing for Fox.

And I still got the part. The director didn't even make me read. My role would be the obnoxious, self-centered, ugly neighbor upstairs whom the show's protagonist tortures. I guess my little speech was just what the doctor ordered.

But after they hired me, they got cold feet. Thania called: "Penn," she said, "there's really not a problem, but I need your word of (continued on page 138) Penn on Fire(continued from page 124) honor that you can act."

"What?"

"The director got it in his head that you can't act."

"I can't."

"Well, I told him that when you said 'I can't act,' you meant you couldn't play a 70-year-old African American man, but that you could play fear."

"Fear?"

"Fear. It's important that you can play fear."

"I don't think I can," I said. "I've never felt fear. But I've seen people experience fear, so maybe I could copy them."

I was kidding. She didn't laugh.

"He's a really nervous director," she said, "and this is an important project for him. Could you send us a tape of your acting, just so he'll feel better?"

"I don't know about this," I said. "Maybe you should hire someone else."

"We don't want to. Just say that you can act."

"I won't say that," I insisted. "Listen, I'm going to be in L.A. this week. I'll come in again to read. If I suck, then fire me."

I flew to Los Angeles. A lesser man with fewer principles would really have looked over the script and actually thought about acting. Not me. In fact, the only parts of the script that I read were those I could thumb through while in the waiting room of the producers' office.

The script for VR is basically TV's view of virtual reality. In real life, virtual reality is a technology in which little TVs are worn over each eye, permitting you to see images in 3-D. In VR's virtual reality, people can be sucked into nightmares over the phone, then put in hell. My character on the show would be the first person to go to hell--zapped into a bus, then tortured, then set on fire.

It was this scenario that gave me my strategy for the meeting. "Good news and bad news," I announced. "The bad news is: As I've told you, I've never felt fear--so the acting part is going to be a little difficult. But the good news is: I'll do my own stunts."

"You'll what?"

"I'll do my own stunts."

"What do you mean?"

"You can light my ass on fire."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll do the burn gag for you."

(Gag is the word that real stuntmen use--you can't believe how good it felt to say it.) "I've always wanted to do one. And you'll be able to shoot my face. You'll have your actor on fire for real."

Suddenly, no one was worried about my acting anymore. I had the gig. Then I took it a step further. I suggested that the part in which an old lady throws fire at me should actually be a young woman spitting fire at me, and, furthermore, I knew just the actor for the part. I said they should fly in a stripper from Vegas named Venus De Light; she was really good with fire and would give them a blast. (I'm a fire-eater, too, and that's the fire-eater's term for spitting flame.) My other thought, of course, was that if I was going to be on a movie set for a week, having a stripper around wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. The producers bought the idea, hired Venus and rewrote the part for her.

•

The first few days on the set, I had other stunts to do. For a scene in which I'm falling into virtual reality, I had to be hoisted up on a 90-foot crane, then lowered pretty fast. The harness straps were a little uncomfortable. (But I didn't feel fear.) I yelled and waved my hands, and that seemed to be OK for them. On my second day of shooting, I had to be mean and condescending. This I'm good at--they had themselves an expert. And the next day I had to insult Lori Singer, the star of the show, on the telephone, then scream a little more. It was just like falling off a log.

Then came my last day of shooting--"fire day." I had several shots in which I was supposed to act, and those scared me to death. Still, I looked cool, collected and in good spirits, which was unfortunate because I was supposed to look like I was scared to death.

I did lots of takes. I tried breathing through my mouth, blinking a lot, opening my eyes really wide. That's my idea of acting.

We shot all day on a bus that had been placed on a soundstage. The premise of the scene was that this was an out-of-control virtual-reality bus. The set was hot and claustrophobic. All of us on camera were in this weird, whiteface, clown-from-hell makeup that Hollywood had decided was virtual reality. It was fairly miserable.

At one point, a group of white-faced kids, about seven years old, were supposed to attack me and stick gum all over my body. Thania had said that during the auditions they couldn't get normal kids to be that rude to adults, so they had to cast real brats. No kidding. These kids were fucking awful--bratty on camera and off. I asked the prop guy to get a tranq gun and to be prepared to take me out if I went at them. I didn't want to be doing hard time for offing one of the little snots.

In the meantime, my stripper pal, Venus (also in whiteface--and white breasts and white legs) just killed them. She spit a fireball at the camera and it made their day. The stunt guys were truly impressed with her blast. Hey, don't fuck with us carny trash.

For her last bit, Venus had to do this sexy dance from hell while throwing burning, fuel-soaked cotton all around her. Once again, she looked great--and, of course, I got huge credit for finding her, even though she ultimately decided that TV work was a little too slow-moving and incompetent for her taste. "I'll tell you," she said to me, "these people wouldn't last 15 minutes on the circuit, even if they had tits. They're too self-absorbed to get an act together."

My gag was next.

I had already met my stunt guy, Dan, a couple of times. He's 6'6", just like me, and around 250 pounds. (I'm 275.) He spends all day working out and I spend all day typing--and our bodies reflect our habits. But put a long, black-and-gray wig on him and at a mile away on a speeding horse, who's going to know the difference?

Dan has been my stunt double before. Basically, his job is to hide his face while trying to make his body look like mine. Had he done the full-body burn gag for me in VR, his head and torso would have been consumed in flame. But because I would be doing my own stunt, they wanted to show my face; so they decided they'd just burn my chest, then put in more body burns later, via special effects.

So, in essence, the stuntman was there just to watch me do the stunt.

For fire in the movies, rubber cement is used. It's spread everywhere the fire is supposed to be, then lit. Rubber cement works best because it gives a good flame, it's easy to put out and it stays where it is. But before we could get to the rubber cement, there were problems.

First, the sports coat I was wearing was made of synthetic material, and stunt guys are routinely nuts about having natural fiber. So the wardrobe (continued on page 167) Penn on Fire(continued from page 138) people had to run all over metropolitan Los Angeles to find a fluorescent green, natural-fiber sports coat--in my size. They failed and ended up having to make one, which looked OK. As the stuntmen kept saying, "When a guy's on fire, people don't worry much about continuity." Stuntmen seem very wise.

Then they took me outside to "practice." Here's where protective gel came into play--it's a special concoction whipped up by the stunt guys that smells kind of like Ben-Gay with a twist of aloe. It's pale snot-green, thick, slimy and gooey--something you really don't want to put on your body. Naturally, they put it all over my body.

They took one sleeve that was coated in this gel and slid it onto my arm. Then they put another gel-dunked sleeve over that. They glopped even more of this Martian come over that. Then they loaded me into the sports coat and spread a patch of special fuel on top of the jacket. "You can't hold your hand up or it'll get burned," I was warned. "So just wave it around and see what it feels like." These are stunt-guy directions.

Then they lit me up and I began to burn. Everything was fine until they started putting me out with a towel. At that point, the flame moved down to where it could burn my hand, and the stunt guys intentionally held my hand in place so that I couldn't get it away from me. The result was only a minor burn, which the stunt guys hailed as a successful test. They said we were ready to go.

By two A.M., I was shooting again. At this point the bus was truly unpleasant, having been subjected to all the Venus fires and smoke machines. In the first shot, Lori acted up a storm for the camera, while I had my back to it. I was good at this. Then the camera team said they were ready for the real burn gag, and it was time to suit me up.

To begin, I stripped down to just my pants and wrapped a towel around my waist. I slipped into two long-johns-type tops that had been soaking in the cold gel all night. It was difficult to get them on, and my awful makeup had to be redone. Besides being cold, the gel kind of "burned" like Ben-Gay. It also smelled strong, and the makeup women began complaining about having to be near me (as if they needed another reason).

The stunt guys kept slopping this shit all over me. I asked for special handpieces because, even though I could do the Penn & Teller show with burns almost anywhere on me, I didn't want even the most minor burns on my hands. It could fuck up my bass playing and my card palming--and neither one has much room for shrinkage. So the stunt guys filled a pair of flesh-colored gloves with magic gel and slid them on me. I was ready.

The camera crew wasn't. They wanted to do a different shot first--one with the bus entirely ablaze and Venus dancing around me while I screamed bloody murder. The stuntmen were pissed that I was drying out, but we set up for the other shot anyway. They painted rubber cement on everything and held a sheet of Plexiglas in front of the crew while a guy ran through and lit it all. Then Venus and I dashed in.

It's a cool feeling to run into a fire when everyone else is running out. It makes you feel special. Venus was dancing and I was screaming. With all the smoke, it was hard to breathe and even harder to move. Meanwhile, there was fire all around us, and the rubber cement was sticky and burning, so you didn't want to touch it. But we got the shot and, at last, it was my time to burn.

Wow. My whole personality changed. I got that great white light-white heat concentration that I love so much. I was thinking about only one thing: doing my job. I stood there as they covered my ponytail with gel. Then they rubbed more all over my face. I listened to what they told me, and I thought about what I was going to do.

Here's what would happen: My man, Dan, would stand with me. The crew would do a preslate (that's where they use the clapboard and shout, "Take one!") and start rolling. The special-effects guys would do their rubber-cement drill while Dan applied fuel to me at four places--on each arm and on each side of the jacket. Then they would torch the rubber cement while I just watched from my spot, dripping gel. Once everything was ready, Dan would light me with a welder's lighter and I would go up.

The scene would be filmed without sound. If anything began to hurt me I was supposed to yell "Nurse!" (There was actually a nurse on the set, but that's not why you're supposed to yell "nurse." Instead, "nurse" is just a code word, permitting you to yell "help" if you decide you want to act without alarming people. That wouldn't be a problem for me. I had no intention of acting. I would be too busy burning.)

We decided that Dan would do a slow five-count while I burned. I was told not to move my torso during the gag; that way, the post-special-effects guy could superimpose more fire on top of my body later. I was also instructed to begin holding my breath when Dan's counting reached "four," and then on "five" they would hit me with three carbon-dioxide extinguishers. I was warned that if I didn't hold my breath, I would pass out from the CO2--that, or it would hurt my lungs. They also told me that the CO2 would be very cold.

No one was allowed to say anything during the gag--even the assistant director, whose job it is to yell. Only Dan and I were allowed to talk.

They started painting the rubber cement on everything. Dan began putting fuel on me, yelling, "I have an actor ready for a burn! Actor in danger!" (Obviously, I hadn't given him the "I'm not an actor" speech.)

"He has fuel on him," Dan continued, as he squirted the petrol on me from a sports-drink bottle. He kept saying, "Are you OK, Penn? Are you ready?"

I didn't want to say anything; I just wanted to feel that pure concentration. That feeling of calm. That intense nofear that I can pull together. It was a great feeling and I didn't want to break it. But I did manage to whisper, "Born ready."

Dan's fancy lighter wasn't working well and he got only one arm burning. I tried to ignite the rubber cement myself, but he stopped me--it was too sticky and might be dangerous. We tried to do the take with just the one arm, but I finally yelled "Fuck it!" and put the lit arm out with my gel-gloved hand.

I stood there while the stunt team fanned the smoke and reglued the surfaces. The camera was preslated and ready. This was a big team on a little bus, remember. There were four stuntmen watching me and four special-effects guys working the bus. Eventually, they all had to leave me alone. If anything went wrong, only Dan was allowed back onto the bus to help me. You can't have people tripping over one another.

Dan was putting the fuel on me much more liberally this time, and I said quietly, "Dan, let's not go overboard. Let's not overcompensate, just so you can say, 'Well, he'll sure as fuck go up this time.' That's not the kind of thinking we want, Dan. Let's not get emotional."

Dan poured on a lot more fuel and we were ready to go.

"Ready?"

"Born ready."

"My actor is ready!" Dan announced loudly. He turned to me. "Here you go, buddy. Keep your hands down, and don't panic. I'm watching you. I'm right here."

Dan lit me and I went up like a motherfucker. I could feel the flames licking the gel on either side of my head. It was a really big blaze. There was so much fire, I couldn't see my arms. The roof of the bus was an inch above my head, so it was smoky and warm all around my face. I wanted to get my head away from the fire, but I couldn't. I couldn't run away, I couldn't lean away. The fire was on me. It was me.

All the while, there was this wonderfully weird, deep calm. My eyes were hot. My nose was hot. As the gel began to dry on my left ear, I could feel it starting to burn, just a tiny bit around the earring. I was waving my arms, and the sound of it all was incredible, dangerous, loud and lonely. I spotted the camera and looked directly into the lens. That was very important--this was fucking me, and I wanted people to see that. This was not good-looking, brave, professional stuntman Dan. This was me. Dan's actor was on fire.

"One!"

It was amazing. I had been in that fucking fire for my entire life and now he says "one"? Had he forgotten how to count? Was the asshole dyslexic under pressure? What was this fucking tempo-my dirge? Earlier, when we were deciding on a count, I asked Dan how long I could go. He said, "About 17 seconds. So how about we do a slow fivecount? That'll give you plenty of leeway." I wasn't sure that was long enough, and I didn't want to do it twice. So I asked the director if that would be enough. "A nice, slow five-count will give me all I need," the director said. "You don't have to go the full 17." Then I asked the post-special-effects guy, and he also said five was fine. Finally, the stunt guys said, "Five will be plenty for you, trust us." I agreed. "Nice slow five it is, then," I said.

"Two!"

OK, this was really stupid. I had now been on fire for quite a long time. I was waving my arms, and the flame was making it increasingly difficult to see the camera. My ear was warm, and my eyes were beginning to sting. I could smell the fire in my nose. I wanted it to stop.

"Three!"

Most of the time, I have things in the back of my head that I like to think about--things that would make my life a little better: I would like to be a bit more famous so our shows would always sell out without our having to do morning radio. I would like to be in better shape. I would like to be a lot smarter. I would like to get more sleep. I would like to sleep with Uma Thurman. Now all of that was gone. There was only one thought in my mind: I would like not to be on fire.

"Four!"

This is the point at which I was supposed to start holding my breath, but now it didn't seem like I would ever be able to do that. Dan was counting way too slowly, and I couldn't get a deep breath--the air was smoky and too hot, my face was too hot and I was sure I would suck the fire into my lungs. But I had to breathe, so I slowly sucked in as big a breath as I could get. Soon I would not be on fire, I thought. I would get my wish. By now my left ear was toasting. I could feel the metal in my glasses and my earring heating up. I was hoping my hair wouldn't ignite.

"Five!"

And they hit me. Three big fire extinguishers filled everything. They aimed at my feet and I could feel the cold on my sneakers, then on my jeans and then really cold on my chest and face. Dan was in my sight from out of nowhere, like a vision, an angel. "You OK, buddy?" his voice asked from deep within the giant cloud of CO2.

I nodded. He lifted my arms so he could check for any smoldering. "Hold your arms out." He looked around. "You're OK," he announced. He tried to take off my sports jacket, but it was too hot to touch. I couldn't believe that--it freaked me out a little. The crew was silent. Dan said, "You got any burns? Does it feel hot anywhere? If it feels hot anywhere, you'll keep burning."

"My ears and my neck," I said. Dan was holding a towel that had been soaked in cold water. He threw it over my head. The nurse was there with another secret gel. The whole crew had towels that had been soaking in a bucket of ice water.

"Any other place hot?"

"No."

"You OK?"

"Never better."

Then came Dan's verdict, and it was poetry: "Man, what a fucking great gag! A really fucking great gag! You should have seen yourself. What a pro. We really lit you up, too. The heat was more centered on your face than it should have been, but, man, you moved beautiful! You kept your arms a little close to your body, and that's why your face was so hot. But you'll be fine. You won't blister at all." He was jacked out of his mind and glad it was over.

By this point, the towel on my head and the CO2 and the smoke and the low roof and the nurse all over me finally became too much. "I'm a little claustrophobic," I said. "Get me out of here."

"It is claustrophobic, isn't it?" Dan agreed. "We're big guys, but fire does that anyway. I know what you mean."

And he did know what I meant. We were really fucking bonded, Dan and me. Bonded by fire. It was so quiet. I felt so close to Dan and so alone and so brave and I was so happy that I wasn't on fire.

Dan pulled the wet towel away from my face and led me off the bus. As I hit the soundstage floor there was applause from the crew. The assistant director had water for me; everybody came up with something--cold towels, beverages, a robe. I said, "I need a little room around me." As the applause continued. the world came back. Thania yelled, "You OK?" She sounded worried. "Never better, boss," I said. "Never better." It was all very emotional.

Dan looked at me. "Tell me what you need, partner," he said.

"Get me out of this shit." Dan started to undress me. The fabric was cool enough for him to touch now. "Jesus fucking Christ, I thought you'd forgotten how to count," I confessed. "How can you count that fucking slow?"

"It sure seems like a long time, doesn't it, brother?"

"Man!" He pulled off two layers of clothing and the gel dripped over everything. I handed my sneakers to Thania and ripped off my pants. I stood there in boxer shorts, dripping with gel. People behind me were holding cold packs to my ears and my neck. The menthol of the gel was stingingly cool. Man.

I stood there shivering and smiling. "Was it OK? Did it look amazing?" I was asking all those stupid, tell-me-I'm-great questions, and I was getting all the right answers. They showed me the sports coat I had been wearing. It was burned completely through everywhere. The fabric had actually caught on fire. They put a robe around me, like I was James Brown, then led me toward my camper.

Venus said, "Man, you were hot!"

"Thanks."

The hairdresser came into my trailer and undid my hair so I could wash it. I got into the shower. The little burns (which were only as bad as a mild sunburn) and the menthol made my skin tingle. I had to wash my hair five times to get out the gel. Then I went back to the set wearing a sweatshirt with the arms and neck cut out, and bike pants that I'd worn for the shot the day before. I felt like a stuntman. The hairdresser had put conditioner in my hair and combed it through for me.

It was amazing. It was all fake. There was no real danger of dying. There were people all over with fire extinguishers. It wasn't real bravery. It was balls, and there's a big difference. Bravery is going to jail or fighting for what you believe in. This was just little kids playing bravery, getting the rush without any of the real danger. Showbiz bravery. Courage lite.

But it felt great. Eventually they showed me a playback of my scene. It's not a big deal--you've seen it in a zillion movies. No one would be impressed; it's just another TV guy on fire. But the tape killed me. I was actually fucking on fire.

You can see my face clearly. It's really me and I don't look scared.

And I can't act.

"For her last bit, Venus did this sexy dance from hell while throwing burning, fuel-soaked cotton."

"The scene would be filmed without sound. If anything hurt me I was supposed to yell 'Nurse!"'