JULIA

Julia Nickson is an actor best known for complaining to her friends about IMDB’s refusal to dehypenate her. Her credits include China Cry, Life Tastes Good, Half Life and Rambo: First Blood Part II (the subject of today’s blog). She strongly believes that life holds many lessons, and accepts most events with equanimity. Although she has transitioned from “girl with the gun” to the occasional judge or two, under her robes, one may still catch a glimpse of fishnet stockings.

OPEN

EXT: Granada Hills Theater, 2010

Having successfully navigated through another year, my 52nd to be exact, I thought it might be a fitting time to reminisce a little about the start of my path leading to Hollywood. I have been prodded slightly by the editors of this blog ….. I thought if I ignored them, they might simply go away, but for whatever reason, they have persisted. As I approach everything I do with some kind of due dilligence, I feel the need to perform a lttle research; hence, I find myself at a darkened movie house in Granada Hills for a Wednesday matinee to watch, The Expendables, a film which has single handedly brought real live action, that would be men fighting men, not robots nor aliens nor ikrams, back to the screen. What mean “expendable”? Well for that, we must go back, back, back to the beginning.

FLASHBACK: Honolulu, Hawaii, 1984

It is 1984, and I am living on Oahu. I have made a very tepid living as one of the island’s top models, meaning I am recognized and complimented everywhere I go. This minor celebrity status does not actually translate into cash for although Janice Dickinson was forging her way into thousands of dollars a day in New York and while Gia was inhaling thousands more, I was making a mere $50.00 an hour, and usually working an average of about 10 hours a week. Saving money for my future was not a plan I was actively involved in.

Fortunately, I did have some kind of vision to extricate myself out of what could have become an escalating and financially devastating predicament as the quarter century mark approached. Due to the stubborness inherent in my nature, I had no intention of succumbing to the easy, middle class dream of acquiring assets with a diverse portfolio that would multiply tenfold, affording me the protection of financial freedom in years to come. To hell with annuities and securities or any other intelligent, rational fiscal policy. My life was to be filled with exciting adventure and risk. I would use all the hours that I had available to me to begin a new career that would provide me with unimaginable returns. I would graduate from the world of modelling to that of being a Hollywood actress!!!!!

My family was less than thrilled. There were naturally a few obstacles to overcome: I didn’t live in Hollywood, I couldn’t afford to move to Hollywood and Hollywood wasn’t making movies featuring financially stricken Eurasian ex model types. But in the spirit of blissful ignorance, these were not problems that should ever prevent one from attempting to reach for the stars. I embarked on my mission.

At one of the many acting workshops that I enrolled in, a gnawing reality started to hit home. A lovely lady by the name of Anna Fisburn, a local casting director, explained to me with great patience that in order to become an actress, it was important I actually incorporate into my world some sense of reality as to what a “normal” person looked like. I was in a daze for some period of time. What mean “normal” person?

I could easily have rattled off numerous physical faults that I had obsessed about for a decade or two, including various scars, moles and a particularly uninspiring profile And when I wasn’t wearing three inch Chuck Jourdan pumps with brightly colored stockings beneath black fishnets, a Norma Kamali or Sonia Rykiel dress with built in shoulder pads that rivalled any NFL player’s uniform, and hair that had been permed, set, teased and sprayed into submission, I felt I was perfectly “normal”, in fact, rather less than normal, resulting in my overcompensation in the image department. Indeed, I pondered again and again … what mean this word, “normal”?

Photo by Mary Ann Changg

Finally, I sprung into action. I hired a photographer and the result was the picture you see above – me, sitting on a bamboo mat, wearing a coolie hat, and selling fruit by the side of the road. Well, okay, it was a Hollywood rendition of my imaginary fantasy Hollywood role but this was most definitely a character that I could play. I had grown up in Singapore, with the theater of the Vietnam war raging in relative close proximity. I had read the horrendous news articles and innocently kissed vets on the cheek while they R & R’d at the Singapore American Club. This was an acceptable “casting” for my ethnicity and type. This would do!

“I knew the movie was going to be bad when John Rambo meets his contact in the jungle and it turns out to be a totally hot chick who is probably no more that 20 years old. Call me unenlightened if you must, but why does Hollywood always cast these extremely attractive 110 pound supermodel types in these action roles? Watching a hot female porn star beating up and killing soldiers isn’t exactly believable. And god, she had the worst fake asian accent ever.” Netflix review by someone who obviously hates models.

EXT: Acapulco Jungle, 1984

Let’s just cut to the chase and bypass all that magical, mystical, “if you build it, they will come” stuff, for if I had written The Secret or had anything to do with Field of Dreams, I wouldn’t be writing this column now. A few months after having that photograph taken, I was cast in my creative prequel to Oliver Stone’s Platoon. I wasn’t born blonde so obviously I couldn’t do a role comparable to Meryl Streep in The Deer Hunter, but regardless, I had managed to blaze a path towards my new destiny, racing through the steamy jungles with Sylvester Stallone, in black pajamas, AK 47, coolie hat and all, only missing the basket of pineapple and bananas because in Hollywood films of this nature, characters neither eat, drink or fart.

Was it really then my fault that my vision was so limited, it did not also include as a part of the package, “the winning of critical acclaim.” I mean, don’t you think it would have been slightly greedy to ask God to save my ass from impending unemployment and poverty, and also demand that he include the cherry on top of the whipped cream when he had already blessed me with mounds of piping hot fudge. Why, oh why, did Amy Tan not write Joy Luck Club pre 1984 so I could really know my own worth.

Photo by Dave Friedman

EXT: Los Angeles, 1985

Rambo: First Blood Part II became the second biggest grossing film in 1985, but much to my newbie naivete, it was also blessed with a Golden Rasberry, also known as a Razzie for ” Worst Picture of the Year.” But wait, that wasn’t all. There were many more honors to be bestowed on us. Sly was also honored with a Razzie for ” Worst Actor of the Year,” and as a co writer for “Worst Screen Play.” The theme song written by his brother, Frank received “Worst Song,” and a few years later, my sinewy, muscular, limpid eyed former Academy Award winning hero, who had agreed we could go toe to toe in a film that added a new word to Websters Dictionary, also garnered “Worst Actor of the Decade”, topping it off finally with ” Worst Actor of the Century!!!!!!”.

My performance, although ranking of relative unimportance as compared to these titles did not go unnoticed and I received nominations for both “Worst Supporting Actress” as well as “Worst New Star.” Was it a small consolation prize that I lost in both categories? I do believe that there was only one reason as to why we were not also nominated for “Worst Screen Couple of the Year,” and that was simply because this category had yet to be invented. In total, we held 7 Nominations culminating in 4 Wins. “Hot female porn star”, I was not, but the above Netflix reviewer was actually quite on the nose. I owe him for kindly removing 5 years and 5 pounds as well as for casually placing me in the same category as Gia and Janice.

INT: Granada Hills Theater, 2010

Twenty five years later, as I watch Stallone on the screen, in The Expendables, thinking about what to write, he still looks every inch the iconic male star that reigned supreme in the 80′s. He is more generous with his co stars now, framing them in close ups that are equally as tight as his. He continues to refuse to pander to the female audience, foregoing the requisite kiss to the female lead, a kiss which I insisted be reinstated in Rambo: First Blood Part II when he put his pen through it on the page.

But, as I watch him, I can’t help but lapse into remembering what it was like to actually feel the burnished strength of his arms as he manhandled me through the stultifying heat of the jungle. I could not refrain from melting once again into the pools of darkness that are his eyes, and in spite of the fact that I will never be able to walk the streets without being recognized as the girl who didn’t make it to America with John, I have no choice but to reflect back with genuine fondness for an actor who has endured so much abuse from industry and public alike. Having been briefly anointed with Rocky, and more than holding his own with DeNiro in Cop Land, he has served most of his time as “expendable” to those who run the A list parties; yet time and again, he still manages to pick himself up for one more bout. I know I am not alone with this thought, as I later read yet another concise Netflix review about Rambo: First Blood Part II:

“Only the most humorless dolt would disparage this movie. If you want to see Stallone beat the piss out of hundreds of people, and blow stuff up, this is as good as it gets. If you want to watch Sideways or YaYa Sisterhood, why are you reading this review.”

Regarding my contribution to The Worst Film of 1985, and the less than stellar beginning of my career, I can only surmise philosophically that destiny can be a hard concept to negotiate without attaching addendums and fine print. As well, apparently some roles were clearly meant for other Asian actresses more skilled in the finer nuances of the aforementioned; however, regret, I decide, is for beings lesser than I. After all, in my mind, there is only one lost warrior who was able to rescue me from becoming just another millionaire realtor in Honolulu, and to him I say, most gently as my eyes moisten ever so slightly, “Rambo ……… you not expendable.”

Photo by Charles Bush