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Mad Women: An Excerpt from Jeff Lipsky’s Memoir

Kelsey Lynn Stokes and Reed Birney in Jeff Lipsky's Mad Women

in Filmmaking
on Jun 9, 2015

Filmmaker Jeff Lipsky’s latest feature, Mad Women, opens July 10th in New York, July 24 in Los Angeles and across the country in August. Here, the longtime distributor and director shares an excerpt from his upcoming memoir, which is scheduled for publication in 2016.

At noon, on an early October day in 2014, after wrapping a scene at the Plainview Library for my sixth film Mad Women, a scene that would end up on the editing room’s digital floor, I commandeered a crew car and chaffeured a breakaway team to race back to Massapequa, Long Island. I needed to film an exterior establishing shot of our “hero house,” a location aptly found on Sunset Boulevard.

I recklessly turned out of the parking lot and paused at a red light, and in the thirty seconds before the light turned green a mostly toothless man approached me, a man about my age. He smiled a becoming smile so I rolled down my window, although I had no idea who he was. He called me “Hollywood,” then he introduced himself. The name was familiar but he resembled one of the benign oddities you might ogle slack-jawed at Ripley’s. I tried to sound cordial, but I’m certain my tone was brusque because I was truly in a hurry; after Massapequa we still had two scenes in Astoria to shoot that day, not to mention a pick-up shot in Long Island City.

This harmless, well-meaning gentleman told me he’d been misinformed of our start time but was happy he made it there before I left. He came to apologize to me, so he did. Then I stepped on the gas pedal and nudged the left-hand signal indicator as the car approached the Seaford-Oyster Bay Expressway, utterly clueless as to why, precisely, the man apologized. But I easily intuited the true nature of his contrition.

His name more than rang a bell. For most of the first eighteen years of my life he was a neighbor on Coronet Lane in Plainview. We were schoolmates. I’m certain he, like most of my schoolmates, committed some hellish act of mockery, alienating bullying, derisive name-calling, or unspeakable practical joke. I was eight years old when I lost my hair, a victim of alopecia universalis, forever. I had twenty fingers and twenty toes, no other serious medical issues, but with puberty right around the corner and a tidal wave of tittering laughter and mean-spirited murmuring bludgeoning me around every bend I felt the world was coming to an end. Movies pulled me through. I committed when I was ten years old to become a filmmaker. It took another thirty-one years before I made my first film. I’m now sixty-one and Mad Women opens on July 10th. A dream come true, times six. I feel like the luckiest person in the world.


On Tuesday, April 7th 1981 my legendary boss Dan Talbot hosted a pre-opening party to launch the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, a new triplex (now a six-plex) that would open to the public over the next three days, initially presenting Fellini’s City of Women, Deville’s Voyage en Douce and Doillon’s La Drolesse. A few days earlier I’d decided that at that party on April 7th I would expose myself.

I was closing in on the end of my second year as Vice President of Distribution for Talbot’s New Yorker Films, one of the most storied independent distribution companies of its time. I spent every Monday through Friday, from July 1979 through March 1981, in seventh heaven, distributing such films as Fassbinder’s The Marriage of Maria Braun, Herzog’s Aguirre, the Wrath of God, Diane Kurys’ Peppermint Soda and Fred Schepisi’s first film, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith. But once a month, on a Saturday or a Sunday, I’d skulk, shame-faced, embarrassed, into New Yorker’s deserted offices to wash my $800 wig.

Jeff Lipsky
Jeff Lipsky

I’d remove the hairpiece, plunk it into a large, empty pasta pot, pour a toxic-smelling, clear corrosive can of liquid, that I’d purchase at a beauty supply store, over it, and let it marinate for twenty-to-thirty minutes. Then I’d employ an appliance I generally had little use for — a hair dryer — to dry it. Once dry (I hoped) I’d cut new pieces of double-sided tape, set them in place on the inside of the toupee, and position the rather obvious piece of fraudulent self-esteem onto my head. Every month. For almost a decade.

Nine years earlier, once I turned eighteen, once my unruly patch of red pubic hair and all the other hirsute indicators of secondary sexual characteristics bid me adieu (forever), my parents encouraged me to boost my self-confidence (at work, with girls/women, with friends) by adding this cosmetic fakery to my repertoire. Both my mom and dad have since passed away. I wish I could have assuaged their guilt over their genetic gift to me (thank god, not to my three siblings). They needn’t have felt any guilt (my dad also lived with alopecia, but he didn’t contract it until his late twenties/early thirties). They made me what I am today — happy, and, for the most part, healthy. I wish I could tell them this today, and tomorrow — again and again. And that I love them to death.

Initially, wearing the piece did wonders for my day-to-day confidence. Looking back, though, it probably had more to do with the rising level of maturity in the other people around me, people who were busy turning eighteen, nineteen, twenty, than to the synthetic eyesore. (Once I actually appeared on a nationally-televised, ABC-TV quiz show – “Split Second” – wearing it.) My newfound confidence probably had more to do with getting my first job, as an usher at the now defunct Plainview Theatre, a 1,582 seat, 70mm showplace, where smoking was permitted in the loge section, and where the children’s section was patrolled on Saturday and Sunday afternoons by a licensed matron. I suddenly had friends, friends who were in college, who were already adults. It did nothing for me, however, to quell my raging hormones and my craving for female companionship…but one step at a time.

Nine years was enough. I was twenty-eight years old, a virgin, and still couldn’t fathom how I would ever even broach the subject of the “wig” with a woman who might be charitable enough to want to sleep with me. So I decided to plunge a stake through the heart of that obstacle in one fell swoop, and that’s how, and why, on April 7th 1981, I presented myself for the very first time to all of them, to a good many people who meant so much to me, and still do.


My life (and my art) changed in December 1970 when I first saw John Cassavetes’ polarizing masterpiece Husbands, alone, at the Cinema I on New York’s Upper East Side. I was seventeen. It’s the story of three forty-year-old friends, successful New York suburbanites, who have to face mortality head-on for possibly the first time in their lives, and deal with it by committing to a weekend of puerile irresponsibility and childish debauchery, for (possibly) the last time in their lives. It was an adult movie in which I recognized real people and in which I recognized myself. Even given the twenty-three year difference in our ages, I identified with their flaws, virtues, frailties, silliness, and passion. I had seen John’s previous film, Faces, when I was fifteen but it mostly went over my head. I saw it again in early 1971 and knew right then that John would be my cinematic guru, forever.

I met John on Friday December 10th, 1971 at 6:30 PM at the St Regis Hotel. I was the film critic for The Vignette, the student newspaper of Nassau Community College. At a press screening of John new film, Minnie & Moskowitz, my least favorite (albeit well-acted) of his early work, I spied him chatting up a gaggle of friends in a corner of the Lincoln Center screening room’s lobby. He might as well have been John Lennon, chatting up Mick Jagger, that’s how agog I must have appeared. I was a decent film critic but a terrible interviewer. Regardless, I had to meet him. It took me two weeks of badgering his publicist to set up the interview, and forty-five minutes of peppering him with inane, boring questions before he ever-so-politely requested a break. He opened a beer for me, and one for himself. We spent the next two and a half hours discussing life, sports, women, almost everything other than Minnie.

The interview concluded when he was called out to attend a Q&A at NYU. He asked me to send him my review of the film. I walked out dancing on a cloud, light-headed, and, ironically, on my way back to the Cinema I, almost a year to the day after seeing Husbands for the first time, to attend an 11:00 PM press screening of a new film called A Clockwork Orange.

My review of Minnie was an honest appraisal. I mailed it to the hotel. And on Friday, December 24th, in a half-page review quote ad in The New York Times, there was my name, and my words, alongside Judith Crist’s, William Wolf’s, Jay Cock’s and a half-dozen much more legitimate critics. I called the St. Regis to thank John. (Gena Rowlands answered the phone in the room and I could hear her nervously ask John, as if my name itself was a question, “Jeff Lipsky?”) John said he was very taken with the obvious sincerity of my critique, gave me his Los Angeles address, and said we should stay in touch. Which we did, remaining pen pals for about eighteen months, until I began managing movie theatres. I loved managing movie theatres. I thought this is what I’d do for the rest of my life. It was the best.


I’d been reading Variety since I was ten years old. That was how, in August of 1974, I discovered that John had made a new film, A Woman Under the Influence, and it was premiering at that fall’s New York Film Festival. What I didn’t learn from Variety was that John (along with co-star Peter Falk) had personally funded the movie, that he hadn’t yet landed a distributor (whatever that was), and that he’d arranged through personal relationships to open it in one theatre in New York and one in Los Angeles immediately after its christening at Lincoln Center.

Following a bit of detective work I blind-called him at the Wyndham Hotel, two days before I was to see the film (purchasing NYFF tickets was a piece of cake back then). He sounded legitimately happy to hear from me and, once he heard I was a movie theatre manager, hastily insisted I visit him at the hotel. He must have assumed I knew everything about distribution and had hoped to pick my brain. I knew nothing. In fact, in those days, there was no such thing as independent film marketing and distribution on a national level.

Over the next two weeks I attended the festival, volunteered my help to John, as I had two weekdays off every week, the film opened (to mixed reviews), and it broke house records in both cities. A few weeks later John made it official – we would market and distribute A Woman Under the Influence ourselves, nationally. Two weeks later John officially hired me full time, to join the eight or so other hopeful acolytes, aspiring producers, desperate young filmmakers, who would give their right arms to sit at the master’s feet and absorb every kernel of genius that trickled from his lips. That day changed my life forever.

One of my co-workers in the fall of 74 was a young actress, eight years my senior, but talented and sexy as hell. Her name was Sharon Van Ivan. Forty years later, almost to the day, I began directing her, in the pivotal supporting role of a one-eyed, archery-playing, family matriarch, in my film Mad Woman.


In 1975 I moved from New York to Los Angeles to work for John, to work closer to John, while he was shooting The Killing of a Chinese Bookie by night and distributing A Woman Under the Influence by day. Woman was a monster hit. So big, and the distribution effort so ground-breaking, that he decided to personally finance and distribute Chinese Bookie and its follow-up, Opening Night. Both were magnificent films, and both box-office busts. So things at our office in Beverly Hills on Wilshire Boulevard, next door to an ugly modern high-rise that would later be purchased by Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, slowed to a crawl.

One of John’s ex-New York cronies was a talented writer named Meade Roberts. He was a troubled, out-of-shape, out-of-work lost soul, who appears in Chinese Bookie as an actor, but whose most notable screenwriting credit was on the film adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ The Fugitive Kind, starring Marlon Brando. But as any friend of John would tell you, you would have to kill his first born before he would forsake you as a friend. To me Meade had become a suicide-threatening loony. For John he was dynamite fodder for a future fictional character.

One day Meade brought his new four hundred page screenplay, “The Garden of Allah,” to John for his consideration. John said it was great stuff but that he should consider mounting it as a TV mini-series, not a feature film. Meade responded with a hissy-fit. John mollified Meade by proposing that he, John, would direct a reading of the script that weekend at Peter Bogdanovich’s then Bel-Air mansion, for friends and family. Meade sparked to the idea and John and his secretary began burning up the phone lines to assemble a cast.

At the end of the day John informed me of his plan and asked me to come along. I hungrily agreed, assuming I would bartend, or Xerox, along with a few of the other surviving Faces Distribution staffers.

I arrived right on time, at high noon. There was John, Gena Rowlands, Peter Bogdanovich, Meade Roberts, Ben Gazzara, Janice Rule, Ryan O’Neal, fourteen-year-old Academy Award winner Tatum O’Neal, Buck Henry, John Hillerman, Diahann Abbott, and Amy Irving. I was handed a copy of the hernia-inducing screenplay and assigned a small role. I learned more about directing actors in that one afternoon than I likely would have learned in four years at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.


After my four-year stint at New Yorker Films I was yearning to return to Los Angeles. In July 1983 I was offered a job as General Sales Manager at Samuel Goldwyn Films, at the apex of that company’s fabled existence. (I took over the department only two months later). I was twenty-nine years old. Still a virgin.

On my first day at “school” I was introduced to my co-workers, most of whom were stand-up show business vets. One was Sam’s then 64 year old head of production, Russ Thatcher, who looked like a character out of The Last Tycoon, and who was the most frightened human I’d ever encountered. Race up behind him and shout “Russ?” and you’d better know how to administer CPR. His final production credit is for Jim Carrey’s first starring role, the execrable Once Bitten.

I was particularly smitten with two of my co-workers. One was the assistant to our Vice President of International Sales. Her name was Maura Hoy, but I quickly learned she was dating someone in Goldwyn’s television department. Six years later I would marry her and much of our all-too-short relationship became the basis for my 2006 relationship drama, Flannel Pajamas.

The other young woman was a pistol. And, yes, she was a Texan. And, no (or is it yes?), she took no prisoners. And she had a great booming laugh, for such a lithe, small woman. And she had a great name, Mel Layton, her first name an acronym of her initials – Mary Ellen Layton. I thought she oozed sexuality and, as such, had to be way too experienced for me to even fantasize about. But we became fast friends.

We lunched together almost every other day (on those days I didn’t steal Maura off to lunch). We hit local taverns after work on the other days. She took me as her “date” to a Stevie Ray Vaughn concert — her brother was Stevie’s wildly electrifying drummer Chris Layton, more taciturn than Mel but…wow, right?

It took a full six months before Mel became impatient with my feckless flirting. We sat together in my car one early evening after work, in my car that was parked in the Goldwyn garage, at 10203 Santa Monica Boulevard in Century City. She became the first adult woman, that is the first adult woman who was a contemporary of mine, to whom I confessed my dermatological history, my virginity, my insecurities, my fears. And she bluntly made her point by sucking face with me. I actually thought I’d pass out but I knew I couldn’t, because if I had, these sublime, other-worldly, everything-it-was-always-cracked-up-to-be feelings, would stop.

She told me to follow her to her apartment in Silverlake. I lost her en route but I had her address, and my trusty, pre-GPS era Thomas Brothers Guide in tow.

I reached her two-story stucco building less than five minutes after she arrived; her Silverlake home, located not far from Dodger Stadium, in its pre-hipster days. I knocked on the door and heard her from within, fearlessly shouting at me to enter. I found her on the carpet of her living room, in the most compromising position imaginable, again, ready to take the upper hand in the next phase of our relationship.

That entire afternoon and evening is played out, in graphic detail, during the first sequence of my film Twelve Thirty, a movie that premiered in 2011 at Lincoln Center, its fictional characters impeccably played by Jonathan Groff and Portia Reiners. The film really isn’t about me, but that moment, and the male character’s fixation with “Mel,” becomes the lynchpin for everything that follows, in a story actually about mothers and daughters, a leitmotif of all six of my films.

One of the other stars of Twelve Thirty is Reed Birney, in my opinion, perhaps New York’s finest stage and screen actor. He starred in my next film, Molly’s Theory of Relativity and Mad Women. I’ve written my next project specifically for and around Reed. Reed Birney is the second muse in my life. John Cassavetes was the first. I feel like the luckiest person in the world.


I arrived at the doorstep of Skouras Pictures in January 1987 as President of Distribution. In so many ways it was a dream come true, and a means to an end. Our suite of offices were located in Hollywood at a rental lot called Hollywood Center Studios, spitting distance from Paramount Pictures’ storied Marathon Avenue gate. (I frequently caught a glimpse of ten-year-old Christina Ricci, camera-ready as “Wednesday Addams,” spookily meandering outside the stage where The Addams Family feature was shooting.) And my name was stenciled on the concrete bumper of a parking space at an actual Hollywood movie studio parking lot. Nirvana.

It was the dawn of the Home Entertainment era and Tom Skouras, our owner, had recently signed a wildly lucrative output deal with CBS-Fox that had millions of dollars pouring into our coffers for theatrically distributing such films as Shadey, The Good Father, Dogs in Space, Living on Tokyo Time, Shame, and The Wash. Marjorie Skouras was our young, firecracker head of acquisitions and, on my first day on the job, she gifted me with her latest acquisition, an unheralded Swedish language film by an unknown filmmaker – Lasse Hallström’s My Life as a Dog. During my third week on the job I began dating my future wife. 1987 was a honeymoon period for me in so many ways.

My Life as a Dog became a monster hit, despite not playing a single screen controlled by Cineplex Odeon Theatres, then one of the biggest chains in the country and the largest in North America. Cineplex’s owner was Garth Drabinsky, who would later be indicted on fraud charges in both Canada (where he served time in prison) and the United States. I worked briefly for him (exactly six weeks) in 1986. This is the only professional stint that is not included on my resume.

His ego decided to launch an independent distribution company in order to better control what played at his theatres. He acquired the U.S. rights to a Canadian film I loved as its first release, Denys Arcand’s The Decline of the American Empire. The problem was Drabinsky had no distribution experience and he compensated by ruling over his staff of highly motivated and dedicated professionals like any garden-variety tyrant. The day it was announced in the Hollywood trades that I was joining Skouras, Drabinsky called Tom and told him if I joined his company Cineplex would never book a Skouras film, ever. Tom backed me up 100%, so the raging success of our Swedish gem was triply sweet for me. Tom immediately joined Samuel Goldwyn, Jr., John Cassavetes, Dan Talbot, and Ray Silver in the pantheon of the most remarkable employers for whom anyone could ever hope to labor.

Shortly after My Life as a Dog began breaking box-office records, Maura and I decided to escape for a romantic weekend in San Francisco. I booked a room at The Mansion, a Victorian B&B (yes, it was haunted!) owned by then diet guru Nathan Pritikin. I casually mentioned to Tom that I’d be leaving work a few minutes early that Friday in June to make our flight.

At the inn’s front desk we were gifted with a package of matches embroidered with my last name, toasted with cognac, and told when the house poltergeist would perform. Upon entering our room we found a bottle of Dom Perignon alongside an array of sweet, ripe strawberries, and a note from Tom wishing us a fantastic weekend.

When an independent distributor represents a beloved smash of the magnitude of My Life as a Dog the Hollywood (and New York) executives and “A” level stars crawl out of the woodwork, clamoring to see it, privately, at their convenience, far from the madding crowd. Everyone with a home screening room or major studio screening facility wanted to borrow a 35 millimeter print of the film, either for bragging rights, because they truly love great cinema and want to see everything, because they sniff an opportunity to sign a nascent director, writer, or star, or to screen the first reel or two for their girlfriend or boyfriend as an aphrodisiac. Everyone from Woody Allen to Barbra Streisand, from David Geffen to Michael Jackson was forming a line. But 35 millimeter prints cost $1,500.00 and even with our success that represented a wheelbarrow full of money, so we generally turned down such requests. We did make arrangements to sneak Mr. Jackson in to see it at Laemmle’s Music Hall Theatre in Beverly Hills after the lights dimmed. The next day his office called to ask if Michael could borrow a print for his mother to watch.

Suddenly everyone wanted a piece of Lasse. We twice brought him to the United States to take a bow and promote the film. The media wanted more. So we made arrangements to bring Anton Glanzelius, the film’s child star, to New York and Los Angeles to lay the groundwork for year-end awards consideration.

A few days before the Glanzelius family was to arrive in California I noticed a phalanx of security encircling a soundstage at the studio. I was told the reason was that Michael Jackson was rehearsing for a world tour behind the stage doors. So a light bulb went off. I asked my head of publicity to approach Jackson’s bodyguards, explain how much Michael loved My Life as a Dog, and find out if he would pose for pictures with Anton when the boy arrived at the lot. Word came back that, no, he’d be too preoccupied with rehearsals, but Michael would be happy to have Anton visit him at Neverland Ranch. One week later that’s where Anton, escorted by his parents, visited, not Disneyland, Neverland.

Sweden did not make Lasse’s film its official submission for the Best Foreign Language Film Academy Award in 1987, for two reasons: the year it qualified Sweden submitted The Sacrifice, by Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky, and because My Life as a Dog had bombed on its initial release in Sweden and was considered in its homeland a slight film, ostensibly for children.

But here in the States My Life as a Dog had crossed over to the mainstream, and was being embraced by audiences in commercial theaters as well as in art houses. Critics were running out of stars to bestow on our little engine that could. Why shouldn’t we go for Academy Award nominations in conventional categories? The Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences had frequently honored international accomplishments in many years past, and in many major categories. And, anyway, it was a bad year for Hollywood films, and the movie that wound up sweeping the Oscar in our year was Bernardo Bertolucci’s wildly overrated The Last Emperor.

It was only after I began to fill out the AMPAS qualification forms that I realized that, by the Academy’s rules, My Life as a Dog would not qualify because it was released in its country of origin more than one year before calendar year 1987 – specifically, it had opened in Sweden on December 12, 1985.

I was undeterred. I slipped a piece of Skouras stationary into the carriage of my IBM Selectric and conjured up a polite but impassioned plea on the film’s behalfmailing it to the President of the Academy. Two days later I received a call from then AMPAS executive director Bruce Roberts. He spoke in friendly but hushed tones. He said they were in receipt of my letter, that an executive session had been scheduled for later that week, and not to do or say anything in the interim. After hanging up the phone I glanced left and right and out my office window; I felt like it was 1972 and I had just checked into a room at the Watergate.

Three days later it was announced that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences had made a modest but unprecedented modification in the rules for the Best Foreign Language Film category, making our Scandinavian sensation suddenly Oscar-eligible. We spent $40,000 on our campaign. The film was nominated for two MAJOR Academy Awards – Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay. Then it was re-released in Sweden, whereupon it became a belated hit.

My Life as a Dog was also nominated for a Golden Globe Award as Best Foreign Film. Tickets to attend that ceremony were more expensive than tickets to the Oscars so my company only bought two and allowed me to attend with my Maura, who by then was living with me. As a nominee Lasse received two free tickets. He brought his then-girlfriend Lulu as his plus-one.

In January 1988 my mother was dying of cancer. My parents moved from Long Island to Dallas for professional reasons some years earlier. Before the Globe nominations were announced I’d made a commitment to travel to Dallas to visit, time was growing short. Maura and I lived in the “Valley,” in Sherman Oaks, so it was quite a haul getting to-and-from LAX. For some reason, a reason I can’t recall, I had a free voucher for a three-night stay at any Hilton Hotel of my choice. So we hatched a nutty plan: We would book a room at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, venue for the Golden Globes, check in on Friday morning, leave the tux and the dress in the closet, drive to the airport, fly to Dallas, spend a day with my mom and dad, fly back to Los Angeles Saturday afternoon, shower, (make love), dress, and meet Lasse and Lulu in the hotel’s International Ballroom.

I was already fully dressed while Maura sat at the vanity, nude, her back to me, carefully applying her make-up. I was moved to tears. It was a heady emotional weekend on every level. I saw her sexy, unblemished, naked back, and the reflection of her beautiful face in the mirror. We had a Polaroid camera with us. I couldn’t help myself. How did I deserve such beauty, such a woman? Without saying a word I held the camera’s viewfinder to my eye. My girlfriend flashed a coy, quiet smile and said, “Jeff,” to which I replied, “Can’t help it.” And 60 seconds later I held a work of art, not mine, hers, in my hand. I wrote that precious moment, that precious image, etched in my memory forever, into my script for Flannel Pajamas. As Justin Kirk’s character Stuart and Julianne Nicholson’s character Nicole are dressing for their wedding I would have them re-enact that indelible tableau, one I cherish to this day. It is one of the most beautiful scenes in the film.


A premonition of utter disaster enveloped me as soon as the four of us entered the Ballroom. Not only were we seated at a table next to the kitchen (the room accommodated well over 1,000 industry-ites) I soon spied my friends and rivals, Michael Barker and Tom Bernard (both 2014 Sony Entertainment hacking victims), then of Orion Classics, escort their nominee Louis Malle (shades of My Dinner With Andre!), and his wife Candice Bergen, to their table…next to the stage! The fix was in! Louis’ film Au revoir les enfants had just opened to rave reviews and it had the backing of a major studio, and its director was married to a movie star. Fuhgeddabout it!

I spent the first half of the ceremony miserable. What had been a remarkable weekend turned into a living nightmare. Paradoxically, Lasse and his date were giddy as kids in a candy store. He was gleefully writing and re-writing an acceptance speech, one I was sure he’d never speak. He asked if you “patted” a dog or “petted” a dog in America.

Yakov Smirnoff, a stand-up comic whose claim to fame was misspeaking English, presented the award for Best Foreign Film. I couldn’t look. I don’t slow down to look at car wrecks, either. True, as he read the names of each of the five nominated films, My Life as a Dog received the loudest and most sustained in-house applause. So what. Then he said, “The winner is…My…” That’s all I heard, my brain shut off. It took Lasse a full two minutes to make it to the stage, on live television. We didn’t see him again for forty-five minutes, until the press had finished chewing him up and licking the plate.

I married Maura Hoy. Lasse married actress Lena Olin. Lasse and Lena are still married.

(Copyright 2015 Jeff Lipsky. All rights reserved.)

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