In the early part of 2012 I stayed with the late Verne Troyer for a week, putting together a long pitch for his autobiography, which we all hoped would lift the lid on an extraordinary, inspirational and often chequered life and career in the movie business.
What a week that was…..
At the time of writing, the circumstances around Verne’s death hint at tragedy, in which drink and depression appear to play a major role. Yet let no-one say that Verne didn’t live a big life, despite his size. A week isn’t long enough to get to know anyone, but at least you can take away a snapshot that isn’t too blurred around the edges, and by the time I arrived home I’d certainly had a taste of life at the outer limits of Hollywood.
I arrived in L.A., jet-lagged and spooked by the mandatory grilling from US Immigration, to Verne’s opening question: “Do you fancy visiting the Playboy Mansion tonight?”
Well, that’s some offer….. I wondered if the beds at the Mansion might be comfortable, and whether there was much chance of being able to find a nice, quiet single Bunnyless one where I could nap off my previous 11 hours fastened into Economy. But before I could reply, his very nice manager took me aside. “Verne’s not allowed to go to the Mansion,” he said, “cos every time he does, he comes back with a gold-digger.”! Point taken.
Verne and I spent hours every day, talking over his life-story while sitting in his room, which was furnished by the tiny chairs and sofas made for him on the set of the Austin Powers movie. He had a terrific story to tell, one of absolute determination not to be different from anyone else, despite being just 2ft 8. He was a wild one, alright. Nothing and no-one stopped him from having as much fun as possible. And yet, despite being one of the world’s most recognised people (going around LA with him attracted unbelievable amounts of attention everywhere we went) he lived very modestly. He was a manic driver, too. He would tear across the freeways like he was Ayrton Senna. I imagined the headlines… ‘Brit writer in superstar dwarf death-smash.’ It would’ve been some way to go.
He also had a very large streak of kindness and thoughtfulness that I think stemmed from his upbringing in the Amish community around Michigan. He knew he would always be stereotyped, yet his ambition was to play the lead in a rom-com that didn’t centre around his size. Wishful thinking, I guess, but a noble ambition all the same. He showed me an independent film he’d starred in, called Bit Players. It (and he) was brilliant and if he’d played his cards right he might have been considered for more parts like this. Sadly, I think he was perhaps just a bit too much of a handful for the major studios.
I came back from L.A. looking forward to working with him again later in the year, once the project had sold. Unfortunately, it didn’t. This was due to a combination of various elements – not a few publishers, I think, felt repelled by what they perceived as his ‘freakishness’. He was upset and frustrated that the project didn’t take off, feeling no-one was interested in him. In turn, I felt for him because I knew his was an amazing and inspirational story, but I also thought that one day things would turn around for him and there would be a happy ending. That would then be the time to re-pitch the book.
Obviously, there will be no happy ending now. I just hope that Verne Troyer, an unusual and interesting man in far more ways than the obvious one, is at peace now. RIP, mate.
PS…Verne and I did eventually go to the Playboy Mansion….well, up to the main gate, at least. “Shall I press the buzzer?” he asked me. “We’ll have a great time, you know…..”
I considered my options, and realised that if things became really heated I could always make my excuses and leave. Bringing a gold-digger back to Somerset would’ve taken some explaining, I felt. Particularly when she realised there was very little gold to be had. And in life, I’ve always been more observer than participant, shall we say, and in any case, a few hours of Verne’s company in the Mansion would be the stuff of pub conversation for the rest of my days.
“Your call, Verne,” I said.
He wound down the window and his finger hovered over the button. Then he withdrew his arm. “Nah,” he said. “It’ll only get us both into big trouble….”