Hal Needham - Stuntman!: My Car-Crashing, Plane-Jumping, Bone-Breaking, Death-Defying Hollywood Life

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
TO MY MOM, EDITH NEEDHAM.

The explosion must have been second only to the A-bomb. A cannon placed in the floorboard and loaded with four black-powder bombs shot the four-door Chevy thirty feet in the air and folded it in half. When I opened my eyes in midflight, I was upside down and going backward. I knew this wasnt going as planned and at any moment there was going to be one helluva wreck. The car landed on its roof, which caved in, jamming the doors. But the big problem was that I wasnt breathing.

I saw that the back window had blown out from the impact, so I made my way to it. Gasping for air, I crawled out from under the trunk of the pancaked car. At that moment the boys working with me on the stunt came skidding to a stop. I heard one say, Holy shit, hes alive!

The hospital confirmed that I had a broken back, six broken ribs, and a punctured lung. I counted the missing teeth myself: three. John Wayne would have to finish the movie without me

After spending eleven days in the hospital, I walked into the house I was sharing with Burt Reynolds all humped over, because my ribs couldnt find their connecting points. Burt told me that if I ever intended to amount to anything I would have to straighten up. Even knowing how much those broken ribs were going to hurt, I couldnt keep from laughing. I thanked him with a middle-finger salute and went upstairs.

Burt never missed a chance to throw in a funny line, but youd think hed have been more sympathetic seeing as how I helped him dodge a possible murder rap during the filming of The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing. I was the stunt coordinator and doubling Burt in the movie, and he was starring with Sarah Miles, who was married to A Man for All Seasons screenwriter Robert Bolt at the time. About halfway through the shoot, Sarahs business manager, David Whiting, came to visit her on location in Gila Bend, Arizona. Burts birthday was coming up, so I had decided to rent a hall and celebrate with some barbecue, a little music, and a lot of booze. The Sunday morning I was preparing for the party, a crew member told me that Davids dead body had been found the previous night facedown near a pool of blood in Sarah Miless room.

When Burt showed up at the hall, I repeated what Id heard. He asked what I was going to do about the party. I thought about it for a second and answered, Im sure not going to invite the dead man. Right or wrong, I forged ahead with the party. Needless to say, it wasnt much of a success, as everybody stood around drinking and gossiping about whether it was suicide or murder.

The next morning the air was full of suspicion. Sitting by the pool on a rare day off, I started hearing rumors that the sheriff was going to arrest Burt for murdersomething about some supposed love triangle. I raced out to the set to tell Burt and the director, Richard Sarafian, what was happening. We met in Burts motor home. When Burt heard an APB might be put out on him, he was in shock. Sarafian was concerned about what his star was going to do. I suggested Burt go to Utah, the films next location, so he could buy some time to hire legal counsel and stay out of the slammer while the law attempted to extradite him to Arizona. Burt agreed. How would he get there? I told him to lie down in the back of his motor home and hang on. I knew the way to Utah and as it turned out, our great escape was unnecessary as Burt was never charged

There was another time we blew across the state line, keeping our eyes peeled for the police. I was behind the wheel of a modified Dodge van that had its interior ripped out and was semi-equipped to look like an ambulance. It had red emergency lights on the roof and TransCon MediVac painted on the side. I had stuffed a full-blown 440 wedge engine under the hood and added two extra gas tanks capable of carrying ninety gallons. Id also mounted three filler spouts, one for each tank, to be able to fill them quickly. It was the perfect vehicle for our teamme, the great car journalist Brock Yates, his pretty brunette wife, Pam, and Dr. Lyle Royer, whom I had met in a bar on the Sunset Stripto compete with in the Cannonball Run.

The race had been run a number of times. The drivers would disguise themselves and their vehicles to be less conspicuousas if that were possible, racing from coast to coast at a hundred-plus miles an hour. The vehicle covering the distance in the shortest amount of time was the winner, and the prize was a trophy and bragging rights until the next race. The only rule they had was that there were no rules. The first car in the cross-country race left the starting line in Darien, Connecticut, at 9 p.m., followed every fifteen minutes by the next in line. We left at 1:45 a.m. and headed west, with Brock driving. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper. I told Brock we couldnt win at this pace, so I hit our red lights. Now I knew how Jesus (or was it Moses?) felt when he parted the Red Sea. The cars ahead moved to the side of the road, and we left New York City in our wake.

Around 4 a.m. we were blowing through New Jersey, gobbling up miles in record time. I looked in the mirror and saw headlights way, way back there. Brock told me to back off to about eighty and see if they got any closer. Sure enough, the car closed the gap and turned on its red lights. We pulled over.

Brock and I, both dressed in orange-and-white ambulance attendants jackets, got out and walked back to meet the police. One officer asked, Where are you heading? Its a long way to a hospital in that direction.

Brock casually replied, California.

Why? the officer asked.

Thats where the patient has to go, I said.

The officer looked confused. Why California? he asked.

Youll have to ask the doctor. Were just drivers, Brock said.

Brock and I led the way to the ambulance door and opened it. Pam lay strapped to a gurney with an oxygen mask on and IV needles taped to her arm. The Doc, who was wearing a white coat, handed the officer a clipboard with a UCLA Medical Center form filled out. The officer looked down at it, obviously confused by the jargon. Explained the Doc, She has a lung disease.

The officer appeared suspicious. Why didnt you fly her?

She couldnt tolerate the altitude, the Doc said impatiently. We cant even take the northern route too high. Have to head to the south.

We could see them mulling over the dilemma. If they delayed us and something happened to the patient, it would be on their headswhich is what Brock and I were counting on. Finally one said: Okay, go ahead, but keep your speed down. Emergency or not, youre going way too fast. Youre endangering half the state.

After they left, we jumped in the van and Brock turned to Lyle and said, Nice going, Doc, as I mashed the gas and asked that engine for all it had.

And the idea for a movie was born: What if we put Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise, and Jack Elam as the Doc in the vanwith Farrah Fawcett as the patientand had them race across the country on the big screen against Cannonballers Terry Bradshaw and Mel Tillis in a stock car, Roger Moore doing James Bond in an Aston Martin, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr., dressed as Catholic priests in my Ferrari, Jackie Chan in a rocket-powered Subaru, a couple of good-lookin ladies in a Lamborghini, and anyone else willing to challenge the law