Hella Nation - Evan Wright [146]
Most documentaries emerging from Iraq, no matter how scrupulously their makers strive to be neutral, have the feel of an adult presence, an intermediary at the controls. In Dollard’s work, there is no filter. It’s not the work of a grown-up. There’s no authority interpreting how the young troops ought to feel about their experiences. It’s the kind of film a nineteen- or twenty-year-old Marine would make to show his buddies. It captures the raw experience of a combat zone about as well as anything I have seen—short of actually going to a combat zone. No small part of the loyalty Dollard engenders among young Marines stems from what they see as the honesty of his work. “No one else out there I know of,” says Wong, “has gone as far as Pat to show people what our lives are like.”
There are some Marines Dollard never won over. “His presence endangered lives,” says Callan. “I have no doubt that he’s insane.”
ESCAPE AND EVASION
DOLLARD RETURNED TO L.A. in March 2005 to find that his business and personal affairs had imploded. Relativity was in the process of ousting him. An ex-business partner in an unrelated venture was seeking a $700,000 judgment against him. His fourth wife, Megan, had filed for divorce. Even worse, the three most influential women in his life—Megan, Alicia and his mother—had sided together, like a freak alignment of stars, in a legal action to deny him custody of his daughter. His Porsche and Range Rover were repossessed. Megan sold their furniture to pay bills. Dollard still had his Hummer, but a thief stole his “US WINS” vanity plates.
Dollard dealt with everything by going on a massive binge, living alone in the empty Hollywood Hills home. The four-story house was built into the side of a cliff, with panoramic views, an open steel-cage elevator running through its center, and walls adorned with his collections (not yet sold off) of African art, swords and battle helmets. Soon he was living like a bum. The electricity was turned off. He slept on a mattress on the floor of a bathroom.
In mid-April, when an agent colleague showed up at his house to check on him, she found the front door open. The place was filled with trash. It smelled. As she entered the kitchen, Dollard stumbled in, so filthy she initially thought he was a homeless man. Dollard lunged and threatened, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
She fled and called the LAPD, who showed up in force. “They had shotguns out,” she says. “I was terrified they were going to kill him.”
Dollard left peacefully, but given his proximity to neighbors like Bill Condon, Russell Crowe’s agent Bill Freeman, and James Wilder, his arrest was a bizarre industry event. “Everyone came out to see what was going on, and there was Pat being taken away in handcuffs,” says Dollard’s colleague. “It was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.”
No criminal charges were filed. Police deposited him at the Los Angeles County/USC Medical Center for psychiatric evaluation. Dollard describes the place as a “ghetto psych ward full of true nut jobs and power-mad nurses.” They tied him down and shot him full of Ativan. He was held for three days and released.
Dollard returned to his home and picked up where he’d left off. Two of the Marines he’d befriended in Iraq, Welsh and Wong, flew out to L.A. to visit. Dollard was still wearing his hospital bracelet, doing lines and downing jug vodka when his visitors showed up.
“He was obliterated,” says Welsh. “At first, we thought it was normal because that’s what everybody does when they come back from Iraq. But then one day we’re driving his truck down the freeway, and he’s so fucking yea-yoed out he’s like speaking in tongues in the backseat. Then he tries climbing out the window. We ended up beating the shit out of him just to hold him down.”
As the Marines left, Dollard promised them he’d taper down. Shortly thereafter, someone—Dollard still doesn’t know who—again called the cops. This time Dollard, on foot, led police on a pursuit through the hills. Even his landlord, James Wilder, became involved,