The cameras rolled inside a high-end New York restaurant, capturing a poignant scene between Fred Abbruzzi Jr., played by Alex Hayes, and his father, Fred Abbruzzi Sr., portrayed by John Lithgow. This wasn't just another scene; it was a meeting after a long separation, fraught with unspoken emotions and the weight of a fractured family.
Spielberg, directing with a delicate touch, understood that the emotional core of this scene rested heavily on John Lithgow's shoulders. Fred Sr. was a man in a dire financial situation, his pride wounded, his heart aching for his estranged wife, Fred Jr.'s mother, who had found solace in another man's arms. Lithgow masterfully conveyed this turmoil, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his voice trembling with a mixture of bitterness and a desperate, lingering love.
Alex Hayes, watching Lithgow, felt a profound sense of awe. He was playing a character eager to please his father, desperate not to wound his fragile pride, but Hayes himself was learning. Every nuance of Lithgow's performance – a subtle clench of the jaw, a fleeting flicker of pain in his eyes – was a masterclass in acting. He realized he was absorbing invaluable lessons with every take.
The scene culminated in a heart-wrenching exchange, a carefully constructed dance of words and silences, where the characters circled around the raw pain of their shared history. When Spielberg finally called "Cut!", a hush fell over the set.
Seeking a moment of quiet reflection, Alex Hayes stepped out onto the restaurant's outdoor terrace. He noticed another figure standing at the far end, and as he drew closer, he recognized Steven Spielberg. The director was wiping tears from his eyes, his face etched with a deep sadness.
Hayes didn't ask any questions. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He only smokes when his mood is not good, and the heavy emotional scene they had just filmed had left him with that feeling. He lit one, the small flame illuminating his thoughtful face.
Hayes offered the pack to Spielberg. The director hesitated for a moment, then took one, accepting the unspoken gesture of companionship.
As they smoked in silence, the city lights blurring in the distance, Spielberg suddenly broke the quiet. "I blamed my father for the divorce," he said abruptly, the words hanging in the cool night air.
Hayes looked at him, surprised by this sudden, personal revelation, but he remained silent, sensing that Spielberg needed to talk.
"My mother fell in love with someone else, and they divorced," Spielberg continued, his voice low and rough. "I didn't know the full story at the time. But even after I found out, I still blamed him. I told myself she fell in love with another man because he was a workaholic. I didn't speak to him for fifteen years. I only started talking to him again recently. As I matured, I realized how much precious time I'd lost with my father."
Hayes exhaled a plume of smoke, nodding slowly. "And filming this scene... it reminded you of all that."
Spielberg nodded, his gaze still distant. "You observed, then."
Hayes exhaled again, the smoke curling into the night. "Nodding." He didn't elaborate, acknowledging the pain without prying. "Why are you saying this to me?"
Spielberg finally turned to face him, a small, sad smile on his face. "I felt like it. That you wouldn't judge... but just listen."
Hayes met his gaze, his expression thoughtful. "I've not lived my life enough to judge somebody."
Spielberg laughed, a short, almost self-deprecating sound. "Those are the people who judge first. But you... you're different."
Hayes didn't respond. There was nothing to say. He simply took another drag from his cigarette, the shared smoke a silent acknowledgment of a shared human experience.
They stood in comfortable silence for a long moment, the weight of shared, unspoken emotions hanging between them, before returning to the set.
*****
Filming progressed smoothly after that night, and the two men never explicitly discussed the conversation on the terrace again. However, a subtle shift had occurred in their relationship. A sense of camaraderie had taken root, a quiet understanding that transcended the professional dynamic of director and actor.
They found themselves engaging in small talk, mostly about films, discovering a shared passion. They found they liked many of the same films: The Godfather, It's a Wonderful Life, and The Seven Samurai were just a few of the titles they enthusiastically discussed.
By December 21st, the filming was complete. As the crew celebrated, Steven Spielberg and Alex Hayes stood watching them, a shared sense of accomplishment and melancholy in their expressions.
"I always feel a sense of relief, and some sadness, after the completion of filming," Spielberg remarked, his voice thoughtful.
"Yeah," Hayes agreed, nodding slowly.
Spielberg elaborated, "It's the end of a creation process. We set out to create something, and the process is both exhilarating and burdensome. Once it's finished, we feel the sadness of losing that exhilaration, and the relief of losing the burden."
"Couldn't have said it better," Hayes said, a hint of admiration in his voice.
Spielberg turned to him, his gaze direct and sincere. "I would really love to work with you again, Alex. You're brilliant."
Hayes, a smile spreading across his face, adopted a mock-serious tone. "I really like that. But I won't star in that film unless it's your best work. After all, I have standards to maintain."
The two men looked at each other for a moment, the playful challenge hanging in the air, and then burst into loud laughter, the sound echoing across the celebratory atmosphere of the crew.
*******
As the filming wrapped, Alex made plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday. Usually, he would travel to his home in Eagle Lake, Texas, but this year, his family was coming to him in Los Angeles. His father, John Hayes, his stepmother, Maria, and his half-sister, Sofia, who had just turned three, were all excited to spend the holidays with him.
Alex was determined to make this Christmas as memorable as possible; he had planned so much for them.
And at this time, The Breakfast Club had crossed $50 million at the box office, with the Christmas and New Year holidays expected to further boost collections.
Alex knew that by the end of the following year, the chapter of his career playing teen roles would come to an end.
He wasn't sad about it. He had played every type of teenager imaginable—nerd, jock, rebel, stoner, heartthrob, and more—and was proud of the work he had done. But everyone had to grow, both in life and in their career. He was going to cherish the next year and end this chapter of his career with a bang. And Alex had made all the preparations for that.