Doug Hutchison's Flushing Hollywood Is Unspeakably Dire Garbage and Wholly Irresistible

Doug Hutchison’s 2020 memoir, Flushing Hollywood, is a book that SHOULD NOT EXIST. Flushing Hollywood should not exist, first and foremost, because its author infamously married sixteen-year-old Courtney Stodden (who identifies as nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns) when he was fifty. 

Flushing Hollywood is less a memoir than an angry jeremiad against a world that would DARE to judge Doug Hutchison and his marriage to a child despite being ferociously imperfect itself.

Hutchison’s accidental but utterly damning confession resembles Dustin Diamond’s similarly rancid memoir, Behind the Bell, in pointing an accusatory finger in Hollywood’s direction and insisting that show business does not have the right to judge ANYONE because it is so infamously a den of sin and iniquity. 

In their memoirs, Diamond and Hutchison put HOLLYWOOD on trial, and find it GUILTY! GUILTY of hypocrisy! GUILTY of being phony! GUILTY of greed! GUILTY of flagrantly mistreating good, sensitive people like Dustin Diamond and Doug Hutchison! GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY! 

Like Diamond, Hutchison makes a special point of insulting the appearances of glamorous Hollywood movie stars on the dubious grounds that pointing out that actors don’t look as good without makeup is empowering rather than sexist and gross. 

In this passage, Hutchison relays how, actually, his Batman & Robin costars Alicia Silverstone and Uma Thurman are total uggos in real life: “On my first day on set I arrived extra early to find myself flipping through the before and after make-up Polaroids of our main stars: Clooney, O’Donnell, Silverstone and Thurman and folks, I know you’ve probably heard it one thousand times before but I’m here to tell ya the truth: These Hollywood sex symbols look like road kill before the make-up chair. I find Thurman and Silverstone both attractive, but—if you could’ve seen them in those before pics—you would’ve barfed up your breakfast.”

Behind the Bell and Flushing Hollywood posit themselves as shocking, incendiary exposés.

Think everyone in Hollywood is faithful and a paragon of sexual modesty? Think AGAIN, chump! A lot of famous people are screwing around on their wives! Think your favorite stars all refrain from using mood-altering substances because they want to preserve the sacred temples that are their bodies and minds? Hutchison has news for you: they’re all cheating on their wives at cocaine parties with Kid Rock and Lars Ulrich where the groupies line up fifty deep!

That’s how it is in Hollyweird, man! It’s full of fornicators. And drunks! And the agents: they’re SO greedy! And crazy! And not ethical either. Not to mention the Liberals with all their Priuses who think they’re so great! What about the paparazzi and the reality shows? Turns out THEY’RE totally gross and sleazy as well! Who knew, other than everyone? 

So, what right does a world so awash in sin have to blacklist a dude just for the whole “exploiting a child he thrust into the unforgiving, traumatizing glare of the tabloid spotlight” thing? 

Like Diamond, Hutchison doesn’t seem to understand that the existence of sin does not absolve him of his own sins. It’s not an either/or proposition: Hollywood AND Hutchison are both terrible. Hollywood is sleazy and amoral; Hutchison is rightly notorious for being sleazy and amoral even by Hollywood standards. 

The first half of Flushing Hollywood is devoted to a series of rambling, misanthropic, sexist, and racist anecdotes about its author’s checkered career as a theater, television, and film character actor specializing in playing creepy loners in The X-Files, Punisher: War Zone, and The Green Mile. 

Hutchison knows how deeply it hurts to be judged, yet he nevertheless spends the entire book judging others and letting himself off easy. 

Early in his career Hutchison had the honor of brushing up against some of the most respected actors and actresses of his generation. In a development at once surprising and unsurprising, it turns out that they all suck. 

Hutchison writes that Lili Taylor, who costarred in the play Fun with him when they were both starting out, is a “pretentious, duplicitous ball-busting back stabber.” 

Even though, by his own account, Hutchison has been deeply wounded by vicious gossip, he nevertheless feels the need to share, “Our paths never cross again but I hear story after story from various sources who work with her that Lili Taylor, queen of the indie world, is nothing but a demanding, self-serving brat who throws tantrums when the slightest tilt of the world is not to her liking.”

Hutchison merely insults Taylor’s personality. William H. Macy, who would have directed Hutchison in an off-Broadway premiere of Fun had the young actor not ditched the production for a big movie payday, gets roasted for his looks, for his personality, AND for being a talentless loser. 

The bitterness-poisoned author with the brain full of diseased worms writes of the Fargo star, “At first sight—with his howdy doody ears, orangey hair and freckles—Bill Macy resembles something like a troll.” 

Macy earns Hutchison’s undying hatred by asking him not to abandon a play he’s directing for a role in the forgotten Andrew McCarthy/Molly Ringwald vehicle Fresh Horses mere days before the play is scheduled to open. 

That seems reasonable to me, but in Hutchison’s eyes, it’s proof that Macy is just another phony narcissistic egotistical show-biz shit bag, and a non-talent to boot. 

To Hutchison, this monster is as talentless as he is ugly. Hutchison writes of the Oscar nominee, “Macy is one of the worst actors of our generation. His performances, to me, are consistently stilted, over-the-top and transparent—as if he’s trying too hard to enunciate every word in that annoying, Mamet-esque staccato style. Simply put: William H. Macy’s a fake. He’s faking it now when he tries talking me out of my shot at Fresh Horses, and he’ll continue faking it over the years with his horse-poop acting.” 

Macy is at least in good company. Here’s Hutchison on another beloved yet secretly terrible actor, Samuel L. Jackson: “I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why Jackson continues to maintain his A-list movie star status. With rare exceptions (i.e., His stellar performance in 137 and maybe, just maybe, Pulp Fiction), Sam Jackson’s a one-trick pony. He delivers the same over-arching and unconvincing performances—flaring his nostrils, bugging his eyeballs, and acting ‘all angry and shit’—in nearly every single thing he does.” 

Hutchison has a HUGE problem with black men acting “all angry and shit,” onscreen and off.

True, Samuel L. Jackson never appeared in a movie called 137, but that does not undermine Hutchison’s assertion that all the best actors are terrible, especially if they’re black.

Hutchison writes derisively of Juilliard classmate Andre Braugher’s take on Macbeth, “Andre is awful. He over-acts and basically shouts his way throughout the play with a big, bad, bawdy, booming affection of—well, quite frankly, crapola. It’s like a bad second-rate attempt at a James Earl Jones impression.” 

Now, bear in mind, Hutchison is NOT racist. By his own account, he is extremely NON racist, though for the sake of getting into character as a racist for his role in A Time to Kill he felt that it was VERY important to use the N word in real life, off the set, and hang out with as many racists as possible. You know, for method acting purposes! 

Hutchison is uniquely attuned to the devastating costs of reverse racism when committed by black actors he doesn’t like or considers too “arrogant” or “angry” like Samuel L. Jackson, Ving Rhames, Jamie Foxx, Wesley Snipes, and Braugher. Hutchison has nothing but harsh words for black movie stars who think they’re so great that they can treat a bona fide white man like Doug Hutchison any old way just because they’re rich and famous and successful and powerful.

Hutchison isn’t just racist and belligerent, hateful, and overflowing with bitterness and resentment. He is also, unsurprisingly, a creep to women.

Here’s Hutchison on his guest appearance on The X-Files: “It’s August 9th and Gillian’s twenty-third birthday when we shoot the scene where (Hutchison’s villain character) Tooms squeezes through the heating duct of Scully’s apartment, climbs on top of her on the bathroom floor, and is about to extract her liver before Mulder arrives in the nick of time to save the day. On almost every single take, during our struggle, Gillian’s blouse insists on popping open and revealing the brassiere beneath. Gillian’s a good sport about it. She buttons back up after each take, saying, ‘I’m kind of exposing myself here.’ I reply teasingly, ‘No worries, Gil. I’m certainly enjoying the free show.’ Gillian laughs, crimson-faced with embarrassment, but I surmise flattered by the attention, nonetheless. 

What beautfiul woman could resist a man who looks like this?

“At one point, straddling her and holding her wrists down while the director sets up the shot, I decide to flirt with Gillian, whispering, ‘You like being restrained. Don’t you?’ Gillian’s eyes become as big as saucers. ‘Come on, admit it, Gillian. You’re a baaaaad girl, aren’t you? You want to be tied up and spanked.’” 

Hutchison does not get to tie up and spank his twenty-three-year-old coworker, but he does console himself with the news that the X-Files star, like all famous people, devolved into a narcissistic monster once she became successful. 

“Rumors abound years from now in The X Files circles that Gillian morphs into a self-serving prima-donna after a semblance of success,” he insists. 

Now bear in mind, Hutchison does not “know” this firsthand. Nonetheless, he feels compelled to share it all the same. 

Hutchison’s idea of flirting looks an awful lot like sexual harassment, but sexual predators see their actions differently than others do. They don’t see their actions as predation, assault, or harassment but rather as flirting, friendship, romance, and sexy fun. 

Everyone must find a way to live with themselves and their actions. For Hutchison, that means re-conceiving his parasitic, deeply problematic romantic and sexual relationship with a child as a grand romance destroyed by his ex-wife’s evil mother and a world and an industry that would not allow these soulmates to be happy. 

In limply defending his marriage to a child, Hutchison trots out all the defenses pedophiles employ. I thought they were WAY older! They’re very mature for their age! They’re an old soul! We were together in previous lives! Age doesn’t matter! Famous people like Charlie Chaplin and Paul Walker dated or married teenagers and got away with it, mostly! It’s legal (with parental consent) so it can’t be amoral! The heart wants what it wants!

In a fever of delusion, Hutchison writes, “Courtney’s far more mature than a ‘typical’ sixteen-year-old. They’re no pony-tailed high school cheerleader with braces on their teeth and a crush on Justin Bieber. Courtney’s well beyond their years and—based on our connection—I’m sensing that they’re just as beautiful on the inside as they appear outside. They’re an angel. I’m smitten.” 

Looks don’t matter to Hutchison. He writes that he would still consider Stodden the most beautiful person in the world if they were the victim of an acid attack. That’s not because he’s superficial or cares about looks but because it’s important to continually reiterate how smoking hot his child bride was and how everyone wanted to fuck them, something that seems to displease Hutchison and turn him on simultaneously. 

Hutchison’s relationship with Stodden began online, with the disillusioned thespian and acting coach being blown away by the talent and natural charisma of a beauty he claims to have assumed was in their mid to late twenties. 

Depending on the context, Hutchison either doubles down on the “They’re SO mature for their age! They’re like a forty-year-old in the body of a teenager!” line of defense or implores readers to bear in mind that Stodden was only seventeen—a CHILD—when they were being eviscerated by cast-mates and the public at large during their time on Couples Therapy. 

Won’t someone think about the children! Especially the ones married—HAPPILY!—to creepy fifty-something character actors? 

Hutchison insists that Stodden’s love for black and white shows like The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy

, and The Twilight Zone proved they were mature beyond their years. Yet those shows are famously beloved by children. I know. I watched them when I was eight; they’re pretty much only watched by old people and children, so Doug and Courtney, pretty much.

When Hutchison learned that Stodden was only sixteen years old it did not prove a deal-breaker. Because by that point Hutchison was in love, and, in Flushing Hollywood at least, love excuses and justifies all.

Marrying a sixteen-year-old makes Hutchison a pariah in an industry that, to be honest, was never that wild about him to begin with. He becomes unemployable. No reputable production wants to be associated with a notorious cradle robber.

With Hutchison’s life savings running out, acting opportunities nonexistent, and Stodden in a furious hurry to launch their career as a singer/actress/model, Hutchison pivots professionally and personally. He stops being a VERY serious actor who takes his art seriously and becomes a shameless tabloid creature desperately chasing down every last dollar and perpetually willing to degrade himself and pimp out his marriage for a payday. 

Flushing Hollywood feels pornographic even before Stodden films an ACTUAL pornographic motion picture that is initially rejected by Vivid Video for not being pornographic enough. 

Courtney’s “momager” Krista, the memoir’s primary villain and a figure of Satanic evil, can’t help but fall hopelessly in love with her daughter’s new husband, at one point asking Hutchison if he’d ever fantasized about having a threesome with his then-wife and his mother-in-law. 

Hutchison turns her down because he is, by his own account, a “trustworthy and straight-forward person.” While he concedes that he is not perfect—a bold admission given how easy and possible it is to be perfect—he insists, “I am a man of good character. I attribute this to my upbringing. Like all parents, mine made many, many mistakes but—all in all—I believe they raised me the best they could to be a decent man with honorable values. Proof positive of this is Hollywood. After twenty-five years in this cesspool, I’ve somehow managed to preserve my character.”

Because this man infamous for marrying a child is trustworthy and straightforward, a decent man with honorable values, we can trust him when he tells us that for the better part of the decade pretty much his entire public life with Stodden was a flimsy fiction concocted by desperate opportunists for a paycheck large enough to keep their grubby hustle going. 

This includes filming a Las Vegas solo sex video they pretend was taped for Hutchison’s erotic benefit alone and then stolen or leaked when it was always intended for the public market. Alas, the pornographers the couple get into bed with professionally don’t think it’s dirty enough, so an additional scene is filmed involving an ice cream cone being used in an unsavory, unhygienic manner. 

The public’s interest in this seedy sideshow diminished with time, however. The sad, desperate publicity stunts didn’t work, and Hutchison went bankrupt financially as well as morally. These soulmates eventually went their separate ways, with Hutchison retreating back to his home state of Michigan to get his head straight and life right. 

The cover of Flushing Hollywood is an amateurish photoshop of Doug Hutchison pointing at a toilet indelicately placed on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The title and cover are only one manifestation of Hutchison’s obsession with feces. Hutchison wants us to know that Hollywood acts like its shit doesn’t stink when—and this is another explosive revelation—it does! 

name a more iconic duo!

In what remarkably qualifies as one of the book’s less disgusting passages, Hutchison writes about how impressed he was by Tom Hanks’ charm and talent on The Green Mile, but also how they were in a bathroom together once and the Oscar winner dropped a MONSTER deuce so foul-smelling that it disgusted people three states over.

So even though Hanks is a great guy, his shit not only stinks but is so foul-smelling that decades later Hutchison felt the need to commemorate, for posterity, its grossness.

In that same scatological spirit, Flushed Hollywood is complete shit, real horse-poop writing. It was nevertheless EXACTLY what I needed during the early days of the pandemic, because escape is escape even when what you’re escaping to is the warped psyche of a grade-A show-business creep.

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