I first met Teo in the late 70s when I came from London to LA with my then girlfriend. We were to rent actor/producer Barbara Steele's apartment while she was away producing, I think, the second half of an epic TV miniseries, the first of which my girlfriend had been in. Teo, who worked for Barbara over at Paramount, was waiting inside the apartment smoking unfiltered Pall Mall, Camels(?). He was in a blue blazer, a smart striped shirt, and baggy khaki trousers. I thought instantly of a character out of Graham Greene or John Le Carre, a roguish "gentleman", dubious but endearing. Our first shared experience was surreal. There would be many more later. He took me into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A burst of hot air, as from an oven set around 350, hit us both in the face. He quickly shut the door. I said, “That’s a little odd for a refrigerator.” He said, "Yes it is. I suppose someone will have to come and fix that, but I don’t know who, so let's go and have lunch." And so we did. By this time I had written and directed two movies, one with Helen Mirren, and, for various other reasons, some appealing to his Etonian side, Teo always treated me with respect and interest, even as he took, over the years, significant sums of money from me and a computer. He had a way of flattering me with his curiosity and interest while at the same time gruffly, and often amusingly, exuding superior intellectual and artistic erudition with assurance and (usually) grace. We both came from overshadowing families, mine scientific, his artistic. His father and mother were friends with Hemingway, who stayed with the wealthy expatriot Davis family for an entire summer in Spain. (I imagine them as being like Sarah and Gerald Murphy but in Spain instead of France.) By the time Teo, not yet ten, met Hemingway, the writer was a legend, already a caricature of himself, although this would not have been apparent to Teo, and sinking into usually well-disguised depression. He liked Teo from all accounts and Teo liked him. We (me, Teo, and the girlfriend) went on several road trips. He’d sit in the back most of the time with his maps and guidebooks and sandwiches, and I’d see his large, smiling head in the rearview mirror, usually with a cigarette in it, often with a sandwich or other items going in. He was messy. When food came into the car, 10% went into me and the girlfriend, 80% of it went into Teo, the rest onto his shirt, and from there onto the seat and the floor. We settled in LA. Teo must have been in his late 20s. I was going to say that he seemed older, by dint of his largeness and confidence, but on reflection, he also seemed younger, about 10, a fat school boy who might have been bullied had he not been so smart and had he not had so much mischief in his eyes. He was probably my closest friend for a year or so, and introduced me to the city and to many friends. When we first met, I drank a lot, he hardly drank at all. And then, quite suddenly he drank, and then started doing drugs. Who starts doing drugs at 30? I went along with the coke and had several really great evenings-nights-mornings with him and with other people too - I hope you’re all still alive, some of you? The first time I saw that Teo might be heading downward was also somewhat funny. There was a small screening at Paramount of the “momentous” TV War miniseries the girlfriend was in and she and I were invited. We joined Teo, Barbara, the director, whoever was running Paramount or Paramount TV, and the head of whatever network was going to air it. The theater was small, two rows of big, deep leather seats. Barbara, the director, the girlfriend and the executives took seats at the back. Teo – who looked sweaty and exhausted – and I sat next to each other with a few seats either side of us in the front row. I remember what it was called now. “Winds of War.” Interminable. Hours of bombs and bombast and sentimentality and melodrama. Winds of War! And so it would be. After about two hours, with many more to come, I looked to my left and saw Teo had taken the sensible way out: he was asleep, slumped away from me, but in a posture that from behind, could look like relaxed attentiveness, head back as if actually watching the screen. About three hours in, there was a particularly mawkish scene between the girlfriend and an ancient Robert Mitchum, who was playing the lead. It was a goodbye scene, I think, and the girlfriend and Mitchum were about to indulge in a tender, age-inappropriate kiss, and everything was hushed, not a dry eye in the house, etc. And Teo farted in his sleep. I heard it begin and glanced at him, trying not to turn my head so as not to embarrass him, and was about to discreetly poke him with my left hand to stop him, when the fart suddenly grew much louder, crescendoed with a horrible smacking noise, and woke him up. No sooner was he awake than he turned toward me with an accusatory look and muttered, “Good God, Matthew,” then turned away, shaking his head disapprovingly. The speed of the deflection was astonishing and effective. The girlfriend, not believing my story, berated me for weeks for having embarrassed her in front of important people. Teo wasn’t the first junky I knew, I’d had another close friend in England who’d gone down this path, stolen and borrowed from me, and tried to wean me off the occasional snort and seduce me into shooting up. So I knew I was going to get hustled out of money, but I was immensely fond of Teo, and admired him (and his potential) and I did not want to upset him or lose his friendship by saying flat out: “No, Teo, I donottrust you.” One night I came to see him at his apartment in Hollywood just south of Sunset, and found him with other junkies, a disreputable mix of lowlifes, one bottoming out of show business, and a hooker, who would have been attractive in a perilous kind of way had she not lost a tooth or two. There was a jet of drying blood on the wall behind Teo and he was sad and, as he was nodding out, boring. I took a dutiful snort, declined the needle and the crack pipe and left. The next day, he called or I called him and we met to have a “serious talk”. He wanted to be a writer, but wasn’t quite there yet and the subjects he was interested in seemed unsuited to him, projects at arms’ length, “genre”, “noir”; forms that he could hide behind, that he couldn’t fail at, gestures. But still, this was his dream, to write, and, just as he had deflected the fart, he now deflected my concern about his drug use by saying if only he had a computer, he was sure he could write something at last, a new idea he had, and through that work, could get clean. I was broke, but not as broke as he was. Hoping my computer might save his life, I gave it to him and bought another one. Next time I called, he said he was writing. I remember a long story – I think it was then, maybe it was later - about an inheritance, a chance for redemption and health punishingly missed in an abysmal way. He moved to another apartment further south, not far from Larchmont. I’d visit him there, often late, and the guy at the desk got to know me. By now I’d also lent Teo some money and after a while actually needed it back. Soon, no matter how much I called or when, I could not get hold of him. One night I became both angry and worried and called the building. The guy at the desk said, “No, he’s not here, but I’m glad you’ve called because he sold me a computer and he told me earlier it used to be yours, and I’m having a little trouble with it.” I knew I was no longer dealing with Teo, but with his new and demanding friend, H, but still, I was hurt. We remained amiable and I still enjoyed him when it was possible, until I left LA. But it was never quite the same again, even when, or so he claimed, he got straight for a while. During one of these straight(ish) times, he came to a party of mine and I introduced him to a psychiatrist, a brilliant eccentric. For a while, he and Teo saw each other now and then. I'm sure everyone who knew Teo – or at least those who loved him – felt as I felt, the same frustration, irritation and despair that someone as marvelous as he should squander himself by becoming an addict. One day, I met with our now mutual friend, the shrink, and expressed my bafflement and frustration. Why was Teo doing this to himself? Why couldn’t he get off drugs? My friend said, “No, you don’t understand. Teo doesn’t have a problem with drugs, he has a problem with writing.” And maybe this was true. The ghost of Hemmingway, Spain, the shadows of his childhood, an intimacy with a mythic writer, but no intimacy with the discipline and hard work that created the books that created the myth. Looking back, I think Teo could have made a great literary editor. He had a gift for the provoking suggestion. I’d talk to him about something I was working on and he’d instantly say, “You should read…” and often it seemed to have no connection to what I was doing, but then, once read or seen, turned out to be peculiarly and brilliantly apropos. I hadn’t seen Teo for years when I learned, only a few days ago that he’d died. I was shocked, I’m not sure why, and immensely saddened. There was not just intelligence and wit in him, but a rare kind of affection for his friends, a sweetness, a charm, an elegance of spirit – and to watch him stumble as he did, and fall, was unbearable. I adored him, and regret the many years I didn’t see him. But I remember him with total clarity and I’m sure I always will. How could one not? - Matthew Chapman