Seven months later, Think Like a Man hit theaters. Despite promising myself that I’d remain cautious, my hopes soared. It was a great book, script, cast, and director—and I felt like it was one of my best performances.
I beat the streets up and did surprise screenings, college events, everything I could think of. Think Like a Man hit number one at the box office on opening weekend, knocking down The Hunger Games. On a budget of twelve million dollars, it ended up making ninety-two million—twice what the industry was predicting. “Sony pictures is in shock!” the trade papers proclaimed.
It was not just an unbelievable success; it was a new beginning. And after hundreds of Hollywood meetings and auditions and pitches, it all happened because of a guy I ran into at the airport.
Life Lessons
FROM SUCCESS
* * *
You don’t need my advice anymore. If you’re successful, then it’s your turn to give the advice. Unless you lose your success, in which case you gotta start over at chapter one.
With Jay Z and Chris Rock at Madison Square Garden
90
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HELLO, I’M BACK
It was a massive homecoming party.
Every trade magazine in the industry was writing about the success of Laugh at My Pain and Think Like a Man. Dave’s phone was ringing off the hook. Interview offers came rolling in. Most of the articles began something like, “You’ve probably never heard of Kevin Hart, but he is fast becoming one of the biggest comedians in the business.”
It showed me what a bubble Hollywood exists in: If more people bought tickets to my show than to any other comedy tour that year, then how would it be possible for people not to have heard of me?
What those journalists were really saying was that they had never heard of me. It had taken seven years of touring to work my way back to being a “newcomer” in Hollywood. The difference was that before I was a newcomer with a dream, now I was a newcomer with the leverage of an audience.
Suddenly, the people who didn’t want to meet with me after Soul Plane and The Big House wanted to have lunch; the seeds I’d planted over the years grew into offers; and the people who’d rejected me forgot they’d ever turned me down. There were times when I’d sit in a meeting thinking: I’m not new. I’ve been here for years. Y’all don’t remember? I was in here auditioning and you cut me off and said, “Okay, that’s enough, sir.”
It was a trip, but I didn’t take it personally. Ultimately, casting me—or any actor—in a major role is an investment. And you don’t want to put money into a company when it’s peaked and is on its way down; you want to get on board when it’s on its way up. They were doing their jobs by looking for a safe investment, and I was doing mine by being one.
Because I now controlled my career, I no longer had to make bad choices because I didn’t have any other option, or I needed the money, or I was desperate to hear a yes. I could choose projects because I wanted to do them and they were right for me. For most people, mixing desperation and decision-making is like mixing vodka and painkillers—a dangerous combination.
After all the meetings, all the offers, all the let’s-make-a-deals and we-want-to-be-in-the-Kevin-Hart-businesses and our-lawyers-will-call-your-lawyers, I decided to work with a true closer—not just someone who would throw money or a good script at me but someone who was willing to fight every step of the way to get a project made, released, and properly promoted. Someone whose work ethic I personally trusted: Will Packer.
Why end a relationship that’s working and growing? Will believed in me when I wasn’t number one at the box office, and that was something I would never get to experience in a new relationship again.
In the meantime, there were a lot of other new things to experience on this ride. Everything was flying by at warp speed. It felt like this . . .
ohmygodyouwantmetohostalltheseawardsshowsinfrontofthepeopleilookuptookayijustinsultedallofthemandgotinthemiddleofdrakeandchrisbrownsbeefhopetheydonthatemewhattheygavemeatvseriesfromitididntevenneedtopitchitorauditionornothinganditsgoingforfiveseasonsisoldouttwodaysatmadisonsquaregardenlittleoldmedamnstalkerswhatdoyoudoaboutthemnowcomediansilovearehatingonmethatdoesntfeelnecessaryimgonnacallthemandseewhatsupwiththatmanimthrowingaroundwaytoomuchmoneygamblingbutiguessivealwaysthrownaroundmoneyjustatadifferentlevelshitbeckyscallingandsaturdaynightlivewantsmeafteralltheseyearsbutmanimdrinkingmorethanishouldandalmostfuckingupmylifeandthelivesofinnocentstrangersjesusivedonesomestupidstupidshitinthisbookletsseewhatelseididntevenmindwhenthenorthkoreansorwhoeverhackedsonysemailsandclintculpeppercalledmeawhorebutitsbusinessandnothingtodowithmeasapersonsowerestillgoodfriendsmantheressomuchmorelikeperforminginamotherfuckingfootballstadiumcanyoubelieveitareyouactuallystillreadingthisohandletsnotforgetgoinginternationalbutmostimportantlyneverbeingtoobusytobeagreatdad.
Let me explain by slowing this down and breaking off a few of the most impactful pieces, starting with . . .
91
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KEITH, I’M IN NEW YORK AND DOING THE GARDEN, SO WHO’S THE DUMMY NOW?
When Will Packer came to me with a follow-up to Think Like a Man, I agreed to do it. But I told him that I needed to get back on the road first and stay connected with the comedy that had made the movies possible.
Where Laugh at My Pain was about my past, the new tour, Let Me Explain, was a celebration of where I’d made it to from those twisted roots, how grateful I was to get there, and my willingness to set the record straight on the rumors that had spread along the way.
The tour sold five times as many tickets as Laugh at My Pain, filling over half a million seats in the end. The highlight of the Let Me Explain tour—and of this entire period of my life—was selling out two nights at Madison Square Garden in New York City.
I reached out to three of the people I most admired—Jay Z, Chris Rock, and Keith Robinson (who in so many ways made this possible)—and asked if they could come to the show to share this moment with me. They were all down, except Keith, who had better things to do.
Chris congratulated me, then shared some advice: “It’s a big world, so don’t get stuck performing over and over for just one small piece of it. People in every country love to laugh. Get out of America and tell your jokes to the world.”
Even though I was about to perform what I thought was the show of a lifetime, I saw how small my vision still was: I thought my comedy was universal because I was able to play for every type of crowd in America, and I’d done a few European shows. I hadn’t considered that what I thought was the world was just a tiny percentage of it.
As I was in my dressing room with Chris, Jay Z walked in, wearing three gold chains to my one.
“This is a big moment for you.” He nodded his head approvingly. “A big moment.”
“It really is.”
“Know how I know it’s a big moment?”
“Because you know where I came from?”
“Because I’m here.”