I still remember the first time I saw Tommy Wiseau in Jean Shelton’s acting class. It was 1998, San Francisco, and everyone was doing scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire. Then Tommy stepped up—wild-eyed, thick accent, flailing arms—and delivered a monologue like a man possessed. People laughed. I didn’t. I was mesmerized by his fearlessness, the way he didn’t care what anyone thought.

We became friends fast. He paid for everything—dinner, rent, even my plane ticket to LA. He had apartments in two cities, drove a Porsche, wore leather pants every day, and never talked about where he came from or how he got his money. He said New Orleans. Sounded Eastern European to me.

Now, eight months into filming The Room, I’m standing on a rooftop in LA, watching Tommy scream at the cinematographer for using the ‘wrong shade of blue’ in a blank wall shot. The crew is exhausted. We’ve been here since 6 a.m. No water. No breaks. And we’re shooting the same damn line for the 47th time: 'Oh, hi, Mark.'

I look at my script. My character has no motivation. The plot makes no sense. And I just found out I missed a role on Malcolm in the Middle because Tommy refused to delay my beard-shaving scene.

He turns to me, eyes blazing. 'Greg, you’re my best friend. You understand me, right?'

Do I? Do I even know who he is?

The camera rolls. He waits for my answer.