The vibrant, electric energy of a New York night seemed to culminate inside Studio 6A at NBC Studios. The house band, Paul Shaffer and the World's Most Dangerous Band, was mid-tempo, the brass section punctuating the air with sharp, rhythmic stabs. David Letterman, leaning over his desk with his signature gap-toothed grin, straightened his tie and waited for the applause to die down.
"Our next guest," Letterman began, his voice dropping into that familiar, ironic baritone, "is quite literally the biggest star in the world right now. You can't step outside without his face staring back at you from a magazine rack, and you probably couldn't escape news of his next project even if you took a rocket to the moon. He's an actor, a producer, a screenwriter, and now—heaven help us—he's a director."
The crowd erupted as the band transitioned into a high-energy jazz-rock fusion.
"Ladies and gentlemen... Alex Hayes!"
Alex stepped onto the stage, the bright studio lights a jarring contrast to the moody, blue-tinted shadows of the Soho loft he had left just an hour prior. He looked polished in a charcoal suit as he waved to the cheering audience—the epitome of a Hollywood A-lister despite the grueling day behind him.
"Good to see you, Dave," Alex said, shaking hands before sinking into the leather chair.
"Look at you," Dave said, leaning back and scanning Alex from head to toe. "You look good. You look annoyingly good. You've got that... that glow that makes the rest of us look like we were assembled from spare parts in a darkened garage."
Alex laughed, rubbing his face for a brief second. "Thanks for just saying that, Dave. Honestly? I've been working for the last fifteen hours straight. I literally walked off a film set, jumped into a car, changed my shirt while Quentin—my AD—was dodging taxis, and ran through the stage door."
Dave paused, looking at the camera and then back at Alex. "You look like that after a fifteen-hour workday? And look at me. I've been here for three hours and I look like shit."
The audience roared with laughter. Dave shook his head in mock frustration. "God is just not fair, folks. He really isn't."
"Trust me," Alex countered, "underneath this suit, there is a lot of caffeine and a very desperate need for a nap."
"Well, let's talk about that workday," Dave said, shifting gears. "You're directing now. Ghost. Paramount's big supernatural romance. You're what... twenty-four? That's an incredibly ambitious—some might say insane—thing to take on while you're also the lead actor."
"Actually, Dave, I turned twenty-five two days ago," Alex noted with a smile. "October 15th."
The audience broke into a spontaneous round of applause at the mention of his birthday. David joined in, clapping rhythmically.
"Twenty-five. Unbelievable," Dave sighed. "When I was twenty-five, I was still trying to figure out how to move forward in my career. And here you are, already in the stratosphere."
"It definitely feels like a dream," Alex admitted, his tone turning more serious. "But I love the medium. As for directing, it isn't just about being the boss; it's about being the architect. You're building the world that the characters live in. It's grueling, and the decision-making is relentless, but there's nothing like seeing a vision move from a storyboard to the lens."
Dave nodded, impressed despite his comedic persona. "Speaking of lenses, we've got a big one coming up. Rain Man. Tell the audience about that."
"It's a story about the connection between two brothers," Alex explained. "Working with Dustin Hoffman and Barry Levinson was an education in itself. It's a film that asks us to look at people we usually overlook. I'm incredibly proud of it."
"It looks fantastic from the trailers," Dave said. "It looks like another massive success for you."
Dave leaned forward, picking up a blue card from his desk. "And speaking of you being everywhere, we actually have a survey here from a national media group. They polled people across the country to find the most recognizable celebrity face in America." Dave held the card up to the camera. "You came in at number one. According to this, nine out of ten Americans recognize you instantly."
Alex didn't miss a beat. He leaned into the microphone with a mock-serious expression. "Wait... who did I miss? Who's that one person?"
The audience roared with laughter. Dave joked, waving a hand dismissively. "It was probably just some old guy who doesn't even remember what he had for breakfast. We'll get him next time."
The audience laughed again. They spent several more minutes talking as Alex shared stories about his rapid rise in Hollywood—the surreal experience of moving from a newcomer to a power player in less than a decade. He spoke about the shifting landscape of the industry and what it was like to negotiate with titans while still being the youngest person in the room.
"Alex, thank you for coming to our studio and talking about your new film," Dave said warmly.
"The pleasure's all mine, Dave," Alex replied.
Dave checked the clock and turned to the camera. "That's it, folks. The film is Rain Man. It opens everywhere on November 4th. And I can tell you right now, I'll definitely be in the theater to see it."
"Thanks, Dave," Alex said as the band kicked back into high gear.
As the show went to commercial, Alex took his leave, shaking hands with David once more and waving to the cheering audience. He stepped off the stage, the adrenaline already beginning to fade, ready to return to the reality of his director's chair.
***********
Mann Village Theatre, Westwood, Los AngelesNovember 3, 1988
The marquee lights of the Mann Village Theatre announced the world premiere of Rain Man. As the audience took their seats in the heart of Los Angeles, the house lights dimmed and the projector hummed to life. The screen revealed Charlie Babbitt, a high-end car dealer whose life is falling apart under the weight of debt and his own ego.
Initially, Charlie is a selfish and impatient man who views the world only through the lens of profit. However, Alex's performance added a layer of charisma and vulnerability that made the audience root for him. When Charlie discovers he has an autistic savant brother, Raymond, who has inherited their father's three-million-dollar estate, his first instinct is to "kidnap" Raymond to ransom the money.
As the two brothers embark on a cross-country road trip, the audience watches Charlie's slow transition from a man trying to exploit his brother to a man who truly sees him. During the Vegas sequence, the audience felt Charlie's growing realization that Raymond is a person with his own beautiful internal logic. The tender scene where Charlie teaches Raymond how to dance in a high-rise hotel room drew audible sniffles from the theater; it was the moment Charlie stopped treating Raymond as a "case" and started treating him as a brother.
Notably, a scene originally in the script—where Charlie's girlfriend Susanna (played by Diane Lane in this story) kisses Raymond in an elevator—was removed at Alex's insistence. Alex felt that the gesture, while intended to be sweet, felt more like a form of cruelty than kindness. He argued that Raymond, existing deep on the spectrum, might not understand the social boundaries of a "charity kiss." If Raymond were to get attached, it would create an emotional confusion he isn't equipped to handle. Alex pointed out that even a "normal" person wouldn't simply ignore such an intimate gesture, and for Raymond, it could be unintentionally traumatizing.
The film served as a significant moment for the public's understanding of autism. It highlighted that many autistic individuals live fulfilling lives with the support of family and tailored care. The script noted that while there is no "cure," modern management allows for a higher quality of life through behavioral therapies and medication to manage symptoms like anxiety, irritability, or hyperactivity.
Central to the film's power was Dustin Hoffman's transformative portrayal of Raymond. Hoffman handled the character with incredible precision, capturing the rigid routines, the repetitive vocal patterns, and the distant, flickering gaze of someone locked within their own world. He didn't play Raymond for sympathy; he played him with a clinical, startling honesty.
Crucially, the film avoided a typical "Hollywood ending." There was no miraculous cure where Raymond suddenly became "normal" or shed his autistic traits.
The film honestly depicted that Raymond is a special case situated at the deep end of the spectrum. Because of his profound need for routine, his specific sensory sensitivities, and his lack of traditional social defense mechanisms, he required the structured, 24-hour professional environment of an institution like Walbrook. Charlie's realization of this was his ultimate act of love; he acknowledged that despite his growth and his desire to be a brother, he was simply not equipped with the medical training or the round-the-clock resources necessary to provide the specialized care Raymond required to remain stable and safe.
The final scene left the audience in tears. Charlie walks Raymond to the train, no longer the abrasive man from the start of the film, but a man who had finally found family.
The film ended on a hopeful note, centered on Charlie's genuine promise that he would visit Raymond soon. It was a stark departure from the man who, at the beginning of the journey, viewed his brother as nothing more than a leverage point for an inheritance.
As the credits began to roll, the audience in the Los Angeles theater stayed in their seats, absorbed by the emotional weight of the film. The transformation of Charlie Babbitt felt earned; Alex had played the character's evolution with such subtlety that the audience didn't just see the change—they felt it. By the time Charlie leaned into Raymond at the train station, the selfish car dealer had been replaced by a man who had finally understood the meaning of unconditional love.
As the house lights slowly rose, the silence was broken by a wave of applause that transformed into a thunderous standing ovation. In the rows of the Mann Village Theatre many people were seen drying their eyes.
Sitting in the dark theater, having flown in for the premiere in the middle of his intense Ghost filming schedule, Alex observed the audience's reactions and saw that they were feeling exactly the same as him. He knew some critics might label the film a manipulative tear-jerker, overly sentimental, or even a melodrama. But Alex didn't care about labels; he loved those types of films when they were executed with this level of craft and heart. To him, Rain Man was the pinnacle of that genre—a story that didn't apologize for making people feel something deeply.