by Gene Wilder
Well, stop the world, I want to get off. We went into her bedroom, where two tiny Yorkies were sitting on her bed, yapping as we walked in. She took them off the bed, kissed them both, and put them in a little basket on the floor. Then she went into the bathroom to take off her things. I took my clothes off in the bedroom, hiding my nakedness slightly from the two Yorkies. Don’t ask me why.
Billie came out, naked, dimmed the lights, and got into bed.
“I don’t like anyone touching my privates with their fingers,” she announced.
She didn’t like using mouths or tongues either, except for kissing.
We made love, and after about twenty minutes—during which time she told me that she knew every inch of Marlon Brando’s body—to my great surprise, we did it again. That was a first for me. After another twenty minutes—to my even greater surprise—we did it again.
“Three times! My, my,” she said.
She had a strange way of complimenting and belittling me at the same time. However she meant it, I was grateful to her for cutting through my usual malarkey.
Later that night, when I got back to the apartment that I was paying for and “sharing” with Mary, I slipped into my side of the bed and slept without anger in my heart for the first time in many months.
chapter 12
THE KING IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE KING!
Still no word from Mel.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest lasted only three months on Broadway. In March of 1964 The Actors Studio Theater was going to produce a comic opera called Dynamite Tonight, by Arnold Weinstein, with music by William Bolcom. I was asked to play a simpleton soldier who loved the movies. Paul Sills, of Second City fame, had done this project a short while before and was going to direct, with Barbara Harris as the only star.
When rehearsals began, it became obvious that Paul Sills didn’t want to be doing this. I suppose the prestige of being asked by the famous Lee Strasberg must have influenced his decision to direct Dynamite again. But Paul was tired and wanted to get back to Chicago. He had us do scenes in fast motion, then in slow motion, and then in every other kind of motion you could think of except “e-motion.”
After two weeks Paul Sills was replaced by the author, Arnold Weinstein—a decision that resulted in chaos. To make things worse, we were now giving preview performances each evening, with a small orchestra.
After a few days of humiliation for all of us, Arnold was replaced by Lee Strasberg. Thank God . . . to actually be directed by Lee.
I had several scenes, some of them quite funny, but I had one great scene in which I sang a song called “How I Love the Movies.” It had a verse, a chorus, and then a repeat of the chorus.
On the first day that Lee took over, he gave some general notes and then he said, “Gene, we don’t need a repeat of that chorus you sing. Once is enough. Otherwise, it stops the show. Tonight, do it without the repeat.”
My heart started to race. Hold on. . . . Hold on.
“Lee, I think that song is what this whole story is about. This simpleton I play is caught up in a war, and he just wants to be like all the singing and dancing heroes he saw in the movies . . . Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly. . . .”
Lee got agitated. Someone was actually doubting him on artistic matters. The other cast members—who were sitting in the first two or three rows of the theater—listened intently but were afraid to make eye contact with the legend they all worshiped.
“Lee, I don’t think there’s much point to my character if the audience doesn’t see that he—”
Lee turned red.
“CHARACTER? YOU’RE TALKING TO ME ABOUT CHARACTER? I’M TELLING YOU IT’S WRONG!”
An emotion I barely recognized came over me; there was no conscious thought. I suddenly screamed at the top of my lungs, “THEN FIRE ME! DO ME A FAVOR AND FIRE ME!”
Lee’s face changed from red to blue. He tried to speak, but the words came out hoarse, as if he had laryngitis. “And you’re a good actor,” he squeaked, “You’re a good actor!”
That was the first time I ever had an argument with a director—the only time, I think. (But there have been one or two occasions when I wish I had—when some insecure director took out his frustrations by yelling at an actor or a crew member in front of the whole company.) That night I did the performance as Lee had requested—without the repeat, just singing the verse and one chorus.
The next morning, Mike Nichols took over the direction of Dynamite Tonight—at Lee Strasberg’s request. After we all said hello to each other, Mike said, “Gene, I saw the show two nights ago—what happened to the repeat of the chorus in your song?”
“Lee thought it was a showstopper,” I said.
Mike smiled, with a gentle sense of irony that formed at the ends of his lips. “It’s supposed to be a showstopper—that’s why they wrote it that way. Tonight, let’s put the repeat back, and then let’s add a second repeat.”
We rehearsed for another week, during which time Mike would say to all of us, “Now what could we do here? What do you think? Anyone have any ideas?” And we all started using our imaginations for the first time in five weeks. Together, we reconstructed the entire comic opera. And it was good. Now the audience loved it. I had never seen direction like this.
The opening night went very well. After the curtain came down, Lee came to our communal dressing room and walked up to me. He said, “You were very good tonight.” I should have just said, “Thank you, Lee,” but the schoolboy in me stupidly answered, “Did you really think so?” He said, “Does it matter what I think?” That was the last time I had any intimate conversation with Lee Strasberg.
METHOD ACTING
When I began studying acting, everyone and his uncle used the word technique, but they were usually talking about the mechanics of acting: louder, softer, faster, slower, modulating the tempo . . . things that Strasberg would have said nature takes care of, if you let it. For me, now, technique only means whatever you choose to concentrate on while you’re acting. If you choose to concentrate only on the meaning of the lines . . . that’s a technique. If you’re concentrating on a preconceived idea of how the words should sound as they come out of your mouth, well, that’s a technique; not a very good one, perhaps, but many actors have gotten away with it because of their own natural talent, which has nothing to do with technique.
Stanislavsky’s system, or “method” as it’s now usually referred to, just boils down to finding logical behavior in a situation and then using your own real emotions as you create your part. Strasberg taught many techniques to get to those emotions—I use some of them and I don’t use others—but truly looking and truly listening has always been the heart and soul of any good actor’s technique. I don’t believe that Spencer Tracy thought much about a lot of technical mumbo-jumbo, but watch him listen to the actors he’s working with and you’ll see the finest technique you could hope for.
The two most important things I learned at The Actors Studio were: don’t use any technique if the situation and the author’s words are working for you, by themselves; and, try to stay in the moment, which only means that every time you do the same scene, on stage or in front of a camera, if you’re relaxed and you’re reacting to the other actors at that moment—not the way you did it yesterday or fifteen minutes ago—then even though the lines are exactly the same and the staging is exactly the same, the scene will be a little different each time you do it, and it will be alive.
chapter 13
“FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST. THANK MARGIE
WALLIS, I’M FREE AT LAST.”
In 1965, by mutual agreement, Mary and I split up. I said I would finish payments on the lease of our apartment, which had two months to go, and then we would have to settle things with a lawyer. My brain must have had a temporary breakdown because, in order to save money, I hired the same lawyer for both of us.
The lawyer—who should really have been selling used cars—suggested that I pay Mary $50 for every Friday in any given
month . . . for the rest of my life, or until she got married again.
I said, “What if I’m unemployed? Where do I get the money?”
He said, “Where you get the money is up to you.” (This was my lawyer I was talking to.)
I went home and worked out the following arrangement: I agreed to pay her $50 for every Friday in every month if I was making $25,000 a year or more, but only $25 for every Friday if I was making less than $25,000 a year. This magnificent arrangement was to last for the rest of my life, unless she married. The next day I went to my regular appointment with Margie.
ME: She doesn’t cook or do any housekeeping or take meat out of the freezer or make love . . . and we have no children. I sure pulled a fast one on her, didn’t I?
MARGIE: Just don’t ever become a lawyer or an accountant. By the way—I think that little dancer was good for you.
POEM TO MARY
WHY DO I NOT HATE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS
1. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have been in Roots.
2. If I hadn’t been in Roots, I wouldn’t have found my New York agent, Lily Veidt.
3. If I hadn’t been in Roots, I wouldn’t have been in my first television play, Wingless Victory.
4. If I hadn’t been in Wingless Victory, Irene Mayer Selznick wouldn’t have seen me and put me in my first Broadway play, The Complaisant Lover.
5. I’ve been very fortunate since the days we both saw that absurd lawyer, and I can afford to pay you this relatively small sum now, and for the rest of my life, even though your taking it is an insult to women, but I don’t want to disrupt your life.
I flew to El Paso, where I took a bus to Juarez. As the crowded bus crossed into Mexico, there was a gigantic sign—intended for the Americans, I assume—which advertised: MEXICATESSEN. All of the passengers on the bus were getting divorces and we all stayed at the same hacienda. The next morning I got my divorce. Amen.
MASTER CLASS
I saw Charlie Chaplin in The Circus at a Chaplin film festival in New York.
Charlie has just gotten out of prison (one assumes) and is starving. He wanders onto the circus grounds and sees a father carrying his baby over one shoulder. The baby is holding a huge hot dog. The father—whose back is to Charlie—is talking to the man selling the hot dogs. The father looks back at Charlie once or twice.
Charlie makes the sweetest faces at the little boy, and—just when the father isn’t looking—he takes a big bite out of the baby’s hot dog. The father turns quickly to Charlie, who immediately stops chewing and makes sweet faces at the baby. When the father turns back to the hot dog salesman, Charlie takes another bite of the hot dog. The father turns around again, suspecting something fishy. Charlie stops chewing and makes wonderful googley faces at the baby.
The acting lesson from this film seems so simple, yet it inspired me for the rest of my career: if the thing you’re doing is really funny, you don’t need to “act funny” while doing it.
SOME LIKE IT BOILING HOT
Still no word from Mel.
In the summer of 1964 I was offered a job in George Bernard Shaw’s The Millionairess, to be directed by Gene Saks and starring Carol Channing. It was for a summer tour, but it was supposed to come to Broadway in the fall.
My role in the play was a lawyer. The opening scene takes place in my office, into which the Millionairess (Carol) walks, to tell me what she wants done with her estate . . . fourteen minutes of just Carol Channing and me. (I never told her that I was the young high-school student who asked her if it hurt her throat when she sang and talked in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.)
At the first morning’s rehearsal we read through our opening scene. Gene Saks said, “Good! Now let’s just walk through this scene, slowly—don’t worry about acting—and let’s see where our instincts tell us to move.”
I sat at my desk. Carol Channing made her entrance. We moved a little bit here and there, only where it seemed logical. When we finished the scene, Gene Saks said, “Good! Very natural. Now let’s do that much again and see if we can remember those moves.”
We started again. After about forty-five seconds Carol Channing stopped acting, looked out at Gene Saks—who was sitting in the third row of the theater—and said, “Why is he doing that?”
I looked around to see if there was someone else behind me. I was afraid of what it might mean, but I wasn’t absolutely sure.
Gene Saks said, “Doing what, Carol?”
“Upstaging me.”
I dropped my head. Oh, God, no . . . a star.
Gene said, “Carol, that’s just the way we rehearsed it.”
“It is?”
“Yes, darling. If I thought there was any other reason, I would have stopped it right away.”
“Oh.”
Hold on to your seats, folks—it’s going to be a rough ride.
______
On our opening night in Louisville, Kentucky, Miss Channing didn’t know her lines. She stumbled and fumbled, but somehow we got through it. The cast included real pros . . . Estelle Parsons, John McMartin, David Hurst, and Eugene Roche.
We all came out for curtain calls. After two bows, Miss Channing stepped forward and did an eight-minute nightclub routine while we all stood there like dummies. Why a nightclub routine after doing a Shaw play? I assumed it was because she wanted the audience to love her again, as they always had, and not go away judging her on this performance. I walked off of the stage after about four minutes, and after that night none of us stayed onstage for her nightclub act—which she continued to do after each performance for the remainder of the run.
Gene Saks quit after opening night. We had lunch together the next day. He said he couldn’t take it anymore. He wished me luck and said that he and I would work together again, someday. “How come you don’t go to Hollywood to get into the movies?” he asked.
I told him that I wouldn’t be any good at selling myself. I’d walk into some producer’s office, and he’d say, “Hey, I hear you’re a funny guy.” But I wouldn’t be funny, just sitting there, talking to him. “The only way I’ll ever get into movies is if some director sees me onstage and wants me for a certain part.”
The cast of The Millionairess was told that a new director would be joining us at our next engagement, in Westport, Connecticut.
His name was Jerry Epstein, and—we were told—he had been Charlie Chaplin’s assistant director.
We were all excited to meet Mr. Epstein when we arrived at the famous Westport Country Playhouse. We got to the playhouse on a Sunday, our day off, in time to rehearse for several hours.
The playhouse was a beautiful old barn, with thin wooden walls and an old screen door on one side of the stage. After some polite introductions (and a few repetitions of, “Were you really Charlie Chaplin’s assistant director?” “Yes, I was.”), Mr. Epstein said, “Let’s run through it once—there are just a few places I’d like to clean up a little.”
Carol and I started the rehearsal. (I’d dropped the “Miss Channing” by this time.) We got to the point in the scene where Carol, sitting in a chair, says, “I almost respected him for it,” and I answer, “Then why do you want to get rid of him?”
Carol said her line. I paused for a moment. Carol burst out with, “Just shoot that line right in there!”
Hold on, Gene. . . . Hold on. . . .
“Do you mean . . . take out any pause?” I asked.
“Yes! Just shoot that line right in there!”
I walked down the three steps leading to the orchestra floor and walked up the aisle to the third row, where Jerry Epstein was sitting.
“Does the director want me to ‘just shoot that line right in there’?”
After a mournful sigh, he said, “Come on, Gene. . . .”
“I’m asking you a question: does the director of this play want me to just shoot that line right in there?”
He got a sick look on his face. “Yes . . . I do.”
I walked back onto the stage, a
s calmly as I could, and asked Carol to give me my cue again. “I almost respected him for it,” she said.
Without a millisecond of a pause, I leaned over and shouted into her ear so loudly that the walls of the old barn started shaking, “THEN WHY DO YOU WANT TO GET RID OF HIM?”
There was a stunned silence from everyone. Then Carol jumped up and, in a very hoarse voice, said, “Who opened the door?”
Jerry Epstein jumped out of his seat.
“What, Carol? What’s the matter?”
“My allergies,” she said. “Somebody must have opened a door.”
She ran off the stage, passing the screen door, which was filled with holes, and then she scampered downstairs to her dressing room. It was my first introduction to “hysterical laryngitis.” When she came back onstage five minutes later, her voice had returned, and she never mentioned the screaming or the pause again.
The play opened the next night, and Carol still didn’t know her lines. When actors can’t remember their lines, it’s called “going up,” or “taking the elevator.” At one point in the third act, Carol went up higher than a kite. The audience was aware of it. Carol looked at me.
“What’s your problem, mister?”
I said, “I don’t have the problem, dear—you’re the one who has the problem.”
The audience burst into applause.
When the curtain came down, Estelle Parsons told Carol, “Either you know your lines by tomorrow night, or I’m not going onstage.” I imagine that Carol’s husband was up with her till the wee hours. The following evening Carol knew her lines—word perfect.
Several weeks later, when we gave the final performance of the play in Nyack, New York, I finished my last scene and didn’t wait for the curtain call to change into my street clothes. We all knew that this show was never going to Broadway, and I just wanted to get out of that theater as quickly as I could, hopefully without saying good-bye. I made for the stage door, but just before I reached it, I heard, “Gene—would you come here for a minute?”
