by Gene Wilder
Strasberg used to say that improvisation was just a tool, like a hammer or a screwdriver or a file, to be used only if you’re having trouble in a scene, or if the director thinks that something is wrong in the script. Then you might be asked to improvise, which is to say, “speak other thoughts”—thoughts between the lines—that you, the actor, are feeling in the situation. But of course, “If something isn’t broken, don’t fix it.” Improvising for the sake of improvising usually leads to banalities or irrelevant jokes.
At six o’clock in the evening, on the day before our big “shoe polish scene” in the train station, Richard and I went into the men’s room with our director, Arthur Hiller, to rehearse the next morning’s work. We started going through the lines of the scene—very lightly—and Richard suddenly went somber. He didn’t say what was wrong. Arthur Hiller didn’t notice it, but I knew Richard fairly well by then, and I knew there was something churning inside of him. After the rehearsal, Richard and I walked across the street to the Royal York Hotel, where we were both staying.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Too late.”
“Just tell me what it is.”
“It’s too late, Gene.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m going to hurt a lot of black people.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late. We can talk to Arthur; I can call Laddie . . . but you have to tell me what it is.”
“You’re a nice guy, Gene, but I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want to do this film. I want to get out of it.”
“I’m in room 1504, Richard. If you change your mind, just call me.”
“Good night, Gene.”
Fifteen minutes later the phone rang.
“This is Richard. You mind if I come down and talk with you?”
Richard came into my room.
“White man comes into the toilet to pee, sees you wearing shoe polish, thinks you’re black, naturally, ’cause that’s how all niggers look.”
“Richard, did you read this scene before we started rehearsing today?”
“I guess I must’ve, but it didn’t mean anything to me then. Sometimes I get somebody to read scenes to me.”
“What would you like the scene to be?”
“Should be a black man who comes in to pee, sees you, knows right away you’re white, sees you trying to keep time to the radio music, and says, ‘I don’t know what your problem is, mister—but you gotta keep time.’ ”
“That’s a better scene,” I said.
I picked up the phone and called Arthur Hiller. That night he hired a black actor. The next morning we shot the scene just the way Richard described it, and the movie didn’t shut down.
The Concise Oxford Dictionary
sullen: passively resentful, gloomy-tempered, not responding to friendliness or encouragement, melancholy.
If the dictionary had added, “brilliantly funny, often exhibiting warmth and affection” . . . it could have been defining Richard Pryor.
MY OLD BEAN
During Silver Streak, we would occasionally film in parts of Canada that were high up in the snow, and there would be long waits between shots. While I was waiting in my trailer, with the heater on full blast, I started writing a script from a new idea I had about a baker from Milwaukee, in 1927, who wants to try out for a big Hollywood contest to find the next Rudolph Valentino. He takes his wife to Hollywood, tries out for the part, and his wife runs off with the real Rudolph Valentino. Years earlier I had seen a film by Federico Fellini, starring Alberto Sordi, called The White Sheik, which had inspired this idea. I called my script The World’s Greatest Lover.
When Silver Streak was finished filming, I was in Paris for a week, doing publicity for the opening of Young Frankenstein in France. (The French called it Frankenstein Jr.) Since I had The World’s Greatest Lover on my mind, I decided to call the legal department at 20th Century-Fox to find out if we had to worry about being sued—because my idea was inspired by The White Sheik. They told me I would have to have some kind of permission from Fellini—just to play it safe. My dear friend Denise Breton—who worked in Paris doing publicity for Fox—said, “I know Federico—let’s call him up.” She picked up the phone in her office, and two minutes later I heard the voice of the great Fellini.
“I loved your Frankenstein. It was a great movie. You are a great actor.”
“Thank you. Signor Fellini, I need—”
“Federico! Please!”
“Thank you. Federico, I have a little problem. I was inspired by The White Sheik and wrote a film called The World’s Greatest Lover, and even though my story is almost completely different from yours, the legal department at 20th Century-Fox says I need some kind of permission from you—just in case.”
“Okay, Gene—here’s what you do: on the screen, in the opening titles, you write—in big letters—AND SPECIAL THANKS TO MY FRIEND FEDERICO FELLINI. That will take care of everything.”
I did as he instructed. When the film opened and the audiences saw those lines . . . they laughed, thinking it was my little joke. But it wasn’t a joke. That’s what Federico wanted—that’s what he got. And I didn’t have any legal problems.
I asked the Art Directors’ Union to allow Terry Marsh to come to the United States to design The World’s Greatest Lover. With his credentials it wasn’t difficult to get permission.
Terry came to Los Angeles with his wife, Sandra, and when filming was almost finished, they saw a little house in Sherman Oaks and wanted my opinion as to whether they should buy it. It was a simple, but beautiful, small house, in perfect condition. I said, “Take it!” They bought the house and stayed in Los Angeles. Terry designed all of my films, plus Basic Instinct, Hunt for Red October, Shawshank Redemption. Clear and Present Danger, and several films for Mel Brooks.
In the Hitchcock film Suspicion—which Terry and I once saw together—Cary Grant and Nigel Bruce always call each other “old bean” or “old chap.” Whenever I make a long-distance call to Terry, I always start out by saying, “Hi, old bean,” and he always answers, “How are you, old chap?”
Terry and Sandra Marsh are both American citizens now, and have a beautiful home in California . . . all because one man in London said, “Gene, you can meet any production designer in England that you wish; all I ask is that you see Terry Marsh first. You two are twins.”
MEETING YOUR IDOL
Silver Streak was a big hit and was chosen as the Royal Performance for the queen of England and the royal family. I couldn’t go to London because I was filming The World’s Greatest Lover at the time, but a month later, when Prince Charles came to visit 20th Century-Fox, I was invited to attend a luncheon in his honor, to be held in the Fox commissary.
As I was walking along the small street that leads from the office buildings to the commissary, a taxi pulled up and I heard someone shouting, “Oh, Mr. Wilder! . . . Mr. Wilder!” I turned and saw Cary Grant stepping out of the taxi. My heart started pounding a little faster, but I didn’t throw up this time, as I did when I met Simone Signoret. Cary Grant walked up to me, and after we shook hands, he said, “I was sailing on the QE II to England with my daughter, and on the second day out she said, ‘Dad-dy, I want to see the Silver Streak—they’re showing it in the Entertainment Room.’ And I said, ‘No, darling, I don’t go to movies in public.’ And she said, ‘Dad-dy Dad-dy, please—I want to see the Silver Streak.’ So I took her to see your film. And then we saw it again the next day, and the next. Tell me something, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Was your film in any way inspired by North by Northwest?”
“Absolutely! Collin Higgins, who wrote the film, loved North by Northwest. It was one of his favorites. I think he was trying to do his version of it.”
“I thought so,” Mr. Grant said. “It never fails! You take an ordinary chap, like you or me . . . (An ordinary chap like you or me? Didn’t he ever
see a Cary Grant movie?) . . . put him in trouble way over his head, and then watch him try to squirm out of it. Never fails!”
______
In 1976 I saw John Hurt portray a man named Quentin Crisp in the television dramatization of Mr. Crisp’s book The Naked Civil Servant. I thought it was astonishing. I had never heard of Quentin Crisp. When I read that he was performing his own one-man show in Los Angeles, I bought tickets and went to see An Evening with Quentin Crisp.
The first act was mildly interesting, but not very exciting. Mr. Crisp had obviously worked out every move and gesture. There was no spontaneity to it. Just before the intermission he invited the audience to fill out cards and ask him any questions they wished. When the short intermission was over, he came back onstage and started reading the cards. Then he came to this one: “Mr. Crisp, what right do I have to enjoy my life when there are so many people all over the world who are starving and in pain?”
The Demon flashed through my brain: the memories of praying for hours at a time, the Vaseline in my hair, the feeling that people thought I was a freak as they watched me pray in front of buildings—and all I was really asking God was this same question.
Quentin Crisp shaded his eyes and looked out into the audience.
“Where are you, dear?” he asked. “Please stand up.”
A young girl—perhaps twenty years old—stood up.
“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Nineteen,” she said.
“Oh, my dear . . . my dear girl . . . you’ll find that if you take care of the person on your left and the person on your right—you’ll have a full-time job.”
I wished that some wise person had given me this same advice when I was nineteen and going through the torments of my Demon. But, of course, it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference . . . not until I could come to that simple epiphany on my own. I hear you, Margie: “Bravo, Mister Wilder.”
chapter 23
LEO BLOOM HAS HIS PICTURE TAKEN.
When I was making Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother in London, Peter Sellers called and asked if we couldn’t take a little walk in the park some Sunday afternoon. I said it would be a pleasure.
We went to Green Park and—as I walked along a little stream amongst all the ducks and pigeons—I saw that Peter was taking pictures of me. He explained that, apart from his acting, he was also a professional photographer and that he just wanted a few mementos. After awhile I noticed that every time I heard the camera click, I was in some Leo Bloom pose. Peter told me that he and George Harrison exchanged a copy of The Producers every two weeks.
Peter and I had dinner together several times during that year. Once, when I was in Stockholm doing publicity for a film, he had a woman friend of his call me at my hotel—I suppose she was a Swedish beauty—who asked if I wouldn’t like to have some company. (In case you’re wondering, I said no.)
I went from Stockholm to Copenhagen for a day and a night, to do publicity for the opening of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother in Scandinavia. The biggest lesson I learned during that short time was never to pronounce the city of Copenhagen as CopenHAAgen—the way the Nazis pronounced it—but rather CopenHAYgen. It may seem like a small point, but it wasn’t small to the Danes. It also made me wonder why no one bothered to inform Danny Kaye about the correct pronunciation in his film about Hans Christian Andersen, when he sang, “Beautiful, beautiful CopenHAAgen . . .”
While I was in CopenHAYgen, I was interviewed by a lovely woman named Gunilla who worked for a Scandinavian magazine. She was about thirty-five and extremely smart, with a playful smile. She was one of the most naturally cheerful people I’d ever met. I remember thinking that if she were ever to come to Los Angeles on some assignment, I would certainly like to ask her out, but I didn’t tell that to Gunilla because I didn’t want her to think I was just another one of those typical American men who flirt with all the pretty European women and are actually full of bullshit.
In 1978 I went to Scandinavia again, to do publicity for the opening of The World’s Greatest Lover, but this time the press junket was in Stockholm, in an outdoor café that 20th Century-Fox had rented. And there she was, sitting amongst all the other journalists, smiling at me. I gave Gunilla a nod and then answered questions for about an hour.
“What are you going to be doing next?” one of the gentlemen from Norway asked.
“A film about a Polish rabbi who comes to America at the time of the Gold Rush and becomes best friends with a bank robber and is captured by Indians.”
When the interviews were over and the other journalists were leaving, I went up to Gunilla and shook her hand—holding on to it longer than necessary—as I said hello and good-bye to her. What a shame that she lived in Sweden.
“By the way, Mr. Wilder, I’m coming to Los Angeles to do a series on Hollywood for my magazine.”
“. . . When?”
“In November, for about a week.”
“If I give you my telephone number, will you call me and tell me where you’re staying?”
“Yah, sure. . . . I was hoping you might say that,” she said with a smile. “Maybe I can do an interview about your new movie.”
* * *
The film about the rabbi and the cowboy was called The Frisco Kid. The wonderful Robert Aldrich was going to direct, but we still had to find a costar—someone Warner Bros. would approve.
Bob Shapiro—who was vice president in charge of production at Warner Bros. and the man who offered me the film—suggested several names, and I suggested several actors, and Robert Aldrich suggested some more names. In each case, the actors mentioned were either not available or not approved by Warner Bros. Then Bob Aldrich suggested John Wayne.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “How could we ever get John Wayne?”
John Wayne wouldn’t read the script until he was offered his usual fee: one million dollars and 10 percent of the gross. After a lot of stupid haggling on the part of Warner Bros., John Wayne was offered what he asked for. To my great surprise, after reading the script he said yes. He also said that he loved that little rabbi.Apart from being able to work with John Wayne. I was also relieved, because in spite of the presence of the rabbi, with John Wayne starring, The Frisco Kid would be perceived as a Western, not as a Jewish film.
A few days after Mr. Wayne had accepted, some very experienced Warner Bros. executive went to talk to him, at his home in Long Beach. A few hours later, John Wayne pulled out of the film.
“What the hell did you do?” Bob Shapiro asked the executive.
“I tried to get him for seven-fifty instead of a million—I thought we could save a little money.”
So we lost John Wayne, and the search for a costar began again. I was asked to look at the work of an up-and-coming young actor by the name of Harrison Ford. I thought he was charming and might possibly get somewhere in the business. Since we all liked him, he was hired.
DOCTOR STRANGELOVE BREAKS MY HEART.
Terry Marsh was hired as production designer on The Frisco Kid, and Mace Neufeld was the producer. We went to Greeley, Colorado to film for a week. Since there wasn’t much to do in Greeley, Harrison and Terry and Mace and I went to the Chuck Wagon for dinner every night. The food was good, but the best part of the evening came after dinner. The restaurant had a dart room attached, and we all played darts and had an after-dinner drink.
During the filming of Frisco Kid, I developed a fondness for Bob Aldrich. He was smart, and he knew exactly what he was doing all the time. And like all of the best directors, he left the doors open for you to surprise him. He liked what I was doing with the rabbi, and if he said, “Try another one,” I knew that what he really meant was, “Surprise me.”
Later, when were filming in southern Arizona, we all went over the nearby border into Nogales, Mexico, for dinner. Bob Aldrich was a gracious host. He would only drink Coca Cola on the set, but when we went out to dinner on a Saturday night, he was a good drinker and a good s
toryteller. When we got back to Los Angeles, I received a phone call from Peter Sellers.
“Genie, how are you?”
“Fine, thank you, Peter. And you?”
“Fine. Fine. Genie, I want to know what you think of the director, Robert Aldrich. I’ve been asked to do a farce about lady wrestlers, and I want your opinion of him.”
I always get a little nervous when people ask my opinion of an actor or a director—knowing full well that I might have an influence on whether or not someone gets a job. But Peter was one of the greatest talents I had ever seen, and I wanted to honor him with an answer.
“Peter, I get along great with Bob. He’s a wonderful director, but you have to understand that my picture is a Western—with shooting and socking and blood and lots of action. How he would be if he were directing a farce, I can’t say. He was always wonderful with all the comedy things I did. I loved him.”
The next day Bob’s daughter, Alida, called me. “How could you have done that to my father?”
“Done what?”
“Blackballed him on the movie he was going to do with Peter Sellers. Sellers told the movie company that Gene Wilder said Aldrich wasn’t any good.”
Here’s my advice: BEWARE OF GREEKS BEARING GIFTS . . . or other actors or directors who ask your advice about someone you’ve just worked with.
A LITTLE ROMANCE
In December, Harrison and I were filming interiors for The Frisco Kid at a studio in Los Angeles. I got home from work one evening, and there was a message from Gunilla on my answering machine, saying that she was staying at a small hotel near the Farmers’ Market. She left her telephone number. I called and made a date to see her the next night. It would be a Friday, and I would have the whole weekend off.
