Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search for Love and Art

by Gene Wilder

  After work on Friday I took Gunilla to a very nice, very quiet restaurant. The food was delicious, and, to my surprise, Gunilla was a great eater, even with her slim figure. Over dinner she told me about her two daughters, thirteen and eleven, to whom she was devoted. She had been divorced for several years and basically was raising her daughters on her own. They had occasional visits with their father. I told Gunilla about Katie and a little about my marriage to Mary Jo, but when I thought I was sounding too sad, I changed the subject. I told Gunilla that if she would come to my house for dinner the following night, I would cook the best roast chicken she ever had, plus baked potatoes. She flashed one of her playful smiles and said yes.

  I picked Gunilla up at her hotel early Saturday evening. She loved the chicken. I told her how simple it was to make, but she had to use Spice Islands Garlic Salt and no other. While we ate, we talked about films, and she told me how badly the Swedish government was treating Ingmar Bergman. There was no mad rush to make love, but when I started talking with a Swedish accent and making up Swedish words, the lovemaking came about slowly and easily. I asked her beforehand if she used any birth control devices, and she said that she had the newest copper IUD, which was very popular in Sweden. The lovemaking was sweet and affectionate.

  The Frisco Kid company was moving to Santa Barbara on Monday, for two days and a night. I asked Gunilla if she’d like to come along, and she said yes.

  We all arrived at a beautiful stretch of beach, and the camera crew set up for the first shot. Santa Barbara was beautiful, but very cold that December day. Harrison and I were dressed in our costumes—long johns—and we waded gingerly into the ocean, which was freezing. While our lips were turning blue, we waited until we heard, “ACTION,” and then we ran out of the water, as playfully as we could, and wrestled on the sand. As soon as we heard, “CUT!” the prop department rushed over and covered us with blankets and gave us each a shot of brandy to stop our teeth from chattering. Then we did it all again, two more times.

  I stayed with Gunilla in the Biltmore Hotel that night, where it was nice and warm. We ate in the room and made love for the second time. The next day we returned to Los Angeles. Gunilla got on a plane to Sweden, and I left for northern California with the film company.

  Two weeks later, while we were filming near the Black River, which was about two hours north of San Francisco, I was talking to Harrison while we sat on our horses, waiting for the next shot. I mentioned that when I was thirteen I had gone to a place in Los Angeles called Black/Foxe Military Institute.

  “They’ve torn the whole place down now, you know.”

  “Good! I hated that place.”

  “I bought a lot of the floorboards from the dormitory.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’m also a carpenter, and those boards were made from really good wood.”

  I didn’t go into detail with Harrison, but it was eerie for me to think that he might be building a garage, or a child’s playroom, using the floorboards from my old bedroom, where I was beaten up and “sort of” corn-holed by Jonesy.

  When filming ended, I got a call from my French friend Denise Breton—the woman who had called Federico Fellini for me. She wanted to know if I would like to join her and her family in Paris, in February, and then go to a ski resort near Grenoble during her kids’ winter vacation. I was very close with her family, having stayed at their home several times when I was doing publicity in Paris, and even though I didn’t know how to ski, I said yes.

  A few weeks later I got a call from Gunilla, saying that she was working in Paris for two weeks while her daughters were staying with their father during their winter vacation. I told her that fate must be working its magic, because I was going to be in Paris on February 14, Valentine’s Day, just for a night, before I left to go skiing with my French family. We arranged to meet at a little hotel where I used to stay.

  RANDOM HARVEST

  On February 14 Gunilla and I had a joyful reunion. I had slept on the plane, and since it was a beautiful winter day, we took a long walk along the Avenue Montaigne and looked at all the expensive shops—not inside, just the windows. Gunilla was enjoying our walk, but she seemed preoccupied. I took her to a small restaurant called Chez Edgar, which was around the corner from my hotel. I waited until we sat down for dinner and then said, “Something’s bothering you. Please talk to me.”

  “I’m fine, dear.”

  “I know you’re fine. You Swedes are always fine, except in Bergman films. I’m very smart, you know—about some things. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “I want you to enjoy your dinner. We’ll talk later.”

  We both ordered escargots to begin and the roast chicken with pommes frites. I had ordered some red Bordeaux when we first sat down, but I noticed that Gunilla wasn’t drinking any.

  “No wine?”

  “No, I have a little tummy ache. I’ll just drink some water. It’s nothing.” Then she picked up her glass and tasted the wine, for my sake. “Ooh, yes, it’s very nice.”

  She pecked at her food during dinner, like a bird. It was obvious that the “great eater” didn’t feel like eating.

  “Some dessert?”

  “No, thank you—no, I couldn’t eat another morsel.”

  Now I knew there must be something wrong. Gunilla had brought a little carry-on bag with her, and when we got to my room, she put some things away in the bathroom. She came out wearing a flannel nightgown.

  “Now . . . let’s have it!” I said. “I’ve been very patient.”

  “I’m pregnant, dear.”

  I had been afraid that she was going to say that she had a serious illness or that something had happened to one of her daughters. Stupid of me. All the signs were right in front of me. A little panic came into my throat, like a bubble.

  “Please don’t think I’m being coarse . . . but am I the father?”

  “Yes, dear. I wouldn’t even have told you if I weren’t sure of that. There was no one else.”

  She looked so fragile at that moment, unlike any other time I had seen her. How could she not be frightened? I was frightened too. I put my arms around her and hugged her for the longest time.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry—you’re not alone. We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

  “I don’t know how it happened. My gynecologist said that it only happens with this new IUD maybe once every 100,000 times.”

  “Well, that’s a consolation.”

  She laughed. I pulled down the cover and fluffed up the pillows. Then we both got into bed, and I held her.

  “I don’t want to make trouble for you,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please don’t say that. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “You’re not angry, dear?”

  “Of course not. Please don’t talk like that again. We’ll figure out what’s best. Don’t worry now.”

  And I held her until we both fell asleep.

  The next morning she gave me her telephone number at the magazine where she worked. I already had her home phone number. She told me what an awful boss she had at work and that “if a man answered—hang up.” I didn’t know she knew that line. We gave her boss the nickname of Pickle Puss. She was leaving that afternoon for Stockholm, which was only a short flight from Paris, and I was meeting my French family at the train station, where we were taking the wagon-lit to Grenoble. Their car was already on the train. From Grenoble we would drive up the mountain to Alpe d’Huez—on the tortuous curved road made famous by the Tour de France. I told Gunilla that I would call her at her home that night—providing I hadn’t fallen off a mountain.

  I called Gunilla at 6:00 P.M.

  “Let’s talk honestly,” I said. “I know the big question for you must be whether or not to keep the baby. Yes?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And I think you must wonder if I want to get married, before you can make such a decision. Is this what you’re thinking?
”

  “Yes, dear, I am thinking those things, but I’m also thinking whether or not I want to have another child . . . to raise another child. My girls are growing so fast. It would seem strange to start all this baby business over again.” (She laughed.) “I just don’t know. But I want to know how you feel.”

  “Well, I was married once, when I was quite young—I didn’t tell you about that. It was a horrible marriage. And then I was married again to a wonderful woman—I told you about her and her little girl, who is a big girl now. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married again, but I know that if I do . . . if I do . . . I want to make sure that it’s for the right reason. Whatever you decide about the baby, I’ll help you, emotionally, financially . . . you know what I mean . . . but I know that I mustn’t get married again if I don’t think I could be a good father. Does that sound very selfish?”

  “No, not at all. I think what you’re saying is wise.”

  “When do you have to decide?”

  “The doctor says he’d like to know by the end of the week.”

  “Have you told your girls yet?”

  “No, not yet. I don’t want to tell them until I’m sure what I’m going to do.”

  “Okay. We’ll keep talking . . . each evening at six. And if I don’t call, you can talk things over with Pickle Puss.”

  She laughed and then said, “Good night, dear.”

  The next day I started skiing lessons, using the Graduated Length Method—which meant starting out with tiny skis that were about as long as ice skates. The next day the skis were going to be about two and a half feet long; the next day, three feet. By the end of the week, I was supposed to graduate to about five feet and be able to glide down the mountain like a champion. When I called Gunilla that night, I told her about my little skis and that I’d probably be a champion by the end of the week. And she told me that she had made the decision to have an abortion.

  I called her each night at six. On the day of the abortion, she sounded weak, but in good enough spirits to make me laugh when she told me how she had fooled Pickle Puss by telling him that the reason she couldn’t come to work was because she had to meet a big movie star who was going to give her an exclusive interview about his love life. By the end of the week she was back at work and sounding wonderful, and I was gliding down the mountain like a gazelle, falling on my face only three times.

  chapter 24

  SIDNEY POITIER AND I GO STIR-CRAZY

  A famous producer by the name of Hannah Weinstein read an article in a newspaper about a rodeo that was held in a prison. She took the writer, Bruce J. Friedman, for a visit to the prison. When they got back to New York, Bruce wrote the first draft of Prison Rodeo. Months later, the title was changed to Stir Crazy.

  I got a call to meet with Sidney Poitier, who was going to direct the film. To say that Sidney and I got along would be like saying, “Food is good sometimes.” I loved him. I loved his brain, I loved his humor, and I loved his cashmere sweaters. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him when he wasn’t wearing a cashmere sweater—except when he was wearing a tuxedo.

  Sidney and Hannah Weinstein and Columbia Pictures wanted Richard Pryor and me to star in Stir Crazy, and after we both agreed to do it, Sidney wanted the script rewritten to accommodate the particular talents of his two stars. He had a black writer friend whom he asked to write a second draft. When he was happy with the structure of the script, he asked me to write my own dialogue, while he wrote Richard’s lines—just as a blueprint—knowing that everything was going to change when Richard and I started doing what he called our “stuff.”

  On the first day of filming, Sidney asked Richard and me to sit down on one of the steps of the prison set. He said that this scene—where we both walk into prison for the first time and then flip out—was probably the most difficult acting scene in the movie and that he thought it would be best to do it on the first day of filming, because of all the adrenaline that actors pump out on the first day of any film. Then he said, “I want you both to fly. I’ve got three cameras set up, so you can move anywhere, within reason, without worrying about hitting your marks. Do whatever you want; say whatever comes out, but fly. That’s why you two guys are here . . . to fly.”

  And we flew.

  Now here’s a question I’ve never been able to answer: why did we both start humming the Laurel and Hardy theme music at the exact same moment at the end of the scene, after we had made a shambles of the prison and the prison guards? Who knows? I suppose silliness has its own method of communication, and Richard and I were certainly silly together—at least on film. The timing of everything we did on-screen came so spontaneously to us that it was almost like sexual attraction, in the sense that you don’t analyze why you’re attracted to someone—it’s just chemistry.

  But as close as we were on film, it didn’t carry over to our private lives. Richard traveled in his own circle. You could count on one hand the times that we saw each other when we weren’t working, and even then there was always a work-related reason why we met.

  We went to Arizona to film the interiors of Stir Crazy in an actual prison. From Tucson, where we all stayed, it was an hour-and-a-half drive to the Arizona State Penitentiary. Sidney used real prisoners as extras. They had all been cleared by the prison authorities to work with us, and each prisoner was paid for every day he worked.

  Richard stayed in a private house during our stay in Tucson. Sidney and I stayed at the Arizona Inn. After the first day of filming at the penitentiary, Richard started coming in late. At first it was fifteen minutes, then half an hour, then an hour, then more. I was upset at the insult to the cast and crew and to me, and I thought that Sidney was going to burst because of the time we were losing. But we both knew that if either one of us yelled, Richard would probably just walk out. When Richard would finally arrive on the set, he was all smiles, happy-go-lucky: “How ya doin’?” So Sidney and I put on our happy faces, and the work began.

  After a few days, Richard demanded a helicopter to take him to and from work. I didn’t blame him for wanting to avoid traveling the hour and a half each way, but it was unfair to the rest of us, who did have to make that long trip. When we finished our two weeks of filming in Arizona, we went back to the pleasures of working in a Hollywood studio.

  One day during our lunch hour in the last week of filming, the Craft Service man handed out slices of watermelon to each of us. Richard and the whole camera crew and I sat together in a big sound studio, talking and joking. Some members of the crew used a piece of watermelon as a Frisbee, and tossed it back and forth to each other. One piece of watermelon landed at Richard’s feet. He got up and went home. Filming stopped. The next day, Richard called and asked for Sidney and the whole camera crew, and me, to assemble in the studio. When we were all sitting there—like children in a kindergarten class—Richard walked in, introduced us to his aunt or grandmother—I’m not sure which—and then announced that he knew very well what the significance of watermelon was and why that piece of watermelon was specifically thrown at him. He said that he was quitting show business and would not return to this film. He got up and walked out, leaving us stunned. There was no filming the next day.

  The day after that, Richard walked in, all smiles, happy-go-lucky: “How ya doin’?” I wasn’t privy to all the negotiations that went on between Columbia and Sidney and Richard’s lawyers, but the camera operator who had thrown the errant piece of watermelon had been fired. We finished the remainder of the film that week. Richard and I hugged good-bye. It’s difficult to continue loving someone who shits on you—but I did, because of the moments of magic that we had shared together.

  I assume now that Richard was using drugs during Stir Crazy. The whole country found out a short while later that he freebased cocaine and set himself on fire. That doesn’t endear him to me, but at least it helps explain why some of his behavior was not malicious—just crazy.

  If Columbia Pictures had not succumbed to Richard’s demands, and if I
were a cocky, son-of-a-bitch movie star, and if Sidney Poitier had not held in his rage, there would have been no Stir Crazy. For the sake of my psychological health, I should have let out my anger at the time that I was angry. From the point of view of getting the picture made—I’m glad I didn’t. The picture was a great success.

  chapter 25

  HANKY-PANKY WITH ROSEANNE

  ROSEANNADANNA

  Sidney Poitier and I wanted to work together again. When Stir Crazy was finished, we would often meet in the afternoons at the home of my dear friend, Julann Griffin, to play tennis and talk about movies. Julann and I had worked together in summer stock in the north woods of Wisconsin years before, when I was seventeen.

  I would play two sets with Sidney (we were very evenly matched) and then talk about what we’d like to do next. I had one script that had been sent to me that I liked very much. It was a comedy/mystery called Traces. (The title was later changed to Hanky Panky.) I gave the script to Sidney, and he said, “Let’s do it.” After the success of Stir Crazy, I think Columbia would have done almost anything that Sidney and I wanted to do.

  Now came the search for the Girl. Lots of female stars said they would do the movie if they could play my part. I know the feeling. One day Sidney called and asked if I would like to go to New York with him to see Gilda Radner in a play called Lunch Hour that she was doing on Broadway, directed by Mike Nichols and also starring Sam Waterston. I said, “I don’t have to go to New York—I’ve seen her on Saturday Night Live and think she’s wonderful.” So Sidney flew to New York, saw the play, and took her to dinner. He called me that night.