The Columbia 30 - Part 5
From time to time we had celebrity guests come speak to us at the theater as part of our education in acting: film directors Martin Ritt and Sydney Pollack, and famous character actor Walter Matthau. Coincidentally Martin Ritt was one of the patients I had discharged from Cedars Sinai Medical Center when I worked there. After his talk we were to ask questions. I prefaced mine by introducing myself as the one who discharged him at Cedars. This brought a peel of laughter from my classmates. I asked him whether he ever used film directing tricks on actors like Elia Kazan did in his films. He mentioned a scene in “Sounder” where there was a bare light bulb hanging down in as part of the poor environ this black character lived in. He lowered it a few inches in the actual take so the actress' head would hit it as she passed by. This helped increase her anger and tension in the performance. She hadn't expected to bump into it, since in the rehearsal it was hanging higher.
When Matthau was there I couldn't think of a good question to ask him. Josh even prodded me to ask something. So I thought of a film role he played: the sheriff in “Lonely Are The Brave”. There was a scene where he was driving an old jeep over some extremely rutted ground up in the mountains as they pursued a suspect played by actor Kirk Douglas. The jeep bounced something terribly. It looked crazy and dangerous and I wondered about it. I asked Matthau if he was having a good time driving in that scene. Kind of a stupid question, but typical of me, it triggered an unexpected reply. Another peel of laughter from my classmates, but then came his answer. No he said. He was not having a good time. He didn't want to drive the jeep that way. He felt it was too dangerous. The director insisted on it. So he had the stunt man show Matthau how to drive like that. It led to a bad accident in which the stunt man was killed. Matthau was angry, but he went ahead and drove the jeep the way the director wanted and they got the scene in the can. My classmates were shocked, but now it was I who was laughing, not because it was funny, but because I had once again I'd pulled a typical boner that only I could have made.
Next came our screen tests. Perhaps Josh was trying to convince the new studio president, Frank Price, that there was some valuable talent and he should give contracts to them. The Program's creator, Daniel Melnick, had left Columbia Pictures becoming the president of Warner Brothers Film Studios next door. I don't know what was behind the location for the tests. We arrived early one morning at a place in Hollywood, not at the Columbia Pictures Studio which seemed strange—after all they shoot movies at Columbia why not there? I guess they didn't want us on the lot. Some of my classmates used to go over to the main lot for what I don't know, but eventually there was a ban on us coming on the main lot—another sign something wasn't right about the Program. Anyhow at this other location there was lots of fresh coffee and breakfast pastries laid out for us. We had our hair and make-up done. We were ready for our close-up Mr. DeMille. Josh asked a few questions to each actor who, while answering them, turned to show profiles. But when it came to my turn—and again—it's pretty foggy as to what was actually said—but I do remember Josh provoked me somehow and I shot back at him. Whatever it was our little spat caused him to ask Line Producer David Marks to take over. I was the only one who didn't have Josh interview them for the screen test. I probably asked for it. Or maybe I had some help, but it was another ugly little interaction like so many I had with Josh. I'm sure the others were thinking you fool you're sure not going to get a film contract behaving that way.
As bad as the Talent Program was turning out for me. The experience had certainly made an impression—for better or worse—and for the first time in my life—that there was something that really mattered to me even if I couldn't figure it out: acting. It became a tortuous need, that would dog me forever—to prove I could be a good actor. Not a famous one, not a rich one—but a GOOD one. How's that for a life goal? Call it over needful pride or misguided youth inflating the value of something, but it became the crux of my life's goal. I tried many times to talk myself out of it—reason with myself—but no dice. I was stuck. It was branded on my forehead. And I would give up all, including a balanced life, to achieve it—no matter what it cost me—and probably never would achieve this goal. But I guessed I'd go down trying. Perhaps it was my curse.
One day after class I headed over to Dick's to hang out. He lived in a beautiful house perched on the edge of a cliff over looking Los Angeles. I was wearing a bright red flannel shirt as I walked into the room, there sat a famous writer: Gore Vidal, a friend of Warren Leslie, Dick's step father, also a published author. They appeared in great spirits: the two writers and Dick with a friend of his, Al, who was staying at their home. They smiled and were enjoying each others company immensely. I was introduced to “Gore” and sat down. I'd read he was related to Jackie Kennedy and had just finished reading a magazine article called the “Gemstone File”. It was about the possible connection between the John F. Kennedy assassination and Aristotle Onassis the Greek billionaire. I pressed Vidal about the fact that JFK and the First Lady had been seen aboard Onassis' yacht and that one of the Mafia's favorite tricks was to kill the king and take his wife for their own. He politely evaded the theory, but I continued to press with other interesting tidbits from the article. He finally gave a conceding nod that there might be some truth in it. After a while I left and went home. A couple of days later Dick related an interesting tidbit of his own about the night I met Vidal. He told me they were driving him to the airport to catch his flight. As they sped down the 405 freeway Vidal had inquired who I was, calling me the young man in the red shirt. Warren said “Oh just a friend of Dick's, he's trying to be an actor.” Dick told me Vidal replied “I think he's going to make it.” I sure wish he'd been right.
The Program continued on minus two actors. One because she was seen hooking in Hollywood at night and someone reported her to the studio. The other because he felt the Program was interfering with getting out on auditions calls from his agent. There were now 28 of us and I was determined not to quit making it 27. Before this if something didn't feel right or didn't seem to be working out I would let it go and move on—not this time. It seemed so important no matter what happened I had to stay. As my uneasy experience progressed an event was coming where I would, at least partly, be redeemed. Hogy wanted to do a scene with me from the play “Here Comes Mr. Jordan”. It's about a prize fighter, Joe Pendelton, who's seriously injured in an accident. The Heavenly Angels come to collect him and take him up to the Pearly Gates. The Angels are informed they made a mistake by taking him too soon. He wasn't scheduled to die yet. So they come up with a plan to send his soul back to Earth in another person's body: Mr. Farnsworth, a wealthy business tycoon. Consequently Farnsworth (really Joe Pendelton) calls, Max (my character), the prize fighter's old friend and trainer/manager to help get him in shape to fight again. In the scene I show up not understanding why this famous business mogul has called me to his mansion for an interview.
I walked on stage. I was not expecting much to happen—just get killed again by Josh's critique, but this time something very different occurred. I started to do some physical improv. I entered Farnsworth's living room where Hogy, as scene props, set up some liquor bottles on a table with real booze in them. I stopped to eye the bottles. Then I turned my head to one side, then the other to see if anyone was around. The audience picked up on my interest in sneaking a sip or two. They started to laugh. Even Josh was smiling. I hadn't planned it—it just happened. Then Hogy comes out as Farnsworth he tries to talk me, Max, into training him for prize fighting. Of course I think he's crazy. I don't want to be rude but I try to get Farnsworth to be reasonable. The audience keeps laughing. They're really enjoying the scene. Hogy is acting like himself. Making all his strange little voices he does when he tells his stories. I know this because I knew him very well, but Josh didn't and thinks what he's doing is weird and doesn't fit the scene. So he stops it—“What are you doing? All these strange voices?” he asks him. But then he turns to me and says “Wow—after all this time—where did this come from? You did a great job playing Max.” I said “I'm just trying to do what you tell me.” I was. Even though I still didn't understand it.
The sad thing about this moment: it was the beginning of Hogy never realizing his full potential as an actor. After this he never tapped into his unique personality again. Instead he played an ultra-cool imitation of a Clint Eastwood action character. Hogy stayed in the soap opera “Days of Our Lives” and was never able to break into big films. His acting was limited. If he'd been allowed to explore his unique way of expressing himself and bring this to his work—I think he could have become a major movie star. He never won awards on the show for his acting skills like the others. Finally they found an award he could win: popular character. When he accepted it at the ceremony he was himself, complete with all those histrionics and voices he used in his stories. People who saw the televised event commented on how weird he behaved. No. He behaved like himself, but since the public never knew that side of him they just couldn't accept it. I could. That was the guy I'd known so many years before he got his break.
A few nights later Hogy and I, along with a friend, Nate, not an actor but an accountant I'd met at a previous job before Cedars, were having some beers at a bar in Westwood. Hogy said “You told him what he wanted to hear.” he was referring to Josh. Yes I had. I meant it, but there was still rough water between us. Hogy also mentioned something I didn't know about. Apparently Josh and his girlfriend were having sex parties with some of the students in the Program. I said you must be kidding—no he said he'd heard it from a reliable source—someone who was there. I was glad I wasn't in on that scene. I was also a little shocked. Was it really true? Later there was a sign from one of the actresses that certainly something of a very intimate nature had happened between her and Josh. She had just performed a scene. Josh's critique wasn't nice. They had a little exchange, but he wouldn't relent. She reached out to him as though there'd been some sort of understanding between them and cried a forsaken “Josh!”. He turned his face away and nose up. A rejection in front of the whole class. I sensed this was a deep and wounding moment for her. She teared up instantly. What their experience together had been, well...perhaps what Hogy said he heard was true.
I'd had wounding moments, mostly from Josh. But once I wounded or rather exposed myself—showing my ridiculous conceit and ego to the same girl who'd just been hurt by Josh. Somehow the interaction between us led me to say “You don't know who I am.” In the context of the moment it was laughable and she smiled at me amused. So secretly, even though I was the retard reject actor of the class, I saw myself as a very special individual. Someone who had a destiny to be great. Yes I confess my ego can take flights of fancy with little accomplishments to back 'em up. In fact more to disprove them than anything else. It's the flip side to my crazy ability—to say or do the most unorthodox, obtuse, and unexpected—which to me seems like the only thing that makes sense. Of course there is another element which I should add to the mix. As a child, during those formative years in the States, I was very overweight. After I had my tonsils out I started putting on the pounds. I don't know if it was related to their removal which affected my metabolism, but from 3rd until 9th grade I was the fat boy others made fun of in school. I'd bet this gave my self esteem a jolt it never recovered from—hence the ego issues—I guess. I'm no psycho therapist. We misfits are a strange mixture of truth and lies, intuitive perception and foolish delusion. You've heard of a one-hit-wonder? Well I'm a “first-time-wonder”. It seems my first attempt is often my best. When I was a little kid we went bowling with some friends. My mother turned to the other mother and said I'd never bowled before. Wouldn't it be something if on my first try I got a strike? Guess what? I did. Course I couldn't get one after that, but that's me: the first-time-wonder.
End of part 5
