Dropped Names (18 page)

JOHN GIELGUD

I
was hoping for a morsel of wisdom. Looking forward to being in the presence of a great actor who would impart to me a revelation or two and perhaps even see in me a little bit of his younger self.

As a teenager, I had worshipped John Gielgud's voice and manner and his clear, precise, intelligent delivery of Shakespeare. So much so that I locked myself in the attic of my family house in New Jersey and listened to him deliver Clarence's speech from
Richard III
dozens of times on the recording of the 1955 Laurence Olivier film in order to eliminate the
Joisey
in me. It was, in fact, my delivery of that speech that got me into the Lincoln Center Training Program, among thirty other aspiring actors, headed up by Elia Kazan in 1962 as preparation for that company's first season.

So I was very excited when Kazan announced that the great Johnny G., his nickname in theatrical circles, would be stopping by to speak with us one afternoon. On the day, I got myself dead center in the front row of the folding chairs lined up in Chapter Hall on the eighth floor of the Carnegie Hall building on West 57th Street. “You,” I imagined he would say, “I see something in
you
!”

In he came, impeccably dressed in tweeds, loafers, and a crisp white shirt and tie.
Sonorous
is the word often used to describe his voice, and indeed it was. But his mellifluous drone eventually sent me into a heavy-lidded semi-coma, and I prayed he would not focus on my nodding head and blinking eyes. For well over an hour, Sir John seemed totally indifferent as questions were asked about motive, intent, inner life, or even style and technique. By the end of his time with us, I was left with the impression that he wished he'd not said yes to Kazan and that his approach to acting was a simple and perfunctory “Just get on with it.”

Afterward he showed no interest in milling around or greeting us, but stepped off the little platform that had been placed for him, shook Kazan's hand, and passed through us as one might a group of lepers when spotting, in the distance, the last boat leaving the island.

Having sat through his enormously successful one-man show,
Ages of Man
, when he toured it several years earlier in my college town of Syracuse, New York, and been dazzled, I was now dashed by his remote demeanor and lack of passion. But he was, I thought, an old man of fifty-eight then and probably beginning to lose his marbles. Well, they bounced around merrily for another thirty-eight years, finally rolling to a stop and shutting him down at the age of ninety-six in 2000.

S
ir John grew up in the English tradition that prized, above all else, clarity and precision, presenting the text to the audience beautifully pronounced. Over the course of his lifetime I saw him in a number of plays and films. And with the years he grew more honest in his work. That is to say he appeared more honest. His performance in
Home
, opposite Ralph Richardson, was superb in its minimalism and quiet intelligence. And, of course, he won an Oscar for playing Dudley Moore's butler in
Arthur
, a part that must have taken him all of thirty seconds to nail. After fifty years of playing all the great Shakespeares and other classics, he must have found that win hilarious, adding to the Brits' natural disdain for the Americans' misguided worship of a posh accent.

We would cross paths many times over the years and he always greeted me as if we were meeting for the first time. While I no longer held his style of acting in reverential worship, I admired his resolve. He never stopped working. A devoted professional who took the risk of leaving his comfort zone and courageously joined, at one period, an avant-garde production of Peter Brook's
Oedipus
in which all the actors were asked to improvise, express their inner souls, and confess their fears. When it came John's turn to bare himself, he stood up and declared to the gathered company: “We open on Tuesday.”

Unlike his contemporaries Olivier and Richardson, Sir John was exclusively for the boys, and one night found himself in the clink for having solicited a young lad in a men's room. Prior to his arrival at a rehearsal the next day, the director told the company it would be best to ignore the sordid headlines. When he sheepishly appeared in the doorway, Dame Edith Evans is reported to have sung out:

“John, you've been a
very
naughty boy!”

I
encountered him one time in Cairo in 1987 while shooting a film entitled
Sphinx
—a real stinker.

“Hello John,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I'm playing the little old man in the shop who gets his throat garroted. Just two scenes with your leading lady [Lesley-Anne Down] and home again.”

I was surprised he'd taken a role so small and teased him about it.

“That's a lot of traveling just to get your throat cut.”

“Well, dear boy. Someday you're not going to be pretty any longer and you are not going to be offered leading roles. Take the smaller ones but only on one condition. Make certain they're
effective
.” It was an absolutely perfect and prescient piece of advice.

I have often thought of John when working with British directors and actors of his generation or mine, where the love of affect is more prized than emotional truth; sorting out the proper accent holding sway over sorting out the character's soul. The combining of both approaches is preferable, of course. The acid test, however, no matter the approach, is whether or not the audience
believes
you.

W
hen I read of Sir John's death, I remembered my most favorite moment in his company. It was 1975. I was appearing on Broadway, and into my dressing room trooped Anne Jackson, Eli Wallach, Hume Cronyn, Jessica Tandy, Irene Worth, and John.

They settled into chairs, making complimentary noises; but for the most part John was silent. Finally Annie said:

“Frank, tell John that story about how you used to imitate him in your attic as a kid.”

“Well,” I said, “I grew up in New Jersey and I wanted to lose my accent because I talked like this . . .” I launched into a thick New Jersey accent, using the words
coffee
and
talk
as examples. John gazed at me, stony and silent, but I pressed on.

“So I bought the
Richard III
album and copied you. I walked around my attic doing your monologues thousands of times and when I got to New York, everyone told me I sounded just like you.”

A pause. And then in perfect Gielgud deadpan, he said:

“You're well over it, dear boy!”

ANTHONY QUINN

“K
neel!” Anthony Quinn seemed to be saying when first we met.

T
he word did not pass his lips but was certainly there in his demeanor. He was standing behind me on a line moving slowly toward the great acting coach Stella Adler. We chosen many were at the director Peter Bogdanovich's house for a party in her honor sometime in the early 1990s. Miss Adler sat on a throne-like chair raising her eyes to grace each acolyte as they came up, curtsied or bowed, said a few words of worship, and backed away, leaving the space to be filled by the next B-list ass kisser. I would come to know her better a few years later but I was there that evening just to kiss her ring and eat Peter's food.

Mr. Quinn was one of the very few major stars in the room. I had never met him before, and no one had briefed me on Quinn protocol. So I made the mistake of simply saying “Hi” as I turned around and saw him. Cold and imperious, he offered a limp handshake and prepared himself for some words of high praise along the order of “It's such an honor to . . . etc.” But I turned back again waiting for my moment with Her Highness, who clearly outranked him that evening. There were audible huffs and puffs as he exited the line, followed by his handler and a cowering Mexican woman, retreating to a nearby appropriately overstuffed chair.

The handler returned to say that I had been rude to Mr. Quinn and perhaps a visit to his throne would be graced with forgiveness. My legs would not carry me there and the night passed without further contact between us.

Several years later I was at a party for my close friend Raul Julia, who possessed the gobs and gobs of appreciation for Mr. Quinn that I sadly lacked. When I arrived he was deep in happy laughter with him, both hands resting on his shoulders. As I approached, Raul gave me a big hug and said: “Tony, you know my friend, Frank Langella?”

Again the imperious look. Again the limp handshake. Picking up where we'd left off, I again said: “Hi,” but no more. And again his immediate exit. For the rest of the evening he sat across from me under a dark cloud of expectation, but I spoke not a word to him. I couldn't have been more pleased at the consistency of our relationship.

I had one last chance to gain favor on a snowy evening in New York years later after some awards show. Ushered toward a stretch limo to move on to the after party, I was put into a seat facing the rear of the car. The attendant said: “You don't mind sharing with Mr. Quinn, I hope?”

We settled in. Tony, as I would only dare call him to you, sat in the middle, his handler to his right, the same Mexican woman to his left. What could I do? I didn't want to let him down. So I bit the bullet, leaned forward, stretched out my hand, and said (you got it): “Hi.” And he didn't let me down either. Once more the proffered limp handshake and the glum stare. But this time he was denied his exit. We were on the move, and he was stuck with me.

For some thirty blocks we rode along in absolute silence as he stared past the Mexican woman out the window and into the winter night, in what appeared to be a seething fury.

I studied his granite face, in profile, recalling so many of his performances in films such as
La Strada
,
Lawrence of Arabia
,
Zorba the Greek
, and dozens more. He was, after all, an iconic figure in film history with two Oscars up his sleeve and clearly one in his pants, having fathered at least a dozen children. Extremely creative, he acted, wrote, painted, and sculpted while prowling the world. But his aura was so sour and his sense of entitlement so pervasive that I was helpless to conquer my distaste for him.

Having suffered from occasional bouts of grandiosity myself, I let Mr. Quinn's pomposity get under my skin more than it should have. I like to think, with time, I've moderated that tendency, but he appeared to me to be a man incapable of an introspective thought. A big bully in the school yard or an imperious mob boss looking to get both his ring and his ass kissed unto death. It seemed to me that he was going to carry the worst of his nature to his grave expecting upon his ascendance a standing ovation and a seat very near The Throne.

I told the story of my three strikes and out with him to a renowned actress over lunch one day. And she said: “I made a picture with Tony. He was a complete pig. An animal. A rude, dumb peasant. I will never forgive myself for letting him fuck me.”

Well, better than a limp handshake. Or not . . .

JOHN FRANKENHEIMER

“J
ohn Frankenheimer wants to meet you.”

The year was 1968. The thirty-eight-year-old director of such films as
The Manchurian Candidate
and
Seven Days in May
was preparing a film called
The Horseman
, starring Omar Sharif, to be shot in Afghanistan.

“Be at his hotel at eleven a.m. tomorrow,” said my agent. “I'm sending over the script.”

I read it avidly. Sharif was the action hero; his sidekick, the part I was meeting Mr. Frankenheimer for, was a young Afghan boy. Lots of horse riding, guns, fiery women. A few of Frankenheimer's handwritten notes were scribbled in the margins. One scene read:

“They leap across a chasm. The hooves of one horse just miss the other side, and it plunges to its death.”

In the margin, Frankenheimer had written:

“We'll have to kill the horse.”

I showed up on time and called from the lobby. His phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. I waited. A call came down around 11:30. “Yes, sir, he's standing here. Yes, sir.” The porter turned to me and said, “Please go up.”

I
had at that point in my career met very few important film directors. And at almost thirty, I had as yet to appear in one. I was dressed neatly in a suit and tie and completely unprepared for the sleepy, unshaven man who opened the door in a hotel terry-cloth robe, stained down the front with what looked like fried egg. There was no smile, no eye contact. His hand shot out, firm grip.

“Take a seat, Frank, I'll be right back.”

It was a plush, first-class suite, the usual amenities on the coffee table, large bowl of fruit, bottle of champagne in a bucket against which sat a square envelope with Mr. Frankenheimer's name on it. Both the champagne and the note were unopened. There were two overturned champagne glasses, a folded white napkin with a knife and fork waiting, as indeed did I for another thirty minutes.

Finally he emerged: neat wet hair, white shirt and trousers, bare feet, holding a newspaper clipping, and plopping himself down on the couch across from me.

“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“No thank you, sir,” I said.

He stared at the clipping for a while, put it down on the coffee table, and I saw it was from the
New York Times
Sunday Arts and Leisure section about me. It was my first major profile in an important newspaper; showing a fairly exotic picture of me.

I had made a success in a William Gibson play called
A Cry of Players
, opposite Anne Bancroft earlier that year, but this was my only nibble from a major film director.

“Okay, I'll tell the studio.”

“Tell them what?” I asked.

“You can do it.”

“You mean I got the part?”

“Yeah.”

He then showed me some stunning photographs from his scouting expedition.

“Here's the kid who's doubling you. He's done some preliminary stuff with me already.”

“But Mr. Frankenheimer, aren't I supposed to read or something? Have you seen me act?”

“I don't need to. You've got the face I want. You'll look good with Omar. He's average height. Thicker. You're tall and lean. Word is you're good. The part's yours. You'll make a good pair. Can you ride a horse?”

“Yes.” I lied.

He got up and walked me to the door.

This isn't the way my film career is supposed to start, I thought. It's too easy. As I got to the door, I said just that.

He stopped, for the first time looked me directly in the eyes, and with a fair amount of impatience said:

“Let me tell you something, kid. In this business, an actor is in one of two positions: ‘They want you or you want them.' If you want them you can be sitting on their desk, lighting their cigar, and they're not going to give you the part. If they want you, you can be in the Sahara, in a tent, fucking a camel, and the offer will come slipping under the flap.”

He shook my hand and I left with my first movie role opposite Omar Sharif, no less.

A
few days later my agent called and said that Frankenheimer heard that I had “crazy eyes” that couldn't work on film. I was indeed born with a condition called nystagmus, which meant that my eyes, in order to focus, vibrated slightly, often giving the impression that my eyeballs were moving from side to side. It is harmless, incurable, but at the time, thought possibly to be too distracting on film.

He told me that in order to play the part the studio heads said I would have to be put through a screen test. No acting, just standing in front of the camera being photographed. The test would be in a week on a sound stage for a movie being shot in New York starring Gene Hackman and Estelle Parsons entitled
I Never Sang for My Father
. I spent that week rushing from doctor to doctor looking for a way to slow down my roller-coaster eyeballs for the length of a ninety-second screen test, trying prism glasses, muscle relaxers, and tranquilizers. I arrived at the appointed hour, profoundly overmedicated, standing quietly at the back of the set, watching Gene Hackman and Melvyn Douglas rehearse. On a break, the director, the just recently departed Gil Cates, came over, introduced himself, and escorted me to a spot on the floor. I stood painfully still and stared straight ahead. I overheard the assistant director say to Gil:

“What's this for?”

And Gil said, “I don't know. Studio wants to look at this guy.”

The camera came in very close to my face. I stared into it for ninety agonizing seconds. It pulled back, Gil said thank you, and I was ushered out of the room.

At that point I was soaking wet, deeply embarrassed, and certain I would never appear in a movie for the rest of my life. I had, in fact, so tranquilized myself for the experience that I went home that afternoon, fell into bed, and slept through until the next morning. A few days later my agent rang and said, “You passed! Frankenheimer called and told me to tell you to start taking horseback riding lessons.”

A
t the same time, Mel Brooks was preparing his second film,
The Twelve Chairs
, to star Alastair Sim, Peter Sellers, and Albert Finney. All three dropped out, replaced by Ron Moody, Dom DeLuise, and, to my great surprise, me. Mel asked me to play the young hero.

“What about Frankenheimer's
The Horseman
?” I said.

“That's a piece of action crap. You haven't signed anything, have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, call John tomorrow and tell him this is a much better part. He'll understand and let you go.”

The part was indeed wonderful and would make a better film debut for me.

I
found John somewhere on location. It was not a good connection but I pressed on, shouting loudly into the telephone.

I began tentatively, saying more than I needed to, explaining to him that the character in Mel's film was a better opportunity, telling him I would be easy to replace—I was, after all, not a star, admitted I was not at all that good on a horse, and further opined that now he wouldn't have to worry about my crazy eyes . . . blah, blah, blah. I finally wound down, and there was a long, long pause. I thought we'd lost the connection.

“Mr. Frankenheimer, are you still there?”

Then came the following at full volume:

“You fucking motherfucking cocksucker. You are never going to work in this business again. Everybody told me you had crazy eyes that dance in your fucking head, and I was still willing to take a chance on you, you fucking faggot asshole. You better fucking show up on this picture. I've already spent money shooting your double. You cocksucker. You motherfucking cocksucker. You know what, you fucker . . .
fuck you
.”

Slam went the phone. There followed angry letters, threats, and a bill sent to my agent for $8,500 as “expenses related to Mr. Langella.”

Through a friend I consulted a powerful labor lawyer named Sidney Cohn.

“You can pay this bill and wipe the slate clean,” he said, “but I promise you they won't come after you. It's peanuts.” He was right. They didn't come after me, and I didn't pay—at least not financially.

F
rom that hang-up on the phone to the day he died, no offer from John Frankenheimer ever slipped under the flap of any tent in which I happened to be fucking a camel or a mammal.