Easy Street (the Hard Way): A Memoir (36 page)

“I am not a Nazi, Marlon,” Frankenheimer said. I’m standing there looking at this thing. These guys might actually be getting ready to start throwin’ fists!

“You’re a fucking Nazi, John,” Marlon said. “A fucking Nazi wouldn’t want to put these people in the shade. You’re a Nazi.”

“How could you call me that? That’s a horrible thing to call a person.”

Then Marlon said—and this was my favorite part—“Have you ever seen a movie called
Young Lions
?”

“Of course I did,” Frankenheimer said. “It was directed by Edward Dmytryk. It was you, it was Montgomery Clift, it was Maximilian Schell, it was Dean Martin. You played a German officer. You were great in that movie!”

“That’s right I did,” Marlon said. “I know Nazis. And you’re a fucking Nazi, John!”

So Frankenheimer said, “Okay, I’ll tell you what. I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll put the crowd in the shade. They don’t have to be here, but Ron Perlman stays.”

“Why, John?” Brando asked. “Why does he gotta stay?”

“What is it about him that’s bothering you?”

“He’s saying these fucking words that are so fucking weird that I don’t think I can concentrate. Every time he speaks, he throws me off.”

“Well, those are the words, the incantations that are in the script,” Frankenheimer said.

“Well I don’t give a shit, it’s bothering me,” Marlon said. “We gotta cut ’em or something.”

Finally I chimed in: “H. G. Wells himself wrote those words. I’ll do anything ya want, but it’d sure be nice if we could figure out a way to keep ’em.”

So Marlon said, “Okay, okay, you can stay, but fer Chistsakes, can you say ’em a little quieter, like almost so I can’t hear you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Whatever you need, Pops. Whatever you need.” So that was my really true first working exchange with Marlon. What started out as awkward is goin’ downhill fast!

I realized, okay, I’m in some sort of game here that I’m not quite sure how to play. But he just kind of singled me out. He doesn’t really know me. He’s kind of thrown down some sort of gauntlet, and I actually feel like I’m being challenged in some sort of way. I’ve got these goat horns on, and I look like a fucking idiot. I got to say these stupid words that were written in 1896 that are really tough to say without sounding like a putz, but hey, that’s how H. G. wanted ’em. So as much as I don’t like being here anymore, clearly Marlon likes it even less. The whole thing is fucked up, but we’re going to have to do this, like it or not, for the next however many hours—shit, days—’cuz we gotta get this muthafucka in the can.

So, sure enough, they broke for lunch to light the scene so that they could start shooting Marlon’s coverage. I walked away from set, but I didn’t go to lunch. I went straight to my trailer to throw up. Thank God for the makeup, so no one could really see my face, but I was an inch away from ballin’ my eyes out. Here I’ve come 16 gazillion hundred fuckin’ miles, put fuckin’ horns on my head, studied my ass off
so I could finally, finally be in the glow of the greatest of all time, and as soon as it’s showtime, he decides to obliterate me.

It took me the whole lunch hour to pull my shit together, but as work time was approaching, I started saying to myself,
I’m a professional actor. I’ve been hired to do a job. I have not only a right but also an obligation to be here. I sure wish my hero hadn’t broken my heart, but he did, so that’s that. Fuck what he thinks of me. Let’s do this!

We took our places on set; Billy Fraker, one of the greatest cinematographers of all time, finished tweaking the lights; and the first AD rolled camera. Frankenheimer yelled, “Action!” and it was fucking on. I said a line, and he said a line back, and then I said another line, and he said another line back. And suddenly it was startin’ to cook. And I’m feeling so proud of myself that I start celebrating in my head. And then there was this long, awkward silence. I was looking around, thinking,
Hmmm, somebody done fucked up here
. I heard Marlon say, “It’s your line.”

Now you have to understand, I had these lenses in so I was completely blind. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I could only hear Marlon. I didn’t even know that he was physically there because I couldn’t see anything. I was wondering who he was talking to. He was saying, “Hey! You with the horns! It’s your line.” It was the first time in my entire career that I had gone up on my lines because I was so caught up in the coolness of this. For all I know, they’ll be comparing this to the taxi scene between him and Rod Steiger.

So when I finally realized that it’s just him and me in the scene and that I’m the only one wearing horns, it hit me:
Oh shit, he’s talking to me!
And I said, “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s my line, isn’t it?”

And Marlon said, “That’s okay, let’s go back. Let’s start again. Let me know when you’re ready.” Little by little I could see he was beginning to become sympathetic toward me because he was seeing that I was really standing my ground, driving the scene, proving myself to him, just like he designed it when he was giving me shit earlier. Then he said, “Let me know when you’re ready.” I had him. He was on my wavelength. We were gonna fucking act this scene—together!

He let me kind of run that scene from that point on, and we ended up doing about two or three takes from each angle. With each take I could feel him coming with me deeper into dialogue. Without saying a word to each other, he figured out exactly what I needed to drive the scene, and I got more and more specific the more he gave me. And it didn’t take too long before he said, “I like that one. How did you feel?”

“I’m good too,” I said.

“Yeah, I think we got it,” he said. “Let’s move on.”

By the end of all the coverage, despite a little bit of a rocky start, we were two guys that had been on the same wavelength for a little while. That’s a feeling I just can’t describe. But it’s beautiful. It’s why I love this thing that I do, that I’ve done for forty years. Except this time I got to do it with Zeus! So for the next three and a half days, till we finished this thing, it was clear sailing with me and Pops. In fact, I’m
so
loose that the jokes start flowin’. That’s when I realized for myself what I had heard from people for years: that if you could make Marlon laugh, you owned him.

Anyway, for the next four days we were shooting this same scene. And for four days, after we finished a shot, Pops would split back to his trailer and wait for the team to change set-ups. But because I kinda got nauseated every time they popped my lenses in or out, I decided to just keep them in. So instead of leaving the set, I just sat there and waited. Which meant that every time Marlon got called back to set, he’d have to move his 320-pound frame around me on the tiny platform to get back to his throne. And I’d hear him mumble shit, stuff like, “Jesus, you’re not a small guy, and I’m not a small guy. You could at least gimme a little room to maneuver here.” And I’d throw out some little barbs that got him to chuckle, and we’d go back to work.

Finally, on the fifth day of shooting this scene I was sitting on my little stool, waiting, when I felt these two hands violently grab my shoulders. I mean, I jumped out of my fucking skin! I jumped up and turned to figure out who the fuck just did that, even though I couldn’t see shit. After a few seconds I heard Marlon say, “Holy shit, what’s that in your eyes?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Holy shit, are you . . . are you playing this character blind?”

“Marlon, yer fuckin’ with me, right?” I said.

“No man,” he said. “I’m asking you if you’re playing him blind?!”

“Marlon,” I said, “we’ve been doing this fucking scene for five and a half days, and you’re asking me now if I’m playin’ the fuckin’ guy blind? You’re kidding, right?”

Then Marlon said, “Hey John! He’s playing the guy blind! Oh man, we’ve gotta start again.”

“What are you talking about, Marlon?” Frankenheimer said.

“If I knew that he was playing the guy blind,” Marlon said, “I would have played it completely differently. We gotta go back and start again!”

“Fuck you, Marlon,” Frankenheimer said. “We’re not starting again.”

“I was just kidding, John.” And then Marlon turned back to me and said, “And by the way, are you the guy that sent me all that Afro-Cuban music when I first got here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was wondering if you got it, ’cuz I never heard from ya!”

“Oh man, Caroline just told me it was you. That shit is great! You shoulda come to my trailer. I been dancing my ass off the whole time!”

“Wow,” I said. “That would have been fun. Maybe when we do
The Island of Dr Moreau II!
” And he gave me a hug and a kiss on the face.

Then he said, “You’re playing blind. You’re playing the guy who’s responsible for justice, blind. That’s fucking genius.” He was whispering this shit to me. That was the first time he realized I was not this fucking lump who had just been sitting there in his way every time he had to get in and out of his chair, that I had actually given this thing some thought. Shit, I’da never thought of something like that had I not been a voracious student of the Marlon Brando School of Acting! It was kinda nice to see that he approved.

Meanwhile, Marlon, without the sanctuary of Tahiti, was robbed of that last place on Earth where he could truly find the solace he
so desperately craved. By the time I met him, he was somewhat of a tragic figure. Somebody who, in spite of whatever he tried to do to create a peaceful world for himself, was just destined to have it elude him. I got all of that from watching him in his quiet moments, from watching him fight back the tears when he knew nobody was looking because of what he was going through at the time. I could see the heaviness visit itself on him and would watch him wrestle to distract himself from it. I saw all that. And I felt for him, for how deeply I could see him caring about things he couldn’t control, but only when nobody was watching. I adored the guy . . .

I never pursued a relationship, even though I probably could’ve. I’m sure that if I had knocked on his door and said, “Hey Marlon, let’s have a drink,” he would have welcomed me in. A few weeks after we had shot that scene I started wondering what else there was for me to do on the movie. Frankenheimer answered me before I even got a chance to ask the question: “Do you know why you’ve been here this long?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know, John. I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Because every time we talk about our approach to a scene, Marlon says, ‘Have the guy from
Name of the Rose
do it. Give this stuff to the guy from
Name of the Rose
.’” Apparently Marlon had loved
Quest for Fire
and
Name of the Rose
and watched them multiple times. He never said this to me, of course, but he did say it to Frankenheimer, who related it to me. He said, “You mean Ron Perlman?” He said, “Yeah, the guy who played the hunchback in
Name of the Rose
. Take it away from Val Kilmer and give it to fucking Perlman. There’s a guy who could actually handle it.”

As I said, Marlon was a guy you could talk to about anything in the world. He was an information junkie—anything except of course the one thing everybody wanted to talk about with him: acting. And those who either didn’t know this rule or did and decided to ask anyway would see him grow cold, distant. Now little Fairuza Balk was playing his daughter in the film. She was Moreau’s pride and joy but also his most flawless creation with, unlike all his other creations, almost no evidence of having anything other than purely human features. Well,
Marlon had a weakness for beautiful women and was not shy about making his predilection known. So little Fairuza got nothing but affection and warmth from him. So she decided, “Well, if anyone can cross the line, it’s me.” As they’re getting ready to shoot their most important scene together, in which the true dynamic of this deeply emotional bond is really on display, Fairuza said, “Marlon, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, baby, anything you want,” he said.

Now because Marlon was doing a performance that he was making up as he went along, anyone who acted with him had no way of knowing what to expect. So Fairuza said, “It’s really important for me to know more about our relationship as you see it so I can play our scene together more effectively. How do you see our relationship in this film?”

Sure enough, the sweet old man’s sweetness drained out of him. “Relationship? Did you just ask about our relationship? Okay, imagine a basket the size of Wyoming. And imagine that basket filled all the way to the top with dollar bills. Got it? Well, that’s how much they’re paying me to do this fucking turkey. And
that’s
our relationship, baby!”

I guess if you search far and wide enough you could find exceptions to this rule. Maybe when he was younger, when he was still enthusiastically playing the game, I don’t know. I do know one story, though, in regard to this that’s worth telling. Ever since Eddie Albert Jr. did an arc on
Beauty and the Beast
he and I turned into fast pals. Eddie virtually grew up at Uncle Marlon’s knee, ’cuz Eddie’s dad, the great Eddie Albert Sr., did a few flicks with Marlon when Eddie Jr. was a tiny kid. So they had a really close bond.

Anyway, Eddie Jr. had just finished doing a piece-of-shit action flick in the Philippines that was destined to go straight to DVD. The movie kicked Eddie’s ass. So he decided to stop off on the way home at the neighboring island of Terraria to see if Uncle Marlon was around, maybe stay a couple of nights, kick back on the beach, charge the battery. He showed up at Uncle Marlon’s door unannounced, and Marlon came to the door in a sarong, his preferred mode of dress, particularly
in his later years, and was just delighted to see him. “Eddie! What are you doing here?!”