Brando_ Songs My Mother Taught Me Part 15

From the start, the real Mafia took a strong interest in our depiction of the fictional one, much of which was filmed on its turf in Little Italy in New York City. It sent a delegation to Bluhdorn and, I was told after the picture was finished, he agreed to meet certain conditions to obtain its cooperation, including a promise not to mention the word "Mafia" in the picture. I'm sure they let him know that it wouldn't be difficult for their friends in the New York labor unions to tie up shooting, and as partial payment I suspect that Paramount promised them some jobs on the picture. Several members of the crew were in the Mafia and four or five mafiosi had minor parts. When we were shooting on Mott Street in Little Italy, Joe Bufalino arrived on the set and sent two envoys to my trailer to say that he wanted to meet me. One was a rat-faced man with impeccably groomed hair and a camel's-hair coat, the other a less elegantly dressed man who was the size of an elephant and nearly tipped over the trailer when he stepped in and said, "Hi, Mario, you're a great actor."

When Bufalino arrived, the first thing I noticed about him was that one of his eyes looked to the left and the other to the right. I didn't know which one to look at, so, trying not to offend him, I alternated between them. As soon as he sat down, he started complaining about how badly the U.S. government was treating him. Wrapping himself in the American flag, he said he was a good American and a good family man, but the government was trying to deport him. Throwing up his arms, he said, "What do I do?"

I didn't have an answer, so I didn't say anything. Then he changed the subject and in a raspy whisper said, "The word's out you like calamari..."

This startled me. Somehow he'd learned that I often ordered a calamari lunch from one of the Italian restaurants on Mott Street.

Then, as if the two of us were involved in a conspiracy, he said, "You know, Mario, I'd love to have you come over and meet the wife. One night the three of us could all go out for dinner. I'd like you to meet my family."

"Mr. Bufalino-"

He waved his hand and said, "Call me Joe."

"Well, Joe, see this script?" I showed it to him, riffling through the pages we were going to film that day. "Joe, this is just today; these are only the lines I have to learn for today, and it's really hard. I'm not running around chasing girls. I just sit in this trailer learning lines."

Bufalino seemed disappointed. "Well," he said, "maybe we can make it for lunch sometime."

I didn't know what to do next, so I said, "Have you ever seen a movie set?"

"No, I've never been on one before."

"Well, allow me," I said. "Let's go upstairs and I'll show you around."

I led him upstairs through a tangle of cables to the set of the office of the olive-oil company used in the picture. Standing close to me, he looked around and said, "I don't know how you keep from goin' nuts, with all these people and all these wires and everything..."

"I agree, Joe. The whole thing is really c.o.c.keyed, isn't it?" Then I looked into his c.o.c.ked eyes and realized what I'd said. I spun around, trying to divert his attention to something on the set and to get a glimpse of his reaction peripherally. For a moment he blinked and I thought I saw a hurt look flash across his face, but the moment pa.s.sed, and I babbled a mouthful of mush to fill the air with words, not knowing what in the world I was saying.

At last Joe smiled, thanked me for the tour and left me to get ready for the next shot. "See you, Mario," he said. "Don't forget the wife and I would still like you to have dinner with us."

There were some terrific actors on The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather, especially Robert Duvall and Al Pacino. Bobby Duvall is one of those actors who never stop taking dares, which very few actors do. They work so hard at becoming successful that when they reach the top they become cautious and try to do the same thing over and over again because they're frightened of playing a part in which they might fall on their faces. Duvall takes chances and has fallen on his face, but far more times than not he has established a characterization that is not Duvall. He's a wonderful actor. The same can be said of Al Pacino. When I met him on The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather, he was quite troubled. Since then he's improved and, like Duvall, has shown that he is willing to take a chance and not be afraid where he's going to land.

At one point Charles Bluhdorn threatened to fire Francis Coppola-I don't remember why-but I said, "If you fire Francis, I'll walk off the picture." I strongly believe that directors are ent.i.tled to independence and freedom to realize their vision, though Francis left the characterizations in our hands and we had to figure out what to do. I threw out a lot of what was in the script and created the role as I thought it should be. When you do this, you never know whether it's going to work; sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. But after I had read the book, I decided that the part of Don Corleone lent itself perfectly to underplaying. Rather than portraying him as a big shot, I thought it would be more effective to play him as a modest, quiet man, the way he was in the book. Don Corleone was part of the wave of immigrants who came to this country around the turn of the century and had to swim upstream to survive as best they could. He had the same hopes and ambitions for his sons that Joseph P. Kennedy had for his. As a young man, he probably hadn't intended to become a criminal, and when he did, he hoped it would be transitional. As he said to his son Michael, played by Pacino, "I never wanted this for you. I wanted something else. I always thought that you'd be governor or senator or president-something-but there just wasn't enough time.... There just wasn't enough time."

I thought it would be interesting to play a gangster, maybe for the first time in the movies, who wasn't like those bad guys Edward G. Robinson played, but who was a kind of hero, a man to be respected. Also, because he had so much power and unquestioned authority, I thought it would be an interesting contrast to play him as a gentle man, unlike Al Capone, who beat up people with baseball bats. I had a great deal of respect for Don Corleone; I saw him as a man of substance, tradition, dignity, refinement, a man of unerring instinct who just happened to live in a violent world and who had to protect himself and his family in this environment. I saw him as a decent person regardless of what he had to do, as a man who believed in family values and was shaped by events just like the rest of us. The people who joined the Mafia in those days did so because they were set upon by people who wanted to take advantage of them. There was a war in Little Italy; members of a group called the Black Hand were extorting money from immigrants, who had to pay to safeguard their families and to make a living. Some knuckled under, but others like Don Corleone fought back, and this was the story of The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather. He would not surrender to the men who demanded a piece of everyone's action. He was forced to protect his family, and in the process he gravitated into crime.

At the time we made the film in the early seventies, there were not many things you could say about the Mafia that you couldn't say about other elements in the United States. Was there much difference between mob murders and Operation Phoenix, the CIA's a.s.sa.s.sination program in Vietnam? Like the Mafia, it was just business, nothing personal. Certainly there was immorality in the Mafia and a lot of violence, but at heart it was a business; in many ways it didn't operate much differently from certain multinational corporations that went around knowingly spilling chemical poisons in their wake. The Mafia may kill a lot of people in mob wars, but while we were making the movie, CIA representatives were dealing in drugs in the Golden Triangle, torturing people for information and a.s.sa.s.sinating them with far more efficiency than the Mob. I can't see much difference between the a.s.sa.s.sinations of gangsters like Joey Gallo and the Diem brothers in Vietnam, except that our country did it with greater hypocrisy. When Henry Cabot Lodge went on television and explained the deaths of the Diem brothers, you knew he was flat-out lying, but people didn't question him because we all believed the myth that the United States was a great country that would never do anything immoral. In many ways people in the Mafia live by a stricter code than do presidents and other politicians; I wonder what would happen if instead of having them swear on a Bible, we required politicians to promise to be honest at the price of having their feet encased in cement and dropped into the Potomac if they weren't. Political corruption would drop dramatically.

Thanks to a trick I stumbled on while I was making The Young Lions The Young Lions, I wasn't completely honest with Joe Bufalino when I told him I had to memorize my lines that morning he showed up on the set. When I first made movies, I memorized my lines from the script like other actors, or if the script was weak I'd improvise dialogue but still memorize it. As mentioned earlier, I learned on my first picture, The Men The Men, how easy it was to spoil your effectiveness in a picture by overrehearsing and digging so deep into a part before filming began that you had nothing left to give when it counted. This had taught me how fragile a characterization can be on film and the importance of spontaneity. So after a while instead of memorizing my lines by rote, I started concentrating only on the meaning or thrust of a line during a scene, working from merely a suggestion of what it was about, and then improvising speeches as I went along so that they seemed spontaneous. The words might vary a little from those in the script, but audiences didn't know it.

On The Young Lions The Young Lions, I discovered an even better way to increase spontaneity. In that picture I had to rewrite a lot of the dialogue as we went along, and one day I didn't have time to memorize my new lines for one scene, so I wrote them on a piece of paper, pinned the paper to the uniform of one of the other actors and read the lines. The camera shot over my shoulder, showing my face in despair while I read. There was a practical advantage to what I had done because it saved a lot of time. You can easily spend three or four hours trying to memorize lines for a scene, and in order to prepare, some actors go around all day muttering them at the edge of the set. There are other things I would much rather use my time for than memorizing lines, so after The Young Lions The Young Lions I started reading dialogue from notes in every picture. Sometimes, with their permission, I wrote my lines on actors' faces or pinned cue cards on their costumes, or placed them offstage where I could see them. I started reading dialogue from notes in every picture. Sometimes, with their permission, I wrote my lines on actors' faces or pinned cue cards on their costumes, or placed them offstage where I could see them.

On The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather I had signs and cue cards everywhere-on my shirtsleeves, on a watermelon and glued to the scenery. If it was a long day and the director reshot a scene many times, I might know the lines by the end of the day, but I didn't have to memorize them in advance. I also discovered that not memorizing increased the illusion of reality and spontaneity, a step beyond the groping for words and so-called mumbling that some critics complained about in I had signs and cue cards everywhere-on my shirtsleeves, on a watermelon and glued to the scenery. If it was a long day and the director reshot a scene many times, I might know the lines by the end of the day, but I didn't have to memorize them in advance. I also discovered that not memorizing increased the illusion of reality and spontaneity, a step beyond the groping for words and so-called mumbling that some critics complained about in A Streetcar Named Desire A Streetcar Named Desire. Everything about acting demands the illusion of spontaneity. When an actor knows what he's going to say, it's easy for the audience to sense that he's giving a writer's speech. But if he hasn't memorized the words, he not only doesn't know what he's going to say, he's not rehea.r.s.ed how how he's going to say it or how to move his body or nod his head when he does. Whereas when he he's going to say it or how to move his body or nod his head when he does. Whereas when he sees sees the lines, his mind takes over and responds as if it were expressing a thought for the first time, so that his gestures are spontaneous. the lines, his mind takes over and responds as if it were expressing a thought for the first time, so that his gestures are spontaneous.

Later, when I was making another picture, a stinker based on a novel by Steve s.h.a.gan called The Formula The Formula, I got rid of the notes and began using a better method to accomplish the same purpose: speaking my lines into a miniature tape recorder, then hiding it in the small of my back with a wire connected to tiny speakers that I stuck in my ears like hearing aids. When I was acting, I turned the tape recorder on and off with a remote hand switch, listened to my voice and repeated the lines simultaneously in the same way that speeches are translated into different languages at the UN. It took a little practice, but it wasn't hard, and because the earphones were small and hidden, audiences didn't know the difference. Subsequently I came up with a still better system: instead of a tape recorder, I hid a microphone under my clothes over my chest, put a two-way radio in the small of my back, and taped sending and receiving antennas on my legs. From about a hundred yards offstage, Caroline Barrett, who succeeded Alice as my a.s.sistant, now reads my lines to me into a microphone. As she speaks, I hear them in my earphones and repeat them. Since she also has a two-way radio, Caroline can hear my voice, as well as the voices of the other actors in the scene, and simply follows the script line by line. When I repeat the lines simultaneously, the effect is one of spontaneity.

People often say that an actor "plays" a character well, but that's an amateurish notion. Developing a characterization is not merely a matter of putting on makeup and a costume and stuffing Kleenex in your mouth. That's what actors used to do, and then called it a characterization. In acting everything comes out of what what you are or some aspect of you are or some aspect of who who you are. Everything is a part of your experience. We all have a spectrum of emotions in us. It is a broad one, and it's the actor's job to reach into this a.s.sortment of emotions and experience the ones that are appropriate for his character and the story. Through practice and experience, I learned how to put myself into different moods and states of mind by thinking about things that made me laugh or be angry, sad or outraged; I developed a mental technique that allowed me to address certain parts of myself, select an emotion and send something akin to an electrical impulse from my brain to my body that enabled me to experience the emotion. If I had to feel worried, I'd think about something that worried me; if I was supposed to laugh, I thought about something that was hilarious. you are. Everything is a part of your experience. We all have a spectrum of emotions in us. It is a broad one, and it's the actor's job to reach into this a.s.sortment of emotions and experience the ones that are appropriate for his character and the story. Through practice and experience, I learned how to put myself into different moods and states of mind by thinking about things that made me laugh or be angry, sad or outraged; I developed a mental technique that allowed me to address certain parts of myself, select an emotion and send something akin to an electrical impulse from my brain to my body that enabled me to experience the emotion. If I had to feel worried, I'd think about something that worried me; if I was supposed to laugh, I thought about something that was hilarious.

Sometimes, however, I had to experience an emotion I hadn't felt, like the reaction to dying; then I just had to imagine it. At the end of The Young Lions The Young Lions, I was shot fatally in the face. It was a wound, I decided, that would cause my blood to flow out of my brain, and that was how I would die. I imagined how I would be affected by blood suddenly draining out of my brain: I'd feel energy ebbing out of me, then for an instant realize that I was mortally wounded and that my life was over-all this within a few seconds. In the death scene in Mutiny on the Bounty Mutiny on the Bounty, I wanted to appear to be in shock from having been fatally burned. I asked the crew to make a lot of ice; then I lay on top of it until my body was chilled and I was shivering and shaking and my teeth were chattering. While my body was responding physically to the cold, I also thought about how much I loved the Tahitian woman I had fallen for, what it was about her that I loved, and then about the pain, amazement and surprise of dying.

The bed scene in The Men The Men also taught me to save my performance for the close-up, which usually comes at the end of the day. In a long shot you don't have to worry much about getting your emotions right; the physical action is what counts. The camera is so far away that it won't see the emotions you're supposed to experience, though I learned that it's always wise to check what's behind you; in a scene with a busy background, audiences can easily lose you, so you have to do something to help them focus on you. also taught me to save my performance for the close-up, which usually comes at the end of the day. In a long shot you don't have to worry much about getting your emotions right; the physical action is what counts. The camera is so far away that it won't see the emotions you're supposed to experience, though I learned that it's always wise to check what's behind you; in a scene with a busy background, audiences can easily lose you, so you have to do something to help them focus on you.

In a medium shot, your body language and gesticulations become more important, though you have to turn up your emotions a little. But it's in the close-up that you really crank it up. The acting you do there is best conveyed by thinking, because if you're thinking right, it will show. If you're not thinking right, if you're busy acting acting, you're dead.

Correction: "think" is not the right word; you experience experience the emotion you want to convey. That's when you reach into your spectrum of emotions and send a signal from your brain to execute one of them. The close-up says everything. It's then that an actor's learned, rehea.r.s.ed behavior becomes most obvious to an audience and chips away unconsciously at its experience of reality. The audience should share what you are feeling in a close-up. I have often reminded myself that I wasn't working in "motion words," but in "motion pictures." The close-up reveals your thoughts and feelings by the expression on your face, whether it's the raising of an eyebrow, chasing a piece of food around your mouth with your tongue, or making a tiny, fleeting statement by frowning. In a close-up the audience is only inches away, and your face becomes the stage. In a large theater it is the entire proscenium arch, so that no matter what you do, it becomes a theatrical event. When your image is so large and the audience has such an immediate perspective, the actor can enable the audience to experience his emotions in an intimate and personal way if he does his job right. the emotion you want to convey. That's when you reach into your spectrum of emotions and send a signal from your brain to execute one of them. The close-up says everything. It's then that an actor's learned, rehea.r.s.ed behavior becomes most obvious to an audience and chips away unconsciously at its experience of reality. The audience should share what you are feeling in a close-up. I have often reminded myself that I wasn't working in "motion words," but in "motion pictures." The close-up reveals your thoughts and feelings by the expression on your face, whether it's the raising of an eyebrow, chasing a piece of food around your mouth with your tongue, or making a tiny, fleeting statement by frowning. In a close-up the audience is only inches away, and your face becomes the stage. In a large theater it is the entire proscenium arch, so that no matter what you do, it becomes a theatrical event. When your image is so large and the audience has such an immediate perspective, the actor can enable the audience to experience his emotions in an intimate and personal way if he does his job right.

But as I've said, there are some parts where less is more, and underplaying is important, and never more so than in the close-up, when your entire face fills the screen. An example is the scene in The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather in which Don Corleone dies while playing with his grandchild in a garden. A few moments before he collapses, he surprises his grandson by stuffing a piece of orange peel into his mouth to simulate a set of teeth. I invented that business with the orange; I simply made it up on the spot. I used to do the same thing with my own kids; it's funny under almost any circ.u.mstances because it changes your personality hilariously, but in that scene it had a resonance that made the G.o.dfather more human, and it was the kind of thing I thought the gentle character I had in mind would have done. in which Don Corleone dies while playing with his grandchild in a garden. A few moments before he collapses, he surprises his grandson by stuffing a piece of orange peel into his mouth to simulate a set of teeth. I invented that business with the orange; I simply made it up on the spot. I used to do the same thing with my own kids; it's funny under almost any circ.u.mstances because it changes your personality hilariously, but in that scene it had a resonance that made the G.o.dfather more human, and it was the kind of thing I thought the gentle character I had in mind would have done.

When I saw The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather the first time, it made me sick; all I could see were my mistakes and I hated it. But years later, when I saw it on television from a different perspective, I decided it was a pretty good film. the first time, it made me sick; all I could see were my mistakes and I hated it. But years later, when I saw it on television from a different perspective, I decided it was a pretty good film.

I had a lot of laughs making The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather. Mafiosi were always dropping in to watch us, and there were a lot of playful high jinks. In a scene in which the G.o.dfather's family bring him home from the hospital after a failed a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, they must carry him up a flight of stairs on a stretcher, and before we did the shot, I told the cameraman to give me three hundred pounds of lead weights. Then I hid them under my blankets, which made the stretcher weigh over five hundred pounds, but n.o.body knew this except the cameraman and me. My family started carrying me up the stairs, but they couldn't make it; they were strong, but before long they were wringing with sweat, huffing and puffing and unable to get up the stairs. I said, "C'mon, you weaklings, I'm gonna fall off this thing if you don't get me up there. This is ridiculous!"

The camera operator nearly fell off his stool laughing, while Francis barked at the four men to hurry up. One of them kept muttering, "What the h.e.l.l's going on? How can this guy weigh so much?"

After five or six takes, I raised the blanket and showed them the lead weights.

After we finished the picture, Sam Spiegel's secretary called me and said that an FBI agent wanted to interview me and would I be willing to talk to him? I said I would, and she told me that the agent would call me from San Diego. He did so, and we had a five- or six-hour conversation that covered a lot of ground. He wanted to know everything I knew about the Mafia, about making and financing The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather, whether I'd made any secret contributions to anybody, and so forth. He gave me lots of opportunities to rat on the Mob, but I smelled a different kind of rat.

"Listen," I said finally, "I have children and a good life, and I wouldn't want to see anybody hurt or threatened, so if I knew anything, which I don't"-this was not entirely true-"I wouldn't tell you." I'd decided that he was probably a member of the Mafia trying to find out whether or not I'd given the FBI any information that would hurt them. I'd gotten to know quite a few mafiosi, and all of them told me they loved the picture because I had played the G.o.dfather with dignity. Even today I can't pay a check in Little Italy. If I go to a restaurant for a plate of spaghetti, the manager always says, "Come on in, Mario, your money's no good here.... Look, everybody, here's the G.o.dfather, the G.o.dfather's here."

A few years after The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather, I went back to Little Italy for The Freshman The Freshman, a comedy in which I played a benign gangster with a striking resemblance to Don Corleone. When I was dining one night with some of the crew, a man came over and said, "Mr. Gotti would like to see you and say h.e.l.lo. He's right across the street."

"That's nice," I said. I was curious, and with four or five other people from the picture, I went across the street to a shabby storefront or club house of some sort filled with mafiosi and decorated with a big sign that proclaimed THIS ROOM IS BUGGED THIS ROOM IS BUGGED.

With a silver pompadour as sleek as his silk suit, John Gotti was playing cards with several other men, and I went over to his table and said, "How do you do."

Gotti extended his hand but didn't get up. I think he didn't want to lose face in front of the others by appearing to be respectful, so he sat there with a smile and introduced me to his friends, an extraordinary group of characters straight out of the Mafia yearbook.

I've always liked to do magic tricks and often carry around a deck of cards with me, so I pulled one out of my pocket-it was a shaved deck used by magicians and card sharks-and said, "Take a card, John."

When he did so I told him to put the card back and then shuffle the cards. While he shuffled, I said I wanted to borrow a handkerchief, and instantly all of the mafiosi pulled out white handkerchiefs and waved them at me so that the place looked like a washline on Monday morning. I chose one, held the deck in my hand and told Gotti to pull away the handkerchief. When he did the only card left was the one he'd picked. As he looked at it, I said something like "You know, you could make a living this way."

I didn't say anything more because suddenly the whole room had become as quiet as a tomb at midnight; the only noise was some shuffling of feet.

Suddenly I realized what everyone was thinking: had I tried to make a fool out of the boss in front of his crew? They didn't know what to believe. They looked back and forth at each other, trying to decide how to respond. I could feel the cerebral energy in the room as they mentally threw back their shoulders and asked themselves, Is this guy trying to show disrespect disrespect to John? Apparently no one thought it was funny. to John? Apparently no one thought it was funny.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Gotti," I said after an awkward pause. "It was nice to talk to you," and I left without saying anything except good-bye.

Later one of the mafiosi called and said Gotti wanted to invite me to be his guest at a prizefight, but I told him I was too busy and couldn't make it.

Many articles about The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather called it my "comeback." I never understood what they meant except that it was a picture in which I played the t.i.tle role and it made a lot of money, while several of my last pictures hadn't. Everything in Hollywood is measured in terms of money. If I had been in a stupid picture and it made millions of dollars, I would have been congratulated everywhere I went on my success. But because a good picture like called it my "comeback." I never understood what they meant except that it was a picture in which I played the t.i.tle role and it made a lot of money, while several of my last pictures hadn't. Everything in Hollywood is measured in terms of money. If I had been in a stupid picture and it made millions of dollars, I would have been congratulated everywhere I went on my success. But because a good picture like Burn! Burn! didn't make money it was considered unsuccessful. In Hollywood they congratulate you on your ability to transfer currency from the pockets of the audience to theirs because that's their only measure of success. Any picture that makes money, no matter how stupid, vulgar, childish or inane, is embraced as a triumph. didn't make money it was considered unsuccessful. In Hollywood they congratulate you on your ability to transfer currency from the pockets of the audience to theirs because that's their only measure of success. Any picture that makes money, no matter how stupid, vulgar, childish or inane, is embraced as a triumph.

It is different in other parts of the world, where making pictures of quality is as important as the box office. It has always been a mystery to me why countries like Italy, France and England, which have produced fine directors and fine actors, have never been able to capture much of the film market. The British have made many wonderful films, but have seldom had a financial blockbuster. British television is the best there is-a giant compared to our network dwarfs-yet Hollywood still rules the television and film market throughout the world. It is a tragedy.

56.

IN LAST TANGO IN PARIS LAST TANGO IN PARIS, my first picture after the The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather, I played a recently widowed American named Paul who has a quirky, anonymous affair with a French girl named Jeanne, played by Maria Schneider. The director was Bernardo Bertolucci, an extremely sensitive and talented man although, unlike Kazan, he wasn't trained as an actor and didn't address himself to the development of characters. This simply happens or it doesn't, though Bernardo did do something unusual on this picture. Usually actors have to conform to the writer's story and take on the characteristics he creates, but in Last Tango Last Tango Bernardo tailored the story to his actors. He wanted me to play myself, to improvise completely and portray Paul as if he were an autobiographical mirror of me. Because he didn't speak much English and knew nothing about American slang, he had me write virtually all my scenes and dialogue, and we communicated in French and sign language. Bernardo tailored the story to his actors. He wanted me to play myself, to improvise completely and portray Paul as if he were an autobiographical mirror of me. Because he didn't speak much English and knew nothing about American slang, he had me write virtually all my scenes and dialogue, and we communicated in French and sign language.

Some of the lines I wrote for the picture may have a certain resonance to the readers of this book: "I can't remember very many good things about my childhood...my father was a drunk, a screwed-up bar fighter. My mother was also a drunk. My memories as a kid are of her being arrested. We lived in a small town, a farming community.... I used to have to milk a cow every morning and every night, and I liked that, but I remember the time I was all dressed up to take a girl to a basketball game, and my father said you have to milk the cow...and I didn't have time to change my shoes and I had cow s.h.i.t all over my shoes when I went to the basketball game...." I made up the dialogue from my memories of events, though not everything was accurate and they didn't necessarily happen in the sequence I told them. For example, my father didn't order me to milk a cow before a date, but as mentioned earlier I did take girls to games mortified that they might smell cow dung on my galoshes.

I had one of the more embarra.s.sing experiences of my professional career when we were making this film in 1972. I was supposed to play a scene in the Paris apartment where Paul meets Jeanne and be photographed in the nude frontally, but it was such a cold day that my p.e.n.i.s shrank to the size of a peanut. It simply withered. Because of the cold, my body went into full retreat, and the tension, embarra.s.sment and stress made it recede even more. I realized I couldn't play the scene this way, so I paced back and forth around the apartment stark naked, hoping for magic. I've always had a strong belief in the power of mind over matter, so I concentrated on my private parts, trying to will will my p.e.n.i.s and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es to grow; I even spoke to them. But my mind failed me. I was humiliated, but not ready to surrender yet. I asked Bernardo to be patient and told the crew that I wasn't giving up. But after an hour I could tell from their faces that they had given up on me. I simply couldn't play the scene that way, so it was cut. my p.e.n.i.s and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es to grow; I even spoke to them. But my mind failed me. I was humiliated, but not ready to surrender yet. I asked Bernardo to be patient and told the crew that I wasn't giving up. But after an hour I could tell from their faces that they had given up on me. I simply couldn't play the scene that way, so it was cut.

This scene was one of several in which Bernardo wanted me to make love to Maria Schneider to give the picture more authenticity. But it would have completely changed the picture and made our s.e.x organs the focus of the story, and I refused. Maria and I simulated a lot of things, including one scene of b.u.g.g.e.ring in which I used b.u.t.ter, but it was all ersatz s.e.x.

Last Tango in Paris received a lot of praise, though I always thought it was excessive. Pauline Kael in particular praised it highly, but I think her review revealed more about her than about the movie. She is the best reviewer I know, but I think she became too subjectively involved in the story and critiqued the film from her own unique set of values and biases. Her review was flattering, but I don't think the picture was as good as she said it was. To this day I can't say what received a lot of praise, though I always thought it was excessive. Pauline Kael in particular praised it highly, but I think her review revealed more about her than about the movie. She is the best reviewer I know, but I think she became too subjectively involved in the story and critiqued the film from her own unique set of values and biases. Her review was flattering, but I don't think the picture was as good as she said it was. To this day I can't say what Last Tango in Paris Last Tango in Paris was about. While we were making it, I don't think Bernardo knew either, though after it was released, he was quoted as saying that it was meant to explore whether two people could have an anonymous relationship, and then sustain it after its anonymity was breached and affected by the outside world. But he didn't say this when we were making the picture. It was about many things, I suppose, and maybe someday I'll know what they are. was about. While we were making it, I don't think Bernardo knew either, though after it was released, he was quoted as saying that it was meant to explore whether two people could have an anonymous relationship, and then sustain it after its anonymity was breached and affected by the outside world. But he didn't say this when we were making the picture. It was about many things, I suppose, and maybe someday I'll know what they are.

Last Tango in Paris required a lot of emotional arm wrestling with myself, and when it was finished, I decided that I wasn't ever again going to destroy myself emotionally to make a movie. I felt I had violated my innermost self and didn't want to suffer like that anymore. As noted earlier, when I've played parts that required me to suffer, I had to required a lot of emotional arm wrestling with myself, and when it was finished, I decided that I wasn't ever again going to destroy myself emotionally to make a movie. I felt I had violated my innermost self and didn't want to suffer like that anymore. As noted earlier, when I've played parts that required me to suffer, I had to experience experience the suffering. You can't fake it. You have to find something within yourself that makes you feel pain, and you have to keep yourself in that mood throughout the day, saving the best for the close-up and not blowing it on the long shot, the medium shot or the over-the-shoulder shot. You have to whip yourself into this state, remain in it, repeat it in take after take, then be told an hour later that you have to crank it up once more because the director forget something. It takes an enormous toll. the suffering. You can't fake it. You have to find something within yourself that makes you feel pain, and you have to keep yourself in that mood throughout the day, saving the best for the close-up and not blowing it on the long shot, the medium shot or the over-the-shoulder shot. You have to whip yourself into this state, remain in it, repeat it in take after take, then be told an hour later that you have to crank it up once more because the director forget something. It takes an enormous toll. Last Tango in Paris Last Tango in Paris left me feeling depleted and exhausted, perhaps in part because I'd done what Bernardo asked and some of the pain I was experiencing was my very own. Thereafter I decided to make my living in a way that was less devastating emotionally. In subsequent pictures I stopped trying to experience the emotions of my characters as I had always done before, and simply to act the part in a technical way. It is less painful and the audience doesn't know the difference. If a story is well written and your technique is right, the effect is still the same: in a darkened room, the magic of the theater takes over and the audience does most of the acting for you. left me feeling depleted and exhausted, perhaps in part because I'd done what Bernardo asked and some of the pain I was experiencing was my very own. Thereafter I decided to make my living in a way that was less devastating emotionally. In subsequent pictures I stopped trying to experience the emotions of my characters as I had always done before, and simply to act the part in a technical way. It is less painful and the audience doesn't know the difference. If a story is well written and your technique is right, the effect is still the same: in a darkened room, the magic of the theater takes over and the audience does most of the acting for you.

When I arrived in the Philippines in the summer of 1976 for my scenes in Apocalypse Now Apocalypse Now, the film about the Vietnam War based on Joseph Conrad's novel Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness, Francis Coppola was alternately depressed, nervous and frantic. Shooting was behind schedule, he was having trouble with the cameraman, he wasn't sure how he was going to end the movie and the script was awful. It bore little resemblance to Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness, and most of it simply didn't make dramatic sense.

"Listen," I said, "you have me for a certain number of weeks and I'll do the best I can, but I think you're making an enormous error." I wanted him to return to the original plot of Conrad's novel, in which a man named Marlow describes his journey up the Congo in search of Walter Kurtz, a once idealistic young man who had been transformed by his experiences into a mysterious, remote figure involved in what Conrad called "unspeakable rites." In the original script Kurtz-my part-was a caricature of a reprobate; he was sloppy, fat, immoral, a drunk, a stereotypical character from a hundred movies. The part must have had thirty pages of dialogue; it went on and on while going no place theatrically. I thought it was an idiotic script, but I didn't say this to Francis. In such situations I've found it best to say, "This may be all right the way you're going to do it, but I think we're missing a bet by not changing it."

"In Heart of Darkness, " Heart of Darkness, " I told Francis, "Conrad uses this guy Kurtz almost as a mythological figure, a man who is much larger than life. Don't misuse him in the film. Make him mysterious, distant and invisible for most of the picture except in our minds. What makes Conrad's story so powerful is that people talk about Kurtz for pages and pages, and readers wonder about him. They never see him, but he is part of the atmosphere. It's an odyssey, and he's the heart of the I told Francis, "Conrad uses this guy Kurtz almost as a mythological figure, a man who is much larger than life. Don't misuse him in the film. Make him mysterious, distant and invisible for most of the picture except in our minds. What makes Conrad's story so powerful is that people talk about Kurtz for pages and pages, and readers wonder about him. They never see him, but he is part of the atmosphere. It's an odyssey, and he's the heart of the Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness. The longer it goes on, the more he occupies the minds of readers as they imagine him." The same thing could be done in the movie, I said, "but you have to hint at it, make him such a mysterious person that the audience will wonder more and more about him until the end." When Willard, the army officer played by Martin Sheen, and the character based on Conrad's Marlow, heads up the river and people shoot at him, I said that neither he nor the audience will know whether Kurtz is going to appear, and as Willard keeps getting closer and closer, he becomes more frightened by the mystery of what may be ahead of him, and the audience will share these feelings. Willard doesn't know if he will survive the journey up the river, and as it continues he gradually loses confidence until he finally finds Kurtz, who then then can represent the quintessence of evil. can represent the quintessence of evil.

A break in shooting Apocalypse Now Apocalypse Now. (Stephanie Kong/SYGMA) If we locked ourselves into the portrayal of Kurtz in the original script, I said, it would be impossible to focus on the man's mystery, that which is truly ominous, because what is truly ominous must be unseen. I offered to rewrite the script based on the original structure of the book, and Francis agreed. I spent about ten days on a houseboat completely rewriting the movie and thinking about how my character should look. Conrad described Kurtz as "impressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball-an ivory ball...." Without informing Francis, I shaved my head, found some black clothing and asked the cameraman and lighting crew to photograph me under eccentric lighting while I spoke half in darkness with a disembodied voice. After I showed him these tests, I told Francis I thought that the first time the audience hears Kurtz, his voice should come out of the darkness. After several long moments, he should make an entrance in which only his bald head is visible; then a small part of his face is lit before he returns to the shadows. In a sense the same process is going on in Kurtz's mind: he is in darkness and shadows, drifting back and forth in the netherworld he has created for himself in the jungle; he no longer has any moral frame of reference in this surreal world, which is a perfect parable of the insane Vietnam War.

I was good at bulls.h.i.tting Francis and persuading him to think my way, and he bought it, but what I'd really wanted from the beginning was to find a way to make my part smaller so that I wouldn't have to work as hard.

I loved shaving my head. I'd never done it before, and putting witch hazel on my head and sticking it out the car window while we were driving to another location during those hot days in the Philippines was heaven.

Besides restructuring the plot, I wrote Kurtz's speeches, including a monologue at his death that must have been forty-five minutes long. It was probably the closest I've ever come to getting lost in a part, and one of the best scenes I've ever played because I really had to hold myself under control. I made it up extemporaneously, bringing up images like a snail crawling along the edge of a razor. I was hysterical; I cried and laughed, and it was a wonderful scene. Francis shot it twice-two 45-minute improvisations-but used hardly any of the footage in the picture. I thought it was effective, though it might have been out of place. I never saw the footage of the entire speech, so I wouldn't know.

57.

IN THE MOVIE BUSINESS there is a crude but amusing saying: "The way to say 'f.u.c.k you' in Hollywood is there is a crude but amusing saying: "The way to say 'f.u.c.k you' in Hollywood is 'trust me.'" 'trust me.'" It's not always true. I've known wonderful, honest people there, but I've also run into a sizable number of wh.o.r.es, cheats and thieves. When this happens, you have to take charge of the situation; if you don't, they'll devour you. When I made It's not always true. I've known wonderful, honest people there, but I've also run into a sizable number of wh.o.r.es, cheats and thieves. When this happens, you have to take charge of the situation; if you don't, they'll devour you. When I made The Men The Men, I was one of the first movie actors to negotiate a one-picture deal instead of a long-term studio contract. Later, when the studio system, whose seven-year contracts had made indentured servants out of actors, collapsed, other actors began making similar deals. Like everything else, the price producers paid us was determined by the law of supply and demand and, like any other workers, our objective was to drive up the price as high as we could.

After the highest level that actors were able to negotiate reached 10 percent of the producers' gross receipts-against a minimum, generally $1 million or more-I said to myself, Marlon, you should ask for 11.3 percent of the gross. I had pulled the number out of a hat.

The producers asked, "Why eleven point three?"

"Never mind," I said, "I have my reasons."

Usually they paid it, though sometimes they promised to pay and then reneged. When this happened it was necessary to be forceful.

My first picture after Last Tango in Paris Last Tango in Paris was a western, was a western, The Missouri Breaks The Missouri Breaks. At the time I was still giving money to the American Indians and spending heavily on Teti'aroa, so I needed the money. It wasn't a good movie, but I had fun making it. There was a lot of pot smoking and partying, my friend and neighbor Jack Nicholson was in it, and much of the picture was filmed on the Crow Reservation in Montana, where I discovered a beautiful river and a lovely way to relax by floating down the river on an inner tube. At night, when most of the other people went to town, I liked to stay by myself and read in my trailer under a grove of cottonwood trees. One evening I heard a storm approaching in the distance. The clouds overhead were b.u.t.ting heads and putting on a spectacular sound-and-light show. As the horizon darkened, the thunder got louder and the lightning flashes closer. I began counting the seconds between each flash of lightning and clap of thunder, and as the interval shortened, I knew the storm was marching rapidly in my direction. I was tempted to stand outside and watch, but went inside the trailer to avoid being hit by lightning. The intervals got so short that the sound of the thunder and the flash of lightning were almost simultaneous, and then I heard a tremendous explosion right above me. When I got up in the morning, a huge, charred cottonwood branch was lying on the ground near the trailer, looking as if it had been severed by a blowtorch. Another few feet and it would have crushed the trailer with me in it.

Arthur Penn was the director of The Missouri Breaks The Missouri Breaks and he encouraged us to improvise. I rewrote my part and made up a lot of nonsense. I was supposed to play what the script called a "regulator," a hired gun who went around the West a.s.sa.s.sinating people, and it was so boring that I decided to make changes. First I played the part as an Englishman, then changed his name and made him an Irishman. I also played him as a gunman disguised as a woman, and invented a wonderful weapon by sharpening the ends of a four-spoked tire-lug wrench: when I threw it, it sailed like a Frisbee and stuck in anything; if I missed with one p.r.o.ng, another would hit the target. In one scene I had to chase a rabbit on a cutting horse, and I kept thinking that if the horse went down I would probably fall on this weapon I was so proud of inventing. and he encouraged us to improvise. I rewrote my part and made up a lot of nonsense. I was supposed to play what the script called a "regulator," a hired gun who went around the West a.s.sa.s.sinating people, and it was so boring that I decided to make changes. First I played the part as an Englishman, then changed his name and made him an Irishman. I also played him as a gunman disguised as a woman, and invented a wonderful weapon by sharpening the ends of a four-spoked tire-lug wrench: when I threw it, it sailed like a Frisbee and stuck in anything; if I missed with one p.r.o.ng, another would hit the target. In one scene I had to chase a rabbit on a cutting horse, and I kept thinking that if the horse went down I would probably fall on this weapon I was so proud of inventing.

The producers had agreed to pay me my usual fee, but several weeks into the filming, they still hadn't signed a formal contract. I complained, but they kept making excuses. I knew they were trying to wait me out; after they had enough footage, they'd say their financing had fallen through and that they couldn't pay me what they'd promised. In situations like this, you can't always simply walk off a movie. You might not be paid for the work you've already done, and a studio can tie you up in court for years while cranking out publicity blaming you for its larceny. But as noted earlier, once filming begins, actors gain an edge over producers, who don't want to stop because if they do they'll lose whatever money they've already spent and still have no picture. Producers also hate delays because it can cost over $100,000 a day to keep a crew on location. Actors can use these circ.u.mstances to their advantage when others try to cheat them, as my experience on The Missouri Breaks The Missouri Breaks demonstrated. After the producers repeatedly broke promises to sign the contract, I started slurring my speech and blowing my lines. If your technique is effective, n.o.body can prove you're doing it on purpose. demonstrated. After the producers repeatedly broke promises to sign the contract, I started slurring my speech and blowing my lines. If your technique is effective, n.o.body can prove you're doing it on purpose.

"I don't know what's wrong," I told Arthur Penn. "I'm having a lot of problems with this part. Be patient with me. I know I'll get it right sooner or later."

After a week or so, one of the producers flew to Montana and we had a big scene in my trailer about the unsigned contract. I threw a can of c.o.ke at him and it smashed against a wall a few inches from his head. I missed purposely, pretending to be outraged. He was a fastidious man who couldn't stand a mess, and he immediately started wiping up the c.o.ke, but when he finished he a.s.sured me that there had been a misunderstanding and that the contract would be signed shortly. It was, and suddenly I started remembering my lines again.

In The Freshman The Freshman a few years later, I played the character who resembled Don Corleone, and Matthew Broderick played a college freshman whom I hired to make some unusual deliveries. I thought it was a funny picture, though it could have been even more comic. When I read the script, I laughed and laughed and couldn't wait to do it. It was a wonderful satire by Andrew Bergman, who had written an extremely funny movie I liked called a few years later, I played the character who resembled Don Corleone, and Matthew Broderick played a college freshman whom I hired to make some unusual deliveries. I thought it was a funny picture, though it could have been even more comic. When I read the script, I laughed and laughed and couldn't wait to do it. It was a wonderful satire by Andrew Bergman, who had written an extremely funny movie I liked called The In-Laws The In-Laws, but he decided to direct it, which I think was unfortunate because his inexperience was evident in the way The Freshman The Freshman was edited; a lot of potential was lost in the cutting room. was edited; a lot of potential was lost in the cutting room.

About the time we were finishing the picture and I was getting tired after weeks of working long hours, I spoke to a reporter in Toronto, where most of the filming was done, and happened to mention that this might be my last picture and that I was disappointed with it. As it happened, TriStar Pictures at the time owed me about $100,000 for some extra work on the picture. As soon as the story appeared, the studio apologized and paid the money I was owed, and I then issued a press release saying I hadn't meant what I'd said because I was exhausted after working so hard on the film.

I didn't always win, however. When Paula Weinstein, a producer, asked me in 1988 to play a lawyer who defends a wrongly accused black man in South Africa in A Dry White Season A Dry White Season, I hadn't made a picture in nine years. Jay Kantor told her that my fee was $3.3 million, plus 11.3 percent of the gross, but she said she had to make the picture on a low budget because studio executives were leery about movies with political themes. The script by Robert Bolt, usually a first-rate screenwriter, wasn't special, but Paula promised to revise it to satisfy me, and so I volunteered to be in the picture for nothing. I thought the story was effective not only because it demonstrated how blacks were treated under apartheid, but because it gave a white audience an opportunity to experience through the eyes of a white South African how inhumane the policy was.

After I offered to work for nothing, MGM gave the go-ahead and the script was reworked, but never satisfactorily, in my opinion, and I had to rewrite my own scenes. When I went to London for filming, I discovered that the director, Euzhan Palcy, was a headstrong neophyte who was out of her depth, an amateur trying to play hardball. I felt that she offered nothing in the way of direction-no scene conception, no plan of execution-but I did everything I could to get it right.

A couple of months before the film was released, MGM showed me a rough cut of the picture and invited me to propose changes. Donald Sutherland was very good as the South African who discovers the corruption of his country's judicial system when it is applied to blacks. He is a man caught in a conflict between the traditions and values of his culture and his own sense of morality; he refuses to turn his back on the injustice directed against one of his employees, and becomes ensnared in tragic circ.u.mstances that culminate in his losing everything, including his life. But Euzhan Palcy had cut the picture so poorly, I thought, that the inherent drama of this conflict was vague at best. She had also made parts of the picture too transparently polemical; subtlety and sensitivity were needed, not preaching. The result was dramatic gridlock. Her approach was aggravated by the fact that several important scenes had inept and sometimes self-indulgent performances by amateur black actors she had hired in Africa, and one of the most powerful scenes in the picture, when I defy the judge in the courtroom and say, "You are a pustule on the face of justice" and he has me dragged out of the courtroom, had disappeared. After I saw the rough cut, I implored Paula Weinstein and MGM to let me pay for recutting the picture to give it more tension and dramatic coherence.

These are a few excerpts from my letters: If judicious cuts are made to avoid the pitfalls of summer stock performances and offensive rendering of scenes that interfere with the emotional build up of the sequences, you will have greatly advanced the forward thrust of the story. If not, every time a false note is. .h.i.t, you weaken your grip on the nuts of your audience. You then will be obliged to pay a tidy sum trying to again crank up the viewers' emotional commitment to refocus their dwindling attention on the unfolding of our tale. The equation is simple: loss of dramatic tension is equal to the cube of the ingestion of popcorn....I have never put more of myself in a film, never suffered more while doing it, and never received so little recompense of any kind in...any motion picture over the last thirty-five years...let me honk my own horn. I have been in thirty-plus pictures, almost all of them financially successful. Some went through the roof. Some I directed. From early on I have directed my own stuff. I have, by any measure, been considered an accomplished professional...I believe this picture, properly supported and released, will win Academy Award nominations.... Let me briefly remind you that the picture "Shane" was cut four different times into practically four separate films. "Lawrence of Arabia" was in release when the prints were withdrawn and the picture was recut and went on to win Academy Awards. Pictures are made in the cutting room. Pictures are sold in executive offices. Please give me a chance to exercise over thirty-five years of my experience with films...we really want the same objectives. It is possible for MGM to wear this picture on its lapel with a measure of pride and with some change jingling in [its] pockets. You must understand that I have invested far too much energy, effort, pa.s.sion and hope in this picture. I can't just sit here at ringside and watch somebody blow [it] with so much at stake for everybody...please try to understand that under the circ.u.mstances I am truly striving to be reasonable and cooperative....

I offered MGM executives many specific suggestions on how to improve the picture without reshooting it, but they either didn't answer my letters, said that the director refused to make changes or claimed that it was too late to recut it. I resented having extended myself on behalf of the picture and a good cause, working hard at no charge, and not having been allowed to recut at least my part of the picture the way it should have been done.

Finally I called Connie Chung at CBS and told her I would give her an interview if I could speak about what had happened. I did, but MGM still refused to budge. Then Paula Weinstein called me from the Tokyo Film Festival, where the picture was being shown, and I pleaded with her again. "It's not too late," I said.

She said, "It is is too late, we can't do it, if we had more time..." too late, we can't do it, if we had more time..."

"It's never too late. I'll still pay for the cutting," I said; "I'll pay whatever it takes."

Paula was making more excuses when she was interrupted by someone; then she said, "You've just won the best acting award."

"Did the picture win?" I asked, and she said, "No, the picture didn't, but you did."

She still didn't get the message and wouldn't change the ending. I felt betrayed, and the picture was a terrible flop.

I had only a small part in Superman Superman, but since it was a popular movie and my contract gave me 11.3 percent of the gross, I made about $14 million for less than three weeks' work. When Alexander and Ilya Salkind, the producers, asked if they could use footage from the picture in a sequel, Superman II Superman II, I asked for my usual percentage, but they refused, and so did I.

Several years later, the Salkinds asked me to be in Christopher Columbus: The Discovery Christopher Columbus: The Discovery, and I accepted because I wanted a chance to shape it into something close to historical truth. A picture about Columbus was sure to be made on the five hundredth anniversary of his voyage to the New World, but I didn't want him celebrated as a hero. Instead of a day for celebration, Columbus Day ought to be one of mourning. I wanted to tell the truth about how he and his minions exploited and killed the Indians who greeted them, but the script had wrapped him in all his myths as a great sailor and explorer.

I called Ilya Salkind and said, "Ilya, you can film this script the way it is if you like, but I think you're going to have a tragedy on your hands if you do; it's the most boring, poorly written, idiotically constructed story I've ever seen." I convinced him that he and his father were going to have a failure on their hands if they didn't stick to the facts, and persuaded him to turn the story around completely and portray Columbus as the cruel, ambitious man he was, a man who would stop at nothing, including exterminating the guileless Indians who offered him food and gold. I convinced the other actors, who were also unhappy, to agree with me, and Ilya asked me to put together the story the way I thought it should be told. I rewrote my part as Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor in the court of Queen Isabella and, using false teeth, darkened eyes, and a huge hood I draped over my face to make me look like death, I designed an effective costume and makeup.

Everything was fine until Ilya's father, Alexander Salkind, arrived in Spain on the first day of filming. He didn't like to fly and had arrived late by train from someplace in Eastern Europe. When he read my script, he refused to use it and insisted on sticking with the original story, which was idiotic, untruthful and uninteresting. It was a big mistake because the picture was a huge failure.

I was depressed and wanted to go home, but I knew Alexander would sue me if I backed out of my contract. There was nothing left for me to do except walk through my part. The other actors and I had nothing to work with. They tried hard, but I'm afraid I didn't. I mumbled my way through the part and gave an embarra.s.singly bad performance. The pay wasn't bad, though: $5 million for five days' work.

58.