Brando_ Songs My Mother Taught Me Part 7

"What's its name?" I asked.

"Peggy."

"How old is she?"

"Six."

"Is it all right if I touch her?"

"Sure," her keeper said, "she likes people."

I sat down in front of Peggy and put my face a few inches from hers. I was close enough to kiss her. She didn't move, except for her eyes, which roamed over my face. She stared back at me in the same way I was staring at her; I imagined that she was thinking, Who is this nut? What does he want? We sat this way for perhaps four minutes before she gently took hold of my motorcycle jacket and pulled me toward her. She inspected me thoroughly, then hooked one finger inside my T-shirt and took a gander at my chest. Next she looked into my eyes, and ever so gently reached up with one finger and removed some sleep crystals that were in the corner of one eye. She studied her find curiously for a moment or two, then put her nail in her mouth, licked the sandman's gifts off her nail and chewed them up with her front teeth. I chuckled at this. Next Peggy unzipped my jacket and started going through the pockets, occasionally glancing up at me to see if I objected. I wondered how strong she was, so I took her wrists and held them apart. At first she let her hands hang limply, but then she began to pull them together; she had decided that enough was enough and did it with ease, as if I didn't exist. She was ten times stronger than me. When I touched her nose and tickled her neck, she pulled her neck close to her chest and started to laugh: cac cac cac cac cac cac. It was startlingly human, but when she'd had enough she reached up with one foot and grabbed my wrist. I used all my strength to keep on tickling her, but to no avail.

Clearly, inside Peggy there was someone very much like me. Those moments I shared with her were awesome, and they will stay fresh in my mind till they close the lid.

After this experience I decided to buy a chimp, but before I did, my mother gave me Russell, the young racc.o.o.n. My mother had a great imagination that went along with her marvelous sense of humor. To make a pet out of a racc.o.o.n, you have to start when they are young; as with most animals, it is best to feed a racc.o.o.n by hand and handle it until it becomes trusting and familiar with your touch. Racc.o.o.ns don't see well, but they have a keen sense of smell and unquenchable curiosity, and their tactile sense is unequaled in the world of animals. When Russell was awake, he never stopped moving, feeling and exploring every crack he could find; once he completely took apart a wrist.w.a.tch, springs and all. Sometimes he slept down by my feet in my bed, and when he woke up he would stick his paws between my toes and tickle me. He was a sleep wrecker, so I didn't let him get in bed with me often. We would chase each other around the apartment and play fight and tickle, which he loved.

Russell also loved water and played for hours in the bathtub, which I would fill with stones and any objects that it would be fun to feel. He also enjoyed sitting on my bathroom windowsill and looking at the street five floors below. He was a hit at parties and liked to sit on my shoulders and watch the guests. He would play with my hair or stick his fingers in my ears, then reach around and try to get his paw into my nose or mouth. He was always unpredictable.

It is generally believed that racc.o.o.ns wash their food, but that's a misinterpretation; they do this simply because they love water. During their waking hours, they move ceaselessly, putting their paws into cracks and recesses looking for grubs, crayfish or worms.

When I had people over to the apartment or had to leave it, I usually put him in the bathroom. He also slept there because he would tear any other room apart. In the winter the bathroom was cold; I remember going in there one morning, and because I was still sleepy I sat down to p.i.s.s. Russell was wide awake. He came over and stood on his hind feet and put his freezing cold front paws on the edge of the toilet seat. Then he went around to the back of the John. I had my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, trying to stay as close to sleep as possible. The next instant, I found myself shrieking and two feet off the floor. Russell had found the s.p.a.ce between my a.s.s and the toilet seat and had put the coldest paw in North America under my behind, giving me the goose of a lifetime, right on target.

Russell spent a great deal of time sitting on the ledge of the bathroom window. During lunch hour more than once he stopped traffic on Fifty-seventh Street and Sixth Avenue. Crowds would gather below the apartment and wonder what they were looking at; to collect a crowd in New York, all you have to do is look up and point. One day I was reading, and the doorbell rang. Usually I never answer the door if I don't know who it is; my friends always use code knocks. But this time someone was thumping on the door with his fist, so I opened the door. I found myself staring at a belt buckle; then, as my eyes floated upward, I saw a badge and a face. It was one of New York's finest bulls, and he asked me, "Do you own a wild animal?" I answered, "I, ahh...well, he's an animal, but he's not wild." The cop said, "Do you know where he is?" I said, "He's in the bathroom." "No, he isn't. He's in your neighbor's neighbor's bathroom." I replied, "What? What's he doing in there?" "I don't know, buddy, but you'll have to get him out of there. Does he bite?" "Oh, my goodness, no, he wouldn't even bite a cookie," I replied, lying as fast as my brain would work. (Russell nipped almost everybody who didn't know how to handle him on the back of their necks.) bathroom." I replied, "What? What's he doing in there?" "I don't know, buddy, but you'll have to get him out of there. Does he bite?" "Oh, my goodness, no, he wouldn't even bite a cookie," I replied, lying as fast as my brain would work. (Russell nipped almost everybody who didn't know how to handle him on the back of their necks.) I went over to my neighbor's apartment. The woman was Standing with her hands between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her mouth open, and she looked at me with Eddie Cantor eyes; she was stunned. "Where is he?" I asked, but she couldn't speak; she raised her entire arm and pointed toward her bathroom. I went in, and there was Russell playing in the toilet. When I called him and his head popped up, I said, "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" and he twittered some racc.o.o.n reply. He was soaking wet. I gave him my palm, he put his paws in it and I gripped him. I always carried him around this way. As I left the woman's apartment, I said, "I'm terribly sorry about this. I don't know how it could have happened." While I was apologizing, Russell's tail was dripping toilet water all over her beige rug. She was still aghast, bewildered and silent. As I pa.s.sed the giant policeman, I said, "I'm awfully sorry, officer, it will never happen again." I entered my apartment still mumbling apologies, closed the door and waited for that ham-fisted policeman to knock on it with a ticket, but nothing happened. To this day, I cannot understand how Russell got into Mrs. Goldman's bathroom because both bathroom window ledges were only two inches wide and were separated by a one-foot gap five stories up.

One of the fondest memories I have of Russell was when my mother was showing him off to a couple of snooty ladies. He was sitting on her shoulder, playing with her beads and sticking a paw in each ear, which provoked a t.i.tter from the ladies, as well as a proud "Ain't he cute" smirk from my mother. Then he reached around and was feeling the crevice of her smile when she made the fatal error of opening her mouth slightly to say, "No, dear." That's all he needed. He shot his paw into her mouth and out came her false teeth. She grabbed them and tried to put them back in her mouth, but Russell was sure he had a good thing and wanted to keep them out of her mouth just as much as she wanted to keep them in. Her hat went one way and her dignity went the other. Finally she was able to outwrestle him and recovered her dentures, if not her poise. I had a seizure and had to hold on to the kitchen door to remain erect. It was one of the silliest scenes I have ever witnessed.

Eventually as Russell matured, he became uncontrollable. He had thrown all the books out of the bookcase, had peed on every record I owned, and the apartment looked as though it had been through a drug raid. It was time to let Russell go. I took him back to the family farm in Illinois in early winter, when his semihibernating instincts would take over. I carried him out to the barn, made him a nest of some hay and left some food there for him. Every couple of hours I would tiptoe through the snow and peek through a crack in the wall to see him all curled up in a ball. I wanted so much to play with him, but I knew I couldn't. I had a lump in my throat when I turned away.

When spring came and the sap began to run in the trees, Russell had left the security of the barn for whatever destiny promises a racc.o.o.n. He returned every once in a while in hopes of finding a treat in his bowl, but later in the spring his sap was running, too. He must have found some irresistible lady racc.o.o.n and begun to raise his family, and I never saw him again. I miss him.

27.

UNBEKNOWNST TO ME I had been snookered into making a two-picture deal with Darryl Zanuck that would include I had been snookered into making a two-picture deal with Darryl Zanuck that would include Viva Zapata! Viva Zapata! and one other. In those days I never read a contract. I remember that my agent and friend Jay Kantor chased me for quite a while to get me to renew the agency contract. He finally cornered me and told me he was going to lose his job if I didn't sign it. "Please do this as a favor to me," he said. So I went into my bedroom, got my special pen and affixed my moniker. I have never seen a man so relieved as Jay when he walked out the door with the contract under his arm. What he didn't know was that I had signed it with disappearing ink so that when he arrived back at the agency, it would be discovered that there was no signature on it. Finally he called and asked me if I had kept the signed copy. His brain was in a whirl. I said, "Don't you remember? You took it with you." and one other. In those days I never read a contract. I remember that my agent and friend Jay Kantor chased me for quite a while to get me to renew the agency contract. He finally cornered me and told me he was going to lose his job if I didn't sign it. "Please do this as a favor to me," he said. So I went into my bedroom, got my special pen and affixed my moniker. I have never seen a man so relieved as Jay when he walked out the door with the contract under his arm. What he didn't know was that I had signed it with disappearing ink so that when he arrived back at the agency, it would be discovered that there was no signature on it. Finally he called and asked me if I had kept the signed copy. His brain was in a whirl. I said, "Don't you remember? You took it with you."

I suppose the reasons I was averse to signing contracts was because I didn't want to feel hemmed in. In those days it was even hard for me to make a commitment for the next day. Even now I still put things off, although I'm much better than I used to be. But I still play practical jokes, and when they are played on me, I always laugh the hardest.

When Zanuck insisted that I do The Egyptian The Egyptian, I simply went back to New York and waited for the hit teams from my agency. He had sued me for two million dollars. Sure enough, the designated hitters showed up, Jerry Gershwin and Jay Kantor. At the time my father was telling me that I had run out of money, but I didn't care. I said, "Let them sue." The hitters said, "Come on, Marlon, pay the two dollars," and I said, "h.e.l.l, no."

Finally Zanuck backed off and came back with the counterproposal that I play the role of Napoleon in a movie called Desiree Desiree. It was half a victory. So I accepted the arrangement. The film was directed by Henry Koster. I did all my homework and did the best I could. A kind and pleasant man, Koster was a lightweight who was much more interested in uniforms than in the impact of Napoleon on European history. I had a chance to work with Jean Simmons, who was cast in the role of Josephine. She was winning, charming, beautiful and experienced, and we had fun together. Unfortunately, she was married to Stewart Granger, the great white hunter. By my lights, Desiree Desiree was superficial and dismal, and I was astonished when told that it had been a success. H. L. Mencken's words came to mind; he said, "No one ever lost money underestimating the taste of the American public." In this case it seemed to have been borne out. was superficial and dismal, and I was astonished when told that it had been a success. H. L. Mencken's words came to mind; he said, "No one ever lost money underestimating the taste of the American public." In this case it seemed to have been borne out.

28.

DURING THE THIRTIES, several members of the Group Theatre, including Gadg, joined the Communist party-largely, I suppose, because of an idealistic belief that it offered a progressive approach to ending the Depression and the increasing economic inequity in the country, confronted racial injustice and stood up to fascism. Many, including Gadg, soon became disenchanted with the party, but they were appealing targets during the hysteria of the McCarthy era.

The House Un-American Activities Committee was headed by J. Parnell Thomas, a righteous pillar of our political community who later was sent to jail for fraud. The other members of the committee were much more concerned with exploiting the public's fascination with Hollywood and with generating publicity for themselves than with anything else. They subpoenaed Gadg, and his testimony has wounded him to this day. Not only did he admit that he had been a Communist, but he identified all the other members of the Group Theatre who had also been Communists. Many of his oldest friends were furious, called the testimony an act of betrayal and refused to speak to him or work with him again.

Until then, Gadg had collaborated with Arthur Miller, for whom he had directed All My Sons All My Sons. After that, he presented me with a movie script about life on the New York waterfront. When Miller backed out of the project, Gadg called Budd Schulberg, the novelist, who like himself had named names before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Schulberg had been working on a script about corruption on the docks that was based on a prize-winning newspaper series describing how the Mafia took a bite out of every piece of cargo moving in and out of the ports of New York and New Jersey. Gadg and Schulberg merged their subjects, and for months tried to find a studio that would finance it. Darryl F. Zanuck tentatively agreed to do so, then backed out, saying he thought it a poor story to tell on the wide Technicolor screen of CinemaScope, which he thought of as Hollywood's salvation from television. Finally Sam Spiegel, an independent producer and the last of the great schnorrers, who had made The African Queen The African Queen, agreed to produce it, and Harry Cohn at Columbia agreed to finance the picture that eventually would be called On the Waterfront On the Waterfront.

The part I would play was that of Terry Malloy, an ex-pro boxer whose character was based on a real longsh.o.r.eman who, despite threats against his life, testified against the "Goodfellas" who ran the Jersey waterfront. I was reluctant to take the part because I was conflicted about what Gadg had done and knew some of the people who had been deeply hurt. It was especially stupid because most of the people named were no longer Communists. Innocent people were also blacklisted, including me, although I never had a political affiliation of any kind. It was simply because I had signed a pet.i.tion to protest the lynching of a black man in the South. My sister Jocelyn, who'd appeared in Mister Roberts Mister Roberts on Broadway and became a very successful actress, was also blacklisted because her married name was Asinof and there was another J. Asinof. In those days, stepping off the sidewalk with your left foot first was grounds for suspicion that you were a member of the Communist party. To this day I believe that we missed the establishment of fascism in this country by a hair. on Broadway and became a very successful actress, was also blacklisted because her married name was Asinof and there was another J. Asinof. In those days, stepping off the sidewalk with your left foot first was grounds for suspicion that you were a member of the Communist party. To this day I believe that we missed the establishment of fascism in this country by a hair.

Gadg had to justify what he had done and gave the appearance of sincerely believing that there was a global conspiracy to take over the world, and that communism was a serious threat to America's freedoms. Like his friends, he told me, he had experimented with communism because at the time it seemed to promise a better world, but he abandoned it when he learned better. To speak up before the committee truthfully and in defiance of his former friends who had not abandoned the cause was a hugely difficult decision, he said, but though he was ostracized by former friends, he had no regrets for what he'd done.

I finally decided to do the film, but what I didn't realize then was that On the Waterfront On the Waterfront was really a metaphorical argument by Gadg and Budd Schulberg: they made the film to justify finking on their friends. Evidently, as Terry Malloy I represented the spirit of the brave, courageous man who defied evil. Neither Gadg nor Budd Schulberg ever had second thoughts about testifying before that committee. was really a metaphorical argument by Gadg and Budd Schulberg: they made the film to justify finking on their friends. Evidently, as Terry Malloy I represented the spirit of the brave, courageous man who defied evil. Neither Gadg nor Budd Schulberg ever had second thoughts about testifying before that committee.

At that time, Gadg was the director on the cutting edge of changing the way movies were made. He had been influenced by Stella Adler and what she had brought back from Europe, and he always tried to create spontaneity and the illusion of reality. He hired longsh.o.r.emen as extras. He shot most of the picture in the most rundown section of the New Jersey waterfront. He was pleased because the weather was really cold. The chill added reality, and he was delighted with the fact that our breath showed on the screen. The irony of all this was that he had to get permission from the Mafia to shoot there. When they invited him to lunch, he dragged me along, and I didn't know until afterward that the gentleman we had lunch with was in fact the head of the Jersey waterfront. Although Gadg turned his friends in to the House committee over communism, he didn't even blink at having to cooperate with the Costa Nostra. By his own standards, it would seem that this was an act of remarkable hypocrisy, but when Gadg wanted to make a picture and had to move some furniture around to do so, he was perfectly willing. Actually, I met a number of people from the Costa Nostra at that time, and I would prefer them any day to some of the politicians we have.

The cast included my longtime friend Karl Maiden, Eva Marie Saint, Lee J. Cobb and Rod Steiger. One of the reasons Gadg was an effective actors' director was because he was able to manipulate people's emotions. He tried to find out everything about his actors and partic.i.p.ated emotionally in all the scenes. He would come up between takes and tell you something to excite feelings in you that fit the scene. Still, he did create mischief with his technique. In Viva Zapata! Viva Zapata! I played Tony Quinn's brother, and Gadg told Tony some lies about what I had supposedly said behind his back. This intensified Tony's emotional state and was very good for the picture because it brought out the conflict between the brothers; unfortunately, Gadg never bothered to tell Tony afterward that he had made up those remarks. I didn't learn about it until fifteen years later on a talk show, where Tony expressed himself on the subject. I called him up and told him that I never said those things, and that Gadg was just manipulating him. It was a relief to be able to clear up this fifteen-year deceit. From then on, Tony and I started speaking again. I played Tony Quinn's brother, and Gadg told Tony some lies about what I had supposedly said behind his back. This intensified Tony's emotional state and was very good for the picture because it brought out the conflict between the brothers; unfortunately, Gadg never bothered to tell Tony afterward that he had made up those remarks. I didn't learn about it until fifteen years later on a talk show, where Tony expressed himself on the subject. I called him up and told him that I never said those things, and that Gadg was just manipulating him. It was a relief to be able to clear up this fifteen-year deceit. From then on, Tony and I started speaking again.

Gadg was wonderful in inspiring actors to give a performance, but you had to pay the price.

People have often commented to me about the scene in On the Waterfront On the Waterfront that takes place in the backseat of a taxi. It ill.u.s.trates how Kazan worked. that takes place in the backseat of a taxi. It ill.u.s.trates how Kazan worked.

I played Rod Steiger's unsuccessful ne'er-do-well brother, and he played a corrupt union leader who was trying to improve my position with the Mafia. He had been told in so many words to set me up for a hit because I was going to testify before the Waterfront Commission about the misdeeds that I was aware of. In the script Steiger was supposed to pull a gun in the taxi, point it at me and say, "Make up your mind before we get to 437 River Street," which was where I was going to be killed.

I told Kazan, "I can't believe he would say that to his brother, and the audience is certainly not going to believe that this guy who's been close to his brother all his life, and who's looked after him for thirty years, would suddenly stick a gun in his ribs and threaten to kill him. It's just not believable."

This was typical of the creative fights we had. "I can't do it that way," I said, and Gadg answered, "Yes, you can; it will work."

"It's ridiculous," I replied. "No one would speak to his brother that way."

We did the scene his way several times, but I kept saying, "It just doesn't work, Gadg, it really doesn't work." Finally he said, "All right, wing one." So Rod and I improvised the scene and ended up changing it completely. Gadg was convinced and printed it.

In our improvisation, when my brother flashed the gun in the cab, I looked at it, then up at him in disbelief. I didn't believe for a second that he would ever pull the trigger. I felt sorry for him. Then Rod started talking about my boxing career. If I'd had a better manager, he said, things would have gone better for me in the ring. "He brought you along too fast."

"That wasn't him him, Charlie," I said, "it was you you. Remember that night at the Garden you came down to my dressing room and said, 'Kid, this isn't your night. We're going for the price on Wilson'? Remember that? 'This ain't your night.' My night! My night! I could have taken Wilson apart. So what happened? He gets the shot at the t.i.tle outdoors at a ballpark and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palookaville. You was my brother, Charlie, you should have looked out for me a little bit. You should have taken care of me better so I didn't have to take the dives for the short-end money...I could have had cla.s.s. I could have been a contender. I could have been I could have taken Wilson apart. So what happened? He gets the shot at the t.i.tle outdoors at a ballpark and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palookaville. You was my brother, Charlie, you should have looked out for me a little bit. You should have taken care of me better so I didn't have to take the dives for the short-end money...I could have had cla.s.s. I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody somebody instead of a b.u.m, which is what I am, let's face it. It was instead of a b.u.m, which is what I am, let's face it. It was you you, Charlie..."

When the movie came out, a lot of people credited me with a marvelous job of acting and called the scene moving. But it was actor-proof, a scene that demonstrated how audiences often do much of the acting themselves in an effectively told story. It couldn't miss because almost everyone believes he could have been a contender, that he could have been somebody if he'd been dealt different cards by fate, so when people saw this in the film, they identified with it. That's the magic of theater; everybody in the audience became Terry Malloy, a man who'd had the guts not only to stand up to the Mob, but to say, "I'm a b.u.m. Let's face it; that's what I am...."

On the day Gadg showed me the completed picture, I was so depressed by my performance I got up and left the screening room. I thought I was a huge failure, and walked out without a word to him. I was simply embarra.s.sed for myself.

None of us are perfect, and I think Gadg has done great injury to others, but mostly to himself. I am indebted to him for all that I learned. He was a wonderful teacher.

I had a great conflict about going to the Academy Awards and accepting an Oscar. I never believed that the accomplishment was more important than the effort. I remember being driven to the Awards still wondering whether I should have put on my tuxedo. I finally thought, what the h.e.l.l; people want to express their thanks, and if it is a big deal for them, why not go? I have since altered my opinion about awards in general, and will never again accept one of any kind. This doesn't mean that what other people believe has any less validity; many people I know and care about believe that awards are valuable and involve themselves in the process of the Academy Awards and others. I don't look down upon them for doing so, and I hope that they do not look down upon me.

If I regretted anything, it may have been that Duke Wagner wasn't around for that evening. By that time he was dead.

I don't know what happened to the Oscar they gave me for On the Waterfront On the Waterfront. Somewhere in the pa.s.sage of time it disappeared. I didn't think about it until a year or so ago, when my lawyer called and told me that an auction house in London was planning to sell it. When I wrote a letter to them saying that they had no right to do so, they replied that they would abide by my wishes, but that the person who had put it up for sale wouldn't relinquish it because supposedly I had given it to him or her. This is simply untrue.

29.

WHEN I MUMBLED my lines in some parts, it puzzled theater critics. I played many roles in which I didn't mumble a single syllable, but in others I did it because it is the way people speak in ordinary life. I wasn't the first actor to do it. Dame May Whitty, who, like Eleonora Duse, was a fine actress who deviated from the traditional acting school's techniques of declaiming, superficial gesture and stilted dialogue, was famous for muttering and mumbling. In her day it was unheard of for actors to mumble or slur their words and speak like ordinary people, but she got away with it. my lines in some parts, it puzzled theater critics. I played many roles in which I didn't mumble a single syllable, but in others I did it because it is the way people speak in ordinary life. I wasn't the first actor to do it. Dame May Whitty, who, like Eleonora Duse, was a fine actress who deviated from the traditional acting school's techniques of declaiming, superficial gesture and stilted dialogue, was famous for muttering and mumbling. In her day it was unheard of for actors to mumble or slur their words and speak like ordinary people, but she got away with it.

If everyone spoke according to the rules of the old school of acting, we'd never pause to search for words, never slur a word, never say something like, "Uh..." or "What did you say?"

In ordinary life people seldom know exactly what they're going to say when they open their mouths and start to express a thought. They're still thinking, and the fact that they are looking for words shows on their faces. They pause for an instant to find the right word, search their minds to compose a sentence, then express it.

Until Stella Adler came along, few actors understood this; they recited speeches given to them by a writer in the style of an elocution school, and if audiences didn't instantly understand them or had to work a little to do so, the performers were criticized. The audience was conditioned to expect actors to speak in a way seldom heard outside a theater. Today actors are expected to speak, think and search for words to give the impression that they are actually living in that moment. Most actors in America now strive for this effect. However, there are other affectations that have crept in. For example, many actors rely on cigarettes to convey naturalness. When smoking was in vogue, Stella criticized some actors' behavior and would refer to it as cigarette-acting. Generally actors don't realize how deeply affected the technique of acting was by the fact that Stella went to Russia and studied with Stanislavsky. This school of acting served the American theater and motion pictures well, but it was restricting. The American theater had never been able to present Shakespeare or cla.s.sical drama of any kind satisfactorily. We simply do not have the style, the regard for language or the cultural disposition that fosters a tradition of presenting Shakespeare or any other cla.s.sical drama. You cannot mumble in Shakespeare. You cannot improvise, and you are required to adhere strictly to the text. The English theater has a sense of language that we do not recognize and a capacity for understanding Shakespeare that we do not. In the United States the English language has developed almost into a patois. Not long ago, perhaps only fifty years or so ago, there was a style of cla.s.sical acting in England in which Shakespeare was declaimed with an ample distribution of spittle. Even today there are English actors and directors who, to their artistic peril, choose to ignore the precise instructions that Shakespeare gave them in his speech to the players in Hamlet Hamlet. This not only pertains to acting but to all forms of art. I quote it here: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I p.r.o.nounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of pa.s.sion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to see a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a pa.s.sion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipp'd for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it.What follows is excellent advice for every actor:Be not too tame, neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve...

The evolution of English theater came to full flower in Kenneth Branagh's production of Henry V Henry V. He did not injure the language; he showed a reverence for it, and followed Shakespeare's instructions precisely. It was an extraordinary accomplishment of melding the realities of human behavior with the poetry of language. I can't imagine Shakespeare being performed with more refinement. In America we are unable to approach such refinements, and of course we have no taste for it. If given the choice between Branagh's production of Henry V Henry V or Arnold Schwarzenegger's or Arnold Schwarzenegger's The Terminator The Terminator, there's hardly a question of where most television dials would be turned. If the expenditure of money for entertainment in America is any indication of taste, clearly the majority of us are addicted to trash.

The theatrical experience is a little-understood phenomenon. I'm not sure that I I understand it. It seems mysterious to me that people will spend hard-earned cash to go to a building that contains a large darkened room where people sit and look at two-dimensional figures reflected on a screen and invest the entire spectrum of their emotions in what appears to be an approximation of reality. They'll be moved to tears, laughter, empathy, or experience truly deep fear, sometimes becoming frightened for days, perhaps years, by the memory of what they saw. It is even harder to understand that audiences in j.a.pan can be so deeply moved by the Noh theater, in which actors wear masks and cla.s.sical clothing, and where movement and voice are restricted and highly stylized. On the other hand, humans are able to see images in clouds, in cracks in the ceiling and in Rorschach tests. They are also able to look at drawings and make up stories suggested to them by their unconscious. These kinds of tests are often used to establish psychological profiles, so what seems apparent in this peculiar ability is that we don't see what we behold in front of us. As Shakespeare wisely pointed out, we hold a mirror up to our "nature." We are forever reading emotions into people's comments or facial expressions-emotions that are not intended. It seems clear that this peculiarity of the human mind determines to a large extent the composition of our psyche. All of us are looking through the lens of our own perspective, and this applies even to such subjects as a particular interpretation of quantum physics. understand it. It seems mysterious to me that people will spend hard-earned cash to go to a building that contains a large darkened room where people sit and look at two-dimensional figures reflected on a screen and invest the entire spectrum of their emotions in what appears to be an approximation of reality. They'll be moved to tears, laughter, empathy, or experience truly deep fear, sometimes becoming frightened for days, perhaps years, by the memory of what they saw. It is even harder to understand that audiences in j.a.pan can be so deeply moved by the Noh theater, in which actors wear masks and cla.s.sical clothing, and where movement and voice are restricted and highly stylized. On the other hand, humans are able to see images in clouds, in cracks in the ceiling and in Rorschach tests. They are also able to look at drawings and make up stories suggested to them by their unconscious. These kinds of tests are often used to establish psychological profiles, so what seems apparent in this peculiar ability is that we don't see what we behold in front of us. As Shakespeare wisely pointed out, we hold a mirror up to our "nature." We are forever reading emotions into people's comments or facial expressions-emotions that are not intended. It seems clear that this peculiarity of the human mind determines to a large extent the composition of our psyche. All of us are looking through the lens of our own perspective, and this applies even to such subjects as a particular interpretation of quantum physics.

These strange characteristics can be witnessed in an actor's performance. Often actors choose to underplay a moment in the drama. If he shows little or no reaction, the audience will try to imagine what he is feeling. Sometimes actors are superb in their underplaying, but others can't wait to hit their head on the top of their part. The great Jewish actor Jacob P. Adler, Stella's father, advised his company of actors, "If you come to the theater and feel a hundred percent, show them eighty percent. If you feel sixty percent, show them forty percent, but if you only feel feel forty percent, put the understudy onstage." forty percent, put the understudy onstage."

Never hit your head on the top of your part, Stella said. There are some roles in which less is more, and you should underplay them. Jimmy Cagney had both great acting talent and a terrific presence. He had a distinctive look, a very strong, clear personality, and was a self-made actor. He never went to acting school. But unlike most actors of his generation, he tried to take on the subtle aspects of his characters. He believed he was the character and made audiences believe it.

One of the most difficult lessons an actor has to learn is not to leave the fight in the gym. In other words, you must learn to keep your emotion simmering all day long, but never boiling over. If you give everything you've got in the long shot, you will have less in the medium shot and, where you need it most, in the close shots. You must learn to pace yourself so that you don't dry up when the close shot comes. Even smart performance directors-and G.o.d knows there are few of them-misuse the actor unless they are experienced.

As an example, in my first movie, The Men The Men, I had an emotional scene in which I had to admit to myself that I would never be able to walk again or to make love. It was a scene in which it was proper to cry. I got to the studio at 7:30 A.M A.M. and went to my dressing room loaded with mood music, poetry and anything else that would elicit an emotional response. I played the scene over and over in my mind, rehea.r.s.ed it quietly and was moved. But by 9:30 A.M. A.M., when I had to play the scene, I had nothing left. I had left the fight in the gym. I have remembered that moment ever since.

Unless you're fully experienced, some directors can destroy you with their insensitivity. An actor's motivation often depends on focusing sharply on small details. If a director doesn't prepare the crew and the other actors, he can destroy the mood of a scene. Directors don't realize how hard it is to create a fragile emotional impression, and how easy it is to break the spell. The most fatiguing aspect about acting is turning your emotions on and off. It's not like pushing a light switch and saying, "I'm going to be angry and kick the walls now," and then becoming yourself again. If you have an intense scene involving sadness or anger, you may have to hover in the same emotional territory for hours, and this can be extremely taxing. Some directors don't understand this because they were never actors, or else were bad ones.

An actor can profit greatly from a good director, but often directors who have a sense of inadequacy try to conceal this by being authoritative and issuing commands and ultimatums. With such directors, who mistake you for a draft horse pulling a beer wagon, you're obliged to fight back. A surprising number of directors think they know everything. Not only do they have little insight into or understanding of what it is to be an actor or what the acting process is, but they have no notion of how one develops a characterization. They hand you a script and tell you to report for work on Monday; it's left to you to create your role. If you're working with a director who doesn't have good taste, or who is dangerous because he lacks sound instincts, you have to take over and make sure a scene works right; in effect, you must direct it yourself. If the director has misconceived a part and continues to insist that you play it his way, you have to outmaneuver him by giving such a poor performance that you know he won't be able to use it-though in the process you may ruin your reputation. In a close-up or a shot taken over the shoulder-anything close-give him nine bad takes, blow your lines, give a weak performance and wear him down. Then, finally, when you know he's tired and frustrated, you give him the one take in which you do it the way it should be done. By then he's so pleased and grateful to get the scene out of the way that he'll print it. You don't give him a choice. You have to play such games with untalented directors.

If someone decided to produce a play the way people make movies in Hollywood, he'd be laughed off the stage. Before putting a play on Broadway, the actors and director sit around for five to six weeks, talk about motivation, discuss the script and the characters, go through the story, walk around the stage, try different approaches and eventually put the show on its feet. Then they take the play to Schenectady or New Haven, test it before audiences, fine-tune it and after eight weeks return to New York to hold previews. Eventually, after everything has been edited, reedited and refined, there is an opening night. In Hollywood you usually have a meeting to make a deal where the talk is all about money, "points" and "profit partic.i.p.ation." Then you're given a script, told to come to the set with your part in your pocket, and from then on are mostly on your own. Motion-picture directors rarely give you the vaguest hint of how to realize your character. If it's any good, most acting in pictures is improvisational because the cast receives such little help from its director. Sometimes when you improvise you advance the story and the drama, but not always. If you're playing Tennessee Williams, you should stick to the script, but most scripts are not written in stone, so you can change them in a way that makes you feel more comfortable. Every once in a while you run into a script that is not very good, with a director who thinks that it is. Such a situation is to be avoided at all costs from the beginning.

In my experience one of the few directors who prepared a movie sensibly was Elia Kazan, who was not only an actor but had directed stage plays. What if Broadway producers hired an actor for a part, met with him once or twice, then told him to report to work that evening for opening night? It would be considered irresponsible, and no one in the theater would do it, but in motion pictures, those are normal operating procedures.

On the stage you can change the emphasis of a scene, set the tempo and determine from the response of the out-of-town audience the key emotional points in a play. But in the movies the director says, "Cut" and "Print," and that's it. In the cutting room they can make chicken feed out of the scene if they want to. The actor has no control unless he has enough experience to know how to play the game, take charge and give only the performance he wants to give.

The moral is, never give a stupid, egotistical, insensitive or inept director an even break.

30.

OFTEN WE HEAR SOMEONE coming out of a movie theater say, "My G.o.d, what a picture! What a job of acting! I was so coming out of a movie theater say, "My G.o.d, what a picture! What a job of acting! I was so moved moved that I cried my heart out!" while his or her companion says, "I was bored to death." For the latter there was no emotional resonance to the particular story or character. The reason for this is that we all bring to the theater varying experiences and att.i.tudes that affect how we respond to a story. The same thing happens to people who hear a political speech and have diametrically opposite reactions about it. that I cried my heart out!" while his or her companion says, "I was bored to death." For the latter there was no emotional resonance to the particular story or character. The reason for this is that we all bring to the theater varying experiences and att.i.tudes that affect how we respond to a story. The same thing happens to people who hear a political speech and have diametrically opposite reactions about it.

Not long ago I saw Runaway Train Runaway Train, a film, directed by Andrei Konchalovsky, about the flight of two escaped prisoners, with wonderful performances by Jon Voight, Eric Roberts, Rebecca DeMornay and Kyle T. Heffner. The picture was only moderately successful at the box office, but I was overwhelmed by it, largely because of what I brought to the characters. As mentioned previously, throughout my life I have always had a strong need to feel free, so in the escaped convict (played by Jon Voight), who stood atop the runaway train in temperatures twenty degrees below zero determined never to return to prison, even knowing that he was likely to die, I saw myself and experienced his feelings experienced his feelings. The emotional reverberation made the picture an extraordinary experience for me. Other people, who don't want that freedom, would see it differently; for them the natural desirable state is to submit to authority.

I recall watching the n.a.z.i propaganda films made by Hitler's filmmaker, Leni Riefenstahl, in which thousands of people gathered in a stadium, and as the Fuhrer arrived they raised their hands in the n.a.z.i salute, transfixed and mesmerized by the experience. In such moments as this the German people invented Hitler, just as Americans invented some of their myths about FDR when they listened to his Fireside Chats, wanting to believe that he had a solution to their problems in the depth of the Depression.

The Germans in the stadium at Nuremberg didn't know that Hitler was an unstable, maniacal personality, and that the people around him were thugs, liars and murderers. They were creating myths about him in the theater of their minds. They cheered, marched and saluted on automatic pilot, no longer masters of themselves because they imbued Hitler with their dreams of wanting to be led and to feel proud of Germany again. There is theater in everything we see or do during the day. As. .h.i.tler demonstrated, one of the basic characteristics of the human psyche is that it is easily swayed by suggestion. Our susceptibility to it is phenomenal, and it is the job of the actor to manipulate this suggestibility.

As in On the Waterfront On the Waterfront (or, for me, (or, for me, Runaway Train) Runaway Train), the most effective performances are those in which audiences identify with the characters and the situations they face, then become the characters in their own minds. If the story is well written and the actor doesn't get in the way, it's a natural process.

Ultimately, I suppose that what makes people willing to part with their hard-earned cash and enter a theater is that it allows them to savor a variety of human experiences without having to pay the normal price for them. Maybe it's equivalent to the emotion people feel when they jump off a bridge with a bungee cord tied to their ankles: they fall two hundred feet and experience the sensation of being at the edge of death, then bounce back safely, just as we do when we walk out of a theater unscathed after undergoing a harrowing experience.

It is no accident that plays are performed in the dark, for this allows audiences to exclude others and be alone with the characters; in the dark other people cease to exist. There is something peculiar about the process, which started long before Greek drama. It probably began when men first left their caves to hunt, and the women, children and old men left behind danced and acted out stories to counteract their boredom.

Acting, not prost.i.tution, is the oldest profession in the world. Even apes act. If you want to invite trouble from one, lock your eyes on his and stare. It's enough of an a.s.sault to make the animal rise, pound his chest and feign a charge; he is acting, hoping that his gestures will make you avert your eyes.

Storytelling is a basic part of every human culture-people have always had a need to partic.i.p.ate emotionally in stories-and so the actor has probably played an important part in every society. But he should never forget that it is the audience that really does the work and is a pivotal part of the process: every theatrical event, from those taking place in Stone Age caves to Punch-and-Judy shows and Broadway plays, can produce an emotional partic.i.p.ation from the audience, who become the actors in the drama.

A lot of actors are credited with great performances that really weren't extraordinary because the audience simply was moved by a well-written story and the situation facing a character. As I've already said, Terry Malloy in On the Waterfront On the Waterfront is a good example of this. I was moved by is a good example of this. I was moved by The Elephant Man The Elephant Man, in which John Hurt portrayed a man in Victorian England who was afflicted by a horrible, disfiguring disease and was heckled and ridiculed by strangers. But as the story evolved, his humanity was revealed and he became every member of the audience who ever maintained dignity in the face of hardship or abuse. When I saw the picture, I cried because I was touched. John Hurt is a very good actor, and has proved it in several parts, including Caligula in the television production of I, Claudius I, Claudius, in which he was brilliant. But his role in The Elephant Man The Elephant Man was one of those actor-proof parts and he just couldn't miss. was one of those actor-proof parts and he just couldn't miss.

Still, the reverse is often true: sometimes actors are given a nearly impossible challenge because a story is poorly written or not realistic, and when they do a good job, they don't get the credit they deserve. I've seen many great performances go unrecognized because audiences don't realize how difficult they were.

Of course, different actors apply different techniques to attain their goals. Laurence Olivier is an example. After the sun set on the British Empire, England began to lose touch with Shakespeare and the great traditions of the British theater that were the legacy of the greatest writer the world has ever known. But almost single-handedly Olivier revived the cla.s.sical British theater and helped to stabilize English culture. His contributions were unequaled, though of course he had the help of the wonderful repertory actors at the Old Vic. While I believe that Larry did his best acting toward the end of his life, when I think of him as an actor, I perceive him mostly as an architect. He designed his parts beautifully, but they were like sketches engraved with an etching tool on a sheet of copper. He said every line the same way every time. He hated the thought of improvising and said, "I'm an 'outside-in' actor, not an 'inside-out actor.'" Everything he did had to be structured in advance, and he always stuck to the blueprint. He was uncomfortable with me and other actors influenced by Stella Adler and the Russian school of acting, and probably felt a much deeper kinship with performers whose roots were more traditional. This kind of acting can be effective on the stage because audiences are far away, but it becomes absurd in movies, in which audiences can see actors' expressions magnified hundreds of times in close-ups.

Larry shared one characteristic with other British actors I've known who wouldn't "play down." In The Entertainer The Entertainer, for example, he played a decrepit c.o.c.kney vaudeville song-and-dance man, Archie Rice, but he refused to talk in a c.o.c.kney accent, even though the part called for it. He wouldn't use an accent beneath his own station in life; he simply spoke in perfect English.

I've heard it said that I should have devoted my life to the cla.s.sical theater as Olivier did. If I had wanted to be a great actor, I agree that I should have played Hamlet, but I never had that goal or interest. For the reader who has gotten this far in the book, I hope that by now it is apparent that I have never had the actor's bug. I took acting seriously because it was my job; I almost always worked hard at it, but it was simply a way to make a living.

Still, even if I had chosen to go on the cla.s.sical stage, it would have been a mistake. I revere Shakespeare, the English language and English theater, but American culture is simply not structured for them. Theatrical ventures ambitious enough to accomplish something truly worthwhile seldom survive. The British are the last English-speaking people on the planet who love and cherish their language. They preserve it and care about it, but Americans do not have the style, finesse, refinement or sense of language to make a success out of Shakespeare. Our audiences would make a pauper of any actor who dedicated his career to Shakespeare. Ours is a television and movie culture.

31.

IN 1955, I took the part of Sky Masterson, the gambler who falls in love with a Salvation Army sergeant played by Jean Simmons, in Guys and Dolls Guys and Dolls. When the director, Joe Mankiewicz, asked me to be in the picture, I told him I couldn't sing and had never been in a musical, but he said he'd never directed one before, and that we'd be learning together. Frank Loesser, who wrote the music for the Broadway show on which it was based, recruited an Italian singing coach to teach me to sing, and after a couple of weeks with him I went to a recording studio with Frank to record my songs, which were to be synchronized later with shots of me mouthing the words on film. I couldn't hit a note in the dubbing room with a baseball bat; some notes I missed by extraordinary margins. But the engineers kept telling me to do them over again, and they would st.i.tch together a word here, a note there, until they had a recording that sounded like I'd sung the bars consecutively. They sewed my words together on one song so tightly that when I mouthed it in front of the camera, I nearly asphyxiated myself because I couldn't breathe while trying to synchronize my lips. The audience never realized that when I sang a song, it was a product of many, many attempts.

When the picture was finished, Sam Goldwyn conned me into attending the picture's premiere in New York by giving me a car. I had always refused to go to one, but when he offered me the car I felt obligated to go. I didn't realize that such gifts didn't cost him a cent because he could charge them to the picture's budget.

Jean Simmons and I were picked up at the Plaza Hotel by a limousine and driven to Times Square, which was aglow with searchlights and floodlights and jammed with people and police who were trying to restrain them behind wooden barricades. As we approached the theater, the crowd suddenly surged forward, broke through the barricades and attacked the limousine like a horde of Mongol warriors. Screaming hysterically, they engulfed the car, flattening their noses and cheeks against the windows until they looked like putty that had been softened in a warm oven. One girl was pushed so hard by the people that her head broke a window in the car, panicking the driver, and he stepped on the gas and almost ran over a bunch of other teenagers. Finally several policemen on horseback pushed through the melee to clear a path, but there were still so many people that we had to stop across the street from the theater.

Measuring the distance, I figured we were at least fifty yards from the goal line and wondered how we were going to make it the rest of the way. Then six big cops came up to the car, opened the door, grabbed Jean, lifted her in the air and carried her into the theater. Then it was my turn: six other cops grabbed me, lifted me up and began steamrolling toward the theater. There was so much screaming I couldn't hear anything. One cop lifted me by one arm and another got under my other shoulder, and others lifted my feet off the ground. We inched through the crowd and pretty soon hands from all sides were pinching me and grabbing my groin. Then someone got my tie and held it, but the cops didn't know this and kept forging ahead like a team of draft horses on extra rations. I became dizzier and dizzier. I couldn't scream because I was being strangled; but even if I had, there was so much noise the cops wouldn't have heard me.

Finally the cops won the tug-of-war and the tie puller had to let go. They carried me into the lobby, where I sat on a flight of stairs, shaking and muttering to myself, "Jesus Christ, what the h.e.l.l am I doing here?"