We spent several hours at her house talking about the play and from the very beginning liked each other very much.
I had arranged for a car to come get me and take me back to the city. As I got up to leave, Ellen said, “I have to tell you
something. I have an ex-husband, Neil, who overdosed on LSD. It’s had a permanent effect on him. At one point he called himself
Neil Nephew. He’s confined in an institution, but he periodically manages to escape and seeks me out as well as any man I
have anything to do with personally or professionally. I’m terribly sorry to lay this on you.”
For a moment, I was speechless, then managed to say as casually as I could, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Of course, just the opposite was true. Of all the things I’ve ever done, acting requires by far the greatest concentration
as well as relaxation, and the idea that my costar’s ex-husband might escape from an institution and appear at any time and
do God knows what wasn’t exactly what I had in mind as an aid for my concentration or relaxation.
Nevertheless, I continued to reassure Ellen not to worry one moment about it.
As soon as I got back to my apartment I called the producer who, if memory serves, already knew about this. I asked that a
meeting be called to discuss how to deal with the situation. I asked Herb Gardner to be my representative at the meeting,
as I was going to try to think about this as little as possible. It was decided that there would be guards at the theater
to keep an eye out and a photo of Neil discreetly placed in the box office.
I guess no one thought much about the rehearsal period, because a week in, Ellen looked past me and said, “Oh, it’s Neil.”
I turned and saw an average-looking fella staring at us. Ellen walked over to him. I went over, sat down in a chair, and looked
the other way. I don’t remember if we resumed rehearsals that day, but soon we moved on as though it hadn’t happened. I asked
no questions, and no one spoke about it to me.
Sometime a few weeks into rehearsal the extremely experienced director said that the new-to-Broadway playwright told him he
would just as soon not open the play out of town in Boston if this was what it was going to look like. In other words, he
was suggesting we consider closing the play in rehearsal. I said, “This isn’t what we’re going to do in front of an audience.
We’re figuring out the roles.” Ellen Bursytn and I had to play our characters five years older in each of the six scenes—not
a job for your boy or girl next door.
The play was a smash in Boston. There was an unusual moment during the run there. One day, from across the large lobby of
the hotel where we were staying, the late Van Johnson, a great movie star, called out to me, “You work
so
hard.” My dad would have been proud.
Same Time, Next Year
was a standing room only hit in New York, with lines around the block. Lucille Ball came backstage to say hello to me, sat
down at the makeup table, freshened up her makeup, and without turning around said to me, “We should work together sometime.”
When Bob Hope came, they could only find a seat for him in the balcony. I had an earlier experience with Bob Hope.
One time early in my experience with Johnny Carson, I evidently went so far that the executive producer, Fred De Cordova,
said to my friend the talent coordinator, “We won’t be seeing Mr. Grodin for a while.” After Johnny’s monologue hadn’t been
received as it normally was, I had come out as the first guest and said, “Rather than me trying to be funny in this atmosphere,
why don’t we run a clip from an earlier appearance where I was.” Before they banned me, they received an appreciative call
from Bob Hope wanting to know, “Who is that kid?”
Ellen won a Tony Award for her performance in
Same Time, Next Year
, and we both won an Outer Critics Circle Award.
This naïveté that was expressed by the playwright of
Same Time, Next Year
when he suggested we should possibly close the play in rehearsal manifested itself from when the producer Ray Stark called
me after the first reading of
Seems Like Old Times
with Goldie Hawn, Chevy Chase, and me to ask, “What are we going to do about Chevy?” I said, “What do you mean?” He said,
“He’s ad-libbing all over the place.” I said, “Ask him not to.” They did, so he didn’t, and was incredibly charming in the
role.
It happened again after the first reading of
The Heartbreak Kid
when they discussed replacing me, because I had begun “working on the part” instead of performing it as I’d done in the screen
test. Elaine May reminded them they’d already seen me perform it.
My point in saying all this is it’s shocking how many people in positions of real authority, right up to the president, of
course, sometimes absolutely don’t know what they’re talking about. That’s why all the rejection I’ve dealt with never affected
me in the way you might think. I don’t accept that the rejecter knows what he or she is talking about.
For example, when one of my plays is rejected, that’s meaningless to me as far as its value is concerned, because someone
who’s
reading
it rejected it, but I’ve already seen it
performed
in front of a highly appreciative audience. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have sent it to anyone.
Recently, I gave a Broadway producer a play of mine that has four stars committed to playing the four roles. I explained I’d
seen it read several times to large audiences and that it had received an outstanding response. The producer read it and was
completely dismissive of it. It didn’t get me down because I felt I was dealing with a fool. Gene Wilder said, “With you writing
it and those names connected to it… ,” and then he just shook his head.
Over the years, especially in movies, I’ve offered a lot of ideas—script changes and so forth. There are exceptions, of course.
Neil Simon’s
Seems Like Old Times
quickly comes to mind. Not only would someone come over to you if you left a “the” out, but once in a scene where Robert
Guillaume was playing the piano I was standing behind him tapping my fingers on his shoulders and was told to please don’t
do that. I’ve never experienced the control that was exercised over that movie. In fairness, it was a big hit, but I believe
you limit me and others with that strong a controlling hand over my hand’s tapping. I mean, c’mon…
On many films, I let the director know that I may offer a lot of ideas, and I quickly add that if they aren’t embraced, my
disposition will be the same as if they were. As a producer, director, or writer, I would welcome any actor’s suggestions
with the understanding that if they weren’t accepted, “no sulking allowed.” I never sulk or pout as I’ve seen others do when
they don’t get their way; it can put a dark cloud over everything.
I had a lot of thoughts about
Same Time, Next Year
that I shared with the playwright and the director, and they were used. As I’ve said, if they weren’t I would have gone right
ahead in good spirits with the script that I signed on to do.
It wasn’t evident to me how much the playwright’s wife, and I assume the playwright, resented all of this, since my ideas
were accepted without any discord, and the play was a smash. That’s why I was very surprised at what happened at a party after
I had left the play—which, by the way, angered the producer, even though I had fulfilled my contract of staying with it for
seven months after the Broadway opening. The producer assumed I had a big money offer to do a movie, but I didn’t. I just
felt that with rehearsal and the out of town tryout and previews, it had been almost ten months, and it was enough. To make
matters worse from the producer’s point of view, when I chose to leave, Ellen Burstyn did as well.
Anyway, the playwright’s wife was at this party, and I asked if her husband would be joining us. She stared at me and said
he was meeting with someone he hoped to get to play my part in the movie. The play had been sold to the movies for a million
dollars. That was how I heard I wouldn’t be asked to play the role. The playwright’s wife seemed to thoroughly enjoy giving
me the news. Not wanting to give her any satisfaction, I casually asked, “Oh, who’s directing?” And she, to rub it in, said,
“Oh, if we get this actor,
anyone
would direct it.”
The director of the play, the brilliant Gene Saks, wasn’t asked to direct the movie, even though he had directed several hit
movies, so maybe they had a beef with Gene
and
me, which is really ironic, because the play of
Same Time, Next Year
was the hit of the writer’s life in the theater.
Ellen Burstyn, who played her role in the movie, has always given me a lot of credit for the success of the play, but evidently
the playwright and his wife saw it differently. In fairness, I’m sure their feelings are as genuine as mine, but I wish that
the playwright had at least made me aware of them when we were working together.
I was recently telling my friend John Gabriel, as insightful a man as I’ve ever met, the story about the playwright and his
wife, and he said something quite startling to me, which I now believe. He said, “They weren’t upset with you about your input.
How could they be upset with you for helping hand them their biggest hit?”
He said that, like the producer, they were upset with me because I was leaving their standing room only hit, no doubt shortening
the run and costing them money. It ran a total of three years, but I guess they felt if Ellen Burstyn and I had stayed longer,
it might have run five years. I don’t believe they were angry at Ellen, because they knew she left only because I did.
That never occurred to me, but John is probably right, because the producer was so angry we were leaving he refused to throw
a party for Ellen and me, so we threw it and invited him. He came, too, and had a good time!
Until John Gabriel said that to me, it had never occurred to me in more than thirty years, even though there was a pretty
obvious clue in the producer’s attitude. What I take from that is
even though you’re positive you understand something, you may be dead wrong!
Politicians, beware! Of course, if John
is
right, then the playwright’s wife’s hostile behavior toward me seems
more
offensive.
A few performances before the opening night of
Same Time, Next Year
, in the middle of a scene, a voice called out from the balcony to me saying, “I like your robe.” Security guards removed
Ellen’s former husband Neil from the theater. Needless to say, the rest of that performance was not up to our usual level.
I later learned that Neil committed suicide by jumping out of a window. So many people tragically have no idea what drugs
can do to them, even though it’s in the news every day that people are dying from drug abuse.
The year after the play I did the movie
Heaven Can Wait
, which I believe is as good a movie as I’ve ever been involved with, mostly because of the stunning performances of Warren
Beatty and Julie Christie.
My first connection to Julie Christie was when I overheard her talking on the phone in the Palo Alto, California, mansion
we were filming in. I heard her say some nice things about me, and since I was available, as evidently she was, that was enough
for me to ask her out. She had gone with Warren years earlier. Julie Christie and I sat in a restaurant, and she said, “I
have no idea what I’m doing here with you, I have all these houseguests.” I honestly can’t remember what I said to that, but
at least she didn’t walk out on dinner. A few days later she invited me to a pool party at the house she had taken for the
filming. I was the only male there, and Julie and all the women were walking around bare-breasted. At one point, Julie came
over to me and said, “Don’t be bothered by this.” I said, “I’m not bothered.” Frankly, the writer in me was trying to figure
out why they invited me. I wasn’t able to—still can’t.
That’s all I remember about Julie on location. After the picture I was sitting with Warren in some club on the Sunset Strip
and Julie came by and suggested we join her and a friend to go somewhere, but we stayed where we were.
In my experience, Warren Beatty is one of the sweetest, most appealing, and most gifted people I’ve ever met. My closest female
friend of almost forty years, Ria Berkus, and I once followed Warren in his car as he took us to the Playboy mansion, where
we’d never been. Warren went to the call box and seemed to be waiting a little longer than you would expect for the gates
to open. Ria, who is the single funniest woman I’ve ever met, said, as though she were speaking from the mansion to the call
box, “Sorry, Warren, you’ve had your share of girls for the month.”
Warren’s legendary success with women leads me to believe he knew how to talk to girls while the rest of us were still being
toilet trained. I believe Warren realized before most of us, if we ever did, that some women are as interested in sex as we
men are. That
never
occurred to me.
F
or a time in the seventies I was going out with one of the most formidable women I ever knew. She has achieved quite a lot
in her life in areas beyond acting and is known all over the world for her strong feelings about many things. The first time
I asked her out she said, “I’ll go out with you, but do something dazzling.”
Dazzling
, I thought. Right. Yeah. Good luck!
The best I could come up with was to take her to dinner at a really out-of-the-way place that had been around for hundreds
of years. I felt she would be impressed by that, and she was. I remember she ordered a Manhattan, which impressed
me
. Afterward I took her to meet some friends of mine she had worked with, who were also very accomplished. I felt she would
be impressed that these were my friends. She was. I don’t remember impressing her much after that, but we continued to go
out. I could make her laugh, and that seemed to get me a lot of points, but most of the time she wasn’t laughing but debating
me on… well, you name it.