I Blame Dennis Hopper (11 page)

“Yes, and also some Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream … for my granddaughter, yes.” And he would wink at me, because he had become addicted to it, too, thanks to my having sneaked it into the basket. I especially loved going to Zabar's when we'd go together. My grandfather and I would walk down the aisles while folks nudged each other and whispered, “That's Melvyn Douglas.” Everyone was so friendly. So helpful! The same thing happened at the candy store. Always free samples of chocolate-covered cherries for Melvyn Douglas and his granddaughter. He would take me to a Broadway show and afterward we would eat at a showbiz restaurant called Sardi's. Everyone was so friendly. So helpful! Actors stopped by the table to say hello. Waiters were constantly making sure everything was all right, bringing more and more food that was “on the house.” I could never finish anything, because the portions were huge. Years later, the first time I had some money in my pocket, I invited someone to go to Sardi's, promising them huge portions. The meal came and everything was regular size, and I was so disappointed. I wanted “Melvyn Douglas size.”

As I got older, my grandfather started telling me more about the movies he was going to be shooting. He would act out the entire story, playing all the parts. I remember him acting out the movie
The Tenant,
and the way he told it was actually scarier than the film. He described something that happened on the set that was equally chilling. He was shooting a climactic scene with Roman Polanski—the tenant—after Polanski tries to commit suicide by jumping out a window. It required Polanski to be covered in stage blood. After each take, Polanski would ask for more blood. After numerous takes Polanski and the set were covered in blood, but he was still dissatisfied, and kept insisting they needed more. My grandfather described an eerie feeling that descended upon the set, as Polanski, drenched in blood, kept insisting there still wasn't enough. He said, “You see, in poor Roman's mind there would probably never be ‘enough blood' to match the horror of what he had once witnessed.” Which was, of course, the bloody scene of his wife Sharon Tate's murder. And the way my grandfather told me that story, with such helpless empathy, has stayed with me all these years.

We were in the apartment on Riverside Drive when he handed me a paperback book and said that it was going to be his next movie. The book was
Being There,
by Jerzy Kosiński. He said, “And if it's done right, it could be something quite interesting.” He told me that Peter Sellers was going to play Chance the Gardener. My eyes lit up. Peter Sellers? From
The Pink Panther
? By this time, my room at home was a collage of movie posters, magazine covers, and pictures of my favorite actors and actresses. Peter Sellers was one of those smiling faces who watched over me. My poster from
The Return of the Pink Panther
was next to a pink
People
magazine cover on which he appeared. This was next to Peter Sellers on a cover of
Fate Magazine: True Stories of the Strange and Unknown,
which had an article discussing his interest in ESP and psychics.

I was excited to see my grandfather work, but I was over the moon to meet Peter Sellers. He was a movie star! Inspector Clouseau! I loved watching movies—I wanted to be in the movies—but as I've said, I was still on the outside, watching movies as an audience member. I still didn't understand that there was a director, and a crew, and a whole lot of folks behind the scenes who actually
made
a movie. For me, it was still all pictures and posters on my wall, movie stars such as Peter Sellers, and the characters they played, such as Inspector Clouseau. Now my grandfather was going to make me an insider, and that, I realized, was even more fun.

Some of the scenes in
Being There
were shot at a mansion called Biltmore House, in Asheville, North Carolina. My grandfather was staying at a hotel nearby, aptly called the Grand Bohemian. People always ask me, Did your grandfather ever give you advice? And the answer is Yes, he did. Here's the most important thing he taught me. We were at the Grand Bohemian and once again he was ordering food for delivery.

He said, “Illeana, you want to be an actress, I want you to remember one fact. Wherever you are, whatever country you are in, if you don't know what to order from room service, always get the club sandwich. It will always be good.”

I can't tell you how many times I have arrived at a hotel late at night—whether it's in Toronto or Madrid or Shreveport, Louisiana—skimmed through the menu, and thought, Grandpa's right. Order the club sandwich! Best advice I've ever got, and I'm passing it on to you, courtesy of Melvyn Douglas.

We got up at dawn, and someone drove us to what looked to my young eyes like the grandest, most magical castle I had ever seen. Once again, everyone was so friendly! So helpful! My grandfather had said, “Films result from the collective efforts of many human beings.” I was beginning to understand what he meant. My grandfather had a bit of a cold, so someone immediately brought him some tea. A man with long white hair and a crazy beard smiled at me and said to a woman holding a large notebook, “Mel's granddaughter is on set; can we please find a place for her to sit?” This man with the long white hair and crazy beard seemed to be in charge, because when he spoke things happened very quickly. Immediately a director's chair was found for me and then placed next to the woman with the large notebook. She smiled at me and asked, “You're Mel's granddaughter?”

I nodded, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“Have you ever been on a movie set before?”

“No,” I said. “It's a lot of people.”

“It
is
a lot of people,” said the man with the long white hair and the crazy beard.

Of course, years later I would realize that the man with the long white hair and the crazy beard was the director Hal Ashby. All I was interested in was seeing Inspector Clouseau. I never would have dreamed that years later Hal Ashby—with his movies such as
Shampoo
,
Coming Home
, and
Harold and Maude
—would become one of my all-time-favorite directors.

The woman with the notebook spoke to some other women who came over and began fussing over me.

“This is Mel's granddaughter!”

“Oh, isn't that nice!”

“Everyone
loves
your grandfather!”

“Are you going to be an actress?”

The man with the long white hair and a crazy beard called for quiet, and all the hustle and bustle suddenly stopped. “Peter's here,” I heard him say.

Inspector Clouseau! I could barely look up.

At first I didn't even recognize that it was Peter Sellers. Without his Clouseau mustache he looked completely different, not at all like the pictures on my bedroom wall. He was much older, with grayish white hair, and almost bald. They started to rehearse the scene where Peter Sellers as Chance the Gardener is introduced by my grandfather to the president, played by Jack Warden. I couldn't really hear anything, but I watched as Hal Ashby demonstrated to Peter Sellers how he wanted him to shake Jack Warden's hand. There seemed to be some banter about the handshake, and then I saw Peter Sellers bent over laughing, and then the actors, including my grandfather, all started to laugh, too. I couldn't even hear anything, and I truly thought, This is the most exciting thing I have ever seen.

While they rehearsed, a tall man with glasses walked all around them. He looked very serious. He was squinting a lot and adjusting the lights. He would stare at the actors and then stare at the lights. What I remember is how even though it was a rainy day, he was able to create these beautiful columns of light that looked like they were coming through the window. He didn't talk to anyone, and he kept to himself. I would later learn that this was the director of photography, Caleb Deschanel. I had the privilege of working with him years later on the movie
Message in a Bottle
. During that filming, he brought his daughter Zooey on set and said to me, “Can you please talk her out of being an actress?”

“No way,” I said.

As they prepared to shoot the
Being There
scene, more and more crew came out of the shadows and gathered around the actors. The women who were talking to me were hair-and-makeup ladies. They hovered over Peter Sellers. He had a hairpiece that had to be adjusted so that the camera wouldn't pick it up. One woman held up a small mirror for him to inspect. Another woman powdered and patted my grandfather's and Jack Warden's faces. Another man inspected their clothes, brushing off lint and adjusting their ties until they looked perfect. Another man was hiding microphones under the table. I was riveted by the number of people it all required. I loved the sense that everyone had a job to do; yet they were all focused on doing it together. As my grandfather had said: the collective efforts of human beings. To me, it felt like this was a secret place away from the world, where everybody was happy in his or her work.

“Mel, Peter, Jack. Can we put one in the can?” asked Hal Ashby. Then he called, “Action.” My heart skipped a beat. I was on a movie set watching my grandfather film a scene from a movie. The cameras moved in on their dollies, and the crew focused toward the light as the actors brought the scene to life. Every moment was orchestrated by a “Yes. Yes. Perfect. Brilliant. Oh, that's not good” from Hal Ashby. When the scene was over, he called “Cut” and everyone applauded or started to laugh. He jumped out of his chair to go talk to the actors, and then they did the whole thing again. What I remember was that each time they filmed, he would watch the scene completely enthralled, smiling or nodding his head like a proud parent. My grandfather was very happy with his work in the film. “He's a good director,” he said to me on the car ride home. At the time, I didn't understand what that meant. Now I do.

My grandfather could be quite the raconteur, and between scenes he and Jack Warden and Peter Sellers—they had all been in the service—began swapping war stories. I later learned that my grandfather and Peter Sellers had actually met years before when they were both stationed in Burma during World War II. That may have been the main reason my grandfather got the part. Peter Sellers had purchased the rights to the book
Being There
and was trying to get it made. In the 1970s he was walking on the beach in the Malibu Colony and met Hal Ashby. The director had someone else in mind for my grandfather's part, but Peter Sellers was a man who believed in signs and omens. He insisted that having been in the service with my grandfather would add depth to their relationship on-screen. The role of Benjamin Rand had to be played by Melvyn Douglas. Their connection is reflected in the movie.

On the set of
Message in a Bottle,
Caleb Deschanel told me that they were filming a scene in
Being There
in which Sellers and my grandfather walked down a long marble hallway. As they walked side by side, almost touching, their steps became the same until they were walking as one. He pointed out to Ashby that their reflections could be seen on the black marble floor.

Ashby said, “Peter Sellers and Melvyn Douglas are achieving such clarity, such simplicity, it looks like they are walking on water.” He paused and said, “In fact, Gardener
will
walk on water.”

That walk gave him the idea for changing the ending of the film. Instead of Chance walking into the woods—which was the original ending—it would end with Chance walking on water.

By the end of the day I was over my shyness, and I only had one thing on my mind. “Grandpa,” I said, “can I meet Peter Sellers?”

“Oh, Peter,” my grandfather said to him, clearing his throat. “I think you have a fan here. My granddaughter loves,” and he took a pause … “Inspector Clouseau.” He said it with a French accent.

This prompted Peter Sellers, and he immediately went into character as the bumbling Inspector Clouseau. I was in heaven. He began to interrogate me as the suspect of a mass baguette-stealing crime. Everyone was laughing, but then he got sort of serious and asked me, “Can you ride a unicycle?”

And I laughed and said, “No…”

And he said, “Oh, you must. You must learn to ride a unicycle, because it's hard and not everyone can do it.”

The set of
Being There
was a sacred experience. Making a movie—like riding a unicycle—is hard, and not everyone can do it. Whenever I step on a set I try to remember the temple of art that Hal Ashby, Peter Sellers, Jack Warden, and many others, including my grandfather, created for me that day. It made me want to be in those dancing columns of light, where all those eyes were focused, away from the shadows.

When
Being There
was over, my grandfather was given a wrap gift of a Sony television set that had been used in the film and something else. My grandfather showed me this thing, called a Sony Walkman, and said, “This is going to change everything. You can listen to music on it.”

When he was nominated for an Academy Award for his performance he wanted me to attend with him, but my grandmother was sick, and he didn't want to leave her.

I screamed when they called out his name as the winner.

“You won! Grandpa!”

“Yes, I beat out a child and a horse.” He was referring to Justin Henry in
Kramer vs. Kramer
and Mickey Rooney in
The Black Stallion
.

I spent even more time with him on the set of
Ghost Story
. I gathered things were not going well on the set. Although my grandfather never complained, I could see how he winced when yellow pages—meaning new lines to be learned—would arrive late at night at our suite at the Gideon Putnam Hotel, in Saratoga Springs, New York.

My grandmother had passed away, and he was talking about my moving in with him to pursue my acting career.