Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search for Love and Art (16 page)

1. “Did anyone offer you tea or coffee, Gene?”

2. “Do you know where to go for lunch?”

3. “By the way—if you don’t like any of these lines, just change them to what you’d like to say.”

It seemed an extraordinary thing to say. As we worked, I realized that Woody’s great confidence was not that he knew he’d chosen the right actor, but that the
event
he’d written was more important than the particular words the actor used to bring that event to life.

After Woody’s film I came back to New York and made appointments to see Margie on what used to be our regular Tuesdays and
Thursdays. The afternoon before our first appointment, she called me at home, which was rare, to say that she needed to change our appointment to a later date. I said, “Well, I’ll try to hold out that long.” She answered with something like, “Well, it’ll give me a break from having to listen to you when you get boring.”

I thought about that sentence for the rest of the day. Her remark irritated me so much that I decided I wasn’t going to go back to her—and then my good sense told me that if I had learned anything from Margie in the last seven years, it was to deal with a problem at the time it happens, not to hide it away in the corner of my mind, to noodle over for weeks and months.

I walked into her office on the morning she requested.

“I didn’t think you’d show up today—after what I said to you on the phone.”

“I didn’t intend to come back, but I thought that not showing up wasn’t a very healthy way to end a relationship. I came to tell you in person that I’m not coming back.”

“Sit down, Gene . . . please.”

I sat down, facing her.

“I asked myself why on earth I said that to you. After I hung up I felt sure you wouldn’t come back. Then I realized that it was my way of letting go of you.”

“You were letting go of
me
?”

“That’s right. The therapist has to let go, too, you know—not just the patient. It was time . . . but I didn’t realize it until I insulted you that way. You don’t need me anymore, Gene.”

I was very touched. We talked for the rest of the hour. I asked some questions that I had put off for a long time, concerning my marriage and a growing sadness I was experiencing.

“Gene . . . when you told me how much you loved Mary Jo, I said, ‘I think she’s a terrific woman, but are you sure you want to get married?’ ”

“I still don’t know what that means.”

“It means that you were a twenty-three-year-old semivirgin who got into a hopeless marriage with Mary because some friend of yours got his girlfriend pregnant. Yes?”

“. . . Yes.”

“And a few minutes after you got your divorce from Mary you fall in love with Mary Jo, who may or may not be the right person for you—I don’t know—but you immediately start to feel guilty if you don’t ask Jo to marry you because her daughter starts calling you ‘Daddy.’ Yes?”

“Yes.”

“What you do about your marriage is your business—now tell me about your Demon.”

“My Demon is dead. I drove a stake through his heart—he’ll never come back. I don’t question my own goodness anymore.”

“Do you know why the Demon came in the first place?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me.”

“What right did I have to be happy—sexually or any other way—if my mother was suffering every day of her life? I think the Demon timed his arrival very cleverly, just when my hormones were screaming to be free. I prayed my guts out instead of letting my sex out. And my anger.”

Margie was silent for a few moments. Then she gave me a soft smile.

“You know, Gene . . . just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean you can’t call me or write, or come to see me if you ever need help with something.”

I looked at my watch.

“Time’s up, Margie.”

I got up, and we hugged each other. I whispered, “Thank you.”

Westhampton Beach, Long Island, is deserted in the winter and spring. I thought it would be nice to go there in the off-season, on weekends and during school vacations, so I rented a small cottage.

The day before Valentine’s Day Katie and I had just gotten back from grocery shopping and were about to get out of the car, but she looked so sad and just sat still. I asked her what she’d like for Valentine’s Day, knowing that the answer would be some kind of chocolate.

“I want a five-pound box of chocolates.”

I started to laugh, until I saw that she was deadly serious.

“Five pounds! Honey, five pounds would be enough for—”

“If it isn’t five pounds, don’t bother. I don’t want any!”

“You mean, if I got you a one pound box of beautiful chocolates you’d throw it away?”

“Yes. Or two pounds, or three pounds, or four pounds.” Her eyes started tearing.

“I WANT FIVE POUNDS—or else don’t get me anything!”

Katie got out of her car and headed for the front door. I caught up with her and hugged her. I tried to kiss her, but she pulled her face away.

“I can’t give you five pounds of chocolate, Katie—I wouldn’t be a good father if I did that.”

“You’re not my real father anyway.”

She knew exactly where to place the dagger. I just stared at her. She burst into tears and cried out, “Hit me! For God’s sake, hit me—before it’s too late.”

The next day I bought two heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, one for Jo and one for Katie—
one pound each
. Katie ate her chocolates
as if we had never had that horrific conversation, but the phrase “before it’s too late” stayed with me. It was a cry for help; I understood that. But I was afraid it was also a cry of anger that could take her away from me.

During Katie’s Easter vacation we went to Westhampton Beach for several days. The memory of
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex
was so happy that it was making me sad—wondering if I would ever be asked to work in something wonderful again.

After lunch one afternoon I walked up to my bedroom with a yellow legal pad and a blue felt pen. At the top of the page, I wrote,
Young Frankenstein
, and then wrote two pages of what might happen to me if I were the great grandson of Beaufort von Frankenstein and was called to Transylvania because I had just inherited the Frankenstein estate.

Why the word “Young” before the name “Frankenstein”? It came out almost unconsciously, but when I asked myself, later, where
that thought came from, I remembered Mickey Rooney in the film
Young Edison
, which I saw when I was a boy. Then I remembered a more recent clue: Anne Bancroft had made a film called
Young Winston
.

That evening I called Mel Brooks in New York and told him my little Frankenstein scenario. “Cute,” he said. “That’s cute.” But that was all he said.

When summer came, I rented a small house on the bay in Westhampton Beach. On our first Saturday night, Jo and Katie and I watched a summer replacement television show called
The Marty Feldman Comedy Machine
. After seeing it I felt like saying, “Who was that masked rider?” but instead I said, “Who is that funny man with the strange eyes?”

A week later, I received a call from my California agent, Mike Medavoy (this was before he became a famous mogul). He said, “How about a film with you and Peter Boyle and Marty Feldman?”

“How did you come up with that idea?” I asked.

“Because I now represent you and Peter and Marty. Have you got anything?”

“Well, that’s a wonderful, artistic reason to make a movie, but, as it happens, I think I do have something.”

“What?”

“No, I want to work on it for another day. I’ll send it to you.”

That night—inspired by having just seen Marty Feldman on television—I wrote a scene that takes place at Transylvania Station, where Igor and Frederick meet for the first time, almost verbatim the way it was later filmed. I sent off my four typewritten pages to Medavoy. He called two days later.

“I think I can sell this. How about Mel Brooks directing?”

I told Mike that I didn’t think Mel would direct anything that he hadn’t conceived. The next day, I got a call from Mel.

“What are you getting me into?”

“Nothing you don’t want to get into.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know—I’m telling you, I don’t know.”

The next day, Mike called.

“Mel said yes. I made the deal. You’re supposed to write and then send Mel every twenty pages. Congratulations!”

Mel had spent two years working on
The Producers
, for which he received the total sum of fifty thousand dollars. Then he spent two years working on
The Twelve Chairs
, for which he also received a total sum of fifty thousand dollars. Both films failed at the box office. If either one of those films had been a commercial success, I don’t believe Mel would have said yes to
Young Frankenstein
. Lucky me! Lucky Mel!

Medavoy was the one who got me into writing. On my day off, when I was filming with Woody, Medavoy and I literally bumped into each other on a street corner in Beverly Hills—in front of a clothing store called Carrol and Co.—and he asked me if I’d like to have tea with him someday.

“Is that your way of saying ‘I’d like to steal you away from whoever’s representing you in California and have you sign with me’?”

“. . . Yeah,” he said. “You should be writing your own stuff.”

Because of that accidental bump on the street corner, Mike Medavoy became my California agent. A few months later, after Woody’s film, Mike called me in Westhampton Beach and said, “How about a film with you, Peter Boyle, and Marty Feldman?” That’s Hollywood.

E
verything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex
came out in 1973 and was a big success. Again I thought of Gary Cooper’s quote: “I need one movie out of three.”

Mel was in California doing preproduction on a film he had
lined up before
Young Frankenstein;
it was called
Black Bart
. The title was later changed to
Blazing Saddles
. He sent me a copy of the script.

When Mel had a week off, he came to New York and wanted to have one working session on
Young Frank
, as he always called it. He came to my place, and we spent forty-five minutes making coffee and discussing the merits of different brands while we ate little
rugelach
s. This was a ritual with Mel before anything serious could be discussed. (He preferred Kentucky Blue Mountain coffee, and I preferred Columbian White Star.)

While we were having our coffee and
rugelach
s, Mel asked me to play the part of Hedley Lamar in
Black Bart
. I said, “Oh Mel, I’m all wrong for that part—but how about Jim, the Waco Kid?”

“No, no, that’s Anne’s favorite part, too. No, I need an older guy—someone who could look like an over-the-hill alcoholic. I’m trying to get Dan Dailey.”

“Mel, there are so many wonderful comics who would be much funnier than I could ever be playing Hedley Lamar.”

And that was the end of my being in
Blazing Saddles
. (Or so I thought.)

When coffee matters were finished, we went into my study and talked for about an hour about
Frankenstein
. The next day Mel took off for Los Angeles to start filming
Blazing Saddles
, and I started writing
Young Frankenstein
.

At the top of the first page of
Young Frankenstein
, I wrote, “In black & white.” I didn’t know if I had a chance in hell of seeing that dream realized—since most studios insisted that films be
made in color—but I thought that if Mel fought for it hard enough, we might have a chance.

While I was writing, I realized that we needed a really frightening woman to open the huge door of the Frankenstein castle. I tried to think of someone from real life, or film, to use as a model. The woman who scared me the most from all the movies I had seen in my youth was Mrs. Danvers in Hitchcock’s
Rebecca
. Mrs. Danvers was played by Judith Anderson—the woman who also scared me when I was fifteen and went to see her in
Medea
.

Now I needed a good name for my Mrs. Danvers, so I took out a book of letters written to and from Sigmund Freud and found that someone named BLUCHER had written to Freud. After
Young Frankenstein
opened and was such a big success, people asked me if I knew that the word
blucher
in German means “glue.” But the truth is, I never dreamed that the name had any meaning—I just liked the sound of it . . . a name that might frighten the horses when they heard it. (The horses knew what I didn’t.)

After I finished about half of the script, I left for Los Angeles to do the film
Rhinoceros
, with Zero Mostel. I showed Mel the fifty-eight pages. He just said, “Okay. Now let’s talk about what happens next.” I assumed he liked the pages, but I wasn’t sure. For about an hour we discussed what might happen next. Then we said good-bye.