Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search for Love and Art (19 page)

I sat, eating my baby chicken with
chipolata,
thinking of how funny my “purple meeting” must have looked to all the people watching, and how thrilled I was to have been enveloped by one of the greatest actors of our time.

After I had my drink with them and said good night to James Baldwin and was kissed by Simone Signoret on both cheeks, I
went outside, walked close to my car, and threw up on the street. It wasn’t about the food. I may act brave and sometimes outrageous—on screen—but in real life I get terribly nervous when I meet the great talents whom I’ve admired for years from afar.

I was in Paris on a Friday when I received a phone call from Laddie telling me about a script he wanted me to do. It was called
Super Chief
. But he needed to know my response immediately, because another actor wanted to do it and had given Fox until Tuesday to decide. Laddie had someone fly to Paris that night in order to hand me the script the next morning. When I was halfway through reading it, I called Laddie and said yes. The title was later changed to
Silver Streak
because the Santa Fe Railroad—which owned the actual Super Chief—thought the movie would give train travel a bad name.
(Au contraire, mon cher.)

Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother
opened at Christmas week in 1975 and was a big hit.

There was one scene in
Silver Streak
that I thought might be its Achilles heel—when I’m in the men’s room putting on shoe polish, trying to pass as black. Before casting started, I told Laddie that I thought there was only one person who could play that scene with me and keep it from being offensive, and that was Richard Pryor. Laddie said, “That’s who we want.”

I met Richard in Calgary, Canada, the night before our first scene together. We were both checking in at the Holiday Inn reception desk when we saw each other. No high jinks, no trying to be funny—just a very warm handshake and an expression of admiration for each other’s work.

The next morning we did our first short scene. There were police cars and helicopters and guns all around us. I jumped into a ditch next to him—as I was directed to do—and Richard said his first line, and I answered. Then he said some line that wasn’t in the script, and I answered with a line that wasn’t in the script. No thinking—just spontaneous reaction. That was the start of our improvisatory relationship on film.

I had never improvised onstage in front of a paying audience—only in class—but in 1968 I worked with Elaine May and Renee Taylor to raise funds for Eugene McCarthy in his quest for the presidency. Renee and I would meet in Elaine’s apartment and, after Elaine set the situation—that we were all at a cocktail party talking about the upcoming election—Elaine turned on her tape recorder and we improvised for ten or fifteen minutes. The next night we met again. Elaine had typed up the best bits from the previous night’s work, showed them to us, turned on her tape recorder, and we improvised again, using those best bits from the night before as signposts. After working this way only three times, we were ready to tour the country, improvising each night at whichever college or home we performed in.

So many beginning actors who want to improvise usually aren’t improvising at all—they’re just trying to think up clever lines, and then the competition sets in with the other actors to see who’s going to come up with the funnier line.

During
Silver Streak
words kept coming out of my mouth in response to things that Richard was saying—things that weren’t in the script. Of course, Richard was used to working this way from all the jobs he had done in clubs and concerts. I don’t say that Richard’s way is without any thought—but his method always has an emotional, rather than intellectual, base. In this regard, Richard
was my teacher: no thinking—just immediate, instinctive response. If it’s no good, the director will cut it out—assuming you have a director who wants you to improvise.

Strasberg used to say that improvisation was just a tool, like a hammer or a screwdriver or a file, to be used only if you’re having trouble in a scene, or if the director thinks that something is wrong in the script. Then you might be asked to improvise, which is to say, “speak other thoughts”—thoughts between the lines—that you, the actor, are feeling in the situation. But of course, “If something isn’t broken, don’t fix it.” Improvising for the sake of improvising usually leads to banalities or irrelevant jokes.

At six o’clock in the evening, on the day before our big “shoe polish scene” in the train station, Richard and I went into the men’s room with our director, Arthur Hiller, to rehearse the next morning’s work. We started going through the lines of the scene—very lightly—and Richard suddenly went somber. He didn’t say what was wrong. Arthur Hiller didn’t notice it, but I knew Richard fairly well by then, and I knew there was something churning inside of him. After the rehearsal, Richard and I walked across the street to the Royal York Hotel, where we were both staying.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Too late.”

“Just tell me what it is.”

“It’s too late, Gene.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m going to hurt a lot of black people.”

“How?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. We can talk to Arthur; I can call Laddie . . . but you have to tell me what it is.”

“You’re a nice guy, Gene, but I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want to do this film. I want to get out of it.”

“I’m in room 1504, Richard. If you change your mind, just call me.”

“Good night, Gene.”

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang.

“This is Richard. You mind if I come down and talk with you?”

Richard came into my room.

“White man comes into the toilet to pee, sees you wearing shoe polish, thinks you’re black, naturally, ’cause that’s how all niggers look.”

“Richard, did you read this scene before we started rehearsing today?”

“I guess I must’ve, but it didn’t mean anything to me then. Sometimes I get somebody to read scenes to me.”

“What would you like the scene to be?”

“Should be a
black
man who comes in to pee, sees you, knows right away you’re white, sees you trying to keep time to the radio music, and says, ‘I don’t know what your problem is, mister—but you gotta keep time.’ ”

“That’s a better scene,” I said.

I picked up the phone and called Arthur Hiller. That night he hired a black actor. The next morning we shot the scene just the way Richard described it, and the movie didn’t shut down.

sullen:
passively resentful, gloomy-tempered, not responding to friendliness or encouragement, melancholy.

If the dictionary had added, “brilliantly funny, often exhibiting warmth and affection” . . . it could have been defining Richard Pryor.

During
Silver Streak
, we would occasionally film in parts of Canada that were high up in the snow, and there would be long waits between shots. While I was waiting in my trailer, with the heater on full blast, I started writing a script from a new idea I had about a baker from Milwaukee, in 1927, who wants to try out for a big Hollywood contest to find the next Rudolph Valentino. He takes his wife to Hollywood, tries out for the part, and his wife runs off with the real Rudolph Valentino. Years earlier I had seen a film by Federico Fellini, starring Alberto Sordi, called
The White Sheik,
which had inspired this idea. I called my script
The World’s Greatest Lover
.

When
Silver Streak
was finished filming, I was in Paris for a week, doing publicity for the opening of
Young Frankenstein
in France. (The French called it
Frankenstein Jr
.) Since I had
The World’s Greatest Lover
on my mind, I decided to call the legal department at 20th Century-Fox to find out if we had to worry about being sued—because my idea was inspired by
The White Sheik
. They told me I would have to have some kind of permission from Fellini—just to play it safe. My dear friend Denise Breton—who worked in Paris doing publicity for Fox—said, “I know Federico—let’s call him up.” She picked up the phone in her office, and two minutes later I heard the voice of the great Fellini.

“I loved your
Frankenstein
. It was a great movie. You are a great actor.”

“Thank you. Signor Fellini, I need—”

“Federico! Please!”

“Thank you. Federico, I have a little problem. I was inspired by
The White Sheik
and wrote a film called
The World’s Greatest Lover,
and even though my story is almost completely different from
yours, the legal department at 20th Century-Fox says I need some kind of permission from you—just in case.”

“Okay, Gene—here’s what you do: on the screen, in the opening titles, you write—in big letters—AND SPECIAL THANKS TO MY FRIEND FEDERICO FELLINI. That will take care of everything.”

I did as he instructed. When the film opened and the audiences saw those lines . . . they laughed, thinking it was my little joke. But it wasn’t a joke. That’s what Federico wanted—that’s what he got. And I didn’t have any legal problems.

I asked the Art Directors’ Union to allow Terry Marsh to come to the United States to design
The World’s Greatest Lover
. With his credentials it wasn’t difficult to get permission.

Terry came to Los Angeles with his wife, Sandra, and when filming was almost finished, they saw a little house in Sherman Oaks and wanted my opinion as to whether they should buy it. It was a simple, but beautiful, small house, in perfect condition. I said, “Take it!” They bought the house and stayed in Los Angeles. Terry designed all of my films, plus
Basic Instinct, Hunt for Red October, Shawshank Redemption. Clear and Present Danger,
and several films for Mel Brooks.

In the Hitchcock film
Suspicion
—which Terry and I once saw together—Cary Grant and Nigel Bruce always call each other “old bean” or “old chap.” Whenever I make a long-distance call to Terry, I always start out by saying, “Hi, old bean,” and he always answers, “How are you, old chap?”

Terry and Sandra Marsh are both American citizens now, and have a beautiful home in California . . . all because one man in London said, “Gene, you can meet any production designer in England that you wish; all I ask is that you see Terry Marsh first. You two are twins.”

S
ilver Streak
was a big hit and was chosen as the Royal Performance for the queen of England and the royal family. I couldn’t go to London because I was filming
The World’s Greatest Lover
at the time, but a month later, when Prince Charles came to visit 20th Century-Fox, I was invited to attend a luncheon in his honor, to be held in the Fox commissary.

As I was walking along the small street that leads from the office buildings to the commissary, a taxi pulled up and I heard someone shouting, “Oh, Mr. Wilder! . . . Mr. Wilder!” I turned and saw Cary Grant stepping out of the taxi. My heart started pounding a little faster, but I didn’t throw up this time, as I did when I met Simone Signoret. Cary Grant walked up to me, and after we shook hands, he said, “I was sailing on the
QE II
to England with my daughter, and on the second day out she said, ‘Dad-dy, I want to see the
Silver Streak
—they’re showing it in the Entertainment Room.’ And I said, ‘No, darling, I don’t go to movies in public.’ And she said, ‘Dad-dy Dad-dy, please—I want to see the
Silver Streak
.’ So I took her to see your film. And then we saw it again the next day, and the next. Tell me something, will you?”

“Of course.”

“Was your film in any way inspired by
North by Northwest
?”

“Absolutely! Collin Higgins, who wrote the film, loved
North by Northwest
. It was one of his favorites. I think he was trying to do his version of it.”

“I thought so,” Mr. Grant said. “It never fails! You take an ordinary chap, like you or me . . .
(An ordinary chap like you or me? Didn’t he ever see a Cary Grant movie?)
. . . put him in trouble way over his head, and then watch him try to squirm out of it. Never fails!”

______

In 1976 I saw John Hurt portray a man named Quentin Crisp in the television dramatization of Mr. Crisp’s book
The Naked Civil Servant
. I thought it was astonishing. I had never heard of Quentin Crisp. When I read that he was performing his own one-man show in Los Angeles, I bought tickets and went to see
An Evening with Quentin Crisp
.

The first act was mildly interesting, but not very exciting. Mr. Crisp had obviously worked out every move and gesture. There was no spontaneity to it. Just before the intermission he invited the audience to fill out cards and ask him any questions they wished. When the short intermission was over, he came back onstage and started reading the cards. Then he came to this one: “Mr. Crisp, what right do I have to enjoy my life when there are so many people all over the world who are starving and in pain?”