Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search for Love and Art (21 page)

“I’m fine, dear.”

“I know you’re fine. You Swedes are always fine, except in Bergman films. I’m very smart, you know—about some things. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“I want you to enjoy your dinner. We’ll talk later.”

We both ordered escargots to begin and the roast chicken with
pommes frites
. I had ordered some red Bordeaux when we first sat down, but I noticed that Gunilla wasn’t drinking any.

“No wine?”

“No, I have a little tummy ache. I’ll just drink some water. It’s nothing.” Then she picked up her glass and tasted the wine, for my sake. “Ooh, yes, it’s very nice.”

She pecked at her food during dinner, like a bird. It was obvious that the “great eater” didn’t feel like eating.

“Some dessert?”

“No, thank you—no, I couldn’t eat another morsel.”

Now I knew there must be something wrong. Gunilla had brought a little carry-on bag with her, and when we got to my room, she put some things away in the bathroom. She came out wearing a flannel nightgown.

“Now . . . let’s have it!” I said. “I’ve been very patient.”

“I’m pregnant, dear.”

I had been afraid that she was going to say that she had a serious illness or that something had happened to one of her daughters. Stupid of me. All the signs were right in front of me. A little panic came into my throat, like a bubble.

“Please don’t think I’m being coarse . . . but am I the father?”

“Yes, dear. I wouldn’t even have told you if I weren’t sure of that. There was no one else.”

She looked so fragile at that moment, unlike any other time I had seen her. How could she not be frightened? I was frightened too. I put my arms around her and hugged her for the longest time.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry—you’re not alone. We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

“I don’t know how it happened. My gynecologist said that it only happens with this new IUD maybe once every 100,000 times.”

“Well, that’s a consolation.”

She laughed. I pulled down the cover and fluffed up the pillows. Then we both got into bed, and I held her.

“I don’t want to make trouble for you,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t say that. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“You’re not angry, dear?”

“Of course not. Please don’t talk like that again. We’ll figure out what’s best. Don’t worry now.”

And I held her until we both fell asleep.

The next morning she gave me her telephone number at the magazine where she worked. I already had her home phone number. She told me what an awful boss she had at work and that “if a man answered—hang up.” I didn’t know she knew that line. We gave her boss the nickname of Pickle Puss. She was leaving that afternoon for Stockholm, which was only a short flight from Paris, and I was meeting my French family at the train station, where we were taking the wagon-lit to Grenoble. Their car was already on the train. From Grenoble we would drive up the mountain to Alpe d’Huez—on the tortuous curved road made famous by the Tour de France. I told Gunilla that I would call her at her home that night—providing I hadn’t fallen off a mountain.

I called Gunilla at 6:00
P.M.

“Let’s talk honestly,” I said. “I know the big question for you must be whether or not to keep the baby. Yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I think you must wonder if I want to get married, before you can make such a decision. Is this what you’re thinking?”

“Yes, dear, I am thinking those things, but I’m also thinking whether or not I want to have another child . . . to raise another child. My girls are growing so fast. It would seem strange to start all this baby business over again.” (She laughed.) “I just don’t know. But I want to know how you feel.”

“Well, I was married once, when I was quite young—I didn’t tell you about that. It was a horrible marriage. And then I was married again to a wonderful woman—I told you about her and her little girl, who is a big girl now. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married again, but I know that if I do . . . if I do . . . I want to make sure that it’s for the right reason. Whatever you decide about the baby, I’ll help you, emotionally, financially . . . you know what I mean . . . but I know that I mustn’t get married again if I don’t think I could be a good father. Does that sound very selfish?”

“No, not at all. I think what you’re saying is wise.”

“When do you have to decide?”

“The doctor says he’d like to know by the end of the week.”

“Have you told your girls yet?”

“No, not yet. I don’t want to tell them until I’m sure what I’m going to do.”

“Okay. We’ll keep talking . . . each evening at six. And if I don’t call, you can talk things over with Pickle Puss.”

She laughed and then said, “Good night, dear.”

The next day I started skiing lessons, using the Graduated Length Method—which meant starting out with tiny skis that were about as long as ice skates. The next day the skis were going to be about two and a half feet long; the next day, three feet. By the end of the week, I was supposed to graduate to about five feet and be able to
glide down the mountain like a champion. When I called Gunilla that night, I told her about my little skis and that I’d probably be a champion by the end of the week. And she told me that she had made the decision to have an abortion.

I called her each night at six. On the day of the abortion, she sounded weak, but in good enough spirits to make me laugh when she told me how she had fooled Pickle Puss by telling him that the reason she couldn’t come to work was because she had to meet a big movie star who was going to give her an exclusive interview about his love life. By the end of the week she was back at work and sounding wonderful, and I was gliding down the mountain like a gazelle, falling on my face only three times.

A famous producer by the name of Hannah Weinstein read an article in a newspaper about a rodeo that was held in a prison. She took the writer, Bruce J. Friedman, for a visit to the prison. When they got back to New York, Bruce wrote the first draft of
Prison Rodeo
. Months later, the title was changed to
Stir Crazy
.

I got a call to meet with Sidney Poitier, who was going to direct the film. To say that Sidney and I got along would be like saying, “Food is good sometimes.” I loved him. I loved his brain, I loved his humor, and I loved his cashmere sweaters. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him when he wasn’t wearing a cashmere sweater—except when he was wearing a tuxedo.

Sidney and Hannah Weinstein and Columbia Pictures wanted
Richard Pryor and me to star in
Stir Crazy
, and after we both agreed to do it, Sidney wanted the script rewritten to accommodate the particular talents of his two stars. He had a black writer friend whom he asked to write a second draft. When he was happy with the structure of the script, he asked me to write my own dialogue, while he wrote Richard’s lines—just as a blueprint—knowing that everything was going to change when Richard and I started doing what he called our “stuff.”

On the first day of filming, Sidney asked Richard and me to sit down on one of the steps of the prison set. He said that this scene—where we both walk into prison for the first time and then flip out—was probably the most difficult acting scene in the movie and that he thought it would be best to do it on the first day of filming, because of all the adrenaline that actors pump out on the first day of any film. Then he said, “I want you both to fly. I’ve got three cameras set up, so you can move anywhere, within reason, without worrying about hitting your marks. Do whatever you want; say whatever comes out, but fly. That’s why you two guys are here . . . to fly.”

And we flew.

Now here’s a question I’ve never been able to answer: why did we both start humming the Laurel and Hardy theme music at the exact same moment at the end of the scene, after we had made a shambles of the prison and the prison guards? Who knows? I suppose silliness has its own method of communication, and Richard and I were certainly silly together—at least on film. The timing of everything we did on-screen came so spontaneously to us that it was
almost
like sexual attraction, in the sense that you don’t analyze why you’re attracted to someone—it’s just chemistry.

But as close as we were on film, it didn’t carry over to our private lives. Richard traveled in his own circle. You could count on
one hand the times that we saw each other when we weren’t working, and even then there was always a work-related reason why we met.

We went to Arizona to film the interiors of
Stir Crazy
in an actual prison. From Tucson, where we all stayed, it was an hour-and-a-half drive to the Arizona State Penitentiary. Sidney used real prisoners as extras. They had all been cleared by the prison authorities to work with us, and each prisoner was paid for every day he worked.

Richard stayed in a private house during our stay in Tucson. Sidney and I stayed at the Arizona Inn. After the first day of filming at the penitentiary, Richard started coming in late. At first it was fifteen minutes, then half an hour, then an hour, then more. I was upset at the insult to the cast and crew and to me, and I thought that Sidney was going to burst because of the time we were losing. But we both knew that if either one of us yelled, Richard would probably just walk out. When Richard would finally arrive on the set, he was all smiles, happy-go-lucky: “How ya doin’?” So Sidney and I put on our happy faces, and the work began.

After a few days, Richard demanded a helicopter to take him to and from work. I didn’t blame him for wanting to avoid traveling the hour and a half each way, but it was unfair to the rest of us, who did have to make that long trip. When we finished our two weeks of filming in Arizona, we went back to the pleasures of working in a Hollywood studio.

One day during our lunch hour in the last week of filming, the Craft Service man handed out slices of watermelon to each of us. Richard and the whole camera crew and I sat together in a big sound studio, talking and joking. Some members of the crew used a piece of watermelon as a Frisbee, and tossed it back and forth to each other. One piece of watermelon landed at Richard’s feet. He
got up and went home. Filming stopped. The next day, Richard called and asked for Sidney and the whole camera crew, and me, to assemble in the studio. When we were all sitting there—like children in a kindergarten class—Richard walked in, introduced us to his aunt or grandmother—I’m not sure which—and then announced that he knew very well what the significance of watermelon was and why that piece of watermelon was specifically thrown at him. He said that he was quitting show business and would not return to this film. He got up and walked out, leaving us stunned. There was no filming the next day.

The day after that, Richard walked in, all smiles, happy-go-lucky: “How ya doin’?” I wasn’t privy to all the negotiations that went on between Columbia and Sidney and Richard’s lawyers, but the camera operator who had thrown the errant piece of watermelon had been fired. We finished the remainder of the film that week. Richard and I hugged good-bye. It’s difficult to continue loving someone who shits on you—but I did, because of the moments of magic that we had shared together.

I assume now that Richard was using drugs during
Stir Crazy
. The whole country found out a short while later that he freebased cocaine and set himself on fire. That doesn’t endear him to me, but at least it helps explain why some of his behavior was not malicious—just crazy.

If Columbia Pictures had not succumbed to Richard’s demands, and if I were a cocky, son-of-a-bitch movie star, and if Sidney Poitier had not held in his rage, there would have been no
Stir Crazy
. For the sake of my psychological health, I should have let out my anger at the time that I was angry. From the point of view of getting the picture made—I’m glad I didn’t. The picture was a great success.