That Guy ... Who Was in That Thing 1 Page #4

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I was 26.

I used to sing in a choir.

So I took some voice lessons

at school.

The last two years of college,

I took acting classes,

and I got a degree in acting.

I thought, "well, I'll go to

graduate school."

That way if I can't get a job

acting, I can teach.

So I went to Rutgers university

to graduate school for three

years, and within nine months

after I got out of graduate

school, I was on Broadway in

"Les Miserables."

I was a swing.

And swings understudy, like,

14 different parts.

Every time somebody went on

vacation in "Les Mis," or there

was, like, an epidemic of

the flu or some stomach virus

on the show, they would call me

in because I knew all the parts.

When I first started working

and there were lot of episodic

TV shows where they needed the

bad kid, the mixed up kid,

the junkie kid, the, you know,

the, you know, wild-eyed kid,

and--and I worked a lot of

those.

I got my first series offer--

Was--was ten years after I left

school.

The phone rings one day,

and it's my uncle, Henry Gibson.

He had called Robert Altman,

who was going to be shooting

a movie in the Seattle area

and told them that I, you know,

that I should call over there

and try to be a stenographer,

a non-speaking role.

Turns out that they do have

a small thing for me.

And I sit there for a month

and the last couple days,

they give me a line.

And so I get my S.A.G. Card.

It was a big deal for me.

In college, I did this thing

where I could take a fly

and then capture it.

And you throw it in a Ziploc

bag and freeze it for 40

seconds, and while it's stunned,

you can tie a note onto its leg.

You can tie a little thread

onto its back leg with a note

like--not unlike those planes

at the beach that say,

you know, "eat at Joe's"

or whatever.

Well, one of the guys, the last

day of the shoot says,

"that's--that's bullshit.

You can't."

And so we go down to craft

service and pop it in.

I have it, and Robert Altman

walks in with this camera

operator, John.

It takes off and flies up

and around the group of us.

And everyone's laughing, like,

"what the hell is this?"

And it lands right on the

French dp's zipper.

And they all fall over laughing.

And the show ends, and I go back

to driving a cab.

And I'm wondering what's going

to happen.

And a month later, the phone

rings, and it's Robert Altman

saying, you know, "I'm doing

this thing, and you should come

to New York.

And--listen, I don't know if

you can act.

But that thing you did with the

fly was so f***ing funny.

I just had to have you around."

About a year after moving to

Chicago, I booked a McDonald's

commercial.

I'm down for variety.

And I didn't tell my pop

about it at all.

Well, I didn't tell anybody.

I just said, "well, I'll let

people catch it as they're

watching TV."

Now, that's happening.

Mmm, mmm.

And my dad calls me, like,

that night and says, "hey,

when did you do a McDonald's

commercial?

I just saw you."

And I said--I said, "well,

I started it about a month ago.

I wanted to surprise you,

you know."

He said, "hey, that's great,

man.

You know, I'm really proud of

you, and, you know,

did they pay you yet?"

And I said, "yeah, they paid

me."

He said, "okay, good."

It's a great showcase.

I was the only guy in the spot.

In fact, that was my demo tape,

was my commercial for, like,

about three years.

Now, that's happening.

I'm the victim of medical

malpractice at birth.

And the nurse used too strong

a solution of silver nitrate

and blinded one kid and

semi-blinded me apparently.

I had 11 operations, which

didn't really fix it properly.

And so I had what was left--

I was left with a milky eye.

So when Korea came, 1950,

I was--we were all called up

for the military.

I failed the medical because

of the eye.

So I went in the military

marine and came ashore and went

into the hospital to have a

checkup, and they said, "you

know, we can do something with

that eye now because we've

discovered this--we got this new

drug called cortisone."

So anyway, to cut a long story

short, they operated.

Um, it worked.

I saw with this eye for the

first time.

I'm seeing with both eyes and

then two weeks later, boom,

blackout.

They fought for four months,

and in the end they said,

"we can't save it.

The whole thing's gone."

And it's wrecking this one.

So they took it out.

And I go into community theater.

And I get bet five pounds

I could not get into the royal

academy of dramatic art.

Got in.

But sailed in apparently.

18 months in, I was offered

a job, my first play.

I got a role in a big movie,

"mommie dearest."

I had auditioned with a nervous

breakdown scene.

Big buildup in the funeral home

waiting to go in to see--

I played the son, Christopher,

going to see the mother in her

coffin.

And they'd never said good-bye,

never said I love you,

I hate you.

And I spent five months waiting

for that--that day of shooting

to come around.

Finally, they're shooting the

scene, they call me in,

and the director says, "okay.

So Christina's going to come

out from behind the curtain,

and you two are just going to

greet each other.

You haven't seen her since--

But you're just gonna go out."

And I said, "well, when do I go

behind and--"

"oh, no, that's a scrub.

No, we cut that months ago."

"What's a scrub?"

Oh, my god.

And I-I was so traumatized

by that in a way.

Well, I ended up moving to

L.A. by greyhound bus.

But I did it, man.

I-I got around without a car

for a year and a half.

Yes, it can be done.

I'm standing out on the bus,

coming home from an audition

probably.

And this young kid walks up to

me, and he says, "hey, man.

How come you didn't buy a car

with your McDonald's money?"

The problem about the pay--

The pay works like this:

It doesn't start off great.

You know, you kind of earn

your way up the ladder.

I got my first job,

and I was like, "oh, that's

it.

I can--I can work.

I'm gonna work."

Like, don't quit your day job

because months between.

I think it's risky to be

an actor because your

livelihood is so unpredictable.

Everyone discouraged me.

I mean, everyone.

I would meet actors, and they'd

be like, "man, you shouldn't

do this.

Don't--you're never gonna make

a living.

I mean, I'm just being polite.

You're just--I wouldn't do it,

you know."

So I say to them again

and again, "is there anything

you can do that you think

would--you would find

interesting and be satisfying

to you?

And if there's anything else,

do that."

Some people can do it,

and some people can't.

And I don't know if you can

teach it or not.

I don't think you can.

I went to graduate school,

and they couldn't teach some of

those people how to act.

To this day, there are very

few people that are actually

positive and encouraging.

When I see a young actor,

all I do--

"go for it, man.

Go for it, do it."

Great.

You may suck, but it doesn't

matter.

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