Easy Street (the Hard Way): A Memoir (23 page)

A lot of people say, “Well, he was 007. He’s no big thing as an actor.” Fuck that shit. He is a fucking master. He is good as anybody I’d
ever seen. In fact, it’s always the ones who look so incredibly natural who are constantly being accused of not acting; those are the ones who are the most sublime of professionals. He is somebody who truly loves what he does and does it as if it is the most important thing on Earth. Completely on top of the fact that he is a complete OG—son of a coal-miner, dirt poor childhood, would never take himself seriously, loves to play golf, loves to party, loves to eat well, loves to have a great drink, and loves, loves, loves to laugh. What a combination. But what an incredible example for a young actor to take away from someone who put in that much time, spent that much time with greats like John Houston, Alfred Hitchcock—you name it. He worked with the greatest of the great, and all of them regarded him highly. His legacy has proven itself out.

My favorite interaction with him occurred in a night scene we shot together. It was about three-fourths of the way through the film and took place in the cemetery adjacent to the monastery, where we bury our own. In the scene Sean’s character is in the process of narrowing down who the killer is, who’s responsible for all these deaths taking place throughout the storyline. He’s at a frenzied point of the film, for he knows that unless he unearths the killer, responsibility will fall on him, thus destroying him.

So he comes upon me in the cemetery in the middle of the night, and I’m chasing rats and killing them for a midnight snack. He’s supposed to interrogate me for clues because he knows this is where I hang out and from this vantage point, chances are I saw the murderer. So it’s this thing in which he’s dealing with this guy who’s mentally challenged and doesn’t quite understand rational thought, and he’s having to speak to me as if I’m some sort of child, but he is desperate for vital information, which, at its very core, is life or death. And I am trying to hide the fact that I’m only there on a rat-hunting mission. He said to me during our first rehearsal, “My God, that’s really funny, that thing you’re doing with the rats. How about I do this when you do that so it’s even funnier?” And suddenly I felt this guy was going full vaudeville on me. He’s a bigger scene stealer than I ever thought he
was—he was trying to turn this into an Abbot and Costello moment. I fuckin’ love this guy!

We started off playing the scene one way, and by the time we were finished with it we were out-hamming each other to the point where it’s completely different from how I imagined it was going to be. It was like these two fucking teenagers having the time of their life, stealing each other’s thunder.

Something else happened on the set of
Name of the Rose
that was one of those solidifiers, completely epiphanous in nature, sublime. It was about five o’clock one afternoon, and we were on the exterior set perched on a hillside about twenty kilometers outside of Roma. And the crew was dashing around, trying to get a shot right at magic hour, that tiny little window between dusk and nightfall when the light is different from any other part of the day, light that is just magical on film. Hence,
magic hour
. But the window to get the shot is tiny, thus preventing us from having too many takes at it. So the pressure was on to get it right and quickly.

Now, I didn’t happen to be in this shot, so I was up there, having a smoke and enjoying the respite. And observing! And the energy that was going into the making of this magic moment to be forever captured on celluloid is insane: there were about 150 adults running around egolessly as if they were kindergartners preparing for the school pageant. Except they probably had around forty-five Oscar nominations between them. There was Dante Ferretti, the production designer; Tonino Delli Colli, director of photography, after having done six Fellini movies; Jean-Jacques Annaud, director; Manlio Rochetti, makeup artist; Gabriella Pescucci, costume designer; Jake Eberts and Bernd Eichinger, producers; Sean Connery and Oscar-winning F. Murray Abraham, who was just coming off of
Amadeus
, and on and on and on—all running around like kids, like their lives depended on it to get one tiny moment in this huge moving mosaic. All of which had sprung out of the imagination of a man with a Nobel Prize. And it hit me: if this ain’t
the
coolest art form ever invented, it’ll do till the real thing comes along. And if I ain’t the luckiest white Jew
to ever make his way to just outside Roma, then I’d like to meet the schmuck who beat me!

Every time I’ve seen Sean since that film he’s been just like family. He’s just incredibly loved, giving his signature big bearhugs. It was clearly one of the most pleasurable collaborations I’ve ever had with anyone. And the fact that it just happened to be Sean Connery makes it all the more magical.

When the film was done I went back to LA to our Hollywood quasi hotel/apartment. The experience of having shot this movie infused me with just enough resolve to feel Hollywood might in fact truly be the place I needed to be. But if I was gonna stay the course, some career adjustments should probably get made. So to balance out the past and pave the way for the future, I called my then current manager with an edict: no more roles in which I am obscured by heavy makeup. That’s when he decided to send me a script for a new TV pilot that was beginning to cast. Curiously it was called
Beauty and the Beast
. I called my manager, saying, “This is for the role of the Beauty, right?”

Mom, Dad, and I visiting my bro playin’ a gig at the Concord Hotel, Catskills, New York, circa 1964.
From the author’s personal collection.

My dad, immersed in what he loved most—and the way he will always be remembered!
From the author’s personal collection.

The gorgeous Opal Stone and yours truly on our wedding day, February 14, 1981.
From the author’s personal collection.

FUCK! I’M MARRIED!
From the author’s personal collection.

The Godfather, Burton Levy, and his pal, Buddy. The two toughest Jews I ever knew.
From the author’s personal collection.

Throwing a little birthday party for my adopted pop, the beautiful and amazing Roy Dotrice! One of those men who are too good to be true!
From the author’s personal collection.

From
The City of Lost Children:
one thing is for certain: I’ll never be in that shape again! The City of Lost Children,
© Twentieth Century Fox. All rights reserved.