Ernie: The Autobiography (14 page)

Or Ernie Borgnine as a lovable butcher.

One person I haven’t mentioned in this process so far was Burt Lancaster. In that analytical brain of his, Burt had figured out what a lot of actors didn’t realize until later: you had more control over your career if you produced your own films. So he teamed with Harold Hecht—who had discovered him—and writer James Hill and formed Hecht-Hill-Lancaster Productions. In addition to
Marty
, which was their first film, they went on to make
Separate Tables, The Sweet Smell of Success
, and a bunch of other great pictures. Burt also had a say in the casting of those movies, and his was a strong voice in favor of casting me. See, Burt was a New York kid and he felt that the part of a New York butcher had to be played by someone who’d lived there. He was also a smart businessman: he knew that casting someone against type was bound to get a lot of publicity, which it did. Even before we shot a frame of film, people were eager to see the movie.

We shot
Marty
at Goldwyn Studios in Hollywood and on the streets of New York City. Betsy Blair was playing Clara, the plain-looking schoolteacher with whom Marty falls in love. Delbert took us and a couple of the other actors to New York, where we rehearsed in a dance hall on 48th Street. Delbert had no intention of spending any more time in Hollywood than he had to.

Delbert had worked out all the moves like he used to do for television. He laid out the interior of the house and the other sets. By the time we got to Hollywood, the sets were familiar to us and we were able to shoot the picture in eighteen days.

That’s just over two weeks to shoot a feature film! It was a lot of work, but it was also good for the actors: we pretty much stayed in character the whole time. When you weren’t acting and learning lines, you were sleeping.

I’ll never forget when we had to dub the scene where I’m walking along the street, talking to Betsy. You couldn’t hear our dialogue because of the noise from the elevated subway. I did the whole speech in one take. When we got through, Delbert just shook his head in amazement. There was no “take two.” I’d given him exactly what he wanted, every letter absolutely perfect. The thing is, it was hell later on when I had to dub all that dialogue in the recording studio. Lip-synching is the hardest thing in the world. Not only do you have to summon all the emotions you felt during the shoot, you have to pay close attention so what you’re saying matches the lip movements. It’s a bear, let me tell you. The one good thing about it is you get a chance to improve on things a little without the pressure of having the crew standing around burning up thousands of dollars an hour.

There were some memorable moments during the filming. We were filming up around Gun Hill Road in the Bronx. I was staying at a hotel in Manhattan, so they sent a car for me. The driver kind of looked at me funny, but didn’t say anything. I figured he was used to driving actors around and was playing it cool. Anyway, it was only the second day of shooting. I got out and asked Paddy Chayevsky and Delbert Mann how the previous day’s shooting went. By now they would have seen the rushes—the unedited film of all the takes from the previous day—and I figured they’d have some reaction. Directors usually did. But Delbert just said, “Oh, it was fine.” Their reticence was probably a good idea. If they had any tweaks it was better to give them on the set, during the performance. If they made generalizations, like saying I was too broad or too mushy, I might overcompensate and go too far in the other direction.

Anyway, I went to the trailer where they had my dressing room and changed my clothes. I started walking back and forth outside, in the street, to soak in the atmosphere of Marty’s world. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see my driver and a bunch of guys standing there.

One of them said, “Hey, are you the guy who killed Frank Sinatra?”

I said, “Yes, that was me, Fatso Judson.”

He said, “Yeah, well what’d you want to do that for?”

I said, “Well, you know, it was a picture. Just a movie.”

Somebody spoke up, in Italian, in the background, “
Battiamo l’inferno da lui
”—“Let’s beat the hell out of him.”

Naturally, understanding Italian, I said, “
Giudichilo di destra là, il mioamico
”—“Hold it right there, my friend.” That caught him a little off guard. I said, “Look, I happen to be Italian myself, and Frank and me, we’re actually good friends. But, you know, if you guys want to start something, I’ll take you on one at a time. I’m not afraid.” They could tell I wasn’t bluffing. In my head, I half-pictured Burt Lancaster—a scrapper himself—delighted at the press we’d get.

They said, “You’re Italian? Borgnine?”

I said, “Yeah! It was Borgnino before my family changed it.”

“Oh, my God,” one of them said, “why didn’t you tell us that?”

From then on I was getting pizza brought to me on the set every day. I had gallons of wine delivered to my dressing room. Dinners were on the house at local restaurants. Man, I tell you, we had a feast every day while we were shooting up around Gun Hill Road.

All the while, though, one holdout continued mumbling, “I still think we ought to beat the shit out of you for what you did to Frank Sinatra.”

I learned a very valuable lesson from that experience, as humorous as it was. Never underestimate the power of the movies—these guys really believed I killed Sinatra. Seeing, to some people, really is believing.

We came back to Hollywood to finish shooting the film, but there was a problem.

No sets.

Everybody was stunned, especially Delbert, who had been told that they were being built. Turns out there were some financial shenanigans attached to the picture. The plan, I later learned, was to shoot half the movie, then put it on the shelf and write it off. That way, the producers could pay themselves a salary, yet not have to show a corporate profit.

But the tax man said no. In order to do that, they had to finish the picture, show it once, and
then
take a loss.

I’m not sure that was good news, but it was better news. We’d get to finish the film.

The producers spent a total of $273,000 making the picture. My salary was $5,000, with the promise of $5,000 more if I signed a seven-year contract with Hecht-Hill-Lancaster. They made that offer before I knew about the game they were playing and I signed. I figured that these guys were making quality films and I’d get to do more than play gunmen in westerns. As it turns out, I never did do a film for them and I never got the extra five grand either.

One day, a few months later, Burt Lancaster had just come back from shooting
The Kentuckian
, his one and only picture as a director. I remember him joking at the time, “I’ve been accused of directing films before. Now I can be blamed.” It was actually a good movie and the screen debut of Walter Matthau—as a villain! Talk about playing against type.

Anyway, Burt asked if I wanted to see
Marty
.

Did I? You bet! I had a lot riding on the film. Whatever its fate, Hollywood has a very active grapevine. People would hear about my work, good or bad.

The screening room was very quiet with just me, my wife, and her mother—who had come to California to stay with us—and several others, including Burt Lancaster and Harold Hecht. We watched the picture and it seemed to play well. Everyone was attentive and, when it was over, they were complimentary. Me? I can’t stand watching myself in motion pictures because I get scared that people will never want to pay good money to see my puss. But at the end, even I felt we’d done a pretty good job.

I didn’t realize what we really had until I saw Burt Lancaster get up and motion for Harold Hecht to follow him. They walked to a corner of the room, where Burt picked him up by the front of his blazer, held him against the wall, and said, “This is the movie you weren’t going to finish? Why the hell didn’t you shoot
more?
”

Burt was enthusiastic about the film, and they put the publicity in the hands of Walter Seltzer, who later went on to become a producer, making some of Chuck Heston’s most popular films, including
The Omega Man
and
Soylent Green
, among many others. He took the picture and held invitational screenings to which he invited bootblacks, barbers, and manicurists—ordinary working folks who he thought would like the picture and talk it up to their friends and coworkers. Little by little, word got around.

Then he took it to New York and he started showing it to the critics. When it opened, everybody on busses, in restaurants, at ballgames would be asking each other, “Hey, have you seen
Marty?
” Speaking of ballgames, Joe DiMaggio went to see
Marty
with the rest of the New York Yankees. Everybody said, “Boy, oh boy, this is great.” It was a sensation with lines around the block, the little movie that could! Back in Hollywood, the producers were making a fortune. Guess they didn’t mind paying the taxes on that.

The distributor, United Artists, was also very happy with me. I started winning all kinds of awards. I won the Golden Globe. I went back to New York to get the award given by all the New York Film Critics.

It was quite a picture for me, but the best was yet to come.

Chapter 17

Oscar and Me

H
ere are a bunch of names and pictures for you to consider.

James Cagney in
Love Me or Leave Me
.

Frank Sinatra in
The Man With the Golden Arm
.

James Dean in
East of Eden
.

Spencer Tracy in
Bad Day at Black Rock
.

And last, but to my mind least, Ernest Borgnine in
Marty
.

Those were the nominees for the Best Actor Oscar for the year 1955. As you know, I’d worked with Spence in
Bad Day at Black Rock
, and he did a great job. I was a fan. Poor James Dean had died in a car crash just a few months before. And Frank—jeez, all I had to do was beat him and those guys from the Bronx would come west and try to beat me.

Not that I thought there was any chance I would win.

You know, it’s a couple of weeks between the time the Oscars are announced and the awards are given. You get a nice certificate saying you’re a nominee and, as I said earlier, it really was flattering to be nominated. I mean, look at that company! But winning was out of the question, and that made it easy for me to weather the wait. Reporters who interviewed me were very complimentary about the film but, like me, they figured I didn’t have a prayer of winning.

On the day of the Oscars I arrived for an early rehearsal. Who knew if I’d ever get there again as a nominee? I wanted to drink it up. Jerry Lewis was the master of ceremonies, and I met Grace Kelly for the first time. A couple of people said to me, “You’re going to win, you’re going to win,” and I knew they were just being kind. I was sure they said the same thing to Spence and Jimmy.

Jerry Lewis was one of the yea-sayers, and he and I made a bet. At this point I should probably interject something about the Oscars. Yes, they’re about merit. Merit is what gets you nominated. After that, though, prior history and playing against type and who you have or haven’t pissed off in this town do hold some sway. So Jerry was not off base when he said, “Tracy’s already won, Cagney’s won, Frank won, and James Dean is gone. I’ll bet you a buck ninety-eight that you’re going to win.”

Why a $1.98? I have no idea, you’d have to ask Jerry.

I said, “Okay.” I went home and counted out 198 pennies and put them in my daughter Nancy’s red sock. I came prepared to lose. If anyone saw the sock, I’m sure they would’ve thought I intended to clobber the winner with my improvised blackjack.

I went home and fell asleep that afternoon. I’ll never forget Rhoda coming into the den and screaming at me, “How can you fall asleep? How can you sleep when you’re up for an Academy Award?”

I said, “Why think about it? I’m not going to win, but I
am
going to be up late.”

She was so mad she could have hit me with a rolling pin. Well, it was time to get dressed, anyway. I had the worst set of tails, too small, too hot, and a little ratty, but it was the last set the rental place had. We drove ourselves in a secondhand Cadillac I had just bought. We parked and walked to the Pantages Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, where the Oscar ceremony was being held. We got to the theater just in time to see Clark Gable and his wife come in. Naturally everybody had to take a picture.

My wife, who was rather stout, said, “Oh, no.”

I pulled her over and said, “Come on, get in here.” So she hid herself behind me a little bit and we took a picture.

When we were done, Gable looked at me and winked and said, “You’re going to make it.”

I said, “Thanks a lot, Mr. Gable.” I was thrilled to death just being in his company, let alone hearing such praise. I was still flying high from that as we took our seats.

Burt Lancaster was across the aisle from me, a couple of seats up. As we sat down he turned and said, “How are you?”

“Good,” I said.

“That’s fine,” he said and smiled knowingly. It was as if he knew I was going to lose and was trying to let me down gently.

Finally, the time came for the Best Actor Award to be named. My poor wife was nervous, but I was sitting there rather placidly. It wasn’t an act. I knew I wasn’t going to win.

Suddenly, my wife was punching me in the side, saying, “They called your name, get up! Ernie,
they called your name!”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

“You won!”

Man, I guess I’d gone off to la-la land. What a way to come back!

I got up and I gave a kiss to her and I saw Burt Lancaster look at me as if to say, “I don’t know how the hell you did it, but it’s yours!”

I walked up and naturally Jerry Lewis came to the steps. I handed him the red sock, paying him off, a buck ninety-eight. He later said he tossed the sock but invested the money and made a small fortune.