Ernie: The Autobiography (29 page)

I’ll never forget the first day of shooting. We watched the pilot, Tommy Jones, take our customized helicopter through an amazing series of maneuvers, right there at the studio. He went behind a building and backed it out again and ran it around like an automobile. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

We got along fine for the first few weeks. Then everything started to dribble away. People were showing up late and they weren’t really that anxious to make the thing. It lasted for three seasons, from 1984 to 1986, and it was a chore.

At the beginning, our leading man, Jan-Michael Vincent, was absolutely sensational. I mean, he’d look at a piece of script, one glance, and say, “Okay, let’s go.” He had a photographic memory.

I said, “My God, how can you do that?”

He’d just shrug. Some people got it and some people—like me—have to get hypnotized.

Unfortunately, Jan-Michael was having personal problems that infected the set and brought everyone down. There was drinking, altercations, a whole lot of stuff that really distracted him. After
Airwolf
limped to its finish, the poor guy’s luck got worse. In 1996 he broke his neck in a car accident and messed up his voice, permanently. He also served jail time for probation violations. Last I heard he was living in Mississippi, where he has a horse ranch. I hope he’s happy.

My next TV job was another disappointment: a sequel to
The Dirty Dozen
called
The Dirty Dozen: The Next Mission
. Lee Marvin returned, looking tired and unhappy. He had been the center of a huge legal mess, a historic palimony suit brought by his live-in lady, Michelle Triola. It had taken everything out of him, and he’d taken to drinking heavily. He only made one more movie,
Delta Force
, after this one, before dying of a heart attack in 1987 at the age of sixty-three. We did our work, reprised our roles in this uninspired clambake, and got the hell out of there. I can’t remember a more bittersweet experience on a picture.

Lee, by the way, was Steven Spielberg’s first choice for the role of Quint in
Jaws
. Lee thanked him, but replied that he’d rather go fishing. As great as Robert Shaw was in the picture, I still wonder how
Jaws
might have turned out with Lee as the salty old shark hunter.

I still miss the hell out of him.

Next up was a TV version of
Alice in Wonderland
for Irwin Allen. It was great to see him again, in what proved to be his last hit and his second-to-last film. As usual, he’d assembled quite a cast: Red Buttons, Sammy Davis, Jr., Donald O’Connor, Telly Savalas, Shelley Winters (whom I avoided), Imogene Coca and Sid Caesar, Ringo Starr—just a slew of great names. I ended up locked in a lion suit with a big heavy head. When they took that thing off between shots I was redder than a cooked lobster.

One time I practically fainted inside that thing. They wanted to take me to the hospital.

I said, “I don’t need a hospital. All I need is fresh air.” It was terrible.

Irwin was very concerned and kept making sure I was okay. It was a case of déjà vu for us. During
The Poseidon Adventure
, there was a scene where I was dragging Gene Hackman from the water. I pulled so hard that I actually threw my back out. I couldn’t straighten up, so they took me to the hospital and they took X-rays. Irwin Allen came by, wringing his hands and saying, “Oh my God, we’re lost.”

I said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a slipped disc.”

They put one of those corsets on me and I wore it for about a half hour. I couldn’t breathe, so I said, “To hell with this,” and pulled it off and went back to work. I was fine, though I didn’t pull anyone else from the drink.

Luckily, I only had to stay in the lion suit for two days. Frankly, out there in the hot sun, I don’t know how lions do it!

Chapter 38

And Now for Some Things Completely Different

I
’ve owned a pair of forty-foot bus motor homes—they’re called RVs now. The first one I didn’t like too well because the toilet seat was a little small for my big rump, so when I went up to Oregon on a shoot, I took my trailer. I figured someone up there could remodel it for me. I went to a place in Cottage Grove, Oregon, where they suggested that instead of spending a lot of money to fix it, I take a look at their RVs. So I went in one and the first thing I saw was all the leather inside. It was decorated in a western motif. That appealed to me. The second thing I noticed was the nice, big toilet just to sit on and enjoy. That’s what it’s all about.

I said, “How much?”

Long story short: I probably should have ripped out the toilet of my old bus. This one cost me. But they gave me a good trade-in and I had a new motor home.

As I was leaving, I spotted a man who was pacing up and down in the motor home lot. He looked like a decent sort so I pulled over and said, “What’s the matter?”

He said, “I’m waiting for my rig.”

I said, “Have you had lunch?”

He said, “No.”

I said, “Then let’s go.”

We had lunch, came back, and we’ve been buddies ever since. His name is Hugo Hansen and since then we’ve gone from coast to coast and up and down and across into Canada. We even went to Alaska together. It’s a magnificent way to see our great country.

One day in 1997, a filmmaker from Washington, D.C., named Jeff Krulik called and said, “Listen, I’d like to do a documentary on you.”

At first I wasn’t interested, but the fellow kept insisting.

Finally, I said, “Okay, come on, we’ll do it.”

My son Cris, Hugo, and I started out from Milwaukee after I had done one of the shows there for the Great Circus Parade. Jeff followed us for about three days. He taped me visiting here and there, stopping off for ice cream, and talking to people in towns as we passed through. We even got lost in a cornfield. People are still writing to me about the show called
Ernest Borgnine: On the Bus
. They thought it was a great way to see the U.S., and more important, they loved seeing it through my eyes, hearing me explain what I was seeing and feeling. We planned to do a whole series on my journeys, but it never panned out. It made my early eighties very exciting, I can tell you.

That same year I got a call from a very nice young man named Brad Hall, the producer of an NBC sitcom called
The Single Guy
. He asked if I’d come down to his office and say hello. When you’re an elder statesman in the business like I’ve become, you frequently get calls like that. Since you never know where they lead, I said sure. I took my publicity man, Harry Flynn, and we went to meet Brad Hall.

The receptionist said, “Well, what’s your name?”

I told her. She looked about twelve years old and obviously she had no idea who I was. So we waited and we waited. It must have been about a half hour and finally the girl said, “They’re busy, but they’ll be here right away.”

I finally said, “The hell with it, I won’t wait any longer.”

About an hour later I got a telephone call—it was Brad Hall, and he sounded very stressed out.

“Mr. Borgnine, you’ve got to forgive us, but we were so busy with something else and we just couldn’t get to you. But listen, you’ve got the part, don’t worry.”

I said, “Okay.”

I didn’t know I’d been there
for
a part, but that’s how it is now in Hollywood. When they say they want to “see” you or “meet” you, it means they want you for something other than to say hello.

They wanted me to play a doorman on
The Single Guy
, and I did.

The first time I reported in, everybody was a little bit in awe. Here I was, an Academy Award winner, playing a doorman. I showed them that no matter how good you were before, it’s how good are you now that counts. My feeling is, you don’t rest on your laurels, you keep going. You’re never too old to keep learning and honing your craft.

The Single Guy
had wonderful young actors. The star was Jonathan Silverman, a very talented guy with a fine sense of comic timing. For some reason the network lost interest after forty episodes. But people who watched it still tell me how much they enjoyed it.

Another benefit from being an elder statesman is that people who grew up watching me in pictures like
The Wild Bunch, The Poseidon Adventure
, and
Escape from New York
are now in positions of power. They’re the young Turks running the show.

One day I got a call out of the blue.

“I wonder if we could use Mr. Borgnine’s voice in a feature-length cartoon called
All Dogs Go to Heaven
?”

I was very interested. I hadn’t done any animation voice-overs and I wanted to try.

I signed on and found a whole new legion of fans. I also discovered that doing voice-overs is almost like stealing money, to put it bluntly. You don’t have to memorize anything, there are no costumes or makeup, and usually it’s just you in a recording studio with the director. No temperamental costars, no fuss. It’s a great way to make a living.

The picture was a success and more recently I’ve got a steady gig playing Mermaid Man on
SpongeBob SquarePants
.

One day when I was in Washington, D.C., after I gave a speech at the Washington Press Club, I was asked to meet with a group of little Girl Scouts who had sent a lot of cookies and other things to the troops in Iraq. Would I mind taking a picture with them?

I walked over and someone was telling all these kids that I’m a famous movie star.

I asked them, “How many of you have seen my pictures?”

Nobody raised an arm. So I asked, “How many of you have heard of Mermaid Man on
SpongeBob SquarePants
?”

That was all it took. They couldn’t get enough pictures and autographs. It was wonderful.

Sometimes people walk up to me and say, “Your face is awfully familiar, but who are you?”

I tell them my name is Ernest Borgnine, and they say, “Yes, but who
are
you?”

I tell them. Big smiles usually follow, along with all kinds of compliments.

A generation ago, they would have known me as McHale. A generation before that, as Fatso Judson or Marty. Now it’s Mermaid Man on
SpongeBob SquarePants
that’s made me famous to a new generation, or playing myself in voice-over on
The Simpsons
.

Believe me, I’m not complaining.

Chapter 39

More Special Folk

T
ova and I were shopping one day about 1974 and we decided to have dinner at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. In case you don’t know, that’s the place where Hollywood movers and shakers used to go to be seen and see others. We didn’t call it networking in those days, we called it brown-nosing.

The Polo Lounge is a pretty elegant place with good food, and chances are good you’ll run into old friends there.

We were just leaving when along came John Wayne with his wife Pilar. We knew each other socially a little, and the two ladies got started talking. I thought, “There goes the afternoon.” John and I decided to go into the bar to get a drink. As soon as we had ordered, John said to me, “Ernie, it looks like we’ve known each other forever. How come we’ve never worked together?”

I’d had a couple of drinks, maybe too many, and I said, “We’ve never worked together because you’re afraid to work with good actors.”

I thought he’d fall down. The minute I said it I bit my tongue, but the Duke just laughed uproariously. He knew I was kidding deep down. Something about my manner makes a lot of what I say seem good-natured. We talked about the “old days” and mutual friends and how there were fewer and fewer of us as the years passed.

The next time I saw Duke Wayne was when he was being made a 32nd degree Mason at the House of the Temple on Wilshire Boulevard. Boy, could he take a joke and ribbing with the best of ’em.

He took a lot of flak in his later years because of his open patriotism. I never saw that as a bad thing. Remember, there was an ocean of movement in the other direction during Vietnam and after, with guys like Burt Lancaster and Greg Peck playing for the liberals. America needed guys like the Duke and, later, Chuck Heston to balance the scales.

I’m sorry we never worked together. But I’m sorrier that people didn’t get to know him for the sweet guy he was.

Bob Mitchum was another actor I really liked on camera and off. I got to work with him in a TV movie called
Jake Spanner, Private Eye
in 1989. I always loved the way he handled himself in front of a camera, natural like Cooper but with a little bit of quiet menace to him. I’d watch him like a hawk on that shoot because, believe me, you can learn so much from watching the real pros.

And stories! He had a million of ’em. We’d do a scene and immediately after they said “Cut, print,” he’d start telling great stories about things, like his friendship with Howard Hughes (“he liked me because he never really got to know me”), his time in rehab (“I did it because producers couldn’t get insurance on me otherwise”) and how he made George C. Scott a superstar by turning down
Patton
. (“That picture needed someone who was willing to fight the tanks and big battles for screen time. I didn’t care enough about Patton to do that.”)

I’ll never forget, we were right in the middle of a scene where I’m chasing him or he’s chasing me. Okay—that part I forget. But he had just told me some story or other and, for some reason, we couldn’t stop laughing. That was one of the few times in my career I had to take a time-out before being able to continue.

Before Bob passed away, his son called and asked if I would lend my support toward getting him an honorary Oscar for all his great work. I went to the top guy and said, “Please—here’s a man who doesn’t have long to live. He’s got an amazing body of work. Why can’t we give him the ultimate gift of an Oscar?”

They turned me down. I didn’t know why, but to this day I’m not too happy about it.