I'm Not Dead... Yet! (8 page)

Valuable Life Lesson:
“If you love somebody, set them free.”

I had the honor of working with the team
of George Schaefer (director), James Prideaux (playwright) and the incomparable Julie Harris in the public television production of
The Last Of Mrs. Lincoln
.

Before the rehearsal process was to begin, the actors sat around a table ready to read the two-hour version of the play. We had our manuscripts—thick, densely and beautifully written manuscripts—all open to page one. I glanced up at the remarkable talent, with Julie Harris appropriately sitting at the head of the table. George Schaefer rubbed his hands together and said, “Let’s begin. Page one.”

I noticed that Ms. Harris had not opened her manuscript. It just sat in front of her. Unopened. Closed. And she had what seemed like 75 percent of the dialogue in the play.

On Mr. Schaefer’s command, Ms. Harris began. We all sat stunned—for two hours we read through the manuscript and Ms. Harris, the consummate pro, never once opened her script. Never once did she search for her lines. Never once did she falter, stutter, hunt for a sentence. She commanded the room, the group, the play—giving an astonishing performance, at times rising and ‘playing the scene’ at full speed.

When the read was over, Mr. Schaefer nodded mischievously, then gave us a five minute break. Mr. Schaefer, Ms. Harris and Mr. Prideaux gathered to discuss the play as the rest of us sat ashen. Ms. Harris had set the most exquisite precedent. The following day, none of us needed our manuscripts. We were all off book. ‘Old school.’

One of the recurring themes in my career happened during this project. Hearing ‘the call of the wild’ (a basketball bouncing) at a playground the Sunday before we began shooting, I joined in a street game of basketball—I was always looking for the best ballplayers in L.A. I should have known better. As usual, because I could jump so high for a skinny white kid, I came down on someone’s foot and snap—I broke my ankle. I was sure I had just eliminated myself from the play with Julie Harris, but when George Schaefer found out, he smiled and said, “Luckily, you’re playing Tad Lincoln. He was a very sickly lad. I think I’ll put you in a wheelchair.” I did the entire play sitting in a wheelchair—and was not fired by Mr. Schaefer. This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

Valuable Life Lesson:
You can never be too prepared. There may/will/should be someone who is more professional and prepared than you. ‘Do your homework!’ Oh, and stop playing basketball during productions. (I followed the first lesson to a “T.” But I could never stay away from a basketball court—no matter what I was working on.)

In
The Death of Richie
, the story has it that Richie is so out of control on drugs that his father eventually shoots and kills his own son. By this time I was as method as could be, but I refused to take any drug, not even an aspirin. At first, the director didn’t believe that I had the rage in me to pull off the part, so I threw down my script and started acting with him. He seemed to be intrigued until I grabbed him, tore his shirt and threw him up against the wall. I got the part.

Eileen Brennan would play my mother; Academy Award-winning actor Rod Steiger was supposed to play my father (which is why I wanted the part so desperately), but the Friday before filming began Mr. Steiger had emergency open-heart surgery, and Ben Gazzara was hired in his place.

During the filming of
Richie
I found that if I starved myself and came to work dehydrated I could spin around and around right before the director called “Action” and be so sick and dizzy that I looked exactly like a drug addict (I also put Tabasco Sauce in my eyes to make them look red and bloodshot). But in one scene Ben Gazzara improvised—and punched me in the face. I felt the entire crew suddenly freeze. I stayed in character and finally the scene was over. The director asked for another take. I went to my mark and began my spinning routine and on “Action” the scene was off to another dynamic beginning. Once again, Mr. Gazzara threw a punch that landed squarely on my chin—this time almost knocking me out—but I stayed in the moment and finished the scene.

When the director asked for Take #3, a member of the crew stepped forward and said, “Mr. Gazarra, if you hit Robby one more time, you’ll have to deal with me.” And then another crew member stepped forward and said, “And me.” “And me.” “And me.”

Valuable Life Lesson:
Make friends with the crew. (And don’t put Tabasco Sauce in your eyes.)

Francis Ford Coppola (Part II)

I mention
Apocalypse Now
not only
because it was the second film I
didn’t
make with Francis Ford Coppola, but because I went through an infamous audition—where the director and a camera operator went around the room filled with stars of all ages and had us improvise on the spot. I have never seen an audition held this way. Although he said he liked my work, Mr. Coppola told us the cast would be announced in a full-page ad in
Variety
and
The Hollywood Reporter
. I remember going to the news stand as if I was running to a bulletin board in school to see if I made the basketball team. And there was my name—I was going to be in
Apocalypse Now!

For the usual insurance purposes, I was sent to see a doctor who was so concerned with the diseases we might catch in the Philippines that he didn’t even listen to my heart. I did push-ups and sit-ups in his office as he was talking to me. I told him I couldn’t allow even a moment to go by without getting more buff for the part. He looked at me like I was crazy (albeit in shape) and gave me vaccinations and horse pills for every possible disease, and malaria pills the size of Georgia. I spent what I thought was to be my last night in the U.S.A. with the gorgeous and gorgeous and did I say gorgeous Melanie Griffith, but I was so full of meds and anti-anything-Philippine pills that I ‘couldn’t perform’ so we spent the night laughing ourselves to sleep. It was actually quite magical.

The next morning I awoke to the news that there had been a typhoon in the Philippines and all the sets were destroyed. Francis Ford Coppola’s film would be delayed for months.

But this time the weather was on my side...

I was nineteen,
living in a 165 dollar a month apartment in Culver City where I sat at my small dining table and hand-wrote the first draft of
One On One
on a yellow legal pad. It was merely a year after my high school English teacher told me I would never amount to anything as a writer.

Luckily, she was wrong—but I hope every student who is told that they can’t accomplish something by a teacher takes my story to heart. Because the next thing to happen was a phone call from my agent and friend, Rick Nicita, saying “Warner Brothers bought your script! They want to make
One On One
.” I remember looking down and realizing I was so excited I was standing on the table!

I had to call my father, Jerry Segal, who was my co-writer. After the first few drafts, I realized it needed the help of a pro—and what could be better than to sell a script to Hollywood with your father as your partner? So we worked together, and my ideas coupled with his expertise and writing skills, resulted in a draft that was practically a shooting script.

Suddenly there was a real dilemma. I had been hired to be in
Apocalypse Now
, but this was my chance to make my own film. For the very first time in my career, I felt ‘self-worth.’ I was still a teenager, and now I was getting the opportunity to artistically express myself—to an audience of millions. And I got to play basketball too.

Rick made the deal: I would ‘buy out’ of my contract for
Apocalypse Now
. Unfortunately, Mr. Coppola was going through hell in the destructive typhoon weather of the Philippines and was quoted as saying “He is dead to me.” Not exactly the way I wanted to leave things with one of the best directors in the film business… and someone I respected and liked as a man.

One On One
was the first film to expose the inequities of the college sports system: how players are exploited and abused. I believe that if a player is going to take on the dual challenge of college studies and athletics—and perform like a circus animal in front of a stadium filled with 100,000 fans, and to millions of people watching on TV—these student athletes should get two things in return: they should benefit from the enormous income that is pouring into the school and the NCAA; and after their playing days are over they should have the right to return to college on a full scholarship to complete their degree. After unexpected injuries, these students can go from hero to has-been in a single tackle, rebound, or swing of the bat… They deserve a shot at success in life after sports.

We scoured L.A. and N.Y. for an actress to play Henry Steele’s tutor and love interest. No one was right, at least not for me. Then Annette O’Toole walked into the office to read a scene with me. She was stunning—her acting was impeccable and her demeanor and presence was wistful yet never compromised the strength of the character she played. She was
perfect
.

But the studio and my director, Lamont Johnson, wanted to consider other names. I fought for the only actress I could ever see playing the part—and a big part of the success of
One On One
was her performance. I love it when pro ballplayers talk about the film. First they say: “There was some really good ball playing in that film;” then: “But that Annette O’Toole? Oh my God! Why couldn’t I have had a tutor like her?”

We hired fantastic ballplayers; even at lunch we were playing ball. I had the idea to wear a helmet camera for the scene when Henry is high on uppers given to him by his roommate. Lo and behold, the director let me wear it and the footage was priceless.
My father and I would sometimes do rewrites on the gym floor. I was in heaven—I was making a film and my dad was my partner. We had subverted the system! No big Hollywood writers or stars—just us. It was so rare at that time in the business. Every day I had to pinch myself—I was doing all of the things I loved to do, and sharing it all with my father.

One On One
was a great shoot, but a physically demanding one. I also had to set an example for the other ballplayers who had never been in a film, so I was sprinting back to the number one position, ready for the next take without saying a word. Wouldn’t you know it—they followed me and we became a true team. I loved those guys. Our director, Lamont Johnson, was a crotchety guy who really knew what he was doing. I loved him like an uncle. I adored his wisdom, his experience. My nemesis in the film, G.D. Spradlin, stayed in character and nearly drove my dad and me crazy with his ‘improvisations,’ but he eventually read our dialogue as written, and his
dislikability
actually made him the perfect foil for me.

I had heard of a basketball team using ballet lessons to teach their ballplayers grace—to make them less clumsy, clunky and cumbersome on the court. This was a scene I couldn’t pass up! So I took my dad and Lamont Johnson aside and we figured out how to shoot the team taking a ballet lesson—without our ballplayers being aware of what was going on. The ‘ballet scene’ works because it’s spontaneous, and I cherish the honest and comic reactions of the athletes in our film.

When
One On One
first came out, we were placed in second and third-tier movie houses because Warner Bros. had two blockbusters in the best theaters:
Viva Knievel!
and
The Exorcist Part II
, starring Richard Burton and Louise Fletcher. I was in the limo with Ms. Fletcher (a wonderful actor, whom I later directed in the HBO series
Dream On
), piggy-backing the publicity for both our films, which opened on the same day in Dallas, Texas. We were silently reading our reviews.
One On One
received glowing reviews.
Exorcist II
was not only ripped to shreds, one review demanded that Louise Fletcher give back her Oscar for
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
. The scene in that car was a microcosm of the entire industry from an actor’s point of view. I wasn’t foolish enough to bask in my good reviews. I knew my day would come. No one is immune.

Because of their failure to attract audiences, both ‘blockbusters’ were pulled and Warner Bros. placed
One On One
in the best theaters all around the country. Our little film took off like a NASA rocket—ascending to heights far beyond studio expectations. We had a hit!

We were in Boston doing publicity for
One On One
, when I got a message that Red Auerbach (General Manager of the Celtics) wanted to meet me in his office. I was ecstatic. He told me he had never seen a basketball film before where the lead could actually
play
. Mr. Auerbach said he had an eagle eye for talent, and believed in my abilities to such an extent that he invited me to rookie camp. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.

Everyone thought I was insane to consider going to rookie camp with the Celtics—didn’t I realize how lucky I was to be on a roll in the land of Hollywood? The next thing that happened was obvious: I got a film. To this day, missing that opportunity is one of my few regrets.

One of the hundreds of functions I had to attend was for the North American Theater Owners, who were giving me an award as ‘Best New Talent’ (a string of my films were making them a fortune). I was introduced to the man who ran all of the Loews Theaters. We were eating watermelon, and while the president of the theater chain was talking to me, I swallowed a watermelon seed and it went down my throat ‘the wrong way.’ My nose began to tickle and suddenly I had an unstoppable urge to sneeze. And I did. To everyone’s horror, the seed shot out of my nose and landed on the president’s plate. The liaison from Warner Bros. was apoplectic. The president of the Loews’ Theater chain was at a loss for words—and I couldn’t stop laughing as I apologized, over and over again. I started to think of my nose as a weapon. What else could I shoot out of my nose?