by Joel Grey
“It’s like dancing with fifteen old Germans,” Liza said with a shriek. Then I shrieked. Then we both shrieked.
I adored her. From the beginning, it was a we’re-in-this-together relationship. I had known Liza before we arrived in Germany, but just as with Bob, only tangentially. I was bowled over when I saw her perform in a nightclub act at the Coconut Grove and on Broadway in Flora the Red Menace. And we would see each other socially from time to time, never failing to find something to laugh at.
Now, however, we were spending practically all day working and every night letting go. Each day started with an early-morning drive to the set from our hotel—the Residenz in Munich, where all the Americans were put up. My morning started a little earlier than Liza’s. I waited in the lobby for her since she always seemed to need a little more time. Her faithful secretary, Deanna Wemble, would ring me in the lobby to say, “Liza will be right down.” The cheerful English assistant, who rarely left the star’s side, was the messenger of all “Minnelli stuff.”
I understood Deanna’s instinct to protect Liza. Yes, it was her job, but there was something about Liza that invited you to take care of her. I relished our morning rides to the studio, during which she would often fall asleep on my shoulder. I would have been upset to disturb her even on the morning that the drab backdrop of Munich’s outskirts was transformed by Cat Stevens’s brand-new song “Morning Has Broken” playing on a German radio station. The song always reminds me of our odyssey and closeness. When we neared the studio, I would give her a whisper, as you would a child.
Liza retained an air of vulnerability despite the fact that her parents were the great Judy Garland and the renowned director Vincente Minnelli, and that she had been performing professionally since the age of seventeen. By the time we found ourselves in Germany, her first marriage, to Peter Allen, had ended, even though they didn’t officially divorce until years later.
We talked about her early life in Hollywood and my obsession with the theater over beer, schnapps, and dinner, which we shared most every night. (We often went to an Italian restaurant that Mussolini had apparently frequented; the food was great, even if the history was awful.) But we didn’t have much energy to spend on anything other than the film we were making.
I totally admired Bob’s relentless attention to detail and had just as high a bar for my own performance. I worked with a gifted dialogue coach, Osman Ragheb, so that my accent and dialect would be not just German but Berlinish, which turned out to be very specific (not unlike a Brooklyn accent vs. a Midwestern one). I had always loved languages, and Osman’s coaching was so precise that I was even able to convince the German extras who had been hired to play the denizens of the Kit Kat Klub that I was a German actor.
From the outset, the German crew was leery that we were making a film that would continue to demonize their generation by holding them responsible for the sins of their fathers. The atmosphere at the studio was tense on both sides. At the end of the first week, one night after the last shot, the producers sent beer to the German crew as a gesture. Getting a bit drunk, as crews can, they all started spontaneously to sing a beer-hall song in the style of “Deutschland über Alles.” It was upsetting and brought to mind the beer-garden scene from the show in which German youth lead the charge in singing “Tomorrow Belongs to Me.”
When shooting the audience members in the Kit Kat Klub, it was important that the extras playing them be actually relaxed and having a good time so that their expressions would be authentic. One day before a take, I asked assistant director Wolfgang Glattes to give me a Berlin expression that would crack them up. I tried it out with my studied accent, and it worked like a charm. From that day on, they never doubted my veracity: “Of course, he’s German. He’s so funny.” And therefore when the Emcee was entertaining the patrons of the Kit Kat Klub, the extras playing them were truly laughing. Amazingly enough, they took me, Mickey Katz’s son from Cleveland, as one of their own.
For me the turning point in making Cabaret into a film came when, after six weeks of rehearsing, prerecording the numbers, and fine-tuning them once more, we actually started shooting. At that time, everyone involved went to the dailies to see on-screen what we had rehearsed for weeks, and it looked amazing, like nothing any of us had ever seen. Whatever it is that makes magic was doing its job brilliantly. It was all there: cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth’s perfect lighting; authentic, compelling performances by Liza, me, and the Kit Kat Girls; and, of course, Bob’s genius and vision. From that moment on, I had only the deepest respect for him as an artist. The struggle had been worth it. More than worth it.
Even though there always remained some reserve between us, Bob and I began to let down our guard. Having grown up in the world of burlesque and vaudeville (one of six children born to a vaudevillian father, Bob was a regular in his hometown Chicago’s burlesque scene by the time he was in high school). He knew his way around sleaze and appreciated the blending of the outrageous and the sinister that I brought to the Emcee. He nicknamed me Mr. Porno. I knew he was pleased with a take when I saw a tiny smile on his face. That was like Fosse fireworks, an Oscar from Bobby.
Bob opened up somewhat to my ideas, but he was still pretty controlling whenever I tried to change even a single element of his direction: No variations, please! That lasted until the very last scene we shot. It was one with two women mud-wrestling on the stage of the Kit Kat Klub, and it seemed to take forever. As if it weren’t degrading enough for the two zaftig actresses to be down and dirty, they were also bleeding, because of sharp stones mistakenly left in the mud. We had already done many takes, shooting way past midnight, when Bob announced that we would do “just one more” before wrapping for the night. We were so exhausted that we didn’t know if we had one more take in us. At the very end of the last take, I, as the Emcee and the wrestling match’s gleeful referee, bent down, put some mud on my right forefinger, and smeared it across my upper lip. There was no particular button to this scene or indication for me to make the Hitler mustache and then give the “Heil Hitler” salute; it just popped into my head, so I did it. Bob screamed, “Cut!” Walking toward me in a rage, he asked, “Why did you do that?”
“That’s how I work,” I said calmly. “In that moment it felt like what I, as the Emcee, would do.”
He walked off furious, and Wolfgang shouted, “That’s a wrap!”
I was just glad to be done.
The next day, when the cast, crew, and extras were gathered to say goodbye, Wolfgang made a special announcement, bidding “alles sagen auf Wiedersehen,” which meant that everyone should say goodbye to the Emcee, “Herr Joel Grey, who leaves us tonight for his home in New York. He is an esteemed American actor, and we are so grateful he joined us for this film here in Munich.” Big silence. What? I wasn’t German? I wasn’t one of them? Their sense of betrayal was palpable. They had come to accept me as one of their own, and their wonderful reactions for the camera as audience members had been rich, broad, and wholly authentic.
I felt guilty for having tricked them, but the extras weren’t the only ones who wound up feeling betrayed. Many months later, Bob finished his cut of Cabaret and showed it for the first time. I was excited and of course nervous as the lights went down in the anonymous LA screening room, because the footage I had seen from the dailies in Munich was so good. Geoffrey, who had done amazing cinematography on Barry Lyndon, was one of my favorite people involved with the film. He was a quiet, classy, good-looking man, and I could talk to him about anything. His vision was unique, and the small pieces of the musical numbers we filmed in Munich that I had seen were incredible.
So when in that screening room I watched all the work I had done cut into a million pieces, I was stunned to the point of tears. In Bob’s first cut of the film, he used only snippets of the musical numbers. He had reduced the numbers to “ins and outs” so that they acted only as transitions or the glue between scenes. Not a single one was anywhere close to complete. That had to be one of
the worst moments of my career.
What happened? Why? Perhaps it was total paranoia that was maybe connected to the idea that Liza should be the only star of the movie, which led Bob to make his first cut with only dribs and drabs of the Emcee’s numbers. Maybe he thought they distracted from her. There was also the possibility that Bob made the book scenes more important because of his desire to become a nonmusical director (which he brilliantly went on to do with Lenny, the Lenny Bruce biopic starring Dustin Hoffman) and Star Eighty.
I couldn’t believe that my work in the film had been decimated. I walked out of the screening room without saying a word to Bob, and then I went crazy in a nearby phone booth.
“Marty, I can’t believe what I just saw,” I said over the phone to one of the film’s producers. “There’s not one complete number. Not one number with a beginning, middle, and end. I’m just connective tissue!”
“Relax,” he said. “I know what you’re talking about. I saw it last night. Trust me. The numbers will be there—intact.”
Still, a few weeks later, when Jo and I and all the cast, studio heads, producers, and Bob flew up to San Francisco to see a sneak preview of the movie, I was worried.
The Northpoint Theatre had already filled with people for this unadvertised preview when we snuck in and hid in the back row. From the minute the film began, it was pure magic. All my fears vanished as the full version of “Willkommen” ended to an ovation—in a movie theater.
It all worked. Liza’s comic timing was unreal, her singing thrilling, and at the end of the film she truly broke your heart. The numbers were phenomenal, but the one that meant the most to me, just as it had on Broadway, was “If You Could See Her,” because it was the most overtly anti-Semitic. Being Jewish, I felt it was vital that we show those anti-Semites for what they were. Well, watching the scene on the big screen, it was more than ugly. It was hideous and just right. The line “She wouldn’t look Jewish…” came down like a nail on a coffin.
The audience in the San Francisco theater went crazy. We knew it was going to be something big, but just how big took all of us by surprise. Cabaret was not only an immediate success at the box office after its release, on February 13, 1972, but it also was winning many industry awards, such as a Golden Globe for Best Motion Picture–Comedy or Musical. The biggest deal, however, was the film’s ten Academy Award nominations, including one for me as Best Supporting Actor.
March 27, 1973, the day of the 45th Academy Awards, was one of the hottest spring days on record. But truth be told, it could have been snowing and I wouldn’t have noticed. I was freaked out. Even though I had been nominated for an Oscar, I was all but sure I wouldn’t win. My parents, on the other hand, were already working on their acceptance speeches for friends, family, and the press. That’s how convinced they were that I’d take home the statue. My dad, now in his early sixties, never wavered from being my biggest fan. At home in LA, they dedicated an entire wall to my achievements with framed photos, newspaper clips, and a full-sized poster of … me, leading Dad to his joke that “the apartment is decorated in early Joel Grey.” My mother, meanwhile, gave an interview to The Los Angeles Times, which reported that I didn’t go into show business: “Says his mother, ‘I pushed him.’”
The Katz vote aside, Al Pacino was the clear front-runner for his role as Michael Corleone in The Godfather. Even if his performance hadn’t been perfection, which it was, musical movies just didn’t have the respect that serious dramas did. Yes, of course I was thrilled to be nominated. But it’s pretty much a fact that everyone really wants to win.
Larry Hagman, my next-door neighbor in the Malibu Colony and one of my most cherished friends for years, stopped by for coffee. I’m sure he sensed my tension, because he decided to take me out to get a haircut, lunch, anything to distract me. He did a pretty good job, too.
Larry was always trying to loosen me up. While I was careful and alert, Larry was a wild man. His mother had been Mary Martin, who had left her son in the care of his grandmother when he was just seven years old. After she married Richard Halliday a couple of years later, Larry was shipped off to military school and eventually became estranged from her. I have no idea how Larry turned into such a sweet man. Other than his sixty-year marriage to his beloved Maj, there was nothing conventional about him. A card-carrying member of the Peace and Freedom Party, he thought nothing of wearing quirky costumes while walking down the beach or requesting a joke in exchange when asked for his autograph. And he loved to smoke pot. Once, while we were soaking in his Jacuzzi, where he particularly liked to get high, he insisted on my taking a puff. I, the guy who got drunk off one grasshopper. You don’t get much squarer than that. But I tried it. (It just made me dizzy.) Larry didn’t seem to have many fears, and I loved that in him.
Larry got me back home just in time for me to put on my tuxedo and be ready by three in the afternoon. That’s when Jo, looking spectacular in Halston, and I got into the waiting limousine and were waved off ceremoniously by my big buddy and Maj, the sun and sand blazing all around.
I felt like a star when Carol Burnett, a pal and the host for the Oscars that night, mentioned me in her opening monologue: “I knew him when he was Joel Katz…” And she did! But it was hard to keep smiling as the tension mounted. Best Supporting Actor, thank God, is one of the earlier awards given, so at least I didn’t have to wait long.
The award’s presenters, Diana Ross and James Coburn, opened the envelope and the singer, in her signature breathy voice, said, “And the winner’s Joel Grey.”
I was out of my body as I kissed Jo and ran up onstage. I can’t recall my exact words because the moment was such a blur. All I remember is starting with, “Don’t let anyone tell you this isn’t a great thrill.” But that didn’t begin to convey how I felt. As one of only eight people to win both the Tony and Academy Award for the same role, I was in amazing company that included Yul Brynner for The King and I, Anne Bancroft for The Miracle Worker, and Rex Harrison for My Fair Lady. The actors who made the difficult transition from stage to screen were quite a group, and I was grateful to be a part of it.
The rest of the night was as much of a blur as my acceptance speech. At the Governors Ball, Liza, who won for Best Actress, and I were giddy. Bob, who took home the Best Director award, and I exchanged more muted congratulations for Cabaret, which won for cinematography, art direction, sound, film editing, and music. We were pretty much back to square one in our relationship, but nothing could keep me from feeling good.
More clearly etched into my mind is the limo ride back to Malibu, during which Jo and I talked about little things.
“Did you like the quiche?” I asked in the dark, holding hands with my beautiful wife, and looking out onto the Pacific Coast Highway under the moonlight.
“I thought it was an odd choice,” she said.
“You looked so beautiful in your dress. The photographers were falling all over themselves to take your picture.”
“Well, I am the Best Supporting Actor’s wife.”
I didn’t think I could feel any happier, but I was wrong. When the limousine dropped us at home, standing in front of our door was this enormous trophy that Larry had left for me, just in case I came home empty-handed. I picked it up and read the words he had engraved on it: TO JOEL GREY, THE BEST FUCKING NEIGHBOR AWARD.
“You’ll see. This time will be different,” Liza said, “and we’ll be together.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Opening the shutters of the Gritti and looking out onto the water, I saw a boat delivery of fresh bread, which made me call room service immediately.
Jo and I, both of us so happy to wake up in a beautiful room in the fifteenth-century Venetian palazzo turned hotel, luxuriating in our bed with linen sheets, laughing, loving, and enjoying each other—my wish coming true.
A knock at the door interrupted. “Buongiorno!” said the waiter, setting the tray upon the bed before giving a quick bow and leaving. The two of us were giddy with stea
med milk, strong coffee, and fresh baked pastries con marmellata. How far I had come since my last time in Italy, at nineteen. I slept upon a straw mattress in a simple pensione in Positano!
When I was growing up, no one in my family had ever been abroad. What had once been relegated to movie screens, art museums, books, and personal fantasies was finally in the realm of possibility because of the international success of Cabaret. The financial perks it brought us allowed Jo and me to pursue beauty in new places. The joyous period in my relationship with Jo that began with Cabaret only improved after winning an Oscar. And because Jo had given up her career to support mine, we shared my achievements, which only made them richer.
We both loved to travel, and now during our first trip to Venice, there was not an instant that was less than perfect. The moment we set foot on the vaporetto from the airplane into town, we were overwhelmed. As if it were our honeymoon, we did everything, getting totally lost in the city’s mazelike magic. We were corny American tourists, taking pictures with the pigeons of Piazza San Marco, sloshing in the high tides, visiting the Jewish ghetto on Giudecca, and hopping a small boat to the island of Torcello for a lunch of vitello tonnato and wine in a garden. Our friends Regina Resnik (the opera singer who was in the 1987 revival of Cabaret) and her husband, Arbit Blatas, a well-known painter, showed us around the city, which they made their part-time home. And one night in the lobby of the Gritti, we ran into Truman Capote, whom I knew through our mutual lawyer, Alan Schwartz, and off all of us went to dinner at Harry’s Bar.
Just being alone with my wife, however, tumbling into our four-poster bed at the hotel for a nap after hours of walking, was more than enough. With the kids back in New York with Nellie, we became acutely aware of the fact that we were getting to do so much of what we had dreamed and talked about.