I studied his granite face, in profile, recalling so many of his performances in films such as La Strada, Lawrence of Arabia, Zorba the Greek, and dozens more. He was, after all, an iconic figure in film history with two Oscars up his sleeve and clearly one in his pants, having fathered at least a dozen children. Extremely creative, he acted, wrote, painted, and sculpted while prowling the world. But his aura was so sour and his sense of entitlement so pervasive that I was helpless to conquer my distaste for him.
Having suffered from occasional bouts of grandiosity myself, I let Mr. Quinn’s pomposity get under my skin more than it should have. I like to think, with time, I’ve moderated that tendency, but he appeared to me to be a man incapable of an introspective thought. A big bully in the school yard or an imperious mob boss looking to get both his ring and his ass kissed unto death. It seemed to me that he was going to carry the worst of his nature to his grave expecting upon his ascendance a standing ovation and a seat very near The Throne.
I told the story of my three strikes and out with him to a renowned actress over lunch one day. And she said: “I made a picture with Tony. He was a complete pig. An animal. A rude, dumb peasant. I will never forgive myself for letting him fuck me.”
Well, better than a limp handshake. Or not . . .
JOHN FRANKENHEIMER
“John Frankenheimer wants to meet you.”
The year was 1968. The thirty-eight-year-old director of such films as The Manchurian Candidate and Seven Days in May was preparing a film called The Horseman, starring Omar Sharif, to be shot in Afghanistan.
“Be at his hotel at eleven a.m. tomorrow,” said my agent. “I’m sending over the script.”
I read it avidly. Sharif was the action hero; his sidekick, the part I was meeting Mr. Frankenheimer for, was a young Afghan boy. Lots of horse riding, guns, fiery women. A few of Frankenheimer’s handwritten notes were scribbled in the margins. One scene read:
“They leap across a chasm. The hooves of one horse just miss the other side, and it plunges to its death.”
In the margin, Frankenheimer had written:
“We’ll have to kill the horse.”
I showed up on time and called from the lobby. His phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. I waited. A call came down around 11:30. “Yes, sir, he’s standing here. Yes, sir.” The porter turned to me and said, “Please go up.”
I had at that point in my career met very few important film directors. And at almost thirty, I had as yet to appear in one. I was dressed neatly in a suit and tie and completely unprepared for the sleepy, unshaven man who opened the door in a hotel terry-cloth robe, stained down the front with what looked like fried egg. There was no smile, no eye contact. His hand shot out, firm grip.
“Take a seat, Frank, I’ll be right back.”
It was a plush, first-class suite, the usual amenities on the coffee table, large bowl of fruit, bottle of champagne in a bucket against which sat a square envelope with Mr. Frankenheimer’s name on it. Both the champagne and the note were unopened. There were two overturned champagne glasses, a folded white napkin with a knife and fork waiting, as indeed did I for another thirty minutes.
Finally he emerged: neat wet hair, white shirt and trousers, bare feet, holding a newspaper clipping, and plopping himself down on the couch across from me.
“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“No thank you, sir,” I said.
He stared at the clipping for a while, put it down on the coffee table, and I saw it was from the New York Times Sunday Arts and Leisure section about me. It was my first major profile in an important newspaper; showing a fairly exotic picture of me.
I had made a success in a William Gibson play called A Cry of Players, opposite Anne Bancroft earlier that year, but this was my only nibble from a major film director.
“Okay, I’ll tell the studio.”
“Tell them what?” I asked.
“You can do it.”
“You mean I got the part?”
“Yeah.”
He then showed me some stunning photographs from his scouting expedition.
“Here’s the kid who’s doubling you. He’s done some preliminary stuff with me already.”
“But Mr. Frankenheimer, aren’t I supposed to read or something? Have you seen me act?”
“I don’t need to. You’ve got the face I want. You’ll look good with Omar. He’s average height. Thicker. You’re tall and lean. Word is you’re good. The part’s yours. You’ll make a good pair. Can you ride a horse?”
“Yes.” I lied.
He got up and walked me to the door.
This isn’t the way my film career is supposed to start, I thought. It’s too easy. As I got to the door, I said just that.
He stopped, for the first time looked me directly in the eyes, and with a fair amount of impatience said:
“Let me tell you something, kid. In this business, an actor is in one of two positions: ‘They want you or you want them.’ If you want them you can be sitting on their desk, lighting their cigar, and they’re not going to give you the part. If they want you, you can be in the Sahara, in a tent, fucking a camel, and the offer will come slipping under the flap.”
He shook my hand and I left with my first movie role opposite Omar Sharif, no less.
A few days later my agent called and said that Frankenheimer heard that I had “crazy eyes” that couldn’t work on film. I was indeed born with a condition called nystagmus, which meant that my eyes, in order to focus, vibrated slightly, often giving the impression that my eyeballs were moving from side to side. It is harmless, incurable, but at the time, thought possibly to be too distracting on film.
He told me that in order to play the part the studio heads said I would have to be put through a screen test. No acting, just standing in front of the camera being photographed. The test would be in a week on a sound stage for a movie being shot in New York starring Gene Hackman and Estelle Parsons entitled I Never Sang for My Father. I spent that week rushing from doctor to doctor looking for a way to slow down my roller-coaster eyeballs for the length of a ninety-second screen test, trying prism glasses, muscle relaxers, and tranquilizers. I arrived at the appointed hour, profoundly overmedicated, standing quietly at the back of the set, watching Gene Hackman and Melvyn Douglas rehearse. On a break, the director, the just recently departed Gil Cates, came over, introduced himself, and escorted me to a spot on the floor. I stood painfully still and stared straight ahead. I overheard the assistant director say to Gil:
“What’s this for?”
And Gil said, “I don’t know. Studio wants to look at this guy.”
The camera came in very close to my face. I stared into it for ninety agonizing seconds. It pulled back, Gil said thank you, and I was ushered out of the room.
At that point I was soaking wet, deeply embarrassed, and certain I would never appear in a movie for the rest of my life. I had, in fact, so tranquilized myself for the experience that I went home that afternoon, fell into bed, and slept through until the next morning. A few days later my agent rang and said, “You passed! Frankenheimer called and told me to tell you to start taking horseback riding lessons.”
At the same time, Mel Brooks was preparing his second film, The Twelve Chairs, to star Alastair Sim, Peter Sellers, and Albert Finney. All three dropped out, replaced by Ron Moody, Dom DeLuise, and, to my great surprise, me. Mel asked me to play the young hero.
“What about Frankenheimer’s The Horseman?” I said.
“That’s a piece of action crap. You haven’t signed anything, have you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, call John tomorrow and tell him this is a much better part. He’ll understand and let you go.”
The part was indeed wonderful and would make a better film debut for me.
I found John somewhere on locati
on. It was not a good connection but I pressed on, shouting loudly into the telephone.
I began tentatively, saying more than I needed to, explaining to him that the character in Mel’s film was a better opportunity, telling him I would be easy to replace—I was, after all, not a star, admitted I was not at all that good on a horse, and further opined that now he wouldn’t have to worry about my crazy eyes . . . blah, blah, blah. I finally wound down, and there was a long, long pause. I thought we’d lost the connection.
“Mr. Frankenheimer, are you still there?”
Then came the following at full volume:
“You fucking motherfucking cocksucker. You are never going to work in this business again. Everybody told me you had crazy eyes that dance in your fucking head, and I was still willing to take a chance on you, you fucking faggot asshole. You better fucking show up on this picture. I’ve already spent money shooting your double. You cocksucker. You motherfucking cocksucker. You know what, you fucker . . . fuck you.”
Slam went the phone. There followed angry letters, threats, and a bill sent to my agent for $8,500 as “expenses related to Mr. Langella.”
Through a friend I consulted a powerful labor lawyer named Sidney Cohn.
“You can pay this bill and wipe the slate clean,” he said, “but I promise you they won’t come after you. It’s peanuts.” He was right. They didn’t come after me, and I didn’t pay—at least not financially.
From that hang-up on the phone to the day he died, no offer from John Frankenheimer ever slipped under the flap of any tent in which I happened to be fucking a camel or a mammal.
THE QUEEN MOTHER
“Come over. Paul’s racing a horse at Epson Downs,” said my friend Eliza. The Paul’s name was Mellon, the horse’s was Mill Reef, and it was Derby Day in England in 1972.
I was working on a film in Paris entitled La Maison Sous Les Arbres, opposite Faye Dunaway and directed by René Clément. Faye would sometimes cause shooting delays for any number of reasons. This time, as I recall, it was her inability to decide the style of shoes to wear. So shooting shut down for a few days as assistants went scurrying in search thereof. I was now at liberty to hop a plane to London and hole up with the Mellons at a posh hotel.
I arrived the evening before, carrying my only suit and tie in a plastic hanging bag. Paul had taken a private corner of a floor and the next morning all the doors to our rooms were open and we padded back and forth, having breakfast and getting ready.
I noticed Paul donning an outfit I found rather amusing. Gray top hat, striped trousers, odd gray ascot, but I thought maybe owners of horses need to dress a certain way. The look of shock on his face when he got a gander at me took me by surprise.
I was wearing a perfectly decent suit I’d bought in Paris. A subtle Cerruti, light green.
“Oh Frank. You can’t wear that,” he said. “It’s Derby Day. There is a code of dress.”
“Well it’s all I have.”
Calls were made to see if there wasn’t a way to get me properly outfitted, but we were due to get into the car in forty-five minutes and all hope was abandoned. It looked as if I would have to fly back to Paris and miss attending my first and only race at Epson Downs. But Bunny, Paul’s wife, said:
“It’ll be fine. He won’t be paid any mind. We must leave.”
In several large Bentleys we joined the queue making its way to the race. Bunny had seen to baskets of delicious foods—deviled eggs, chicken and cucumber sandwiches, etc.—and buckets of champagne. When we arrived, nicely stuffed and happily high, we were taken to the paddock to visit Mill Reef and then ushered to our seats. It was a magnificent day, as I recall, with thousands of women out in their finery. An extraordinary combination of ill-fitting garish dresses and hats of enormous size in perfectly awful taste; sexless parade floats on high heels.
Then there were the men. Thousands dressed exactly the same as Paul. And me, a six-foot, three-inch follied Green Giant. It got worse. The horse won. Never mind that I had only bet five pounds. Never mind that I looked like a walking cucumber. Further indignities awaited me.
We were ushered through the crowds by a number of large women and courtly gentlemen into an enclosed area where Mill Reef and the jockey were waiting. Paul was suitably thrilled and not showing it. Bunny was, as always, perfect.
“Frank, why don’t you and Eliza stand back by the fence. It’s going to get a bit crowded in here.”
And indeed it did. Because after a while, in came the Queen. Mill Reef was crowned, pictures were taken, and a trophy was handed over. And she was gone. I was gratefully spared the indignity of meeting her in all my bourgeoiserie.
The large ladies gathered us once more and we were again ushered up stairs, down hallways, and around corners. Finally we came to a door and were asked to wait a moment. I assumed they were bringing the cars round from some private parking area, and we were going to be put in a comfy room to wait.
The door was opened. Paul, Bunny, Eliza, and their other guest Charles Ryscamp, then head of the Morgan Library in New York, and I entered a large room, superbly soundproofed. Coming from the excited noises of the racetrack and the shouts of the crowd, it was like suddenly being underwater in a calm sea. And who should come floating across this beautifully appointed space but Herself, The Queen of England. We were in her private box.
We formed a short line. Paul at the start. Me at the finish. The Queen was followed by Prince Philip, Princess Anne, and a jolly little lady known to all as the Queen Mum.
The absolute quiet of the room and the close proximity to the Royal Family gave me a slightly giddy Forrest Gump feeling as they chatted amicably and made their way toward me.
I may as well have been impeccably turned out and perfectly groomed because the Queen reached me, put out her gloved hand, said something like “Wasn’t it thrilling? How lovely for Mr. Mellon,” and passed on without removing her eyes from mine. The rest of the family followed in equally charming fashion with no one’s eyes ever straying lower than my forehead.
Until along came Mum.
“How do you do, young man?” she said.
“How do you do, ma’am,” I said.
She was wearing a dress gaily depicting a florid English garden, with a string of pearls wrapped round her neck. Holding them at the center bottom just above her impressive bosom, she smiled broadly, stepped back, and gave me a head-to-toe perusal, saying with utter delight:
“My word—where have you come from?”
“Paris, ma’am.”
“Oh. What have you been doing there?”
“I’m an actor. I’m making a film.”
“How exciting for you. What’s it called?”
“It’s called La Maison Sous les Arbres. That means ‘The House Under the Trees.’ ”
Only the tiniest pause and she said, grasping her pearls, with utter sweetness: “Thank you for telling me.”
As if the green suit weren’t enough, I had just translated the simplest of French words to England’s Queen Mother. I could hear the equipment gearing up to help load my big dumb foot into my mouth.
Then came tea and crumpets, I think, but certainly booze as well and polite chat. The Queen Mum was a jolly camper, totally captivating, charming, and curious. Soon we were gently dismissed and back into the real world. Standing a level down we milled about waiting to be taken to the cars. I asked for a gents and was shown down a hall and around a corner.
Now what are the odds?
As I opened the door to leave the gents, simultaneously another door opened and England’s great-grandma appeared all alone. A tiny smile and down the hall and around the corner she went in the opposite direction from which I’d come. Seconds later she popped back and said:
“Oh, dear. I seem to have lost the family.”
“It’s this way, ma’am.”
“Oh very kind,�
�� she said, putting her chubby arm in mine.
“I’m so looking forward to your film. Is it in French?”
“No ma’am, it’s in English”
“Ah, yes, of course. Easier for you I should think.”
We walked back down the hallway, turned the corner, and I took her to the stairs that led back up to the Queen’s Box.
“Oh, I know where I am now,” she said. “I do hope I’ll see it one day. Thank you so much,” and she happily climbed back into the comforts of Royal Privilege.
I hope this next story is true. It was told to me by an attendant at the Palace Theatre in London, where Yul Brynner was appearing; most likely, his one millionth performance of The King and I. It seems the Queen and the Queen Mum were having words at intermission when being escorted into a private waiting room. The Queen was compulsively nattering on about something that was disturbing her. Finally, I was told, the Queen Mum turned to the Queen and said: “Elizabeth, stop it! Who do you think you are?”
Never too late for a good Mummy to discipline an unruly child.
AL HIRSCHFELD
Among my most treasured possessions collected during a lifetime of working in the theatre are ten original drawings of the dozen that Al Hirschfeld did of me in various roles. And but for a smudge of wet ink, I might have missed an extraordinary afternoon with him just months before this true genius left us at ninety-nine years old.
His last caricature of me was with Alan Bates from the Broadway production of Turgenev’s Fortune’s Fool, which had successfully played the 2002 season. Our producers had gifted each of us with a copy.
When the play closed, I took the drawing to be framed and noticed his signature was in a light blush color, different from all past ones. When I put my thumb over it, it easily smudged. So I picked up the phone and called his house. His wife, Louise, answered and I told her of my dilemma.
“Just a minute, darling,” she said.
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