Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

Two days later a Rolls-Royce pulled up outside Meledandri. Curious, I watched with Roland from the window. A cane popped out first and then a big hat.

  What an entrance, I thought. Must be someone important.

  As the passenger lifted his face up I realized it was Sir John Gielgud. And under his arm—unwrapped—was the gift I had recommended to Miss Gish.

  Roland looked at me and said, “You take care of this one.”

  Nervously, I approached the door to open it, but Sir Gielgud beat me to it.

  Out came that amazing voice bellowing through the store. “Where’s Thaao?”

  “Speaking,” I said.

  “Pale blue?” he admonished.

  Facing me was the highly distinguished and prolific performer of the classics, considered to be one of the greatest actors of the 20th century. He was slightly imperious; after all, his accomplishments were immense. And here I was talking to him about a blue shirt. I quickly retreated from my awe and masked my reverence by displaying a number of other colors of the same shirt. He was pleased and chose a navy blue.

  While he waited for it to be wrapped, he leaned on the counter and spoke to me like an old friend. I was impressed with his demeanor and felt incredibly privileged. He wanted to know about my dreams. When I told him I aspired to be an actor, he said that to fulfill the acting dream I must work hard and persevere.

  “Acting,” he said, was “a great privilege … You must earn it, and if fulfilled, it was a blessing from the gods.”

  He left and I was ecstatic. And so was Roland for my correcting the situation. I was inspired to discover that “great” privilege firsthand and fulfill my destiny.

  Learning To Act

  My first acting class was taught by Mary Tarcai. She was one of the first to teach classes centering on cold readings. I was there as an observer, but that didn’t mean a thing to her. I was thrown when she asked me to read a scene in front of the class.

  “No excuses,” she said as I reluctantly got up. She blurted, “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  With an abundance of fear and no preparation, I sat in a chair and shared the scene with another actor.

  When the scene was over, she pulled no punches. “Why on Earth do you want to be an actor? I couldn’t tell the difference between you and the chair.”

  I wanted to explain to her that I was new to acting, but she wasn’t interested.

  “Just sit down and listen,” she said in a bewildered tone.

  When I sat back in the class a young actress whispered, “Don’t worry, honey, you’re pretty.”

  For the first time I felt humiliated in America, and all I wanted to do was go home and forget about a business that did not come from my heart but from a psychic’s prediction. I felt it was over, but I kept thinking about what Gielgud had said about perseverance. So I stuck it out for the next two years until I got the hang of it while still working for Meledandri.

  Mary said my improvement was remarkable, and I began to see it myself and came to really love it. She became a good friend, and I was deeply saddened when she died in September 1979. She was my first acting teacher and the one who cleared my path—and that I will never forget. It’s those tough ones that really made the difference.

  With Milton in the late ’70s. (Author’s Collection)

  The Katselas Years

  My life changed when I met Milton Katselas in the early ’70s. Our paths first crossed when a dear friend, the singer Sylvia Syms, took me backstage to meet him when he was directing Al Pacino in Tennessee Williams’ Camino Real at Lincoln Center. He took an instant dislike to me. He believed I was arrogant and a dilettante. He had a great acting class, but he was not interested in my attending.

  “But we’re both Greeks, we’re supposed to help each other,” I said angrily. That was a myth that was smashed quickly, that we Greeks would look out for one another.

  One day I saw Milton walking along the theatre district and I raced over to him.

  Again he said no.

  “Well, let me observe,” I implored, and he still said no and walked away.

  So I chased after him again, and by the time I finished explaining my struggling story from Australia, he finally relented and said, “You come to my class but only temporarily for six months. It’s a trial and I don’t want a peep out of you.”

  Well, the lesson in persistence worked. Thanks, Sir John, for that advice. It was a year later and Milton was beginning his film career after a very successful run of The Zoo Story and Butterflies Are Free on Broadway. He was moving out to California to begin a new class in Los Angeles.

  One morning Milton called me in for a meeting. He had approved my position in class after he allowed me to do a scene. I loved the class and I behaved—well, to a point. I was still outspoken. Secretly I was told he loved my passion and found me challenging, as most actors were afraid of him. It was naturally common for me to speak up and give an alternative opinion, like when he announced to the class that on the gate at Delos was an ancient saying, “Know thyself.”

  And I blurted out, “And nothing in excess.”

  He always wanted to have the last word, and ignored me.

  “But, Milton, how do you know who you are if you don’t know your excesses?” I said.

  He turned himself around in his swivel chair with cigar in hand and retorted, “Would you like to teach the class?”

  The class had a laugh and again I shut up.

  With all that in mind, I went to the meeting wondering what all this was about. I sat in his office while he just stared through me. It was always his way of intimidating. I just stared back, like it was natural. Then the silence was broken with a question that floored me.

  “How would you like to come out to California and be my assistant?”

  For once I was stuck for words. And so I replied, “No, thanks.”

  Now he was stunned. “Do you realize that I was the assistant to Elia Kazan, one of the most honored and influential directors on Broadway and in Hollywood history, and now you’ll be mine? Do you know what that means?”

  “I know, but I don’t like you,” I responded.

  “You don’t like me?” he said, aghast.

  Holding my ground, I said, “No, I don’t.”

  “I’ll pay you to leave the fashion world and help set you up in L.A. You’re an actor and you show great promise.”

  That was the first time I had ever heard him say that, and it hit a core. I was finally on my way as Dykshoorn had predicted, so I decided to follow the path and relented.

  He was pleased, but this change in direction made me apprehensive. I went to see Meledandri, who had asked me to open up a new shop in Georgetown, Washington, D.C., and run the business. When I told him of my decision to move to Los Angeles to pursue my acting career, he was flabbergasted.

  “Acting? I am giving you a great opportunity and you tell me acting?” He was very upset and broke a coat hanger.

  I told him how much I appreciated all that he had taught me but now I finally found where my heart lies. It was emotional for both of us. We hugged and l left the premises for the last time. Years later while running in Central Park in New York, Roland Meledandri died of a heart attack at age fifty-one. What a loss—a talent not fully realized, but another great teacher for me along the path.

  I spent many years as Milton’s assistant, and in all those years we never had an argument. I loved him very much for he became the mentor that I had been searching for since my youth. We were always on the same page, and the classes were an enormous success.

  One evening he invited Gloria Swanson of Sunset Boulevard fame to come to the class to inspire his students. Everyone was excited to meet this mythical star. The stage curtains were closed while I went outside to await the arrival of her limousine. When she exited the car a very slight and frail woman appeared.

  “Hullo, darling, could you be a gentleman and carry me in as my legs are not what they used to be?”

  “Well, of c
ourse,” I said.

  So I lifted the star into my arms and carried her into the theatre. I placed Miss Swanson in a chair while the curtain was still drawn. When the curtain opened she drew a standing ovation. Everyone was stagestruck.

  She spoke for an hour, sharing her great life with students who were just in their beginnings. As she stood to leave, there was enormous applause and the curtain closed. I picked her up again and carried her to the car. No one had witnessed her fragility. She kissed me on both cheeks and disappeared like an illusion, befitting her star quality.

  Many more famous stars—including Peter Finch, Cary Grant, John Cassavetes and his wife Gena Rowlands—came through the doors at Katselas’ class, leaving imprints on our minds of what is possible when that kind of success happens to you. It was a gift to share it all with Katselas.

  And together Milton and I experienced the unforgettable tragedy that befell actor Sal Mineo. Milton was directing Sal and Keir Dullea in P.S. Your Cat Is Dead, a new play by James Kirkwood premiering at the Westwood Playhouse in Los Angeles. It was February 12, 1976.

  The great thing about assisting Milton with these pros was that the drama of life was always left on the stage. Sal had the reputation of living a shadowed life at night while his days were lightness and health-centric. Keir was a more reserved actor, keeping his personal life away from the rehearsals. His greatest fame was Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  Mineo was an iconic star, nominated twice for an Oscar. Rebel Without a Cause with Natalie Wood and James Dean and Giant with Dean resonated with my growing up in Australia. And here he was before me, just a normal actor except I’m sure most people rarely regard actors as “normal.” To me he was an actor looking for a comeback, navigating his way through the maze of Hollywood.

  On that February afternoon Milton—who always enjoyed fine cuisine—was telling the actors how much he loved my Greek lemon soup. Sal asked if it was possible for me to prepare some as an early dinner while they rehearsed. Little did I realize that my Greek lemon soup would be the last meal of Sal Mineo’s life. I went to the store to shop for the ingredients along with an organic hen—Sal’s request. Two hours later I served the frothy soup with toasted bread. It was a great success and to this day I remember the sated smiles.

  After the rehearsals broke, I cleaned the dishes, and as I was wrapping up, Sal came to the kitchen and thanked me for making his day. A big hug later, he left with the promises of tomorrow. I exited with Milt to attend the classes he taught at the Beverly Hills Playhouse. Milton thrived on Tuesdays and Thursdays when conducting his scene study classes. Upon arriving home that night, I turned on the television and Sal Mineo’s face filled the screen. The man who hugged me with gratitude earlier that evening was dead. Mineo was parking his car when out of the dark his murderer took a knife and stabbed him in the heart. As his assailant ran off, Sal’s lovely heart burst.

  The next day we all sat in shock as the police questioned us. They revealed some of the details of the murder and questioned us about Mineo’s lover. The actor had never discussed his relationship with any of us, so we were little help to the authorities. After they left, a lone figure appeared at the theatre’s entrance. He seemed to have been up all night, his face revealing the pain through the searing tears that raced down his face. Milton reached out to him and told him to see a doctor and to call the police. He didn’t have much to say except in a daze he quietly uttered, “Thank you, thank you.” He left as mysteriously as he had arrived.

  For two years the police searched in vain for clues to the killer’s identity, but nothing turned up. What feels particularly enigmatic about this tragedy are the deaths of his other Rebel castmates, Natalie Wood and James Dean. They too died tragically. They all died young.

  We continued with the play and I truly understood what they meant by the cliché “the show must go on.” Milton was a great leader and knew how to keep his team together. The show was a great success and played all over the United States.

  Years later, out of the blue, the Michigan authorities reported that while Lionel Williams was serving a sentence for writing bad checks, he bragged to fellow inmates that he had killed Sal Mineo. It was his wife who finally settled the story, telling the police that her husband had come home the night of the murder drenched in blood. He was eventually convicted and given a sentence of life in prison.

  Our dear friend Sal died not because of some dark energy that he was associated with but by being an innocent, happily heading home after having rewarded us with his presence and his work. So at times like this, don’t tell me any of us have the answers to life. It’s a difficult process not always understood.

  The Professional Life

  Days of Our Lives was thought by many to be my first breakthrough, but I maintain it was the play Jockeys, directed by Milton Katselas and produced by Jule Styne in New York, that began it all.

  That led to my first starring role in Slow Dancing in the Big City, directed by John Avildsen, an Oscar winner for Rocky. He was a dream to work with because he maintained a quiet demeanor on set. His direction was the same, privately and without criticism. And I loved the way he danced.

  I returned to L.A. and continued to study with Milton while performing in Play With Fire produced by Telly Savalas at the Geffen Playhouse. I starred alongside Carrie Snodgress and Victor Buono in the role of a monk.

  The play received terrific reviews, and a casting director from the Ahmanson Theatre contacted me to audition for A Man for all Seasons starring Charlton Heston and Vanessa Redgrave. After three callbacks with director Jack O’Brien I met with Heston, who had final approval. I have always looked upon Heston as a hero since watching him in one of my favorite films of all time, Ben-Hur. He was such a gentleman and so supportive when we read together.

  He commented how much he appreciated the simplicity in my approach to the role of Richard Rich. It looked like I had the part, when my agent got a call that a Broadway actor coveted the same role. I was offered the part of the understudy. I refused, and they threatened that if I did not take the understudy role I would never work at the Ahmanson. And that threat came true. I never did, and that person died of a heart attack soon after while sitting on a toilet. Angry and disappointed as I was, life does take care of things on its own.

  Jockeys in New York with Chick Vennera and Simone Griffeth. (Author’s Collection)

  John Avildsen directing Anne Ditchburn and myself. (Author’s Collection)

  With the visual wizard Ken Russell in Chihuahua. (Author’s Collection)

  With Charles White-Eagle and William Hurt. (Author’s Collection)

  At about the same time, I was called to audition at Paramount Studios for Ken Russell’s Altered States, written by the wonderful Paddy Chayefsky and starring William Hurt. It was a successful audition and Russell chose me for the part of Echeverria, a botanist living in Mexico. It was a great script to be shot on the Warner Bros. lot and in Chihuahua, Mexico. I was beside myself having the opportunity of working with such talents. Unfortunately it would turn out to be one of the worst experiences of my life.

  On the first day of shooting with Blair Brown, Bob Balaban and Charles Haid, the actors decided to be drunk as the script required, only they really were drinking since 7 a.m. I decided to be the only one sober and Russell agreed.

  Everything was going well when Paddy Chayefsky came over to me and whispered in my ear, “I don’t know where they found you, but you are exactly what I wrote.” I smiled and thanked him. Apparently Russell thought he was giving me direction. Then there was an explosion on the set when the director called the writer a “cunt” and told him to “leave his set immediately.”

  Paddy replied, “You’re the cunt,” and the war of harsh words and emotion escalated until Russell demanded he leave the set or else he would walk. The executive producer tried to intervene but the chaos continued. Chayefsky eventually left the set and took his name off as writer of the film. What a beginning. As the Greek saying goes, �
��If it stinks in the beginning it smells in the end.”

  Along the way some of the comments passed on to me was that Russell enjoyed the work exchange between us. He had attacked almost everyone, including Blair Brown. After shooting my first scene on a Mexico mountaintop with William Hurt, Russell seemed happy with the progress. While walking along a path he told me how happy he was that I didn’t sound like an Australian with that “hideous” accent. I told him how much I loved his last film, Women in Love, which won him an Oscar nomination. To this day it is still one of my favorite films.

  It was a far from peaceful set. Russell began drinking his white wine during work to the point where it got excessive. There was a sequence where two very tall trees over a hundred years old were in the way of his shot. He demanded they be cut down. When the Mexican crew did as they were told he said the shot still didn’t work. He began to be hated on the set and this “madman” (as he was now being called) was losing control. Due to his fair English skin and too much wine his face was blistering, so I suggested some vitamin E to keep the swelling down. It helped and he was grateful.

  It was an amazing landscape with the indigenous Indians filling in the background. A week later we were on the final scene exiting the tribal area when Ken Russell began cutting things. The scene called for an argument with Hurt’s character and my character’s response to the hallucinogens that he had taken to expand his mind. I had a full-page monologue that expressed my views on his experience. Now it was being cut in half by Russell. When I commented that we had all signed a document written by Chayefsky that no dialogue was to be changed without his approval, he just exploded.

  “I’m the director here, so just fucking do it.”

  I was stunned and confused. I now lost the meaning of the condensed scene.

  The crew set up the shoot in a wide area the size of a football field. The camera and Russell were a distance away as they drove toward us, zooming in on our conversation. I couldn’t remember the lines and I kept struggling with the interpretation. Take after take took place until Russell, who was absolutely furious, came at me with an empty wine bottle.