The Rolling Stone interviews

by edited by Jann S. Wenner

  But your audience wants to give you that credit. Men, in particular, like living vicariously. They want to think that being a big-time movie star means having lots of women.

  That I like. That part I don’t mind. That’s getting even [flashes the smile].

  Are you monogamous? Could you stay faithful in order to maintain an important relationship like, for instance, yours with Anjelica [Huston, who Nicholson had been seeing for eleven years]?

  By nature, I am not monogamous. But I have been monogamous, which is the only reason I’m comfortable saying this out loud. It doesn’t make any difference, except in a positive way, primarily for appearances. I only believe this because of experience. Once I’ve had enough experience about something, I don’t give a fuck about anybody else’s theory. I say monogamy doesn’t make any difference; women suspect you whether it’s true or not.

  You were raised by women: Ethel May, whom you believed to be your mother, and her two daughters, Lorraine and June, who was seventeen years your senior. Ethel May’s husband, a drinker, wasn’t around much, and she supported everybody by opening a beauty shop in your house in Neptune City, New Jersey. When June died in 1975, the real truth emerged! You were illegitimate. Ethel May was actually your grandmother, posing as your mother, while June, whom you thought to be your sister, was your natural mother. How did you feel about this?

  I was making The Fortune, and someone called me on the phone—I think it was turned over by the investigative reporting for the Time cover story they did on me. Ultimately, I got official verification from Lorraine. I was stunned. Since I was at work, I went to Mike Nichols, the director, and said, “Now, Mike, you know I’m a big-time method actor. I just found out something—something just came through—so keep an extra eye on me. Don’t let me get away with anything.”

  Do you know who your father was?

  Only June and Ethel knew, and they never told anybody.

  Who was this woman, June?

  Fast-cutting? A talented seventeen-year-old child who goes to New York and Miami as an Earl Carroll dancer and progresses through the gypsy line. . . . [Entertainer] Pinky Lee’s straight lady for a while. . . . And when the war comes, she’s the Irish-American patriot, the girl in the control tower at Willow Run, the central domestic-sending center for the military in World War II. She marries the son of a wealthy Eastern brain surgeon, one of American’s most glamorous test pilots. . . . And they live a very country-club life in Stony Brook, Long Island, where I always spent my summers in this very nice upper-class atmosphere.

  All the time thinking June was your sister?

  Right. The marriage broke up over a drinking problem, and like all great chicks, she comes home. She commutes to New York, teaches dancing at Arthur Murray’s and, taking a shot on her own, drives to California with her kids . . . where she works in an aircraft factory, teaching herself to be a secretary. I come out to California and veer out on my own. She becomes an assistant buyer at J.C. Penney’s, gets cancer and passes on.

  June and I had so much in common. We both fought hard. It didn’t do her any good not to tell me, but she didn’t because you never know how I would have reacted when I was younger. I got a job in Mexico when June was dying. First time with a studio, a lot of weeks. Sandra was pregnant with Jennifer, and June was in a terminal state. She looked me right in the eye and said, “Shall I wait?” In other words, “Shall I try and fight this through?” And I said no.

  I’m very contra my constituency in terms of abortion because I’m positively against it. I don’t have the right to any other view. My only emotion is gratitude, literally, for my life. [If June and Ethel had been] of less character, I would never have gotten to live. These women gave me the gift of life. It’s a feminist narrative in the very pure form. They trained me great, those ladies. I still, to this day, have never borrowed a nickel from anybody and never felt like I couldn’t take care of myself. They made the imperative of my self-sufficiency obvious.

  You genuinely like women, don’t you?

  Yeah, I genuinely do. I prefer the company of women, and I have deep respect for them. I’m buzzed by the female mystique. I always tell young men there are three rules: They hate us, we hate them; they’re stronger, they’re smarter; and, most important, they don’t play fair.

  What attracts you to a woman? You once said you like women who are alluring but unobtainable.

  It’s not categorizable. The heaviest prejudice to deal with is the beautiful woman. I’d like to say, “No, it doesn’t matter whether somebody’s beautiful or not,” but whatever I find beautiful is what I’m attracted to. As for the other, I’d like to have all the women I’m attracted to still with me. I don’t want them unattainable. I don’t even want them unavailable!

  Do you think you’re sexy?

  I know I’m sexy to some people. In the moment-to-moment thing, I always assume that my superstructural identity is working against me with women. It helps you because they know about you, and women like to be involved with known people. But in the case of my specific fantasy, it works against me. I find myself apologizing for being a film star if I’m interested in a person socially.

  You’ve said that in all your major relationships, you were the one who got left.

  In all cases but one in my life, that’s true. But, again, it’s like every male: You’re not sure that you’re not driving them away because you don’t know how to leave them.

  Incidentally, have you ever been in therapy?

  My therapy was Reichian, which is all sexual.

  Did you do the whole Reichian shot, taking off your clothes and getting analyzed in the nude?

  Uh-hum. It didn’t take any rationalization. It worked with me like this [snaps fingers].

  You once said about acting, “You have to determine, what is your sexuality in this scene? Everything else comes from that.” The sexual part of acting is very important to you, isn’t it?

  It’s the key. The total key. Actually, sex is my favorite subject. But it’s scary for me to talk about because of Anjelica. It’s like she says: “How would you feel if I were sitting down with some interviewer, telling him all I felt about sex and fucking. You know you’d flip out.” And a certain part of me says, “You’re absolutely right, I would.” But that’s the dichotomy. I yearn for honesty in life. As an artist, I yearn for the clear moment. I would tell anybody any living thing about me, and there’s a lot of stuff that ain’t great.

  You realize you have a reputation as a man who indulges in a slew of drugs. Is that true?

  A slew of drugs? No. And never have. Do I relate to drugs? Yes, I do. But, for instance, though I’ve said—forever—that I smoke marijuana, I’ve never told anyone that I actually do cocaine. I’ve never said that to anyone.

  Then why do you think people believe you do cocaine?

  I think it’s the normal assumption to make, particularly about someone who’s been candid about his privacy. I can only blame myself. I’m not so sure I should’ve been this candid. I thought it was a very good thing to do because, first of all, I’m for legalization, and because I know what the costs are. The costs are lying.

  How would you describe your drug use?

  Convivial.

  What does that mean?

  It means I have a good time. I don’t drink, although the last couple of years, I’ve started to drink a little alcohol—a glass of wine, maybe two brandies at night after coffee.

  Do you still smoke marijuana?

  Why talk about it? I’m not helping anybody. I’ve no desire to conceal what I do, but I’ve tried not concealing it, and it has the opposite effect. People love to have a reason to level you. They don’t have to deal with me as directly because they have this disqualifying clause in their perception of me. It’s hard for me to think I live in a world where it’s not good for you to be candid about something that, in your heart, there’s nothing wrong with.

  Would you be willing to say you don’t use cocaine?

  Wou
ld I say? I really have decided I have nothing further to say about this that’s of any use to me or anyone else.

  Some people seem to be more worried about your health than your morals, in terms of your alleged drug use.

  Doctor, cure yourself. I feel that most of the time I know what I’m doing. I missed no acting classes during the twelve years I was in class, and I haven’t missed a day’s work from illness in thirty years. I’ll put my medical charts, my sanity charts up against anybody’s. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not doing anything but trying to do everything right. I know what’s true, who I am. I would like to say I don’t care what people think, but I do. Everyone who knows me may think I’m . . . a tad boyish and fun-loving, but I don’t think anybody thinks I have any negative momentum, corrupting philosophies or overly radical moral opinions. As a workman, I’m known as a model of professionalism. I have to put up with being falsely described because it’s unhip to bridle at it. Besides, it’s just like womanizing. I’m not so sure it ain’t good for business.

  You started out in Hollywood writing and producing as well as acting, mostly as part of the Roger Corman B-movie stable. You also directed two films, ‘Drive, He Said’ and ‘Goin’ South’—neither of which was a big hit but both got some decent reviews. Yet directing doesn’t seem to be a burning ambition of yours.

  It comes and goes. It’s not burning because I don’t like criticism. I’m not that good at it yet. If I didn’t have another career, I’d be getting more encouragement to do it. I like the action. Directing is a pleasant job to me. I don’t have to go through the self-doubt. So what if I showed my stomach? As a director, I’m just there to help people, and I like that. I don’t have to question my own greed. I also haven’t been writing much, which is one of the banes and torments of my life.

  Why aren’t you writing?

  Can’t sit down. Life is not going that way—one of the problems about having a lot of possibilities. In the early days, I was writing for my life. That was big money to get Screen Actors Guild minimum of any kind. I wrote quite a few things during that period. It was improving me as an actor. I started producing, which, again, broadened me as a filmmaker. About that time, I adopted my work credo: You’re a tool in the hands of a filmmaker, and you serve the film. If I had no conventional work, I believe I could start from here and have a movie in theaters by the end of the year, doing whatever I had to do. I was the first person of my own generation to be one of those hyphenated people. It wasn’t the big leagues, but the action of making a movie is the same. I improvise and write a lot of the things I do. I try to collaborate with everyone on all aspects, but I long ago stopped worrying about who got the credit for the writing.

  Are you a self-confident man? What things don’t you like about yourself?

  Basically, I am self-confident. I don’t like it if I’m not creatively free-flowing—it worries me and I wonder, is this the end? Is the well empty now? I worry about the lack of self-confidence of someone who, at times, has to get himself up or hype himself. I wonder why I think I have to do it. Sometimes I’m not able to take in the positive communication that’s directed at me because I’m not sure I deserve it. The difference now is, I let all these symptoms of lack of self-confidence just be. I don’t let them define me. In other words, I’m more comfortable with my lack of self-confidence, so in a way, it’s more self-confidence.

  Were you always sure of your talent?

  I was at times surer than I am now. Nobody was ever bored with my work, even when I didn’t know what I was doing. But I worried about the other side of it. I thought, “Well, anybody can fool these idiots. So where’s the million dollars? Why doesn’t everybody love me? Where’s the ego gratification?” I talk to most good actors, and none of them know they’re any good.

  Does it matter to you if you win the Best Supporting Actor Oscar for ‘Terms of Endearment’?

  I told my betting friends before I ever met any of the people involved and read all of the script that they should bet in Las Vegas if they could get a price. That’s how much I liked this part. I’ll tell you another childish reason why I’d like to win. I think you gotta have nutty goals in life. I’d like to win more Oscars than Walt Disney, and I’d like to win them in every category. And I’ve been after this category for a while. Unstylistically, I love the Academy Awards. And I’m very Fifties Zen—all tributes are false, all is vanity—but I like seeing a Mount Rushmore of 1984 movie stars in a row for the one night, no matter what nutty ideas they’ve got. It’s fun. Nobody gets hurt. With a couple of exceptions, I’ve known whether I was going to win or not because I’ve been following these things since I was a kid. And I’ve always had a better time when I know I’m not going to win, because then I’m just into the evening. I’m Mr. Hollywood. I love everybody. Of course, I’ve also done the opposite, gone deciding I’m going to be the worst loser in history and just say outrageous things. Even when I don’t go, I love the Oscars. I sit at home and talk about the slime green dress and say, “God, if I ever had this kind of breakdown on television, I’d shoot myself.”

  How do you spend your money?

  I run a few houses [in Aspen and Los Angeles] that are going all the time, so I piss away a lot of money on that. Paintings—but I hate to call them an investment; it’s banking rather than investment. I’m not a trader or collector, but I’m aware that I don’t throw $10,000 out the window. I own two tickets to the Lakers game that cost about $160 a night even though I’m not there half the year. I follow the theatrical tradition of whoever’s making the most money picks up the check. And I like buying presents for people.

  Are you happy nowadays?

  Extremely. I would love to see a big wide avenue of tremendous productivity inevitably spread before me, but that’s not the nature of the thing. Other than that, nobody’s mad at me now. I’m in shape. Things are going well for my friends. But then, I’ve been on bonus time since I was twenty-eight. I had a great enough life for anybody who ever lived up until then, so past that, it’s been a big bonus.

  What’s the secret of your appeal?

  I don’t know. As a teenager and in my early twenties, my friends used to call me “the Great Seducer”—even though they definitely were not sure I was attractive—because I seemed to have something invisible but unfailing.

  And now, as an actor, you get paid for it. Seduction is your business.

  [Laughs] Right. But I don’t want to enforce my will on anybody. I want it to be willing. I want it the way it is, and believe me, the way it is [flashes the killer smile] is pretty damn good.

  BILL MURRAY

  by Timothy Crouse

  August 16, 1984

  I know that you come from Chicago, but I’d be interested to know your social background.

  That’s tough to call. My father was a lumber-company salesman, and he got promoted to vice president about six months before he died. He was just about to start making the dough.

  When did he die?

  He died December 1969, when I was seventeen. I was a junior in high school. He never made a lot of money, and we had nine kids in the family, so even a lot of money wouldn’t have made much difference. I grew up in a suburb called Wilmette, and people had money there, but we weren’t among them.

  Did everyone work to help support the family?

  Well, it wasn’t like that. My father did it, really. We paid our way through high school, ’cause we all went to a Catholic school—except for two of my brothers, who were heathens and went to public school. My brothers and I, we would caddy in the summer, and my sisters would babysit.

  Where do you fit into the family constellation?

  Fifth. I like to say that they peaked with me, and it was all downhill after that. I was sort of in an odd spot, but I guess everybody thought they were in an odd spot in our family. I had the misfortune of reaching adolescence at a time when the world turned upside down, and I somehow had to represent the changing society to my parents—with limited success. I w
as speaking for the entire culture, everyone from Tim Leary to the Airplane.

  Were you a problem in school?