But the great John Huston also helped enormously. He managed to consolidate my character for me in just one sentence. I'd been shooting for about two days and Huston said, "Cut! Michael," he said, "speak faster; he's an honest man." Because I was speaking slowly, it seemed as though I was trying to figure out what effect I was making. Huston's observation was spot on. Honest men speak fast because they don't need time to calculate.
After three days of shooting, Huston wasn't calling Sean and me by our own names anymore; he was calling us Danny and Peachy. Sean and I got to the point where not only could we improvise some of the dialogue, but this director, who for twenty-six years had nurtured this script that he co-authored, actually let us improvise the dialogue.
01967 Jovera S.0. All rights reserved.
BILLION DOLLAR BRAIN
Directed by Ken Russell. United Artists, 1967.
Behavior
On and
Off
the Set
"No matter what the reason, if you start to scream and shout, you look a fool, and you feel a fool, and you earn the disrespect of everyone."
THE UPSTAGER, THE SCENE-STEALER, AND THE STALLER
Almost without exception, actors help each other. In the movie business, the list of people whose careers suddenly ground to a halt is the same as the list of actors who tried to make enemies or pull tricks. That kind of behavior doesn't usually work anyway because the guv'nor-the director-is watching. He knows what's phoney and who's trying to screw up somebody else. He'll see it and he'll put a stop to it. And if tricks get past a director, an audience will sense them subliminally; they may not understand how a piece of acting skullduggery is achieved, but they have instinct and they'll say, "I didn't like that actor." The sort of dirty tricks such actors employ are fairly transparent, really. As in theatre, there is the Upstager: he keeps moving backward a few steps so that the other actors have to turn their backs to the camera to relate to him. Then there's the Scene-Stealer: he's the chap who will put in a little move of the hands or turn of the head during your tense moment and steal focus. The Staller does a slightly more subtle maneuver: he slows down the tempo that was set at rehearsal, extends pauses, talks more hesitantly and generally prolongs the time that the camera is on him, thereby hogging the scene. Few actors actually stoop to all this, and directors usually won't tolerate it. But occasionally only the other actor will notice a trick, and I recommend that you fight hack with the same weapons; that usually works like a charm.
C1977 Joseph E. Levine Presents, Inc. All rights reserved. Assigned 1989 United Artists.
A BRIDGE TOO FAR
Directed by Richard Attenborough. United Artists, 1977.
TEMPERAMENTS
You won't gain much leverage in the long run by pandering to other people's moods. If you put yourself in the position of yielding to temperaments, you deserve everything you get. During the filming of The Magus, I had a confrontation not so much with Anthony Quinn as with Quinn's kowtowers. Every (lay we'd get a bulletin from one of his minions: "Tony's in a great mood today"; or "Watch out, Tony's in a terrible mood today." One day I said:
"Has he ever asked what mood I'm in?"
The minion said, "Why should he?"
"If you have to ask," I said, "I might as well get the next plane home." And I set off for the airport. They persuaded me to come back, but I'd made my point.
I'm completely against interfering in other people's performances. Get on with your own contribution and leave everybody else to the director. He may be looking for qualities you never thought of, or he may edit the scene in a way you never imagined. And no matter what the other actors do-stop, blow their lines-you continue your scene right to the end or until the guv'nor says "Cut."
INSURANCE
SLEUTH
Directed by Joseph L. Manldewicz. 20th Century-Fox, 1972.
Pictured with Laurence Olivier.
Insurance may sound like a mundane topic. What's it got to do with movie acting? Well, on a set, the continuity person writes down everything that happens, including the cause of a delay on a take-for example, "it rained" or "the door fell off its hinges." The continuity person also writes "Actor, , one hour late," if that's the case. If a movie overruns and the budget is blown to bits, the producer goes to his insurance company, and the insurance company asks to see the continuity sheets. If your name features heavily on those sheets, you suddenly find you're not getting the job offers. It doesn't matter how big a star you are; the history of the cinema is littered with people who were uninsurable. Orson Welles, one of the greatest talents in the cinema, couldn't bring in a film on time, and as a result he had great trouble raising money.
STUNTS
Films often make huge physical demands on an actor; but the actor who tells you he does all his own stunts is a bloody liar. Insurance companies almost always prevent actors from doing their own stunt work. When you hit your head, the insurance agent gets the headache.
But, of course, for some pictures, for authenticity, you will have to acquire certain skills, some of which may give you very little pleasure. Actors who can't ride nevertheless must look good on a horse, at least while the camera is rolling. They may, though, fall off five seconds after "Cut!" I had to learn to scuba dive for Beyond the Poseidon Adventure. I never thought I could because I'm claustrophobic. But I managed. And there was always a professional diver close by, just in case. If I raised my hand, he would whisk me to the surface-it was like asking to be excused to go to the lavatory.
The vital thing is to know where to draw the line. If necessary, you can say no. After all, you're your own commodity. Your body and your face are all you have to offer, so you need to look after them. On Billion Dollar Brain, which was on location in Finland, the director, Ken Russell, wanted me to jump into a hole in the ice. I had a Finnish stand-in, so I went up to him and said:
"Want to earn some extra money? Warm up in the sauna and then jump into that hole in the ice."
He looked at me. "What?"
I said, "You know. Like the Finns do."
He said, "No they don't; they'd have heart attacks."
So he refused to do it, too.
In The Island I held up filming for hours, refusing to go into the water because there was a shark. The director, Michael Ritchie, asked me when was the last time I heard of a movie star being eaten by a shark. I said, "I'm not worried about the last time; I'm worried about the first time. I'm not about to be the first movie star to be eaten by a shark."
The only time you will be asked to do a real stunt (which is precisely when you must never do it) is on the last day of shooting, when they don't give a damn what happens to you. Anyway, if you think about it, what's the point of getting an actor to do a stunt when there's a guy on the set who has trained all his life to do this job? It's selfish to do a stuntman out of his opportunity. So, remember, if an actor tells you he does his own stunts, he's a liar, or selfish, or both.
S Orion Pictures Corporation. All rifts reserved.
DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS
Directed by Frank Oz. Orion, 1988.
But one day you're going to be in a studio and the special effects technician is going to come up to you and say something like this:
"On `Action,' that wall will be blown out, but don't worry about it; it will crash away from you. The roof will come down, but don't worry about it; it won't fall on you. The floor will open up and you'll drop down into some water, and there's a shark, but don't worry; we've taken his teeth out. Then, as you get out of the water, a poisonous snake will crawl up your trousers, but don't worry about it; we've got an expert from the zoo and he's just milked it."
And what you say to him is, "Mr. Special Effects Man, let me see you do it first."
He will say, "We haven't got the time. I'd gladly do it, you know, but we'd have to reset the charge, get the snake out of my trouser leg, put the roof back . . . It would cost fifteen thousand dollars in lost time to do all that; it would take all afterno
on to reset. Otherwise I'd do it."
You look at him and you say: "You do it first."
Always have a stunt demonstrated to you before you do it.
PROFESSIONALISM
As a leading actor in the movies, you are paid to pick up a picture on the first day of shooting, put it on your shoulders, and take it triumphantly to the end. But this doesn't give you any right to be a prima donna. I was on a film with another big male star, and because they mucked him about one day and kept him waiting around, when we got on the set the following morning at half past eight, he sent a message saying, "Because you kept me waiting four hours yesterday, I'm going to be four hours late today." We couldn't work without him, so we all just sat there. Everyone was watching me because I was the other co-star; they were wondering how I was going to react when he finally appeared. So when he turns up, I call him over. I say, "Come here." He's looking a bit truculent because he's expecting trouble from me. I say, "Thank God you did that. I was out all night last night, so I was really tired, and I hadn't learned the dialogue. I didn't know this bloody scene. Now I've had three hours sleep, I've learned the dialogue, and everything's fantastic. The point is, I'm going to a party tonight; can you do this again tomorrow?" He was never late again.
I used to lose my temper. I would fly off the handle quite quickly in a work situation. Then I worked on a picture called The Last Valley by James Clavell, who had been a prisoner of the Japanese during World War II. James looks like an Englishman, but he really thinks like a Japanese. I lost my temper one day, and James just looked at me and let me finish my ranting and raving. Then he said, "Come with me, Mike. Let's go 'round the corner and sit down." Ile sat me down and talked to me about the Japanese theory of losing face. No matter what the reason, if you start to scream and shout, you look a fool, and you feel a fool, and you earn the disrespect of everyone (even if it's the producer you're screaming at). I've never lost my temper in a work situation again. And never, ever, under any circumstances, shout at anybody who is lower on the ladder than you are. It would be taking a monstrously unfair advantage.
®1982 Warner Bros Inc.
DEATHTRAP
Directed by Sidney Lumet Warner Brothers, 1982.
KEEPING THE RUSHES IN FOCUS
At the end of each day, people on a film sometimes go to see the rushes. I never do. Everybody buys their yachts after the rushes and goes bankrupt at the premiere. Anyone you speak to about the rushes says they're wonderful. You say to makeup, "How were the rushes?"; and they say, "Just wonderful. Her lipstick was wonderful." You say to hairdressing, "How were the rushes?"; and they say, "Wonderful. You should have seen your wig. It was great." Everybody only watches out for his own thing. If you go to the rushes, you will only watch yourself. But in actual fact, your character should be a stranger to you because it is someone else. The director, if he's any good, will tell you what you were like far more accurately than the rushes will. To my mind, all you can tell from rushes is whether you are in focus, and even then the projectionist may have screwed up. You should remember also that if you don't go to rushes, you get home earlier. I'm also known as Quick-Start Mike because the moment I hear "Cut! Wrap!" I'm off and away.
Here's one last tip with a moral for film actors. It's something I noticed after going to Hollywood parties with big-name actors, big-name producers. Every time I went to an actor's house, the walls were covered with pictures of himself. Every time I went to a producer's house, the walls were covered with Lautrecs, Van Goghs, and Picassos. Just bear that in mind.
Directors
"You've got to be flexible. Directors do a massive amount of planning and homework, and if after all that your director decides to throw it all out of the window and shoot spontaneously, then you must follow his lead."
The director's word is basically law. That's why they say film is "a director's medium." And there are some actors who can take direction, and some who can't. The ones who succeed listen to the director and immediately translate what he says into their performances. They take his direction straight into their bloodstreams. Sometimes a director will hang in there with you, nursing you through every moment of a take. That's an actor's director. Others don't relate to actors at all; they almost dare you to give a good performance. In either case, don't expect any praise. If a director is satisfied with your work, he'll move on to the next shot; if not, he won't. That's the only signal you get. Joe Mankiewicz is bloody marvelous in that respect. He knows what you should want, he knows what you've got, and he also knows when you've got it. He's one of those directors who says nothing if he likes what he sees; but if he starts questioning you, watch out-you know you haven't got it. If he says anything, such as, "Why did you point to her on that line?" you're in trouble. Lucky trouble because he's spotted something in the gesture that's not quite real. Mankiewicz is with you until you're back on track. Don't rest. Don't fight it. Your craft has to be malleable enough to be shaped and shaped and shaped until the final take.
But not all directors are Joe Mankiewicz. There are good directors and bad directors; you learn something from both. From a bad director you can learn the art of self-preservation-how to give and sustain a performance all from within. And this art, like most arts, is based on craft-the craft of being a real pro. Your self-reliance is just part of being a professional. For better or for worse, until the limo stops picking you up in the morning, you're married to that director. Either you learn to love him, or you fake it. If, however, as occasionally will happen, you've wound up with a complete dummy, you all walk back to the dressing room and say, "Let's do this ourselves." It happened to me in one picture (which I won't mention by name). The director was in the outer reaches of space-and it was clear he'd only bought a one way ticket. I think he might also have been partial to certain substances. Well, we read his altitude early on and quietly agreed to take care of ourselves. And he was credited with having directed a terrific film. On the other hand, I once worked with a director who was a complete and total alcoholic and perfectly competent at the same time. He was bombed all day, and none of us noticed it. Until he fell down a ditch. But these extremes are very rare since once the insurance people slip that little character trait into your dossier, you've had it. They don't write, "Great fun at parties," either. You're out. And "out" doesn't mean "around here" or "statewide." Out means worldwide. The insurance people in the film biz live in the global village; you're never out of sight.
Naturally there will be times when actor and director are going to disagree. I compromise. I say, "Okay, we'll do it your way, but could we try it my way as well, and will you look at it in rushes?" An actor never gets to choose which take will finally be used, but he can ask for his choice to be printed so that you can all look at it. The director customarily says, "Yeah, sure, great idea," then usually forgets all about it. But if he doesn't forget, and it goes to rushes, chances are you'll find the director was right. You really can't judge yourself as clearly as the director can; his perception will usually prove sounder than your instinct. Anyway, he's the boss, and you might as well trust him. Some actors can't give in, can't compromise. Big rows take place. If you're a young actor or new to films, I suggest you let the director direct and get on with your job: following his direction.
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
Directed by John Huston. Allied Artists, 1975.
Pictured with Sean Cannery .
Different directors call rehearsals for different reasons. Some arrange rehearsals for the benefit of the camera work, for shots that are technically difficult. Some actually call rehearsals for the actors! One director will rehearse a film for two weeks before you start shooting. Another director rehearses one scene and then- bam!-does the take. It's over.
Woody Allen just puts it all on film right from the start, so that the rehearsal and the take become indistinguishable. He just keeps shooting and shooting it. Ile never covers in close-up. It's all one long shot. It goes on forever. In Hannah and Her Sisters, some of the ta
kes involved 360 degrees of shooting all around the house-and not a soundstage set either; a real New York City apartment, a real house. We'd go in at 8:30 in the morning, block out the moves, and shoot at 8:00 at night because it took so long to light. Woody rehearses everything down to the tiniest detail; his camera becomes a microscope. His pictures may look as if they are ad-libbed, but they are brought to that point by solid rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal. On camera the flow of the work from a sense of rehearsal-without the pitch of a take-makes for very relaxed and imaginatively disposed actors. Other directors will break it all up. Like John Huston. Ile'd cut in the middle of a master because he knew in his mind where he wanted the close-up-he didn't need to cover himself by shooting a master all the way through. A less experienced director would want all that footage to cover himself in case he changed his mind later during the editing, but Huston was a master of his craft. His mind was probably made up before the shooting began.
Brian de Palma has a bit of a chilly personality, but I admire him as a director and technician. So when he offered me a rathar weird horror film called Dressed to Kill, I figured this was a gamble that might pay off. He was very demanding, often shooting on and on until he got precisely what he wanted. I remember one nine-page sequence that incorporated a 360-degree swing of the camera and required 26 takes (a record for me); whenever we actors got the scene right, the camera didn't and vice versa. That one sequence took a whole day to shoot.
Acting in Film Page 7