11/4/22
Newletter148
The Crack of Dawn
When my cats, Ike and Tommy, leave me a present of a dead mouse, as they did last night, I give it a Jewish burial. I pick up the dead mouse by its tail, take it to the toilet, and instead of the Kaddish, which is the prayer for the dead, I just say the general Hebrew prayer, that goes something like this: Baruch attah Adonai eluhainu Melech haolam ashair kiddishanu bamitzvotov vitzivanu lahadlegnair shell . . . mouse, then drop into the deep and flush the toilet.
Back in 1977 when I first got to Hollywood I attended a school called Sherwood Oaks Experimental College, on Hollywood Blvd. above a shoe store (I just looked it up and it’s still around, although they’ve removed “experimental” from the name). The idea was that you got to meet and question working film professionals. I just read that three of the initial teachers were: Lucille Ball, Gene Kelly and Rod Serling. There was an enormous painting of Rod Serling on the wall at the top of the stairs. In the course of two semesters I met and spoke with: Mel Brooks, Gene Wilder, Francois Truffaut, Robert Wise, Robert Aldrich, and Robert DeNiro. It was the only time in my life I looked forward to going to school. Often, we’d screen one of their films before they arrived. After screening Day For Night (1973), a beloved, Oscar-winning film that I had already seen and not liked (I don’t like any of Francois Truffaut’s films and I’ve seen them all), I found myself standing awkwardly in a short line to meet Truffaut. Oddly, though he spoke and understood English, he had an interpreter with him. As I shook his hand I said to the interpreter, “Please tell him I’m a big fan.” Truffaut understood and said, “Thank you.” I walked away feeling like a liar.
I’ve already told this story, but I’m going to repeat it. In 1977 Mel Brooks was King Shit of Turd Mountain, having recently made Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, both in 1974. Everybody acted like he was this new guy on the scene. The Producers (1968) had not been made into a musical yet and was for the most part forgotten. Mel’s interview was hysterically funny – I think the interviewer asked him one question, then Mel went off for an hour. Then the Q&A began. As usual, film students ask the stupidest questions, like, “What kind of black and white film stock did you use on Young Frankenstein?” which is certain death to humor. Mel had no idea what film stock they used, and couldn’t even joke about it. He suddenly looked guilty, like he should know that information, but hadn’t done his job properly. I quickly raised my hand and asked – knowing that nobody in the 200 person audience knew this fact – “Where do you keep your Oscar?” A huge smile appeared on Mel’s face and he said, “Not many people know that I won an Oscar. I did. For Best Screenplay for The Producers. I keep my Oscar on top of my mother’s TV set in Miami. My wife [Anne Bancroft] keeps her Oscar on top of her mother’s TV set in Brooklyn.”
In The Producers, Zero Mostel is convincing Gene Wilder to go in on his ridiculous scheme, by buying him cotton candy and ice cream and a paper party hat. It’s getting dark and Mostel finally says, “Leo, you can have everything you’ve ever seen in the movies.” Gene Wilder stands, raises his arms, holding cotton candy and an ice cream, wearing the stupid hat, and says, “I want everything I’ve ever seen in the movies.” The fountain behind them goes on and the spotlights shine.
So, honest to God, after Gene Wilder spoke at Sherwood Oaks, I was the first person out of the theater, down the stairs, and smoking a cigarette on Hollywood Blvd., and who should walk past but Gene Wilder. I asked him, “Have you gotten everything you’ve seen in the movies?” He smiled, nodded, and said, “Pretty much,” and split.
A fine day to one and all.