How I Got to Be Whoever It Is I Am (7 page)

I’ve since heard from others that his behavior toward me wasn’t unique. I think most of us have had problems only with people
who’ve had problems with many others. In the 1960s, I auditioned for a Broadway show that was going to be directed by a very
famous Broadway director, an icon in the world of comedy. As I came onstage, he shouted to me from the audience, “Charlie
Baker [the head of the William Morris Agency’s theater department] tells me you’re the funniest young actor in New York. Let
me see you do something funny!” I made a face, and everyone laughed. Then I began to read for the role. I was about five lines
in when the icon called out to me from the back of the theater in what sounded to me like a disgusted voice, “It’s a comedy,
Charlie!” I stared at him a moment and said, “I know.” Needless to say, I didn’t get the part, which was eventually given
to an excellent young dramatic actor who had never been known for comedy, before or since.

This very successful director came from a school of comedy you most often see today in sitcoms. Set up—joke. Set up—joke.
I’ve never worked liked that. Comedy can come by more than one choice. If you embody the character as best you can, the rhythm
most likely will not be set up—joke but will come from the character’s natural rhythm, which will vary according to the character.

Directors of the old school not only don’t care for this, it alienates them, because they don’t understand what’s happening.

That wasn’t the first time that happened to me. In my second Broadway show, the director of the Rock Hudson and Doris Day
movies critically told the leading man, who happily passed it on to me, “I have no idea what Grodin is doing out there,” but
the audience’s response to me made his comment irrelevant.

Early in my career I wrote a piece of material and sent it to a famous comedian. He graciously responded and said he thought
it was funny, but he wrote all his own material. He then added, “Don’t make a career out of me.” I was never sure if that
last line was a joke, but years later I ran into him when he had also become a famous director, and he ranted and carried
on quite seriously about how offended he was that he wasn’t asked by the studio to direct a movie I had written.

Different versions of that happened over the years. Once in a dramatic role I was supposed to physically assault the great
actor Pat Hingle, who was making his first appearance since falling down an elevator shaft in real life. Pat was on crutches,
so naturally I was somewhat careful about how aggressively I went after him. The director, a real bully, shouted over the
PA system, “You’re coming off like a sissy.” He also ridiculed James Caan, who did a lot better for himself in the years to
come than the director did.

Robert Redford was also in the cast, but I don’t remember the director ever yelling at him. There’s something about Redford
that would discourage that. He and I hung out a bit when we were both in our early twenties. We once went over to the one-room
studio he was renting on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He said the first day he moved in, he opened a closet door to hang
up his jacket and found there was a bedroom there!

T
hrough an introduction from my friend Eleni Kiamos, who had become an assistant to Lee Strasberg, I was given an interview.
I remember sitting alone with him in his study, and he asked me what actors I admired. I said, “Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando,
and Paul Muni, in his early work.” Mr. Strasberg looked at me for the first time and invited me to join his class, I believe
because he agreed Mr. Muni was better—less elaborate—in his early work.

Again, I saw no real point in attempting to take an imaginary shower to develop our so-called sensory abilities, but I chose
not to say anything. I also didn’t understand the emphasis on relaxation exercises. For me, the way to relax is to try to
connect to the character and what he’s all about and find that person in myself. That will give you something to think about
other than the audience, which is the
best
way to relax. I’d rate that as a much better idea than to essentially try to fall asleep in a chair, which is how a lot of
teachers teach relaxation, but I chose not to question Mr. Strasberg. Maybe I was finally getting tired of being kicked out.
Or maybe it was because I never received any abuse from Mr. Strasberg. I believe that an exercise that is essentially getting
you relaxed enough to fall asleep in a chair is only useful if you’d like to be able to fall asleep in a chair.

Here’s an acting exercise I would use if I ever taught, which I won’t. I would instruct: Take a bottle of water and empty
it into a tall glass, holding it over the glass until absolutely the final drop goes in. The concentration and focus required
to be sure you’ve got that last drop is what’s needed in acting.

I would never be interested in teaching acting because to teach suggests that acting is a viable profession to pursue. If
kids realized the tiny percentage of people who make a living in show business, at least half the acting schools and drama
departments might have to close up shop.

Confidence is an absolute necessity for anyone who appears in front of a camera or large groups of people, and it’s certainly
necessary to be prepared in every way to have that confidence. It’s startling to me how many actors underestimate the importance
of being absolutely confident of knowing their lines. Amazingly, in ten years of studying acting I never heard any teacher
say that. Some actors believe it’s not in their interest to know the lines too soon—they feel it will lead to an interpretation
before they’re ready. When I say learn the lines early and thoroughly, I’m not talking about interpretation but in the way
you would learn to count to ten. The interpretation can come whenever you want, or when the director asks for it. Some English
directors insist you show up for the first day of rehearsal knowing the lines. Good idea.

I was obviously getting better, because Mr. Strasberg astonishingly would cite what I was doing as an example of what to do.
Once I missed class, and the next week he came over to me and asked if I was okay. That was extraordinary, because in my experience,
Lee Strasberg was not a person who reached out. The two most socially uncomfortable people I’ve ever met are Lee Strasberg
and Woody Allen.

I studied with Mr. Strasberg from 1959 to 1962. He must have had thousands of students over the years, and yet in 1975, thirteen
years since I had last seen him, on opening night on Broadway of
Same Time, Next Year
, a two-character play I did with Ellen Burstyn, Lee Strasberg was the first person in my dressing room after the show. He
said, “You were very good.” I asked, “You remember me?” He said, “Of course I do.”

After signing a letter saying if I was invited I would accept, I was then invited to join the Actors Studio. It’s ironic that
the Actors Studio protected itself from rejection, while its members have to deal with it unrelentingly.

T
he off-off-Broadway play I was in when I was twenty-one was ominously titled
Don’t Destroy Me
. The playwright, Michael Hastings, was English. One night our director told us the agent for the playwright was coming to
see the show. The next day the director informed us that after seeing the play the agent had committed suicide. She assured
us it had nothing to do with our presentation of his client’s play. I completely believed her. I’m sure I’ll say this again.
Who knows what anyone else is living with?

Another time, the director, a lovely woman who teaches today, told me the celebrated actor Hume Cronyn had seen the play and
said of me, “He could be very good, once he gets over his problem.” I asked, “What’s my problem?” She replied that Mr. Cronyn
hadn’t said, but she could get his number for me if I wanted to call and ask him.

I imagined the conversation. “Mr. Cronyn, this is Charles Grodin. I understand you saw
Don’t Destroy Me
and said I could be very good once I got over my problem. I was wondering…” I chose not to call.

After one performance my buddy Julie Ferguson from the Pittsburgh Playhouse came to see me. We walked down the street after
that, and I think I surprised us both when I put my arm around her shoulder.

Julie was very different. Once we were rehearsing a scene at the Playhouse and I suggested we take a break and get a sandwich
across the street. She said okay and went into the ladies’ room. I went to the men’s room, came out, and waited for her outside
the ladies’ room. After a certain amount of time, I called out her name. There was no answer, so I went across the street
to the sandwich shop, where she was sitting at a booth having a sandwich. I went over to her and said, “I thought we were
going to get a sandwich.” She said without hesitation, “You didn’t say with
you
.”

After that walk down the street with my arm around Julie’s shoulder we eventually became a couple and got married. That’s
when the trouble started. Not trouble the way we normally think of it—a different kind of trouble. Neither Julie nor I had
ever lived with anyone, and it was almost immediately clear that she just wasn’t all that comfortable sharing living space
with someone. The late comedian Milt Kamen once said the reason he never got married was because when he’d come home there’d
be someone in his apartment.

Just after we were married, Julie found a stray dog wandering the streets. She seemed way more comfortable with the dog, which
she named Buddy, than with me. (I have a feeling that’s not unusual among married couples.) Buddy was a mix of some kind,
a nice-looking medium-size dog who Julie brought back to full health. She later worked in an animal shelter.

Julie and Buddy bonded. Buddy seemed to like me considerably less than he liked Julie. When I’d come home he might or might
not come over for a pat on the head. When Julie came home he jumped all over her with excitement. As time went on, this behavior
continued, except I would describe Buddy’s attitude toward me as decreasing to tolerant.

One day as I was walking down the street in Forest Hills, the neighborhood where we lived in the borough of Queens, a pack
of dogs approached me menacingly. Not leading the pack but right in the middle was Buddy. I managed to shout them off. After
that, Buddy’s and my relationship, needless to say, just about disappeared.

Although I never had one, I’ve always loved dogs. I find it ironic after my experience with Buddy that far and away my two
most commercially successful movies were with a dog.

Julie and I never argued. There was just an ongoing withdrawal on her part. Nevertheless, we had a baby, Marion, who is now
a wonderful woman. Julie and I persevered. I should say Julie persevered. I had no problem with Julie other than her determination
to almost never speak. I once stopped speaking to her to see if she’d notice. It took a few days before she did. Then one
day, after about four years without any arguments, Julie took our baby and moved out.

I think a lot of the problem came from Julie’s relationship with her mother, who was a fine woman but on the authoritarian
side. Julie wanted to be on her own to such a degree that if I took her arm while crossing a busy street she would take it
away.

After we separated, we resumed the great friendship we had before getting married. Eventually, she filed for divorce, but
we remained close friends—partially, of course, because we had a daughter, but also because we always were great friends.

One day long after our divorce she called to tell me that in the middle of the night something caused her to bolt straight
up in bed from a sound sleep. After that happened a few more times she saw a doctor and was diagnosed with a benign brain
tumor that the doctor felt should come out. When they operated they found that it was the worst kind of malignant brain tumor,
for which there was no treatment. Of course, my daughter and I were devastated.

Marion dropped out of her successful show business career and moved into a house with her mother to be with her during the
last three years of her life. I had married again sixteen years after Julie and I were divorced. I had a baby son whom Julie
came to see in the hospital when he was born. She was next door receiving chemotherapy. I never heard Julie express any sorrow
for herself.

I would sometimes join Marion on Julie’s medical appointments. One particularly stands out in my mind. A renowned doctor at
New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering was asking her some questions, which Julie had trouble comprehending due to her gradual
loss of faculties. She would look to me for help, and the doctor snapped at her, “Don’t look at him! Look at
me
!”

After the examination I complained to officials at the hospital, and that brilliant cancer researcher was then limited only
to research—no longer seeing patients. Evidently, I wasn’t the first to complain.

Before all this happened and while we were still married, Julie received great acclaim starring in an off- Broadway play.
A major agency invited her to meet their agents. At the end of all the meetings, the agent who had brought her in said the
feeling was that she wasn’t a “commercial” type. This was before actors like Dustin Hoffman and Gene Wilder redefined what
a commercial type looked like. Julie looked more like a tomboy, but she had a unique quality that was so special, many of
us felt she would become very successful, but that one rejection caused her to stop her pursuit of an acting career. This
has been the case for many gifted young actresses and actors who temperamentally could not handle what feels like constant
rejection.

After our divorce, Julie became an outstanding woodworker. She made desks and chairs but never charged enough to make a profit,
so she also taught woodworking at a Y in New York. She continued this even after her fatal diagnosis. She would be teaching,
feel a seizure coming on, excuse herself, walk into the hall, have a seizure, and return to teach.

When she died, she was fifty-two. She was one of a kind and an inspiration for courage.