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Kiss Me Like a Stranger: My Search for Love and Art
Gene Wilder
Gene Wilder defined film comedy in the 1970s and '80s. But this is no traditional autobiography, rather it's an intelligent, quirky, humorous account of key events that have affected him in search for love and art.In this very personal, fascinating book, Wilder gives a great insight into the creative process on stage and screen. He discusses his experiences of working with the very best of movie talent, including Mel Brooks, Woody Allen, Sidney Poitier and Richard Pryor, and tells how he developed his own unique style from his early days at The Actors' Studio with Lee Strasberg.Amongst other incidents, he describes his time in the UK, which he has great fondness for, studying at the Old Vic Theatre School in Bristol. During this period he came top of his class at fencing and doorstepped Sir John Geilgud to ask him to explain the use of iambic pentametre.Wilder also talks amusingly about his failed love life off-screen (including 4 marriages) and is candid about much darker times such as the death of his third wife, comedienne Gilda Radner, from cancer. He also reveals his own recent battle with the disease, which he's now come through, and which changed his perspective on life.This isn't a traditional celebrity 'tell all' but an insight into the life and mind of a great comic actor who has a rare ability to write as well as he performs.
gene wilder
kiss me like a stranger
MY SEARCH FOR LOVE AND ART
Dedication (#u855940e1-867d-5208-9897-203907bfed01)
To Karen,
without whom I would be
floating like a cork in the ocean
Contents
COVER (#u55fed9b4-22c0-5918-8159-e4082b06ee25)
TITLE PAGE (#uddb64949-0c36-50ea-aef4-20e30efceb61)
DEDICATION (#ue42302fe-ec12-5459-b450-dc4a0a618f7e)
PROLOGUE (#ub12a0e5b-0f0b-5e1c-875d-54b7195b4c76)
CHAPTER 1. FIRST MOVEMENT (#ufe71a434-14e1-5493-bde8-18fd9d8e6c0c)
CHAPTER 2. CAN A FEW WORDS CHANGE YOUR LIFE? (#u0ea53628-a4b6-5711-a402-93066f5f8d7a)
CHAPTER 3. “TAKE ME” (#u237e911d-7baa-5c48-b652-536716ad9b24)
CHAPTER 4. THE “DEMON” ARRIVES (#u5c0e880e-7214-5ff1-b63c-0e2c05f7212e)
CHAPTER 5. MY HEART IS NOT IN THE HIGHLANDS (#uba0907ee-deb0-54f2-a1e7-97937aedcff6)
CHAPTER 6. A YANK AT THE OLD VIC (#u75b98f5f-4fb2-51e1-b14a-10158039d516)
CHAPTER 7. SHADES OF GRAY (#u0734b88c-0d75-53c7-818b-f47f0c269c45)
CHAPTER 8. DON JUAN IN NEW YORK (#ubdd7bb1a-30d6-5cc9-872a-df0a6ee2f2b8)
CHAPTER 9. THE WORST OF TIMES, THE BEST OF TIMES (#ue32625f4-2cc0-5db0-bc01-a2a8efc7c570)
CHAPTER 10. MOTHER COURAGE (#u8b92ede5-babf-5982-b82f-a877810a43f0)
CHAPTER 11. A TASTE OF FREEDOM (#u8aaf0f02-37f1-593b-bd99-1fcdc55c9899)
CHAPTER 12. THE KING IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE KING! (#u4693685b-9e23-5ecc-a967-a271090ace26)
CHAPTER 13. “FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST. THANK MARGIE WALLIS, I’M FREE AT LAST” (#ua7b92d5f-cc22-563b-9309-231e80cf2331)
CHAPTER 14. “SORRY I CAUGHT YOU WITH THE OLD LADY” (#u8474ae47-3b78-5005-ad50-dd0fa1f61a3b)
CHAPTER 15. SECOND MOVEMENT: SPRINGTIME FOR HITLER (#u19cffda2-f4e7-5e39-95b7-c179a7e836cc)
CHAPTER 16. BLACK IS MY FAVORITE COLOR (#ua02728f4-8313-59fd-a4cc-c3a4d2745b62)
CHAPTER 17. “I HAVE A REASON – I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS” (#uce57f68f-36b4-56ad-b568-84fe1fff2dcc)
CHAPTER 18. NEW YORK, NEW YORK (#u32076012-d72e-55bc-8d68-103e82dda713)
CHAPTER 19. THE BIRTH OF A MONSTER (#u29409ea5-da40-5cad-9fe9-78a961d8148a)
CHAPTER 20. LE PETIT PRINCE (#u5a09b15c-8cd8-583f-a58d-4a609d801716)
CHAPTER 21. SHERLOCK HOLMES HAS A JEWISH BROTHER (#u13fdb65a-46ec-5771-bc8e-56e2e8becada)
CHAPTER 22. CRISIS IN BLACK AND WHITE (#u6b19acec-4d57-5cb3-a57b-94e016beff2d)
CHAPTER 23. LEO BLOOM HAS HIS PICTURE TAKEN (#u5bb26ac2-6f26-5c4f-bb4a-b4a94205f9c4)
CHAPTER 24. SIDNEY POITIER AND I GO STIR-CRAZY (#u65746a04-7c80-5e9d-b8cc-70d64a77855a)
CHAPTER 25. HANKY-PANKY WITH ROSEANNE ROSEANNADANNA (#u454497b5-627f-5dd2-a512-6d6488a5aa01)
CHAPTER 26. I DON’T BELIEVE IN FATE (#ub80ca11d-97a6-53bc-b325-8b4de4e35008)
CHAPTER 27. THIRD MOVEMENT (#uac94ba98-fb6b-5b49-8109-e7d0e028cab8)
CHAPTER 28. COMEDIENNE – BALLERINA 1946–1989 (#u046268dd-f051-50a9-8067-917fcf340fcb)
CHAPTER 29. IT’S ALWAYS SOMETHING (#u8d6da556-6434-5d0d-9631-87901541df86)
CHAPTER 30. STOLEN KISSES (#u7833fb9c-ca12-5a9e-99d9-5d91825eff0a)
EPILOGUE (#u360110d8-6904-5d8b-9c41-25e64b4f5b0c)
INDEX (#uc6cc29f5-2a2c-5519-bbb1-c5c32032fce5)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#u559752b7-beec-5d46-9d61-8eff677f559e)
PRAISE (#u604422ee-1285-5712-af7f-1b8fd6062741)
COPYRIGHT (#u749ce766-6718-5e15-b41a-47fcf79b7476)
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#ube3a2a48-17b4-5826-80f5-1bdc40c7938f)
Prologue (#u855940e1-867d-5208-9897-203907bfed01)
Suppose you’re walking out of the Plaza Hotel in New York City on a warm spring day. You breathe in the lovely fresh air as you step outside and walk down the red-carpeted stairs, saying a quick, “Hi, again!” to the uniformed doorman.
You want to go directly across the street to Bergdorf’s Men’s Shop on Fifth Avenue, but the Plaza fountain is directly in your path, with people from all walks of life sitting on the ledge of the fountain, eating sandwiches in what’s left of their lunch hour, talking to their friends from the office, maybe flirting with some new acquaintance and whispering arrangements for a love tryst that night. Perhaps some are taking a short sunbath on this first beautiful day of the year or even sneaking in a quick snooze as they lean their backs against the famous fountain where Zelda Fitzgerald once jumped in fully clothed.
You can get to the shop on Fifth Avenue by walking around the fountain on the path to your left, or by taking the path to your right. I believe that whichever choice you make could change your life. I’m sure everyone has had these mysterious brushes with irony, perhaps referring to them years later as “almost fate.” Here are a few of mine.
chapter 1 (#u855940e1-867d-5208-9897-203907bfed01)
FIRST MOVEMENT (#u855940e1-867d-5208-9897-203907bfed01)
1962 – New York
I walked into Marjorie Wallis’s small office on West Seventy-ninth Street. I was very nervous.
“What do I call you?” I asked.
“What do you want to call me?”
“I heard Dr. Steiner call you Margie on the telephone … is that all right?”
“Margie it is! Sit down.”
She indicated the plain couch in front of me. There were no pictures on the walls. Margie sat in a comfortable-looking armchair, with an ottoman – which she wasn’t using – resting in front of her. Her face wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t stern, either.
“What seems to be the trouble?” she asked.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at her.
“I want to give all my money away.”
“How much do you have?”
“… I owe three hundred dollars.”
She looked at me silently for four or five seconds.
“I see. Well, let’s get to work, and maybe by the time you have some money you’ll be wise enough to know what to do with it. In the meantime tell me about …”
And then she asked me a lot of questions. “Your mother was how old? … How did you feel when the doctor said that? … Have you ever tried to blah, blah, blah?” I took so many long pauses before I answered each question that I thought she might throw me out, but she just sat there, with her feet up on the ottoman now, and waited. When I did start talking again, she made little notes on a small pad that rested on her lap.
What I couldn’t understand was this: why on earth was I thinking about a fifteen-year-old girl named Seema Clark during all my long pauses in between Margie’s questions? Seema kept popping into my head while I was talking about my mother and doctors and heart attacks and my Russian father and masturbation.
I thought Seema was Eurasian when I met her the first time – she certainly didn’t look Jewish – but when we both came out of the synagogue together I realized that she must be Jewish. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I was only fifteen, but I had seen a lot of movies and I thought she looked like a very thin, teenage Rita Hayworth. I was her date when Seema had her fifteenth birthday party. There were eight or ten other kids at her house that night, all laughing their heads off at some wisenheimer who was “hypnotizing” one of the girls. I thought he was pretty stupid, but I enjoyed watching the cocky little faker who thought he knew how to hypnotize people because he’d read his uncle’s book on hypnosis.
Seema held my hand while we watched the “hypnotist” go through his fake talk. I knew she really liked me. She looked so pretty that night, with a pink barrette in her hair and wearing a brand-new yellow angora sweater. Her mother served all of us birthday cake and some delicious coffee. When all the other kids had gone home, Mrs. Clark showed me the coffee can, because I had said how good the coffee tasted – it was A&P’s Eight O’clock Coffee – and then her mother said good night and left Seema and me alone.
We sat on the couch in an almost-dark living room and started kissing. I was shy, but I didn’t want Seema to know how shy I really was, so I put on an act as if I were used to all this kissing in the dark with no one around. I thought that she was probably more experienced than I was and I decided that it was about time for me to feel a girl’s breast. Well, I can’t say, “I decided” – I was just going on what I’d heard from all the other boys my age, especially my cousin Buddy, who was nine months older than me.
It took me about eight minutes to get my hand near the start of Seema’s breast – the hairs of her new angora sweater kept coming off in my fingers, which certainly didn’t help any. After another three or four minutes, I finally put my hand on about one-third of her breast. As soon as I did, she jerked away. My mouth went dry. She looked at me with such disappointment in her eyes and said, “You’re just like all the other boys, aren’t you?” I flushed so hot I thought I’d burst. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t say anything during all the kissing and creeping up the fake angora. Why didn’t she just say, “No,” or, “I don’t want you to do that,” or anything but what she did say? I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t at all like all the other boys, that I thought she would like what I was doing, that I thought she was waiting for me to do it. But I was too embarrassed to say any of those things. I just said, “I’m sorry, Seema,” and then wished her happy birthday and got out of there as fast as I could.
Of course, this all happened in little pictures that popped into my head during the long pauses with Margie. The whole memory probably lasted only a few seconds. Margie’s voice suddenly burst in:
“Where are you?”
“… What do you mean?”
“Lie down on the couch. You’re not as innocent as you pretend and Dr. Steiner assures me that you’re no dummy. I want you to start talking and tell me everything that crosses your mind – everything – however embarrassing or insignificant you think it is. I don’t know whether or not I can help you and I don’t know how many times you and I will be seeing each other in the future, but whether it’s one more time or several years … don’t ever lie to me.”
chapter 2 (#u855940e1-867d-5208-9897-203907bfed01)
CAN A FEW WORDS CHANGE YOUR LIFE? (#u855940e1-867d-5208-9897-203907bfed01)
Milwaukee
I used to be Jerry Silberman. When I was eight years old, my mother had her first heart attack. After my father brought her home from the hospital, her fat heart specialist came to see how she was doing. He visited with her for about ten minutes, and then, on his way out of the house, he grabbed my right arm, leaned his sweaty face against my cheek, and whispered in my ear,
“Don’t ever argue with your mother – you might kill her.”
I didn’t know what to make of that, except that I could kill my mother if I got angry with her. The other thing he said was:
“Try to make her laugh.”
So I tried. It was the first time I ever consciously tried to make someone laugh. I did Jewish accents and German accents and Danny Kaye songs that I learned from his first album, and I did make my mother laugh. Every once in awhile, if I was a little too successful, she’d run to the bathroom, squealing, “Oh, Jerry, now look what you’ve made me do!”
Some people – when they step into the ring – lead with their left; some lead with their right. I always led with my sister.
It was a Saturday night. I was eleven. My sister, Corinne, was sixteen and she was giving an acting recital at the Wisconsin College of Music, where her teacher, Herman Gottlieb, had his studio. It was a small auditorium stuffed with about two hundred people. While everyone sat and waited for the show to start, there was so much loud talking that I wondered how Corinne would stand it. When the lights started to fade, everyone talked louder for a few seconds. Then they all whispered. Then … darkness!
A spotlight hit the center of the stage, and there was Corinne, wearing a full-length aqua gown. For the next twenty minutes she performed “The Necklace,” a short story by Guy de Maupassant that she had memorized. All eyes were on Corinne. The audience was listening to every word. You could hear a pin drop. Everyone applauded her at the end. I remember thinking that this must be as close to actually being God as you could get.
I went up to Mr. Gottlieb and asked if I could study acting with him.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Eleven.”
“Wait till you’re thirteen. If you still want to study acting, I’ll take you on.”
When my mother was in pain, the fat heart specialist came to our house. I say “fat” only because Dr. Rosenthal died of a heart attack a few years later, and even though I was very young, I instinctively associated his death with how many Cokes he drank whenever he came to our house. One day he came because my mother felt a terrible pressure in her chest. Dr. Rosenthal told me to go around the corner, where they were putting up a new house, steal a heavy brick, and then wrap the brick in a washcloth and place it on top of my mother’s chest, over her heart. It sounded crazy. I waited until all the workers had left the new house, at the end of the day, and then I picked up a good-sized brick, tucked it under my sweater, and walked home as fast as I could. I wrapped the brick in a washcloth and placed it on top of my mother’s chest.
“Oh, honey, that feels so good.”
In the months that followed I would substitute my head for the brick. I’d push my head down with both hands as hard as I could, and she liked that even more than the brick.
One Sunday afternoon my dad dropped me off at the Uptown movie theater, so I could see a Sunday matinée. I didn’t tell him that I’d taken his flashlight out of the utility closet and hidden it in my jacket.
After I paid the cashier and bought my popcorn and Milk Duds, I went into the theater, which was almost full. The picture had already started, but in those days most people were used to coming in after a movie started – they would stay until they saw a familiar scene in the next showing and then leave. This Sunday the movie was Double Indemnity, with Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. It was in black and white.
