Rubber Balls and Liquor Page 10

  I also found this hard to believe because in the entire history of the motion picture industry my name and Dustin Hoffman’s name have never been mentioned in the same conversation, and I can’t imagine that they ever will. Well, strike that: the only way our names would appear together in the same Hollywood conversation would be in the sentence, “I’ve seen Gilbert Gottfried’s acting, and he’s no Dustin Hoffman.”

  So Gilbert Gottfried was out, and Dustin Hoffman was in, which I guess takes us to another common Hollywood expression:

  4. The part is yours, Gilbert Gottfried … unless Dustin Hoffman wants it—or anyone else, for that matter.

  Looking back over my “brilliant” career, it’s distressing to me (and more than a little perplexing) that I’ve never done a nude scene. Incredible as it may seem, I’ve appeared in over a hundred movies and television shows, and I’ve never once been asked to take off my clothes. Quite the opposite, in fact. Very often, my female co-stars will ask specifically that I keep my clothes on. It’s a matter of contract for some of them. Even in some of the animated shows I do, it expressly states that I’d be in violation if I turned up naked on the set.

  This is a shame. I would even go so far as to suggest that it’s a crying shame, except I’m not quite sure what that is. A shame is shame enough, although I suppose I could cry because I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, and a lot of time preparing. Really, I’ve made a careful study of Hollywood nude scenes, and I believe I’d be quite good at one. I can only imagine that sex in movies is an accurate reflection of sex in real life, although I must confess that I haven’t had any of one and hardly enough of the other to pass myself off as anything of an authority. Let’s just say I’m a fan. I understand that there must be a good reason why Neve Campbell does a three-way while wearing a bra the whole time, because that must mirror real life. I understand that you need to light hundreds and hundreds of scented candles to help establish the proper mood (and, I suppose, the proper scent), because everyone I know just happens to have hundreds and hundreds of scented candles lying about the house for just this purpose. I understand how A-list actresses wake up in bed with some guy and the blanket is magically tucked beneath her armpits and clutched to her chest, because one time I was fortunate enough to have sex with a woman who was mildly attractive and she was so ashamed of herself afterward she couldn’t even look at herself in a mirror. That blanket stuck to her body like there was suction involved. Or if there’s no blanket, an actress will get up and cross the room with the entire bedsheet draped around her like an evening gown. And I understand all about bubble baths, too, because everything is covered, and you can reach for an oversized towel while you’re still in the water and wrap it all the way around in such a way that not a single naughty bit might see the light of day—or, the light of a soundstage.

  I’ve been practicing getting out of bathtubs like this for years, in case it should ever come up, but only with mixed results. Another Hollywood bubble bath trick that seems to have eluded me is the way some adventurous actresses emerge from the tub without a towel, and yet the bubbles have somehow formed themselves into a bikini. I’ve practiced this, too, but it doesn’t seem to work on me. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. I just stand there wet and naked and cold, wondering how I might get the bubbles to form themselves into a warm towel.

  A classic Hollywood bedroom maneuver is a little move I like to call the drop-and-sigh, which happens with great frequency after a scene that’s meant to tastefully show an exhilarating round of wild sex. Have you noticed this, or is it just me? The camera pans away to show the pillows by the headboard, and then there’s a wave of husky, celebratory noises we can only assume are meant to signal an orgasm, and then suddenly the spent and satisfied couple falls back onto the pillows in a two-shot, side-by-side. Typically, their heads hit the pillow at exactly the same moment, and each time I’m left wondering how these spent and satisfied people have managed to enjoy their wild Hollywood sex in a side-by-side manner. I suppose it’s possible that, as stars, they have an extra set of sex organs on their hips, which makes a certain amount of sense. I mean, movie stars don’t just become famous for no apparent reason.

  One of my favorite movie modesty moments came in a scene with Phoebe Cates, who appeared to be diddling herself onscreen with a piece of black electrical tape covering one of her nipples. I won’t mention the title of the movie, to protect its privacy. (Oh, wait a second … Phoebe Cates wasn’t diddling herself in the scene, after all. That was me, watching the scene.) The black electrical tape was a little beside the point, don’t you think? What, did Phoebe Cates tell her agent she didn’t mind appearing in such a suggestive manner, but she drew the line at appearing topless?

  The most likely explanation, of course, is that Phoebe Cates wasn’t modest at all, but was instead experiencing some sort of short circuit in her tits on the day of filming, and that there were sparks flying out of her nipples. The black electrical tape was just a precaution.

  Now, I’m not complaining. I enjoy an artfully placed piece of electrical tape as much as the next guy. I even enjoy the thought of side-by-side sex, between two consenting stars, or the adhering properties of a well-bubbled bath. I’m just taking notes, studying the standards and practices of the industry, waiting for my chance to step in and shine. Yes, I remain at the ever-ready, even after all these years, at my advanced age. My thinking is, if Hume Cronyn and Don Ameche and Wilford Brimley can be applauded for appearing nearly naked in Cocoon, then I’ll get my chance to appear nearly naked before long. I’m just waiting for the right role. Of course, I won’t just do nudity for the sake of doing nudity. It has to be integral to my character. It has to serve the story, because I have a problem with gratuitous nudity—unless of course I’m sitting in a dark theater with a raincoat over my lap.

  Here’s a curious, little-known fact: I still have a Tic Tac in my shirt pocket from my very first movie, a little piece of crap I did in 1984 called The House of God, with Tim Matheson, Bess Armstrong, Joe Piscopo, and Sandra Bernhard. Such a cast! Even Michael Richards was in this thing. And … nothing! All this time later … still nothing. I’ve worked with all these beautiful stars, and all I’ve got to show for it is an excruciating case of celebrity blue balls.

  This has been especially frustrating, considering the Tic Tac. Put me in one of these teen vampire movies and I’d be all over the young undead starlet, and she’d remark on my fresh, clean breath, although I have to think that original Tic-Tac has emulsified by this point and lost some of its effectiveness, which is interesting because the role would probably call for me to take my shirt off and flex my considerable abs, which might very possibly lead my comely co-star to remark about my luminous, even-toned skin. However, this would also mean that my shirt would be back in my dressing room, and I’d be too entranced by my Method acting approach to collect the Tic Tac from the pocket before heading out to the set, so maybe it’s just as well.

  As long as I’m on it, let me just tie together a few loose strands from the front end of my career. My first movie led to a second and then to a third, although I chose to skip the fourth, fifth and sixth movies offered to me because they’d been talking to Woody Allen and wanted me to play a Navajo Indian, but then I took the next one, which I guess was officially my seventh movie even though it was really only my fourth, and after that things proceeded along in fits and starts. Sometimes a director would look at me when I turned up on the set for my day or two of filming and say, “Oh, Gilbert, are you in this?”

  I’d hear that and think, At least he recognizes me. Then I’d ask him if he wanted me to take my clothes off and things would generally go downhill from there.

  6

  First Impressions, Lasting Tributes

  I’m known for my impressions. I don’t mean to blow smoke up my own ass, but ever since Mayor Bloomberg made it so difficult to smoke in New York City, I’m having a hard time finding someone to pucker up and do it for me. Plus, I’m the kind
of guy who likes to call a spade a spade, even if it pisses him off and he winds up beating the crap out of me in some alley.

  In all fairness to me—and, to belabor the same damn point, this is my book so it’s only natural that I tend to favor the author—I’ve always had an ear for voices, which is a whole lot more practical for a comic than having a face for voice-overs, and one of the ideas behind this book is to share my many gifts and body parts with my loyal fans. This has been my credo, for as long as I can remember having a credo. To share my gifts and body parts. Freely, and often. It’s my reason for being, if you will. And, now that I’ve taken up the pen—which, in case you were wondering, is not really mightier than most swords (it’s just an expression, apparently)—it’s my reason for writing as well. It’s my own little writer’s credo. If I had a desk, and if I was the sort of writer inclined to work at it, instead of just scribbling away on loose scraps of paper while I ride the subway, I might even print out this credo on a plaque or one of those desk nameplates and display it prominently, for inspiration. But that’s not about to happen, so I’ll just scribble it down and make note of it.

  A writer is supposed to write what he knows, right? Well, I know voices. It’s uncanny, the thing I have with voices, and I mean to share it with you here, dear reader.

  Also, I’m told that my writing style resembles that of Judy Blume, the famous Young Adult novelist who writes about cramps and pimples and not being invited to the prom, and Onslow Stevens, the long-dead and little-remembered American character actor who appeared in House of Dracula opposite Lon Chaney, Jr. I mention Onslow Stevens in this context because I can’t help myself, and his appearance here in an aside meant to accentuate a small piece of preamble that will soon enough take us to a longer, more sustained bit comes with an unexpected bonus. You see, I have an Onslow Stevens story.

  Now, it’s not every day that you come across a conversation starter like that one: I have an Onslow Stevens story. To be sure, we all have our Onslow Stevens stories, but since I seem to have the floor I’ll share mine here. When I was in elementary school, in first or second grade, the teacher decided to fill the time by having us name famous people to correspond with various sets of initials. When she worked her way around the room to me, I had to come up with a name to match the initials O.S. So of course I blurted out a name that would have been on the tips of first- or second-grade tongues all across this great land: Onslow Stevens.

  What the hell did she expect me to say? Oskar Schindler? He hadn’t even started his acting career yet, so how was I supposed to know who he was? O. J. Simpson? He hadn’t even started his killing people career yet, or his running through airports career, so that pretty much left Onslow Stevens. I was just five or six, but good ol’ Onslow was the O.S. to end all O.S.’s, if you asked me.

  And so, back to my Judy Blume–Onslow Stevens writing style. This is a good and winning combination, I’m told by my publishers, because apparently Young Adult–type people seem to enjoy books about pimples and vampires.

  Ah, kids these days …

  But every writer has his own style. However, in this part of the book I won’t be focusing on style. No, the emphasis here will be on my God-given and self-nurtured talent for brilliant mimicry. (Self-nurturing … another one of my strengths, but that’s for another chapter.)

  Read on, and you’ll get what I mean …

  Here I am, doing Jack Nicholson:

  “You can’t handle the truth.”

  Wow. What more can I say? Just in case you were wondering, again, that impression was spot-on. A virtuoso performance. I really, really nailed it. Sounded just like him. You’ll just have to trust me on this. Granted, that impression would be a whole lot funnier if you could just imagine me pounding my fist in an emphatic way on the witness stand, which for comedic purposes could be made of simple pine instead of the traditional walnut or mahogany. Or, even funnier, you can picture me and my Jack Nicholson impression out of context. That’s always an effective comedic twist. In comedy graduate school, it’s known as juxtaposition. In my doctoral thesis, I even referred to this technique as desperation—or, in academic terms, “trying anything and hoping it works.” It’s been the basis for my entire career, so I might as well reach for it here. Let’s say we’re walking into a pizza place and we’re hungry for a slice. Let’s also say that the guy behind the counter has some difficulty “handling” our order, so we lean in and pound our fist in an emphatic way on the glass counter, to make ourselves understood.

  Got it? Good, now let’s try it again:

  “You can’t handle the truth.”

  Not bad, huh? Pure comedy gold, if you ask me. And, if you ask the guy sitting next to me on the subway, reading over my shoulder.

  Now imagine that I’m Al Pacino and I’m heading into a car rental place, looking for a subcompact. Here goes:

  “Say hello to my little friend.”

  To make it even better, dear reader, it helps if I’m sweating profusely as I say this, and for me to have a tiny bit of spittle flying from the corner of my mouth, and for me to pronounce little as leeeetle, in true Scareface mode.

  Pretty fucking funny, right?

  Like I said, uncanny.

  I’ve also got another Al Pacino impression up my comedy sleeve. Think of it like a two-for-one deal. You pay for the book, expecting just the one Al Pacino impression, and I overwhelm you with a second. That’s a real value, if you ask me.

  Ready? Here goes: “Hooo aaahhh!”

  Notice, dear reader, that my follow-up “homage” to Al Pacino features an extra “o” at the front end, and an extra little surprise at the back end. Most hack comedians, they do Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, they go, “Hoo ha!” But they’re wrong. Be assured, my way is correct, and for a treat I toss in that extra “o” in the “Hooo” part. And there’s no hard “h” sound at the front of the “aaahhh” part.

  I choose to slather it on pretty thick, because nothing’s too good for my fans. I make the extra-effort. My comedy recipes are made with the finest ingredients. I give, and then I give some more: “Hooo aaahhh!”

  (And, as a bonus, I show admirable restraint in avoiding any snide comments about one of the most unfortunately titled movies in the Al Pacino canon, which invariably turns up on several lists of all-time titles of mainstream movies that could be mistaken for porn movies. It’s right up there with Reservoir Dogs and The Last Temptation of Christ, don’t you think?)

  I could go on and on with these groundbreaking, print-equivalent impressions—and I guess I will, because in comedy parlance this is what’s known as being on a roll, which of course is not to be confused with the subcategory of comedy parlance that refers specifically to a series of successful jokes about World War II (being on a Kaiser roll).

  Next: Marlon Brando, from Apocalypse Now—and for this one it helps to imagine me with a fat, bald head, emerging in half-shadow from the heart of an unimaginable darkness, somewhere deep in the jungle. Close your eyes and picture it. Okay: “Oh, the horror!”

  It’s a gift, I know, but I’m only too happy to share it here, dear reader. That’s what I do, I share. I’m a giver. It’s my nature. Also, I’m a cutting edge kind of giver. As far as I know—which, frankly, isn’t very far—I’m the first comedian to even attempt doing voices on the page, so I’m figuring it out as I go along. We’re all in on the ground floor of this literary innovation, and I suppose it might punch things up a bit if I do a little comedic sleight of hand before each impression. I’m open to suggestions, to trying new things. Where you’re on a roll, like I am here, you’re too busy concentrating on rolling, and then (relatedly) on not getting sick from all that rolling, so you don’t always take the time to tweak. But that’s not me. I take the time. I tweak. There’s always room for improvement, right? So indulge me a moment, while I give myself some notes. First, I should turn around, my back to the audience, as I get into character. Then I should make all these elaborate gestures to suggest that I’m fixing my ha
ir, tugging on my collar, transforming myself into the person I’m about to impersonate. Like Rich Little used to do, only bigger.

  Dustin Hoffman, in Rain Man: “I’m an excellent driver.”

  As a comic sweetener, imagine if you will that Dustin Hoffman is about to board the Back to the Future roller-coaster ride at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida, after waiting on an unusually long line, beneath an unseasonably hot midday sun. All around him, the Universal Studios patrons are disgruntled and restless and a bit out of sorts, after such a long wait, but not Dustin Hoffman. All right, that sets the scene. Now jump back up a couple lines and reread my impression as Dustin Hoffman takes his seat in the front of the roller coaster and laugh among yourselves.

  I don’t just do men, by the way.

  (Wait, that didn’t come out right. I know this because the guy sitting next to me on the subway reading over my shoulder just moved away from me, looking uncomfortable.)

  Let me try that one again: I don’t just do male voices. I also do women.

  (There, that’s more like it.)

  And so, for all of you readers who are fans of the fairer sex and old movie classics, here’s my Bette Davis impression:

  “But you are in the chair, Blanche.”

  Oh, wait. I forgot to tell you the stage directions. I’m smoking a cigarette as I write this. Repeat.

  (For a moment there, I was going to write “Rinse, lather, repeat,” but then I realized it was the punch line to some other bit I may or may not get around to writing.)

  Meryl Streep, with that wonderfully thick Polish accent she used to such dramatic effect in Sophie’s Choice: “Aw, you might as well take the one on the left. He was never going to amount to anything, anyway. Plus, he has his father’s nose.”