My new hero
is William Goldman. Так как я уже двадцать семь раз перечитала главу про "Марафонца" в его книге Adventures in the Screen Trade, то пожалуй скопирую ее почти целиком и сюда:
chapter ten
Marathon Man
I don't remember much clearly about Marathon Man. I wrote, in a compressed period of time, two versions of the novel and at least four versions of the screenplay, and after that, someone, I suspect Robert Towne, was brought in to write the ending. So all in all, it's pretty much a maze.
What I do remember clearly, as clearly today as then, is Olivier.
The part Olivier wanted to play was that of the Nazi villain, Szell, who is living in considerable luxury in South America. Circumstances force him to come to New York to retrieve a fortune in diamonds.
He wanted the role, obviously we wanted him. The problem was would he be physically able to or, more bluntly, would he even be alive? The man has been dogged by a series of hideous ailments over the past years, killing ones. But the man is also a bull, and each time he somehow survived.
When Marathon Man's director, John Schlesinger, first went to visit him to discuss the possibility, he came away filled with doubt. Olivier, he reported, was then almost totally incapable of movement; one side of his face worked - that was all. Beyond the question of his recovery was this: Would he possibly be able to pass the physical that all leads must take for insurance purposes prior to a film?
All answers came in positive, and rehearsals began in a large room in what had once been the Huntington Hartford Museum above Columbus Circle. Schlesinger and I and a number of others arrived early. There is always tension at such a time, but now there was more than normal: A new problem had arisen.
The Olivier role called for him to be bald. In his past, the character had been nicknamed "the White Angel" because of his glorious white hair. In the script, in order to help disguise himself, Szell shaves himself bald. Now a delicate moment was at hand: Olivier was old, he had been desperately ill, he didn't look all that terrific anyway - and no one wanted to bring up the subject of having his hair shaved. (There were rumors about his health flying everywhere and this would only add to it; "I just saw Olivier and his hair has fallen out. He looks worse than I've ever seen him. Bald. How much longer can he last?")
A barber was hired for the day, but he was hidden in a room downstairs. For all anybody knew, maybe Olivier didn't even want to play the part bald. Christ, we all have vanity, and this was once one of the world's matinee idols.
Rehearsal time approached. The barber was waiting below. But who the hell was going to ask this legend about getting disfigured?
There were no volunteers.
On time, Olivier moved silently and alone into the large room. We all made our hellos. Olivier carries none of his greatness with him. He is famous for taking directors aside early on and saying, "Please, you must help me. Tell me what you want." Most stars like to be thought of as being private people, being shy. We even grant these attributes to Woody Allen, this in spite of the fact he must be the most visible celebrity in New York.
It's not an act with Olivier. He never has considered himself to be all that much as a film actor. On the stage, obviously, he is Something. In films, he thinks of himself as being just another player.
He also never refers to his great career as a director. No mentions of Henry V. Orson Welles, another great director, reputedly has on more than one occasion, when he first came on the floor to act, looked around, then nailed the director with probably one eyebrow raised and intoned, "Is that where you're going to put the camera?"
Anyway, after we greeted each other there was this very long pause. Broken by Sir Laurence, who said, "Would it be possible for me to be shaved bald now? I think it might be best to get it done."
Relief, may I add, abounded.
During lunch break we found ourselves together and I didn't know what to say, so I fumbled something about was his hotel all right, did he like New York? Did he know it well?
"Not at all that well," he answered. "I was here I think in '46 and in '51 and '58, but I'm not that familiar with the city."
I nodded, wondering what to say next when suddenly it hit me - Jesus Christ, '46 was his Oedipus, one of the two performances in all my life I wish I'd been able to see. (Laurette Taylor in The Glass Menagerie was the other.) And '51 - that was the two Cleopatras, the Shaw, and the Shakespeare he performed in with Vivien Leigh. And '58 was his phenomenal work in Osborne's The Entertainer. He never referred to the plays, just the years.
But those weren't dates we were talking about; that was theatre history.
[...]
Dustin Hoffman loves to improvise and he's expert at it. He and Schlesinger and Olivier were sitting around a table, going over the penultimate sequence in the movie, where Hoffman has Olivier at gunpoint and they begin a long walk. Hoffman said, "Let's improvise it for a while."
Olivier said he'd really rather not. Improvisation is not something he likes to do, it's not part of traditional English theatrical training.
Hoffman jumped up. "Let's put it on its feet and improvise."
Olivier resisted again.
Schlesinger said he thought that since we were there to rehearse, why not try it.
Olivier got up. Slowly.
He was, as I've indicated, recovering from whatever terrible disease had recently crippled him. His hands, even now, were bandaged. (I don't know the specific nature of this particular ailment; someone said it was the nerve disease that had killed Onassis, but I can't vouch for that. And when I say his hands were bandaged, I don't mean totally swathed. But there were Band-Aids crisscrossing his skin and all Scotch taped in place, perhaps to hide the sight of swelling.)
He was protected brilliantly in the movie. There is only one moment where you can tell how frail he really was. It's at the end of the sequence in the diamond district, when he was to try and run for nearby cab, perhaps two paces away. If you watch closely, you can see the struggle he had to put out to get to the cab. Even then two steps were almost too many.
But now, as he stood slowly in the rehearsal hall, we were months before the shooting of the diamond scene. Hoffman mimed a gun and said "Okay, get going" and they started to walk around the rehearsal hall.
Olivier tried ad-libbing, said again and again that he really wasn't skilled at it, could someone give him his lines, and Hoffman said, "You're doing great, just say anything, come on, we're getting somewhere."
So they walked.
And walked. And kept on walking.
I don't know why all this was allowed to happen. Improvising is a part of Hoffman's vast technique, and perhaps that was the reason. But Olivier, in spite of himself, scares the shit out of other actors. (I know of one giant star who insisted on Olivier being in a movie with him. This man was and is a friend of Olivier's. The movie was well into shooting when Olivier's role began, and the night before his first appearance, the star who cared for him and insisted on him was awake the entire night in, quite simply, panic. He was nursed through that night by his producer, who told me it was so sad, seeing this star all but helpless because he was going to have to act with Olivier the next day.)
And I think part of this was because of Hoffman's need to put himself on at least equal footing with this sick old man.
And I don't know why Schlesinger didn't stop it. Perhaps, as he indicated, to see what might come out of it that might help the sequence.
But I also have to think that Schlesinger knew that Olivier wouldn't give him any trouble: Hoffman was the star, Hoffman had the vehicle role, if anyone was going to bring him to grief, Hoffman was that man, and to go directly against his star's wishes so early on might not be a move of great wisdom - I'm not talking about the improvisation, I'm talking about the walking that went along with it - because inside of a few minutes, Olivier's ankles were beginning to swell.
But on they walked. And improvised. And Hoffman was terrific. And Olivier did his best. And Schlesinger watched it all.
And Olivier would not sit down. Would not. Give in.
He could have stopped, he could have asked for a chair, he could have requested a break.
But he walked.
And now his ankles were bulging, Pain is impossible to quantify. What lays me up may be something you can deal with easily. No one can say how much anyone is capable of enduring. But watching it all take place, seeing the old man grow increasingly pale, was something I knew then I'd remember. And I mean forever.
Truly skilled actors are rare. Of those, a few are blessed with brilliance. And of those, fewer still have even a shot of greatness. Most (Burton, Welles, Barrymore) blow it.
Every century or so, we are blessed with a tiny handful, and as impossible as their task may be, staying great is that much harder.
Olivier made his first stage appearance in 1922 - he played Katherine in an all-boys production of The Taming of the Shrew. I doubt he was a great Katherine. But watching him as that awful improvisatory afternoon came to an end, I think I glimpsed why Olivier has been able to endure in that incredible rarefied atmosphere for so many decades. He was sure as shit great for me that day, and he'll be great on the day that he dies.
Assuming he allows that to happen....
Last Olivier story.
He and Roy Scheider were rehearsing a scene. In the story they are very close to violence, but both are still trying to figure out what the other one knows. The dialog went like this:
OLIVIER
We must talk. Are you to be trusted?--
SCHEIDER
--No--
OLIVIER
--Was that the truth? Or are you trying to upset me?--
SCHEIDER
--I know why you're here--and I know that sooner or later you're going to go to the bank--
OLIVIER
--perhaps I have already been.
Schlesinger interrupted them. He said, "Larry, that's supposed to go fast, and after Roy says the line about the bank, you're taking a pause before 'Perhaps I have already been.' Don't take the pause."
Olivier said "Of course," and they started into dialog again. And then he stopped. "I have a problem about not taking the pause."
We waited.
"I'm trying to find out information. Roy says, 'I know why you're here.' And I need to find out what that means. Then Roy says, 'I know...' And I'm listening. Then he says, 'I know that sooner or later...' And I'm still listening. Now he says, 'I know that sooner or later you're going to go...' And I'm still listening. Finally he says, 'I know that sooner or later you're going to go to the bank.' That pause I'm taking is to give me time to register the information about the bank."
"I understand," Schlesinger said. "But we've got to get rid of the pause."
Olivier turned to me, then. "Bill," he said, "could I suggest an alteration in the line? Would it be all right if I changed it so that the line went, 'I know that you're going to go to the bank sooner or later?' You see, then I could register the word bank while he was saying 'sooner or later' and I wouldn't need the pause."
Obviously it was fine with me and the line was altered and we went on without the pause. And probably this two minutes of rehearsal explained at length doesn't seem like much put down in black and white.
But that moment - when the actor of the century asked me would I mind if he switched six words around - is the most memorable incident of my movie career. Olivier. Calling me "Bill." Olivier. Asking me would I mind.
That's high cotton....