filming.
When I couldn’t stand the madness anymore, I went toe-to-toe with him,stood in front of Glynnis, and told him she was never going to be weighed again or he would lose both of us. I made a friend for life, but never got my girlfriend back.
When the movie opened, we had an audience hit—and our stock in Hollywood was on the rise. I was happy for Glynnis, her performance, her boyfriends... But I was heartbroken, and foolishly punished myself by running and running in the smog-filled streets of L.A. to diminish the anguish.
Valuable Life Lesson: “If you love somebody, set them free.”
I had the honor of working with the team of George Schaefer (director), James Prideaux (playwright) and the incomparable Julie Harris in the public television production of The Last Of Mrs. Lincoln .
Before the rehearsal process was to begin, the actors sat around a table ready to read the two-hour version of the play. We had our manuscripts—thick, densely and beautifully written manuscripts—all open to page one. I glanced up at the remarkable talent, with Julie Harris appropriately sitting at the head of the table. George Schaefer rubbed his hands together and said, “Let’s begin. Page one.”
I noticed that Ms. Harris had not opened her manuscript. It just sat in front of her. Unopened. Closed. And she had what seemed like 75 percent of the dialogue in the play.
On Mr. Schaefer’s command, Ms. Harris began. We all sat stunned—for two hours we read through the manuscript and Ms. Harris, the consummate pro, never once opened her script. Never once did she search for her lines. Never once did she falter, stutter, hunt for a sentence. She commanded the room, the group, the play—giving an astonishing performance, at times rising and ‘playing the scene’ at full speed.
When the read was over, Mr. Schaefer nodded mischievously, then gave us a five minute break. Mr. Schaefer, Ms. Harris and Mr. Prideaux gathered to discuss the play as the rest of us sat ashen. Ms. Harris had set the most exquisite precedent. The following day, none of us needed our manuscripts. We were all off book. ‘Old school.’
One of the recurring themes in my career happened during this project. Hearing ‘the call of the wild’ (a basketball bouncing) at a playground the Sunday before we began shooting, I joined in a street game of basketball—I was always looking for the best ballplayers in L.A. I should have known better. As usual, because I could jump so high for a skinny white kid, I came down on someone’s foot and snap—I broke my ankle. I was sure I had just eliminated myself from the play with Julie Harris, but when George Schaefer found out, he smiled and said, “Luckily, you’re playing Tad Lincoln. He was a very sickly lad. I think I’ll put you in a wheelchair.” I did the entire play sitting in a wheelchair—and was not fired by Mr. Schaefer. This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.
Valuable Life Lesson: You can never be too prepared. There may/will/should be someone who is more professional and prepared than you. ‘Do your homework!’ Oh, and stop playing basketball during productions. (I followed the first lesson to a “T.” But I could never stay away from a basketball court—no matter what I was working on.)
In The Death of Richie , the story has it that Richie is so out of control on drugs that his father eventually shoots and kills his own son. By this time I was as method as could be, but I refused to take any drug, not even an aspirin. At first, the director didn’t believe that I had the rage in me to pull off the part, so I threw down my script and started acting with him. He seemed to be intrigued until I grabbed him, tore his shirt and threw him up against the wall. I got the part.
Eileen Brennan would play my mother; Academy Award-winning actor Rod Steiger was supposed to play my father (which is why I wanted the part so desperately), but the Friday before filming began
When I couldn’t stand the madness anymore, I went toe-to-toe with him,stood in front of Glynnis, and told him she was never going to be weighed again or he would lose both of us. I made a friend for life, but never got my girlfriend back.
When the movie opened, we had an audience hit—and our stock in Hollywood was on the rise. I was happy for Glynnis, her performance, her boyfriends... But I was heartbroken, and foolishly punished myself by running and running in the smog-filled streets of L.A. to diminish the anguish.
Valuable Life Lesson: “If you love somebody, set them free.”
I had the honor of working with the team of George Schaefer (director), James Prideaux (playwright) and the incomparable Julie Harris in the public television production of The Last Of Mrs. Lincoln .
Before the rehearsal process was to begin, the actors sat around a table ready to read the two-hour version of the play. We had our manuscripts—thick, densely and beautifully written manuscripts—all open to page one. I glanced up at the remarkable talent, with Julie Harris appropriately sitting at the head of the table. George Schaefer rubbed his hands together and said, “Let’s begin. Page one.”
I noticed that Ms. Harris had not opened her manuscript. It just sat in front of her. Unopened. Closed. And she had what seemed like 75 percent of the dialogue in the play.
On Mr. Schaefer’s command, Ms. Harris began. We all sat stunned—for two hours we read through the manuscript and Ms. Harris, the consummate pro, never once opened her script. Never once did she search for her lines. Never once did she falter, stutter, hunt for a sentence. She commanded the room, the group, the play—giving an astonishing performance, at times rising and ‘playing the scene’ at full speed.
When the read was over, Mr. Schaefer nodded mischievously, then gave us a five minute break. Mr. Schaefer, Ms. Harris and Mr. Prideaux gathered to discuss the play as the rest of us sat ashen. Ms. Harris had set the most exquisite precedent. The following day, none of us needed our manuscripts. We were all off book. ‘Old school.’
One of the recurring themes in my career happened during this project. Hearing ‘the call of the wild’ (a basketball bouncing) at a playground the Sunday before we began shooting, I joined in a street game of basketball—I was always looking for the best ballplayers in L.A. I should have known better. As usual, because I could jump so high for a skinny white kid, I came down on someone’s foot and snap—I broke my ankle. I was sure I had just eliminated myself from the play with Julie Harris, but when George Schaefer found out, he smiled and said, “Luckily, you’re playing Tad Lincoln. He was a very sickly lad. I think I’ll put you in a wheelchair.” I did the entire play sitting in a wheelchair—and was not fired by Mr. Schaefer. This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.
Valuable Life Lesson: You can never be too prepared. There may/will/should be someone who is more professional and prepared than you. ‘Do your homework!’ Oh, and stop playing basketball during productions. (I followed the first lesson to a “T.” But I could never stay away from a basketball court—no matter what I was working on.)
In The Death of Richie , the story has it that Richie is so out of control on drugs that his father eventually shoots and kills his own son. By this time I was as method as could be, but I refused to take any drug, not even an aspirin. At first, the director didn’t believe that I had the rage in me to pull off the part, so I threw down my script and started acting with him. He seemed to be intrigued until I grabbed him, tore his shirt and threw him up against the wall. I got the part.
Eileen Brennan would play my mother; Academy Award-winning actor Rod Steiger was supposed to play my father (which is why I wanted the part so desperately), but the Friday before filming began
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