attention bestowed on me had little to do with affection for me or my work. Rather it had everything to do with people being connected to “someone of note,” and for the moment I was that person. It seemed to give them a sense of stature to be associated with a “celebrity,” someone who they perceived as having “done something.” And they weren’t even acting on their own perception. It was my acceptance by the media, a couple of three-minute reviews, that gave me stature, and their tenuous connection to me, by way of an autograph, now gave them some stature as well. It was a lesson I immediately understood, and it has stayed with me for all these years.
Although this idea of a “fan base” is part of the movie business, I really don’t get it. I don’t get the idea that actors think they can only do certain kinds of roles because they can’t disappoint their fans. I don’t get it when people say to me, about studio heads or producers, “They love you!” I recently asked one of my representatives not to tell me how much a casting director loved me. It’s fine to tell me they
like my work, but that has little to do with love. There’s a dangerous illusion, I think, in the perception that the fans love us. Love is a precious thing, and I want to save discussions about it for people I’ve at least met.
Over the years I’ve done some writing, mostly children’s books, but a couple of pieces for adults as well, and on occasion I’ve received letters from people who have read my work. Invariably they are notes of thanks and gratitude for my having given them something. But the world of show business is different. For some reason people who make movies are seen as public property. The impression is that in exchange for our celebrity we owe the fans something. They want our signature on 3-by-5 cards, and often not just one card but several. They want signatures on photographs, which they will sometimes provide, but often not, as if part of our job is to supply endless images of ourselves. There are requests for messages to loved ones on birthdays or anniversaries. There are endless questionnaires, both personal and professional. Over the past forty years I have had perhaps fifteen or twenty letters of thanks from people who feel that my work has in some way been a gift, and for these I am truly grateful. But those letters, although treasured, are few and far between. It’s as if what we do on screen or in the theater isn’t work at all but rather some fairytale imagined existence, and part of our job is to impart our secret and magical life to anyone who can get close enough to ask. No one seems to pay attention to how difficult a life it can be, and how many broken, fragmented
lives are connected to it, a sad fact that seems endemic to the world of show business. Add to this the fact that for a great many of us our work is a serious addiction, with all of the liabilities that accompany any dangerous addiction. Yet in our culture it can seem, to those looking on, that we are “only playing.” Only fooling around.
I’ve often felt that there could be a fun coffee-table book of exchanges between fans and celebrities. A few, which I’ve heard about from colleagues over the years, have been priceless. One of my favorite stories was one Eli Wallach told me years ago. He was in a Broadway show at the time, and one Sunday morning he was leaving Zabar’s loaded down with a couple of shopping bags filled with the usual New York Sunday-morning fare, when a lady grabbed him by the arm, stopping him cold and whipping him around. Holding him was a middle-aged woman staring at him intently, a big smile on her face. “I know you!” she said, wagging a finger. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” she said, holding him captive in a vice-like grip. Eli loves attention, and is very good with people, so he waited patiently while she consulted the rolodex in her head of people he could have been. “Telly Savalas!”
Although this idea of a “fan base” is part of the movie business, I really don’t get it. I don’t get the idea that actors think they can only do certain kinds of roles because they can’t disappoint their fans. I don’t get it when people say to me, about studio heads or producers, “They love you!” I recently asked one of my representatives not to tell me how much a casting director loved me. It’s fine to tell me they
like my work, but that has little to do with love. There’s a dangerous illusion, I think, in the perception that the fans love us. Love is a precious thing, and I want to save discussions about it for people I’ve at least met.
Over the years I’ve done some writing, mostly children’s books, but a couple of pieces for adults as well, and on occasion I’ve received letters from people who have read my work. Invariably they are notes of thanks and gratitude for my having given them something. But the world of show business is different. For some reason people who make movies are seen as public property. The impression is that in exchange for our celebrity we owe the fans something. They want our signature on 3-by-5 cards, and often not just one card but several. They want signatures on photographs, which they will sometimes provide, but often not, as if part of our job is to supply endless images of ourselves. There are requests for messages to loved ones on birthdays or anniversaries. There are endless questionnaires, both personal and professional. Over the past forty years I have had perhaps fifteen or twenty letters of thanks from people who feel that my work has in some way been a gift, and for these I am truly grateful. But those letters, although treasured, are few and far between. It’s as if what we do on screen or in the theater isn’t work at all but rather some fairytale imagined existence, and part of our job is to impart our secret and magical life to anyone who can get close enough to ask. No one seems to pay attention to how difficult a life it can be, and how many broken, fragmented
lives are connected to it, a sad fact that seems endemic to the world of show business. Add to this the fact that for a great many of us our work is a serious addiction, with all of the liabilities that accompany any dangerous addiction. Yet in our culture it can seem, to those looking on, that we are “only playing.” Only fooling around.
I’ve often felt that there could be a fun coffee-table book of exchanges between fans and celebrities. A few, which I’ve heard about from colleagues over the years, have been priceless. One of my favorite stories was one Eli Wallach told me years ago. He was in a Broadway show at the time, and one Sunday morning he was leaving Zabar’s loaded down with a couple of shopping bags filled with the usual New York Sunday-morning fare, when a lady grabbed him by the arm, stopping him cold and whipping him around. Holding him was a middle-aged woman staring at him intently, a big smile on her face. “I know you!” she said, wagging a finger. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” she said, holding him captive in a vice-like grip. Eli loves attention, and is very good with people, so he waited patiently while she consulted the rolodex in her head of people he could have been. “Telly Savalas!”
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