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The Good, the Bad, and Me: In My Anecdotage

Overview

The sparkling memoir of a movie icon's life in the footlights and on camera, The Good, the Bad, and Me tells the extraordinary story of Eli Wallach's many years dedicated to his craft. Beginning with his early days in Brooklyn and his college years in Texas, where he dreamed of becoming an actor, this book follows his career as one of the earliest members of the famed Actors Studio and as a Tony Award winner for his work on Broadway. Wallach has worked with such stars as Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Marilyn ...
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The Good, the Bad, and Me: In My Anecdotage

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Overview

The sparkling memoir of a movie icon's life in the footlights and on camera, The Good, the Bad, and Me tells the extraordinary story of Eli Wallach's many years dedicated to his craft. Beginning with his early days in Brooklyn and his college years in Texas, where he dreamed of becoming an actor, this book follows his career as one of the earliest members of the famed Actors Studio and as a Tony Award winner for his work on Broadway. Wallach has worked with such stars as Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Marilyn Monroe, Gregory Peck, and Henry Fonda, and his many movies include Baby Doll, The Misfits, The Magnificent Seven, How the West Was Won, the iconic The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, and, most recently, Mystic River. For more than fifty years Eli Wallach has held a special place in film and theater, and in a tale rich with anecdotes, wit, and remarkable insight he recounts his magical life in a world unlike any other.
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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
PRAISE FOR THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND ME
"[Wallach is] an excellent tour guide through his life, from Red Hook to the Army to Broadway and the big and small screens. [He] is a born observer, and he has a simple, direct writing style that makes him seem like just one of the guys . . . He comes across as a man who's had a helluva lot of fun entertaining us."-VARIETY

"The directness and unpretentiousness of [Wallach's] work is in the same spirit that animates his straightforward and charming memoir . . . [He] has you right where he wants you-in the palm of his hand, taking the same pleasure in this performance that you've taken in his others."-THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

Richard Shickel
The directness and unpretentiousness of his work is in the same spirit that animates his straightforward and charming memoir, The Good, the Bad, and Me. He is, he says, a devotee of the Strasbergian ''Method'' (his membership in the Actors Studio dates to its beginnings), but there is nothing brooding, solipsistic or, in this book at least, psychologically probing about the man. His self-portrait is of a hard-working actor who learns his lines easily and is a genial presence backstage or on the set. He has pleasant, gently amusing stories to tell about working with all kinds of actors -- Olivier, Gielgud, Eastwood, Gable. Indeed, his portrait of Gable's total professionalism (and of his patience with Marilyn Monroe, who once baby-sat for Wallach and his wife, Anne Jackson) during the shooting of ''The Misfits'' is particularly warm and rich in casually spun insight.
— The New York Times
Jonathan Yardley
At 89 [Wallach's] still going strong. Just last year he had a role in a film called "King of the Corner," and two years ago he had an uncredited cameo in Eastwood's exemplary "Mystic River." The prose he writes in this Anecdotage is as lively as he is. He's had "a golden career," and the pleasure it has given him is evident on every page of this book.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
Wallach has the right and the title to discourse at length on method acting and the Actor's Studio, where he was a charter member, but instead hews tightly to his book's subtitle. A string of often funny and charming memories of his interactions with fellow actors and eclectic directors (in particular, spaghetti Western director Sergio Leone), his book is engagingly frank and personable. Because Wallach, known for his work in Tennessee Williams's Broadway productions as well as for his roles as memorably suspicious rascals, was taught by such cultural icons as Martha Graham and Lee Strasberg, his memoir is also a valuable source on 20th-century American culture. The author, however, is a cultural treasure in his own right: born Jewish in 1915 in an Italian section of Brooklyn, he headed off for the University of Texas at Austin during the Great Depression on a ship and became a medic overseas in WWII. From early struggles with auditions and bouts of hubris onstage, Wallach emerged to become one of America's most prolific, restlessly inventive and enduring actors (at 88, he took an uncredited role in 2003's Mystic River as Mr. Loonie, the liquor store owner). His insights and recollections of the acting life outweigh the book's pat and perfunctory conclusion. 8-page b&w photo insert not seen by PW. Agent, Marly Rusoff & Associates. (May) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Celebrity autobiographies carry the risk of a well-meaning coauthor or editor muting the subject's voice. This is definitely not the case with Wallach's lively memoir of his life and times. Although best known for his performances in films like Baby Doll, The Magnificent Seven, and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Wallach has always loved the stage best. Offered here is a detailed account of his impressive career there, including his experiences with Method acting, Method actors, and his long and fruitful relationships with playwrights like Tennessee Williams and Murray Schisgal. When Wallach turns to his personal life, his generosity and self-deprecating wit truly shine through-particularly in his descriptions of his Brooklyn childhood and his long and happy marriage to fellow actor, Anne Jackson. Wallach is a born storyteller, and his relaxed prose style has an aural quality: readers will feel as if the author is speaking to them. This memoir stands out from the crowd of usual suspects. Highly recommended for both public and academic libraries.-M.C. Duhig, Carnegie Lib. of Pittsburgh Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Warm, ingratiating memoir of an acting career spanning 60 years. Born in 1915 in Brooklyn, Wallach resisted his family's insistence that he become a teacher. When he failed a qualifying exam (deliberately?), the classroom's loss became theater and film's great gain. In the early '40s, he auditioned for the Neighborhood Playhouse's feared guru, Sanford Meisner, who told Wallach it would take 20 years for him to learn how to act. After Army service interrupted his assault on Broadway, Wallach returned to Times Square, making the rounds with such fellow hopefuls as Tony Randall, Marlon Brando and a feisty, attractive redhead who later became his wife and frequent acting partner, Anne Jackson. A genial raconteur, Wallach comes up with a good story for every play or film he recalls. One night after making his entrance in The Rose Tattoo, he caught costar Maureen Stapleton turning upstage to yawn. About to begin a performance of The Teahouse of the August Moon, he got a thumbs up from a stagehand who raised the curtain, then fell over dead. The show went on. Film offers came Wallach's way in the mid-'50s, bringing hard-to-resist opportunities to travel and make good money. His portrait of John Huston directing The Misfits is far less negative than other accounts of that production, and the actor's vivid sketch of Sergio Leone also bolsters a directorial reputation. Whatever demons may have haunted Wallach's life are mostly kept offstage. Onstage fights with Jackson in plays like The Madwoman of Chaillot, he writes, became pressure valves that have kept their marriage going for 56 years. Selective but not sketchy, with vivid, valuable recollections of Broadway during its golden age.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780156031691
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 5/8/2006
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 274,635
  • Product dimensions: 5.20 (w) x 7.90 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Born in Brooklyn in 1915, ELI WALLACH remains active in film and is still married to his wife of fifty-six years. He lives in New York City.

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Read an Excerpt

The Good, the Bad, and Me

In My Anecdotage
By Eli Wallach

Harcourt Trade Publishers

Copyright © 2005 Eli Wallach
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-1510-1189-3


Chapter One

An Actor Grows in Brooklyn

UNION STREET was a wide main artery running from Prospect Park past Park Slope down to the docks of the East River. Number 166 housed Bertha's, a small toy, candy, and stationery store named for my mother. A long glass counter ran the length of the store. There was an icebox for soda pop and a pay telephone. On the back wall of the store were shelves, which held toys, big jars of Indian nuts, and cigarettes. The store was always busy in the late afternoons, when longshoremen would drop in after a day of unloading ships' cargo. Over their shoulders, many of them would carry big crooked iron hooks, which seemed to be part of their uniform. They'd drink sodas, make phone calls, buy cigarettes, eat the tiny Indian nuts, then spit the shells all over the floor.

I lived in the rear of the store with my parents, Abe and Bertha, my older brother and sister, Sam and Sylvia, and my younger sister, Shirley. Mom and Pop had a bedroom with a big window that looked out onto the alley. Sam had his own bed, and there was a cot for me next to it. Sylvia and Shirley shared the last bedroom. There was one toilet for the six of us. Sam called it the throne room. We all soon learned how to take care of our needs there-no reading, no wasting time, just do your duty, flush, and get out.

My baby sister, Shirley, and I used to argue a lot. Sometimes I'd steal her milk bottle. And at dinner we would fight over the wishbone. We'd each hold one end and pull it apart, and the winner would get to make a wish. Even in my earliest memories, my wish was always the same: I wanted to be an actor.

* * *

I was born in Brooklyn on December 7, 1915, back when the streets were still lit by gas lamps. As soon as it began to get dark, the lamplighter would appear. A little man with a thick black mustache, he carried a long stick with a flint on the end of it. He'd push the stick into an opening of a glass bowl at the top of a lamppost, and a blue-green flame would light up the gas and throw big circles of light down on the street. Right in front of our store, a streetcar ran down the center of Union Street powered by an electric wire overhead.

My father, Abe, had been a tailor in southeast Poland and had met my mother, Bertha, in their small town of Przemy´sl. He had come to America in 1909 and opened the store with the financial backing of his brother Michael, a wealthy furrier who lived in Bensonhurst. Then Abe sent for my mother and my brother Sam. Sometimes Abe would tell us stories about growing up in Poland-Cossacks riding into his village, robbing stores, and killing Jews. He was a wonderful storyteller, but he also had a volatile temper and suffered from severe headaches. Often I remember him holding a hot glass of tea next to his throbbing temple. One night Sam and Sylvia were arguing as I lay between them on the sofa bed. "Quiet," Pop yelled. "Quiet or I'll throw the glass!" That yell from my pop just seemed to add fuel to their arguments. They argued even more fiercely, and Pop threw the glass like a fastball pitcher. Sam yelled, "Look out." I did-and I got hit. My pop was very upset. "Get him to the doctor," he ordered. Sylvia walked me to the hospital, crying. "I will not walk on the same street with you if you cry," I told her.

"I'll stop," she said, taking me by the hand, as we went to the hospital. I received three stitches over my left eye. When we returned to the store, my pop handed me a three-scoop ice-cream cone-one scoop for each stitch, I guess.

* * *

We were the only Jewish family in our working-class neighborhood, which was predominantly Italian, and my earliest childhood memories are filled with vivid images of Union Street. Sometimes an organ grinder would appear on the street with a live parrot perched on his shoulder. "Fortune! Fortune! I'll tell you a fortune," the fortune-teller would call out, and customers would gather around him.

"Come on, let my parrot pick a card for you," the fortune-teller would say, and if you paid a nickel, the parrot, after a nod from his owner, would bend down and come up with a card sticking out of his beak: "There's your fortune! Read, read! All of it is true!"

Sometimes a photographer would set up his tripod just outside of our store. Under his camera, there would be a tin can filled with developing fluid.

"Ten cents," he would say. "You sit on my pony, I take-a your picture and develop it right here." I always watched him, and one day I got up the courage to have my picture taken. I gave him a dime, mounted the pony, and pretended to be a cowboy riding out to round up cattle or joining a posse chasing bandits.

At one time or another, everyone in our family worked in the store. Sometimes Pop would go across the river to New York's Lower East Side to buy supplies, and Mom would take care of customers. My tasks included emptying the water out of the basin underneath the iceboxes, taking out the garbage, sweeping up the shells from the Indian nuts, and walking my little four-wheeled wagon to the newspaper dealer on Harrison Street and piling it up with Sunday papers for the store.

Early in the mornings, I'd stand in front of our store and watch the white-jacketed milkman. He'd hop off his wagon, leaving the reins draped off the horse's back, and stop at each doorway. He'd drop off the milk, and his horse would walk slowly down the street, timing its stops exactly with the milkman returning to reload his tray. The milk came in bottles, and at the top of the bottle, there was always heavy cream. Another one of my jobs was to shake those bottles and put them in the iceboxes in our kitchen and in the store.

Twice a day, the fruit wagon would stop near our store. The wagon had elegantly painted side panels depicting churches, mountains, and trees. A big scale with large white numbers dangled from the rear of the wagon. The horse's ears would stick out through the holes in his straw hat. The fruit man would stand up and ring a big bell, crying out, "Fruit! Fresh fruit! Melons, bananas, oranges, apples!" Mom would always send Sylvia out to buy a bag of fresh fruit that she would then put out on the sideboard in our kitchen.

Horses were everywhere in those days, hauling fruit, milk, and ice. And they often left their calling card on the street-big clumps of horse shit. On cold days, steam would rise from the pile. Three times a day, the street cleaner would arrive in a white hat and jacket, pushing a big two-wheeled ash can. He'd deposit the manure and move on. The manure would be sold later as fertilizer.

Mr. Dante the wine-maker had a shop near our store. One day he hired me to help him slide crates of grapes down a board into the cellar, where he would catch them.

"Come down and watch," Mr. Dante said to me.

We emptied the grapes into a large round vat that stood on a wooden frame about three feet from the ground. Two overweight ladies who looked like they had mustaches stood waiting, with their skirts rolled up above their knees. Dante turned on his phonograph, and the women began stomping the grapes to the rhythm of a tarantella. The juice flowed from the holes in the bottom of the vat into big bottles.

"Here's a bottle from last year's pressing," he said. "My regards to your pop." He also gave me a whole new shiny quarter. On the way home, I wondered if I should tell Pop about those ladies; I wasn't sure if they had washed their feet.

A few blocks away from our store, there was a theater called La Luna, where I saw my first stage production when Pop took Sam, Sylvia, Shirley, and me to see an Italian puppet show. The walls of La Luna were covered with giant canvas paintings of fearless warriors on horseback, driving spears into the necks of animals. The canvases seemed to drip blood. The puppets in the show were life-size; their big glass eyes moved as they looked out on us and yelled in Italian. I was frightened by the show, and that night I couldn't fall asleep because I was afraid the puppets would get me-their eyes kept staring at me.

Even more exciting than the puppet shows were the Italian fiestas held on Union Street honoring the lives and accomplishments of saints. Pushcarts would suddenly line both sides of the street. Each cart contained delicacies-candy, plates of food. One time there was a man in a black apron with a big knife opening clams and oysters. Then we'd hear the band playing the Italian national anthem, and up the street would come floats and big, brawny longshoremen bearing huge statues of Jesus and Mary and other saints. Jesus would have his arms stretched out on a cross, a crown with thorns around his head, bloody tears trickling down his face. Mary would be wearing a colorful blue, green, and red dress-she looked a little like my mother.

At one of those fiestas, I tugged at Pop's shirt. "Pa," I asked, "why don't we have parades like they do?"

(Continues...)



Excerpted from The Good, the Bad, and Me by Eli Wallach Copyright © 2005 by Eli Wallach. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Prologue 1
1 An Actor Grows in Brooklyn 7
2 The College Years 29
3 Before the War 48
4 The War Years 62
5 Broadway, Here I Come 87
6 A Life in the Theater 99
7 My Method 112
8 Husband and Actor and Director and Father 123
9 The First Taste of Hollywood 141
10 From New York to London and Back 154
11 The Dirtiest American Film Ever Made 165
12 An Actor's Dilemma 177
13 My Brief Atonement 190
14 The Misfits 207
15 Rhinoceros 230
16 The Good, the Bad, and Me 238
17 Schisgal, Gielgud, Sharif, and Me 263
18 Reflections on a Golden Career 283
Film Credits 294
Play Credits 298
Index 301
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