It’s the early ‘70s, and I’m a young actor in NY enjoying the usual young actor disappointments—an audition here, a crumby play in a storefront there, children’s theatre to get an Actor’s Equity card, and the occasional movie audition that rarely resulted in a job. Two years of thinking about tomorrow.
Then the big break. I read for an anti-war film (remember Vietnam) about a draft -dodger hiding out in Sweden. Apparently, Swedish girls really enjoyed draft dodgers because this character met lots of them. Anyway—didn’t seem like an award winner, but I needed to eat, and how bad could Swedish girls be?
Much to my surprise, I got a callback and then another, met with the director (who had a lazy eye—which confused the hell out of me because which eye do you look at?), and finally I shot a screen test. They tested 2 of us. A 50% chance of getting the job. Sweden here I come. But no—the other guy got it. I was crushed. (Years later I found out that, due to finance issues, Cleveland—because you can take a bus to Cleveland— doubled for Stockholm.)
It was at this moment I concluded that the life of an actor is tantamount to being a “professional strawberry.” You are constantly waving your arms, pleading, “Pick me, pick me!” I wanted more control. I wanted to make my own movies. It was July, and the only breeze on E. 96 Street was the exhaust from passing buses. I wanted out of New York.
Go south, young man. Go south.
At least the breeze was better in Miami.
