Rubber Balls and Liquor (13 page)

So there I was, admiring the work of Laurel and Hardy, when I looked up and saw we were on a break. The writers were huddled with the director on a corner of the set, having a powwow. Me, I was standing off by myself, having a teepee. This went on for quite some time, until the writers and director called the cast back together and told us they had come up with a way to improve the scene. From the excited looks on their faces, I could only imagine that they'd come up with the most brilliant, most scathingly funny bit and that in a year or so we'd all be backstage at the Oscars, congratulating each other on our Academy Awards. So here's what they decided: the food fight would be much funnier if the Problem Child got it started by throwing a meatball at my comely co-star, which was supposed to land squarely between Leopold and Loeb.
*
Naturally, every prop guy on the set volunteered to be the one standing over Simon and Garfunkel to make sure that the meatball hit its mark—which basically meant standing over this well-chested actress and dropping a meatball between her tits.

Now, I don't know anything about the emotional depth of meatballs, but my guess is this one was the happiest meatball in the world. We were all pretty happy, as I recall. It was a good day to be a movie star, and I was overcome with gratitude for being included. And so, in the spirit of collaboration, which is something that I think the art of film is all about, I mustered up my most serious, intelligent, creative-sounding voice and said to the director, “I feel like this scene needs one more beat to make it really work.” Then I suggested, unselfishly, that once the meatball finds its mark, my character should reach down between my co-star's breasts and try to get the meatball out.

The director considered this for a moment, and then flashed me a look that I took to mean,
Aha! This is why we hire someone like Gottfried. For his dedication to the craft of filmmaking
.

And so it was agreed that I would stick my hand down this actress's top and dig out the meatball. Being the perfectionist that I've always been, we did the scene several times that day, with me shoving my hands inside and outside and all over my co-star's monumental breasts—or, let's just call them Hall and Oates. For some reason, I was never fully happy with any of my performances, and kept insisting we do another take. I was determined to get it right.

Finally, at Take 187, the director yelled, “Cut! That's a print!”

I knew better than to go against my director, and yet I objected strongly, because I felt there was still more I could do with the scene, and suggested instead that perhaps another meatball thrown into the actress's twat would really punch up the picture. The director didn't see it quite the same way. He seemed to admire my stick-to-itiveness, but he insisted that it was time to move on to the next scene—although if he'd agreed to try out my meatball-in-the-twat idea, I would have offered to pay overtime for the crew.

Still, it was a banner day on the
Problem Child 2
set. When we broke, the director took me aside, put his arm around my shoulders and complimented me on my professionalism. He said, “To do the scene so many times, Gilbert, without complaining … it's a marvelous thing.”

I nodded my head and said, “Well, sir. It's all part of being an artist.”

Not everyone appreciated my artistic talents. After I'd been acting in movies for a while, I was promised a part in a big-budget picture, to be written and directed by Warren Beatty. (Or maybe I should rewrite that last sentence to read, “After I'd been
appearing
in movies for a while…” because few people considered what I was doing
acting.
) All of A-list Hollywood wanted in on this picture, I was told (especially all the cute, A-list dwarves), but I didn't even have to audition. There was a part in this thing being written especially for me. The picture turned out to be
Dick Tracy,
which wasn't exactly one of Warren Beatty's most successful films. Keep in mind, this was the
Dick Tracy
movie based on the famous Sunday comics detective, and not on the famous children's dick-tracing game where you got out a piece of paper and traced your penis. (As far as I know, they never made a movie out of that, but it was a wonderful game.) The part turned out to be Mumbles, the hard-to-understand henchman of the big crime boss, to be played by Al Pacino. I thought it was a great part for me, because nobody could understand me anyway, and I wouldn't have to work too hard to memorize my lines. However, a few weeks before shooting, my agent called and said they were going to hire someone else.

“So who are they going with?” I quite reasonably wanted to know.

“Dustin Hoffman,” my agent said.

This meant that it had come down to the wire between me and Dustin Hoffman, which I could only imagine was just like the time it came down to the wire between me and Jack Nicholson in
Terms of Endearment
—another part I didn't get. If what my agent told me was true, you could make the argument that I was also close to getting
The Graduate, Midnight Cowboy
and
Tootsie.
I found this hard to believe, although it's possible the call came in offering me the part in
The Graduate
when I was living in my parents' apartment. I seem to remember the phone ringing one afternoon, but I didn't answer it because I was busy at the time. I was jerking off to
Petticoat Junction.
I never actually watched the show, but the title alone was enough to get me going. I mean, a
petticoat
? Who could blame me? I saw it listed in
TV Guide
and I was off and rubbing. You had to take what you could get in those days, because there was no cable.

I also found this hard to believe because in the entire history of the motion picture industry my name and Dustin Hoffman's name have never been mentioned in the same conversation, and I can't imagine that they ever will. Well, strike that: the only way our names would appear together in the same Hollywood conversation would be in the sentence, “I've seen Gilbert Gottfried's acting, and he's no Dustin Hoffman.”

So Gilbert Gottfried was out, and Dustin Hoffman was in, which I guess takes us to another common Hollywood expression:

4.
The part is yours, Gilbert Gottfried … unless Dustin Hoffman wants it—or anyone else, for that matter.

Looking back over my “brilliant” career, it's distressing to me (and more than a little perplexing) that I've never done a nude scene. Incredible as it may seem, I've appeared in over a hundred movies and television shows, and I've never once been asked to take off my clothes. Quite the opposite, in fact. Very often, my female co-stars will ask specifically that I keep my clothes on. It's a matter of contract for some of them. Even in some of the animated shows I do, it expressly states that I'd be in violation if I turned up naked on the set.

This is a shame. I would even go so far as to suggest that it's a crying shame, except I'm not quite sure what that is. A shame is shame enough, although I suppose I could cry because I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and a lot of time preparing. Really, I've made a careful study of Hollywood nude scenes, and I believe I'd be quite good at one. I can only imagine that sex in movies is an accurate reflection of sex in real life, although I must confess that I haven't had any of one and hardly enough of the other to pass myself off as anything of an authority. Let's just say I'm a fan. I understand that there must be a good reason why Neve Campbell does a three-way while wearing a bra the whole time, because that must mirror real life. I understand that you need to light hundreds and hundreds of scented candles to help establish the proper mood (and, I suppose, the proper scent), because everyone I know just happens to have hundreds and hundreds of scented candles lying about the house for just this purpose. I understand how A-list actresses wake up in bed with some guy and the blanket is magically tucked beneath her armpits and clutched to her chest, because one time I was fortunate enough to have sex with a woman who was mildly attractive and she was so ashamed of herself afterward she couldn't even look at herself in a mirror. That blanket stuck to her body like there was suction involved. Or if there's no blanket, an actress will get up and cross the room with the entire bedsheet draped around her like an evening gown. And I understand all about bubble baths, too, because everything is covered, and you can reach for an oversized towel while you're still in the water and wrap it all the way around in such a way that not a single naughty bit might see the light of day—or, the light of a soundstage.

I've been practicing getting out of bathtubs like this for years, in case it should ever come up, but only with mixed results. Another Hollywood bubble bath trick that seems to have eluded me is the way some adventurous actresses emerge from the tub without a towel, and yet the bubbles have somehow formed themselves into a bikini. I've practiced this, too, but it doesn't seem to work on me. Maybe I'm doing something wrong. I just stand there wet and naked and cold, wondering how I might get the bubbles to form themselves into a warm towel.

A classic Hollywood bedroom maneuver is a little move I like to call the
drop-and-sigh
, which happens with great frequency after a scene that's meant to tastefully show an exhilarating round of wild sex. Have you noticed this, or is it just me? The camera pans away to show the pillows by the headboard, and then there's a wave of husky, celebratory noises we can only assume are meant to signal an orgasm, and then suddenly the spent and satisfied couple falls back onto the pillows in a two-shot, side-by-side. Typically, their heads hit the pillow at exactly the same moment, and each time I'm left wondering how these spent and satisfied people have managed to enjoy their wild Hollywood sex in a side-by-side manner. I suppose it's possible that, as stars, they have an extra set of sex organs on their hips, which makes a certain amount of sense. I mean, movie stars don't just become famous for no apparent reason.

One of my favorite movie modesty moments came in a scene with Phoebe Cates, who appeared to be diddling herself onscreen with a piece of black electrical tape covering one of her nipples. I won't mention the title of the movie, to protect its privacy. (Oh, wait a second … Phoebe Cates wasn't diddling herself in the scene, after all. That was me, watching the scene.) The black electrical tape was a little beside the point, don't you think? What, did Phoebe Cates tell her agent she didn't mind appearing in such a suggestive manner, but she drew the line at appearing topless?

The most likely explanation, of course, is that Phoebe Cates wasn't modest at all, but was instead experiencing some sort of short circuit in her tits on the day of filming, and that there were sparks flying out of her nipples. The black electrical tape was just a precaution.

Now, I'm not complaining. I enjoy an artfully placed piece of electrical tape as much as the next guy. I even enjoy the thought of side-by-side sex, between two consenting stars, or the adhering properties of a well-bubbled bath. I'm just taking notes, studying the standards and practices of the industry, waiting for my chance to step in and shine. Yes, I remain at the ever-ready, even after all these years, at my advanced age. My thinking is, if Hume Cronyn and Don Ameche and Wilford Brimley can be applauded for appearing nearly naked in
Cocoon
, then I'll get my chance to appear nearly naked before long. I'm just waiting for the right role. Of course, I won't just do nudity for the sake of doing nudity. It has to be integral to my character. It has to serve the story, because I have a problem with gratuitous nudity—unless of course I'm sitting in a dark theater with a raincoat over my lap.

Here's a curious, little-known fact: I still have a Tic Tac in my shirt pocket from my very first movie, a little piece of crap I did in 1984 called
The House of God
, with Tim Matheson, Bess Armstrong, Joe Piscopo, and Sandra Bernhard. Such a cast! Even Michael Richards was in this thing. And … nothing! All this time later … still nothing. I've worked with all these beautiful stars, and all I've got to show for it is an excruciating case of celebrity blue balls.

This has been especially frustrating, considering the Tic Tac. Put me in one of these teen vampire movies and I'd be all over the young undead starlet, and she'd remark on my fresh, clean breath, although I have to think that original Tic-Tac has emulsified by this point and lost some of its effectiveness, which is interesting because the role would probably call for me to take my shirt off and flex my considerable abs, which might very possibly lead my comely co-star to remark about my luminous, even-toned skin. However, this would also mean that my shirt would be back in my dressing room, and I'd be too entranced by my Method acting approach to collect the Tic Tac from the pocket before heading out to the set, so maybe it's just as well.

As long as I'm on it, let me just tie together a few loose strands from the front end of my career. My first movie led to a second and then to a third, although I chose to skip the fourth, fifth and sixth movies offered to me because they'd been talking to Woody Allen and wanted me to play a Navajo Indian, but then I took the next one, which I guess was officially my seventh movie even though it was really only my fourth, and after that things proceeded along in fits and starts. Sometimes a director would look at me when I turned up on the set for my day or two of filming and say, “Oh, Gilbert, are you in this?”

I'd hear that and think,
At least he recognizes me
. Then I'd ask him if he wanted me to take my clothes off and things would generally go downhill from there.