Even with this direction, though, I didn’t yet have a character.
The film’s André was modeled on this André (me). He said things André said, more or less. But he was not real-life André. A character who looks and sounds like André but isn’t really André? Which parts of me were me? Which were right for the role? Who the hell was I anyway? We are all many faceted. I have been thrown out of four gyms in my life for horsing around; would anyone know that André? I couldn’t answer the central, spiritual question: Who am I? This part of the work — finding the man who was and wasn’t André, and in the process finding myself — was the hardest of all.
Then one day out of nowhere, after months of rehearsing, I had it. I found four voices: André the flighty, off-the-wall rich kid; André the guru (à la Peter Brook); André the spiritual used-car salesman; and the sincere André (who appears briefly at the end of the film). I had my André, the character Wally had based on me and on my life and stories.
But we still had one problem: We still hadn’t raised any money. “You know, boys, I love this project, but I can’t spend the rest of my life on it,” Louis said.
The theater critic John Lahr suggested we do My Dinner with André as a staged reading at London’s Royal Court Theatre. Nothing to lose. We rehearsed once. Our set: a table and two chairs. When I walked onstage to hug Wally, I was horrified to see, in this small, small theater, an audience full of British theater legends. They hadn’t come to see Wally and me—no one knew us then. They came because it was their custom to attend openings at the Court. I wanted to go home. I still hadn’t memorized all my lines, so I had someone in the front row “on book.” My knees were actually knocking. I didn’t know knees really did that outside of comic books.
• • •
WE BEGAN. Total silence from the audience. The silence lasted maybe twenty minutes. What the hell do these unknown Yanks think they are doing? What is this? What the hell is an experimental beehive in a Polish forest? We were dying up there.
Finally — suddenly — a few, scattered laughs. Then more. And more. And more. The audience roared with laughter. We were a hit, a strange, unique sensation.
Michael White, the legendary producer of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Monty Python and the Holy Grail, congratulated us backstage. He wanted to produce our movie. It was all happening; we couldn’t believe it. It was coming together. But where would we shoot it? A New York union crew would be way out of our budget. And we couldn’t afford to shut down a New York City restaurant for twelve days. Indeed, in those days, even with White’s backing, we had very little money.
BUT CERTAIN PROJECTS , I’ve learned, have a life of their own. Out of nowhere, the Atlantic City assistant costume designer mentioned to Louis that his father had recently purchased a long- abandoned grand hotel in the Old South — Richmond, Virginia. The lobby boasted empty alligator pools and a majestic staircase that had inspired the one Rhett Butler carried Scarlett O’Hara up in Gone With the Wind: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
We had a set.
WE DID HAVE ONE PROBLEM, though. It was cold, very cold. The only way to heat the set was to heat the entire hotel, and we had no budget for that. Thus, we began filming as if we were doing a documentary in Antarctica. The crew wore ski clothes, earmuffs, thick gloves. Between takes they brought in heat lamps. Next shot, we would freeze again. If you know My Dinner with André, you’ll get the irony: Under the table, I had an electric blanket draped over my knees. I wore long johns under my elegant outfit. Downed a shot of brandy between some takes. Louis had been right. Nothing, nothing about this movie was easy.
Wallace Shawn (L) and André Gregory in a scene from My Dinner with André
ANOTHER OBSTACLE: finding the right waiter. A critical role, because he’s really the only other actor in the movie, punctuating the scenes between Wally and André. We saw many actors. Some were elderly and, for good reason, unknown. Some were too well known to appear with the two of us unknowns. As shooting got closer, I called Richard Avedon, who never forgot a face. I described what we were looking for. Dick said: “I used to know a guy who would be perfect. If he’s still alive.” The man he told me about wasn’t an actor. He worked as a technical director for film, somewhere in the bowels of the Museum of Modern Art. Used to be a successful film distributor in Austria, but fled the Nazis.
He was still alive. We brought him down to Richmond. A day into shooting, though, Louis wanted to fire him. He had no idea how to serve a table. Wally and I stayed up all night teaching him. It worked.
Jean Lenauer was wonderful in the role. After the film came out, Jean, despite his years and total inexperience as an actor, became a minor celebrity, speaking at universities, surrounded by admiring young women.
Also read: Let Him Go Writer-Director Thomas Bezucha Built a House to Burn it Down
OUR TAKES WERE TWELVE MINUTES LONG. We were shooting film, not video, so no taping over our mistakes. In many movies, takes last about three minutes, and even within those short, three-minute takes actors often flub their lines. I could do twelve without missing a word. The sound technicians couldn’t believe it.
YEARS LATER WALLY and I were walking down the street when a fan ran up to Wally. “My god!” he exclaimed. “My Dinner with André is my favorite film of all time, and you” — meaning Wally — “were great! So great.” He went on and on about how great Wally was without ever looking at me. Finally, Wally pointed at me and said, “I guess you know my friend?” He didn’t. “I was the other guy,” I admitted. He went back to praising Wally. In time he walked away. Then he rushed back. “I’m so sorry,” he said to me. “You were the waiter!! You were great.” And off he went.
Excerpted from This Is Not My Memoir by André Gregory and Todd London. To be published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux on November 17. Copyright © 2020 by André Gregory and Todd London. All rights reserved.
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