The Good, the Bad, and Me by Eli Wallach

Author:Eli Wallach
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

In preparation to play the role of Sakini in Teahouse, Bobby Lewis and I had several prerehearsal sessions. “I haven’t the slightest idea of how to play an Asian,” I told him. “How do I do it?”

“Okinawan,” he corrected me. “Half your part is in Japanese.

“I’ve played Asians in half a dozen films, including one with Charlie Chaplin,” he reassured me. He was short, plump, and bald. “Now, here’s the secret: I used to ride in the open rumble seat of a car. When the wind blew in my face, I’d squint my eyes, and as I inhaled, I’d suck in the air and make a whooshing sound; whoosh—voila! There’s your Asian.”

Bobby’s explanation wasn’t that helpful. I remembered that when I was a kid my nickname was “Chink” because my eyes got very narrow when I smiled. So as I worked on the role, I tried to do a lot of smiling. That would make me look Asian, I figured. Rehearsals were held in the Drury Lane Theatre near Covent Garden, and following Bobby’s direction, I walked around sucking up all the dirt and dust of the stage. The result: a serious bout with bronchitis.

To transform myself into an Okinawan, I covered my eyebrows with soap. When the soap dried, I’d paint new eyebrows above the old ones and draw a little line in the inner corner of each eye. Then I’d slick my black hair back with sticky goo. A quick glance in the mirror and soon the transformation was complete.

I grew more anxious as we approached our opening night. In the London newspapers, there were always stories about the antics of the so-called Gallery Gods, a rowdy group that occupied the top seats of the theater. Their chief victims were American plays. If a show displeased them, they would boo and stomp their feet. Pal Joey had recently suffered such a fate.

On opening night at Her Majesty’s Theatre, I stepped in front of the bamboo curtain and delivered my first lines, wondering when those bastards up in the balcony would start their attack. “Lovely ladies, kind gentlemen,” I said, stressing the words kind gentlemen, hoping that would get through to the Gods, “Please to introduce myself: Sakini by name, interpreter by profession, education by ancient dictionary, Okinawan by whim of Gods.”

There was no booing; no one stomped their feet—all in all, a wonderfully warm reception. The reviews were glowing and I was even accepted as an Asian. We settled into a long run. It took me awhile, but I figured out why the English liked the show so much. The show dealt with Americans trying to teach the Okinawan natives the principles of democracy. Of course, the wily natives ended up teaching the Americans a thing or two, something that British audiences seemed to find amusing.

One night, however, I was frightened to find that a number of Japanese were attending the show. I peeked through the bamboo curtain and, before my entrance, caught a glimpse of several of them in the front row.

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