Brushes With Greatness, Part 1: The Ice Breaker

Posted by Barry M. Grey Dec 5, 2008

In Ron Howard’s newspaper picture, The Paper, Robert Duvall has a great line about celebrities:

“We move in their world. But it’s not our world.”

It’s so true. With rare exceptions, famous people -- even the seemingly nicest ones – tolerate interviewers only long enough to promote their latest movie, TV show, book or curry recipe.

After that, you’re meat. You’ll fade from their consciousness faster than it takes to cook a potful of minute oatmeal.

Never forget Rule No. 1:

They Don’t Care About You.

Having interviewed more than a thousand show biz types, I find the experience pretty redundant. This will be the first of a number of postings I’ll devote to what David Letterman calls “brushes with greatness.”

We begin with the ice breaker.

No mystery here. This is where you try to crack a joke, or generally try to gain the subject’s confidence just before the interview begins.

Once, at the start of a lengthy interview with Ford about his life and career, I thought I’d come up with the most deliberately, perfectly absurd ice breaker:

“So,” I began slowly, earnestly, “the Treaty of Versailles, 1919. Did it really lead to World War II?”

He eyed me warily. Paused for about a year. Barely suppressed a smile. Then, with an arched brow and patented Ford deadpan, he finally offered:

“Many… people… think… so.”

He’d played along!

We had a great interview, at least for the 45 minutes I was allotted -- a virtual lifetime for this notorious grumpy, interview-averse star. But I hadn’t covered nearly enough ground for the show I was producing about him.

His manager at the time, the late (and very sweet) Pat McQueeney, told me, “Harrison likes you. I can tell. He wants to finish the interview.” Sure enough, three weeks later I flew across the country to finish the sit-down.

Cut to New York. We’re in a suite at the Essex House. As Ford is being miked for the next go-round, I thanked him for agreeing to see me again. For weeks, I’d been bouncing off the wall about being different from the pack, being the one guy with a camera crew that he respected and wanted to meet with again.

So, Ford’s response came as a bit of a shock:

“That was you?”

See: Rule No. 1.

I was interviewing Hope at his home. His daughter Linda warned me Bob was nearly deaf -- but far too vain to wear his hearing aid during interviews.

As my audio guy was miking him, I thought I’d make small talk about our mutual hometown.

“So, Mr. Hope, I hear you’re from Cleveland.”

“Wha -- ?”

“I said,” my voice rising, “I-hear-you’re-from-Cleveland.”

He cupped his hand to his ear. Leaned in. “Huh?”

“I SAID, I HEAR YOU’RE FROM CLEVELAND!”

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice now a bit louder.

“WHAT WAS IT LIKE GROWING UP IN CLEVELAND?”

“Oh yeah,” he said in that memorably nasal voice, “Cleveland. Grew up there, ya know.”

They heard my groans a hundred miles away. Kind of like a sonic boom, without the fly over.

You can imagine how lame the actual interview turned out.

Another time, I again tried humor – this time to get director Sidney Lumet (Dog Day Afternoon, The Verdict, The Pawnbroker, Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead, Fail- Safe, Serpico, a zillion others) to loosen up.

The ice breaker:

“So…(long pause) it must be awfully exciting for you. (He perks up.) To be here today. (A quizzical look.) To finally…after all these years…at last get a chance… to meet me. (A smile)

“Spend time with me. (Grinning broadly.)

“Get to know Barry M. Grey.”

By now he’s laughing out loud. The interview went great.

But for every Lumet, there are agonies like Ed O’Neill. I was producing a show about Katey Sagal, his co-star from Married…With Children.

At first, I found him a little distant, but otherwise he seemed like a nice enough guy.

Before tape rolled, I learned he’d been drafted by the Pittsburgh Steelers out of college, but cut on the last day of training camp. Wow, I never knew that. I told him as a lifelong Cleveland Browns fan, I was obligated to hate him.

He understood.

Then, with camera rolling, I spun my little web:

“So, Ed…” He waited. Patiently, too.

“It is Ed, isn’t it?” He nodded.

Long pause. Finally:

“Can I call you Ed?” Yes, came the reply.

“Okay, now, Ed…Is Ed short for something?”

“Edward.”

“Great. Now, Ed…” I waited. Timing is everything. We shifted uncomfortably. Finally:

“Do you prefer Ed, or Edward?”

Exasperation was creeping in.

“’Ed’ is fine.”

“Cool. Now, Ed…” One more time. Could I get the play off before being sacked for a 20-yard loss?

“Yessss, Barry…”

“Ummm…

“Do you have a nickname?”

No smile – not even a little one. Instead:

“Is there a question coming anytime soon?”

Oh man, had I overreached. Tried for the brass ring. Wound up in the ditch.

Chastened, I got on with what became a very drab interview.

Sometimes, it isn’t the celebrity who forgets you – it’s the other way around. A friend reminded me today of a phone interview I’d once conducted with Bob Newhart. An interview I’d completely forgotten.

Seems I cracked wise with Bob about something or other, and without missing a beat, Bob – using that practiced, trademark stammer – came right back:

“Now, now Barry,” he said, a smile creeping into his voice, “you promised not to bring that up…”

Bob, if you’re reading this, I'm sorry I forgot about you. Mea maxima culpa.