Gene Wilder discusses his new World War I adventure By Allen Barra
Gene Wilder, the son of russian Jewish immigrants, was born in Milwaukee in 1933. A graduate of the University of Iowa, he studied with the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School before embarking on a film career that over the last 40 years has included such classics as Bonnie and Clyde (1967), The Producers (1968), Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971), Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask) (1972), Blazing Saddles (1974), Young Frankenstein (1974), and The Frisco Kid (1979). He has directed four films and twice been nominated for an Oscar, once as a supporting actor in The Producers and once as a screenwriter for Young Frankenstein. His enchanting 2005 memoir, Kiss Me Like a Stranger, included candid reminiscences of his relationships with Mel Brooks, Richard Pryor, and his third wife, the actress and comedian Gilda Radner, who died of ovarian cancer in 1989, and in whose memory he founded Gilda’s Club, a support group to raise awareness of the disease. I spoke with him just after his first novel, My French Whore, set during the First World War, was published by St. Martin’s Press.—Allen Barra
Congratulations on your lovely and elegantly crafted book. You write in your acknowledgments, “For whatever simplicity of language I’ve achieved, I thank my two mentors: Ernest Hemingway and Jean Renoir.” In what sense are they your mentors?
I mean, of course, Jean Renoir the great film director. I named both Renoir and Hemingway for their clarity and precision as prose writers. I wish I could get everyone to read Renoir, My Father. He directed that way too.
Of course, both Hemingway in A Farewell to Arms and Renoir with Grand Illusion touched on the same territory as you have with My French Whore—World War I. But you are saying that in your book you were more influenced by them as writers?
Yes. They are simple and deep, not a lot of convolution. They wrote sentences that go to the brain and the heart. I read a lot, and I read some books and say, “What in hell was that sentence about?” I never say that when I read Hemingway.
I enjoyed your memoir, Kiss Me Like a Stranger, but it gave me no indication of what My French Whore would be like. I opened the book not knowing what to expect.
Good. I didn’t want people to expect an uproarious comedy.
Your subtitle is “A Love Story,” but it just as easily could be a war story or a spy story, as the hero, an American private, becomes a spy behind German lines. In fact, he impersonates a famous German spy. How did the plot come about?
I can tell you precisely: I got the idea around 1970. I was living in Paris, and stories I’d hear about World War I gave me the idea for the plot. When I got back to New York I wrote a screenplay, and when I read it, I thought, “This is no good. The plot is good, but the screen-play isn’t.” Thirty years later, I was at Sloan-Kettering Memorial Cancer Center having a stem-cell transplant [for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma], wondering whether I was going to live or die. I had no complaints about how life had treated me, but I was worried about what might happen to my wife, Karen, if I died. I had found her so late in life. The story I had thought of so many years before had stayed with me, and it occurred to me it might work very well as a novel.
But what compelled you to write a story set during the First World War?
Setting it in World War I was to protect the innocent. I wanted to distance myself from my own thoughts and feelings while still being able to use my own experiences. The idea of a guy being unhappy at home, leaving his wife, and having an affair with a woman overseas seemed much more romantic set in that period.
It also gave me an opportunity to write about Germans in a way that isn’t possible after World War II. Back then, there was still a degree of civility between enemies that vanished with the Second World War. I’m not saying that war wasn’t hell. The first great war was probably more of a hell on earth than anyone has ever seen. But I do think on the whole it was fought by men who had less of a hatred of one another than they did twenty-some years later.
Do you think that might be because of the absence of inflammatory ideology?
I think that had a great deal to do with it. I think you were seeing the last vestiges of an older, more civilized society swept away. I think you see that as an element in Jean Renoir’s great film, Grand Illusion.
I absorbed a lot of German culture while growing up, and I have a lot of fond memories of the German community I knew in Milwaukee—the beer, the cheese, the good times at the state fairs my father took me to. In 1917, it was still possible, I think, for an American boy who grew up in that sort of culture to pass himself off as a German spy, as my character Paul Peachy does. After World War II, obviously, a lot of German Americans were less likely to be as open about their heritage.
Your protagonist comes from Milwaukee, speaks German, and has a theatrical background.
The background of the story was influenced by a number of American and German films. I took a lot from their ambiance, though nothing specifically for my story. The 1956 German film The Captain From Köpenick (about a shoemaker who impersonates a Prussian officer) is a film I very much enjoyed. Chaplin has always been an influence on my work. I like to mix absurdity with the dramatic, and that came from Chaplin.
Did you write My French Whore with the idea of it becoming a movie?
No, I’m convinced the idea works much better as a novel. My agent thinks it would be a good movie. Perhaps it might, but that wasn’t my motivation.
Having now mastered three literary forms—the screenplay, the memoir, and the novel—which are you most eager to pursue?
I just finished the third draft of my next novel.
What’s your title?
The Woman Who Wouldn’t.
Is it contemporary?
No, it’s set in 1903. Anton Chekhov is one of the main characters.
Between writing for the screen, writing your memoirs, and writing fiction, which type of writing is the most difficult? Which is the most satisfying?
Well, I’ve had eight screenplays produced, and I’d say writing a good screenplay is the most difficult kind of writing I know. It takes a long time.
Why? Because the conventions of screenwriting are so restricting?
Not necessarily because of that. When I wrote for the screen, I was under contract to 20th Century Fox, and even for a really good producer like Alan Ladd, Jr., there was that clock ticking. Now, when I write fiction at home, my wife will bring me a cup of tea and a kiss, and all the tension melts away.
The Buyable Past
The License Plate By David Lander
Antique plates promote their states’ agricultural products, distinctive contours, or mineral wealth (the Arizona plate is made of copper).
(Tim Stentiford)
Before back-seat video screens, countless children amused themselves on road trips by looking at license plates, thrilled to spot their initials, birthdates, or examples from distant states. Thousands of adult collectors share that enthusiasm.
Plates have been around since New York mandated automobile licensing in 1901. Car owners then cobbled together their own, often attaching metal numbers designed for house fronts to leather backings. Early state-issued markers tended to have enameled porcelain surfaces, and by World War I plates that weighed as much as a pound were being stamped from heavy steel.
When steel conservation took hold during World War II, multi-year plates designed to accept small metal date tabs appeared, and some states turned to materials like heavy cardboard or wood-pulp derivatives. Illinois based a substance on homegrown soybeans—goats reportedly loved them—and Louisiana derived one from sugarcane. After the war aluminum was briefly in vogue, but steel ultimately prevailed.
In 1917 Arizona branded its plate with a steer’s head to promote beef sales. Idaho surrounded numbers with a silhouetted potato in 1928, and in 1948 it issued plates picturing a buttered baked potato. The state’s current slogan, “Famous Potatoes,” has been used for 50 years. Iowa called itself the Corn State from 1953 to 1955, and Nebraska was the Beef State between 1956 and 1965.
The centennial of Alaska’s purchase from Russia is observed with indigenous art.
(Tim Stentiford)
Both New York and California used license plates to lure people to competing 1939 world’s fairs, and in 1941 New Mexico began inviting tourists to the “Land of Enchantment.” The Native American Zia Pueblo sun sign that complements the phrase has shone for eight decades now. Wyoming’s quintessentially Western bronco rider has remained in the saddle nearly as long; he mounted up in 1936. “These symbols have great popular appeal,” says Jeff Minard, a leading authority on license plates. “Certain state administrations have wanted to drop them over the years, but it has always resulted in a howl of protest.” Older markers with bold graphic motifs, including South Carolina’s 1926–27 palmetto tree and the peach that Georgia featured in 1941, are particularly popular with collectors.
A California governor’s plate.
(Jeff Minard)
People have always nailed their old markers up in barns and garages, but collectors didn’t get organized until 1954, when a Massachusetts psychologist founded the Automobile License Plate Collectors Association. Some collections now include thousands of plates, in part because recent examples cost as little as $5 and vintage pieces from the fifties or earlier are often just a bit higher, perhaps $25. The cost curve gets much steeper at the high end, though, and a few especially rare plates have reached the $10,000 range. Those from the year a state first issued them can be expensive if the state was then sparsely populated and the run was relatively small. Collectors also favor low-number plates, which are most desirable when they have no accompanying letters, and tags with the initials of prominent original owners.
Resources
The Automobile License Plate Collectors Association is the world’s largest club devoted to the hobby; members benefit from a bimonthly newsletter, an annual convention, and regional meets (ALPCA, Inc., 508 Coastal Drive, Virginia Beach, VA 23451; www.alpca.org). Great plates abound on the Internet. Start at www.alpca.org, click on “Gallery” for select examples and on “Links” for the best hobbyist sites. Skip books that spotlight clever vanity plates, and opt instead for informative volumes. James K. Fox’s License Plates of the United States: A Pictorial History 1903 to the Present has color pictures of all U.S. plates through the mid-1990s, but it’s currently out of print, and used copies are expensive. A Moving History: 50 Years of ALPCA, 100 Years of License Plates, by Jeff Minard and Tim Stentiford, another illustrated overview, is available from Amazon.com, and I Love License Plates, by Thomson C. Murray, is perfect for video-sated kids traveling by car. Minard offers it for $12 on his eBay site (http://stores.ebay.com/licenseplatesandbooks).
Pop Goes The Nation
“The founding of the United States experience: 1763-1815” By Gerry and Janet Souter
The Founding of the United States Experience (Presidio Press, 64 pages, $50) earns the slightly unwieldy last word in its title, because digging into this handsome volume creates an experience much like rooting through a treasure-filled attic. Salted through pages filled with beautifully photographed objects—a miniature portrait of George III, a snuffbox found at Valley Forge, a collapsible field telescope—are documents in facsimile meant to be pulled from slots or envelopes. Leafing through, you won’t be surprised to unfold Jefferson’s handwritten draft of the Declaration of Independence, but elsewhere, the oath of allegiance signed by every member of the Continental Army, sworn here by the Commander in Chief himself, resonates afresh. In the archaic typeface of the time, “G. Washington” promises to “defend the said United States, against the said King George the Third, his heirs and successors and his or their abettors, assistants and adherents … with fidelity, according to the best of my skill and understanding.” This volume reminds us how precious such skill and understanding is.
“Don’t Be a Show Off”
The book that taught Gi’s how to behave in England By Gene Smith
(Author’s Collection)
There were three deadly serious crimes a serviceman could commit, said the United States Army Air Corps commander Carl (“Tooey”) Spaatz; “Murder, rape, and interference with Anglo-American relations. The first two might conceivably be pardoned, but the third one, never.” Seemingly Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower agreed. When he learned that two different-nationality officers of his integrated staff had exchanged harsh words, he sent the American one home. “He only called me a son of a bitch, sir,” the second party to the dispute told Eisenhower.
“I am informed that he called you a British son of a bitch. That is quite different. My ruling stands.”
On the subject of British-American relations, Eisenhower was, he said, a “fanatic.”
“Every American soldier coming to Britain,” he remembered, “was almost certain to consider himself a privileged crusader, sent there to help Britain out of a hole. He would expect to be treated as such.” The British view was that their country had held the fort against Hitler in the name of civilization’s values while America was booming on the Empire’s poured-out financial resources.
Now the Yanks had come, arriving to a place made by the war—pinched, straitened, anxious, grim and grimy, and dark and chilly for lack of fuel. Food was scarce. Clothing was unobtainable. King George VI ordered the painting of a line five inches from the bottom of Buckingham Palace bathtubs to show the level above which lukewarm water must not rise.
But the Americans, taking down four times the pay of the British Tommy, could at the PX find fruits, whiskey, cookies, chocolate, cigarettes, and gum. The possibilities of culture clash were obvious.
The U.S. War Department set out to do what it could. It produced Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain 1942, some 7,000 words, recently reprinted by Oxford University’s Bodleian Library in a pocket-sized edition with an introduction remarking that at the time of original publication, The Times of London compared the pamphlet with the works of Washington Irving, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, who in their time also tried to interpret Britain for an American readership.
Sixty-five years on, we read: “You will be Britain’s guest… . Don’t refer to the First World War by saying America came over and won it… . Don’t play into Hitler’s hands by mentioning war debts.
“NEVER criticize the King or Queen… . Britain’s money is in pound, shilling, and pence… . all your arguments that the American decimal system is better won’t convince them… . Britons are often more reserved… . it doesn’t mean they are being haughty and unfriendly. The British have phrases and colloquialisms that may seem funny to you. You can make just as many boners in their eyes. Don’t say ‘bloody’ in mixed company, don’t say ‘bum.’
“don’t be a show off. Look, listen and learn before you start telling the British how much better we do things… . The British ‘Tommy’ is apt to be specially touchy about the difference in his wages and yours… . Don’t rub it in. Play fair with him… . Avoid swiping his girl.
“The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a good cup of tea. It’s an even swap… . We have so much in common—our language, laws, ideals of religious freedom… . Most people get used to the English climate eventually… . If invited for a meal, go easy. It may be the family’s rations for a whole week.”
Time proved the generals’ fears groundless. There was very little unpleasantness. With the passage of time nothing so evoked to the British the gone daysand departed GIs as the playing of the golden oldies “Moonlight Serenade” and “Stardust,” even as London hotels came to charge for a night what Tommy got for a year and the West End restaurants served Thai, Japanese, Greek, and Indian delicacies instead of the war’s mushy Brussels sprouts and boiled potatoes—while back in their own country those who had read Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain 1942 turned gray and then white and now are passing on.
Why Do We Say...?
Pork Barrel By Hugh Rawson
A“Call it Pork or Necessity, but Alaska Comes Out Far Above the Rest in Spending.” This headline—from The New York Times—was for a story about the $388 billion federal Consolidated Appropriations Act for 2005. “Consolidated” is an apt word for this annual exercise: The act is nearly 1,700 pages long or, looking at it another way, more than a foot thick. Buried within it are thousands of local projects for which funds have been specially set aside. In official congressional parlance, grants of this sort are called “earmarks.” Most people call them pork. The overall spending act itself is the pork barrel.
Not all pork is bad pork. Many local projects are worthy enough. Others may raise eyebrows. For example: $25,000 to study mariachi music in schools in Las Vegas, Nevada, $75,000 for the Paper Industry Hall of Fame in Appleton, Wisconsin, and a cool million to the Missouri Pork Producers Federation to examine the possibility of obtaining energy from what is politely called “hog waste.”
Dipping into the federal larder to finance local projects is a time-honored custom. The earliest example of pork barrel in the political sense in the Oxford English Dictionary comes from a story in the Westminster Gazette of June 1, 1909, that might almost have been written yesterday: “They [meaning Democratic representatives in this instance] have preferred to take for their own constituencies whatever could be got out of the Congressional ‘pork barrel.’” And as reported in the New York Evening Post a few years later: “The River and Harbor bill is the pork barrel par excellence” (May 12, 1916).
Ultimately, the metaphor stems from the practice in the pre-refrigeration era of preserving pork in large wooden barrels of brine. The political usage may have been inspired by the distribution of rations of salt pork to slaves on plantations. “Oftentimes the eagerness of the slaves would result in a rush upon the pork barrel,” wrote a “journalist” named C. C. Maxey in 1919, “in which each would strive to grab as much as possible for himself. Members of Congress in the stampede to get their local appropriation items into the omnibus river and harbor bills behaved so much like negro slaves rushing the pork barrel, that these bills were facetiously styled ‘pork-barrel’ bills.” But one has to accept Mr. Maxey’s interpretation on faith; no paper trail to support it has been found.
Whatever the exact source of the metaphor, since its coinage the pork barrel has grown immensely in size, with Alaska, as pointed out in the Times headline, getting far more than what some think should be its share. Federal spending in the state amounted to nearly $12,000 per person in 2003, about double the national average. Credit for this generally is given to Alaska’s longtime (since 1968) Republican senator, Ted Stevens. As chairman of the highly influential appropriations committee from 1997 through 2004, except for an 18-month period when Democrats controlled the Senate, Stevens was in excellent position to bring home the bacon for his state.
Alaska’s single member of the House, Don Young, has also done his part. As chair of the transportation and infrastructure committee, he steered so much money for bridges and roads to his home state that Washingtonians sometimes referred to him as “Mr. Concrete.” Representative Young apparently prefers the pork metaphor, however. Comparing himself to Senator Stevens, he told a gathering of Washington Republicans, with tongue in cheek, but only partly, “If he’s the chief porker, I’m upset. I’d like to be a little oinker, myself.”
P.S. Edward Everett Hale, a Unitarian minister, served as chaplain of the Senate from 1903 until his death in 1909. When asked, “Do you pray for the senators, Dr. Hale?” he is said to have replied, “No, I look at the senators and pray for the country.”
