This Much Is True

A week later, looking presentable, I landed in Newark (far better than JFK for Manhattan), and took a yellow cab straight to the Plaza Hotel where Menahem Golan’s company had booked me in. At that time, the Plaza was a super luxury hotel — one night there cost as much as my flight over (I, of course, had flown economy class).

Using my friend Stella Wilson’s contact, I immediately hired a publicist, and within a matter of hours she got me on to NBC’s Today Show, which was America’s most-watched, daily morning news programme. I was interviewed by Katie Couric; she was delightful and made me feel that she was interested in what I had to say, and I felt quite at home. Johnny Carson in Los Angeles saw that appearance, and invited me onto his NBC prime-time The Tonight Show. That was big! It meant that my personality was marketable in America.

I flew to Los Angeles, where they put me up in a hotel in Burbank. I was nervous at the thought of the TV show, but I behaved naturally, with a certain amount of naughtiness. America is a prudish country; they don’t like smut. I don’t think they even laugh at the word ‘knickers’. It’s hard to do business with people like that.

Mr Carson was not a warm man: he was more interested in himself than in me. But he saw that the studio audience liked me and that was useful. I did my voices. The Scottish-Jewish one (basically, Grandma Margolyes’s accent) went down very well. People rang in from all over America. Everyone who spoke like Grandma is now dead, so it revived memories. The transmission went so well that he asked me to come back. In fact, subsequently I’ve been on The Tonight Show several times, not only with Johnny Carson, but later twice with Jay Leno. Jay was lovely and open, and a listener. He took me to his home to see his car collection.

After that first Tonight Show, I decided I needed an American agent. At the time, I didn’t have a green card, and it was difficult to get a visa for theatre work, whereas it was much easier to get one for films. My British agent, Lindy King, suggested various film agents in LA to me. I went to see them all: two women and four men.

It’s an odd relationship, that of artist and agent; sometimes closer than marriage, but ultimately it has to be based on a shrewd assessment of the worth of each to the other. They all wanted me to join them; that’s the only time in my life I had such an experience. They wooed me. Lindy’s pick (how right she was, and has always been) was Susan Smith. Susan thought I was fresh and funny — she said it was like the Queen talking Yiddish. Thus began my foray into Hollywood. Susan was one of the most extraordinary and important people of my life, and whatever I write about her cannot convey the wonder and ferocity and sheer class this woman showed. Her language was bluer than mine, her politics were liberal, her cooking and hospitality legendary.

Susan had a New York flavour; she was plain, with a ferocious intelligence and a way with words. She was that rare bird: a Hollywood agent of taste. As Charles Dance said, she could smell bullshit a mile off and would have none of it. Susan was a discerning appreciator of talent — and you didn’t have to be beautiful: she championed actors and actresses that she felt were interesting and different. So much in Hollywood is about externals, but not for Susan. She wanted to see inside the actor. And once she took you on, she was a passionate, loyal supporter. She cooked for you, designed your apartment, chose your lover. No holds barred. But if you fell from her favour, WALLOP! It was over.

I remember our first meeting. I was terribly nervous, but she sat me down, looked hard at me, barked questions for about thirty minutes, and then said, ‘OK, I want you to join.’ No messing about. If I got a job, she phoned with the words: ‘Good news for the Jews.’ We just hit it off. I was probably the fattest person that she’d ever had on her books. She had an impressive stable of clients; to be alongside Hollywood stars such as Kathy Bates, Charles Dance, Brian Dennehy and Greta Scacchi was an accolade in itself. She loved talent — quirky, off-the-wall, no matter. She encapsulated the pursuit of excellence. Her word was her bond; is that what they call ‘old school’? Pity such honour has vanished from our business. But she had a respect for money and was a ferocious negotiator — boy, could she land a deal. I loved her to bits and I think of her with the greatest affection, gratitude and respect.