So many people were so inordinately kind to me as I set about writing this book that I don’t quite know by what right I can call the finished product mine. Again and again I was amazed as people opened their homes, hearts, attics, and libraries to a total stranger on a curious mission. I can’t thank them enough for their generosity. So much of what is best about this book came from them; judgment for what I did with it falls on me alone.
For reminisces, materials, referrals, and other invaluable resources, I’m grateful to Robert Benayoun, Leslie Bennetts, Sandra Bernhard, Peter Bogdanovich, Judy Cannon, Tim Casebeer, Dick Cavett, Leon Charash, Peter Chelsum, Fran Cohen, Ann Colgrove, Richard Connolly, Judy Englander, David Fantle, Larry Fine, Russell Fornwalt, Kathleen Freeman, Brian Gari, Jody Geiger, Eydie Gorme, Richard Grudens, Olga Hill, Florence Horn, Stan Horton, James Jacobs, Lee Jecman, Bob Kay, Evan Kemp, Julius La Rosa, Steve Lawrence, Norman Lear, Janet Leigh, Marlena Libman, Alan Lowenstein, Ed Margulies, Ben Mattlin, Jan Murray, Roger Paulson, Dale Pearce, Diane Piastro, Alison Poole, Tom Ranieri, Teresa Redburn, Sister Rose William of the Daughters of St. Paul, Jonathan Rosenbaum, Andrew Sarris, Ron Schenkenberger, Lawrence Shapiro, Ed Simmons, Irv Slikovsky, Lee Smith, Timothy Springfield, Ada Tesar, Scott Townsend, Ben Urish, Hilde Waring, Art Zigouras, the editors of The New York Times Book Review for printing my Author’s Query, and the residents of 396 Union Avenue in Irvington, New Jersey, for not dismissing me as nuts when I showed up asking questions.
Among these many benefactors, Jeff Abraham, Dale Bonifant, and Barbara Sender stand out as being exceedingly generous with materials that turned out to be vital to my work—and exceedingly patient in waiting for their return. And without Marshall Katz and his memories and photos, this book would be infinitely poorer.
In Newark, Paul Carvelli greased the wheels of bureaucracy and uncovered an essential document. In Paris, Catherine Hoffman and Bertrand Lorel assembled an authoritative collection of clippings and statistics. Doug Holm turned up a trove of goodies and read an unwieldy manuscript with a canny—and foster—eye. Julia Wotipka, who blithely said, “Call me if you need anything,” and never dreamed I would do just that, was an awesome research machine. Lenny Popky, Paul Harris, and Gabrielle Schwab provided beds, meals, and camaraderie.
Several editors kept me working and eating during the years I put this book together. I’d especially like to thank Richard Jameson of Film Comment, David Higdon of Rip City, Suzanne Mikesell and Babs Baker of Pulse!, Bill Redden of PDXS, Constance Rosenbloom of The New York Times, and Mark Wiggington of The Oregonian. Thanks as well to Bill Flood of the School of Extended Studies at Portland State University. As for Karen Brooks of The Oregonian, no freelancer could imagine a more supportive or collegial friend.
Ruth Nathan, who took a chance on an unknown, was instrumental in finding this book a home, as was Bill Thomas, the first person to get it. Alan Borrud expertly reproduced many of the photos, Larry Hamberlin kept me from going out in the world with prepositions stuck between my teeth, and Paul Sleven helped keep me in legal check. And Chris Koseluk is the best damn photo researcher in the world.
Without Cal Morgan—friend, coach, and editor par excellence—this book might be an uncollected pile of musings, jottings, and Xeroxed pages. It’s almost as much his as mine.
To Paul Bartholemy and Lucretia Thornton, I’m inexpressably grateful for shelter, support, and love. No one could wish for more from his family.
Similarly, John and Theresa Carvelli, Dominic and Lucille Vecchiarelli, and Thomas Shand have been in my corner all along, as have been their children.
My sister, Jennifer Levy, is the most encouraging person I know, and I can only hope to someday return her enthusiasm for me and my work.
My mother, Mickie Levy, would have written the whole book for me if she could have. The very fact that I did it is the merest down payment on the lifetime of selflessness she’s shown.
My father, Jerome Levy, taught me with unerring taste what was funny and with unfaltering humanity what was valuable. He didn’t live to see this book finished, but that won’t necessarily stop him from enjoying it.
The amazing brothers Vincent Bartholemy Levy and Anthony Augustine Levy provided intermittent peace and quiet and a constant reminder that no work is more important than the life that goes on around it.
And my debt to Mary Bartholemy—editor, partner, cook, nanny, analyst, booster, my irreplaceable you—cannot ever be erased.