I was interested in a new convertible car made by Volvo. I did the research on it, and found exactly what I wanted in terms of the color, the kind of interior leather, the details. I then discovered that Volvo didn’t sell the 1998 convertible because of mechanical problems—they withdrew the 1998 models. This didn’t stop me. Getting the number of the international president of Volvo, Mr. Johannson, in Gothenberg, Sweden, I called him. Of course, I got his secretary. I introduced myself as a film director from Hollywood, and told her that I had directed Liv Ullman, the Scandinavian actress, in Forty Carats.
SECRETARY: Oh, I loved that movie!
MILTON: I also spent two days with Ingrid Bergman on her island in Sweden, very near your factory.
[Speaking about Ingrid Bergman like this to a Swede is like telling an American you had lunch with Abraham Lincoln....]
SECRETARY: Isn’t that nice! What can I do for you, sir?
MILTON: I want to buy a Volvo.
SECRETARY: Is there a problem?
MILTON: Yes. They won’t sell me the 1998 convertible model because of certain mechanical difficulties.
SECRETARY: Oh.
MILTON: They want me to wait three months for the 1999 model—I’m not a patient man.
SECRETARY: Please hang on for a moment.
A pause ensued. A man’s voice comes on the phone, and he says....
MAN: I am Mr. Johansson, International President of Volvo.
MILTON: Nice to talk to you, sir.
JOHANSSON: I am in a meeting and I don’t have a lot of time, but you tell everything to my secretary and we will help you. For sure.
MILTON: Thank you very much.
The phone clicks back to the secretary, and I tell her what I want and where to reach me. Two days later, my phone rings at home....
MILTON (gruffly). Hello?
MAN: Is this Mr. Katselas?
MILTON (more gruffly): Yes.
MAN: My name is Ronnie Peterson.
MILTON (most gruffly): What is it?
PETERSON: I am the President of Volvo North America.
MILTON (sweet as butter): Hello, sir! So nice of you to call.
PETERSON: I just spoke to Mr. Johansson in Gothenberg, and I said to myself, I must speak to this man.
MILTON: So very nice of you.
PETERSON: You know, I can’t sell you a 1998 convertible because the company has withdrawn them.
MILTON: I know. But I’m not the most patient man.
PETERSON: I know, I know. Mr. Johannson’s secretary told me.
MILTON: Oh.
PETERSON: I can’t sell you a ’98 right now. But I have a convertible ’98 of my own on which we fixed the mechanical problem, and I am going to give it to you.
MILTON: Well isn’t that nice of you! What do you mean “give”?
PETERSON: You can use it until the 1999 model comes out.
MILTON: That’s awfully nice. What’s the charge?
PETERSON: Oh, no charge at all.
MILTON: Very nice of you. There is one more thing. My 1999, when I order it, I want the bigger engine that you put into the coupe. Could that happen, as a special thing?
PETERSON: A man like you can get anything he wants.
Five days later, Mr. Peterson’s car arrived as he said, washed and fully gassed. I drove it for six weeks and then returned it. My own Volvo, with the special engine, arrived very soon thereafter, one of best cars I’ve ever owned—I am grateful to that gracious Swedish company.
So why this story? Why is this chapter called “Artistic Killer?” By Artistic Killer I mean someone who finishes what they start, someone who leaves no stone unturned in trying to get a job done. I mean a focused, energized, hardworking professional who never takes no for an answer. An Artistic Killer embodies the fusion between attitude, the feeling with which you do something, and administration—the choices you make, then getting these choices done no matter what. As you are doing a specific project, believe you can do it. Know that you’ll get it done. Continue the actions towards getting it done. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. All of this is necessary to finish the job.
I’m reminded of my parents, who were very religious, and who at least twice each year helped to promote a bazaar to raise funds for their church. Their mission was clear and defined. They were passionate and determined because to them this work was God’s work, and so they were more than determined in going after their goal of how much money was to be raised by what time. They called people, wrote to them, visited candy stores, restaurants, hotels, garages, hospitals, dress shops, shoe repair shops, you name it. And may God protect those who said no, for if my parents were rejected they still went back a second and even a third time, each time a little more aggressively. I remember the heated discussions in the kitchen with our priest, determining who to go to next, and constantly appraising how much they had raised so far, and what else they needed to do to achieve their goal.
It is difficult to describe the zeal with which my parents went after their target. “We’re going to make god-fearing people out of these cheapskates!” It was a kind of almost bloodthirsty, humorous, fun attitude, trying to develop plans to solicit money from their various prey. And the quest to achieve the set goal did not end. At the bazaar itself, they created an auction, having received donations of many items to be bid on at the bazaar. The head auctioneer was primed, coached and jazzed up by my parents, so that he was in top form, selling his wares with great energy and humor. They also sold tickets before the bazaar for a kind of lottery, and continued to sell tickets up to the selection of the winner.
Then everyone would dance, and a basket was placed in the center of the dance floor, into which contributions were placed to celebrate the most exciting, skilled dancers. Then my mother danced. Look out, man, she really strutted her stuff—no moves barred. It was a sexy, impassioned dance that drew everyone’s attention and filled at least two baskets. And after the bazaar, my parents continued with their fundraising, never stopping, for besides their family, nothing was more dear to them than the church. They were real people with an attitude of love and passionate desire.
In this avenue of fundraising for the church and in the Volvo adventure, there is clearly the concept of what I mean by Artistic Killer: someone who uses constructive actions to complete, or kill the deal that they are after (“kill” meaning to complete to the fullest, most productive degree). So an actor can increase his Artistic Killer quotient by really chasing a character—doing the research, rehearsing like mad, nailing the accent, really pushing with some zeal the envelope of their acting work. An Artistic Killer actor doesn’t take no for an answer about an audition. You want to read for that part? Find the producer. Find the director. Write a killer letter. Get in there. Prepare your audition to your very best and more—keep yourself in top form in class by giving your all, make sure you’re physically and emotionally ready to go. Trouble paying for class? Second job. Better first job. Work at night. Clean the theatre. Mr. Kazan’s first job was to sweep up the space for the Group Theatre. Get it done, and continue to pursue your administration with zeal and a sense of fun. Artistic Killer can be considered an attitude—a certain no-holds barred enthusiasm and determination—but is primarily someone who makes the proper choices and gets them done, and so has killer administration. You must believe, you must care, you must never accept no, you must persist, and you can accomplish your goal no matter what obstacles present themselves. Whether you’re competing with better known actors, or the part is against your type, or they aren’t seeing anyone—you make the moves to get the audition and show them what you can do. Remember, thay say it’s not over until the fat lady sings—well there is no fat lady and she doesn’t sing anyhow. It’s only over when you say it’s over.