6
Scrambled Eggs
Every Saturday morning, I make scrambled eggs for my kids Hugo, Eli, Gabriel, and Evie. What can I say, they like my eggs. The kids help me put eggs, a little milk, some parsley, pepper, and truffle salt into a bowl. I heat the old reliable pan, and pour in the ingredients. As I gently stir the mixture with a spatula, the eggs begin to set, getting firmer and firmer until they’re ready to eat. I like my eggs just a little undercooked, not hard and rubbery.
You’ve probably made scrambled eggs and are wondering, What the fuck does breakfast have to do with acting?
Bear with me.
After walking over to the Little Theater at San Francisco State nearly every afternoon from the time I was ten, it made sense to me to go to college there when the time came. I could have gone to Berkeley, maybe Stanford, or a couple of colleges out East, but by then I had learned that the SF State drama department was fantastic, and the faculty wise and practical. They were all steeped in professional theater with big résumés and credentials. And this was big also: it was across the street from where I already lived with my family, so I could save money by continuing to live at home. I think my staying close pleased my father, but not as much as the $48-per-semester price tag, which was a result of Governor Pat Brown’s mandate that every person in California who wanted to go to college should be able to go.
(In 2009, I was named Alumnus of the Year at the graduation ceremony where baseball legend Willie Mays was giving the commencement address. As I sat there in cap and gown—That’s Willie Mays. I’m sitting with Willie Mays. #24. THE “SAY HEY” KID—I could literally see the apartment complex the Tambors lived in: Apt. 2K, 14 Gonzalez Drive to my left, and 14 Vidal Drive to my right.)
Jack Cook was a body movement teacher and a huge advocate of mime; he’d studied with Jacques Lecoq in Paris. He was also a director, and took on one show every year. During my freshman year, he cast me in my very first role in my very first show, as Victor the butler in Gigi. When I saw my name on the casting board next to the theater, I screamed out loud.
Jack’s approach to directing was revolutionary to me, and stays with me to this day. At first, in my ignorance, I thought it was laziness, but it was actually theater smarts from a man who knew exactly what it took to get the very best from his actors and make a superior production. He was a no-bullshit guy, and he believed in me from the day I walked into that building at 1600 Holloway Drive. Maybe I was still wearing the aura of the ten-year-old kid who used to walk the halls of that very theater department.
The following are life lessons from Jack Cook:
LESSON #1: THE HAT
He would say, “You’re doing great,” and then give you a note that sometimes could be a little tough. And we took it because he’d given us confidence first. I was doing a show called Mr. Dandyweather’s Holiday, and during a run-through I got a little careless and added some superfluous moves and gestures in an effort to make what was already funny funnier. Jack took me aside and said, “You’re good with what we’ve been doing. You don’t need to put a hat on a hat.” He was saying: If you comment on it, you kill it. If there’s a hat already on your head, why in God’s name would you put another hat on top of it? The audience doesn’t like to see you wink.
(When I’m working with the great Marie Schley, the brilliant costumer for Transparent, to build a look for Maura, we often look at each other in the mirror and say, “Mmmm, hat?” And we keep looking for the right outfit.)
LESSON #2: OFF BOOK
Jack was adamant about this one: You must come to the first rehearsal off book—with your lines memorized. Besides being awfully arbitrary, this was the ’60s, the days of the Method and Stanislavski, Sanford Meisner this and Lee Strasberg that. Memorizing your lines was bush league, we thought, amateur stuff. Jack was leaving no room for “process,” we complained. This isn’t artistic! This is bullshit!
But the truth was, Jack’s shows were always better-honed and better-prepared. His actors luxuriated in preparedness, which gave them—me—confidence.
This very note came shining through when I was doing David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross on Broadway. The great William H. Macy, a Mamet veteran, when asked what one should expect he said, “Learn your lines before.”
David is the genius of geniuses and the friend of friends, and the peach of peaches. (I have to say that, because he once left a message calling me “cupcake,” so I must return the serve—hi, David.) But he can be a hard taskmaster when it comes to dialogue. He writes lines where “the” is sometimes just “th.” But it is all there in the line. His genius is that he puts subtext in the text, much like Shakespeare. No, exactly like Shakespeare. The action is in the text. Learn it and you’re on your way.
I love that phrase, “on your way.” The director Andrea Arnold says “On your way” instead of “Action.” Instead of “Cut,” she says “Thank you.” It’s gorgeous, I love it. What a world, that has directors like Andrea Arnold in it. Hi, Andrea.
This is what Jack knew, that forcing us to confront the text made us get ready in thought and character. We had begun the process. We weren’t waiting for his direction. We were co-creators. It wasn’t about learning the lines, it was about learning the part.
LESSON #3: THE KICKER
About two weeks into the four- or five-week rehearsal period, Jack would leave. Let me repeat: the director would leave. For a week.
We were blocked, which means we had all the stage movement learned, and were up on our feet. He’d say, “Okay, see you in a week. Start running it.” That’s it. No advice, no notes. Not even a wave at the door. We would rehearse with the stage manager while he was gone.
I’ve never seen any other director do this, but it worked extremely well for him. He believed in his cast, and he believed in the play, and he believed in his process.
When Jack walked away, he’d assembled the ingredients and started the cooking, just the way I make scrambled eggs. (You thought I forgot about the eggs, didn’t you?) By leaving us to it, he was allowing the actors the time and space for our performances to come to that flash point. In this brilliant way, his “lack of direction” was direction. He was telling us, “You’ve got this. You’re ready to go. Just let it come together.”
When he came back, the show was on its legs. It was strong and had a core and a heart and had indeed improved and even changed. He would re-embrace it and take it on home to the audience. The only reason we could do that is he gave us such confidence. He taught me to seek out other mentors in my life and career who would also give me confidence. I took that to heart. I would always seek out collaborators who gave me confidence.
CUT TO: Filming Season Three of Transparent. I was doing a tough scene, and I found myself flailing. I was working opposite Jenny O’Hara, who plays Maura’s sister, Bryna. She’s a brilliant actress, and in the scene her character is a couple of sheets to the wind, and suddenly I’m reminded of my mother, and it was throwing me. I was “getting a little on me,” as they say. The scene was hurting me. I was losing words, which I never do. Then the legendary and saintly Anjelica Huston took me aside and said, “You’re brilliant. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You can’t miss here.” And I was fine for the rest of the night of shooting. Anjelica had read that I was struggling with the subject matter and she stepped in and gave me my confidence back. She “got” me.
You have to work with people who give you confidence. You just do. Hi, Anjelica.
Oh, one more thing about Jack Cook, and this may be the ultimate lesson of all. In early 2011, nearly five decades after I’d been his student, I called him. I found his number in the San Francisco directory and decided to give it a shot. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello?”
It was Jack, a little raspier, a little lower in timbre, but it was Jack. We talked for about half an hour, remembering this, not remembering that. He told me his lovely partner, William Browder, was no longer alive.
Before we said good-bye, I said, “Jack, thank you. There are no adequate words, but you changed everything. Is there anything I can do for you?”
After a pause, he gave me this last lesson: “Call back.”
Jack Cook, the man who taught me freedom and confidence, died a few weeks later. He was eighty-nine years old. His obituary in the San Francisco Chronicle noted, “He is survived by dozens of talented and successful students.”
Good-bye, Jack Cook. Thank you.
