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Diary - Steven Berkoff
Published 15 April 2002
I tried to visit the 9/11 site, but the queues were too long and, anyway, I've written a memorial poem about it
Just got back from New York, which, as everybody tells you, is full of energy. This is usually followed by the "but I wouldn't want to live there" mantra. You can see why. In my hotel's square, Gramercy Park, one can see dog-walkers standing by their mutts waiting for them to defecate on the pavement. In the UK, you might just tug your dog into the kerb at least, but here the dog seems an extension of the owner and is, if you like, shitting by proxy. It's a statement: an "up yours" from owner to the world. The owner then scoops up the mess, leaving the inevitable brush strokes on the pavement. Dogs seem to have replaced shrinks as the New Yorker's only means of communication - on a serious level, that is . . .
Try getting a New York taxi after you've grown used to our black cabs. It is a mini nightmare. As you enter, some badly amplified celebrity voice screeches at you to "buckle up", usually followed by a tap dance from the Rockettes. I asked a driver if anybody ever buckled up, and he replied: "No one, or maybe one in a hundred . . ." Actually, I'm not even sure what the words were, because they were blurred by the bulletproof screens.
If you live to eat, then this is your place. It seems every other building contains an eatery, deli, grocery, salad bar, coffee bar, sushi bar or bagel bar, and merely to navigate your way down an avenue without stopping is an achievement in itself. The cafes seem always to be packed, since eating here is the culture - eating and yapping. My hotel seems to attract morning meetings of businesswomen whose voices carry across the dining room like shrieking maenads. American women are full of opinions, which they share with you generously, even though you're sitting at a table 50 feet away. It's usually about money, real estate or relationships, or problems with money and real estate or relationships.
New York often wakes up to a blue, sharp sky, which fills you with a kind of optimism - and so you stride out in the morning with purpose, even if you have nowhere to go except to stride. But a good place to chill out is the Russian Baths on Second Avenue and 10th, where you can sweat it out with Hassidic Jews, ex-karate champions from Russia and other assorted "characters" - and then, afterwards, flop in a nearby Polish deli for a bowl of kickass borscht.
My friend Henry Goodman is taking over in the biggest, hottest show in New York, The Producers. I went over to see him in his rented Central Park West apartment, before he set off for work with his little backpack and a bit of a winter sniffle. I remember Henry well from when I taught him at Rada. We also worked together in Kvetch (Evening Standard award for best comedy). Since then he has forged a unique path as an actor with immense physical skills.
I was in New York doing my show One Man, which received some great reviews, particularly from Clive Barnes, the doyen of New York critics in the New York Post. Being in Manhattan means you have the opportunity to meet some pros, and Kevin Kline came in one night. He is an actor I admire, of the American school, but who can play Shakespeare as well as any of the best British actors. We discussed the possibility of me directing him in Hamlet, a project dear to my heart.
The genius of American theatre, Julie Taymor (The Lion King), and the noted film director Harold Ramis (Analyze This) also came by, and we poured into the Time Cafe (where I ate after the show nearly every night for seven weeks, as they make the best margaritas in New York). Ramis's film has proved immensely successful and had a great role for Robert De Niro, who played a traumatised Mafia don. I pleaded with him to let me play a Brooklyn Mafia gangster. So he actually let me come in and put my "perf" on tape for De Niro to check out. So far no news on that front . . .
The best part of this city is the tabloids, which really carry some feisty journalists and are not afraid to voice controversial opinions. It's a relief to read matter that's not devoted to the British arse-licking worship of celebrity; and while the New York tabs have their couple of columns of mindless chaff, it hasn't slopped over on to every page, British-style. I like strong headlines. One such example was "Kosher Nostra in Queens". This was a report about Orthodox Jews putting the pressure on local Muslims to sell up their grocery stores. I'm not sure a British tabloid would get away with that kind of headline these days.
I tried to visit the 9/11 site, but the queues were too long and, anyway, I have written a long memorial poem called "Requiem for Ground Zero", which is my way of honouring the dead. I had the pages of the poem blown up into six-foot sheets and hung on the wall of the theatre foyer. I think the words curiously took on a greater power by being - so to speak - "amplified" . . . I am trying to memorise the "Requiem" but, being 110 verses, it has taken me quite some time.
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