Lawrence Grobel - Al Pacino

I met Larry Grobel in 1979. I was, of course, mistrustful of him since he was a journalist who came to interview me and, at that time, I had never done an interview. I have since come to know him very well. Weve shared many things over this period: successes, failures, encounters with situations both wonderful and unthinkable. Our friendship has survived it all. And for that I am very grateful.

I had not yet said yes to our first interview, but when I read his interview with Marlon Brando on Brandos island in Tahiti, I was impressed. Knowing Marlon as I did, if he liked Larry, if he could speak to him so openly, I felt that I could too. Larry walked into my apartment, which was in shambles. I offered him my half-eaten doughnut. He enjoyed it. We sat down to talk. And what was remarkable about Larry was, at the end of the interview, I knew more about him than he knew about me. I have learned to appreciate his manner, his style, over the years. Some of which is shocking. But you accept it because its Larry. He persists but never with guile. He has a genuine interest in people, which is why hes such a good writer. He has taken an interest in me for some reason.

Still, Im trying to figure out why its so easy to talk to him, to confide in him. Thats his talent, I guess.

Larry and I know each other very well (as well as anyone knows anybody). We have forgiven each other many times. I have forgiven him for writing this book. I hope he forgives me for writing this foreword.

Al Pacino

Twenty-seven years ago I received a phone call from my editor at Playboy , saying that Al Pacino had finally agreed to sit for an interview and was I interested? Of course, I said. What journalist wouldnt be? But there was a catch. I had to fly to New York the next day and meet with him the day after that. I said there was no way I could get ready on such short notice. You dont understand, my editor said, he said he would only do this with the guy who did Brando.

Pacino had read the interview I had done with Marlon Brando that had appeared in Playboy s 25th Anniversary issue that month and, apparently, felt that if I was good enough for Brando, then Id be the right match for him. So I flew to New York and didnt return home for nearly a month.

Before we met, I had an image in my mind: Michael Corleone, of course. Don Corleones son. The second Godfather. Cold as ice. Someone who could take a gun hidden behind a toilet in a restaurant bathroom and shoot a bullet through the forehead of a corrupt cop. Someone who could tell his wife, Kay, hed never lie to her, lying to her as he said it. Someone who could give the kiss of death to his older brother Fredo. The other image I had was of Sonny Wortzik, the inept sexually confused Brooklyn bank robber who was brazen enough to pace the sidewalk shouting Attica! Attica! Attica! in front of locked-and-loaded cops, TV cameras, and a cheering crowd. These were the guys I was about to interrogate: the cold, calculating mob boss and the wild romantic bank robber with a perverse sense of justice.

The man who answered the door to his brownstone apartment on Sixty-eighth Street between Madison and Fifth Avenue was nothing like either of the men I imagined. Of course, he had those men in him, but it would take years for me to meet them. My first impression of Al Pacino was that he was a somewhat shy and wary actor who happened to be burdened by also being a movie star. His lifestyle brought to mind a line from Hamlet : I could be bound in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space. His three-room apartment consisted of a small kitchen with worn appliances, a bedroom dominated by an unmade bed, a bathroom whose toilet was constantly running, and a living room that was furnished like a set for a way-off-off-Broadway production of some down-and-out city dweller. I knew poor people who lived in more luxury than that. Which made me instantly like this man, whose material needs were obviously slight. All around the living room were dog-eared paperback copies of Shakespeares plays, and stacks of scripts, including one that Costa-Gavras had recently given him based on Andr Malrauxs Mans Fate .

Between the apartment, his trailer on the set of Cruising , and a few restaurants, we talked every day, often into the early hours of the morning. For an hour or two he would sit or lie on the couch, then jump up and go into the kitchen to light a cigarette from the stove, check the time, walk around a bit. One night I smelled something burning, and we ran into the kitchen to see a pot holder in flames on the stove. Pacino picked up the teakettle and calmly, as if such things happened all the time, put out the fire. On another night I arrived to find him downstairs in the hall, picking up the pieces of a broken Perrier bottle that he had dropped on his way to the elevator. People wouldnt believe I do this, but I do, he said.