Halmi Robert - American dreamer: my story of survival, adventure, and success

On my sixteenth birthday my mother took me to the operaopening night of a new production of The Tales of Hoffmannand I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember sitting in the taxi as it pulled up in front of the magnificent Hungarian State Opera House in Budapest, when my mother, leaning in close, making sure the driver couldnt hear, whispered in my ear:

Bobi. Tonight dont tell anyone youre my son.

I can still see the Myrna Loy twinkle in her eye, catch the smell of her expensive French perfumea touch of lavenderalways the best for my mom. I also remember the little thrill that went through methe thrill of being invited to join her masquerade, to enter into this conspiracy of two. Far from being confused or disturbed by her surprise request, I was intriguedfound myself breathing more sophisticated air. I had been liberated, though I had no clue from what. My mother had brought me to the opera and ushered me into adulthoodor at least had brought me to the starting gate.

My mothers reasons for denying her maternity that night were far more complicated than I could make sense of thenor now, for that matter. That doesnt mean I dont understand it. For while I was turning sixteen, my mother was on the verge of turning fortya twice-married woman who, though still capable of a Myrna Loy wink and smile, had seen the sharp Myrna Loy twists and curves she had possessed in her twenties start to soften and fade.

Six years before, on the occasion of her second marriageI was ten at the timemy mother had sent me off to live with my father. For her, to be freed suddenly from the everyday appearance of motherhood had been a chance to regain a purchase on her youth. Now, six years later, to thrust a sixteen-year-old son into the picture would have been like hurling a grenade into a carefully crafted house of glass. After all, she was an actress who became a playwright, and as far as she was concerned, the line All the worlds a stage was not a metaphorit was a way of life. And on her stage, at her stage in life, there was simply no room or role for a sixteen-year-old son.

As for me, on that night at the opera, my mothers whisper in the backseat of the taxi took me aback. It stunned me and frightened me but also excited me. It raised a question that could in itself cause an opera to break out: If Im not my mothers son, then who the hell am I?

The way I saw it, if she could be whomever she wanted to be, well then, so could I. Whether by intention or by accident, she had planted the seed of an idea in my sixteen-year-old brain that night: I was not bound by my past in creating my future. I could write my own story and my own ticket. Granted, it took a while for me to figure that out. In fact, its a lesson Ive never stopped learning. But the notion of inventingand reinventingmyself has served me well throughout my life. Im a fish that has to keep moving to breathe. I guess I am my mothers son after all.

And my fathers too. But theres a reason I choose to start my memoir in this place, in the shadow of Mozart, Verdi, Puccini, and the rest. And that is this: Everything I need to know about life, I learned at the opera. The power of love, and the tragedy that sometimes goes with it. The power of laughter, and the danger behind it. The backstabbing, betrayal, and deception. The courage and sacrifice. The loudmouths and heaving breasts. I learned that death can come knocking at your door without warning, that romance and revenge are blood brothers, and that even the ugliest dwarf in the room can walk away with the prettiest girl on stage. I discovered that the most powerful tool on the planet is the human voice, and finally, that life is nothing if not a performance.

In 1924 in Hollywood, Metro Pictures, Goldwyn Pictures, and the Louis B. Mayer Company merged to form MGM. In Munich, Hitler went on trial for treason. In Washington, J. Edgar Hoover was appointed head of the FBI. And on January 22, in a fourth-story room of a five-story white stone house on the corner of Kecskemti Street and Kalvin Square, in one of the most storied districts in Budapesta lovely, labyrinthine neighborhood built atop the accumulated ruins of Celts, Romans, and Hunsone more Hungarian made his entrance on stage, crying his lungs out. I had arrived.

I doubt my birth created much of a stir, except, of course, in the lives of my mother and father. Sarah Deri, a twenty-four-year-old beauty with dark eyes and full lips, born in 1900 on Christmas Eve, pushed me out into the world that daysixteen years later she would push me a little farther out. And my photographer father, Bela (pronounced BAY-la) Halmi, with a high, intelligent forehead, aquiline nose, and fierce sense of honor and ambition, was born in 1892. While it was my mother who brought me into this world, it was my father who would set out to prepare me for it.

But what exactly was this world I had gotten myself into? What was this Hungary? For though I am American by choice, I am Hungarian by birth, and the country is in my blood, my bones, my DNA. You cant begin to know yourselfor anyone else for that matteruntil you know where youre from. Me, Im from this place where history is mytha country of storytellers and fabricators, consummate artists and con artists. My homeland is one of the greatest stories ever told, featuring assorted pagans, saints, sorceresses, sultans, beautiful maidens, beautiful maiden impregnating birds of prey, armies of the dead, armies of the soon-to-be-dead, emperors, kings, queens, princes, and pretenders to the throne, with a special flashback cameo appearance, in the fifth century, by the one and only Attila the Hun.

But how did all this get started? Legend has it that twin brothers, Hunor and Magor, sons of the mighty hunter Nimrod and great-great-grandsons of Noah, set out one morning on a hunting trip in pursuit of an ethereal white stag. While Hunor and Magor never did find the stag, they did find a couple of lovely ladies, the daughters of Dula, King of Alans. Whether by the force of their charm or simply by force, the brothers carried the two maidens away and married them, the offspring of the two marriages producing the Huns and the Magyarsthe two sides of the Hungarian coin.

Typical Hungarians. They go off in search of one thing and end up finding something completely different that, for better or worse, turns their lives upside down. Serendipity. It has certainly played a role in my lifeand my career. And Ive always been a hunter, but Ive never let predetermined goals get in the way of landing bigger game.

The Huns and Magyars have rolled merrily along throughout Hungarys long, violent, volatile, and visionary history. Stephen I, crowned Hungarys first Christian king on the first day of the year 1001, is revered as the kindhearted and benevolent creator of the nation. Thirty years later, in 1031, in a struggle for the throne, Stephen had his nephew blinded and molten lead poured into his ears. Welcome to the family. Welcome to Hungary.

Hungary has always been a land of paradox, beset by a multiple personality disorderinvaded by the Turks, dominated by the Germans, used and abused by the Russians, admired by the British, disrespected by the French, and ultimately ignored by them all. It is a nation that has won many great victories in battlebut has not won a single war. In every war of significance, Hungarys greatest enemy has always been itself. In the lost war of revolution of 1848, one Hungarian aristocrat put it this way: The King of Hungary had declared war on the King of Croatia while the Emperor of Austria remained neutral, and these three monarchs were one and the same person.

This thousand-year-long reign of confusion begs the question: Who are we Hungarians really? The bloodthirsty, human-flesh-eating Huns of lore? Or the cultured, music-loving saviors of Western civilization? Turns out, were a bit of both. And so am I. I love music, but Ive had my moments of bloodthirst as well. Otherwise I never would have made a single movie. Not a good one, anyway. Creativity is a very destructive thing. To create something new and different, you have to both love civilization and be willing to rip it apart. You cant build a road through rock without dynamite and a bulldozer, and if you want to make a good movie, bring some charm, bring some money... and bring some dynamite and a bulldozer.