Ernie: The Autobiography by Ernest Borgnine Page B

tomorrow.”

    Unlike my first three films, this was a big deal. Based on a hot book and filled with names like Montgomery Clift, Burt Lancaster, Deborah Kerr, Donna Reed, and of course, Mr. Sinatra. I was excited and, for the first time in a while, I was terrified.
    This was the major leagues.
    I got a place near Columbia Studio, a hotel that catered to struggling actors. When I reported to the studio the first thing I was told was to get a haircut. There was a barbershop around the corner, so I went and got a crew cut and came back.
    “No, no, no,” Zinnemann said. “Much shorter, much shorter.”
    I got a total of nine haircuts that day until Zinnemann finally approved.
    Mind you, I had very little money at the time, so I went over to the first assistant director and said, “Who do I see about getting paid back for my nine haircuts?”
    He said, “No one. You did that on your own.”
    I said, “No, I did it for the studio.”
    “Then you should have gone to the makeup department and had them do it,” he said.
    You live and learn. But years later, when I went back to Columbia for my first starring role in Man on a String , they asked how much I wanted for the film. I named my fee, then added, “That, plus the price of nine haircuts.”
    They said, “What?”
    When I told them the story, they laughed. And Columbia finally paid for my haircuts.
    Even before the cameras rolled, it was like being back in the navy. I don’t just mean the short haircut. Producer Buddy Adler had to give final approval of how I looked. He wanted the movie to be true to life and true to the Jones novel. I stood outside the door with Henry Helf-man, the gentleman who had dressed me.
    As we waited, Henry looked at me kind of funny.
    “Something wrong?” I asked. I was anxious enough and didn’t need him fretting beside me.
    He said, “It just doesn’t look right.”
    “What doesn’t?” I asked. “Can you be more specific?”
    “Your stomach’s too flat. Can you do something about that?”
    That was the first time anyone had ever said anything like “you’re not fat enough” to me! I said, “You mean like this?” and I pooched it out.
    His eyes opened wide. “My God, that’s perfect. Can you hold it?”
    I said, “Sure.”
    So we walked in. Buddy Adler took one look at me and said “Oh, my God, that’s my Fatso Judson!”
    I exhaled with relief. So did Henry. It was a great moment, and he and I are still buddies, fifty-five years later!
    That first day of work I was sweating bullets—more than they fired during the course of the movie. Everyone was there. All the stars came that day to see the commencement of the picture. I was in full costume and was introduced as the guy playing Fatso Judson. They stared at me a couple of seconds before saying anything. Everyone had a lot riding on the success of this picture. Expectations for a world-class film and a big hit were high. If it flopped, all the big names would be splashed with mud. Burt’s look was especially analytical. That was the way he was; the man studied everything in every movie he ever made. I’ll talk more about him a little later. Finally, the ladies kissed me and the men shook my hand. They all seemed to approve.
    I had rehearsed some with Frank, but I was scared stiff. It was a scene in the New Congress Club, a brothel in the novel but a kind of USO hangout in the film. I started playing the piano—faking it, as they’d taught me—when Sinatra’s character looked up from the girl he was dancing with and said, “Why don’t you knock it off, buddy, and put a mute in that thing?”
    I stood up from the piano stool and turned to face him. The way the set was constructed, Sinatra was down in a sort of pit to make me look a little larger. As I stood up he said, “Jesus Christ, he looks ten feet tall!”
    Everybody broke up, including me. We did the scene a few times until the director had what he wanted, but let me tell you—I swore allegiance and