"He's working class and just plain class," is how I explained him to reporters that summer of 2000, when he was just a young buck of 84.
This week, the man is 91, and if his recent guest stint on Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip is any indication, he is as focused, professional, and lively as that mix of collars - the blue and the white - that I worked with that summer.
The film was A Taste of Jupiter, an ensemble comedy-drama I had written in the manner of Moonstruck. Eli was Arturo, the beleaguered ring maker of Ottawa's corso d'Italia - yes, he was playing another Italian, a precedent that began with his Broadway triumph in The Rose Tattoo and was still manifesting itself through films like Godfather 3.
The day before his first scene, I was invited to meet him at his hotel room. After a quick discussion about wardrobe, he gently insisted that I read with him - a rare offer for a writer. Afterwards, Eli - he forbade anyone to call him Mr. Wallach - informed me that my writing reminded him of someone else's: Anton Chekov's (!) and suggested that I re-read the Russian playwright's short fiction.
The next day, in a jewelry shop just off the air-conditioned trailer he chastised us for procuring for him, Eli proved unpretentious, hard working, and extremely social. He waxed humorously with those both "above" and "below the line", as they say in the film business, about such noted figures as Groucho Marx, Tennessee Williams, Maureen Stapleton, John Huston, Zero Mostel and the countless others with whom he had rubbed shoulders. The next day was the anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death. In her honor, he recreated a night during the filming of The Misfits, where he danced innocently with Marilyn while the jealous figures of Frank Sinatra and Milton Berle glared on.
More than once, he mentioned that he was toying with collecting these reminiscences in a book, to be titled, "In My Anecdotage" (the man loved a good - okay, make it a bad - line.)
There was something else that he liked to collect: vintage timepieces. Between breaks, Eli would spend his time at Ottawa's many antique shops, inquiring in that famous raspy voice about watches and clocks from various periods.
A few days later, he was wrapped and ready to return to New York - but not before accommodating us with photographs. Just before the shutter snapped on our mutual portrait, Eli cheekily placed his head upon my shoulder, puppy dog style. It's an image that hangs not far from where I'm typing this article, and as I look up at it again for the umpteenth time, I am again filled with thanks for having met the man.
Happy 91st, Eli. Make your clock never stop ticking.
