Earlier this week, to commemorate his 90th birthday, I dug up a reminiscence I had written about Ernest Borgnine, crafted shortly after we had worked together on a film called, The Kiss of Debt. Therein, I am happy to report, you will find the secret to the venerable character actor's remarkable longevity:
"Can I help you ma'am?," he asks.
A confused little old lady, the very stereotype: hunched back, black dress, and yes, the churchgoer's hat. "I'm looking for a taxi."
He takes hold of her, walks her into the middle of the street, lifts an arm the size of an oak stump and flags a coming cab. Fitting her gently into the back seat, he purrs, "There you go." "Oh thank you, young man", she whispers creakily. "My pleasure." Off she goes, never realizing that the "young man" who so ably assisted her is older than she - not to mention the star of some 50 plus films.
"What a guy", we, the supporting actors, say. "Okay, fellas", he orders, "Back to work."
The film is 'Kiss of Debt', an indie being lensed in Ottawa, Canada. "It's a darn good little comedy," he tells a visiting reporter, then breaks out into that patented gap-toothed grin. No mistaking who this happy hulk is now; it's the face Marty wore after discovering he could be lovable.
"Borginini is the family name," he explains, as the conversation veers to his Italian ancestry. "My mother was a Countess...did you know that?", he asks, still wide-eyed over the fact. "No," says the reporter, "but does that make you anything?" "Sure!", he mock-boasts, "A Count of no account!" And then the laugh, that slow, guttural staccato that has connoted, through enough films for a two-month retrospective, both unbridled happiness the purest evil.
Later that afternoon, the owner of the classiest video store in town drops by with a shopping bag of stills and a ballpoint. Ernie gratefully signs each item, stopping dramatically when presented with an 8 by 10 from The Wild Bunch. A tear - tough guy Borgnine, crying? - comes to his eye. "A great gang of guys", he laments. "Robert Ryan, he was going blind at that time. And Sam," Peckinpah, the film's volatile director, "don't believe a word of what you hear. He was a total sweetheart." Ernie signs the picture, and in handing it back, loses his buddies, once again, to the nebula from which his many qualities continue to keep him: his limitless energy, his love of people, his ability to keep active.
As the shoot goes into its umpteenth day, Ernie extends himself again. He hauls lights - yes, a star, and 85 at that, hauling lights! - chums with the investors, and leaves us, his scenes at last completed, with words to live by:
"I was walking through New York City one day, I was broke, and I saw a sign that this guy had. He was selling chestnuts. That sign became my life's philosophy. It said, 'I don't want to set the world on fire - I just want to keep my nuts warm.' Keep 'em warm, fellas. Keep workin'."
