I had been staying with my parents in L.A., shooting The Graduate, but my father was driving me crazy. Every day, I'd get home from the set, and he'd grill me, wanting to know every detail. He'd be very critical: Why did you do that? That's not the way to do it. I lasted maybe five days, and then I couldn't take it anymore. I was trapped in the house where I'd grown up, totally alienated by the previous generation, just like my character. So I'd moved to the hotel where the cast and crew were staying. Out by the pool, it was like a cabana party on Mount Olympus: the people looked like golden gods among the palm trees. I felt immediately uncomfortable, unworthy. Here I was, playing a starring role in a movie by Mike Nichols, who was the director of the moment, but I felt like I had no right to be there. The shoot went on for months. Mike was in no rush; he had all the time and money he wanted. But I never went down to the pool again. It was impossible to be unimpressed by Mike, though. His first film, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, had just been nominated for thirteen Academy Awards, including Best Directing and Best Picture. I'd enjoyed his version of Barefoot in the Park on Broadway, and I loved the comedy routines he'd done with Elaine May. Still--me, playing a six-foot gentile? I had to draw the line somewhere.
I had to learn ten pages in less than forty-eight hours. I stayed up the entire night running lines; by the time I landed in Los Angeles, I hadn't slept in two days. Mike's office was a series of palatial rooms with high ceilings, and in my memory it included a bar, which is where I first saw him. "Oh, hi, would you like a drink?" he said. He was always so casual, almost seductive. Then they brought in Katharine Ross, who was outrageously beautiful. I felt foolish, like I had to apologize to her for looking like I did. They took us to get our makeup done in a long room with rows of upholstered chairs.
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