By Adam Friedland

For this month’s issue, I was asked to write a profile on the late actor Gene Wilder, who died last month at 83. I was particularly excited about this assignment because Wilder was a fixture of a number of films I loved as a child growing up in Las Vegas (Blazing Saddles, The Producers, Young Frankenstein, etc). When I sat down to write this piece, I tossed around a couple of concepts in my mind, but none of them seemed to honor Gene’s je ne sais quoi properly. For instance, it would be easy to prepare a biography where I rattle off his many accomplishments, but one could easily go to Wikipedia for the same information.

One of my favorite (non-Wilder) films is Louis Malle’s “My Dinner with Andre,” a picture that centers around a conversation between actors Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory. In the course of their tete-a-tete, they talk about their lives, art and the human condition. So, in the spirit of “My Dinner with Andre,” what follows is an imagined conversation between Gene Wilder and a fictional friend. Many of Wilder’s words have been taken from interviews he gave between 2001 and 2013.

Interior: French Restaurant, Night

I stood at the bar fidgeting with my tie. This wasn’t my kind of joint, and I was honestly surprised that Gene had asked me to dinner here; his tastes used to be rather ascetic. It had been 10 years since Gene unofficially retired from acting, and it had been nearly 15 since we last crossed paths. I understood from friends that he had published a memoir about his childhood and his life with (the late Saturday Night Live actress) Gilda (Radner), and that he was now spending his time writing novels and painting watercolors at home in Connecticut. All of this was, of course, second- and third-hand information accrued from mutual acquaintances and press clippings.

We first met in the early ‘60s in New York. He was a young actor from Milwaukee and I was a playwright/director. We began collaborating on plays in the city’s avant-garde theater scene and quickly formed a close friendship. By 1968, Gene had landed his first starring role in The Producers, with Zero Mostel, and the rest is history: Wonka, Blazing Saddles, the films with Richard Pryor. We maintained regular monthly dinners for years, but after a while it became more and more difficult to keep them up.

I spotted Gene’s grayish-red mop from across the room.

Wow, you look terrific!

Well, I feel terrible.

[We settle into our seats. After a pregnant pause I break the silence.]

So, tell me: You miss making films?

Right now I like writing books. Sometimes I miss acting, but I wouldn’t say I miss show business.

I’m sure people come up to you all the time and ask you whether you’ll make another film.

Everyone sees me and thinks, ‘what a comic, what a funny guy!’ And, really, I’m not, except when I’m in comedies, in films. I make my wife laugh once or twice around the house. … but I’m nothing special. I don’t think I’m funny.

So that’s it?

I still get scripts sent to me and it’s all loud explosions and bad language. If you say ‘fuck’ in a script it should mean something. Everything I see nowadays is just ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck you’ and it does nothing to advance the plot. I don’t think I’m a prude. I wrote Springtime for Hitler for crying out loud. Most of these films seem too gimmicky, too goofy.

That’s interesting because I remember how the performances in many of your films seemed to be rather straightforward, even if the conceit was rather absurd. It was almost as if you were playing most of your most famous comedic roles straight.

I truly believe the more real you play a comedy, the funnier it will be. My character Leo Bloom in The Producers was meek and insecure. But you could’ve been describing me as well. I was a very shy person in those days. And working with Zero Mostel, who was bigger than life, helped me grow. Zero was a strong influence on me.

I thought of you a few months backs when I visited my grandchildren in Arizona. We watched Willy Wonka together. I hadn’t seen the film in years, and I was particularly struck by its dark undercurrent. Even as an adult I found the film, particularly the psychedelic tunnel scene on the boats, incredibly menacing at certain points.

How about your grandchildren? Were they afraid?

Well, if they were they didn’t say anything.

People often forget that Willy Wonka was a huge commercial failure at the time. When the film came out, the kids weren’t scared; it was their mothers who were scared. When children watch that film they can usually figure out that it’s essentially a morality play.

Kids are smarter than we give them credit for, I suppose.

That isn’t to say childhood isn’t a scary thing. I remember when I was a little boy I was scared to death of the Frankenstein movies. So when I wrote Young Frankenstein, I wanted it to come out with a Frankenstein story that had a happy ending. And I think it was my childhood fears from when I was 8 and 9 and 10 years old that made me want to write that story.

Speaking of Young Frankenstein, how is Mel (Brooks, the director)? Do you stay in touch?

I telephone him sometimes. He still sees Carl Reiner every day! Every day, they watch films and eat and complain. They’re just two 90-year-old yids from Brooklyn sitting in a mansion in Bel Air complaining. It’s remarkable really.

I guess we’re doing a similar version of that at the moment.

I suppose, except I’m from Wisconsin. There’s a real difference in my opinion. I’m a Midwest Jew. I also hate myself, but I have enough restraint to keep myself from letting everyone in the room know that I hate myself. We bury our self-loathing deep down, and then one day it comes out as cancer or a heart attack.

I suppose it’s two sides of the same coin.

[Gene affects a Yiddish accent.]

Coins? Vhere? Did someone say coins? You know vhen I vos a boy ve had no coins! Only dirt, and misery!

[We laugh.]

Do you ever think about what’s waiting for us on the other side?

That question doesn’t really concern me. I remember being astonished when I first met Zero Mostel; he wasn’t afraid of authority in any form, and that’s the part that influenced me the most. He would tell anyone anything, not to be impolite, but he’d show that he wasn’t at all afraid of however much money that person had or whatever title they had. It didn’t scare him. Mel was very much the same way. So, that’s the attitude I’ll try and take with me to whatever comes next. I’ve had a very good life and a very good career. I have no regrets.

[Excerpts were taken from Gene Wilder’s interviews with Terry Gross in 2005 and at the 92nd Street Y in 2013.]