Arnold Schwarzenegger - Total Recall - My Unbelievably True Life Story

The crowd was a fantastic medley of writers, socialites, hipsters, entertainers, executives, critics, artists, fashion models, and bodybuilding fans—including Andy Warhol; Diana Vreeland; actresses Carroll Baker, Sylvia Miles, and Shelley Winters; actor Tony Perkins and his wife, fashion photographer Berry Berenson; writer Tom Wolfe; the model Apollonia van Ravenstein; porn star Harry Reems; and half the cast of Saturday Night Live . James Taylor came with his wife, Carly Simon, who was pregnant. She flexed a biceps for the cameras and told a reporter that her hit song “You’re So Vain” wasn’t about a bodybuilder.

The bodybuilders themselves made a dramatic entrance. While everybody was milling around in the lobby sipping white wine, in swept six of the giants from the film, including Franco, Lou Ferrigno, and Robby “the Black Prince” Robinson, who was decked out in a black velvet cape and wearing a diamond earring.

Pumping Iron was finally doing what we’d hoped: bringing bodybuilding into the mainstream. I’d been interviewed in the media all week. And lots of good reviews showed that the critics were getting the message. “This deceptively simple, intelligent movie humanizes a world that has its own cockeyed heroism,” wrote Newsweek , while Time called the movie “beautifully shot and edited, intelligently structured and—to risk what will surely seem at first a highly inappropriate term—charming. Yes, charming.”

The audience at the Plaza liked the movie too, applauding wildly at the end. They stayed in their seats for the bodybuilding demonstration that followed. My main job for the night was to be the emcee. We led off with Franco’s strongman routine, which included bending a steel bar with his teeth and blowing up a rubber hot-water bottle with his lungs. Just before the hot-water bottle exploded, you could see people in the front rows covering their ears. Then the other bodybuilders joined Franco onstage and demonstrated poses as I narrated. At the end, actress Carroll Baker in a slinky dress ran up onstage and started feeling everyone’s triceps, pectorals, and thighs before pretending to faint with ecstasy right into my arms.

My new tuxedo had its second major outing two weeks later at the Golden Globes. The ceremony was at the Beverly Hilton hotel, and again my mom was my date. She spoke only a few words of English and could barely understand what was being said unless I translated. But the hoopla in New York had amused her, and when the photographers yelled, “Pose with your mother!” she grinned and let me give her a big hug. She was impressed that the studio sent a limo to bring us to the Golden Globes. She was really excited about seeing Sophia Loren.

A lot of stars showed up for the Golden Globes because it was less stuffy and more fun than the Oscars. I spotted actors Peter Falk, Henry Fonda, and Jimmy Stewart over near the bar. Actresses Carol Burnett, Cybill Shepherd, and Deborah Kerr were there. I traded jokes with Shelley Winters and flirted with the gorgeous Raquel Welch. Henry Winkler came over to say nice things about Stay Hungry , and I explained to my mom in German that he was the Fonz, star of a big TV sitcom called Happy Days . When we sat down to dinner, I spotted Dino De Laurentiis with Jessica Lange. She was the sexy leading lady in King Kong , which Dino had produced, and was up for the best debut by an actress award. Dino took no notice of me.

Also sitting near us was Sylvester Stallone, whom I knew a little bit because Larry Kubik was his agent too. His movie Rocky was the blockbuster of the year—at the box office, it had blown away all the other hits that were up for awards, including Network, All the President’s Men, and A Star Is Born —and was nominated for Best Film. I congratulated him, and he told me enthusiastically that he was writing a new movie about wrestlers and that there might be a part for me.

After dinner Harry Belafonte, who was emceeing, came onstage. I felt my competition calmness come over me—here, like in bodybuilding, I knew I could relax because I’d done everything in my power to win. When my category came and I won, Sylvester Stallone led the applause. Then Rocky won, and he went nuts, kissing every woman he could reach on his way to the stage.

It was an incredible feeling to get my first award for acting. Winning the Golden Globe confirmed for me that I wasn’t crazy; I was on the right track.

I was spending almost as much time in Manhattan as in LA. For me, New York was like a candy store. Hanging out with all of these fascinating characters was so much fun. I was proud and happy to be accepted, and I felt lucky to have the kind of personality that put people at ease. They didn’t feel threatened by my body. Instead, they wanted to reach out to me, help me, and understand what I was trying to do.

Elaine Kaufman, the owner of Elaine’s, was known for being tough and difficult, but she was a sweetheart to me. She made herself my mother on the New York scene. Every time I came in, she would escort me from table to table and introduce me—we’d go to director Robert Altman’s table, and then Woody Allen’s table, and then Francis Ford Coppola’s table, and then Al Pacino’s table. “You guys have got to meet this young man,” she’d say. “Arnold, why don’t I pull out a chair for you, sit down here, let me get you some salad or something.” Sometimes I felt extremely uncomfortable, because she’d have interrupted their conversation, and maybe I wasn’t even welcome. But there I was.

I made some dopey mistakes—like telling the great ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev that he shouldn’t lose touch with his home country and he ought to go back and visit, not realizing that he’d defected from Russia in 1961. But Elaine’s regulars were usually curious and friendly. Coppola asked a lot of questions about the bodybuilding scene. Andy Warhol wanted to intellectualize it and write about what it meant: How can you look like a piece of art? How can you be the sculptor of your own body? I connected with Nureyev because we were each having our portrait painted by Jamie Wyeth, a well-known artist in his own right and the son of the famous painter Andrew Wyeth. Sometimes Nureyev would invite Jamie and me to join him at Elaine’s. He’d sweep in late at night, after one of his performances, wearing an extraordinary fur coat with a big collar and a flowing scarf. He was not tall, but he commanded the room with his attitude. He was the king. You saw it in the way he walked, the way he took off the coat, with every movement striking and perfect. Just like onstage. At least it seemed that way to me: in the presence of someone like that, your imagination takes over, and they become bigger than life. He was a sweet guy to talk to, and he told me about his love for America and the New York scene. Still, I was in awe. Being the top ballet dancer was different from being the top bodybuilder. I could be Mr. Olympia for four thousand years and never be as big as Nureyev. He was on a different plane, like Woody Allen, who could show up for a black-tie event wearing a tux and white tennis shoes, and nobody would object. It was his way of saying “Fuck you. The invitation said black tie, so I wore the black tie, but I also came as Woody Allen, on my feet.” I admired the audacity that he and Nureyev shared.

As for downtown, the Greenwich Village restaurant One Fifth was a great spot. Late on Saturday nights, following Saturday Night Live , that was where cast members John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, and Laraine Newman would hang out. Often I’d watch them perform the show at NBC Studios in Rockefeller Plaza, and then meet them down at One Fifth—after which we’d all head back uptown to Elaine’s.