Brando and I Will Always Have Ralph's
by Maggie Van Ostrand
"Marlon, My Love, My Suffering," just released in Paris this week, is the title of yet another tell-all book by one of Brando's ex-wives, Tarita Teriipaia of Tetiaroa, the South Seas island he bought after filming "Mutiny on the Bounty." Tarita's book depicts Brando as a controlling tyrant who could be both tender and merciless. He certainly wasn't that way with me.
In the days when Brando's acting reputation was high and his weight was low, I considered myself as one of his women, whether he knew it or not. I didn't care that he roomed with another actor named Wally Cox. That was only because he hadn't met me yet. In fact, we didn't meet for another 20 years and when we did, it wasn't at a Hollywood party or anything so distinguished. It was in a supermarket parking lot.
"Quit following me around. It's getting embarrassing," I said to Brando, tilting my nose into the air.
I spoke those bizarre words to him, I don't know why, while pushing my grocery cart past his parked SUV in Ralph's parking lot. He was sitting in the driver's seat, window down. I took out a compact while pushing the cart toward my own car, and saw the reflection of his fabulous face grinning ear to ear. Then I heard his explosion of laughter. I'd gotten a rise out of him, figuratively speaking, which was better than no rise at all.
Maintaining total composure as I unloaded groceries into the trunk, I didn't lose my mind until the moment I got home and long-distanced my old college girlfriend back in New York.
"It was him! It was him!" I shrieked into the phone.
"Who?" she asked, already sounding excited at the prospect of which movie star had been spotted that day.
"Brando!! Brando!!" I screamed.
"OMiGod," she replied, "You finally got him!"
She was referring to my first week in Los Angeles when I was very young and could get a location on any movie star, just like today's teenagers can find out at which hotel their rapper idols are staying long before even their managers know. It's a kid thing.
I had met somebody who knew somebody who had Brando's phone number. Was it legit? That remained to be heard.
I phoned the number and, when a man answered, I said "Bud?" using Brando's nickname. How cool, how suave. I remained poised until the voice, which was his, mumbled, "Who wants him?" Struck dumb with awe, suddenly weak in the knees, and faint in the head, I immediately hung up. Not so cool now, and not so suave. And I'd been trying to meet him ever since.
As a student back in New York, I had not only seen him on Broadway, but once spied him lurking around the subway exit, watching people come home from work. I later learned he observed strangers' reactions, and used them in his method acting.
He was a major celebrity, easily recognizable, though exiting strap hangers doubted it could really be him. After all, what would a big star like Marlon Brando be doing by the subway stairs? After seeing their reactions, Brando grinned that incredible grin, dispelling any doubts about his identity. By the time people recovered, he'd vanished into the crowd. He would later use their reactions in his acting.
Brando was Elvis and the Beatles combined. Whether he played a shirt-tearing Adonis or a weight-bearing godfather, he marked the coming of age of a generation. He was so manly, he sweated diesel fuel.
It's a tribute to latent maturity that, by the second sighting, I could at least speak, however bizarre the statement.
I didn't see Brando again until two years ago. I was driving along Mulholland past the driveway to his house, the same driveway that also goes to Jack Nicholson's, when a silver Mercedes pulled out, bearing a large silhouette in the back seat. Was it Brando? Suddenly, the silhouette leaned forward, face to the window. It was him. He looked right at me. Then he grinned, and the weight seemed to disappear. He was beautiful again.
So what if Big Bug Man was his final movie and he played an old woman named Mrs. Sour? I got to see him when he was Stanley Kowalski and make him laugh when he was Terry Malloy.
Bogart and Bergman will always have Paris, and Brando and I? We'll always have Ralph's.
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