Chapter 38
I’ve owned a pair of forty-foot bus motor homes—they’re called RVs now. The first one I didn’t like too well because the toilet seat was a little small for my big rump, so when I went up to Oregon on a shoot, I took my trailer. I figured someone up there could remodel it for me. I went to a place in Cottage Grove, Oregon, where they suggested that instead of spending a lot of money to fix it, I take a look at their RVs. So I went in one and the first thing I saw was all the leather inside. It was decorated in a western motif. That appealed to me. The second thing I noticed was the nice, big toilet just to sit on and enjoy. That’s what it’s all about.
I said, “How much?”
Long story short: I probably should have ripped out the toilet of my old bus. This one cost me. But they gave me a good trade-in and I had a new motor home.
As I was leaving, I spotted a man who was pacing up and down in the motor home lot. He looked like a decent sort so I pulled over and said, “What’s the matter?”
He said, “I’m waiting for my rig.”
I said, “Have you had lunch?”
He said, “No.”
I said, “Then let’s go.”
We had lunch, came back, and we’ve been buddies ever since. His name is Hugo Hansen and since then we’ve gone from coast to coast and up and down and across into Canada. We even went to Alaska together. It’s a magnificent way to see our great country.
One day in 1997, a filmmaker from Washington, D.C., named Jeff Krulik called and said, “Listen, I’d like to do a documentary on you.”
At first I wasn’t interested, but the fellow kept insisting.
Finally, I said, “Okay, come on, we’ll do it.”
My son Cris, Hugo, and I started out from Milwaukee after I had done one of the shows there for the Great Circus Parade. Jeff followed us for about three days. He taped me visiting here and there, stopping off for ice cream, and talking to people in towns as we passed through. We even got lost in a cornfield. People are still writing to me about the show called Ernest Borgnine: On the Bus. They thought it was a great way to see the U.S., and more important, they loved seeing it through my eyes, hearing me explain what I was seeing and feeling. We planned to do a whole series on my journeys, but it never panned out. It made my early eighties very exciting, I can tell you.
That same year I got a call from a very nice young man named Brad Hall, the producer of an NBC sitcom called The Single Guy. He asked if I’d come down to his office and say hello. When you’re an elder statesman in the business like I’ve become, you frequently get calls like that. Since you never know where they lead, I said sure. I took my publicity man, Harry Flynn, and we went to meet Brad Hall.
The receptionist said, “Well, what’s your name?”
I told her. She looked about twelve years old and obviously she had no idea who I was. So we waited and we waited. It must have been about a half hour and finally the girl said, “They’re busy, but they’ll be here right away.”
I finally said, “The hell with it, I won’t wait any longer.”
About an hour later I got a telephone call—it was Brad Hall, and he sounded very stressed out.
“Mr. Borgnine, you’ve got to forgive us, but we were so busy with something else and we just couldn’t get to you. But listen, you’ve got the part, don’t worry.”
I said, “Okay.”
I didn’t know I’d been there for a part, but that’s how it is now in Hollywood. When they say they want to “see” you or “meet” you, it means they want you for something other than to say hello.
They wanted me to play a doorman on The Single Guy, and I did.
The first time I reported in, everybody was a little bit in awe. Here I was, an Academy Award winner, playing a doorman. I showed them that no matter how good you were before, it’s how good are you now that counts. My feeling is, you don’t rest on your laurels, you keep going. You’re never too old to keep learning and honing your craft.
The Single Guy had wonderful young actors. The star was Jonathan Silverman, a very talented guy with a fine sense of comic timing. For some reason the network lost interest after forty episodes. But people who watched it still tell me how much they enjoyed it.
Another benefit from being an elder statesman is that people who grew up watching me in pictures like The Wild Bunch, The Poseidon Adventure, and Escape from New York are now in positions of power. They’re the young Turks running the show.
One day I got a call out of the blue.
“I wonder if we could use Mr. Borgnine’s voice in a feature-length cartoon called All Dogs Go to Heaven?”
I was very interested. I hadn’t done any animation voice-overs and I wanted to try.
I signed on and found a whole new legion of fans. I also discovered that doing voice-overs is almost like stealing money, to put it bluntly. You don’t have to memorize anything, there are no costumes or makeup, and usually it’s just you in a recording studio with the director. No temperamental costars, no fuss. It’s a great way to make a living.
The picture was a success and more recently I’ve got a steady gig playing Mermaid Man on SpongeBob SquarePants.
One day when I was in Washington, D.C., after I gave a speech at the Washington Press Club, I was asked to meet with a group of little Girl Scouts who had sent a lot of cookies and other things to the troops in Iraq. Would I mind taking a picture with them?
I walked over and someone was telling all these kids that I’m a famous movie star.
I asked them, “How many of you have seen my pictures?”
Nobody raised an arm. So I asked, “How many of you have heard of Mermaid Man on SpongeBob SquarePants?”
That was all it took. They couldn’t get enough pictures and autographs. It was wonderful.
Sometimes people walk up to me and say, “Your face is awfully familiar, but who are you?”
I tell them my name is Ernest Borgnine, and they say, “Yes, but who are you?”
I tell them. Big smiles usually follow, along with all kinds of compliments.
A generation ago, they would have known me as McHale. A generation before that, as Fatso Judson or Marty. Now it’s Mermaid Man on SpongeBob SquarePants that’s made me famous to a new generation, or playing myself in voice-over on The Simpsons.
Believe me, I’m not complaining.