More Than Zero: Jim Brochu on Channeling the Great Mostel in Zero Hour
About the author:
Playwright and actor Jim Brochu bears a remarkable resemblance to the late Zero Mostel, fondly remembered for his star turns in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum and Fiddler on the Roof. But beyond being a Zero lookalike, Brochu has always felt a deep connection with Mostel and even became friends with the actor, as well as other show biz greats of the era such as Ethel Merman, the subject of his award-winning musical The Big Voice: God or Merman. Now Brochu, whose extensive credits also include writing and directing the hit off-Broadway musical The Last Session, is honoring his idol with the one-man show Zero Hour. Broadway.com asked the star, winner of a 2010 Drama Desk Award for Solo Performance, to discuss the key to playing a Broadway legend and to tell us why Mostel’s outsize persona will always remain a part of his life.
Zero Mostel considered himself a painter who acted rather than an actor who painted. In July of 1977, the time period in which Zero Hour is set, Mostel left his art studio on West 28th Street and began rehearsals to star as Shylock in Arnold Wesker’s drama The Merchant. He would only play one performance in Philadelphia before his untimely death on September 8 at the age of 62. When I heard the news I thought back to the day I first met the larger-than-life star.
It was 1962. I was a sophomore in high school, enamored with the theater, longing to be an actor and lucky enough to have a mentor named David Burns. Davy was co-starring in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum with an actor I had never heard of, Zero Mostel. I was knocked out by the comedic force of nature that ruled over the stage of the Alvin Theatre that night. I wanted to meet him. Hell, I wanted to be him.
After the show, I made my way backstage to see Davy and literally ran into Mostel, who looked like he had just taken a shower in his costume—steamy and covered with sweat. I was attending military school and was dressed in my West Point-style uniform, which caught his attention. “You must be General Nuisance,” he roared. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to see Davy Burns,” I said.
“You never come to see me!” he snorted. “I will!” I said, as he brushed past me and disappeared across the stage. The next week I went back to see Zero…and every week after that.
I’ve been asked more than once, “How do you channel him in the show?” It’s like asking a fish, “How do you breathe under water?” I don’t know. It’s just natural. I had been compared to Zero since my first off-Broadway show in 1969. Jerry Tallmer in The New York Post wrote that I should play the lead in “The Zero Mostel Story.” He didn’t tell me I’d have to write it.
On the second night of Fiddler on the Roof, Stephen Schwartz and I flew to New York from Pittsburgh, where we were drama majors at Carnegie Tech. I sat in the first row of the Imperial Theatre and was dazzled by the uplifting, heartbreaking performance that unfolded just a few feet away from me. I knew from Forum that Zero was a master comedian, but I didn’t know until Fiddler that he was a towering dramatic actor. He waved to me at the bows and I felt as though I had been knighted.
A few years later, when I had become a professional actor, I ran into Zero on the street and asked him for an autographed picture. He screamed at me, “You’re not worthy!” and went on his way. I was shocked—yet not shocked—because his behavior was as outrageous offstage as on. A very fun character for an actor to play.
But he did accept an invitation to come see my off-Broadway debut in a show called Unfair to Goliath. The day after he attended, I found a manila envelope on my dressing table. Inside was an autographed picture of Zero signed, “To Jimmy, with my admiration…”
A few years ago, I looked at that picture and felt like Zero was commanding me to bring him back. But how? I didn’t want this play to be a “hat and cane” show. I wanted to tell the story through the prism of his first love—painting. Zero’s paintings were as colorful, fun, startling and abstract as his life. And the painting begins when I arrive at the theater.
First I paint my face. I base my makeup on the Hirschfeld drawing of Zero as Tevye. As I shadow my brow, I think of the dark times he lived through; when I highlight my cheek, I’m applying his triumphs and glories. Zero was only truly happy when he was painting, and so the play takes place in his studio while being interviewed by an unseen reporter who becomes Zero’s unwitting model.
In the next 90 minutes, Zero entertains, rages, reminisces, gossips, regrets and regales, buts he never stops painting. And as I invite Zero to inhabit me with his outrageousness and unpredictability, I paint a new painting at every performance. Zero Hour is a portrait of a man who overcame both physical and social obstacles with humor, dignity and craziness to hang forever in the permanent collection of great actors, comedians—and painters!