20 Questions: Gregory Hines

a man who taps all his talents reconciles men's earrings, men's consciousness and his passion for sammy davis jr.

After 36 years in show business, Gregory Hines, 40--tap dancer, singer, actor, comic, former child performer--is surfacing as a movie star: last year in Taylor Hackford's "White Nights," this year in "Running Scared." Claudia Dreifus interviewed Hines on a recent afternoon in New York.

1.

[Q] Playboy: What's the weirdest thing you've done for a film role?

[A] Hines: When I was preparing to play a medical examiner in Wolfen, I hung out for three weeks in the New York M.E.'s building--watching about 150 autopsies. Weekends, I'd go out on rounds with this retired M.E. who worked just to keep his certification. It was gross. I started to drink a lot. Once, we found a guy who'd been dead for two weeks, and you could smell his body from the hallway. The policeman guarding the corpse told me, "You'd be better off reading about this stuff than seeing it." Nevertheless, I went upstairs and saw this two-week-old corpse. The cop had been right.

2.

[Q] Playboy: What's your second-weirdest moviemaking experience?

[A] Hines: In Running Scared, Billy Crystal and I were put into a taxicab that was lifted three stories in the air and then dropped--no stunt doubles; we did it ourselves. Each time, I thought I was going to throw up. What stopped me from actually puking was thinking, Gee, Billy and I are really close and he's such a great guy, and I've just got to make sure I don't throw up on him--or it'll be the end of a friendship!

I play a Chicago cop in the movie, so I went out with the vice squad one night, the narcotics squad one night and the gang-crime unit. I took part in a raid, put on a bulletproof vest and actually got to say, "Police--open up!" We ransacked this known heroin dealer's house. I really got into it, though as an old hippie, I felt a little strange. Now, when cops say they're going to search somebody's house, they mean it. They open up the flowerpots--they go for the boxes of Cheerios. We didn't find any heroin, but we found about $6000 in cash--I found $1500 stuffed in a green pepper. The cops were pretty impressed with me for that.

3.

[Q] Playboy: You have turned out to be so many things; what was the one thing you wanted to be when you grew up?

[A] Hines: A tap dancer. That was my brother, Maurice, Jr.'s, aim, too--he's two years older. Our parents had been around black vaudeville for most of their lives, and they knew all the tap-dance greats--Honi Coles, Henry LeTang, Little Buck. Little Buck had this fantastic routine where he'd climb up on a piano and just dive off, seemingly onto his head--but just at the last minute, somehow, he would put his hands down, roll off, dive and go into a great split. At any rate, tapping, in the late Forties, was a way up and out of the ghetto. A friend of my father's gave free dance lessons to Maurice, but he would come home and show me what he'd learned. I was a quick study. By the time I was four, we'd put together an act, The Hines Kids, which by adolescence became The Hines Brothers. We toured black vaudeville, black night clubs, the Apollo. Later, when I was around 17, we formed Hines, Hines and Dad. And that was beautiful. How many kids ever get to work with their parents?

4.

[Q] Playboy: One of the great rumors about your father, Maurice, Sr., is that he was almost Jackie Robinson--the first black man to break into major-league baseball. True?

[A] Hines: Semitrue. In the early Forties, when they were looking for someone to break the color line in baseball, my father was playing semipro sand-lot ball. Word was out all over the ghetto that the ball clubs were looking for someone to be the first. In our family, everyone said, "Well, maybe they'll pick Maurice." They didn't, of course, and that's led to a bittersweet joke. My father always said, "Good thing they picked Jackie Robinson and not me, because if I'd been the first, the black man would just be getting his second shot now." My father's got a terrible temper--really bad. He would never have been able to turn the other cheek to all the abuse that Robinson withstood.

5.

[Q] Playboy: A mutual friend told us, "When Gregory was an adolescent, all he wanted was to be Sammy Davis Jr." When you were 13, did you wear much jewelry?

[A] Hines: No, but I combed my hair just like Sammy, sang like him, walked like him and wore those tight-fitting short jackets. I did worship him. He could do everything well--sing, dance, play instruments, do impressions; he was working theaters, movies, night clubs. I thought, Here's a black man who's a great artist and who's having a lot of mainstream success. Now, Sammy gets put down a lot, but I really admire the cat. He's a guy who lived his life out in the open and got a lot of criticism for the risks he took.

6.

[Q] Playboy: One of the risks he took was in marrying a white actress, May Britt, in a time when top black performers didn't break the color line. Both of your marriages have been interracial. How risky was it?

[A] Hines: When I married my first wife, Patricia, interracial couples weren't common and, yeah, we got some flak for it. People stared at us on the street. We met when we were teenagers, fell tremendously in love and got married at 22. When you're that young and that much in love, anything is bearable. Whatever got in our way, we shut out--parents, the world. When you really love someone and want to be with her, absolutely nothing else matters. Happily, the street stares were a factor only until 1967 or so. By then, society had changed, and it was no big deal to see a black man and a white woman together. It wasn't that interracial couples happened a lot--just that people lightened up about it. By the time I got together with Pamela, my second wife, in 1973, we didn't encounter those kinds of hassles.

7.

[Q] Playboy: Every black person has a moment when he realizes that being black is different from being white. When was that moment for you?

[A] Hines: In 1957, in Miami. I was 11. The Hines Kids were playing in Miami Beach--at a white club. Cab Calloway starred. In 1957, if you were a black playing in Miami Beach, you had to have a special police card that permitted you to work in the white district. To get that card, you had to have your picture taken and be fingerprinted. Then, when a cop stopped you and asked you why you were in the white part of town, you presented this pass. The entire Cotton Club Revue cast went down to the police station to get themselves fingerprinted. It was a hot day. I got thirsty. I walked over to the public water fountains--there were two. One was marked white; the other, colored. Who wants colored water? I thought as I headed to the white fountain. I want the white, cleaner water. Instantly, about eight guys from the show grabbed me. Nothing was (continued on page 160)Gregory Hines (continued from page 109) said. But at that moment, I understood something new: Colored meant me.

8.

[Q] Playboy: What did growing up in show business teach you?

[A] Hines: It was an unmatchable education. My father used to take my brother and me to a club of tap dancers--something like the one in The Cotton Club--and we'd meet these old greats, who sat around and talked about their art and music and sex and women. They loved women--women they'd slept with, women they wanted to sleep with, great dancers and singers. As I got older, in the Fifties, I noticed that these guys stopped talking about sex and started talking about drugs, because drugs had become the thing. You know, within the black show-business community, they were everywhere and they were taking people out. Also, in those days, black people didn't get to travel much--but we did. We got to Europe and Las Vegas. Often, we were the first black act ever to break into a white night club, and that felt wonderful.

9.

[Q] Playboy: Defend break dancing.

[A] Hines: It's a fantastic, amazing thing. You see kids out on the street isolating one joint, moving that one joint and then--whooze--moving another; it's just breathtaking. Shit, I wish I could do that. These kids do stuff that seems superhuman.

10.

[Q] Playboy: What would American popular culture be like if black people hadn't been around to save us from Volare and How much is that Doggie in the Window?

[A] Hines: Wait a second. The latter's not a bad song. It's not within me to think what things would be like without black people. When I saw Star Wars, I remember, halfway through it, I realized there were no black people in there, and that made me uneasy. So, no, I wouldn't like to venture a guess about what thing would be like without black people. I just like to think how groovy they are with us.

11.

[Q] Playboy: A lot of kid performers get to a point where they can't stand working anymore. Did you have anything like that--an early mid-life crisis?

[A] Hines: When I was 28. At that point, I'd been in show business with my family for 24 years. I'd married my high school sweetheart--we had a baby, Daria, a gorgeous apartment, everything. One day, I woke up and said to myself, "You've never done anything on your own; you've always been connected to your brother and your father. Who are you?" It wasn't that I didn't love my family--or my wife. My first wife is a really fine woman, and we coparent our daughter now. But I was just miserable. The marriage fell apart. This was the time of "Tune in, turn on and drop out," and I wanted to do all of that. I left New York, moved to Venice, California, played in a rock-jazz band, lived on $40 a week, did some drugs, experienced a lot of women. After a whole bunch of years of this, I met Pamela Koslow, the woman I'm now married to. She was a hippie, a feminist, a single Parent--like myself. She was also someone who allowed me to be completely myself. At a time when my family was disapproving of me, Pamela said, "Who you are is who I love," and that was just great. We've been together since 1973. Three years ago, we had a little boy, Zachary.

12.

[Q] Playboy: Is it true that while you were living in Venice, you joined a male consciousness-raising group?

[A] Hines: Yup. When my first marriage ended--and I did an awful lot to make that happen--I spent a lot of time staring into the mirror and saying, "Either you're never going to get married again or you're going to try to learn what happened. " I couldn't seem to relate to women as friends. If I wasn't sexually involved with a woman, I didn't want to spend time with her. Sometimes, I'd meet a great, great woman and she'd say, "Let's have lunch." And we'd have lunch and I'd start hitting on her. And she'd say, "Gregory, you're a nice guy, but I'm not turned on by you and I just want to be your friend." I was able to work a lot of that through. Also, Pamela, who was an important leader of the women's movement out in Venice, did a lot to educate me. I have a lot of sympathy for women--for their struggles.

13.

[Q] Playboy: You didn't dance in Venice. How'd you get back to it?

[A] Hines: By 1978, things weren't going so great for me in California. I couldn't find work as a musician and songwriter; Pamela was supporting us--and I felt terrible about that. What's more, my daughter had moved East to be with her mother, and I felt horrible that I was losing touch with her. It was a real down time. So in January 1978, my brother said, "Come back to New York; you can live with me." My mother even bought me a plane ticket. I kissed Pamela goodbye and said, "I'll send for you as soon as possible." The day I got to New York, my brother got me an audition for a Broadway-bound musical, The Last Minstrel Show. Which, in fact, was what it was--the play closed out of town. I did get the part, though, for $750 a week, and my career was back on course. After years of not dancing, it was agony to get in shape again, but it all paid off. The Last Minstrel Show led to Eubie!, which led to Sophisticated Ladies, which led to my movie career.

14.

[Q] Playboy: And now, after 36 years in show business, you're finally making it as a film star. Is it worth the wait?

[A] Hines: I'm glad it didn't happen earlier. Being real famous can be weird. When I was a kid, I wanted to be famous, because that was a way to get more work--I never figured it meant that I couldn't have an argument with my wife in a restaurant without a stranger's butting in with, "Hey, you were great in Beverly Hills Cop."

15.

[Q] Playboy: Movie-star status can make a man vain--are you?

[A] Hines: Well, making movies can give you an unhealthy feeling about yourself. When I see myself in a film, I'm so big--it's impressive. Happily, my wife keeps me down to earth. Once, I was doing interviews every day and I'd go home and all I'd want to do was talk about myself: how I felt about this issue, what my future plans were, what I liked and what I didn't. Finally, Pamela said, "Honey, I love you a lot, but let's talk about anything but you."

16.

[Q] Playboy: What was the sexiest situation you've been in--without having sex?

[A] Hines: The love scene in The Cotton Club with Lonette McKee. She's a lady with a really sexy way about her. I had to fight to get that scene in the movie. As soon as I got the part, I kept saying to Francis Coppola, "You've got to write a love scene into the black story line." It would be a real breakthrough for audiences to see a black man and a black woman relate to each other in a romantic way. You don't see that much in movies. When I was a kid, I was just dying to see a black cat up there kissing a black woman, a Chinese woman, a white woman. I was a black boy who was going to be a black man someday, and I wanted to see me! I mean, you didn't see a lot of black men in the movies in the first place, and you certainly didn't see a lot of warmth and real loving from them.

17.

[Q] Playboy: Which black roles wouldn't you do?

[A] Hines: I've turned down pimp parts. I wouldn't play a drug dealer, either--not unless the story had other dimensions. I once read an interview with Charlie Mingus, and he, at some point, had women working for him. Now, Mingus might have been a pimp, but he was also a great jazz player. If someone wanted to do The Charlie Mingus Story, I'd play a pimp then--but I wouldn't play Charlie the pimp. You see, what I'm concerned with is doing what hasn't been done before--breaking the stereotypes. In Cotton Club, I tried to present a vulnerable black man: a real man who was frightened in a frightening situation, aroused in an erotic one, confused, happy--the whole human range. If I'm trying to say anything with my characters, it's "Look, there's more to the black experience than what you've seen."

18.

[Q] Playboy: Any particular reason you wear three earrings in your right ear and none in your left?

[A] Hines: The whole thing started when I was living in California. I was in an elevator and Lyle Waggoner, from The Carol Burnett Show, got on; he had this earring, and it looked great. So, about a week later, I asked a friend to pierce my ear. Then I started collecting earrings. And soon I pierced some more holes. People are always asking me, "What does it mean?" The answer is, "I saw this guy with an earring and it looked great and this was the first time I'd seen a guy with an earring who wasn't a sailor in a movie."

19.

[Q] Playboy: Will Gregory Hines go to any length to get a part? We hear you danced on producer Robert Evans' desk in order to get cast in The Cotton Club.

[A] Hines: On his coffee table. I was just trying to describe to him the potential of my character. You know, sometimes people who make decisions in Hollywood don't have a fantastic imagination, so you have to show them stuff concretely. Now, it happens that Evans does have a good imagination, but I really wanted that part. Evans really wanted Richard Pryor. So I kept calling him up, meeting with him, bugging him. I hounded him. He actually got angry with me a couple of times. But, I mean, it wasn't as if I scratched his furniture or anything. I wasn't wearing taps. I was just showing him my art.

20.

[Q] Playboy: Do you believe in reincarnation?

[A] Hines: Absolutely not. About ten years ago, I flew to New York for the funeral of a childhood friend who had been murdered and went to the place where he was laid out. I couldn't believe he was really dead--so I reached down into the casket, squeezed his arm as hard as I could, dug my fingers into him. I kept expecting him to scream, to say, "Hey, stop it--you're hurting me." Of course, he never did. He was dead, and that was all there was to it. When I worked on Cotton Club, Coppola asked me what I wanted to name my character. I said, "Delbert," because that had been my friend's name. That was one way to make him live again. It was about the only way.