Arnie mania struck the capital last night. A thousand fans crowded into the Lancaster London Hotel to see Schwarzenegger in conversation with Jonathan Ross. He came bounding on stage, in a Club Class business suit, and peered out at us with a glazed, lipless smile. He has dark tufty hair, an ochre tan, and a hint of cruelty about the anvil jawline and the small unflickering eyes. A deferential Ross gave him an effusive welcome. They sat opposite each other, like bores in a Pall Mall club, in matching armchairs upholstered in blood-red velvet.
Arnie compels our attention because his career is unparalleled. He began as a bodybuilder which is technically a sport even though it looks like narcissism communicated to the muscles via steroids and dumb-bells. There are sportsmen who have moved into films (Johnny Weissmuller, OJ Simpson), and there are actors who have moved into politics (Ronald Reagan, Clint Eastwood), but no one has done all three, and with such success. Like Mrs Thatcher, he has the virtue of being a philosopher whose deeds reveal as much as his words. His life is a self-help book.
He was born in small-town Austria, in 1947, and his parents expected him ‘to marry Heidi and have five kids.’ His father, a policeman, was baffled that Arnie wasted time lifting weights when he might have turned that energy into cash by chopping and delivering firewood. He belonged to the flower-power generation (he’s the same age as David Bowie), but he was industrious, disciplined and ‘unbelievably driven.’ He won the Mr Universe crown in London in 1967.
When he moved to America to chase a movie career he also ran a mail order firm on the side. Experts advised him to ditch the acting.‘I was the wrong size.’ Hollywood’s leading men in the 1970s – Dustin Hoffman, Al Pacino and Woody Allen – were physically teeny. Arnie weighed more than all three put together. His instinct told him, ‘don’t pay any attention to anyone else.’ His leaden delivery and clockwork performing style were the despair of casting directors. ‘I’m still looking for my speech coach – to get my money back.’ But along came Conan the Barbarian in 1982 and all his defects were converted into assets. He was made.
His Americanised English retains the yokel-y vowel sounds of his native Austria. He says ‘lyearn’ for ‘learn’ and ‘ewer’ for ‘your’. ‘Fyor shyor’ is his version of ‘for sure’. Of his long ascent to stardom, he says, ‘The climb was the joy. And the risk that you could fail.’ Setbacks dismay but never demoralise him. ‘How far can you fall? To the ground. Get up.’ He still works out twice a day and he offers this remedy for an over-crowded schedule. ‘Sleep faster.’ Ross mentions that the American constitution bars immigrants from seeking the presidency. ‘Otherwise would you have stood?’
‘Fyor sure! And it’s all ewer fault. They didn’t want some Brit coming in to be their leader.’
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