Sailing along with Sinatra and a stool
EIGHTY-SEVEN TIMES I have heard the greeting, “Welcome aboard” and 87 times I have settled myself on a stool and said: “I’m going to begin with a health warning – I don’t mind your leaving while I talk. But try not to disturb the person who’s fallen asleep next to you.” And so I spend the next 45 minutes or so dedicated to preventing otherwise brightandcheerypeoplefromnodding off. And by doing so, I establish myself as one of the band of people known as cruise lecturers.
Lecturer? There are hundreds of us plying the seas, mostly standing behind a lectern that the Americans call a podium and imparting any knowledge we may have on anything from Shakespeare to sharks, Einstein to ice cream.
You might learn about astronomy, accompanied by viewings of the night sky, or hear about art restoration, be inducted into the mysteries of wine, esoteric flora and fauna, archaeology or off-the-beaten-path exploration.
But, right from the start, I tell the audiences, including those who would rather be asleep, that I am different. I am not a lecturer. No, I am a story teller. Which doesn’t mean I am going to tell lies (one wouldn’t get far in this business being economical with the verité). But it explains the stool.
My subject is Hollywood and the books I have written about show business in the days when theatres had curtains and you could go into a cinema in the middle of a film and spend the next hour trying to work out who did what to whom. So no lectern.
To talk about Fred Astaire, Frank Sinatra or Al Jolson or even to tell one of my stories about Leonard Bernstein and kid myself I’m doing more than having fun with “my job” would be pretty pretentious.
That is why I just sit, talk, show film clips (which sometimes the folks seem to enjoy more than the talk) and hope to get the occasional laugh.
My talks might not be as erudite as lectures on ancient history or The Bomb, but they sure are more fun.
Surveys show, I am delighted to say, that lectures are among the most popular features of a good cruise. I have now spent 20 years hoping to prove the point.
Most cruise directors — those valiant people who see to it that cruisers enjoy their voyages, whether they like it or not, will tell you that if you can get 10 per cent of the passengers to attend a lecture, that is about right. Which means I have had audiences ranging from 20 to 200. Sometimes — fairly often — the 10 per cent figure is considerably exceeded. Occasionally it is lower. But only occasionally.
A lot depends on the climate outside the lecture room (usually, the ship’s theatre).
More than once, I have publicly thanked the captain for the weather. When it is cold, wet or miserable on deck, you can be sure you will get more cruisers sitting in front of you. When the sun shines, you can forget it. The deckchairs win.
Yes, you do have loyal audiences who generally don’t miss a single talk. Many of them stay behind afterwards with a few kind words — or to ask an additional question they did not have the time or courage to pose while I was speaking.
The trick of the trade is to try to “get” them from the start — as in my autobiographical initial talk, “Confessions of a Serial Biographer” in which I manage to reveal a few things about being a 16-year-old Jewish boy starting on a local newspaper (and requesting that the lady answering a Catholic priest’s phone should get her husband to give me a ring).
Then there was the time Fred Astaire drove me to my hotel in his Rolls Royce or the tale of how Walter Matthau and I spent 17 years discussing a biography I wanted to write (in the end, he said yes and then promptly died).
Talks, I have discovered, should be both informative and amusing (although there is inevitably someone who does not think they are either).
Sometimes, I tell audiences that a standing ovation after my story session will guarantee them 1,000 points towards their next cruise. Of course, they know it will not do anything of the kind but on my last voyage, I got that ovation just the same.
The real bonus of the lecturing gigs is you can develop a fan club. Better still, it is a chance to make lasting friends.
On the delightful Seabourn ships, for instance, the lecturers are expected to host guests to dinner. So we meet all sorts of people, which is usually great. Sometimes, of course, it isn’t.
But how else would I have got to talk to a New York fire captain sitting on one side of me, a woman diplomat on the other and a judge from the Hague court across the table?
Undoubtedly, a human story ( preferably in the first person) helps. So does a chance to raise a good laugh. There was, for instance, the doctor who recommended a glass of red wine to ward off heart attacks.
“My doctor,” said a woman in his audience, “recommends, two, glasses.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding sagely, “you must be a private patient.”
Rain helps. If it’s sunny, forget it. Deckchairs always win