Life at the Movies

I was pumping gasoline at a self-service station in Arleta when a primate on a Harley-Davidson roared up in a cloud of exhaust and intimidation.

We were side by side at the pumps, me in my knitted mauve sweater and he at a stage of evolution rooted somewhere in the Lower Pleistocene.

He began putting fuel in his chopper, and after a few moments I noticed he seemed to be staring at me in a manner not unlike that of a white shark observing a sea lion.

I finally said, “How’s it goin’, man?” It was an effort to establish some form of primitive communication, which is difficult when you’re wearing mauve.

He remained silent for a moment, no doubt waiting for the message to reach his brain, and then said, “Who do you like?”

I had no idea what he meant, but I wanted desperately to like what he liked, whether it was gang sex or simple mayhem in a beer bar. Then it hit me. The Fight.

“Hey,” I said, “you mean Mike or Buster?”

“No,” he said, capping his gas tank, “I mean Jessica or Michelle.”

My mind raced as my face went blank. Hookers? Nude dancers? Motorcycle mamas from Bruno’s Dead Dog Saloon?

The biker shook his head, kicked his Harley to life and said, “For best actress, stupid.”

I almost clapped with joy. “Michelle!” I said instantly, knowing exactly what a biker would chose.

He nodded, scratched, spit and was gone.

The choice, of course, was between Michelle Pfeiffer or Jessica Lange, both of whom are up for an Academy Award, and both of whom possess the kinds of appeal that would stir a primate’s most basic instincts.

Of the two, however, I knew he would choose Michelle.

The primate wasn’t interested in the refinement of cinematic artistry, but in who could slither best across a piano top. Michelle can do that, all right.

I mention the incident only to illustrate the degree of interest L.A. takes in the Oscars. We may not be able to name the prime minister of East Germany, but we can recite from memory the names of those up for Academy Awards.

One possible exception to that is Leonid Kinskey, a stylish, Russian-born character actor of 87, who doesn’t know who’s up for what and doesn’t really seem to care.

The last movie he saw was “Prancer” and would probably vote for the reindeer if there were a category for best animal.

You’d recognize Kinskey if you saw him but wouldn’t know why. I’ll tell you why. He was the bartender Sascha in the movie “Casablanca” who kissed Bogie (Rick) on both cheeks and said, “Boss, you did a wonderful thing!”

Bogie replied, “Get away from me.”

“I don’t remember what wonderful thing he did or why I kissed him on both cheeks,” Kinskey said with a slight frown, “but at 87 does it matter?”

Kinskey is one the few actors still alive who were in what some consider the greatest movie of all time.

I met him in a Venice restaurant called, appropriately, Casablanca. Owner Carlos Haro held an evening in honor of Kinskey and Dan Seymour, a robust 75, who played Abdul, the Arab who guarded the door to the casino at Rick’s.

A third Casablanca survivor, Gregory Gay, wasn’t able to attend.

“Gregory doesn’t even remember being in the movie,” Kinskey confided later. “I had to remind him. He said, ‘What did I do?’ I said, ‘You were the German ambassador.’ He said, ‘Are you sure?’ I said, ‘Of course!’ ”

(Actually, he was a German banker in the movie, but what the hell.)

Kinskey’s pinched face, Pinocchio nose and Russian accent were familiar to movie audiences from 1932 to about 1956. Today, he lives in a North Hollywood home surrounded by mementos of the 100 or so films in which he was featured.

A pathetic old man, alone and wallowing in the past? Au contraire.

Trim, alert and modishly attired in blazer and slacks, Kinskey has outlived two wives and is presently married to a beautiful, talented 39-year-old artist named Tina York with studios in New York and Nuremberg.

“She supports me,” Kinskey said with a wave and a smile. “I’m an 87-year-old gigolo.”

Notwithstanding a taste for beauty, he has no idea who Michelle Pfeiffer is or why she slithered across a piano while singing “Making Whoopee.”

That doesn’t mean she isn’t wonderful, Kinskey added quickly, just that even if he knew who she was he wouldn’t bet on her chance of winning an Oscar.

“When Humphrey Bogart first came to Hollywood,” he said, “I predicted he’d never make it because he was short, homely and lisped.” Kinskey shrugged. “What do I know?”

About as much as anyone.