His Life in Pictures : After the successes of ‘Good Morning, Vietnam’ and ‘Rain Man,’ director Barry Levinson returns to his Baltimore roots in ‘Avalon’

Barry Levinson is a born storyteller. Perched in the back of a van packed with his production crew, the Baltimore-born director is riding around town, scouting locations for “Bugsy,” his upcoming film starring Warren Beatty as Bugsy Siegel, the gangster who ruled 1940s L.A.

Heading for Union Station, the van cruises through a particularly beat-up section of Hollywood, near the Hollywood Bowl. “You know, when I first moved to L.A., I lived right around here,” says Levinson, peering out the window at a pair of LAPD squad cars parked outside a crumbling apartment complex.

“When I came here, it was the hippie period. We were all broke so I lived with this guy, Leo, and another friend in an apartment for $80 a month. Leo lived in the closet.”

Levinson grins. “But it was a big closet.

“Boy, was it the ‘60s! I remember coming home one day and finding Leo on the couch, groaning and moaning. He said, ‘Oh, I’m really sick. I feel awful. I took a couple of pills.’ I was concerned, so I asked him what kind of pills. He said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. A couple of pills. I found them on the sidewalk.’

“I went nuts. ‘You took pills off the sidewalk! Are you crazy? They could’ve killed you!’ And all Leo said was, ‘Yeah, but it could’ve been good, man.’ ”

Levinson wags his head. “That’s the ‘60s, isn’t it? ‘It could’ve been good.’ ”

It’s this love for language--the rich impasto of slang, small talk and crackling argument--that has made Levinson, at 48, one of Hollywood’s most bankable--and most distinctive--writer-directors. After a long apprenticeship as a TV comedy hand and screenwriter, Levinson has been a director of megahits in recent years, most notably “Good Morning, Vietnam” and “Rain Man,” for which he won the Oscar as best director.

But he’s also made time to write and direct a trio of personal films--”Diner,” “Tin Men” and now “Avalon”--that explore his Baltimore roots. Due out Friday, “Avalon” is an ambitious, largely autobiographical drama that explores the tumultuous assimilation of an immigrant clan into American society. Its central character is another storyteller--Sam Krichinsky, a role largely based on--and even named after--Levinson’s own grandfather.

In fact, ask Levinson to describe “Avalon” and you’ll hear the story of his family.

“When I was a child I was fascinated by my family,” he says, relaxing in the cozy study of his Bel-Air home. “I loved looking at the old photographs and hearing the old stories. When my grandfather and his brothers would tell stories, it was exciting. I knew my grandfather like he was my father. He was quite a character. He had a great sense of adventure and a wonderful sense of humor about how he viewed life.

“We’d go to movies together. I’d hang out with him when he’d do a wallpapering job. It was like having two fathers.”

Levinson’s father worked in the door-to-door installment sales business before opening his own appliance shop in the late 1940s. His best-selling products were those newfangled TV sets.

“It was the whole postwar boom,” says Levinson, who adorns his study with family pictures, stacks of scripts, a Tyson-Douglas fight poster and a Baltimore Orioles cap. “TV’s brought the customers in the door. In fact, business exploded. In less than three years, my father went from a small shop to a big warehouse. I can actually remember the people lining up to get in, the fire marshals being there to keep order. And I can remember his store burning down in an electrical fire.”

If you see Levinson’s new film, you’ll watch these memories unfold up on the screen. With a cast that includes Armin Mueller-Stahl and Joan Plowright as his grandparents and Aidan Quinn and Elizabeth Perkins as his parents, “Avalon” is, at its best, a memory film that uses Levinson’s own experiences to capture the blood ties--and the wracking tension--that first cement and then split immigrant families.

“As I began to think about it, I realized I had a lot of great material--our move to suburbia, the splitting up of the family--to use for a film,” Levinson explained. “I went back and talked to my family, who would remind me of stories I’d forgotten.”

When Levinson shot the film in Baltimore last fall, his father came down to see a set that replicated his old appliance store. “It must’ve been a little strange for him, because it was like stepping back into a part of his life. I remember him saying something like, ‘I think the TVs are in the wrong place.’ But I think he was really moved by the whole thing.”

Not everyone in the family was so impressed. Levinson cast a host of his relatives in other bits in the film, including a scene set at his grandmother’s funeral.

“I felt a little awkward telling them how to react, because it was someone they’d actually known and loved,” he recalls. “So I’m giving them direction, trying to figure out what to have them do, when finally one of them complained, ‘We know. We know. It’s the second time we went to her funeral!’ ”

“Avalon’s” supporters see it as a loving look at an immigrant family that was nourished by America--and torn apart by America. The movie’s detractors aren’t as generous. After a recent screening, one sharp-tongued Hollywood writer dubbed it “a $30-million home movie.” (The filmmakers say the budget was actually just under $20 million.)

Still, Levinson acknowledges it would be hard to imagine getting a studio to back such a deeply personal film without the clout of his “Rain Man” and “Good Morning, Vietnam.” “Would an unknown director have gotten ‘Avalon’ made?” Levinson wonders aloud. “Probably not. Look at it. No stars, no sex, no violence. You can just imagine people saying, ‘So, what kind of movie is this supposed to be?’ ”

It’s no wonder that “Avalon” dramatizes the role TV has played in the disintegration of the American family. Television and its discontents--it’s one of the few subjects, outside the fortunes of his beloved Orioles, that sparks a burst of emotion from the normally imperturbable director.

“It all comes down to TV,” he says, beginning to pace restlessly around the room. “Our movies are being radically changed by what TV has done. The film that can’t be sold in a 30-second spot is in jeopardy of not being made. I had these same discussions on ‘Avalon.’ The studio says, ‘Hmmm, it’s going to be a tough sell. How are we going to make a 30-second spot to sell this movie?’ ”

Levinson slumps back in his chair. “The problem is that we sell everything that way now. We have fast-food movies and now we have fast-food politics. It’s become so hard to sell anything complicated that we end up with these politicians and their (expletive) campaigns. ‘He’s tough on crime! He’s tough on schools!’ It’s crazy--all you get is a slogan.”

In Levinson’s eyes, this is the legacy of television. “It’s stripped away everything and left us with personality. It’s gotten to the point where even People magazine has gotten too complicated. They’ll probably have to come up with something simpler soon. It’s frightening.”

Levinson flashes a lopsided grin. “I saw a TV film critic the other day reviewing ‘Dreams,’ and I had to laugh. Even Akira Kurosawa, who’s won every award imaginable, got reduced to the 1-to-10 scale.”

Levinson sighs. “We all go on the scale. Maybe they’ll start going back to all the great old directors and rate them. You know--Hitchcock. A 7! . . . Von Stroheim. A 5!”

Disney Studios Chairman Jeffrey Katzenberg thinks rating Hollywood talent is crass, too. But he gets positively florid discussing Levinson. “Barry isn’t on anybody’s A-list,” says Katzenberg, who worked with Levinson on “Tin Men,” “Good Morning, Vietnam” and “Young Sherlock Holmes.” “He is a list of one--he is a list by himself. If anything, Barry falls into a sovereign state. In the unending battle between art and commerce, I don’t think any filmmaker has found a better way to master the equation. Every movie he makes is artful--and entertaining. From the moment he made ‘Diner,’ everybody’s wanted to work with him.”

True enough. In the past six years, Levinson has worked with an incredible array of male Hollywood starpower: Robert Redford (“The Natural”), Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman (“Rain Man”), Robin Williams (“Good Morning, Vietnam”), Danny DeVito and Richard Dreyfuss (“Tin Men”) and now, Warren Beatty.

If film executives appreciate Levinson’s classy box-office touch, his actors enjoy his relaxed yet invigorating filmmaking style. “Once you get past his Australian accent--can you imagine, an Australian from Baltimore--Barry has a real vision of what he wants,” says Robin Williams. “He’s funny, but it’s not shtick--it’s stories and characters. It’s a whole world.

“He’d let me try anything,” Williams continues. “When I was doing my ‘Vietnam’ radio show broadcasts, he brought in a live audience--some ladies from the U.S. Embassy--so I could hear their laughter in my headset, just to see if it would help me play the scenes better.

“If you think the characters in his films have great timing, it’s because it’s his timing. He somehow infects us with his comic abilities. I call it Levinson’s Disease.”

Danny DeVito was most impressed by Levinson’s easy manner. “It’s effortless with Barry,” he says. “He’s not imposing or heavy-handed, he just lets you do your work. And when you’re working with one of his scripts, it’s great--his words are gems. “

Spend a day with Levinson and you can hear a few spontaneous gems. Somewhat reticent under a reporter’s scrutiny (he dons his shades during interviews), Levinson is considerably looser and more affable when he’s roaming around town with his movie team, which includes producer Mark Johnson, director of photography Allen Daviau and production designer Dennis Gassner.

As he enters Union Station, Levinson reminisces about his first cross-country train ride. “I’d been on these wonderful trains in Europe where you stay in the dining car for hours and they’d just keep coming with all these marvelous things to eat,” he explains. “It was so sumptuous. Then I took the train from back East out here. It was like being in Denny’s for 48 hours.”

Eyeing the broad, Art Deco sweep of Union Station, Levinson is trying to determine which areas will work for a key scene from “Bugsy.” As you watch Levinson studying the high-ceilinged terminal, you can just picture Warren Beatty gliding into view, a pair of ‘40s gunsels at his side, flashing a quick grin as he passes a clump of boyish P-51 Mustang pilots flirting with some off-duty WACS.

As Levinson strides through the terminal, he’s clearly dazzled by the structure’s striking design. “Look at these tones--aren’t they wonderful?” he says to Daviau as they scurry back and forth, looking for camera angles. “Wow. They really built then.”

Someone suggests installing seating for movie extras to make the space seem less empty. “No,” Levinson replies. “Sometimes you don’t need a lot of people.”

Mark Johnson, Levinson’s longtime producer, grins broadly. “So what are you saying, Barry?” he teases. “You think we can get by with three people? Maybe four?”

Levinson laughs as he walks outside. “Well, sometimes it plays better with less. It doesn’t always have to look like Grand Central Station.”

From across the street, Levinson studies his establishing shot--the palm-framed entrance to Union Station. His crew notes several ‘period’ eyesores--an Amtrak sign and street markings that would be out of place in a ‘40s film. “You know what the real problem is,” Levinson says, hitching up his beige Presto Pants slacks. “Those palm trees are too tall. We’ll never get them in the shot.”

The solution? “I tell you what,” says Levinson, displaying Hollywood ingenuity. “We may just have to bring in some shorter trees.”

A robust, self-effacing man, Levinson insists he had no show-biz dreams as a child. He was already in college before he started taking television classes at American University--and then only after abandoning his initial goal of being an income-tax lawyer. “I gave it up when I realized I would have to take an accounting class.”

After working at local TV stations--where he did everything from handling kiddie-show puppets to cutting ad spots for the Washington Senators baseball team--Levinson drove to California. As a fluke he joined an acting class and ended up performing skits and writing comedy routines.

He wrote for a host of TV variety shows, then moved to feature films, where he served an apprenticeship to Mel Brooks (co-writing “Silent Movie” and “High Anxiety”) and wrote an Oscar-nominated script, “. . . And Justice for All” with his then-wife, Valerie Curtin.

He made his directorial debut with “Diner” in 1982, which introduced audiences to a whole generation of fresh talent, including Mickey Rourke, Ellen Barkin, Steve Guttenberg and Kevin Bacon. Levinson has enjoyed box-office success with most of his films, but critics have lavished most of their praise on his more personal projects. Though Levinson says he had no grand design, his Baltimore movies all chronicle the workings of a close-knit group on the verge of disintegration, the friends veering off in different directions.

In “Diner,” we see the intimate male bonds of adolescence give way to marriage and adulthood. In “Tin Men,” we witness the death of aluminum-siding salesmanship. And in “Avalon,” we see a sprawling immigrant family torn apart by generational schisms and the hypnotic tug of television.

With the exception of “Rain Man,” all of Levinson’s films have been set in the past. When you drive with him around L.A., he often exhibits a wistful attachment--rooted more in respect than nostalgia--for bygone eras. When his Union Station guide informs him that the main terminal will be redesigned to include a two-story mall, Levinson snaps sarcastically: “Now that’s a good idea. They figured, why waste the high ceiling, huh?”

Don’t think Levinson is being sentimental. “There’s a difference between being nostalgic and remembering what society once was,” he says. “If you look at our buildings from the ‘30s, you see men at work, creating buildings and dams and bridges--it was the power and optimism of man. But look at the murals of today. They’re all cartoons. We once believed that anything was possible. We don’t have that optimism any more. Now we can only joke about it.”

Levinson avoids such weighty talk about his own work. A private man, he gives few interviews and clearly prefers being with his wife, Diana, and two young boys, Sam and Jack. He even edits his films at home, dryly noting, “I have to deal with fewer people this way.”

When asked about the emotional impact of making a film about his family, he dodges the question with a joke. He’s elusive, just like his own characters, who debate the authenticity of “Bonanza” or the merits of Frank Sinatra, but rarely reveal what’s really on their minds.

“It’s my theory that people don’t argue about the real issue--they talk around it,” he says, back home in his office. “Most of the time we argue about nothing. A man and a woman could be angry over selfishness or some larger issue, but the argument focuses on what’s annoying someone at that specific moment.”

Levinson coaxes both humor from these arguments and a surprising measure of insight into ourselves.

In “Avalon,” Sam Krichinsky, the character based on Levinson’s grandfather, is the family storyteller, keeping the legacy of his clan alive. Now Levinson has inherited the mantle, preserving his tales on film.

“I never thought of myself wanting to be a storyteller, but perhaps its true,” he says. “My characters let me create a fascinating world that you can’t always figure out.

“It’s funny--you never know how people will react to your work. Someone who saw ‘Avalon’ complained about how predictable the end of the movie is. Well, of course it is. That’s the inevitability of life. You grow old. What am I going to do, fake a heart attack for them?”

Levinson stares at the family portraits across the room.

“But what fascinates me isn’t the situation. It’s what the character says inside those situations. It’s what you find inside people that’s really revealing.”