‘Always one more thing’

In 1966, Mike Nichols got a Directors Guild of America nomination for “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” his feature film debut. His sophomore outing, “The Graduate,” won him the award -- as well as a best director Oscar.

Over the years, such movie and TV projects as “Silkwood” (1983), “Working Girl” (1988) and last year’s critically acclaimed “Angels in America” have reaffirmed his talent.

With an Academy Award, two Emmys, seven Tonys and a shared Grammy (with comic collaborator Elaine May) to his credit, Nichols will become the 30th recipient of the Directors Guild’s lifetime achievement award at the Century Plaza Hotel tonight.

Flattering as that is, he says on the phone from London, he can’t leave the set of his movie, an adaptation of playwright Patrick Marber’s “Closer.” With each day of the shoot costing $250,000, he’ll be conveying his gratitude on tape. The 72-year-old director took time, however, to reflect: on his professional ups and downs, on his marriage to ABC News interviewer Diane Sawyer, on his legacy and on what really matters.

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Question: Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, Billy Wilder, Frank Capra -- the Directors Guild award puts you in some pretty classy company.

Answer: It has an emotional significance, throwing me back to the immense kindness my heroes showed me when I first entered the business. Billy Wilder, for one, lent me his editorial assistant and, since it was too late for breeches and boots, told me to wear windbreakers on the set. He also gave me some brilliant advice: Leave a little string for the pearl instead of making every moment a jewel. I remember the first time I accepted a DGA award. After the host, Walter Matthau, said “And now, for best direction of a feature film: Mike Nichols, ‘...Virginia Woolf,’ ” I walked onstage and spoke movingly for three minutes. Then, Matthau called out the second nominee, Fred Zinnemann, who went on to win the award. It was so confusing and beyond embarrassing. The next year, when I did win for “The Graduate,” I had the producer, Larry Turman, pick [the statuette] up for me and say, “Mike already thanked you last year.”

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Q: Was it difficult following up such early success?

A: A week after we arrived in New York, Elaine [May] and I were at the Blue Angel and, within a month, had our own TV hour. Then, I had 12 smash plays in a row. Still, like my pal Steven Soderbergh and Woody Allen, I have anhedonic reactions: the inability to feel pleasure. I didn’t think I deserved all that. I’m such a kvetch; I complain as a way of touching wood. Gentiles think if you name something it brings it on. Jews think it wards it off. That kvetching is called “social comment” in my movies, all of which are “yes, but” at heart. Though I point out things, there’s an underlying positivism, saying “ain’t life grand, despite.”

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Q: In 1975, you stopped making movies for eight years.

A: I bailed out to focus on the stage [“Annie”] and TV [“Family”]. It’s funny, because that’s when I really got good. There’s something about not doing something that lets it grow inside you. You’re saying, “I’m not a career. I’m a person.” Julia Roberts stopped after “Pretty Woman.” So did Albert Finney after “Tom Jones.” When I came back with “Silkwood,” my friend Kurt Russell asked, “Are you always that light on your feet with a camera?” I knew what I wanted and didn’t make a big deal of it. Before that, I loved post[-production] and editing but was afraid of shooting. Now I love all of it. Directing, in truth, is the best job there is. You have 150 people asking, “What do you want me to do, boss?” You say: “I don’t like Rome the way it is, would you put it there, instead, and surround it with water?” You can have anything you want.

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Q: As a refugee from Nazi Germany who grew up in poverty, you’ve always felt different, you’ve said. Has that fed you, creatively?

A: I was the most popular of the unpopular kids in school. My dad died when I was 11 and my mom had to raise two boys in a country where she had no craft or money. For me, the way out started with reading, listening to music and meeting a lot of other weirdos like myself at the University of Chicago. I’ve been lucky in that I can share my feelings and experiences on film. For me, they’re grist. “That really hurt but, man, it’s useful.” Making movies heals the wounds.

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Q: Are there projects you regret taking on?

A: At the Kennedy Center honors last year, Tom Stoppard made a speech about me. Fame is fleeting, life is short, he said -- and he’s there to remind everyone that I made the Garry Shandling movie [“What Planet Are You From?” a box office flop in 2000]. He didn’t have to remind me. But I like failures, in a way. They give you a perspective on things and, spiritually, it feels better for a while. To win an Academy Award is to be back at the Beverly Hills Hotel at midnight feeling empty. To lose is to realize that the happiness is right there in your house.

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Q: Your marriage to Diane Sawyer has survived. What’s your secret?

A: We’ve managed to be together most of the time, which is important when you’re both working with the cutest people in the world. We’ve also battled for equality. If one person becomes more important, you get knocked off kilter, especially if it’s not the guy. A network person at an affiliate meeting once asked me what I did and I said, “I take her phone messages and rinse out her delicate underthings.” If I didn’t get called for a job for five or six months, that could cause problems. But I’m happy to be waiting for her. I know who I am.

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Q: Do you think about death?

A: A lot. It’s part of my nature, and the fact of death makes everything so sweet. It’s good to have a time limit, and having kids helps. They are themselves--and me. As a filmmaker, however, I don’t know what I’ll leave behind. I’m startled by how quickly great directors are so totally gone when they’re gone. Jerome Robbins is barely remembered. It doesn’t take very long. There’s no guarantee that your work endures, and it’s a blind alley to think about it. Modigliani was completely unsuccessful in life and a giant after he left, and that didn’t do him any good. I’m glad that I connected with people, cheering them up in the dark. But posterity? Memories, reputation don’t mean a lot to me. When it’s over, it’s over.

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Q: Is “winding down” part of your game plan?

A: Though my dentist so cruelly says “for a man of your age,” I feel 30 or 32. I’m good at doing nothing, but there’s always one more thing I want to tackle -- and one more after that. Next September, I start on a stage musical based on “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and, then, possibly another movie in England. Though I get bored with things, movies -- along with the people I love -- are the singular exceptions. I like directing too much to quit ... and, fortunately, they still let me do it.