I was heartened to read your birthday piece on Marc Lawrence. There is debate on whether he was born in 1909 or 1910; this may well be his centennial. I dug the hell out of him and still do. Marc was an authentic character.

I chated with Marc several times over the telephone. He was relentlessly funny, profane, outrageous and tragic.

It would challenging to repeat the verbatim Lawrence for a G rated audience as routine profanity was such an integral part of his vocabulary. A sample greeting:

AKR: “Marc, How are you doing, this is Alan”.

ML: Who? Oh yeah, you f#%&er. How the f!#k are you! How do you f*!*ing think I am doing living here in death’s waiting room?” It’s hotter than a !!!***&&&! (Marc lived in Palm Springs).

Of course this rendition doesn’t convey Lawrence’s( Actually Max Goldstein) thick Bronx accent.

Beyond this, Marc was a fascinating raconteur whose elephantine knowledge of Hollywood encompassed 1932 to 2001. He was the last man standing who could freely discuss a world that now resides only in books and on film.

Writer Lee Server, who knew Marc intimately, remarked in a Sight and Sound tribute (I am paraphrasing) that there was no one else I can talk to anymore who can relate insider stories about W.C. Fields, Thomas Gomez and Arnold Schwarzenegger all in the same phone call.

Marc Lawrence was permanently scarred by the Blacklist. The HUAC got him to cough up some names and it stained his soul. When asked how often he thought about it, Lawrence said, “Every day of my life.” He ended up being another victim of those times.

I watched THE ASPHALT JUNGLE last week after James Whitmore passed away and watched Marc in perhaps his best screen role as “Cobby” sweating as he counted his money.

For more about Marc, I recommend Lee Server’s anthology, THE BIG BOOK OF NOIR that has an interview with Lawrence.

As a matter of fact, Lawrence was the one who goaded Lee into writing his superb bio on Robert Mitchum, “Baby, I Don’t Care”.

For wherever Marc is holding court, Happy Birthday!

I particularly like Lawrence’s pathetic hillbilly, Pete, in “The Shepherd of the Hills”. It’s odd not to see him in a suit.