Ta l k
14 2.13.
Christopher Walken is seemingly inca-
pable of being boring. He can carry star-
ring roles, as in the great gangster drama
‘‘King of New York’’ (1990), the sci-fi cult
favorite ‘‘The Dead Zone’’ (1983) and the
British comedy-thriller series ‘‘The Out-
laws,’’ arriving this spring on Amazon
Prime Video; spice up a supporting part
(see this month’s Apple TV+ limited series
thriller ‘‘Severance’’); and electrify in a
cameo, as those of us mesmerized by his
classic monologue in ‘‘Pulp Fiction’’ (1994)
can attest. But let’s not pretend: Walken,
who is 78, endures not simply for what he
does but also for the singularity of who he
is. No one looks like him, with his thick
pompadour, sensuous, downturned lips
and doleful eyes. No one talks like him —
all those off beat cadences, delivered in
a purr. No one even really performs like
him: that blend of intellectual playfulness
and physical precision. It’s for those rea-
sons that he is, and will remain, an icon of
unorthodoxy. ‘‘Somebody said to me once
that I was foreign,’’ says Walken, Queens-
born, and a professional entertainer since
he was a child. ‘‘And I think, Yes, I come
from the country of show business.’’ He
pauses, for a long moment, before alight-
ing on the truth: ‘‘There aren’t many peo-
ple like me.’’
Even at your age you’re still working all
the time.^1 Is there anything left in your
life outside acting that you would like to
accomplish or experience? I don’t golf
or play tennis. I have no kids. I’ve been
married for 53 years.^2 I sometimes think
about writing something, but I don’t have
much talent for that. You know, all actors
have a trunk full of scripts. A lot of people
do. Even my dentist at one point, when he
was doing my teeth, told me about a script
he’d written. I’ve written things. They’re
just not good enough. I start with two peo-
ple sitting in a room talking and invariably
it becomes incoherent. There’s nothing I
can be other than an actor.
Do you ever consider writing a memoir? I
do. I have yellow pads, stacks of them. One
of these days I need somebody to help me
get it organized. I was thinking of getting
a court stenographer and just talking and
having them write it down without any
punctuation and seeing what would hap-
pen. I’ve always resented punctuation.
Why’s that? Because if you’re perform-
ing, the writer will put a question mark
after something or an exclamation point
or even a period. It means that it’s the
end of a thought and the beginning of
another, whereas in life, conversation
gets more schmeary. Sentences overlap.
Thoughts overlap. Somebody told me an
interesting thing: that the question mark
is basically a hieroglyph.
Of a cat’s tail, right? Yes, of a cat walking
away. Which is interesting, but dubious.
Sometimes when I see a question mark in
a script, I’ll deliberately make it a state-
ment. Or if something has an exclamation
point, I’ll make it a question just to see
what will happen. Punctuation can be a
stumbling block, so I take it out.^3
Is it right that early on Zen was an infl u-
ence on your acting? In the ’70s when I
was young and everybody was meditating,
I probably went through my Zen phase. I
tried meditating, but I would get into posi-
tion and breathe and then my cat would
walk in the room and run its tail across
my face and that would be the end of my
meditation. I wasn’t a good meditator. Idon’t think I’m very Zen. First of all, I’m
not quite sure what Zen is. When people
talk about Zen — I’ve read the books: ‘‘Zen
in the Art of Archery’’; ‘‘Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance.’’ There’s a very
interesting book called ‘‘The Still Point.’’^4
I read all that, but like I say, every time I
think seriously about it, my cat comes and
swipes his tail across my face.
Maybe that’s a sign. Yes, that I’ll never
be Zen.
What else do you read? I look forward
to The Sunday Times. My friend Geoff rey
Holder^5 used to say that there’s nothing
better on Sunday morning: The Times
with a cup of coff ee, in front of the fi re-
place. That is beautiful. And of course I
read scripts. Even when I was young, it
was very diffi cult for me to learn lines.
Some actors pick up a script and seem
to know the part. For me, it’s tedious and
endless. Laurence Olivier used to call it
pounding lines. That’s what it is. You’re
pounding them into your head.This page, from top:
Christopher Walken
(left) with John
Cazale, center, and
Robert De Niro in
‘‘The Deer Hunter’’
(1978); Walken in
‘‘Pulp Fiction’’ (1994).
Right: Walken
with John Turturro
(left) in ‘‘Severance.’’David Marchese
is the magazine’s Talk
columnist.