the mistake I made going into Miami, where I thought I could coast to a victory. I trained as hard as I could.
Holding the Mr. Universe competition in Miami had been an experiment for the Weiders, and for 1969 they moved it back to New York. To pump up the excitement, they’d also scheduled the Mr. America, Mr. Universe, and Mr. Olympia competitions to take place on the same day, back-to-back-to-back in the Brooklyn Academy of Music, the largest performance venue in Brooklyn.
I’d been featured and hyped nonstop all year along with the other top bodybuilders in Joe’s magazines, but Mr. Universe was my first major competition since the previous fall. I was eager to see how my newly Americanized body would go over with the judges and fans. The contest went even better than I’d planned. In one of the strongest fields ever, I ran over all the rest. Thousands of sets on Joe Gold’s machines had helped me define my muscles to the point where neither the big guys nor the small guys were much of a threat. Plus I had a California tan!
Winning was such a high that I thought again about the Mr. Olympia event. What if I’d underestimated the progress I’d made? If I beat Sergio in that, I would be king!
The morning of the contest, he showed up in his trademark flashy clothes: a custom-tailored checked suit and vest, dark tie, black leather shoes, a mod hat, and lots of gold jewelry. We teased each other while we sat watching the Mr. America preliminaries.
“Hey, Monster, you in shape?” I asked.
“Hey, baby, you gonna see somethin’ tonight, I tell you,” Sergio said. “You gonna see it, but you ain’t gonna believe it. Ain’t nobody gonna believe it.”
Finally, we were warming up backstage. Sergio was famous for his lengthy pumping-up routine, during which he always wore a long butcher’s coat so the rival bodybuilders couldn’t see his muscles. When the time came for us to go onstage, he took off the coat and walked ahead of me down the hall. Of course, he knew I’d be checking him out. Very casually, he lifted a shoulder and spread out the biggest lat muscle I’d ever seen. It was the size of a giant manta ray. Then he did the same thing with the other shoulder. His back was so huge it looked like it was blocking all the light in the hall. It was a really effective psych. I knew right then that I was going to lose.
We each posed, first me and then Sergio, and we each had the house screaming and stomping. Then the judges, announcing that they couldn’t decide, called us back onstage to pose simultaneously. Someone shouted, “Pose!” but for a minute, neither of us budged—like we were daring each other to go first. Finally, I smiled and hit my double-biceps pose, one of my best. That brought a roar from the crowd. Sergio answered with his trademark two-arm overhead victory pose. Again the crowd went nuts, chanting “Sergio! Sergio!” I executed a chest pose, which he started to match but then thought better of it, shifting to a “most muscular” shot. More screams for Sergio. I did my best trademark pose—the three-quarters back—but that wasn’t enough to turn it. He was simply still ahead of me.
I just kept smiling and hitting poses. I’d already done what I came to do, and I was much better off than the year before. I’d run over everybody except him. I could say to myself, “You did great, Arnold, and Sergio’s days are numbered.” But for now he was still clearly the champ, and when the judges declared for him, I gave him a big hug onstage. I thought Sergio deserved all of the attention. I was much younger, and I’d be number one in no time, and then I would enjoy all of this attention. In the meantime, he should have it. He was better.
That fall, Joe Weider launched me on phase two of my American dream: getting into movies. When word got around that some producers needed a bodybuilder to star in a film, Joe recommended me.
What happened with
As a matter of fact, former Mr. America Dennis Tinerino, whom I’d upset in 1967 to win my first Mr. Universe competition, had already been offered the part. Dennis was a legitimate champ: he had bounced back to win the amateur Mr. Universe title in 1968. But Joe didn’t want him to get the role because Dennis worked mostly with the other bodybuilding federations. So he called the producers and told them that in Vienna I had been a Shakespearean actor, and they should dump Dennis and take me. “I know Tinerino won the Mr. Universe, but Schwarzenegger won it three times,” he said. “You will get the best bodybuilder in the world. Schwarzenegger is your guy. He is extraordinary. His stage presence is outstanding.”
There is no such thing as an Austrian Shakespearean actor. It doesn’t exist. I didn’t know what the hell Joe was talking about, but he told them he was managing me and didn’t allow them to talk to me. He was worried that I couldn’t speak English well enough, so when they said they wanted to meet me, he said, “No. Arnold’s not around yet. He will be coming soon.” All this really cracked me up. Eventually we went to see the producers, and Joe told me not to say much. The next thing I knew, I got the job. Joe knew how to sell.
After the Mr. Olympia competition, Franco and I went to London, where I won the NABBA Mr. Universe competition again, setting the record as the first bodybuilder to win four Mr. Universe crowns. Then I flew back to New York to become the new Hercules.
It was not a bad concept, putting Hercules in modern New York City, and the movie was very funny, especially Arnold Stang, the comedian who played Pretzie. He was so little and I was so big. I found the experience daunting, I have to admit. I thought it would take me at least until I was thirty to be in a movie. But here I was at twenty-two, in America, starring as Hercules. How many people got to live this kind of dream? “You should be happy!” I told myself.
At the same time I thought, “But I’m not ready. I haven’t even learned about acting!”
If I’d had acting experience, it would have been a lot better. The producers hired an acting coach and a dialogue coach, but two weeks with them couldn’t make up for my lack of English and lack of experience. I wasn’t up to par. I had no clue what this type of performance should involve. I couldn’t even understand all the sentences in the script.
The guy who played Zeus was a TV soap opera veteran named Ernest Graves. I remember cracking up in the middle of filming a scene because he produced this huge God voice for a speech he was supposed to give, and it was so different from the voice of the guy I’d met in the makeup trailer. He really got into it, and that was funny to me. But, of course, you’re not supposed to laugh on the set. You’re supposed to help the other performers and really buy into what they say. That’s the whole concept of being supportive. When you’re not on camera, and the camera is behind your shoulder, you stay in character, act your part, giving it everything you have in order to draw the best out of the actor who is being filmed. That is so important, but I had no clue. When something struck me as funny, I just laughed.
On the second-to-last day, I finally felt it, what acting is about. We were shooting a sentimental scene where Hercules and Pretzie are saying good-bye. I really got into it, just like they always talk about in acting. The director came over afterward and said, “I got goose bumps when you did that.”
“Yeah, it was strange,” I said. “I really felt that scene.”
“You’re going to be good. I think you’ll have an acting career because as time went on with this project, you really started to get how to do it.”
One of the producers asked if they could bill me as Arnold Strong—nobody could pronounce Schwarzenegger, he said, it was a ludicrous name, and besides putting Arnold Strong and Arnold Stang on the poster would be funny. When they edited the film, they dubbed another actor’s voice over mine, because my accent was too thick for anybody to understand. Maybe the best thing about
But even so, starring as Hercules was way beyond any dream for me. And they paid me $1,000 a week. Best of all, I got to send photographs home to my parents and write, “You see? I told you the whole thing was going to
