It was 1962. I was a sophomore in high school, enamored with the theatre and lucky enough to have a mentor named David Burns. Davy was co-starring with Zero in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. I had no idea who Zero Mostel was when I first saw the show but was knocked out by the comedic force of nature that ruled over the stage of the Alvin Theatre.

I made my way backstage to see Davy and literally ran into Mostel who looked like he had just taken a shower in his costume – steamy and covered with sweat. I was attending military school and dressed in my West Point style uniform which caught his attention. “You must be General Nuisance. What do you want?” he snorted.

“I’m here to see Davy Burns,” I said.

“You never come to see me!” he grunted as he brushed past me and disappeared down the dark hallway

The next week, I saw the show again, visited Davy and then went to Zero’s dressing room. He was reading the riot act to one of the actors who he thought had upstaged him. The funny man I loved onstage had become a screaming maniac and all I could do was stand back and cringe. The actor apologized and left.  Zero looked at me with exploding eyes and said, “What do you want?” 

“To say hello,” I managed to articulate.

His rage turned to total charm in a nanosecond. 

“Well, hello! Come in.” 

I sat in his dressing room as he asked me all sorts of questions - like why was I a fat kid in a military uniform? From that night until he left the show, whenever I came to visit Davy, I always spent time with Zero too.

On the second night of Fiddler on the Roof, I flew to New York from Pittsburgh, where I was studying drama at Carnegie Tech. I sat in the first row of the Imperial Theatre and was dazzled by the uplifting, heartbreaking performance that unfolded just a few feet away from me. I knew from Forum that Zero was a master comedian, but I didn’t know until Fiddler that he was a towering dramatic actor. He waved to me at the bows and I felt as though I had been knighted. Still drenched with sweat, he welcomed me into his dressing room like an old friend. I was so moved by his performance I found it difficult to talk. 

A few years later, when I had become a professional actor, I ran into Zero on the street and asked him for an autographed picture of himself. He screamed at me, “You’re not worthy!” and went on his way. I was shocked - yet not shocked - because his behavior was as outrageous offstage as it was on. 

But he did accept an invitation to come see my off-Broadway debut in a show called Unfair To Goliath. The day after he attended, I found a manila envelope on my dressing table. Inside was an autographed picture of Zero signed, “To Jimmy, with my admiration…” You'll find that pciture at the top of this page.

Years later, I looked at that picture when I heard of his death and hoped that someday I could give back to Zero something of what he gave to me. Zero Hour is a tribute to the life of a man who overcame both physical and social obstacles to become one of most enduring giants in the history of the American Theatre. This show is for you, Zero – with my admiration.

Jim Brochu
Hollywood, California
October, 2006