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While I’ve never called myself an actor (and won’t anytime soon), I’ve wound up in a strangely large amount of locally produced films, shorts and video projects. A thread through many of them has been George Malich, who passed away on the morning of Thursday, July 26 after an intense year of battling a brain tumor, and the effects of the resulting, multiple surgeries and procedures.
In fact, my initial meeting with George came around a decade ago, on the set of The Bunglers, a caper film written, starring and produced by Bradley Bowers. Perhaps in a corner of my mind I’d heard of George before then, but I initially got to know him through that experience. There was ample time to do so; the production was a long one, with over a year of primary shooting. At some point, impatient and impertinent, I cut off many inches of hair, leaving me with a buzz cut and a wig, which I’d wear under a hot stocking cap for the rest of the sessions. Though we didn’t know one another well, it was something that George didn’t mind needling me about. That was indicative of a get-to-know-you personality, clearly.
Late in our shooting experience, George was at the center of a key scene. Cast as a sleazy, downtown club owner, he really took to the role. Recording inside of Wash Ave.’s Tangerine, George was cast opposite the wonderful actress Amy Elz, and if memory serves correct, he was to slap her in the face, hard. This scene was shot more than once, and George’s intensity was something to behold; yell, fake-slap, yell, fake-slap, repeat, repeat. Camped out at the Tangerine bar, we watched many takes; most cast and crew members were tired on those Sunday mornings, but George always packed a bit of extra moxie for later. And his voice was booming in most circumstances. Inside the high walls of Tangerine, it got exaggerated even more, no doubt causing the audio tech’s to adjust the mic settings.
Throughout the 48 Hour Film Project’s time in St. Louis, George was a regular actor and off-screen contributor, with multiple teams. Through the free-association period that started off one writing session at Bowers’ apartment, Daniel Bowers (unrelated to Bradley) mused about a self-help group that would be made up of people with offbeat, unusual personal quirks. The idea didn’t fly for the 48 Hour Film that weekend, but Bowers pursued it on his own time, and A. (anonymous) was result. In that mockumentary feature, Malich starred alongside a talented ensemble as Gavin Tartowski, a man who suffered from “tight pants syndrome,” playing that as literally as the affliction would suggest. The low-budget, improv-heavy film played a wide variety of venues, just as The Bunglers did, from art galleries to bars.
While we didn’t share a scene in it, I distinctly remember leaving one of the two shoots I was involved in. On South Grand, walking down the mid-day street with Ray Brewer, we ran into George at the bar of Mangia Italiano, where we talked about the film. Because he worked for a power company, with alternating day/night shifts, it was possible to run into George at most any of time of day, and Mangia was a pretty good bet for a spontaneous run-in with him. Later on, George would wind up organizing some early Improv Trick open-mic nights there, which eventually moved from the Mangia mainstage to the basement.
Bill Chott’s Improv Trick moved around to many venues, itself, as the improv program looked for steady venues in which to rehearse and perform. Eventually, it would find a home in a small-business incubator on Cherokee Street, and Malich bounced through all those settings with Chott, eventually becoming a teacher in the program, though he worked outside of the I.T. umbrella later, as well.
While helping pre-produce the web series Comic Geeks, I was bent on the idea that the cast should get in some improv work together. Seemed to me that the perfect person to lead the sessions would be Malich, and we struck up an understanding: everybody attending would chip in $5, but George wouldn’t accept the bills himself. Instead, I would collect and hand the small stack to him at the end of each class. I dug that, really, as George was saying this: you’re asking me to teach professionally, so you should respect the process enough to kick in a little cash. But here’s what’s interesting. Not a few minutes after finishing the class, he’d be the one to say, “Let’s all sit down and have a drink together.” As simple and direct as that. And the money that he just pocketed was immediately spent on pizza and beer, his treat. If the hangout lasted an hour, it’d be that little stack of cash that’d be spent first and then he’d dig in and buy the next round, too.
Lemmons was definitely the spot most enjoyed for post-class pizza-and-beer with George. For a good while, a group of Improv Tricksters would gather in the weird, second-floor banquet rooms at Lemmons. It became something of a tradition, with George a steady presence. With one Geeks workshop, though, both he and I were working under the impression that the other person had booked the banquet room for a Sunday afternoon session. Not only had neither of us done that, there was a heavy metal matinee show taking place downstairs. You wouldn’t say that metal is conducive to creating improv comedy, but George soldiered through, constantly referring back to his thick binder of games and skills training, even as the kids downstairs were shredding into the early evening. That, in itself, was an improv trick.
In his teaching, George had an ability to put people at ease. With classes not linked to any specific number, you can wind up with two or three people in one class, 25 in another. George, like the amiable Chott, was able to maneuver through either extreme, and he was able to give direction without ever being condescending. You could be up there, in front of friends and strangers, absolutely butchering the moment (and, knowing it). But as soon as the scene was done, George would offer a line that started out, “That was very powerful, but would you consider...”
Over the last couple years, George also took a shine to working with a younger group of performers and filmmakers. One afternoon at O’Connell’s, another favored George haunt, I was talking to Tyler DePerro. He was a Webster film student then, and we were planning a summer video series. As we finished, I waved George over and he and Tyler wound up exchanging information. As it turned out, George would soon star in a short called “The Hundred,” a student film of DePerro’s. The thing he was most proud of wasn’t his acting, though; it was the fact that he created his own beard for his street-person character. Once, he even pulled a photo from his pocket, showing off his handiwork, with the enthusiasm of a kid.
When the 48 Hour Film Project rolled around in the summer of 2011, DePerro called George and I into his team, The Black Maria. George brought with him some actors, like Greer Deerling and Li’l Pete Kruchowski, another alum of A.; DePerro brought in the crew. The writing session was a bit strange, and George’s intensity seemed dialed up to another level. The morning of the shoot, I no-showed the early cast call out of frustration with the process and George was miffed, I could tell, though he kept that mostly under wraps around the young, Webster-dominated crew. We almost came to words outside of The Royale, where principal shooting was taking place, both of us sort of missing the ingredient needed to diffuse our irritation with one another.
As it turned out, this was during a time period at which George was suffering from the onsetting ills of the brain tumor; though I don’t recall the exact timing, it’s possible that he knew the diagnosis then, but hadn’t yet told the world. In retrospect, I’m sure he was just pushing us to get the best from everyone, and for what he envisioned for the project. Despite whatever was churning inside of him, he was still very generous, as an Improv Trickster might say. A good-looking, tall, strapping man, George had put on a little weight like many of us do in middle age. But, sure enough, portraying a sports instructor, George played his scene in form-fitting purple spandex shorts and a wife-beater, willing and able to get a reaction through whatever his physicality could bring to the scene. Once again, though this time acting on his own front porch, George’s voice was booming through the environment around it, as he played the scene for all it was worth.
Later in summer 2011, whatever weirdness that took place between us at the 48 Hour Film shoot had passed. Together, we found each other on the patio of the Atomic Cowboy, on an especially hot Sunday afternoon; both of us were cast in the experimental silent film Go South for Animal Index, directed, under the auspices of the arts organization Poetry Scores, by Chris King. [Disclosure: Look/Listen editor Stefene Russell is a member of Poetry Scores, and was also involved in the project.] In the film, George was cast as a military chaplain. By this point in another year-and-change shooting experience, I’d grown very used to seeing George in this religious costume. My role, as a wayward soldier, was to snatch a watermelon that Malich had stowed away for his own, later enjoyment. For whatever reason, the skit worked, and my bit-part character got multiple more scenes because of it. George’s sharing in that scene was the catalyst to it working.
Regarding acting, I don’t know much, but do know this: George was willing and able to share the moment, anytime an audience, or a camera, was around. Because of this, I wanted to use him in a short video series running online right now, Half Order Fried Rice. Long story short, I envisioned George as a superfan of the wrestler Lou Thesz. At one point in time, in the relatively better health of his post-surgery days, he agreed to do it. But time conspired against us having one more moment to share some creativity.
It would’ve been fun.
On a hot film set. In a cool barroom. It was always fun with George.
For Thomas Crone's earlier story on "Life is Meant for Living," the web series Malich wrote and produced to explore his experiences after being diagnosed with a brain tumor, click here.
