Chapter 1
From the Streets of the Bronx to Hollywood Legend
Al Pacino's memoir opens a window into an extraordinary life that began in the most ordinary of circumstances. Born in the South Bronx to a broken home, few could have predicted that this street-smart kid would become one of the most celebrated actors of all time. What makes this story particularly compelling is how Pacino's authenticity-his refusal to compromise his artistic vision despite fame and fortune-has defined his journey. Beloved by generations of film enthusiasts, Pacino's work in The Godfather trilogy, Scarface, and Dog Day Afternoon has transcended mere entertainment to become cultural touchstones. Even Martin Scorsese once remarked that Pacino "doesn't just act; he inhabits another person's soul." This intimate memoir reveals the man behind the iconic performances, offering unprecedented insight into the mind of an artist who transformed American cinema while remaining true to his roots.
Chapter 2
The Boy from the South Bronx
Growing up in the South Bronx meant life revolved around games, chases, and street-smart survival. Our neighborhood gang included characters like Bruce, Petey, Cliffy, and special-needs Hymie whose strength deterred rival gangs. We'd taunt cops with shouts of "Dirty copper!" and engage in daring feats-walking along five-story rooftop ledges, swinging on ropes over ponds near the Bronx Zoo, and exploring the dangerous "Dutchies" where wayward kids lived with homemade weapons. Cliffy was our fearless leader, a surprising intellectual with Dostoevsky in his back pocket despite being beaten daily by his four older brothers.
I lived two distinct lives-one with my street gang and another playing baseball for the PAL team. When my baseball glove was stolen at knifepoint, I realized how vulnerable I was without my friends. Though I resented my mother's strict rules that kept me from late-night adventures with the gang, years later I understood she had saved my life. Petey, Cliffy, and Bruce all eventually died from heroin.
My earliest memory with both parents was at the Dover Theatre when I was three or four. I spotted my father in military police uniform below our balcony seats and shouted "Dada!" despite my mother trying to quiet me. After the film, I walked between them, noticing the pearl-handled gun in his holster. He left for war and never truly returned to us.
Years later, I discovered I'd lived with my paternal grandparents for eight months as a toddler. My grandmother Josephine helped immigrants at Ellis Island, while my namesake grandfather Alfred was a moody house painter. This early separation from my mother explained much about my later life choices.
My maternal grandfather James, born Vincenzo in Corleone, Sicily, became my first real father figure. When I was six, he taught me never to be a "rat" after I proudly told him about reporting a classmate. My grandmother Kate would feed me baby food while telling stories where I was the main character-perhaps my first taste of performing. These influences shaped me far more than I realized at the time, planting seeds for the artist I would become.
Chapter 3
Finding My Voice Through Art
At fifteen, I experienced a transformative moment watching Chekhov's "The Seagull" at the old Elsmere Theatre. Despite the nearly empty two-thousand-seat venue, the play hit me "like a lightning bolt." Though I didn't fully understand all the themes, I was riveted by the performances and deeply affected by Konstantin's suicide. I began carrying Chekhov's books everywhere, finding in them a world that spoke to something deep within me.
Having passed my audition for the High School of Performing Arts, I'd ride the train from the Bronx with my friend Cliffy, emerging at Times Square to walk the remaining blocks to school. Once I spotted Paul Newman walking past us and marveled that he was "a real person." This glimpse of a living, breathing actor-not just an image on screen-made me realize that my dreams might actually be attainable.
My relationship with my mother grew complicated as I entered my teens. When her engagement to a new suitor ended abruptly by telegram, I cruelly remarked it was "too good to be true"-one of the worst things I ever said to her. Her subsequent breakdown led to electroshock treatments and costly medications, pushing me to quit school at sixteen to work. Leaving school wasn't devastating-I was ecstatic. I'd never felt school was my place, even when briefly selected to represent Performing Arts in a newspaper article before being replaced with a more mainstream-looking student.
At eighteen, I'd sit nursing fifteen-cent beers at Martin's Bar and Grill, watching the Herbert Berghof Studio acting school across the street. There I met Charlie Laughton and immediately thought, "This guy is my teacher." I enrolled at Herbert Berghof Studio on scholarship, cleaning hallways in exchange for classes. Charlie became my mentor, introducing me to poetry and sharing wisdom like the Flying Wallendas story: "Life's on the wire. The rest is just waiting." His guidance gave me direction when I had none, showing me that art could be a legitimate path forward.
During this period of constant financial struggle, reading became my sanctuary. I'd spend hours in libraries for warmth and at Automats where I'd nurse a single coffee while devouring books. Reading Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast" was so absorbing that I'd think, "I don't want to finish the pages, I like it here too much." Late at night, I'd roam factory districts bellowing Shakespeare soliloquies into the darkness, training myself on the great monologues without needing anyone's permission. This self-education formed the foundation of my craft.
Chapter 4
The Village Theater Scene and Early Struggles
The Greenwich Village theater scene of the early 1960s was our Paris of the 1900s, our Berlin of the 1920s-a renaissance carrying forward the spirit of Sartre, Ibsen, Brecht, Ginsberg, and Kerouac. I worked at the Living Theatre, founded by visionaries Judith Malina and Julian Beck, cleaning toilets and preparing sets. Their productions were so powerful that audiences would "go home afterward and lock yourself in your room and just cry for two days." Their success paved the way for off-Broadway theater and eventually the off-off-off-Broadway cafes where I performed.
At Caffe Cino, I performed "Hello Out There," giving sixteen shows weekly and passing the hat for enough money to eat. Our apartment became a waypoint for various artists, including occasional visits from a young Joan Baez, who would sit cross-legged in the corner playing guitar before she became famous. This vibrant artistic community sustained me creatively even as I struggled financially.
After my mother's death, I entered a hard period of mourning where I wandered zombielike, missing subway stops and bumping into things. It seemed impossible at my age to lose a mother. I worked various jobs to survive-as an usher at the Rivoli Theatre in Times Square, where I was eventually fired for looking at myself too much in the candy counter's four-way mirror, and delivering Show Business newspaper along Seventh Avenue, earning twelve dollars a day.
During this adrift period, I once called my grandfather crying from a bar payphone. He begged me to come live with him, but I stayed in my eight-dollar-a-week Chelsea rooming house. Another time, he arranged a construction job for me, but I called him the morning I was supposed to start, having been up all night. He simply said, "You're not going to work, I know. That's okay." His unconditional acceptance gave me the freedom to pursue my own path, however uncertain it seemed.
My grandfather was a warm man with a soft heart despite coming from a merciless world. He'd quit school at nine and run away to work on a coal truck. Following his Sicilian town's tradition, he became a skilled plasterer like his father. I watched him work with incredible focus-nothing else existed when he was in his zone. His movements were decisive, clean, fast and intricate. This affected me deeply, as I would one day approach my own work with similar focus.
Chapter 5
Breakthrough Moments on Stage
My life changed dramatically during a performance of Strindberg's "Creditors" at Frank Biancamano's Actors Gallery in SoHo. Something profound happened-the power of expression revealed itself to me. Words were coming out of my mouth, Strindberg's words, but I was saying them as though they were mine. I felt myself lifting off the ground, becoming part of something larger, universal. In that moment, I knew I didn't have to worry anymore about eating or money or fame. A door had opened to the living spirit of energy, and I knew: I want to do this forever.
Herbert Berghof, a stern Austrian who had fled Vienna before the war, exploded at me after my performance in Charlie's class. "Who do you think you are? Who gave you the right to do-things like that?" he shouted, face red with anger, while Charlie squeezed my arm insisting I was great. Decades later, when visiting Charlie in his hospital bed, I asked what Berghof's reaction had been about. Charlie simply said, "I think he saw the future."
Something was happening in acting then-a more visceral approach started by Brando, who along with Montgomery Clift and James Dean had transformed the craft. Brando had opened doors for actors like Paul Newman, Ben Gazzara, and Anthony Franciosa, while Dustin Hoffman later "blasted open the door" with his performance in The Graduate. I was part of this new wave, bringing raw emotional truth to performances.
My big break came with Israel Horovitz's play "The Indian Wants the Bronx" about an East Indian man encountering two street toughs. I played Murph, an unpredictable character with hidden depths. The play felt right for me-I could bring my whole self to it, practically channeling Cliffy and my old crew. During rehearsals at a Bleecker Street loft, Charlie and Penny watched and celebrated afterward, Charlie declaring, "You've arrived, Al."
When the play moved to the Astor Place Theatre, I had to audition for a role I'd created, which felt humiliating. But my passionate performance won back the part, and Clive Barnes' enthusiastic review in the Times changed everything. John Cazale and I both won Obie Awards. This play was my introduction to the world after years of feeling like an outsider looking in.
Chapter 6
The Godfather and Overnight Fame
My relationship with Francis Ford Coppola began unexpectedly after he saw me in "Does a Tiger Wear a Necktie?" on Broadway. He sent me an original script about a college professor's affair with a student and invited me to San Francisco. Despite my fear of flying, I made the trip and spent five days discussing his project over wine. I was impressed by Coppola's genius, excitement, and leadership qualities. At his company American Zoetrope, I encountered what I later realized was a group of young radical filmmakers including George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, and Brian De Palma-though I didn't recognize them at the time.
Unfortunately, Coppola's film project with me was rejected everywhere. I returned to New York thinking I'd never hear from him again, until months later when he unexpectedly called to offer me the role of Michael Corleone in The Godfather-something so outrageous I could hardly believe it was real.
What made The Godfather connect with audiences worldwide was its portrayal of family dynamics people could identify with, combined with Brando's iconic, larger-than-life performance as someone who could protect the vulnerable. His Godfather had to be an icon, and Brando made him as memorable as Citizen Kane or Superman.
Francis Coppola carried tremendous pressure throughout filming. Once, after being denied an additional shot during the funeral sequence on Long Island, I found him sitting alone on a tombstone, bawling like a baby. When I asked what was wrong, he simply said, "They won't give me another shot." Even he answered to someone else. His passion convinced me we were making something special.
Making The Godfather brought me to Sicily for the first time-an experience that flooded me with cosmic energy despite my initial reluctance. Everything about my heritage rushed back, even things I'd never experienced. The locals, though poor, showed tremendous kindness, inviting this unknown actor to mangia with them.
After filming, I was broke and in debt, with MGM suing me over a contract for another gangster film. Fame hit immediately after the premiere-a woman kissed my hand and called me "Godfather" on the street, and another greeted me as "Michael" while waiting at a traffic light. My precious anonymity was gone. As Heathcote Williams said, fame is the perversion of the natural human instinct for validation. Instead of shining light on characters, all lights were now shining on me, and I couldn't see out.
Chapter 7
The Burden of Sudden Success
Fame hit me hard in ways I wasn't prepared for. Before The Godfather, I'd only seen myself in a newspaper once, and I couldn't recognize myself in that image. I was still working as a building superintendent, not long past homelessness. Today's fame-seeking culture differs greatly from my experience; people chase it like a lottery win without understanding its cost.
My reaction to the film's success was to distance myself from it, convincing myself I had nothing to do with it. I had played a good part, but Coppola was the miracle who made that movie. I was leery of the media attention and had once imagined being content with repertory theater, perhaps marrying a seamstress and having many children. After The Godfather, I turned down countless roles including Han Solo in Star Wars and opportunities to work with legendary directors like Bergman, Bertolucci, and Fellini because I couldn't connect with the parts.
I received my first Academy Award nomination for The Godfather just as we opened Richard III in Boston. Only recently did I learn that Hollywood believed I snubbed the Oscars because I was nominated as supporting actor rather than lead alongside Brando. This false rumor damaged my Hollywood reputation for years. The truth was simpler-I was afraid to attend, overwhelmed by newfound fame, and somewhat playing "the Garbo card" with my reclusiveness. Many actors were rebelling against Hollywood traditions then-Burton, Taylor, Scott, and Brando himself didn't attend the ceremony.
When Marty Bregman wanted me to play Frank Serpico, I initially wasn't interested in the treatment based on Peter Maas's biography. But meeting Serpico changed everything-I saw something in his eyes that connected with me. When I asked why he didn't just take payoffs and give the money away, he replied, "Al, if I did that, who would I be when I listen to Beethoven?" That statement made me want to play him.
During filming, I became so immersed in the role that I once flashed my prop police badge at a polluting truck before realizing what I was doing. This level of immersion became my trademark approach to characters, allowing me to discover truths about them that weren't explicitly in the script.
Chapter 8
The Godfather Part II and Artistic Growth
Mario Puzo showed me the first draft of The Godfather: Part II script, bluntly telling me "It's crap." Paramount had commissioned it before the first film was even made, just as insurance. I declined their escalating offers-$100,000, $200,000, then $600,000. One producer even showed me a tin box supposedly containing a million dollars in cash. But money wasn't my concern-the script wasn't ready.
When Coppola came aboard, he understood my hesitation wasn't about money but quality. Charlie and I flew to San Francisco, staying at the Fairmont Hotel, where we worked intensively with Francis for six days and nights to improve the script. As Charlie said when we left, "I think we all made history here, Al." Coppola explained that Part II was a metaphor for second-generation Italian Americans figuring out the American way of life. My challenge was reconnecting with where Michael ended in the first film-that enigmatic, dangerous figure-and determining where to take him next.
Francis and Mario brilliantly created Hyman Roth as Michael's new rival in Part II-a veteran gangster posing as an ally but secretly a formidable opponent. Based on Meyer Lansky, the character needed to seem as smart as Michael, if not smarter. After various candidates didn't fit, Charlie suggested my former teacher Lee Strasberg. Working with my acting mentor added an Oedipal dimension to the story-to Michael, Hyman Roth was a substitute father figure he would ultimately have to kill for his own survival.
I'd accumulated surrogate fathers throughout my life-Charlie, my manager Marty Bregman, and now Lee Strasberg. They occupied different lanes: Marty focused on my professional success, Charlie on my work and personal growth, while Lee offered intellectual nourishment. They each filled different voids left by my absent father.
To access Michael's headspace, I developed a technique of flooding my brain with classical music before scenes, creating a sense memory I could return to while filming. Playing Michael in Part II required accessing different dimensions of his character-watching him shed connections until he's utterly alone. The weight of playing a man who discovers his brother's betrayal was tremendous. For the pivotal moment when Michael realizes Fredo's betrayal, I only truly captured it in one take, telling Francis "I'm not going to get there again."
By the end of Part II, Michael's downfall was complete, turned to stone. I couldn't imagine playing him again-the character had reached his tragic conclusion.
Chapter 9
Creative Peaks and Personal Valleys
I was spiraling out in a London hotel room, watching hallucinations of mice and bats, wondering if I was developing delirium tremens. Charlie sat with me as I raved about not wanting to make my next picture with Marty Bregman. The haze of fame, alcohol and drugs clouded my judgment. I initially turned down Dog Day Afternoon, but Bregman wisely called me when I was sober, gently asking me to reread the script. I immediately changed my mind.
After three weeks of rehearsal for Dog Day Afternoon, I watched the first day's rushes and realized I wasn't playing a real person. I whispered to Bregman that we needed to reshoot, then fled. The night before the reshoot, I paced my small Upper East Side apartment drinking white wine, struggling to find my character's motivation. I returned with a more animated, agitated approach that had cast members wondering if I was having a breakdown.
The film's most powerful moment came when Burtt Harris whispered for me to say "Attica" to the crowd, referencing a recent prison riot. When I did, the people went crazy-that's what film can be. When filming ended, the character's spirit flew out of me so completely that even Sidney Lumet noticed its departure.
During this period, my friend Norman Ornellas was dying of cancer at just thirty-five. After his diagnosis, we had lunch at the Ginger Man where he told me, "You know, Al, three months, thirty years. There is no difference." He seemed to possess profound knowledge about time when you're losing it. In my desperation to help him, I turned to psychics, seances, and quack doctors-anything that might cure him. His father once asked me if I could "bring back Norman" and even offered to trade places with his son. That depth of parental love struck me deeply.
Dog Day Afternoon continued my successful run after The Godfather, Serpico, and Godfather II. Another critical success, box office hit, and Oscar nomination I didn't attend. My fame grew more intense and isolating. There was no roadmap for handling this new reality-when I asked Lee Strasberg for advice, he simply said, "Darling, you simply have to adjust." I coped through drugs and alcohol, retreating to my small apartment, wondering if I deserved this "gift" of celebrity while feeling disconnected from both others and myself.
Chapter 10
Scarface and Cultural Immortality
Paul Muni's boundary-breaking performance in the original 1932 Scarface deeply inspired me. Howard Hawks' masterpiece was a wild commentary on Depression-era excesses. Muni embodied total freedom on screen-like Brando in The Wild One-unrestricted by boundaries or conventions. This performance made me believe we could remake this classic for our time.
After our separation, Marty Bregman enthusiastically embraced my "Scarface" idea. He secured the rights and initially brought in Sidney Lumet to direct, with David Rabe attempting a script. When that didn't work, Bregman hired Oliver Stone, fresh from winning an Oscar for "Midnight Express." Though Lumet suggested modernizing the story around the Mariel boatlift, creative differences led to his replacement by Brian De Palma, who shared Bregman's vision for an operatic, colorful film.
Contrary to popular belief, I've never touched cocaine, though my abundant energy fueled Tony Montana's character. Our "Scarface" wasn't about Depression-era scarcity but Reagan-era abundance and greed-everything available yet somehow out of reach. We were mocking "trickle-down economics" and the "grab-everything-you-can" philosophy. Oliver Stone would later distill this into "Greed is good" for "Wall Street."
I loved playing Tony Montana's two-dimensional character-"what you see is what you get, and fuck you." The only moment of self-reflection comes when he kills his best friend Manny. I prepared extensively-creating his distinctive scar, working with dialect coaches, and training in knife combat.
"Scarface" initially flopped critically-people walked out of the New York premiere. At the Sardi's after-party, only Eddie Murphy appreciated it among the "zombie-mode" sophisticated crowd. Oliver Stone reported regular audiences were "dancing in the aisles," but prestigious directors criticized me for making it. The film received no Academy Award nominations.
Over time, the hip-hop generation embraced Tony Montana's mythology, recognizing it as a parable about viewing life as cheap and dispensable. The film became counterculture, spreading worldwide across all demographics. At its 35th anniversary screening at the Beacon Theatre, even skeptical friends I'd invited recognized its richness when experienced with an audience. To this day, it remains my biggest film, still generating significant residuals and cultural impact across generations.
Chapter 11
Retreating and Returning
After "Revolution" flopped in England, I was out. My movie career seemed through. What I had built role by role was gone, squandered in just a few years. Each failure felt like a heavier weight crushing my chest. I questioned why I was acting at all, feeling trapped and creatively drained. So I quit-no announcement, I simply stopped accepting film parts.
After retreating from commercial work, I returned to my avant-garde roots, particularly fascinated with Heathcote Williams' play "The Local Stigmatic." This savage one-act about two gamblers who assault a celebrity resonated with my thoughts on fame and identity. Though Harold Pinter praised our film adaptation, Elaine May warned me never to release it publicly due to my fame. I kept editing it obsessively, meeting film artists like Skip Lievsay and composers Howard Shore and Elmer Bernstein during the process.
While editing "The Local Stigmatic," I reconnected with Diane Keaton. Unlike my usual shyness with women, I pursued her, and we developed a comfortable relationship. She was commercially successful while I retreated from Hollywood, but this imbalance never bothered me. Diane affectionately called me "a lazy eye-tie" but supported my artistic endeavors.
During this period, I found peace in anonymity until a stranger in Central Park reminded me, "We haven't seen you in a movie in a long time. We need you up there." Though I was content with my freedom, I suddenly discovered I was broke with only $90,000 left. Diane confronted my lawyer, calling me "an idiot" about finances, and pushed me to return to work. With her encouragement, I reconnected with Marty Bregman and made "Sea of Love," which became a $100 million hit and revitalized my career.
In 1990, riding the momentum from "Sea of Love," I found myself posing for a People magazine cover shoot ahead of "The Godfather: Part III" release. Despite my earlier reluctance with media, my career was experiencing what Hollywood loves to call a comeback, though I simply saw it as returning to work.
Chapter 12
The Oscar and Beyond
I received two Oscar nominations in 1993: for "Glengarry Glen Ross" and "Scent of a Woman." People started saying it was "my turn" to win. I hired publicist Pat Kingsley who convinced me to do a Barbara Walters interview despite my reluctance. When I finally won after losing seven previous nominations (including earlier that same night), I began my speech with "Well, you broke my streak." I thanked mentors like Strasberg and Laughton, then left with my Oscar-only to be whisked directly to a private jet for "Carlito's Way" filming. Alone with my statue on the plane, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment similar to when I first joined the Actors Studio.
Winning an Oscar after 25 years in the business didn't dramatically change my career trajectory-the offers were already there, though my pay increased. I continued choosing roles that connected with me, leading to films like "Heat," "Donnie Brasco," "The Devil's Advocate," "Any Given Sunday," and "The Insider."
In "Heat," I played cocaine-using LAPD Lieutenant Vincent Hanna, though director Michael Mann cut scenes showing my character taking drugs that would've explained my volatile performance. The film was special because it finally paired me on-screen with Robert De Niro. Our friendship began years earlier when Jill Clayburgh introduced us on Fourteenth Street-I immediately sensed his unusual intensity and charisma. Despite media portrayals of us as competitors simply because we emerged around the same time with Italian surnames, De Niro has been a loyal friend.
Looking for Richard became my passion project. I financed it myself to maintain creative control, working on it while simultaneously filming Carlito's Way and Heat. The process was exhilarating-I'd direct while acting, orchestrating scenes like "a third-base coach" with hand signals while on camera. Despite my dedication over four years, the film's distribution proved disappointing. Even though the DGA gave me a Best Director award and The New York Times named it a top 10 film, at Hollywood parties I discovered almost no one had heard of it-a painful lesson in Hollywood politics.
Chapter 13
The Undiscovered Country
I walk the streets of Beverly Hills, barely disguised in sunglasses and earphones, contemplating my dwindling options as I age. My passion project-a film adaptation of King Lear-keeps me alive with creative fire, though securing funding proves challenging. Physical ailments greet me each morning-aching bones, Fuchs' dystrophy affecting my vision-reminders of my mortality despite feeling renewed creative purpose.
Bette Davis wisely noted that "If the script is good and the director is good, they don't have to pay you"-a principle I've lived by except when financial necessity forced me to chase paychecks. Despite accumulating more Golden Raspberry nominations than Oscars, I've found fulfillment in television projects like Angels in America (playing Roy Cohn), Hunters, and portraying real-life figures like Phil Spector, Jack Kevorkian, and Joe Paterno.
Facing mortality changes your perspective in ways younger people can't truly understand. I've had to confront practical matters like estate planning-something alien to my upbringing where wills and bank accounts didn't exist. There's a certain purity in never expecting inheritance, where death means only loss, not gain. Aging brings physical challenges too-my vocal cord was paralyzed after surgery, threatening my career until it mysteriously recovered.
My late-career renaissance began with Once Upon a Time in Hollywood with Tarantino, which I did despite minimal pay because I valued working with that caliber of talent. Then came The Irishman with De Niro and Scorsese, earning me an Oscar nomination alongside legends like Brad Pitt and Anthony Hopkins. That Oscar night was special because I brought my children-my oldest two watching from above with their wicked commentary while my youngest daughter sat beside me, thrilled to meet her favorite celebrities.
Writing this memoir has revealed my fundamentally anarchic nature-what Charlie called being "a wild square." I've never had a plan, just moved from one thing to another. I don't pretend to know everything; I'm simply an actor who occasionally finds roles that allow me to express something meaningful. That fourteen-year-old boy who broke through in Light Up the Sky discovered something profound that changed my life.
The places that shaped me have vanished-like the 34th Street East theater where I watched "The Red Shoes" countless times while working as an usher. Despite regular rejections and firings, I maintained my confidence. Through it all, New York gave me empty streets to practice my monologues under the stars, and I always believed another job would come while I pursued acting. My work became my life-"something that opens the door and allows the spirit to come out."
I cherish looking back at my past. When I describe my South Bronx childhood to young people today, it sounds like a fictional small town-our block was its own universe with characters like Marty-P jumping from rooftops, silent Philly with his mother, and the strange man who warned "You don't kill time-time kills you." Under the El train was our entire world: the barbershop where I needed a box to sit in the chair, the blue-and-white tiled luncheonette where my mother took me, and the Dover Theatre where we watched movies together.
I survived while my childhood friends didn't-perhaps because of my mother calling me home, or meeting Charlie, or discovering Shakespeare. As Charlie told me near the end of his life, "You're a miracle, Al." My whole life was a moon shot.
