It was unmistakably Rod Steiger, heftier than one might have remembered him from his dozens of films, strolling into the Astor Street apartment of friends. He wore a black turtleneck under a black sport coat. A golden medallion hung from a chain around his neck and his handshake was fleshy but firm.
“I am here for the art show,” he said, referring to that feast for the eyes and strain on the pocketbook called Art 1998 Chicago, at Navy Pier. “I am always looking for things. I have been collecting art forever.”
The people seated next to him at the splendid dinner party heard Steiger, in that throaty voice of his, talk with knowledge and enthusiasm about many artists, most passionately van Gogh.
The 73-year-old actor was in good spirits, even though he complained about “not getting the kind of scripts I would like to be getting.”
A person about Steiger’s age mentioned the 1965 film “The Pawnbroker,” in which Steiger’s character, haunted by memories of German concentration camps, impaled his palm on a spike.
“Ah,” Steiger said. “That was a moment, wasn’t it?”
