The last time I saw Rod Steiger, he was definitely some place he should not have been — the Independent Film Channel’s “Dinner for Five.” In case you don’t know, “Dinner for Five” is an irreverent,“in-your-face” celebrity chat, with guests who are now stars like Marilyn Manson, Vince Vaughn, Daryl Hannah and Chris Rock trying to outdo each other with outrageous experiences (their favorite topics seem to be flatulence, drugs and sexual indiscretions).

Well, last week, I tuned in and there sat Rod Steiger, stoically enduring an infantile giggle-fest. It made me think of Pope John Paul in a singles bar. Occasionally, one of the guests would ask Rod a question. Rod’s responses were serious — usually an incisive observation on acting, art or literature — not what this group of jokers wanted to hear. Well, my heart went out to him as he smiled tolerantly at his fellow guests and struggled to be a part of the gaiety. He was uncomfortable, though.

The event was especially poignant when I recalled it a few days later when I heard the news. While I was watching “Dinner for Five,” Steiger was near death in a hospital in Los Angeles. While I was listening to him talk about his role in “The Pawnbroker” and the impact of the holocaust on the film industry — explaining to a polite but indifferent group of young “celebs,” how he worked for the respect of his peers — the real Steiger was in a coma. No, he didn’t fit in at “Dinner for Five,” and perhaps he was a party-pooper elsewhere, too. Life was always a serious affair for Rod Steiger.

CNN tells me that he made over 85 movies. I would estimate that 50 percent were turkeys — hopeless, confusing assemblages of inane dialogue and predictable plotting, having nothing to recommend them but Steiger’s presence. Steiger could take a lackluster character and make him emanate a kind of intensity that made the character — not the plot unfortunately — memorable. I remember when he did “Marty” on television, a lonely, alienated man and the kind of character for which Steiger had a special empathy. And my favorite “rant role,” was the arrogant egomaniac Stanley Hoff in “The Big Knife” in 1955. (I still turn on TCM just to watch Hoff, the power-mad head of a major studio, destroy Shelley Winters and Jack Palance.) He also did an astonishing Willy Loman in a TV-adaptation of “Death of a Salesman” in 1966.

Steiger’s friends and biographers usually describe him with that cliché, “a deeply troubled and talented man.” He certainly had cause to be “deeply troubled.” The product of a dysfunctional family complete with an absconding father and an alcoholic mother, a 10-year-old Steiger endured the taunts of his classmates when he retrieved his mother from the local tavern. His stoic demeanor won him the nickname, “Rodney, The Rock.” At 16, he joined the Navy, and after the war, attended acting classes on the G.I. Bill. Always intense and dedicated, he was immediately successful on television and went on to film “On the Waterfront,” for which he received an Oscar nomination.

His single-minded dedication and intensity fascinated directors and puzzled his fellow actors. Moody and distant, he made frequent references to his wish to “give and receive respect.” Married and divorced five times, domestic bliss evaded him. Shortly after winning the Best Actor Academy Award for his performance in “In the Heat of the Night,” he became deeply depressed and unable to work. No doubt, the stigma of “mental illness” made Hollywood reluctant to cast him, and eventually Steiger ended up in a series of badly-made biblical epics, gangster movies and westerns in Spain, Italy, England and even Peru. Always in demand as a narrator, he did “voice over” recordings for a large number of filmed biographies.

Certainly, he never lacked courage, taking roles that others avoided. Most memorable, perhaps, is “No Way To Treat A Lady,” in which Steiger portrayed a serial murderer with a gift for impersonating priests, cops and flamboyant women (the movie became inane, but Steiger remained terrific). He also did a psychotic homosexual in “The Sergeant” a fierce and singing Jud Fry in “Oklahoma!” and the tattooed protagonist of Ray Bradbury’s “The Illustrated Man.” Off the screen, he astonished Hollywood by testifying before a series of committees in Washington on behalf of federal funding for mental health programs. His efforts were instrumental in acquiring $40 million for programs that provided help for the mentally ill.

No other actor had Steiger’s penchant for portraying historic persons.

Consider this catalogue: Pontius Pilate, Mussolini (repeatedly), W. C. Fields, Napoleon Bonaparte, Al Capone, Ulysses S. Grant and yes, even Pope John Paul! The only role he turned down to his everlasting regret was General George S. Patton — a part that went to George C Scott and you know what happened then.

“I was something of a pacifist at the time,” he said.

Depression continued to plague him until the end and his friends commented that each day was a battle. Medication and therapy were essential. Steiger once commented that treatment for depression was the act of “trading a set of serious problems for a set of less serious problems.”

In the final analysis, perhaps he was rarely happy or comfortable in the presence of others, but he did succeed in acquiring the response that was most meaningful to him — respect.

(Gary Carden writes about books and movies for The Smoky Mountain News. He can be reachedat gcarden498@aol.com)