Superhero

by Chris Nickson

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was only March, and 1981 was already shaping up to be Chris’s busiest year as a professional actor. He’d been replaced onstage by Richard Thomas (better known to millions as John-Boy Walton) in Fifth of July. He was set to begin filming Deathtrap, with Michael Caine. As soon as the shooting of that was complete, there would be all the publicity for the American release of Superman II, and then he planned to return to Williamstown to take part in their summer season.

  That should have been plenty to keep anybody occupied, but just to make sure he’d stay busy he’d also developed a commercial venture, “a publicity stunt,” as he called it, named Reeve Air. Essentially it was a charter service to help defray the expenses of the Beech Baron he kept parked at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey His name lent cachet, although it was the pilots at Beech East who got the flying work (Chris couldn’t be one of his own pilots, since he didn’t have a commercial license). Businessmen and others were actually chartering Chris’s airplane, and he received a commission on each deal. It wasn’t a big business, not really registered, but it helped pay for one of his hobbies.

  Excellent as he was, Michael Caine wasn’t the sole reason Chris had taken the part in Deathtrap. The script, by Jay Presson Allen, from Ira Levin’s play, was taut, and it would also give him the chance to work with Sidney Lumet, one of the “varsity” he’d referred to in awe a couple of years before.

  As in Fifth of July, Chris was playing a gay man, which, he hoped, would certainly get him away from any Superman stereotyping. He needed to try and establish himself as a versatile actor to the moviegoing public, and the best way, he thought, was to take parts as far removed from a hero as he could find.

  “I wouldn’t take a part unless it was weird,” he admitted later. “I had a little weirdness period … . If you give me a script, I’ve got to be either psychotic, homosexual, or in some other strange way corrupt.” It was a reaction, of course, but a perfectly understandable one.

  What he didn’t know, although he’d find out when shooting began, was that ironically it was the Man of Steel who’d got him the part. As Lumet told him when they met on the set, “Anyone who can make me believe they’re Superman can be in my movie.”

  Before that meeting, though, he had some real work to do researching the role. Like most serious actors, research and more research was the foundation of his characterizations. It gave him a grounding on which he could build all of his ideas. And to be a murderous psychotic, what better than to spend the final daylight hours of his Broadway run with criminal psychologists at Bellevue Medical Center?

  Given that Deathtrap had been a stage play, the filming was relatively straightforward. For once, Chris wasn’t traveling hither and yon to locations, but was spending his time purely on a soundstage. To his delight, Lumet chose to treat it like a play, scheduling daily rehearsals in the mornings for the cast. For Chris, this was well-trodden turf. Michael Caine, however, wasn’t as happy with the exercise. He didn’t have Chris’s stage background, his long career having been purely in movies. But, albeit reluctantly, because he was a true professional, he did what was asked of him, and a chemistry developed between Caine and Chris, which was necessary given the ongoing gay theme of the plot, right down to the kiss the two shared in one scene.

  In fact, Chris joked, “Michael and I had a real La Cage Aux Folles routine going off-camera to get in the mood.”

  It was an intimate film, and the setting Lumet chose made it seem more confined, even deliberately claustrophobic. It was never intended to be the type of work that would bring in record grosses—Middle America simply didn’t want to see gay murder mysteries—but with a modest budget of $10.5 million, it didn’t need to do that well to cover its costs, and Michael Caine and Chris would bring in audiences on their names alone.

  But Chris didn’t have the time to sit around and consider the film’s prospects. No sooner was filming done than Superman II was finally due to be released in America, and there was the usual welter of publicity, benefits, and premieres that he had to attend, the biggest being a prescreening brunch with Vice President George Bush.

  It was, perhaps, appropriate, as Superman saved America (and the world) in this film, topping it all off by replacing the dome on the White House. And the new Reagan administration was eager to embrace the sort of basic “truth, justice, and the American way” apple pie values that Superman personified.

  Notably, the final credits of the movie announced that Superman III would be coming soon. Chris had already said he was willing to reprise his role, but beyond that, the Salkinds were being more hopeful than anything. Outside America, Superman II had done well, but hadn’t quite been the blockbuster the first had been. The gamble of opening it outside the borders of the red, white, and blue hadn’t paid off in the way they’d hoped. What they needed in the United States was good reviews and marvelous numbers.

  The reviews, at least, were everything they could have hoped for. In the New York Times, Vincent Canby seemed to encapsulate the critics’ feelings when he wrote, “It’s that rare film phenomenon—a movie far better than the one that prompted it.”

  The Los Angeles Times pointed out, quite rightly, that “the film’s fun comes from the character, dialogue, and performance, not effects … [although] there are, of course, enough effects to fill a dozen Saturday matinee serials.”

  Really, Superman II offered more scope than its predecessor. The story of Kal-El, the boy sent from Krypton, had already been told (although it was rehashed over what might have been the longest opening credits in movie history). This could concentrate on Superman, and it certainly did.

  One of the riders Chris had included in his contract was that Superman be portrayed without pomposity and with humor. And through most of the film that would be done—all the way to his sensitive side once Lois Lane discovered his secret identity.

  Chris really did have to act in this—there was far more to his character than action scenes and a dimpled smile here. In its serious moments—directed with the kind of touch that would have elevated Somewhere in Time above the mundane—he was able to use minimal gestures to portray complex emotions. Comparing it to the original, it was obvious that Chris had come a long way in a very short time as an actor. He’d learned his craft over a number of years on the stage, but becoming a star had forced him to improve by leaps and bounds, even if it hadn’t always been apparent on-screen. The callow lead of Somewhere in Time had turned into a real presence.

  Certainly the reviewers enjoyed his work, finding plenty to praise in his acting. Sheila Benson singled out the moment Clark Kent admitted his dual life to Lois Lane, “directed like an old vaudeville turn, a change of character with the actor’s back to you. When Clark Kent finally drops all pretenses and turns around to face Lois as Superman, with no intervening phone booth, the moment pays off perfectly”

  In New York, David Denby had to single him out from a cast filled with fine actors by noting that “good as they are, the comic-heroic mixture wouldn’t jell without Christopher Reeve’s sweet, courtly presence at its center … . Reeve’s bashful gallantry is thoroughly winning … . [His] little smile and charming modesty make the conceit work.”

  He’d delivered the film performance he was truly capable of, and it was paying off well. Certainly the initial numbers were impressive. In its first week, Superman II took in $24 million, a new American record, and although the dollars dipped somewhat (in the end, it didn’t take in as much as the original), the general consensus was that this was the better film.

  Warners even tried to get Chris an Oscar nomination for his work, something he never expected, and believed was futile.

  “When Warner Brothers told me … I said, ‘Save your bucks. Spend them on someone else. It’s hopeless.’”

  And it was. Chris was portrayed in the press as being angry and upset when he wasn’t nominated, but Superman wasn’t the kind of role that was likely to bring anyone an Academy Award (Best Actor in 1980 we
nt to Robert De Niro, for Raging Bull—Superman II had enjoyed a couple of American screenings in December 1980 to qualify for that year’s Oscars), and he was enough of a realist to understand that. It was entertainment, and not art, and thus seen as something slightly inferior, although he did add, in an interview with Gene Siskel, that “it would be nice if performances could be judged on merit alone and without regard to the kind of film they’re in, so that it would be acceptable if you give a good performance in what turns out to be a big box-office film.”

  Gratifying as awards and nominations might be, Chris was focused enough not to lose sight of the fact that he was an actor because he loved acting. Becoming a star was little more than a lucky break, and he knew it. But at whatever level, he’d still be involved in the theater, and that was where he was going to return, to Williamstown for July and August, and a small role in The Greeks, in its American premiere.

  The play itself, which had originally been performed in 1980 by the Royal Shakespeare Company, lasted a grueling five hours. Adapted from Euripides, it ambitiously told the story of the Trojan War and the House of Atreus.

  Although a big household name by now, in Williamstown Chris was just another member of the company, which reunited him with Celeste Holm, in whose play he’d toured directly after high school, as well as introducing him to talents like Edward Herrmann and Blythe Danner (whose daughter, Gwyneth Paltrow, was also in the cast).

  Williamstown represented a chance to escape from the increasing pressures of life as a star. With Gae and Matthew in tow, “I wander around the town barefoot, and nobody bothers me. Those of us who are ‘names’ get enough attention elsewhere.”

  Simply, he was glad to be involved in any way with the Williamstown Theatre. The place, the people, the area, held a magic for him, and the productions kept him on his toes. The Greeks, with its classical subject matter, held particular appeal.

  “Nikos [Psacharopoulos, artistic director] sent me the script, but I told him I’d do it without even reading the script. I said, ‘Nikos, tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’ This is the first classical part I’ve played since I was a drama student at Juilliard in 1974. You can’t come on like a plumber. For me, Williamstown is like a continuing adult-education program.”

  The success of Superman II made Chris into even more of a public figure than he’d been before, which meant that once again his private life came under the scrutiny of the press. Never mind that he was a father, happily settled into a relationship. The fact remained that he and Gae weren’t married, and that meant the gossips could have a field day.

  Invariably, whenever he was seen in the company of some other woman—and when he was away from home he didn’t spend every night alone in his hotel room; he had friends and colleagues of both sexes around the world—there was speculation that cracks were appearing between Chris and Gae. He was adamant that that simply wasn’t true.

  “Before I met Gae, there was a period of hyperactivity,” he admitted readily. “I got around at lightning speed, put in a lot of miles. But when I met her, I made a choice and it worked. When you have something good at home, you don’t stray.”

  On location, he did go out for a meal or a drink with other women, all kinds of people whose company he liked. But he always informed Gae; there were no secrets between them. They loved and trusted each other, just like any married couple. The only difference was the ring and the license, but America, taking a rapid political turn to the right, was becoming more conservative almost on a daily basis. If they aren’t married, the idea went, they can’t really be committed to each other. And in the end, there was no point in denying it. Chris and Gae were merely wasting their breath; people were going to believe what they wanted to believe.

  An obviously hurt Chris expressed his feelings to Parade: “I’ve been terribly vulnerable—talking about my child, my relationship with Gae, why we’re not married … . I’ve worn my heart on my sleeve. Well, I’m through with that. I don’t want to share intimate details. There’s nothing in it for me. I’m keeping my personal life closed and my wittily self-deprecating anecdotes for my family and friends. It’s not for public consumption anymore.”

  Who could blame him for feeling so defensive? Although he was a star—like it or not—his private life had come under the microscope with ridiculous speculation that often seemed to have no basis in fact. If they wanted to criticize him as an actor, that was one thing (although he noted in the same interview that he’d stopped reading reviews of his films); it was aimed at the work he exhibited before the public, and thus fair game. But Gae and Matthew were not part of his acting life. What happened away from the camera had nothing to do with the rest of America. Whether he and Gae chose to live together, or marry and renew their vows every year was nobody’s business but theirs.

  The summer in Williamstown at least gave the three of them time to be together, out of the public eye. Chris was in need of some relaxation after the intense shoot of Deathtrap, and his relatively small part in The Greeks didn’t demand too much, while offering him a great deal of satisfaction. The movies brought him the money to finance times like these, when he made next to nothing but did the work that was really in his heart. It was a trade-off, a compromise, but worthwhile. Without movies, he’d never have had Gae or Matthew, not to mention all the material luxuries in his life. He would, perhaps, still have been coming to Williamstown, but it would have seemed less like a vacation and more like another job.

  The two months in Massachusetts were really nothing more than a chance to recharge his batteries, though, a reprieve between film roles. By now his agent knew he wasn’t going to take anything obvious. He’d already turned down more plums than most actors were offered in an entire career. To his credit, his choices were artistic. But for his next part he’d signed to play a role even further away from Superman than his Deathtrap character: Christopher Reeve was going to be a priest, in a film called Monsignor.

  With the Williamstown season over, Chris, Gae, and Matthew returned to New York, and Chris set about researching his role by going to a Catholic retreat in Oak Ridge, New Jersey. For someone who was an admitted “lapsed Episcopalian,” it was a strange and slightly disorienting experience at first, but one that he was able to translate into his own life, as any actor needs to be able to do.

  “At first I felt very out of place among all these people who had made a real strong choice about their commitment,” he admitted in the New York Post. “But look, I’ve been a professional actor since I was fifteen. Each day is a passport to a new world, so every day requires a new commitment.”

  By October he was ready to leave for filming in Rome. While most movie stars would have been perfectly content with the pampering of a first-class airline seat, Chris saw this as another opportunity to fly, and to do something he’d never attempted before—cross the Atlantic alone.

  The Beech Baron was capable of the journey, but was Chris up to it? He’d flown around America any number of times, but this, as he wanted, would be a real test of his piloting skills. It was a trip he decided to keep from the film’s producers, since he “didn’t want the studio getting in a flap,” as they certainly would have done, knowing their leading man was attempting something so dangerous.

  But he just loved to fly; it had reached the point where his contracts now specified that he couldn’t go up in his own plane for the duration of shooting.

  His attempts to keep his journey quiet, though, soon vanished in a flight that proved to be far from smooth. He’d planned on refueling in Reykjavik, Iceland, but the information he received from air traffic controllers in Greenland meant he was off course, and likely to run out of fuel over the icy North Atlantic.

  “I was one worried fellow for half an hour,” he recollected. “Then I decided they had to be wrong. And they were—I landed in Reykjavik five minutes ahead of schedule.”

  Far from taking that as an omen, giving up, and jumping on a commercial airliner, it spurred him on. He wasn’t goi
ng to let an ocean defeat him. But luck was against him; the second leg went almost as badly as the first. Variety reported that he got lost, and instead of flying into Glasgow airport in Scotland, he ended up some three hundred miles south, at Luton airport, outside London.

  Inevitably, the story made all the papers and the producers discovered that Chris still preferred challenge to comfort. It didn’t make an auspicious beginning to the two months of autumn filming in Rome, and for Chris things would only get worse, as the tabloids began floating rumors that he and Ursula Andress, one of the great screen sex kittens, were in the middle of a torrid Italian affair, all the more interesting as she wasn’t even part of the Monsignor cast. While he admitted he had spent some time with Andress, fifteen years his senior, and recently a mother herself, he strenuously denied any romantic involvement. Notably, the leaks about their supposed affair all came from the usual unnamed “inside sources” or anonymous people who’d claimed to have seen them together, hardly the most credible evidence in the world, and yet another reason for Chris to keep his private life resolutely closed and private.

  Monsignor, from Jack Alain Leger’s book, was hardly guaranteed to win over America’s large Catholic audience with its tale of an evil priest who befriended mobsters and seduced a nun. In theory it should have been an interesting role for Chris, one that allowed him to expand on the dark side he’d shown in Deathtrap.

  Reality proved to be different.

  “I played a corrupt priest, not a real priest,” he explained later. “What happened in that movie is that they tried to homogenize him, they flattened him out.”

  But even as Chris was realizing this was becoming a dreadful mistake—which became even more apparent when the sparks between him and Genevieve Bujold, playing the seduced nun, failed to fly—the producers were praising him to the skies.