Still Me

by Christopher Reeve

  In the fall I began my senior year at PDS, and she found a job with a repertory company in Providence so we could continue to see each other. Every Friday after school I would take the train up to join her for a romantic weekend, but I had to make sure to get back on Sunday in time to finish my homework. Before long something about it didn’t feel right. Once again I was trying too hard. It was almost as if I had cast myself in the role of an eligible partner. The age difference hadn’t seemed to matter during the summer, but now it became an issue. In late October we split up and went back to our own worlds. By the end of the year she was engaged to one of the designers at the rep company, and I was dating a girl in my class.

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  Sometimes in the winter of 1970–71 I would look out the windows of the Cornell University library and wonder what I was doing there. After graduating from Princeton Day School in June 1970, I played a season of summer stock in Boothbay, Maine. I had planned to go to New York in the fall, find a cheap apartment, and join the ranks of young hopefuls trying for a career in the theater. But my mother, who had dropped out of college to get married and start a family, always regretted that she had not gotten her B.A. She convinced me that it all didn’t have to happen so quickly—that four years of study and personal growth would only help me later on. She knew that there is a big difference between taking on New York at seventeen and starting a life there at twenty-one or twenty-two.

  I had also been accepted at Brown, Columbia, Northwestern, Princeton, and Carnegie-Mellon, but I chose Cornell not only for its excellent liberal arts program and theater department but because it was a five-hour drive from the city and tended to be snowed in from the end of October to the first of May. I thought this would make it easier for me to focus on my studies and avoid the temptation to drop out of school and go to New York. But on snowy nights in the library, working on a paper for Russian Literature or Philosophy of Religion, I often felt that it was all irrelevant and that I was arbitrarily being forced to postpone my goal of becoming a professional actor. I wasted a number of evenings when I should have been studying by joining the group sliding on cafeteria trays down Library Slope to the dorms at the bottom of the hill. Sometimes I just sat and stared at the cinder-block walls of my room, wondering if I would ever be free.

  In retrospect, my years at Cornell were invaluable—not so much for the academics but because I was given an opportunity to experiment and mature without the added burden of having to make a living in the competitive marketplace of New York. The theater department was first-rate, with acting, movement, and voice classes available to undergraduates. The MFA program was under the direction of John Clancy, a superb director and chairman of the department. Casting for the main stage productions was open to the entire university. With a student body of fourteen thousand, competition was fierce, but the productions were often exceptional. During my freshman year I saw a Long Day’s Journey into Night that was more powerful than any I’ve seen in the twenty-three years since I graduated. Having nothing to lose, I tried out for the male lead in Brecht’s The Good Woman of Setzuan, the first offering of the 1970–71 season, and got the part. Over the next couple of years I was fortunate enough to play Pozzo in Waiting for Godot, Segismundo in Calderón’s Life Is a Dream, Hamlet in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, and Polixenes in The Winter’s Tale, as well as to perform in several student projects with the MFA company.

  Some of these productions were directed by professors who took an academic approach; others were directed with what I call the “acting” approach. I found the difference between the two both fascinating and frustrating. I believe that when you’re acting, you shouldn’t be concerned with literary themes; you need to approach the work on an instinctual and emotional level. This is what allows the audience to experience the play as the unfolding of recognizable human experience and prevents the classics from becoming museum pieces.

  Peter Steltzer, a twenty-six-year-old maverick in the Theater Department, applied the latter approach. He directed Waiting for Godot without ever talking about themes, symbolism, or “meaning.” The result was an original production that had aspects of vaudeville, circus clowning, classical theater, and Theater of the Absurd. It was a resounding success. I was directed to play Pozzo as a carnival barker with a Cambridge accent and my voice pitched to a high register. Often when I asked Peter for the logic behind my behavior, he explained that his main interest was in creating a novel theatrical effect. Soon I abandoned my preconceived notions about the sanctity of Beckett and gave in to Peter’s innovative ideas. I found the end result surprisingly satisfying. Much as in the Death of a Salesman at Harvard the previous summer, the boldness of the director’s vision produced something truly original.

  As Pozzo—an outsized performance that worked.

  On the other hand, the production of Life Is a Dream was arduous and stultifying because the director was a pure academic. Much of our rehearsal time was spent comparing the play with Hamlet and discussing its significance and place in theater history. The staging was conventional, and the translation we used was literal to the point of being boring. The story of a young prince who is banished from the kingdom because a fortune-teller predicts that he will one day murder his father could easily lend itself to a vibrant, modern interpretation. The entire cast tried as hard as we could, but we weren’t able to make it come alive. Just before we opened I spent a lot of time on the phone urging my friends—especially my new girlfriend, Helen—not to come. She came anyway out of loyalty and/or curiosity. We went out afterwards and luckily had much to talk about besides my poor performance in a deadly production of an obscure seventeenth-century Spanish play.

  If I had learned nothing else at Cornell, discovering this difference between drama as literature and drama as a living presence would have been worth my three years there. My mother had been right. At Cornell I triumphed and failed, learning patience and self-discipline in a safe and nurturing environment.

  My newfound patience was put to the test in the fall of my freshman year, when I received a letter from Stark Hesseltine, one of the most respected agents in New York. A classy, soft-spoken gentleman with a Harvard degree, he had discovered Robert Redford when the star was still a student at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. He also represented Michael Douglas, Richard Chamberlain, Susan Sarandon, Stephen Collins, and many other fine actors whose work was familiar to me from reading the “Arts & Leisure” section of The New York Times every Sunday while stuck in the frozen hinterlands of Ithaca.

  I left the unopened letter on my desk for about a day and a half, torturing myself with speculation as to why he would be writing me. I decided there could only be two possible reasons: (a) It was a routine letter inviting me to get in touch when I graduated from college; or (b) it was a pitch for me to drop out of college now and come to New York as his client, which would violate the agreement I’d made with my mother and Tris. Finally, I opened it. Choice B was correct: he had seen my performance in A Month in the Country and wanted to represent me. Would it be convenient for me to meet him in New York at some time in the near future? I was tremendously flattered and excited and had to force myself to keep my mouth shut around the Theater Department. I left the open letter on my desk and frequently sidled over to see if it still said the same thing. Then I called Stark, thanked him for the note, and casually mentioned that I would be free on Monday.

  That morning I left Ithaca at six and was parked in front of the offices of Creative Management Associates—at the time one of the most prestigious and powerful agencies in the business—by eleven. As I went up in the elevator in my blazer, rumpled khakis, and loafers, I felt hopelessly out of place and was sure that Stark would take one look at me and change his mind. In fact, he couldn’t have been more welcoming. I was ushered into his office, and he gave instructions to hold all his calls. Then he turned to me and said, “Well, you’re too tall for films, but never mind.” I was puzzled by this but didn’t say
anything. I had assumed height differences in movies could be manipulated by camera angles or by putting the shorter scene partner up on a box. Then he added, “When are you available?” I explained the agreement with my parents, and was amazed when he said they’d made a wise decision. He told me how much he’d enjoyed his years at Harvard, where he was the stage manager with the Hasty Pudding Club. We decided that I would come down from Cornell about once a month to meet casting agents and producers and that we would concentrate on finding work for the summer vacations.

  A recommendation from Stark Hesseltine could open almost any door. Through him I met David Merrick, Robert Whitehead, and Kermit Bloomgarden, three of the most important Broadway producers at the time; Andrea Eastman, the casting director at Paramount; Joseph Papp, who ran the prestigious Public Theater; and many others. Some executives were impressed with me. Others were not. I remember opening the door to Joe Papp’s office to find him wearing a pinstriped gangster suit, his feet up on the desk, smoking a cigar. I’d taken only about two steps into the room before he looked over, dumped the ash from his cigar, and muttered, “Christ, more white bread.” I went through my audition piece from Henry V, after which I was not invited to sit down and chat. (When they don’t want to talk to you after you’ve done your bit, it’s not a good sign.)

  I left his office and ran to a phone to tell Stark that I was sorry I’d bombed, but that I’d do better next time. But Papp had already called, and soon I understood the frosty reception. He was trying to build a company of real ethnic diversity. He believed strongly in nontraditional casting and wanted more actors like Raul Julia (Latino) and Cleavon Little (African-American), not an earnest WASP like me. But when Stark believed in an actor, he never gave up; I auditioned at least a dozen times during the seventies for various productions at the Public. Every time the part would be cast in a completely different way. Much later, in January 1989, when the politics of the theater had changed and directors were given more autonomy in casting, James Lapine asked me to costar with Mandy Patinkin in The Winter’s Tale. After watching a run-through, Joe Papp took me aside and said, “We should have used you before.”

  As the summer approached I drove down from Cornell more frequently and met with some success. A day trip to New York meant ten hours on the road, often followed by pulling an all-nighter to complete a paper for a nine-thirty class the next morning; so the more I drove, the more determined I became to make the trip worthwhile. I was cast in a production of The Lion in Winter that was going to rehearse and perform in Bermuda for ten weeks; I was offered a small part in the film of The Great Gatsby with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow; and I got one of the leads in Michael Weller’s Moonchildren for the renowned director Alan Schneider.

  Unfortunately, all these productions began before the end of the school year. To have these exciting offers conflict with exam week was almost more than I could bear. But a deal was a deal, and I had to finish the semester.

  By the time I was free for the summer, there were few choices left. I ended up in a touring production of Forty Carats, starring Eleanor Parker on the straw-hat circuit. This was a letdown compared with the earlier offers, but at least I was working, and we played in places like Cape Cod, New Hampshire, and Maine, some of the nicest spots in New England. The production was undistinguished, but I tried my best. We played each theater for a week and then moved on; one pleasant challenge was to see how many sail-boats and good restaurants and delightful companions I could find in each town. The most memorable moment of the summer took place onstage at the Candlewood Playhouse in Connecticut: Eleanor Parker took a step toward me just as a fifty-pound stage light fell twenty feet right onto the spot where she had just been standing. I dutifully came out with my next line, and she tried not to react to the huge thud right behind her, but the audience freaked out. The stage manager brought the curtain down until everyone could regain composure. The rest of the lights were checked, and we picked up where we had left off.

  The following March I once again began the process of finding a job for the summer. This time it didn’t take long. I was offered a full-season contract with the San Diego Shakespeare Festival, with decent parts in Richard III, The Merry Wives of Windsor, and Love’s Labour’s Lost on the main stage at the Old Globe Theatre. I thought this was a wonderful opportunity and decided not to let it pass me by. I approached all my professors with a letter of support from John Clancy, and after some negotiating it was agreed that I could leave school April 15 to begin rehearsals in San Diego—on the condition that I complete all my papers and exams on the honor system and send them in on time. Having worked things out with Cornell, I was able to sell the plan to my parents without too much difficulty. I drove home to Princeton, traded my ski parka and long winter underwear for khakis and short-sleeved shirts, and soon found myself looking at palm trees and the Pacific Ocean for the first time.

  Anthony Zerbe played Richard and soon became a good friend. His approach to the part was to go way overboard in rehearsals, to try anything, no matter how outlandish, then pull back later. He was never intimidated by the role; instead he took big bites out of it. His confidence and the boldness of his choices made him fascinating to watch. I was improbably cast as Edward IV, who dies of syphilis, thus making way for Richard’s ascent to the throne. I had a gray wig and a complete age makeup, and I followed Zerbe’s lead in attacking the part. Because the role was so far from my own age and personality, I felt free to explore and was quite secure in the characterization.

  In The Merry Wives of Windsor I was cast as Fenton, a “service” part that only required the actor to dress well and deliver paragraphs of exposition. Frankly I was bored by it because it seemed so dull compared with my part in Richard. Ellis Rabb, who had been the artistic director of the APA Repertory Company in New York for many years and was one of my mentors, came to see the Old Globe productions. (As a teenager I had seen all of his productions and become friends with him and many of the actors in the company.) His comment to me in the dressing room was brief and to the point: “Your Edward is acceptable; your Fenton is a mess.” Later a group of us went out for something to eat, and I cornered him for an explanation. His point was that as I progressed in my career it would be more valuable to learn how to play parts closer to myself; that it would rarely if ever be necessary to put on tons of makeup and play so far against type. There were opportunities with Fenton that I hadn’t explored because I’d decided that it didn’t require “acting.” He argued that a greater challenge than playing Edward IV would have been to find something original and interesting in Fenton instead of allowing my condescending attitude toward the part to come across the footlights.

  As Dumaine in Love’s Labour’s Lost, a carbon copy of Fenton in The Merry Wives of Windsor, and under a ton of makeup in Richard III.

  I rank that conversation as one of the most important of my whole career. I understood that without being typecast an actor can and must bring his own personality, emotional life, and physical attributes to the work. These are assets, not liabilities. I learned that acting is about being truthful and figuratively naked onstage, as opposed to trying to disappear into some clever but remote characterization.

  The season at the Old Globe was so exciting and enlightening that I dreaded the approach of Labor Day weekend, which would bring it to a close. I also realized how reluctant I was to go back to Cornell. I was still willing to get my undergraduate degree, but I needed to take some time before returning to university life. I wanted to see more top professional actors at work in both modern and classical plays and had a strong urge to travel. With money I saved from my job at the Old Globe, I took a three-month leave of absence from Cornell, packed a knapsack and a small bag, and headed for England.

  I bought a copy of Europe on Five Dollars a Day and made a rough plan for the trip. The cheapest fare I could find was on Icelandair, which landed in Glasgow rather than London; so I decided to begin my theater tour in Scotland and work my way south.

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bsp; The very first production I saw was the Brecht-Weill Threepenny Opera at the Citizens’ Theatre in Glasgow. The production was first-rate, but what impressed me most was that the name of the theater reflected its role in the community. Tickets were cheap, and the theater was filled with working-class people. Too many American rep companies are patronized primarily by affluent subscribers. Even at the Old Globe and Williamstown, during curtain calls we were almost always looking out at a sea of gray hair—well-to-do retirees with plenty of free time. Where were the students and the small shop owners, the taxi drivers and the gas station attendants? In Glasgow they were all there, mingling comfortably with the doctors, lawyers, and university professors. I imagined what it must have been like for Shakespeare: his plays had to appeal to everyone, from the commoners in the pit to the gentry in the upper circle.

  From Glasgow I made my way north to Inverness and Aberdeen, then south to Pitlochry and Edinburgh, where I managed to catch some of the “fringe” productions at the end of the Edinburgh Festival. Working my way south, I saw an amazing King Lear at the Everyman Theatre in Liverpool (another theater that lived up to its name), Ibsen’s Brand at the Octagon Theatre in Bolton, and productions of Pinter, Chekhov, Albee, Williams, and many others in places like Nottingham, Sheffield, and Derby. In Manchester I came across a production of Wycherley’s The Country Wife with Albert Finney, who was a little heavier but just as dashing and charismatic as he was in the 1963 film Tom Jones. At each town I would usually find the actors in the bar after the performance. I had no hesitation about introducing myself as an admiring and curious American actor. At first some of them were taken aback by my direct approach, but it’s pretty much true of actors anywhere in the world that if you compliment their performance and ask them how they did it, they will soon launch into a monologue and often tell you even more than you wanted to know.