Quintessential Jack

by Scott Edwards

  As he matured, Nicholson would not hesitate to allow himself to look unattractive, unglamorous or ridiculous. In the film, an extreme close-up titled “two weeks later” (after his wife’s death) is priceless in showing his face as a distorted, puffy bloat, as on a dead body floating on the surface of a pond. More than not caring what he looks like, Nicholson is devoted to the disheveled, from the distended belly in Terms of Endearment and the total wreck he became in The Witches of Eastwick to the comical mess who suffers a losing battle with a waterbed in About Schmidt.

  Exaggerated for effect, but never veering into the overdone, Nicholson successfully becomes Warren Schmidt. He walks old and tired, but not in the falsely stiff and caricatured way most actors “age” themselves for an elderly role. As he exits the Woodman Tower after a brush-off by his replacement, he moves as if he’s wearing clothes inflated with air bladders under his trenchcoat. Cognizance and control over the body is a discipline only a truly careful and studied actor can master, and usually after many years of growth.

  Nicholson described a sense of connection with Schmidt “as the man I might have become if I wasn’t lucky enough to wind up in show business.” The man faces a sudden sense of emptiness, “like what happens when the normal activities of your job no longer drive your day, your loved ones move away from you, your children get older.”13

  But it’s the personal, emotional transformation that most remember about this film. Schmidt could not come to life without the death of his wife. He nearly joins her until his symbolic release. She had trained him to urinate seated. Warren gets pissed off and rejects her influence with his no-hands-pee. Perhaps missed by many is the tear in his eye, a subtle tragicomic touch that precedes this act of liberation.

  The truly emotional part of the film is its set-up. “In the course of the movie,” Nicholson relates, “everything is systematically taken away from him.”14 Director Alexander Payne echoed the character theme of “taking all of the man’s institutions away from him. Career. Marriage. Daughter.” Schmidt’s journey is triggered by “suddenly learning that everything you believe is wrong—everything.”15

  Next, his Easy-RV-Riding trip allows him to emerge as an independent being. His first expression of love was at the beginning of a one-sided dialogue with Helen from the roof of the vehicle. Nicholson’s Schmidt grows in self-confidence enough to make a clumsy move on his trailer park neighbor. He evolves further during his visit to his daughter’s fiancé’s family. He then fully blossoms during his father-of-the-bride speech. An understated tour de force, it was a short but significant journey from agitation and doubt, mixed with some disgust, toward acceptance and positive emotion. Plus grace. Jack transcends, all through expression, body language and voice quality. Its impact is strengthened by the coy and perhaps faux dramatic lead-in to this speech, delivered in a new voice of smooth openness.

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  What then of Ndugu—and Schmidt’s outpouring of emotion? That too is not quite as pure as intended or interpreted. Nicholson’s Schmidt and Jack’s Dupea are connected once more. Both weep, not for the child in the former’s case, nor for Bobby’s father in the latter, but for themselves. The first clue is Nicholson’s slight raise of his eyebrow as Angela Lansbury speaks the words “touch the life” in the childreach TV commercial. This subtly indicated that Schmidt’s reaction was about himself and not about the plight of the children.

  Until the end of the film, his “adoption” of Ndugu is for his own satisfaction. Schmidt’s disconnection to the kid’s life and economic condition is both comical and revealing. Ndugu in About Schmidt serves the same purpose as Bobby’s wheelchair-bound father Nicholas in Five Easy Pieces. Following Warren Schmidt’s realization that he is weak and a failure, and having made no difference to anyone, he opens the Ndugu letter containing the boy’s painting.

  Warren’s tears circle back to those shed by Bobby when alone with his father in the earlier film. Dupea’s monologue with the old man, first a straightforward expression about his own life, causes him to cry as he opens up in confessional. His final breakdown is about Bobby’s understanding of himself and his life. The son then recovers as he sums up the situation with his father. Oddly, the overall trajectory is almost as with a lover, like a sexual act of foreplay to excitement to climax to parting.

  And so it is “About” Bobby, just as it is “About” Schmidt, rather than being about the father or the boy. Both cry in self-pity. There is one difference, one that signaled ultimate redemption. Nicholson mixes seemingly opposing emotions to wrench all he can from the final scene. He rises from excruciating sobbing to smiling tears. This cues the viewer that the meaning behind the tears had suddenly shifted from self-pity to self-realization, thus redirecting his emotion toward the boy. The emotional journey that brings about Warren’s final emergence into the world of the living happens through an actor’s expressions.

  5

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  A More Perfect Union

  Duty. Honor. Country.

  Awaiting their separate testimonies in unrelated cases sat an imperfect pair of imperfect men who shared this credo. Both were leaders of men (a few good, tough men at that), one of Teamsters, another of Marines. Neither was above using physical persuasion as a means to an end, even if that meant killing. The two were totally dedicated to their respective organizations, nearing the point of obsession. Each had defining moments in a courtroom, with varied results.

  Colonel Nathan R. Jessep never knew James R. Hoffa, and if he did he might not admit it. Since one was fictional and one was real, that had a lot to do with it. Testifying represented a defining turning point for each.

  Jessep’s duty was to protect the United States of America while Hoffa’s was to grow and protect the Teamsters Union. They both honored their particular unions. Their country made such freedom possible.

  In Rob Reiner’s A Few Good Men, Nicholson lectures Tom Cruise about guarding walls, saving lives and following orders, doing what he has to do—or people die. He was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. As Teamsters boss Jimmy Hoffa, Nicholson will riot, burn, fight, use muscle and use political pressure—doing what he has to do—at first to get the union in and later to get his union back. He was nominated for a Razzie Award as Worst Actor.

  They are two officers, though of a different sort, who do what they have to do. To them, loyalty means everything, whether demanding it or extending it.

  These two films were consecutive roles for Nicholson, a supporting player in only four scenes in A Few Good Men and then in the title role and in nearly every scene as Hoffa.

  In his four Few Good Men scenes, Nicholson adds weight to the movie, elevating the piece. Otherwise there is no film, not of this caliber, not to be remembered or quoted or admired. Without Nicholson’s contributions, the story and the main players are too superficial and the acting too cute. J.T. Walsh, Kiefer Sutherland, Kevin Bacon and Jack Nicholson—supporting players all—bolster A Few Good Men up from the slightness supplied by Cruise and Demi Moore.

  Noah Wyle, who played Corporal Jeffrey Barnes, related to me how Nicholson raised the level of the entire production, starting at the table read-through. Just prior to the start of shooting, the actors were brought together with the director and a few key crew members. “You sit around a big table and you read the screenplay out loud,” Wyle explained. “Everybody is watching to see what everybody else is gonna do … whether they’re gonna really go for it or they’re going to hold something back. Most of the time you hold back. You service the script, but you don’t really go for a performance level.” But Nicholson showed the likes of Bacon, Moore, Cruise and Kevin Pollak—professionals all—that even a table read-through could become something else entirely. “He gave the performance you see in the film, that day in that room. He dialed it in and it was like, ‘Oh, we’re doing it for real.’” Wyle remembers how everybody’s energy level went up “and the room became electric. But he lit the spark.”1

  Nic
holson’s first scene is 16 minutes into the film and five minutes long, but he establishes the tough and superior character of the Marine colonel, with nostrils flaring in intensity while employing a smooth, clipped manner of speech (a juxtaposed combination that is not easy). His controlled sarcasm with Walsh and Sutherland is both convincing and commanding in making the case for the unfortunate, harassed Marine to stay. While irony is not a quality civilians might associate with the military, Nicholson is devilish within his character when he suggests the whole squadron should be reassigned because Private Santiago has a problem. He is masterful at being soft and smoldering at the same time. In the short office meeting scene with Cruise, Moore and Pollak, Nicholson plays embarrassed, but in an in-charge and proper sort of way.

  The crucial third scene, starting at the 40-minute mark, is an outdoor lunch—a contentious debate that turns into a sermon about honor, code and loyalty. He diminishes Demi Moore’s character and dances with Cruise, accepting the necessity of instructing, in the ways of his military, those to whom enlightenment is impossible. He goes through the motions, certain the act is a waste, and so is disingenuous and appropriately patronizing to those outside his rank and beyond his insight.

  He foreshadows the tremendous discipline that will be so striking in the later courtroom scene when he gets square-jawed in response to Galloway (Moore) pushing him. Jessep is confident in his superiority and in being absolutely right, and Nicholson shows it. His head does not move in position while his maw independently opens and closes in broad-mouthed expression. He demands courtesy be extended. He exhibits snotty affability with a dismissive air. And he is as solid and immobile as the Marines on that wall.

  As Colonel Jessep in A Few Good Men (1992), Jack Nicholson assumes the stone solid, perfect stance he will hold throughout the court interrogation scene. In the movie, Nicholson’s head remains nearly as motionless as it is in this film still.

  Watch this scene, and look on as intently as Nicholson looks, and notice that his eyes do not move at all for about two minutes of screen time. Not only is this amazing control, but also a perfect embodiment of what the character would do and how he would think. A classic instance of Nicholson’s character energy, Jack breathes as Jessep, sees as Jessep, reacts as Jessep, and refuses to budge to inferiors as Jessep. Nicholson’s eyes lock—perfectly centered—and remain there, something physically challenging to endure but necessary as a key character physical trait, created by the actor to symbolize discipline.

  Jack’s fourth and final scene is the climactic courtroom scene in which he skillfully plays with Cruise’s Kaffee and willfully impeaches himself because it is the honorable thing to do. Again, Nicholson’s head does not move at all, not to either side in order to react or notice, and not up or down to reflect or dissemble. He keeps his head stationary, resolutely staying at attention in service to his country. Right before this iconic scene, and perhaps as a contrasting set-up and lighter moment, there’s a wonderful transition. First, Jessep is upset because he’s not called “colonel” or “sir” by presiding Judge Randolph (J.A. Preston). He is soon thereafter put in his place by that same judge for neglecting the same protocol (“your honor” or “judge”). As Nicholson sits back down, he cricks his head side to side, displaying discomfort—which he then instantly wills away for his battle with Cruise.

  Jessep is stone-solid in his perfect stance. He wants to make himself clear, to educate the lawyer, and to demonstrate his contempt without any possible misinterpretation. The colonel builds the confrontation, raising the temperature dramatically on his inferior with a deliberate rhetorical dare about wanting answers.

  Jessep knows Kaffee cannot handle the truth and even though it means an admission of complicity, he unveils that truth, he spits out that truth, he triumphs with that truth, following his screamed flourish with disdain and disgust for his adversary. As Nicholson takes Jessep from chastised to lecturing to garrulous to incredulous, the undercurrent of condescension stays constant. Jessep advances on his enemy with aggression and strength, not flanking but directly, going in for the kill with the confidence of a commander who has right on his side. Along the way, he instructs—or tries to instruct—the glib officer who does not hold any of the qualities Jessep demands (no dignity, no courage, no honor, no significance) nor embodies any notion of honor that would qualify for being one of “a few good men.”

  Nicholson expert Dennis Bingham suggests that the actor and the character are intrinsically connected. “The performance’s fascination comes from the fact that this is ‘Jack Nicholson,’ whose persona cannot be held in by social strictures, as a character who represents those strictures at their most rigid.” It’s as if the impact of Jessep’s downfall can only work because he’s played by the former antihero and anti-establishment symbol, and that “the performance strongly etches the character while emphasizing once again a clear space between character and actor,” while “Jessep is in the Nicholson self-destructive mode.”2

  James Marshall, best known as Laura Palmer’s boyfriend on the TV series Twin Peaks, played one of the court-martial defendants, Pfc. Louden Downey. He told me that the filming of this scene was “definitely surrealistic and definitely fun.” Nicholson the actor was as disciplined as his character, as Marshall explains. “Jack got it right the first couple of takes. You could tell he does one or two takes and moves on…. He pretty much nailed it. It was a neat day, very neat.”3

  Nicholson’s performance carries the intensity and mastery of Miles Davis on the title track from his landmark album Bitches Brew. Potency trumps convention in this celebration of reaching beyond comfortable limits. Muscular bleats and stings create patterns at once controlled and unsettling. As in the music, this courtroom explosion carries true emotion, true because it was true to Jessep and his credo. As someone known to belong to the anti-war and anti-establishment ’60s generation, Nicholson succeeds in capturing a character seemingly diametrically in opposition to his own sensibilities, not only realistically and convincingly, but also compellingly and beautifully.

  Much of it happens in that posture, head straight ahead and forcing away distraction as it avoids movement. It happens in those eyes, sturdily centered and perfectly fixed, through extraordinary discipline made formidably effective. Yet, throughout the entire sequence, the viewer may not even specifically register or realize the work behind the effect.

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  As Jessep’s eyes tell a story, so too do those of Jimmy Hoffa. The eyes of Hoffa sear—glowing, monstrous and poisoned—never leaving their target in the “I’m gonna do what I gotta do” confrontation with Armand Assante’s character, D’Allesandro. At this point in the film, Nicholson has shifted Jimmy Hoffa from in-charge to out-of-control. Now desperate and wild, Hoffa is unrestrained as he paces and blasts at D’Allesandro, his eyes dead and black underneath.

  Just like with Jessep, watch those eyes and see that they rarely stray from where we know the Assante character to be positioned, showing terrific concentration—particularly given his body’s uncontrolled motion. Nicholson portrays the intent and intensity that Hoffa must have actually felt in this situation, as his life and his union were being pulled away from him. He shows that Hoffa feels the meaning of betrayal. The actor again shows he’s not worried about how he looks, letting saliva build and pool on his bottom lip on the left side. The more upset, the more truthful and open, the more it was allowed to accumulate.

  This is the key scene to Nicholson’s capturing of Hoffa the character and Hoffa the man, especially in contrast to the two other opposing views he offers us. At one end, the bombastic leader filled with optimism about his future, his success, and his certainty about being right. At the other, the broken, bloated caricature, driven only by the quixotic hope to take back his dream while waiting in the back of a sedan at a nothing diner. As the younger man, Nicholson keeps Jimmy always pushing forward, bouncing with heel lifts and speaking with head nods, always moving—like a boxer—using head motion and body
language as if making a speech all the time. As the older man, he croaks nasally and ages believably as the thick, tired, out-of-shape, out-of-power has-been Hoffa. Nicholson ages Hoffa like a bug, like a lizard or snake or some other cold-blooded creature, brows low and eyes darting and always searching.

  Balancing the real person with the recognizable actor was crucial to establishing Hoffa and telling his story without distraction. “We didn’t really want to cover Jack’s face,” Academy Award–winning supervising makeup artist Ve Neill told me. “We thought that if we just altered his nose, that would probably be a good start to it.” Neill spent about an hour each day on this transformation, through the use of a prosthetic nose and different hair pieces.4

  The first biographer of Hoffa who suggests ties between the union leader and the mob in the assassination of John F. Kennedy, investigative reporter Dan E. Moldea referred to Nicholson’s portrayal as “fairly flamboyant” and “essentially a caricature.” The author of 1978’s The Hoffa Wars: Teamsters, Rebels, Politicians and the Mob believed that Robert Conrad should have played the ex–Teamster boss, but the deal—though considered—was not consummated. Moldea told me that the best film representation of Hoffa was provided by Robert Blake in Blood Feud,5 made nine years earlier; Blake was nominated for Emmy and Golden Globe awards.

  Following Jimmy Hoffa’s rise and fall, woven around his set-up and betrayal as he attempts to rise again, involved a journey through decades with many of the same actors spanning that time. Neill described her role in makeup as helping Nicholson, Danny DeVito and other cast members “look younger and then aging them with the times.” The process was quite ambitious. “It was intensive as far as keeping continuity, because I had to know what year it was and what look they had. They had probably five different looks, each one of them.”6 His appearance may have changed, but the personality of Hoffa seldom strayed from hardnosed and driven.