By now he’d become the figurehead, the poster boy of the cause. But reality ran a great deal deeper than that. Yes, the public knew his face and was shocked by the tragedy of it all—which he would readily admit was no worse than anybody else’s in a wheelchair—but at the same time, he was willing to get out there, to speak, lobby, to do anything he could. Perhaps his motives weren’t always altruistic, since he himself would benefit from research breakthroughs, but that gave him an even greater stake.
More than anyone in sixty years, since FDR, perhaps more than anyone at all, he’d raised public awareness of people in wheelchairs, and most particularly of spinal-cord injuries and their effects.
And that, of course, was why Toronto wanted him. His schedule had become so busy that they’d been forced to contact him six months ahead of time. Even then it hadn’t been easy. As with his other appearances away from the New York area, the logistics became complicated. There was only one small jet, the Challenger, that would let him sit in his chair for the entire trip, and still be able to accommodate his nurses and attendants. That meant the Toronto organizers had to scurry round, finding someone with such an airplane who was willing to loan it for a good cause. They did, and everything went according to plan—something that had to be a constant worry. Chris was growing stronger all the time, but he also lived on a very delicate edge, and he drove himself as hard, probably harder, than he ever had. Certainly a chair hadn’t slowed him down.
After Toronto he pressed on to Montreal, to address the Congress of Neurological Surgeons. While not a physician or a scientist, Chris had become very familiar with what was going on in neurological research, the key that held the potential to get him out of the chair and back on his feet again. Often researchers contacted him directly to tell him of their results.
This time, however, Chris played his other big card, talking again of the need for an increase on the lifetime insurance cap, noting that a “million dollars might seem like a lot of money, but if you have a catastrophic injury, it goes very fast.” And for once he was talking to sympathetic ears, since the CNS had also come out in vocal support on the issue.
And from there it was back to New York, and a final few days of much-needed rest before the filming began. His body, obviously, didn’t have the strength it once had, and he needed to be alert for the month of shooting ahead. Everything else was important, too, but this could be the beginning of a new career. He needed to be focused the entire time.
As with anything else in his life now, directing a movie meant dealing with certain constraints. Chris couldn’t actually be on the set, since the constant hiss of his respirator would bleed into the sound recordings. So he was forced to undertake his directing duties from a nearby room, out of sight, watching everything on monitors and listening through headphones, communicating with the cast and crew via a microphone, which led to his nickname on the production of “His Omniscience.”
He’d thought long and hard about the differences between acting and directing, and had developed a strong understanding of both.
“Acting is such a direct reward,” he told Entertainment Weekly. “You’re the center of attention … . When you’re directing, you’re using the other side of your brain, the side that’s analytical, that makes decisions. So this injury has really forced me to shift gears.”
The cast, which had finally been rounded out by Whoopi Goldberg and Bridget Fonda, had all agreed to work for far less than their normal fees as a favor to Chris. So now he had a full quotient of excellent names at his disposal, a script that achieved the effects he desired, and hopefully the time and budget to do what he needed. The pressure was on. Now all Chris had to do was deliver.
For someone who spent his days tucked away from the set, he was very much in charge of everything, knowing what was going on everywhere, and taking full responsibility for the production.
“To have someone on your set who cannot move, but who’s in charge, is a rather incredible thing,” marveled Robert Sean Leonard. “Most first-time directors have a hard time with the chaos that goes on. [They tend to] put lots of the decisions on the cinematographer’s shoulders. Not Chris. He held his own … . He was the anchor.”
What he wanted was something he’d achieved often in theater, but not really in film or television—for the cast to work together like a family, to become a family to each other—and since they were playing a family, that was doubly necessary. He was on the actors’ side. He knew exactly what it was like for them.
But it was draining for him, there was no doubt of that, and he had to ration his energy, as the shoot was only one part of his job. After that there remained all the postproduction work, the editing and the final cut.
For part of the movie Leonard, playing Danny, a young man dying of AIDS, had to be in a wheelchair, and Leonard did have to wonder if Chris found himself overempathizing with Danny.
“At times, I thought Chris might have connected [with] Danny a little too much,” he mused. “When you know you’re going to die in six weeks, like Danny, it’s not the same as knowing you won’t walk or move your arms again. They’re both shocking, life-changing things to face. But they’re very different things.”
What he really hadn’t taken into account, though, was the time, just after his accident, when Chris only had a fifty-fifty chance of living. He had been there, he did know, and so his relation with the character was perfectly normal. And Bridget Fonda offered a different viewpoint to Leonard’s when she said, “[Chris] was always a daredevil physically. Now he’s an emotional daredevil.”
The filming completed, on time and within budget, always two big stresses for a director, new or otherwise, Chris allowed himself a few days before beginning the postproduction work. But even that wasn’t a rest, or not completely. He attended the opening night of the National Horse Show in Madison Square Garden.
At a preshow fund-raiser (which would benefit both the American Paralysis Association and the Reeve-Irvine Research Center), Chris was to be honored for his work.
It was a fitting backdrop. In spite of everything that had happened, Chris had never lost his love of horses, or of watching others ride, even if it was unlikely that he’d ever do so again himself. And it meant a great deal to him to be lauded by riders, that they should pick his particular organizations as the recipients of their money.
But in November he was back in the studio, imposing his vision upon all the footage running through the machines in front of him. At times what he wanted conflicted with the ideas HBO had for the production, which led to disputes, and he wasn’t afraid to say so, even at a press conference to show the rough cut of the film.
“Chris was joking,” recalled HBO NYC vice president Colin Callender, “because he was watching the film [on another floor]. He said to me, ‘I’m quite sure, Colin, that you were up all night recutting the movie … . This cut you’re showing upstairs is yours, while what I’m seeing downstairs is [mine].’”
However, in the end they had something that everyone at HBO was pleased with, and something that made Chris proud of the work he’d put into it. The next question was who would benefit from the premiere screening. Glenn Close had been in favor of Harlem Hospital, which she strongly supported, although Chris remained unsure. In fact, at that point he didn’t even want to think about benefits. He’d attended enough during 1996 to say, “I’d gladly write a check for three hundred dollars to any group hosting a benefit, as long as I don’t actually have to show up.”
They were the words of an exhausted man. He’d spent the year driving himself as hard as he could, and made incredible progress along the way. He’d been determined to live as normal a life as possible within the limits he couldn’t pass, and he’d done exactly that, flying all over the country, speaking here and there, attending shows, working.
What he needed was a break to recharge his batteries. He was still discovering things about himself, like the anger that he couldn’t do the things he’d once considered perfectly n
ormal, that he was trapped in a wheelchair, and still had to use his respirator.
Still, Chris must have been happy when HBO NYC announced that it would cosponsor two premieres of In the Gloaming , one in New York, the other in Los Angeles, both to benefit the Christopher Reeve Foundation. It was a natural choice, but Chris had neither mentioned the charity nor tried to prejudice their decision in any way. But more money in the research coffers was always welcome.
When it finally appeared on television, shown on April 20, 1997, the critics’ reaction was mixed, as per usual. In Newsweek, Rick Marin stated that the script seemed “dated, as if nothing had changed since An Early Frost [the first movie on television to deal with AIDS] in 1985.” People, while also citing An Early Frost, gave it a grade A, praising “an acting cast that plays this somber chamber piece flawlessly.” And in Entertainment Weekly, Ken Tucker called it “superior to any domestic drama Hollywood has released in theaters in at least a decade,” noting it was “the most ardent, vulnerable performance I’ve ever seen Close give.”
And quite naturally, Chris’s direction was bound to receive at least a mention. To People he deserved “credit,” and Entertainment Weekly felt he made a film “intended for an audience that will appreciate the intricacy of its emotions.” Newsweek found itself in the dissenting position on Chris’s work here, too, stating, “Oblivious to cliches, Reeve directs this hourlong playlet through a sentimental haze, through the ‘gloaming’ of Danny’s dying days … . That [Reeve] can direct at all is impressive. Too bad the movie isn’t.”
But it had been a difficult subject to deal with, something that had to be handled in an adult way. That anyone had been willing to finance such a piece was unusual enough, given that the only deaths America seemed to like on its small screens were violent ones. And to do it with someone who’d never directed before was a leap of faith, however much publicity it might bring in. Chris had performed remarkably well, enough so that more directorial offers in the future seemed inevitable.
For now, though, he needed to forget all that, to have a life again with Dana and Will, to think of himself for a while. He’d been honored and honored over the last year, and New York’s mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, had probably echoed the sentiments of many Americans—indeed, people from around the world—when he spoke at “A Magical Evening,” a benefit for the American Paralysis Association, and said,
“The courage, determination, and optimism with which Christopher Reeve approached his injury and recovery have been truly an inspiration to all of us. I think that a lot of his fans no longer idolize Superman, but we have come to idolize the actor himself as a real man who possesses the fortitude and bravery of a superhero.”
One of the people there that night was one of Chris’s acting heroes, Meryl Streep. For a decade and a half he’d continually sung her praises, to the point where, when she came over and began chatting to him on a plane, “I turned beet red … . I went to pieces. I started to sweat like I was eating curry.”
She was the apotheosis of what he wanted to do in acting. Now he might never act again, certainly not in the way he once had, but he was still proud that she would attend this event where he was an honoree.
With Chris having shown what he could do, not only for himself, but also in support of the many victims of spinal-cord injury in the United States, so many people were happy to reach out and give what they could in return. In Princeton, his mother and others who’d known him when he was young organized “Coming Around Again: A Concert in Tribute to Christopher Reeve.”
In many ways, this was the most personal of all the events that had been presented. It was to be held on January 20, 1997, at the McCarter Theatre, the place where Chris had received his start as an actor, and while it would feature big names, they were all people with a personal connection to Chris. John Lithgow’s father, Arthur, had been the executive director of McCarter, and John had directed a very young Chris in a production of Much Ado About Nothing. Many Patinkin had been at Juilliard with Chris before making his name as an actor, and somewhat later, as a singer of distinction. And Carly Simon had got to know Chris and Dana when they’d spent time on Martha’s Vineyard, where she lived.
It was a star-studded bill, and its aim was to raise $250,000 for the Christopher Reeve Foundation. But even those behind the scenes had their connections. The benefit chair had gone to school with Chris at Princeton Day, the concert producer had acted with him at McCarter. His great-aunt was one of the underwriters, and his mother was one of the honorary chairpersons.
By the time the event took place, the bill had been strengthened by singer Mary Chapin Carpenter, who’d been a hometown neighbor of Chris’s.
“I guess a prerequisite to living in Princeton is that you have to be able to sing,” Chris joked later.
And there was a very, very special surprise guest to round it all out—Dana Morosini, who appeared to sing standards.
Over eleven hundred people turned out for the show, paying between $75 and $500 for the privilege of attending.
For Chris it really was a homecoming, accompanied by Dana, two nurses, and a personal assistant. The occasion was emotional, with old friends coming out, people he literally hadn’t seen in years. After a certain point it became embarrassing.
“My mother would say, ‘So-and-so’s coming,’ and I’d think, ‘How wonderful it’ll be to see that person!’ And I’d realize I hadn’t done anything to make that happen in the past.”
More than most public appearances, this one affected Chris. These were the people who’d known him when he was small, who’d seen him grow and been proud of him as he progressed in acting. While they could never know the pain he’d gone through—no one could, really—they’d been especially touched by his accident, and this was their reply.
“People have gone to such trouble for me,” Chris said. “I’m grateful for it, but I get a little embarrassed.” But he added, so obviously moved by the show, “If I never go anywhere again, this will have been enough.”
But people weren’t about to stop thinking of him, his own fight, and the fight he was conducting on behalf of all those other people. In May 1997, he received what was probably the ultimate accolade from the film industry, a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
He attended the ceremony—how could he have forgone it?—with a broken arm, the result of sheer “bad luck” when he was dropped by two attendants moving him into his chair. But he was still firing on all cylinders, reiterating the cry he’d often issued for more funding for research into spinal-cord injuries.
“If we keep giving our scientists the funding they need for research, soon I will take my family by the hand and will stand here in front of the star,” he said.
And every day it seemed a little bit more likely. In March he’d announced that he’d begun to regain feeling in his arms, hands, and back. The best thing about that was that he could actually feel when Dana or Will touched him.
He had, he said on CBS’s 48 Hours, sensation “all the way down to the base of my spine, which is really a big breakthrough, because to have feeling in the base of the spine is really important. About six months ago, I couldn’t feel down there.”
Excellent as that was, it still wasn’t going to be enough for him. What he wanted above all was to be able to hold Will.
“That’s what he’s entitled to. That’s what Dana is entitled to. And I believe that day is coming.”
That Chris could still be so optimistic, almost two years after his accident, was a wonderful thing in itself. But it only highlighted the fact that he’d focused the fighter within himself, and put it to work on his behalf.
There was even the possibility of a real return to acting. Beyond a cameo in a television movie (A Step Toward Tomorrow, aired in June 1997), all Chris had been able to do on that front since the fall was his voice-over in The Quest for Camelot.
But now there was a vehicle that could prove to be the perfect comeback, as he was offered the James Stewart role in
a remake of Rear Window, the Hitchcock thriller originally filmed in 1954. Tempting as it was, however, Chris didn’t immediately embrace it with open arms. There was a small matter of the script. One thing he didn’t want to be involved in was a simple rehash of what had been done before, however good it was. If the writers could come up with an original angle, then he would be interested, not before.
He was also taking the Christopher Reeve Foundation into its first business venture, as he endorsed a line of sportswear, the profits from which would benefit the foundation. If it seemed as if he was capitalizing on his name and public sympathy, then he was doing so not for personal gain, but to help the foundation, which meant getting more funding for spinal-cord research.
The clothes were aimed at the horsey set—caps, shirts, sweatshirts, polos, warm-ups—and all would have the logo of a horse and rider jumping a fence. To those who didn’t realize, that would seem remarkably insensitive, but in fact it had been chosen by Chris himself, never one to flinch from fact or history.
With the collection priced on the high end of the market, the foundation had every chance of making good money, receiving either 20 percent of the wholesale or 15 percent of the retail prices of the garments (the sweatshirts were set to go on the market at fifty-five dollars each).
And in the middle of 1997, Chris received an unusually high honor, being named the vice chairman of the National Organization on Disability, putting him in an influential position to do even more good for those, like himself, without full mobility. In the two years since the accident he’d achieved so much and come so far.
And it was only beginning … .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If it seems that Chris has made miraculous progress since his recovery, that is because he has. Part of the reason is that he hadn’t severed the spinal cord in the first place, a little was due to luck, some to the ministrations of doctors, nurses, and therapists, but for the most part the credit has to lie with Chris himself.
Superhero Page 21