I was particularly impressed by the commitment so many of them had to theater in and of itself. Many of their American counterparts feel stuck in a rep company while they wait for a good film role or even a TV series to come along. The actors I met in the UK seemed not to care if or when film work turned up. They lived simply, enjoying the rehearsal process and the satisfaction of deepening and enriching their performances over a long period of time. Most of them had attended drama school and were extremely versatile. They could move and speak well and had obviously developed acting technique. They could play Shakespeare or Miller or Alan Ayckbourn, just as a musician in an orchestra can play Haydn or Berlioz or Stravinsky.
I also found the clichéd notion that British actors are “technical” while American actors are “natural” to be completely unfounded. That may have been true several generations ago, but not now. I saw many performances (one of the best was Finney’s) that were both technically adroit and absolutely truthful. It was also a pleasure to find that the younger actors felt honored to have been chosen for these companies; they weren’t just “passing through.”
I reached London the third week of October and stayed at the flat of an actress I’d met who was performing at Nottingham Rep. Occasionally she came to town on her days off, making my stay even more enjoyable. I saw dozens of productions, from the West End to pub theater in Camden Town and Hammersmith. I saw Olivier in Long Day’s Journey into Night at the Old Vic. I was very starstruck watching him perform, but I still thought the Cornell production was better. Afterwards, as usual, I talked my way backstage and met the other actors.
I struck up a conversation with Dennis Quilley, who had played Jamie Tyrone and was in rehearsal for The Front Page. He confided that he and some others in the cast were having trouble mastering their American accents. They found it particularly difficult because the 1920s Hecht and MacArthur comedy had to be played at breakneck speed. The next day I found myself in the large rehearsal room at the Old Vic, sitting next to the director in front of a cast of thirty, charged with taking notes and making suggestions. I had assumed that the company would have any number of dialect coaches available at all times, but for some reason there were none in sight. I wasn’t being paid but didn’t care. I took copious notes in case an actor asked for advice. Sometimes the director asked me to stand in front of the company and read the newspaper aloud. The actors always paid close attention, and some of them tape-recorded the sessions. It was a tremendous honor to be useful to them.
At the end of November I went to Paris on the final leg of my journey, before returning to Princeton for the holidays and then back to academia. I had studied French from third grade all the way through my sophomore year at Cornell and was fairly fluent. As I crossed the English Channel I made a quiet agreement with myself not to speak English from the moment we docked at Calais until I boarded a plane for New York. I had an introduction to the great French actor Michel Lonsdale and the phone number of a young college student, Jacqueline, who had been the au pair for my half brothers Jeff and Kevin a few summers before. I stayed at a youth hostel near the Pont Marie and often went with Jacqueline to her classes at the Faculté des Sciences at Jussieu, where she was a biology major. Since I’d always been bored by the subject in English, my eyes glazed over as I sat in the back of à large lecture hall listening to an ancient professor drone on in French. Every Sunday night I joined Jacqueline’s family for dinner in their comfortable apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement.
I managed to get in touch with Michel Lonsdale and thoroughly enjoyed watching him rehearse Pinter’s Old Times at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. Through him I was introduced to the company of the Comédie-Française. Because their stagehands were on strike, they had moved into a tent in a nearby park, where they were preparing a production of Molière’s Le Bourgeois gentilhomme. As I watched rehearsals I was surprised to find that the director was mounting an extremely traditional production. Actors would come forward and declaim their lines, playing directly to the audience as they did in the seventeenth century. I talked to some of the company and discovered that they felt Molière must be done “properly,” not reinvented for a modern audience. From studying the play in high school, I remembered it being extremely funny, and I’d seen productions in the States that were fresh and inventive. The Comédie-Française production was unbelievably boring, a real disappointment. On opening night I left after the first act.
I spent a lot of time roaming the city. Because I spoke French, I was treated better than many Americans. I could chat with people in restaurants, ask anyone on the street for directions, and catch up on the news by reading Le Monde instead of the International Herald Tribune. At Jacqueline’s apartment on Sunday evenings, I confidently joined the discussions over dinner led by her father (a lawyer), who was usually challenged by her mother (a schoolteacher). Sometimes the whole family stayed at the table for two or three hours, enjoying lively arguments. Before I knew what was happening, I was becoming more French. I took to wearing a fisherman’s sweater and baggy pants, and spent many afternoons in a bar smoking a pipe and writing in my journal. I have no idea who I thought I was, but I was still experimenting with different identities, both onstage and off. I tended to immerse myself in any new environment. In San Diego I looked like a surfer; at Cornell, a dyed-in-the-wool preppie; and now in France I was becoming some kind of generic bohemian.
The trip abroad had been stimulating and rewarding, but I had also been lonely. It was hard not having someone to share my experiences with me, and I sometimes wondered why I had taken the trip alone. Helen and I were writing each other several times a week. Every day I would go to the nearest American Express office to see if a letter had arrived. When there was one it was the highlight of my day. When there was nothing for me I would wander aimlessly out into the streets. Why weren’t we together? By mid-December I fully realized how much I missed her, and my friends, and even the student life at Cornell. I wanted to change my flight and come home sooner, but I couldn’t afford the difference in price. At last the return date arrived. After three months of meeting strangers and having no particular structure in my life, I felt the need to do something productive instead of just being an observer. I was ready to go home.
Chapter 7
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It would be nice to report that when I returned to Cornell in January 1973 I settled in, studied hard, and readjusted completely to campus life. Unfortunately it didn’t happen that way. I found it hard to concentrate and I wanted to study acting exclusively, certain that it would be my life. Intellectual History, Physics, and several other courses I had to take seemed more irrelevant than ever. The trip to Europe had strengthened my desire to become a serious classical actor, and I felt I couldn’t wait any longer.
Jack O’Brien, who had hired me for the Shakespeare season in San Diego, was now on the faculty of the Juilliard School in New York. The three-year-old Drama Division was already attracting some terrific young talent, and its reputation was on a par with the best drama schools in the country, such as Yale, Carnegie-Mellon, and Northwestern. I had a long talk with John Clancy, arguing that as a theater major I would achieve more at Juilliard (if I could get in) than I could by staying at Cornell. I managed to convince him and the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. We agreed that my first year at Juilliard would count as my senior year at Cornell. I was ecstatic. I would be able to keep my agreement with my parents while making greater progress in my chosen career.
Now the problem was how to get into Juilliard. Jack O’Brien recommended me to the faculty and to the legendary John Houseman, the director of the Drama Division. Still, I was fully aware that every year two thousand students auditioned for twenty places in the freshman class. Only an additional two or three were accepted into the Advanced Program. These were students with professional experience who entered the school at the third-year level. I was trying for one of these places.
My Juilliard audition wa
s more nerve-wracking than any arranged by Stark Hesseltine. Ten faculty members sat in a row in the school theater. The seats sloped upwards from the stage level, which gave the audience a superb view, but as I looked up at the row of distinguished teachers sitting on high ready to pass judgment, I felt small and insignificant. Houseman, of course, was the most intimidating. Here was the man who had cofounded the Mercury Theater with Orson Welles and, after a long and distinguished career as a producer, was now enjoying success as an actor. He had just won an Academy Award for his role in The Paper Chase. There was supposedly an avuncular side to his personality; those who knew him well spoke of his warmth, kindness, and generosity. As a stranger I had a completely different impression.
I had heard he was notoriously impatient. Each prospective student had to present two pieces, one classical and one modern, not to exceed a total of five minutes. If Houseman was unimpressed, he would boom out a resounding “Thank you” from the darkness above, and the aspiring young actor would have to apply elsewhere. Some probably returned to Indiana or Texas, reconsidered their parents’ advice, and chose a more stable profession.
I felt particularly pressured because of Jack O’Brien’s recommendation. What if I didn’t live up to my advance billing? As I walked onto the stage I knew that somehow I had to get control of the situation. Experience had taught me that it’s impossible to perform well if you feel like a temporary—and perhaps unwelcome—visitor. You need to believe that you have something special to offer and that your time and talent deserve respect. When you rehearse in your living room you own the space, and that comfort informs the work. The challenge is to create the same feeling during an audition in an unfamiliar setting before an audience of jaded producers, casting directors, or teachers who may have already had a long and frustrating day. It’s hard to watch a new young hopeful come in the door every five minutes.
Fortunately the last applicant had left a few chairs and a table onstage. They were in my way, and I took my time clearing them aside, breathing deeply all the while, until the stage was bare and my heart rate had returned to double digits. Then I began a quiet monologue from Life Is a Dream, the very production that had gone so badly at Cornell. But I had worked on a passage in which Segismundo wonders out loud why he has been so harshly punished simply for existing. I hoped that this material might be unfamiliar to the faculty and would be a welcome relief from the standard Shakespeare soliloquies that many students presented. I took my time and didn’t panic. Houseman didn’t interrupt. My next piece was from A Month in the Country, an old friend that had lightness and humor and provided a nice contrast to the painful introspection of the other scene.
When I finished jack O’Brien was beaming. Houseman said nothing, but Marian Seldes, one of the warmest and most supportive acting teachers a student could hope for, called out, “Thank you, that was lovely.” During the five-hour drive back to Cornell, I replayed the whole experience again and again. I thought I had done well, but I had no real idea where I stood. Maybe Marian was just being polite. Why hadn’t Houseman said anything?
Three weeks later the official letter came from Houseman himself. One other actor and I had been accepted into the Advanced Program. Classes would begin September 15.
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The first person I met at Juilliard was the other advanced student, a short, stocky, long-haired fellow from Marin County, California, who wore tie-dyed shirts with track suit bottoms and talked a mile a minute. I’d never seen so much energy contained in one person. He was like an untied balloon that had been inflated and immediately released. I watched in awe as he virtually caromed off the walls of the classrooms and hallways. To say that he was “on” would he a major understatement. There was never a moment when he wasn’t doing voices, imitating teachers, and making our faces ache from laughing at his antics. His name, of course, was Robin Williams.
The earnest Juilliard student.
Robin during the Juilliard years.
As “advanced” students we had several classes together, just the two of us. One of my favorites was a 9:00 A.M. session with the much-revered Edith Skinner, who for nearly six decades had been one of the world’s leading voice and speech teachers. She had taught at every drama school in the country and was in great demand as a dialect consultant at theater companies everywhere.
Edith must have been in her mid-eighties when Robin and I crossed her path, and she had no idea what to make of him. She taught dialects the proper, academic way, using the phonetic alphabet and identifying key vowel changes and substitutions so an actor could meticulously master a new voice. But Robin didn’t need any of this. He could instantly perform in any dialect—Scottish, Irish, English, Russian, Italian, and many of his own invention. Meanwhile, I was dutifully marking my text with the phonetic corrections, barely managing to learn one new accent at a time.
Michael Kahn, our primary acting teacher, was equally baffled by this human dynamo. Every two weeks we were expected to perform a scene for the rest of the class. Our group was talented, and there was a lot of good work, but nobody was prepared for a scene Robin performed from Beyond the Fringe. He played a somewhat dim-witted preacher delivering a Sunday sermon. Most of us were familiar with this monologue by Peter Cook, but Robin’s version was even funnier than the original. His characterization, timing, and delivery were impeccable. Usually there was silence at the end of a presentation, then the floor would be open to a discussion of the work. But when Robin finished we all applauded. Michael Kahn, however, was not impressed. He said that Robin had taken the easy way out; this was not proper scene work but facile stand-up comedy. He urged Robin to try something more challenging instead of mimicking someone else’s performance to make us laugh.
The first production of the third-year class was Tennessee Williams’s The Night of the Iguana. Robin’s performance immediately silenced his critics. His portrayal of an old man confined to a wheelchair was thoroughly convincing. He simply was the old man. I was astonished by his work and very grateful that fate had thrown us together. We were becoming good friends. Many of our classmates related to Robin by doing bits with him, attempting to keep pace with his antics. I didn’t even try. Occasionally Robin would need to switch off and have a serious conversation with someone, and I was always ready to listen. For a time he had a crush on a girl in our class who thought he was an immature goofball. Robin was able to share his real feelings with me, and I always did the same with him. This has remained true for twenty-five years.
My first role at Juilliard was Dr. Johnny in Summer and Smoke, also by Tennessee Williams. Dr. Johnny’s relationship with his father is a key issue, and I identified strongly with him. I was able to draw on certain truths in my own life, and my performance went well. Afterwards I was called into Houseman’s office for a private critique, which was standard operating procedure in the department. Houseman was still a daunting figure to most of us. He was in his early seventies, and the sternness evident in his Smith Barney commercials (with the now-famous line, “We make money the old-fashioned way; we earn it”) was exactly how he came across to his students. He could stop you abruptly during a poor audition or boot you out of school for a bad performance. Houseman would say, “It’s not worth our time to train you. Good luck!” and a student would be gone, just like that.
I was shown a seat in his office. He closed the door and settled into his rocking chair. After a long pause, he intoned, “Mr. Reeve. It is terribly important that you become a serious classical actor. (Pause.) Unless, of course, they offer you a shitload of money to do something else.” I loved John Houseman from that moment on.
Then he offered me the opportunity to leave school and join the Acting Company, the graduate arm of the Drama Division. If you were invited to join the company, which was considered quite an honor, you went on a bus and truck tour of the hinterlands for twenty-six weeks a year. The stars at that time were Kevin Kline, Patti LuPone, David Ogden Stiers, and David Schramm. I was very
flattered by the invitation to join their ranks, but I worried that I would be resented by my classmates, especially since I had only appeared in one production. I also felt an obligation to complete the year in order to receive my B.A. from Cornell. And I was enjoying the school atmosphere and working with my classmates—among them Mandy Patinkin, Bill Hurt, Diane Venora, and, of course, the amazing Mr. Williams. I politely declined the offer and stayed in school.
The highlight of my Juilliard experience came in the spring of 1974, when ten of us toured the New York City school system in Moliere’s one-act The Love Cure. We performed in every borough, often for sixth- and seventh-graders at inner-city schools who had never seen a live theatrical performance, much less Molière. But the play was easy for the kids to understand and genuinely funny. I was the dashing but none-too-bright romantic hero, and Stanley Wilson (now a film producer and a lifelong friend) was my servant. As in many Molière comedies, the servant is much brighter than the master and continually has to get him out of some scrape.
We were at first apprehensive but then delighted by the response from our audiences. They were mesmerized by the story, laughed in all the right places, and hung on every word. At one school in the Bronx, I received the greatest ovation of my entire career, although it came at an unexpected moment. The action called for me to leap up on a bench, raise my sword, and make some romantic declaration. I leapt on the bench, drew my sword with a flourish, and demolished most of a row of lights just above me. Glass flew everywhere, the lights went out, and the students roared their approval at this reckless destruction of school property. There was no way to get them back under control, so we were forced to retreat into our station wagon and head back to Juilliard.
Still Me Page 17