I started writing in L.A. when I was forced to make my own career opportunities. I would have been much happier to have someone else do it. But in fact I had always been writing. I wrote a play called I Only Play George when I went to Boston to do The Thomas Crown Affair for Norman Jewison. Over the years I have written twenty-four, maybe twenty-five scripts. I used to throw them out. I keep them now. I threw out a couple of them just to recycle my brain. I like them all, but some I like better than others. With some it’s the idea that grabs me, more than the actual script. After Easy Rider came out there was a sudden appetite for small films, so I wrote a movie for Charm called Gloria Unglued. It was about a woman who moves into a seedy L.A. hotel after her husband leaves her. This hotel is only a few laps away from a huge park, very dark, where bad things happen, and the whole film was about her gathering her courage to cross the park. I liked that script a lot at that time. But, it didn’t happen.
As a writer I like to take my work to a certain point and then leave some breathing space. I don’t finish it, but I don’t finish it on purpose. The whole idea is to leave room for creative input, to see how you can adjust to the needs or specific requirements of the producer or the director or the actors or the network or, sometimes, all of them. But sometimes they’re not up to it, and you have to finish it for them.
Charm was a genuine fan of my writing. Yes, she was a doting wife, but she was also bright, educated, and well read. When someone asked her what she thought of my skills as a playwright and screenwriter she said that, for her at least, I captured the Canadian conscience.
“I think he creates men of humour, men of dignity, men of strength and men of compassion,” she said. “He doesn’t play arrogance. He doesn’t play stupidity. I think Canadians are like who he portrays. And even if they’re not,” she added with a shrug, “they see it and they want to be!”
My son Barry, an accomplished writer himself, asked me if I had developed a specific philosophy or methodology over the years. “Because,” he said, “so many people seem to recognize themselves in your stories.”
“If you want to write anything from the heart,” I told him, “take some major decision you made in your life, and reverse it, and tell the story from that angle.”
Meanwhile, the world around us keeps changing. Another new game, another new set of rules to learn. Today when you send scripts to producers and directors, and they turn you down, it’s not about personal taste, or because you sent them a drama and they are really longing to do a musical. It’s about What’s Going, what’s sellable, what’s pitchable to the studios and the broadcasters. And what’s going usually has more than a little to do with what’s going across the border with our big neighbour next door. They give us very good seats to watch what they’re doing, but we will not be heavily involved.
Only four of my scripts have been produced so far. But I’m to blame for that. One of my genuine regrets is that I’ve never been proactive. I’ve never been one to put myself out there. I like writing. I like doing it. And I know I’m a good story person. But I just can’t be any more proactive than that. I just don’t like the idea of bag-ladying around the country with my wares.
Besides, I’d rather be writing. Or directing, for that matter. The two directors who had the greatest influence on my performances and, in some ways, my life, were John Hirsch and George McCowan. In 2008, as part of the fiftieth anniversary celebrations for the Manitoba Theatre Centre, the Mainstage at the MTC was re-dedicated as the John Hirsch Theatre. Last year saw the arrival of a new biography by Fraidie Martz and Andrew Wilson, A Fiery Soul: The Life and Theatrical Times of John Hirsch. And this past summer’s theatrical events at the 2012 Stratford Shakespeare Festival included Alon Nashman’s high-octane one-man show about John, Hirsch.
I still find it hard to believe that John is gone. When I met him in Winnipeg for the first time it was clear to me, even then, that he knew where he was going. And we all just wanted to be part of that journey. His introductions of plays to his actors, the preambles he would give us before we started learning and rehearsing, were absolutely brilliant. You could have filmed them. And here he was, Hungarian, speaking to us in English, which was not even his native tongue. It took a young man from Hungary to create theatre excitement in Winnipeg. John always looked like a flamingo on his way to or from his own creative urges. But his knowledge, his instincts, during that time, were astonishing.
He was also unpredictable and frequently surprised me with his bursts of bizarre behaviour. After we opened Glass Menagerie at the MTC, we had a cast party, of course, and I remember sitting there with a drink in my hand, cocky young leading man, surrounded by three very pretty girls, at which point John ambled by, wagged his finger at me, and said, “Gordon! Be sensitive!” (Whaaaa?)
On another occasion he and his manager Catherine McCartney were driving north along Church Street in Toronto when he spied me approaching in the southbound lane. He immediately rolled down the window, stuck out one flailing arm and effectively stopped traffic so he could talk to me, driver window to driver window.
“Gordon!” he cried somewhat indignantly. “Why aren’t you home writing!”
“I – I – I’m on my way home now!” I protested, stammering. “That’s where I’m going now!”
“Well, stop wasting time then!” he snapped. “Go home and write!” After which he rolled up the window and sped off.
George McCowan had many of the same uncanny instincts as John. Except he would never tell you. Oh, he knew. He had a photographic memory, just to start with. He stepped in two days before Toby Robins opened in Two for the Seesaw at the Crest after the leading man dropped out. And as you know that’s a two-character show! So not only did he direct it, he stepped in and did the whole goddamn show!
You could see it. He was like an arrow going through plays and TV shows. And even with that arrow-like precision he didn’t have to solve anything. He just knew.
An actress in one play I did for him, years ago, got very anxious because she felt she was running out of time.
“We open tomorrow night,” she said nervously, “and George still hasn’t given me any direction!”
“Yes, dear,” I told her, “that’s why he hired you.”
He didn’t have to give her any direction. And he knew he didn’t have to. I remember one time when we were about to shoot a scene in which I had to interrogate ten people at once, and what I remember most is how well George handled it. I showed up bright and eager on the set, and George knew that I was ready. By then I had memorized it ten ways to Sunday. So we took our places, and he called “Action,” and we shot the scene. It was that kind of thinking. And that did more for me than almost any other thing. Also, George seemed to learn the technical side almost overnight. Not by studying, not by observing, but by common sense. He had a very visual sense. He knew where he was going, technically, with a film. He knew how to get things done – things that might have been difficult for other people. When I showed up for something and George said, “Here comes Gordon,” he was treating me like I was the most experienced actor in the world. And he knew, he just knew, that I would work myself into the ground before I would let him down.
I used a lot of the lessons I learned from John and George when I started directing. I remember it being particularly useful on one project, Exile, a hot-topic drama about wartime Japanese internment camps in B.C. The lead actor was Robert Ito, a respected principal dancer from the National Ballet of Canada who was doing his level best to create a new career for himself as an actor. I was very sympathetic to the baggage he was carrying, and his concerns about stereotyping and casting limitations. He was already planning to move to L.A. permanently, and went on to play opposite Jack Klugman for seven years on Klugman’s series Quincy. At the end of the day I like to think Exile served as an effective showcase for him, and I hope he was as pleased with the end result as I was.
I must confess, however, that in later years John Hirsch had a dark side. Althou
gh I never experienced it firsthand, I heard enough about it that I was prompted to confront him.
“John,” I said, “I hear you’re being quite mean to some of the actors.”
“Well, Gordon,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not running an old folks home.” And that was the end of that.
At this point in my life I am more focused on acting than directing, but I take every opportunity I can to work with young or new directors. The Canadian Film Centre, the demanding high-standard film school started by Norman Jewison when he came back to Canada, has honed and fine-tuned some very talented people. So far I’ve worked with Clément Virgo on The Listener, Vincenzo Natali on his quirky film Nothing, and, of course, with Sarah Polley on Away from Her. And in time I hope to work with all of them.
I hold fast to the virtue of imagination. When things are bad, imagine that they’re going to get better.
That’s what your bank manager does, when he imagines that next year will be better than this year. Norman Vincent Peale called it the power of positive thinking. Some people call it visualization. Call it whatever you want, we all imagine our lives as we would like them to be. Even as I write this, I imagine I hear the telephone ringing, and when I answer it, I’m informed that a courier is on his way to me with a wonderful, innovative, bold, and daring new script.
I was offered two movies this week. I was very pleased to be offered two movies. I don’t think I’ll do either one of them. Same old story. “But did you read the whole script?” I don’t have to read the whole script to see how my character impacts the story. There’s a little bit here, then there is a twenty-page gap, and then there’s a little bit there, and then there’s another twenty-page gap. Is my character development the thrust of the story? I don’t think so. And if the story is not dependent on my character, why do I need to read the whole script?
Then again, I’ve just been offered two short films, with some really good people. And I’m going to do them both.
These days it seems to me that I spend half my time working and the other half defending it, that I’m still working. “You’re still doing it, Gordon? Jesus!” I get that everywhere. “Yes, and I made four dollars this week.” Because the big properties are few and far between.
I am often asked: “Why are you doing so many different things?” It has struck me, at this late date, that I was entertaining enough as a kid, but that I was beginning then to believe everyone who had said I was “useless” – which most assuredly meant everyone I had passed on the street where I lived. And, I was. Useless, I do believe it now, in the deepest part of my foolish self. Not a part of me was real. You can try on every cowboy hat in the store, but that still won’t make you a cowboy.
I’ve always looked ahead. What’s next? What’s next? As if it was the very first thing I was going to do. And people say, “My God, Gordon, you’ve done a lot of work.” People look at me with that fishy expression and say, “Wow, you’re still at it!” Which is another way of saying, hey, Gordon, maybe it’s time for you to leave, to sign off. You’re still at it for God’s sake! You gotta be 200!
Honestly, sometimes you forget you were even part of certain things. My brother Harry calls every so often and gently tries to nudge me to give it all up. He’s waiting for me to come home to Newfoundland and sit on a bench with him and watch the world go by. But I’m not ready for that. Sometimes the work is slow, and then you get a movie like Away from Her and, bang, you’re right back in it and doing your best work.
Maybe it’s peculiar to my particular generation. Look at Chris Plummer. Chris is doing so great now at this late stage in his career. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo with Daniel Craig, Beginners with Ewan McGregor, The Last Station with Helen Mirren, The Tempest, Barrymore … when you’re in your eighties, you can still have your best idea tomorrow. Which is one of the reasons why retirement is never an issue. Retire from what? Use the word “retiring” in front of Donald Sutherland and he’ll assume you’re using a synonym for “shy.” Retire? Just because you’ve hit a certain age, a certain number, that our culture has defined as Quitting Time?
Don made his first movie with Tallulah Bankhead – yes, Tallulah Bankhead, for God’s sake! He’s been directed by Altman, Bertolucci, Fellini, Mazursky, Redford, Roeg, Schlesinger, even Dalton Trumbo. He’s done more than 150 shows, on big and little screens, from Ordinary People to Bethune to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and even tackled Edward Albee’s Lolita on Broadway. So far he’s picked up a Genie, an Emmy, two Golden Globes, a star on Canada’s Walk of Fame and another one on Hollywood Boulevard. This year his film The Hunger Games set new box office records, and he has five more in the works, and he’s not even eighty yet! Just a simple lad from New Brunswick with a dream.
We had fun working together on Pillars of the Earth in Vienna, some grand lunches and dinners. His wife Francine Racette is still movie-star stunning (remember her great work with Jeanne Moreau in Lumière?) and his best down-to-earth counterpart. She keeps him grounded in reality. Francine is his margins. And Don is very diligent about maintaining his privacy. He has built his “castle” as he had meant to; its moat, solid enough to cross for those he wants to spend time with. It’s a safe bet that The Sutherland has many bright things on his horizon, and it’s an even safer bet retirement isn’t one of them.
Look at Bill Shatner. In fact, just try not to look at him! How many TV series is he doing this year, on how many networks? Star Trek proved to be such a strange phenomenon that I think most actors’ careers would have been dwarfed by it. Leonard Nimoy had to struggle to break out of its boundaries. But Bill keeps reinventing himself, constantly surprising us. There are younger audiences out there who only know him as Denny Crane, the eccentric lawyer sparring with James Spader and Candice Bergen on Boston Legal. They have no idea he starred on Broadway. He did The World of Suzie Wong on Broadway. He did A Shot in the Dark, too. When he appeared for three seasons at Stratford, Charm said his handling of the material was excellent, that his voice was the only one that she could hear at the back. He really knew what it was all about. He just seemed to be the wisest kid in class. Before he got those breaks, people thought he was just another actor pounding on desks in Toronto, wanting to be heard. They have no trouble hearing him now.
Both Bill and Chris have always had a sly sense of humour about themselves. They realize it’s important to have some fun with the business you’re in, and Bill especially has done it remarkably well.
I always loved doing the stand and deliver, but now I’m becoming even more partial to the Ulysses speech from Troilus and Cressida. You know the one. Because the more I do it the more I realize that it’s about people like me, who have to keep going.
For time is a fashionable host
That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing.…
(Act III, Scene 3)
You hear about ageism, or whatever they call it, and you don’t think that much about it, and then one day your hair turns white and they think, yes, we better make this deal now, so he can go out and walk the dogs. You get to a certain age and they label you and they treat you like you should be standing in line to play Santa Claus at Eaton’s.
And what’s to be done about it? Nothing that I know of. Except, of course, landing a really great role, even greater than the good ones you may be lucky enough to be working on now. Top billing may not be the best revenge, but it will have to do until something better comes along.
My friend R. H. Thomson, an accomplished actor and director himself, has been conducting a series of interviews for Theatre Museum Canada, capturing an oral history of our theatrical accomplishments before they fade into oblivion. We spoke of many things when he interviewed me, but I thought he was especially prescient when he asked me if I was just making up my whole career as I went along. Because yes, th
at’s what I did, and that’s what I’m still doing. As for my so-called mercurial drive, I told him, it comes from a fear of failure, a fear of losing. I was no good in school. Failed everything. But I loved the friendships. Loved life in general. I was a happy kid. I said to my teacher, “The trouble is, I’m sitting so far at the back that I can’t hear you.” But I never got moved up to the front.
I still have that fear of failure, and the Pinsent Anxiety, a family trait I share with my brother Harry. I said to Charm, “I’m getting to the point where I don’t know if I can go into a crowded room.” And she said, “You’re a performer. Perform.” So I did. I acted my way into those crowded rooms. And after I circled a bit, I had a wonderful time.
I’ve just finished rewriting one of my plays, a piece originally called Corner Green. This time I’ve done it as a screenplay, and it’s all about anxiety. Not the Pinsent family anxiety so much as that terrifying black-hole anxiety that haunted people like Nijinsky, Lord Byron, Churchill, and Hitler. Years ago I even wrote about it in verse:
It’s a desperate thing without a name
It’s not a dream. And it ain’t no game
could be bad, could be good
it can’t be seen, but it’s understood
a desperate thing has taken flight
don’t come out of your house tonight
one thing certain and it’s a fact
if you kiss it, it’ll kiss you back*
Is it a poem? A song? It feels fresh and new again, but like the Pinsent Anxiety, it’s been with me, weighing heavy on me, for some time now. Probably because all these things are tied up together, and you have to be careful when you pull the string, so you won’t unravel more than you can handle.
I’ve probably kept some of it under The Ledge. The Ledge is what I call it; you may have a different name for it. Hidden resources are stored under The Ledge, and when I go there I’m eighteen again, or twenty-five, or whatever fragment of my past I need to be, or see, or revisit, or re-examine, to help find what I’m looking for. Because the best answers often come from a place you kept only for yourself. Granted, the journey back inside can be a bit intimidating, maybe even a little frightening at times. But it’s a journey well worth taking, always, especially if it helps you find your voice. Your own voice is the first voice you heard when you said I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to be an actor, I’m going to be a dancer with the Winnipeg Ballet. And when you start getting in your own way, and we all do, you need to go back to that voice, and listen to it again, so you can move forward, so you can move on. Don’t give it away. Take it with you wherever you go. Because if you lose that voice, it’s over. And as my old friend R. H. Thomson says, that’s one cliff no one wants to go over.
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