by Nick Nolte
In the film, whose screenplay was closely based on actual events, Paul Rusesabagina, played by Don Cheadle, is the manager of a Sabena airlines–owned hotel. He is Hutu, but his wife is Tutsi, and as the political situation in the country worsens following the assassination of the president, Paul and his family observe as neighbors are killed in the ethnic violence. Paul bribes officials with money and alcohol, hoping to keep his family safe, but when civil war breaks out Paul barely secures their safety by bringing them to the hotel. Don Cheadle is really powerful in the film. He’s a solid actor. Very intellectual and savvy; he knows what he’s doing and why he’s doing it.
I played the Canadian Colonel Oliver, head of the United Nations peacekeeping forces in Rwanda—a character based on Canadian lieutenant-general Roméo Dallaire, whose hands were tied because he and his forces were forbidden to intervene in the bloodshed.
In a last-ditch effort to save the refugees, Paul first pleads with a Rwandan Hutu army general, then blackmails him with threats that he will be tried as a war criminal. Paul, his family, and other refugees at the hotel are finally able to leave in a UN convoy with Colonel Oliver’s help, traveling through hundreds of thousands of fleeing refugees to reach safety behind Tutsi rebel lines. There is precious little that Oliver can do, but he is determined to help a few people survive, at least.
I knew from the first conversation I had with Terry that my part was a small one, but the power of the role of Oliver is that he is utterly helpless against what is going on. Oliver’s powerlessness, his inability to stop hundreds of thousands of people from being chopped to death with machetes, is the key to the role, and I played the part mindful of the fact that the real UN commander, Dallaire, went home to Canada in the late summer of 1994, spiraled into a deep alcoholic depression, and attempted suicide several times. He had severe post-traumatic stress syndrome and in June of 2000, he was found in a semi-coma state under a park bench in Toronto.
Although there was that small United Nations presence in Rwanda, the reality is that the West utterly ignored the genocide. President Bill Clinton was adamant about not getting involved in Rwanda and the rest of the Western world turned its back as well. Hell was allowed to take hold on earth for a time—a truth that remains difficult to address, and the reason why, like Terry, I had to do the film.
I appreciated Terry’s courage in bringing the horrific story to the screen, something that was a huge challenge at every turn. “It’s simple: African lives are not seen as being as valuable as the lives of Europeans or Americans,” he commented when he and other producers of Hotel Rwanda partnered with the United Nations Foundation to create the International Fund for Rwanda, which supported and still supports Rwandan survivors. “The simple goal of the film,” he said, “. . . is to help redress this terrible devastation.”
The wonderful British actress Sophie Okonedo, who is half Nigerian, powerfully plays Paul Rusesabagina’s wife, Tatiana, in the film, a role for which she was nominated for an Academy Award. We filmed both in Rwanda itself and in South Africa, and it was fantastic to get to see some of Africa—a place where I’d never been—through the eyes of someone like Sophie, whose roots are there.
She and I got to know each other well, and it was fascinating that every time we went out to dinner during our time in South Africa we would be surrounded by people who were eager to hear about the world’s opinion of their country more than a decade after apartheid had ended. Ironically, strangely, South Africa had held its first universal democratic elections and Nelson Mandela became president in the same year as the Rwandan genocide occurred, and people were both very proud and curious about the world’s reaction.
We often would sit and talk with hope-filled young black South Africans until the restaurants finally closed at two in the morning. The conversations were always animated and I wanted these people I spoke with to know that, yes, the world was very aware of how dramatically different their history had been from what had occurred in Rwanda. “Look, you guys were able to do something remarkable,” I said time and again. “In a radical, white-supremacist world, you were able to show the world how people can move forward ethically without bloodshed. I mean, you’re the example,” I wanted them to know, “that tells the world we can all get along.”
CHAPTER 17
Sophie
BEN STILLER CALLED ME IN 2005 AND ANNOUNCED, “YOU know, Nick, we should work together.” I’d met Ben several times before, and I knew his parents, the renowned actors and comedians Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara. Over the many months that followed, Ben and I played with a number of ideas, but nothing ever really took shape.
Then, late in 2006, Ben invited me to a Los Angeles read-through of a script he had cowritten that satirized epic Vietnam War films like Apocalypse Now and Platoon. The gathering would only include actors, he said, because he feared that no studio heads would go near a project like the one he wanted to produce, direct, and star in. “I don’t know if anybody will accept it,” Ben told me. “So, we’re just going to read it. It’ll just be a bunch of actors, and we’ll just read it. It’s called Tropic Thunder. You would play Four Leaf Tayback, this vet turned writer who has created this script based on his outrageous experiences in Vietnam, except that he was never actually there. Oh, and he has no hands.”
“Okay,” I said—always intrigued by a role in which I would be handless!
My assistant at the time, and someone with whom I’d worked for many years, was a great local kid in his thirties named Greg Shapiro, and although Greg was far too young to remember Vietnam, the idea for the film interested him and he wanted to accompany me to the read-through. I said sure, and as we prepared to drive into town, I gathered a big oxygen bottle with valves, plastic tubes, and a nasal cannula to take to the reading with me.
“Jesus, Nick,” Greg said when he saw my props. “You’re really going to walk in there with oxygen, for Christ’s sake? You’re nuts.”
“Yes, I am nuts,” I told him. “You know that.” I thought it would be funny—and it turned out that it was; old Four Leaf Tayback was exactly the kind of guy who’d be puffing pure oxygen by now. Well, as soon as we got in the room I realized that it was kind of a setup, because it wasn’t just about a dozen actors, all seated around a huge table, there was also the head of Disney Studios, whom Ben had enlisted to come listen and offer an opinion about whether something as outrageous as Tropic Thunder could actually get funded and produced.
Sure enough, the idea was so far out there that Ben wanted Robert Downey Jr. to wear blackface as he played a character that lampooned hyper-intense Method actors. So we went through the reading, and it evidently went off with a big bang, because it wasn’t long after that Ben got his financing and we were scheduled to start shooting in Kauai in July 2007.
Ben’s fertile brain had imagined a Vietnam War film that badly derails because of the giant egos of everyone involved. Stiller was scheduled to play Tugg Speedman, an aging action hero; Jack Black would portray a drug-addicted comic taking on his first serious film. Robert Downey Jr. would be one of the world’s most awarded actors, the kind who gets utterly lost in every role—including, in this case, appearing in blackface. Downey did not know how that would go over. In fact, it was a discussion right up to shooting. Robert, on the first day of filming, was putting makeup on and wondering how deep the shade should be, what was acceptable or what was going to be Amos ’n’ Andy. I said, “Don’t worry, you’ll make it work.” And Downey did, you know. He put it together with care.
Later in the plot, when everything is about to go to hell due to the misbehaving actors, the “film’s” director, played by Steve Coogan, takes the very questionable advice of hook-handed Four Leaf Tayback—me—and air-drops the actors into the jungle, hoping that something filmable will ensue. But when they happen onto a heroin producers’ camp, it takes the “soldiers” a ridiculous amount of time to realize that the bullets, and the danger, are real.
Ben’s big cast included a number of young
comedic actors like Jack Black, Danny McBride, Bill Hader, and Matthew McConaughey. I was the designated old guy and I remember before we left for Hawaii that Jack, in particular, thought I was so ancient that he should regularly give me a hard time. But as a group of us sat down to dinner one evening in Santa Monica, Jack spotted singer David Crosby crossing the dining room of the restaurant where we were eating, and I heard him turn to someone, pointing out David and whispering that he was a “legend.”
With that, I got up and walked over to David to say hello. We gave each other a big hug, and I told him he looked great. Jack was fucking impressed, to say the least, that an old geezer like me knew someone like David, and finally I became an acceptable acting companion in Jack’s eyes.
My role in the film wasn’t a major one, but Ben wanted me to be on set throughout the shoot on Kauai, so off I went at the start of principal photography. The whole scene on the island was craziness, with a million moving parts and people. This was clearly going to be a movie that would take a while to make. When you shoot a picture that lampoons an epic war film, you pretty much have to make an epic picture yourself, complete with helicopters, and bombers, and pyrotechnics of every kind.
As directed by Ben, we weren’t playing comedy. In fact, he wanted us to play the script as straight-up as possible—just as real as we could. From Ben’s perspective, one that made sense to me, if you lay a joke on top of the action, you’re commenting on it. But if the writing is right, it’s funny in itself, and you don’t need to ham it up to make the joke land. I wasn’t goofing around, in other words, playing some weirdo with two hooks instead of hands; I was a guy with two hooks. In the end, Tayback is proven to be a total phony. His hooks are just a cover, and, of course, he still has both of his hands—and that proved to be funny, too.
The crew was composed of ancient guys like me whom I’d worked with on films forever, and they were loving this one. “Man, what a cozy job this is,” I kept hearing. “I don’t care if we go over by a year. I could lie back in Kauai forever.” The slow pace was fine with me, too, and sometimes I went for two or three weeks between days when we filmed a scene in which I appeared.
Yet I repeatedly made sure Ben knew I had a deadline when I absolutely had to leave, and he always answered, “No problem.” Just to be sure, I reminded him in front of his wife, Christine Taylor, and that time they both assured me that, yes, they knew I had to be home in Malibu again in time for the birth of my daughter.
FLASH BACK TO FIVE YEARS BEFORE: I’D TALKED MY ASSISTANT Patti into joining me in taking a Pilates class at a nearby studio. Patti committed, and we went several afternoons a week, and Clytie Lane, the class’s young English instructor, got me into the best shape of my life. Truly. She would work with me during two-hour sessions four days a week; in the beginning Clytie was simply my Pilates coach, and then, over time, she became something more.
Clytie eventually moved to my place near Zuma Beach. I was healthy and happy, highly entertaining projects like Tropic Thunder were coming my way, and life was good. Then Clytie got pregnant and I was over the top with excitement. My son, Brawley, had been the biggest blessing of my life. We learned early on the new child was a girl, and the fact that I would be sixty-six when she was born didn’t daunt me at all. I was ready to be a father once more and I was thrilled.
When Clytie was only a couple of weeks from her due date, I approached Ben on set in Kauai and reminded him that I had to leave. Christine was with him, and when she heard me, she turned and gave Ben a good whack. “Jesus Christ, Ben,” she scolded, “haven’t you finished Nick yet? You promised.”
“Okay, okay,” Ben sheepishly responded. “I promise. We’ll get you done this week, Nick. We really will.”
Christine turned to reassure me. “He’s going to get you out this week, Nick. I’ll make sure he does.” And she did, and I was able to fly home in plenty of time.
It was early autumn and Clytie’s pregnancy had gone smoothly. She had planned to deliver the baby at home—a water birth that would be attended by only three midwives and me. Brawley had been born in a hospital, where I waited in one of those expectant-father rooms until he arrived, but this time I would be very much a part of the action, and I wanted it no other way. As a former Pilates instructor, Clytie remained in great shape, and she was only thirty-eight, so it was hard to imagine that anything could go wrong.
On the morning of October 3, Clytie’s water broke, and it was about to be showtime. We called the midwives, but after conferring with Clytie by phone, everyone agreed that they wouldn’t arrive until her labor was truly under way. Clytie rested, and I got the birthing tub ready and was like a kid who couldn’t wait for Christmas morning.
It seemed like forever, but in actuality, it was only a few hours later when the midwives arrived and one of them suggested that I get into the tub to help Clytie push. She nestled her back against my chest; we breathed together and then followed the midwife’s instructions for Clytie to push back against me and downward.
Clytie pushed, then pushed harder, and then our extraordinary little Sophie emerged into the warm and welcoming water. She floated up, and when her head rose above the water’s surface she took her first breaths and said hello to her two adoring parents. It was an extraordinary moment—a true meeting. This beautiful little creature was unique and our love for her was instantaneous and powerful.
The midwife helped position Sophie on Clytie’s chest and I continued to hold them—two of them now—against my own. We rested without anyone speaking for almost an hour. The room was still and felt sacred, and it was one of those rare experiences in which you know you’re profoundly alive. Sophie Lane Nolte had just joined us, and I knew that I’d been reborn once again as well.
FROM THE MOMENT OF HER BIRTH, SOPHIE’S SINGULAR AND adventurous spirit was obvious. Her father was an old guy who still loved new experiences and challenges of every kind, and her mom became a dedicated member of the Hare Krishna movement, and a talented kirtan singer. Clytie often hosted events at one of the houses on our property, and Sophie was steeped very early on in both an ancient spiritual tradition and my love of the natural world.
Whenever I could, I took her to the beach, to fields and forests, and she was often in a pack on my chest—facing forward and taking in all the world she encountered. I remember hiking with her outside Sedona and carrying her in a pack like that. As I climbed up over boulders to reach a challenging summit, sometimes her face was little more than an inch away from the rock, but she never turned away or was afraid. Through the years, I’ve watched her on our massive tree swing at the house, charging up and just letting loose. She was born with a combination of natural physicality and fearlessness that makes her want to push for more. Yes. She, like me, will push it.
I had been married three times, and three times those forever-after relationships had collapsed. This time, I was devoted to Clytie but we chose not to marry, and that was fine with me. Times had changed, I was certain, since back when I was a child and marriages tended to endure—regardless of whether couples remained in love.
What was most important, I now believed, was for people to concentrate on their relationships with their children, and for men and women to better understand that being a parent is the most important job you will ever have. Your responsibility to love and protect your child is the work you offer the world. Nothing else matters as much, least of all whether you’re entirely in love with or compatible with your child’s mother or father.
The world is in need of a children’s bill of rights—a way for all of us to understand how precious our children are and how nothing matters as much as lovingly nurturing them into adulthood. That was something I had grown to deeply understand during the first twenty-one years of Brawley’s life, and now that he had a tiny sister, it was something I knew even more profoundly.
On October 3, 2007, the day of her birth, I began my most important work of helping little Sophie travel as high and as far as she could, kept aloft
and safe by her family’s love.
CHAPTER 18
Graves Condition
A LITTLE MORE THAN A YEAR BEFORE SOPHIE WAS BORN, we were about to begin filming Pride and Glory, a cop film set in New York and written and directed by Gavin O’Connor, whose father had been an NYPD captain himself. At a read-through of the script before we began shooting, we were joined by the young actor Edward Norton—almost thirty years my junior—who was playing the picture’s lead.
I had met Ed at the Academy Awards ceremony in Los Angeles when both of us were nominated for best actor about eight years earlier—him for American History X, in which he portrays a reformed neo-Nazi, and me for my role in Affliction. This time around, he would be playing my son in the new police drama, but I was put off at the read-through by the way he kept telling several of us how we should play our characters. After I’d read one of the police captain’s speeches, Ed announced, “Oh, we can’t say anything like that. No father talks to his son like that.”
“I beg your pardon,” I replied.
“I said, no father talks like that to his son,” he announced once more, his voice rising.
“Well, you are fucking wrong,” I said. “I guess you don’t have a father then, because my father sure as hell talked to me like that!”
“Well, it’s just not playable for me,” he responded dismissively.
I said, “You are not playable for me, either.”
Ostensibly, the reading was finished. Gavin didn’t try to smooth things over, so I simply left. Up in my hotel room, I sat and stewed and tried to figure out what I ought to do. Finally, with the kind of clarity that sometimes feels like a gift, I called Gavin, but it was late and he didn’t answer his phone. “Gavin,” I told his voice mail, “I hate to do this to you, man. I am really sorry for it. But listen, there is no way I am going to get through this film with Ed Norton. I’ll slit his throat before we even get started. I mean, I can give you a good replacement for me. Jon Voight would be great. You’re going to have to leap on the change quickly because you’re starting in three weeks.” And with that, I was out of there. They hired Voight and I didn’t have to kill anyone.