We never know what to expect when Cinema Retro's John Exshaw reports on an event - except that it will be from a unique angle... Here's John's first-hand coverage of Robert Redford's recent visit to Trinity College in Dublin...oh, and if you're among those of us who have committed to memory the dialogue from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, you'll find the coverage even more enjoyable.
A Public Interview with Robert Redford presented by the
School of Drama, Film and Music, Trinity College, Dublin – Thursday, 10 July,
2008
Report by John Exshaw – 18/7/08
Raindrops keep falling on my head as I make my way towards
Trinity College, Dublin, for a showdown with the Sundance Kid. On what passes
for a summer’s day in Ireland, Robert Redford has ridden into town for
tomorrow’s commencement ceremony, at which he will receive an honorary
Doctorate of Letters from the country’s most prestigious seat of learning – alma
mater of such luminaries as Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker, and
Samuel Beckett, to name but a few. Before that, however, he has sportingly
agreed to be interrogated by Michael Dwyer, film critic of The Irish Times,
in a public interview to be held in the college’s Edmund Burke theatre.
I arrive in the modernist eyesore that is the TCD’s Arts
Building and stand in the foyer, pools of water forming round my feet. To be
frank, I’m feeling pretty Randolph Scott – saddle-sore and in no mood for small
talk. It’s not just the shitty weather, nor the fact that I should be working
on my Hennessy article for the next issue of Cinema Retro. No,
what’s riling me – the particular burr under my saddle blanket – is the
following line in an e-mail I received about this evening’s gabfest: “Please
note that at the request of Robert Redford’s publicist no recording is
permitted during this event.†Just like that. No apology, no explanation. No
doubt the Duke would approve but, personally, it’s just the sort of bullshit
that’s liable to get me all fired up. And a fired-up Retro writer ain’t
a pretty sight . . .
This was my first encounter, even at a distance, with that
mythical creature of ill-repute, the Hollywood Publicist, and my first thought,
naturally enough, was
what an asshole! Why the hell shouldn’t
journalists be allowed to record what someone says in a public interview in
order to report it accurately? Or, to put it another way, in order to do our
job properly? Is it possible the
asshole
in question would prefer his client’s comments to be reported
inaccurately?
Or is he (assuming for the moment that the asshole in question is a male
asshole, while not implying that women don’t have every right to be assholes
too) afraid that the interview might fall into the hands of someone who’ll
re-edit it in such a way as to make his client sound, well, like an asshole? If
there are good reasons (at least from a publicist’s point of view) for such a
prohibition, then he should at least have the manners to say what they are. And
if there aren’t, then he should stop being such an asshole.
So, in a fairly ornery mood, I head into the theatre.
There’s no sign of Mr. Redford’s publicist, which is a pity because I’d like to
have given him a piece of my mind. Followed by a Harvey Logan Special in the
nuts. The seats in the theatre are quickly filled by the (mainly female)
audience. Forty minutes after the supposed kick-off, and following an
introduction from Kevin Rockett, head of the School of Drama, Film and Music
and a four-minute compilation of Redford’s Greatest Movie Moments, I’m still
standing in the designated photographers’ area like an unemployed cigar store
Indian, camera in hand, awaiting the star of the show. I remember something
George Roy Hill said in The Making of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
about Redford having to listen to Paul Newman’s lame jokes while Newman had to
endure Redford’s habitual tardiness. That was 39 years ago, and it looks like
nothing’s changed on the latter score. Well, they do say consistency is a
virtue . . .
Finally, the doors open and the Great Man – indeed the Great
Waldo Pepper – makes his entrance, setting off some mild (mainly female)
hysteria in the audience. I grab some pictures and hotfoot it back to my seat.
By the time I’ve put my camera away and got my notebook open, Redford has
nearly finished his thoughts on what Dwyer terms the possible “regime changeâ€
in America in the forthcoming presidential election. Looking back now on my
notes, I see the following: “Yes … inexperienced … good … need for change …
yesterday … age is an issue.†What on earth does it mean? Maybe something like,
“Yes, we need a change. John McCain is inexperienced but was good yesterday.
Barack Obama’s age is an issue.†Or maybe it was the other way round? But as I
can’t play it back on my trusty Dictaphone, you’ll just have to make sense of
it for yourselves, won’t you? (for which you can thank that asshole . . .)
Finally, following some recollections about how, when he was
studying in Paris, Redford was “humiliated†by his own ignorance of American
politics, the talk moves on to movies and I’m able to get my act together and
focus. And so, taking our cue from the title sequence of Butch Cassidy and
the Sundance Kid, you can take it that “Most of what follows is true†. . .
Dwyer begins the serious stuff by asking about Sydney
Pollack, the director of seven of Redford’s movies, who died in May, aged 73.
Redford says that he saw his friend during his last year and that “it was
hardâ€. After recounting how they met in 1960 during the making of Redford’s
début movie, War Hunt, in which Pollack played his commanding officer,
Redford then fast-forwards to 1966, when Natalie Wood, with whom he had just
made Inside Daisy Clover the year before, asked him to co-star in the
screen adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ This Property is Condemned, a
project which had already passed through the hands of John Huston, Elizabeth
Taylor and Montgomery Clift.
Presented by Wood with a list of possible directors, Redford
spied Pollack’s name at the very bottom. “You gotta get this guy,†he told her.
“Who is he?†asked Wood. Redford makes an expansive gesture as if to say, whew,
who is this guy? – just the greatest, that’s who. “If you can get him,â€
he then added. Later on, Redford got a call from an agitated Pollack. “Redford,
Natalie Wood just called me! She wants to meet†“Good, good,†replied
Redford. “But I’m nervous, you know. It’s Natalie Wood, I’ve seen all her
movies!†“Go have the meeting,†urged Redford. “But when I get nervous
my hands sweat.†“Wear gloves,†replied Redford. With or without gloves,
Pollack went to the meeting, got the job, and so began his partnership with
Redford. Attending a service for Pollack, Redford tells how, at the end, film
clips were played on a screen, including a scene from War Hunt, in which
Redford’s and Pollack’s characters meet for the first time. “Emotionally,†says
Redford, “that’s when it hit hardest.â€
Completing blowing the opportunity to ask Redford for his
memories of working with Charles Bronson on This Property is Condemned,
Dwyer moves on to Sam Spiegel’s troubled production of The Chase (1966),
directed by Arthur Penn, and starring Marlon Brando, and Jane Fonda. Originally
offered the part played by James Fox, Redford made his agent’s day by
requesting to play the role of the escaped convict. “But it’s a much smaller
part,†protested his agent. “But it’s a better one,†replied Redford. In
consequence, Redford spent most of his time with the second-unit in northern
California, “running through rice fields, jumping out of trains, and having a
pretty good time all by myself.†When he
returned to the main unit, he found the atmosphere on set to be “toxic,†with [and
I’m paraphrasing here] Sam Spiegel convinced that Arthur Penn was an asshole,
Arthur Penn convinced that Sam Spiegel was an asshole, and absolutely everybody
convinced that Marlon Brando was an asshole.
Dwyer then asks about the difficulties of playing comedy, as
opposed to drama. Redford offers the opinion that “if you’re a real actor, you
should be able to do both,†before going on to recount the problems he faced,
due to being perceived as a dramatic actor, in winning the lead role (opposite
Fonda again) in the film adaptation of Neil Simon’s comedy, Barefoot in the
Park (1967). Then, when he was being considered for Butch Cassidy and
the Sundance Kid, he found himself regarded as a comedy actor. And after Butch
Cassidy . . ., Redford was dismayed to discover that all he was being
offered were “duplicates†of that film. “They even wanted to do a sequel, which
I thought was nuts. I mean, didn’t they see the original?â€
Dwyer asks Redford whether it was true that he had turned
down the lead in The Graduate (1967). Redford explains that he didn’t so
much turn it down as decide that he wasn’t right for the part, following
discussions with director Mike Nichols, and a test scene suggested by Redford
which, he felt, proved his point that the two men just “had different takes on
the character.â€
Dwyer then proceeds to introduce the subject of the actor’s “looks†[cue (mainly female)
sighs from the audience], mentioning how the film critic of The New Yorker,
the late Pauline Kael, used to drool over Redford in print. Redford sits up.
“Let me tell you about her,†he begins, displaying the eagerness of a man who
wants to get something off his chest. Apparently Kael had written glowing
reviews of Redford’s early starring performances, most of which, as he did not
read reviews in those days, had passed him by. But when Butch Cassidy and
the Sundance Kid came out, she wrote what he terms, “a godawful review
which ripped it to shreds.†Apparently, this wasn’t just on the grounds that a
Western was no place for Burt Bacharach tunes, and she continued to “savageâ€
Redford’s subsequent films, including his pet project, Jeremiah Johnson
(1972). Redford then explains that, at the close of that film, his character is
confronted by an Indian with whom he has crossed paths throughout the movie.
What will happen? Will they shoot it out? In the end, the Indian raises his
hand in salute. Johnson then does the same – freeze frame, the end. Kael,
Redford continues, proceeded to write something along the lines of, “We hear a
lot about Indians from Robert Redford, yet here he is, at the end of the film,
giving an Indian the finger.â€
Cut to a restaurant in L.A. during the shooting of The
Sting (1973). Redford and Newman are dining in separate rooms of the
restaurant. Newman instructs a waiter to ask Mr. Redford and his family if they
would like to join his party. The waiter duly does so. Redford, playing his
part in what was some sort of running gag between the two actors, replies
brusquely, “No, no. Not interested.†The waiter is in a quandary. What is he to
tell Mr. Newman? Eventually, he goes back to Mr. Newman, sweating nervously,
one assumes, and manages to deliver Mr. Redford’s response. So far, so not very
funny. Redford and family finish their meal and leave. Suddenly, as Redford
puts it, “this little bird-like creature†rushes out after him and grabs his
hand. Redford pauses. “Did you ever see the last scene in Psycho?†he
asks the audience. Hoots of (mainly female) laughter.
The “bird-like creature†says she is Pauline Kael, adding
that Redford must hate her for what she has written. Redford, struggling to
retrieve his hand, suddenly gets it – this is another of Newman’s gags. “Okay,â€
he says. “Here’s a five, go tell Mr. Newman it was a good joke.†The woman starts
trembling. “Don’t you understand, you let me down!†she wails. Redford realises
this is not a gag after all. Kael suggests he comes to her hotel for a drink.
Redford takes her number, then manages to escape. Later on, he calls her and
says he doesn’t think having a drink would be a good idea. “And that was the
end of that,†he concludes, before pointing out, somewhat unnecessarily
perhaps, that this is why he believes it is not a good idea for artists to get
too close to critics, in case it becomes personal. Kael had formed her own
ideas of how Redford’s career should develop and he had disappointed her. [In
the course of this anecdote, Redford added that he thought Kael was “completely
out of order†for mentioning his interest in Indians in the course of her
review – a comment which struck me as the only bit of nonsense he spoke
throughout the evening’s event. Does he really believe that if an actor or
director takes a public stance on a certain issue and then makes a film
reflecting that position, that it is then not a legitimate area of comment
within the context of a review?]
Do you watch your own films, asks Dwyer? “I’m not
comfortable with it,†replies Redford, adding that there are some of his films
he has not seen. “I know that sounds weird, but . . .†He then tells how he was
once being pestered by his grandson to watch a movie with him. Redford’s not
really in the mood, but Junior persists. Eventually, kindly Grandpa gives in
and, no doubt looking like something out of Norman Rockwell, the two of them
head down to the local rental store, where Junior finds a copy of The Sting
in “the old movie section.†“You must’ve seen that,†says Grandpa. “No,â€
replies Junior. “You haven’t seen The Sting?†says Grandpa. “What’s
wrong with your mother?†It then dawns on the old boy that he hasn’t seen it
either. Two generations of Redfords then return to the family homestead, where
they eat pizza and watch The Sting together. “I thought it was great!â€
says Grandpa brightly. [Dissolve to the Great Studio in the Sky. Frank Capra
watches the scene play out below. “Cut,†he says, wiping away a tear. “And
print.â€]
Dwyer offers the thought that it is a pity Redford and
Newman didn’t work together more often. “Sometimes,†opines Redford, “you quit
while you’re ahead.†He then explains that, while both actors would have liked
to have made another film, they had no desire to simply recycle their
characters from either Butch Cassidy . . . or The Sting, and that
a suitable project never materialised.
As a way of steering the interview onto Redford’s work as an
environmentalist, Dwyer returns to the subject of Jeremiah Johnson. “It
was a personal film for me,†says Redford, adding that the studios had no faith
in it. Having been informed that, in the opinion of the studio [Warner Bros.,
presumably], the film could not be made for anything less than $5.5 million,
Redford and Sydney Pollack argued that it could be done for less. “I didn’t
know what I was talking about,†admits Redford, but eventually they were told
they could have $4 million. “If the costs rose above that,†he recalls, “it
would come out of my hide.†Having completed the movie, Redford and Pollack
were congratulated by the studio’s marketing department: “It’s a great movie,
they said. Thank you, we said. There’s really nothing like it, they said. Well,
yeah, thanks, we said. And that’s the problem, they said. We don’t know how to
sell it.â€
After sitting on the shelf for months, Pollack was
approached by the director of the Cannes Film Festival, who asked him if he had
done anything lately. Pollack showed him Jeremiah Johnson and it was
immediately booked for Cannes. This apparently caused some embarrassment for
the studio. “They had to come over to Cannes and pretend they loved it,â€
Redford recalls. The studio, apparently determined to prove it was not a
commercial proposition, then arranged for it to open in one cinema in the
middle of the Christmas season, with no advance publicity. It did no business
and was pulled after one week.
Cut to eight weeks later. A friend calls Redford and says,
“Hey, I loved your new movie.†“What are you talking about,†asks Redford. “Jeremiah
Johnson. I just saw it and there was a queue around the block.†Redford
calls the theatre owner. “Hey, Jeremiah!†says the happy exhibitor, who then
goes on to explain that, having been told to close the movie after its first
week, the next film he was due to play was unavailable so he kept running Jeremiah
Johnson and word-of-mouth did the rest. This gave Redford and Pollack the
leverage to force the studio to give it a proper release. And so, four years
after it was completed, “it went on to do very well.†[It grossed $21 million
in the U.S. alone.]
Dwyer then asks Redford what prompted his interest in
environmental issues. Redford responds to this, along with further questions
about what he might say if asked to address the G8 summit meeting, what he
thinks of Al Gore, and whether he would have considered a career in politics
(“No.â€), in a considered and intelligent way, but as these are not subjects
within the remit of Cinema Retro,
they need not detain us here.
Asked what motivated him to set up his own production
company, Redford replies that it was partly due to his upbringing but also
because, having enjoyed a certain success, he had decide whether he should
settle for making a lot of money (“making Butch Cassidy . . . or Barefoot
in the Park over and over againâ€) or go on to create new things. And there
were, he concludes, “statements I wanted to make as a citizen . . . statements
about how I saw my country.â€
This naturally leads to a question about the Sundance Film
Festival. Redford recalls being initially told that the festival would fail
because it wasn’t commercial. To which he replied that, as it was a
non-profit-making venture, it would not be obliged to be commercial, and that
its guiding principle would be diversity.
At which point, Dwyer decides it’s time to take questions
from the floor and invites folks to step up to the microphones on either side
of the theatre. Now I realise some people might think an interview with Robert
Redford which failed to include a single direct question on either Butch
Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Candidate, The Sting, The
Great Gatsby, Three Days of the Condor, All the President’s Men,
A Bridge Too Far, or even Out of Africa (to say nothing of
Charles Bronson) was perhaps a tad on the idiosyncratic side. But it was
Dwyer’s party so I guess it was his call. On the plus side, however, at least
he didn’t ask about Ordinary People . . .
Seeing as how I’m not just here to whittle wood, I duly join
the queue, pondering the while exactly what, if you’ve got one shot at
questioning Robert Redford, you might ask him. Well, there was always Charles
Bronson, of course, but no, goddammit, some things are just too personal
. . . And, needless to say, standing in a queue ruminating on a suitable
question is not the right environment for paying attention to other people’s
questions. I think someone may have asked for advice on training actors, and
Redford may have said that the only way to train actors was to beat them
regularly while occasionally feeding them from renewable food sources – though
it’s entirely possible I may have imagined this. And I think he may have been
asked if there was one film from the Sundance Festival which stuck in his mind,
to which the answer, essentially, was “No.â€
And then, hot damn, I suddenly knew what I had to ask, and I
was better able to concentrate on the other questions. Which was just as well,
as one of them was about Westerns. “I love Westerns,†says Redford, recalling
how nonetheless, as a child, he was distinctly unimpressed with the lack of
reality displayed in most of the popular Westerns of the day. Hollywood, he
says, is always deciding that certain types of movies are unfashionable,
“Westerns are out or Indians are out and so on. I think that’s nonsense.
Westerns are so much part of our history and culture, they’ll always be there.â€
He then points out that while the Westerns of his youth were too unrealistic
(“Roy Rogers’ white hat . . . and everything was in perfect shape and everyone
looked cleanâ€), he believes that the modern approach (“showing the gritty side
and deromanticising the Westernâ€) has gone too far in the opposite direction.
“Somewhere in the middle is where it should be. But I love Westerns and will
always like to make them.â€
Redford fields a question about his Irish antecedents,
mentioning in passing that there is a writer engaged in producing a biography
of Redford in the audience. Is this the reason for the recording ban? Does some
asshole imagine we’ll run out of Trinity with our tape-recorders, dash off an
unauthorised biography overnight and retire to Tahiti on the proceeds? Surely
only a complete asshole could believe something like that . . . ?
Asked about the future of film, Redford replies that he
believes there will always be a need for people to watch stories but that the
manner in which they choose to do so is changing drastically and in a way which
will not be good for traditional methods of film production and exhibition.
Driven by technology, watching movies has become a matter of convenience,
something people do on a cell phone between subway stops, or on their computer.
And with less time at their disposal, they are less able to absorb what they
see.
Redford is then asked if he intends to make another sports
movie, and if he hadn’t become an actor would he have liked to be a baseball
player. “I’d rather be a baseball player,†he replies, before recounting the
satisfaction he derived from making The Natural (1984). “Being able to
do my own hitting and pitching was pretty exciting,†he says. “And pretty good
for my ego too . . .†He currently has a story in development about the
relationship between Jackie Robinson (of breaking the colour bar fame) and his
manager at the Brooklyn Dodgers, and he intends to play the latter part
himself.
************
I step up to the microphone. Michael Dwyer calls for the
next question. “Mr. Redford, in All the President’s Men, you played a
crusading journalist struggling to report the truth. Given that your publicist
has restricted the press’s ability to give a full and proper account of
tonight’s event here in Dublin, will you ever be able to look Bob Woodward in
the eye again?†There is a sudden, deafening silence. Redford looks shocked.
Three hundred pairs of (mainly female and entirely hostile) eyes bore into me.
Just for a moment, I have an idea of how Butch and Sundance must have felt, staring
down the business end of the Bolivian army’s rifles. What’s going on here? Why
are those men with walkie-talkies moving towards me? I look at Redford again.
“Is this true? I had no idea . . .,†he starts to say. The men with
walkie-talkies are getting closer. Who are those guys? Holy shit, this
isn’t looking good . . . What to do? What to do? I’ll have to make a jump for
it. Into the orchestra pit. Hell, no! Yes, it’s the only chance! Hell, no!
They’re closing in, just do it! All right, all right! Whoooaaaaa … shiii …….!
The Edmund Burke is one of those modern theatres. It doesn’t
have an orchestra pit. I look up from the floor. Redford is regarding me, and
not unkindly. “Think you used enough leg power there, Butch?†he says. It’s a
pretty good quip. In other circumstances I’d laugh, but I think I’ve broken
both my ankles. And those guys are right on top of me now. “You’re outta
here,†one of them snarls. He’s probably the leader but I can’t be sure because
he isn’t wearing a straw boater. “Ask me to stay and I’ll go,†I manage to say
through gritted teeth. They pick me up, and not gently. As they start rushing
me towards the exit, I look back at Redford, who’s shaking his head. “I’m gonna
fire that asshole,†he says, to no one in particular. “You do that!†I manage
to yell, as I’m bundled through the doors, “And tell him from me he can Deep
Throat my Dictaphone!†And then . . . the picture freezes, the colour fades and
gradually all is sepia.
************
A thunder of gunfire roars in my head! I snap back from
freeze-frame sepia into glorious, widescreen Technicolor . . . Turns out
instead of the Bolivian army blasting me into eternity, it’s three hundred
pairs of (mainly female) hands giving Redford the big hurrah. The Great Man –
indeed the Great Gatsby – gets to his feet, raises his hand, then exits stage
right. I pack up my saddlebags and hit the trail. Then, as I get outside (where
at least the goddamn raindrops have stopped falling on my goddamn head), it
suddenly occurs to me . . . Was Redford saluting the audience . . . or was he
giving us the finger? Who knows? Maybe Pauline Kael, but I guess she ain’t
saying . . .
So, all in all then, a memorable evening. Redford came
across as both intelligent and articulate, his answers not only those of a man
who has given much thought to what he believes in and espouses, but also of
someone with an admirably level-headed view of the business he works in and his
position within it. He also has a nice line in dead-pan humour, something which
may not be readily apparent from reading his words in print. And he loves
Westerns, and the West, which buys him a lot of credit in this neck of the
woods. My considered opinion? Robert Redford is definitely not an
asshole. (But his publicist is . . .)
************