Tag Archives: “The Sting”

THE BECK/SMITH VAULT: Robert Redford Finds Hope In Looking Back to Yesterday

Robert Redford in "The Sting"

Robert Redford in "The Sting"

March 10-11, 1973

Robert Redford Finds Hope

In Looking Back to Yesterday

By Marilyn Beck

Robert Redford was in a somber mood.

“I feel our future lies in the past,” he said.

“We’ve loused up our tomorrows with today’s greed, with the technological monster we created that has backfired on us.

“Our yesterdays are what it’s good to look back upon, to be reminded of the time when there was integrity about the people, while there was a pureness about the land.

“Remind yourself of things like that, and you’ll realize that as Americans we have much to be proud of.” He sat behind the desk of the Universal office suite reserved for use during production of the Redford-Paul Newman starrer, “The Sting.”

Dressed in pleated pants and stiff-collared white dress shirt for his role as a Chicago con man of the 30’s, he seemed somehow to fit in more properly as part of the earlier era when beautiful men made up the bulk of Hollywood’s top-actor stable.

Old-Fashioned Values

As he talked on, it became obvious that Robert Redford is a throwback to an earlier time in his attitudes and philosophies, too; a man who has learned to survive with the pressures of modern society by escaping from them as frequently as he is able.

Shoes propped upon the desk top, shoulders forcing his chair back to a precarious tilt, he flashed that 300-watt Redford smile that ignites a room and said, “Was there a ring of patriotism in my speech? I apologize for that. Because as God knows I’m as much as anarchist as anyone in terms of growing alarm about the direction this country is taking.”

The smile was gone suddenly, replaced by a pensive expression as he said, “We’ve become the victims of one deceit after another – and all we can do is look back at that point in time when America still had a clean, pure image, and Americans still had the work ethic of the pioneer.”

Usually Redford manages to keep his conversations breezy, using his smile as punctuation to lighten his conversation.

I’m not sure what set off his serious mood the day of our most recent chat. Perhaps it was the ominous clouds that darkened the sky outside the window. Perhaps it was being someplace – and knowing he’d have to be there for quite some time – when he would have preferred being somewhere else.

He persisted in the subject that preoccupied him, revealing, “That’s the reason I made ‘Jeremiah Johnson.’ It wasn’t just a film experience to me. It was a statement I wanted to make, a message I wanted to deliver to the American people.”

The film, which portrays a man who goes off into the mountains to survive among the elements and Indians in the year 184, is perhaps Bob’s strongest screen portrayal thus far. Certainly it’s one he seems proud of.

Utah’s His Home

Among other things, it gave him the opportunity to show filmgoers his beloved Utah, where he and his family reside part-time (they also own a New York City condominium) in a chalet high up in the Wasatch mountains.

At the food of the hill as the Sundance Lodge he owns, and some 15 miles away is the community of Provo, reachable only by snowmobile when the deep winter snows fall.

It’s a point of great pride to him that he constructed the eight-grabbled A-frame house himself, with only the help of a local resident, “A half-Indian who brought his son around to help out once in a while – but most of the time it was just the two of us.

“Later, we called in professionals to install the plumbing and electricity. But all the rough work – including hauling the 40 tons of rock we used – was done without outside help. Of course, my wife did an awful lot on the inside of the house.”

His wife is the former Lola Van Wangenen, whom he married when he was 21, she 17.

They have a son and two daughters ranging in age from 12 to 2. And life for the Redfords in Utah, as Bob describes it, represents “a time when we can just be together without the world crashing in.

“We have no household help to get between us. The kids take care of their own horses – and when they want to get down to the lodge to go skiing, they walk! I don’t believe in making life too easy for children.”

Surfing When Young

He had a comparatively easy time of it himself in his formative years. Born in Santa Monica, California, he graduated from Van Nuys High School in 1955 and remembers his youth as a time of surfing along California shores, hiking among Los Angeles orange groves – at a time when there were still orange groves in Los Angeles, and the air was still pure.

Then he left California to attend the University of Colorado, where he discovered mountain climbing and skiing – and an area of America still as unspoiled by development as it was when pioneers like “Jeremiah Johnson” roamed the land.

In this past year and a half he’s been working much more than he cares to, away from his Utah home more than he likes.

He’s gone from production of “Jeremiah” to “Hot Rock” to the “Candidate” to the still-to-be-released “The Way We Were” with Barbra Streisand. And now as soon as Universal’s “The Sting” filming is completed in April, he moves directly into production for “The Great Gatsby” with Mia Farrow.

After “Gatsby” is concluded, he hopes to make another retreat from acting, as he has in the past – as he once did almost permanently.

On the wall of his office is a framed cope of the papers he signed for his first film commitment. The year was 1961, the picture was ‘Warhunt,” and his salary was $500-per-week for a five-week minimum.

After that movie, “I decided I didn’t know if I really wanted to be an actor. If I shouldn’t devote my life to painting – which had been an earlier love.”

Scores On Stage

Later, realizing “I’m better at acting than anything else,” he moved back to Manhattan and achieved his first big score in the stage version of “Barefoot in the Park.”

Then a return to Hollywood for “Situation Hopeless – But Not Serious,” “Inside Daisy Clover” and “The Chase.”

And in between those films there were moments of doubt and dissatisfaction, periods when he pushed career aside and took time off to rediscover himself.

After one of his exiles, he returned to make “Blue,” balked at the much re-written project, and promptly picked up his family and left town again – this time with a law suit on his record.

“After that I didn’t work for two years,” he said as the day grew darker outside the Universal Office Window.

“I was disillusioned and hurt. I had been involved with people who hadn’t lived up to their promises. And I determined that after that I would only work when I wanted to. The respites from acting had become a way of life. I had discovered that I was happier with myself when I was away from the business.”

When he returned again, it was the star in “Tell Them Willie Boy Is here.”

Next came the film that hoisted him to real stardom, as Paul Newman’s co-star in “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” Since then it’s been harder for him to break away to lead the good life away from the cameras.

Box Office Appeal

For since then Robert Redford has become one of the few personalities considered hot by box office standards, in terms of audience appeal.

Suddenly he became the guy banks let money on, the film personality ho could take his choice of projects, who could indulge in making personal cinema statements.

“Jeremiah Johnson” was not his first of that league.

The Downhill Racer” was his project from the start. He picked the scriptwriter for the story about the pressures exerted on a man to be a winner, was involved in editing, location selection, and, of course, was the star.

“The Candidate” was all Redford, too, taking a year of his life as he developed the cinema statement about eh compromises of a political candidate, and rushing it out this past year in time to cash in on election interest – and to prove that Hollywood was wrong when they said political movies couldn’t make money.

It’s been 12 years since he signed on for his first movie commitment. And he is now undoubtedly one of Hollywood’s most powerful stars.

That’s a label, however, he detests, and he prays his position won’t trap him into becoming something he doesn’t care to become.

He wants to keep it all in perspective, to remember there’ a life out there to return to.

One gets the feeling he might be returning there soon for another of his periodic acting retreats when he says, “My advisors keep saying you’ve got to take advantage of the momentum when you’re hot. But I keep telling them that if I’m any good, people will remember me.

“If I’m not, I guess I don’t belong, anyway.”

One gets the impression Robert Redford wouldn’t be shattered if he discovered the latter situation were true.

THE BECK/SMITH VAULT: Paul Newman Warms Them With a Smile – But No Autographs

Paul Newman in "The Sting"

Paul Newman in "The Sting"

March 17, 1973

Paul Newman Warms Them With a Smile – But No Autographs

By MARILYN BECK

Hollywood – A seagull sweeps down from the grey, leaden skies to feast upon hamburger remains Paul Newman has left abandoned beside him on a cardboard plate.

 And a giggling teenage girl standing nearby, ogling the last of the still-powerful Super Stars, rhapsodizes to her companion, “Ohhh, wouldn’t you just love to be that bird, to say you actually touched the food that Paul Newman touched?”

 She approaches, giggles suppressed, and breathes reverently, “Mr. Newman, please, your autograph…”

 “Sorry, I don’t do it.  I never do it.”   His words are a muted mumble.

 She persists to ask him to mark at least an X on her paper if he won’t sign his name, and he answers softly, “Honey, I’m not illiterate.  I just never give autographs.”

 She’s been refused but not rebuffed.  For, as he speaks, he smiles at her – just for her – with those piercingly blue, hypnotic eyes.  He stares at her – only at her — as if trying to imprint her features on his memory for all time.  She departs with the look of love upon her face.

Behind us, Universal Studio grips hurriedly prepare for the next “The Sting” shot before threatening clouds spill rain once more upon the Santa Monica pier being used as location site for the Newman-Robert Redford confidence man story of the 30’s.

“Civilians” mingle about – housewives pushing infants in strollers; salesladi3es playing hooky from behind-the-counter posts to come gaze at the stars who have launched a million sex fantasies.

And, as Newman and I sit at a weather-worn picnic table, awaiting his call to camera, he’s approached again and again.

He poses good-naturedly with a middle-aged, over-weight matron while her friend records the scene with a Brownie camera.

His smile remains in place even when a mother, dragging two toddlers behind her, interrupts our conversation and urges the children to “Share your cotton candy with Mr. Newman.  I’m sure he’d just love a bite!”

Only his eyes betray a hint of annoyance as he responds, “Ma’am, I won’t start eating that stuff until they make it out of beer.”

He apologizes for refusing to sign the slip of paper she’s thrust before him, gives her that you’re-the-only-one-for-me look.  And she leaves, one more woman who feels suddenly special because Newman has caressed her with his gaze.

I ask him how long he’s refused to sign autographs and he shrugs, takes a swig of his Coors and allows, “I don’t know.  It just seems to me that sometime they must have voted it’s okay to come up to a person anywhere, anytime, and ask him to write his name on a piece of paper.  Well, they never took my vote.  And let’s just say that a long time ago – just as I told you before – I figured I could stop paying my dues.”

 He is referring to a conversation we held a half hour earlier in his trailer dressing room when he had made the point that one stops feeling the need to conform.

 We had been speaking of his recent screen portrayal in “The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean” and his directorial brilliance in “The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds,” which stars his wife, Joanne Woodward.

 I had asked if he had hoped for Oscar recognition for either of those projects and he had shrugged.  “I guess I have mixed emotions.  I recognize how important awards can be to a film.  You don’t invest nine months of your life in a movie to see it open and die.  The whole point is to make people see it – and Academy Award prestige will insure that.  But on the other hand, I resent making acting and directing a competitive contest.  It’s wrong.”

 The sound of an angry surf invaded the trailer as he arose and pushed a window ajar.  He observed thoughtfully, “It’s funny, but medals and praise are important while you are trying to climb out of the barrel of molasses.  After you’ve pulled yourself out, you don’t need them.”

He was obviously making reference to those years “Inside the barrel” when his self-confidence and career status could have been helped by Oscar recognition: thinking of the Motion Picture Academy’s rejection of his work time and again so that – though he is undoubtedly the most popular star of his generation, though he has earned two Academy nominations – he has never been accorded the ultimate industry tribute of an Oscar.

The man who was “Hud,” who was the cool “Cool Hand Luke,” had attempted to play the Hollywood game for awhile.  He signed Warner Bros. contract in 1955, only to be terribly miscast in his debuting “The Silver Chalice,” and to be dismissed by critics as a carbon copy of Marlon Brando.

He continued to try to put up with the Hollywood System, but grew increasingly disenchanted with many of the film parts he was assigned, and openly resentful that Warner Bros. would hire him out to other studios for a profit.

He and Joanne Woodward had grown close about the time he first arrived in Hollywood for Warners and she signed a contract with 20th Century Fox.  He was married then, the father of three children, and it wasn’t until 1958 that he was finally free and able to take Joanne for a wife.

They soon became outspoken Hollywood rebels, critical of the big studio system and the artificial values of the community.

He eventually broke his contract with Warner Bros, at a cost of a half million dollars and the Newmans moved back to the East Coast.  Even now, after so many years have passed, he gives the impression that a return to Filmland for a movie assignment is tantamount to a Siberian sentence..

“It’s like being hungry.  The hunger stops after awhile,” he says as we walk along the sands from the trailer to the set.

You know he’s referring to an appetite for recognition when he adds, “For years you keep asking yourself, ‘Aren’t they ever going to feed me?’  And when they finally do, you find you’ve no stomach for what they’re dishing out.”

He smiles and the skies light up.  He says he doesn’t want to make a big deal of the subject we’ve been discussing because, “I’ve learned to save my energies for things that mater.”

He’s committed himself solidly for many years to the things that have mattered, campaigning for Negro rights and against the Vietnam war long before it was fashionable to do so: active in the Democrat party in Connecticut; devoting time and energies to helping promising young film apprentices; donating his name and money to such organizations as Dick Hughes’ orphanages for the homeless waifs of the Vietnam war.

What matters to him also is his work.  It always has.

He claims he is as proud of his acting successes as his directorial achievements, b ut one gets the feeling he might be betraying a lie in that statement when he admits that, though he never reads reviews on the films in which he stars, he pores over critical notices of the movies he has directed.

Those Newman-directed movies, most notably, have been “Rachel, Rachel,” and Marigolds,” both starring his wife.

What is there about his direction that has enabled him to draw out of her two of the most outstanding portrayals of her career?

He shakes his head.  He says he doesn’t know.  He credits her magnificence in “Rachel” and as the bitter, neurotic tortured woman in “marigolds” to outstanding properties.

“They were both my type of films,” he observes.  “I believe in hitting the audience between the eyes – with a club if necessary – to get a message over.  Let’s face it, there’s so little real emotion left in life today.”

The product of a Jewish father, a Catholic mother who converted to Christian Science, he was raised in Cleveland, Ohio.  Today – and for many years – he and Joanne and their three children call the rural, wooded area of Westport, Connecticut home.  It is there, among the stoic New Englanders, that he is accepted as a man who happens to make his living as a star, but doesn’t act like a star.

You ask him about his unique-by-Filmland-standards marriage which has seen Joanne willingly subjugate her career to his, accepting assignments when they fit into his schedule; arranging her schedule so that she’ fee to be with Paul whenever, wherever movie locations take him.

“It’s been deliberate,” he says.  “And I’m not sure it wasn’t a mistake.  I guess we were bound by the traditional hang-ups of marriage, a wife’s guilts that she should be with a husband at all times.  We were probably old-fashioned, not very hip.  But we’ve done it the way Joanne has wanted to do it.  It’s been her choice.”

Would it ever be their choice to transplant themselves back to Hollywood?

He gives me that look, the piercing Paul Newman stare that leaves one bare.

“You must be kidding,” he says and laughs.  He glances out at the blue Pacific, at the brilliant sun that has burst thought the clouds.  He gazes somewhere beyond the horizon and he murmurs, “Remember, I tried it her once before- — when I needed it.  I didn’t like it then.   I don’t need it now.”