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Paul Newman
Aug. 23rd, 2009 02:00 amI lost a friend last year.
In 1986, my father and I went to the movies. We went to see the new Scorcese movie that had just opened. It was called The Color of Money. It was a damp fall day and I'd just turned sixteen. I remember watching the famous long tracking shot of Tom Cruise dancing around a pool table, pulling off one trick shot after another. I remember "Werewolves of London." I remember being faintly embarrassed at Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio's nudity.
And I remember Paul Newman.
Of course I knew who Newman was before I saw this. I'd already seen The Sting at least twice, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid once. But it was at The Color of Money that I first really noticed Newman -- the first time I started to see what he brought to the party. I love this movie above all others because it introduced me to Paul Newman.
Newman was not a virtuoso. He didn't tend to show off his vast dramatic range. In fact, a lot of his roles were cut from the same cloth: the small-time crook, the second-string kingpin, the washed-up hack. The little guy, the loser, the joe. No matter. We didn't go watch him to see how he would stretch himself. We went to see him because he had a way of demonstrating the basic humanity and fragility in everyone: the fundamental dignity of the everyman. He had one of the most recognizable faces -- and voices! -- in the movies, and yet when you saw him on screen you rarely found yourself saying, "That's Paul Newman up there." He made you want to forget it was him.
The day Paul Newman died, I broke the news to my father. My father was stunned, grasped for words for a moment, and then said only, "He was like a friend."
Yeah. That's what he was. He was like a friend.
So, if you see me looking kinda down, be gentle, okay? Because I lost a friend last year.
In 1986, my father and I went to the movies. We went to see the new Scorcese movie that had just opened. It was called The Color of Money. It was a damp fall day and I'd just turned sixteen. I remember watching the famous long tracking shot of Tom Cruise dancing around a pool table, pulling off one trick shot after another. I remember "Werewolves of London." I remember being faintly embarrassed at Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio's nudity.
And I remember Paul Newman.
Of course I knew who Newman was before I saw this. I'd already seen The Sting at least twice, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid once. But it was at The Color of Money that I first really noticed Newman -- the first time I started to see what he brought to the party. I love this movie above all others because it introduced me to Paul Newman.
Newman was not a virtuoso. He didn't tend to show off his vast dramatic range. In fact, a lot of his roles were cut from the same cloth: the small-time crook, the second-string kingpin, the washed-up hack. The little guy, the loser, the joe. No matter. We didn't go watch him to see how he would stretch himself. We went to see him because he had a way of demonstrating the basic humanity and fragility in everyone: the fundamental dignity of the everyman. He had one of the most recognizable faces -- and voices! -- in the movies, and yet when you saw him on screen you rarely found yourself saying, "That's Paul Newman up there." He made you want to forget it was him.
The day Paul Newman died, I broke the news to my father. My father was stunned, grasped for words for a moment, and then said only, "He was like a friend."
Yeah. That's what he was. He was like a friend.
So, if you see me looking kinda down, be gentle, okay? Because I lost a friend last year.
