Twenty-five years ago I found myself sitting in a director’s chair in Harlem next to Gene Hackman. I had been playing one of his sons in a world created by Wes Anderson, where somehow that made genealogical sense. He towered over me, both in height and stature. I don’t think my character was adopted but that might have been the back story we both created to justify the relationship.
I didn’t ever feel comfortable around him. His movies were deeply embedded in my consciousness. In a time before social media and constant entertainment news, he was truly intimidating to me. He was one of the four actors on my Mount Rushmore, with Al Pacino, Robert De Niro and Dustin Hoffman. When Gene Hackman said something onscreen, you believed him.
We had been filming “The Royal Tenenbaums” for about four weeks and we were waiting to film one of the final scenes of the movie, a long tracking shot that would end with him comforting my character, who had suffered a great loss. During the shoot I had found myself alone with him a couple of times, waiting to set up a shot or, after lunch had been called, walking back to the small trailers parked on a side street off Broadway. Each time, I had tried to think of something to say to him, to somehow acknowledge how much his work meant to me. It never felt right. But here we were sitting next to each other, and he seemed to not be doing anything. The shoot was going to be over soon and I’d probably never have a better moment to say something.
“Gene, I have to tell you something.”
I could feel the adrenaline surge through me. Even saying “Gene” felt adventurous. I felt a tingling in my stomach. He turned to me with a pleasant, curious smile. He had not seemed entirely happy on this shoot. While he was always courteous to me and the crew, I had gotten the feeling he didn’t feel as if he had any peers on this set, people he could be himself with. This is all speculation, but I felt he missed having a buddy on the set, a contemporary.
But in this moment he was as approachable as I’d seen him. I thought about all the times so many people must have told him about his incredible work in “The Conversation,” or “The French Connection,” or “Mississippi Burning.” But I had wanted to tell him about the movie that really meant the most to me.
I recall saying something like, “I just have to say — and I know you have obviously done so many great movies, just, like, incredible performances …”
I was looking at him to gauge how he reacted. Were his eyes glazing over at yet another actor telling him how much his performances meant to him? He didn’t seem to know where I was going with this. I felt as if I was driving a car straight at a cliff and about to go over the edge.
“ … but I have to say for me, there is one movie you made that means so much to me. It might sound crazy, but I think it’s the reason I wanted to make movies. It’s ‘The Poseidon Adventure.’ It literally was my favorite movie when it came out. I think I was 7 or something and I went to see it in the theater about 10 times, then watched it repeatedly whenever it was on TV. It was so formative, and you were so good in it, and it just for me was my favorite movie for so long because of the excitement of that incredible score and those actors and the action and just all of it. It really changed my life and just … made me want to make movies.”
He smiled a little. He looked forward, thinking, perhaps about the movie, as if it hadn’t crossed his mind for a long time. Then he grinned and said:
“Money job.”
Someone called for the actors. He got up to get ready for the shot. I sat alone for a moment, trying to figure how to take that. He had not felt the need to explain it or even acknowledge how good or bad he thought the movie was, or its impact on me. He just got up, as if it was no big deal; a conversation that might or might not continue. I sat there wrestling with this knowledge, that what had been one of the most formative performances in my young life, a performance that had moved me so much, had been some sort of a blip to him, a job to pay the bills.
We got on the marks and we did the scene. My character opened up to him about having a difficult year, and he put his hand on my neck, and he looked at me, his eyes inches from mine, with a deep honesty and empathy, the powerful kind of look I had seen him give onscreen many times, and he said, “I know you have.” I believed him.
A few days later I heard he was trying to get tickets to see a Broadway show with his wife. I had a connection and got him seats. He insisted on taking my wife and me out to dinner with him and his wife as a thank you. To be honest, the dinner was incredibly awkward. He addressed my wife as Mrs. Stiller. Betsy Arakawa, his wife, was warm and kind, even though I never could get over feeling I was floating out of my body most of the time. Whenever the subject would come up in conversation for years after I always couldn’t believe that dinner happened. I never crossed paths with him again after that.
I’ve told the “money job” story before, but a couple of years ago something happened that changed how I think about it. I sat down and watched “The Royal Tenenbaums” with my son. He had never seen it. I hadn’t watched it since I lost my own father. I found myself getting emotional, thinking about my dad, and the experience of making the movie all those years ago, and getting a chance to actually work with one of my idols.
In the film, Gene Hackman’s performance doesn’t ask you to like him. He plays each scene simply and truthfully and with full commitment, but always with a sensitivity and humanity underneath it all. Just like in “The Poseidon Adventure.” I don’t think it was a money job, but I never asked.
The post Ben Stiller on Gene Hackman’s Simple Truth appeared first on New York Times.
