Still Me (34 page)

Switching Channels
was doomed from the start by a number of factors: material that was too broadly written, the lack of chemistry between Burt and Kathleen, and my own overexertions in the role of Blaine Bingham III. For the first time in my career I had accepted a job for all the wrong reasons, without any genuine creative purpose. And I learned the hard way that doing comedy doesn't necessarily pull you out of depression. At the preview that fall I could tell by the audience's halfhearted response that
Switching Channels
would go down the drain. Coming so soon after the debacle of
Superman IV
, it marked the end of my nine-year tenure as an above-the-line movie star.

I retreated to Williamstown once again and immersed myself in rehearsals for
The Rover
and the completion of the house with its octagonal bedroom. Jeff left his job in Pittsfield to coach a team in town. My other half brother, Kevin, joined us and found work as a carpenter. We spent many afternoons knocking fly balls out toward the pasture. One day we took turns hitting the ball as far as we could from the front porch. I marked the winning spot and decided to put a fence there, turning the expanse in between into our front lawn. I called the children frequently in London and waited anxiously for them to visit as soon as school ended in the third week of July. With rehearsals going well and enjoying the company of my two younger half siblings, I began to feel a bit better about life in general, and to socialize occasionally with some of the other actors. And then, on the evening of June 30, I went to the cabaret and saw Dana.

Since the accident I've had time to look back—much more time than I would have liked. I could never have imagined that in my forties I would have the time or the inclination to dwell on the past when my future seemed so bright and full of potential. But during those long afternoons at Kessler, and even now when Will and Dana are out and about, I can't help thinking about the past and discovering certain patterns. One image that keeps coming to mind is a bar graph with three columns. Column A is talent and skill. Column B is career. Column C is personal life. I often imagine that ideally the three columns should remain equal, progressing steadily upwards. In my case—and I guess the same is true for most people—the graph presents a very different picture. Beginning with my first real commitment to acting when I was a teenager, Column B took the lead. It seems that I succeeded very quickly, perhaps too quickly, in my career. The bar rose steadily as I journeyed from the McCarter Theater and Williamstown to Cornell, Juilliard, Broadway, and film stardom. By the age of twenty-five, I was recognized everywhere and seemed firmly established on the Hollywood A list. But Column A, talent and skill, progressed more slowly, somewhat hampered by the way the system works: when you become a star many directors and producers assume you will automatically work magic for them without any guidance. I walked onto many film sets at the height of my career and was treated like royalty—certainly good for the ego, but damaging to growth and to the creative process. It's easy to let yourself be spoiled and skim over the part instead of digging in and doing the kind of work that you had to do to prove yourself as an unknown. Column C, my personal life, was often relegated to the background. My desire to succeed and to maintain my independence seemed more important than my relationships.

By the late '80s and early '90s, one door had slammed shut in my face. I was no longer an A-list actor; now my agents had to fight for meetings. Sometimes I had to audition, which had not been necessary for over a decade. When I tried out for the part Richard Gere played in
Pretty Woman
, I prepared three scenes from the film for the director, Garry Marshall. But when I arrived at the production office for my appointment, I was told that Julia Roberts had other business to attend to and would not be there to read with me.

I had to play the scenes with the casting director, who kept her nose buried in the pages and read about as well as a reject from some community theater. Halfway through the second scene, anger, frustration, and humiliation got the better of me. I ripped the pages in half, dropped them on the floor, told Garry Marshall and the producers that they had no right to treat any actor this way, and stalked out of the room. Many times my agents, Scott Henderson and Arnold Rifkin (I had switched to William Morris in 1988 and have been happy there ever since), would submit me for a part only to be told that even though I was right for the role, the producers wanted “a fresher face.”

But I was always able to find some kind of work, though I have to admit I thought it was ironic that my film career had bottomed out just as I was making real progress in my development as an actor. Sometimes I did a TV movie of the week to pay the bills, but even then I worked diligently with Harold Guskin, my extraordinary coach, to make the most of it. Some projects, like the film
Morning Glory
, and
The Rose and the Jackal
and
The Sea Wolf
(both for TNT), were pieces I really believed in and still think of as some of my best work.

And where one door had closed, another had opened. Dana's and my marriage was blossoming, and my personal life became more important and satisfying than ever. Now when I went on location, my contract always included a house big enough for all of us: Dana and me, Will, the nanny, and Matthew and Al when they came to visit. I made sure there was always something for everyone and activities for the whole family. This was a radical change from the old days, when location work was so often a means of escape. When I filmed
The Sea Wolf
in Vancouver in the summer of '92, Matthew and Al spent every day with me aboard the schooner that stood in for the
Ghost.
In the evenings we would all take turns trying to soothe six-week-old Will, who was suffering from colic. The next summer I spent ten weeks in Calgary doing
The Black Fox
for CBS, a western set in Texas in the 1860s. Al played the daughter of one of the families in the fort, while Matthew made a little money directing traffic and playing a young sheriff's deputy. On weekends we drove up to Banff and went hiking in the Rockies. One afternoon I carried Will on my back as we all climbed up to a secluded lake for a swim, then hiked back down to the Banff Springs Hotel for a family supper. Al and I went riding together; Matthew and I played tennis; Will enjoyed being a part of any activity but especially loved it when I gave him his bath.

In October 1992 there was a brief period when my professional and personal life seemed perfectly balanced. That spring Dana and I had attended the premiere of
Howards End
at Lincoln Center and sat behind Jim Ivory and Ruth Jhabvala. I thought the film was brilliant. When the lights came up I tapped Jim on the shoulder and said, “Any part in your next film, it doesn't matter what it is.” The next morning he called and offered me the part of Lewis, a young American congressman, in
The Remains of the Day
, which was to begin filming in England in September.

Now everything came together. I was reunited with the Merchant Ivory group for the first time since
The Bostonians;
I was co-starring with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson; the script was one of the best I'd ever read; Dana, Will, and I were together in beautiful old hotels and inns in the West Country, near Bath and Gloucester, and Matthew and Al made frequent trips by train from London to be with us.

After only a few days of shooting, it was obvious to everyone involved that Tony and Emma were giving the performances of a lifetime. My spirits soared with the realization that I was contributing, even in a small way, to a film that was certain to become a classic. Jim was as generous and open to suggestions from everyone as he had been when we worked together nine years earlier.

With the arrival of Will in June 1992, my personal life felt complete.

In one scene Lewis is frustrated by his inability to get a French diplomat (played by the very same Michel Lonsdale I'd met in Paris twenty years before) to stop worrying about his swollen feet and join him in taking a stand against the Nazis. Lewis urges him to recognize the rising threat to all of western Europe, but the diplomat is more concerned about ordering a basin of hot water for his feet. On the first take I impulsively pulled his shoe off and dropped it on the floor in disgust. That action was not in the script, but it seemed appropriate, and Jim used it in the film.

Later, at dinner, Lewis accuses the assembled English gentry of being political amateurs who have no idea of what is happening in the real world. He offers a toast to “the professionals,” meaning American pragmatists like himself who are not stuck in a nineteenth-century perspective. After we shot this speech it seemed to me that it might be a good idea for Lewis to apologize to the host (James Fox) to make it clear that the cutting remarks at dinner were not meant to be taken personally. Jim and I added some dialogue about how I had loved England since I was a child and always enjoyed visits here with my family. As the cameras rolled I approached our host with my apology. James Fox had not expected me to come over, so his look of polite bewilderment was absolutely genuine. Once again, as he had done with the dog on the beach in
The Bostonians
, Jim appreciated the spontaneity of the moment and used it in the final cut.

Happily reunited with Jim Ivory nine years after
The Bostonians
.

When
The Remains of the Day
premiered in the fall of '93, it was hailed as a masterpiece and received eight Oscar nominations. I had been included in the press junket in Los Angeles—two days of seclusion in a hotel suite doing round-table interviews with journalists from all over the world. I went along willingly because I felt that my performance as Lewis was one of my personal best and hoped the role might begin the resurrection of my film career. The press was polite and listened attentively as I answered their questions. But when the articles and reviews came out, I was scarcely mentioned. All the attention was focused on Tony, Emma, Jim, and their astonishing collaboration, which had followed on the heels of
Howards End
. I had the satisfaction of being part of an undeniably great film, but it did nothing for my career.