Redford & Newman: Last Call (Part 1 of 3)

Redford and Newman: Last Call

Copyright 2012 by
Bill Rayburn

The death of Paul Newman was a loss on the level of Martin Luther King’s assassination. Sure, there was none of the tragic circumstances or consequences for Newman. Paul got to live much more of his life than the great civil rights leader. But the vacuum that remains, to this day, from both of their exits, speaks volumes about their respective impacts while they were alive. Both their legacies carry on well after their deaths.

The fact that Paul Newman and Robert Redford never did a third movie together should go down as perhaps Hollywood’s blackest hour. These two icons, which both rejected the silliness, vapidity and ethically-challenged life of Los Angeles for Connecticut and Utah, respectively, were as close to symbiotic on screen as any two actors in the history of film. And this was established in only two films, albeit two great films. Theirs was more than simple chemistry. You could know nothing about the men off-screen, yet after watching The Sting or Butch Cassidy, you would know these actors were good friends once the director yelled “Cut!”.

Newman’s death at the age of 83 four years ago was not unexpected. He’d been suffering from lung cancer and for his final five months, was confined to a wheel chair, occasionally sporting a thin clear tube tethered to an oxygen tank. Though he’d quit his heavy smoking habit almost thirty years prior to his death, he obviously never escaped the ultimate fate of most smokers.

Nonetheless, his absence creates in film the same aching chasm of regret created by the assassination of former Beatle John Lennon.

There will never be another original Beatles concert, and there will never be another Newman – Redford film.

If Paul and Robert had been given the gift of clairvoyance and been able to schedule a final Happy Hour session together, what would have been the mood? Maudlin? Caustic barbs offhandedly lobbed, grenade-like, to deflect the pain? Sentimental? All of the above?

Let’s find out. Movie dialogue is in italics.

(some of what follows is true)

September 27, 2007…Tavern on Main, Downtown Westport, CT.

When Robert Redford walked into the bar, he was apprehensive. Though Paul Newman had assured him no one would bother him, Redford was skeptical. But he walked straight to the long oak bar with its backdrop of tiered bottles in front of a mirror, the reflection like the skyline of a beautiful city.

The bartender was a brunette, fortyish and stylishly clad in a tuxedo. The muted music slipping from unseen speakers was Tony Bennett, and his mind was quickly put at ease by the woman behind the bar as she placed an ice-filled rocks glass in front of him, produced his favorite, and hard to find, gin from somewhere behind her, and poured him a drink with an understated flourish.

Paul had told him he would call ahead to alert the bar.

“Thank you. Are you Aubrey?” Redford asked, reaching for and sliding a gnarled cardboard coaster over and placing the drink on it.

She grinned broadly and nodded at him and said, “Paul called earlier. Told us you liked Boodles. The manager went out and bought a couple of bottles.”

He nodded, grinning. That was Paul, he thought.

“We spoke earlier, I’m Bob. Did you get what I asked for?”

“I know who you are, Mr. Redford. And yes, they’re shelled and in a big bowl in the walk-in.”

“And the other stuff?”

“All taken care of, Mr. Redford.”

“Please call me Bob. And would you bring them out and put them right here in front of his stool?”

“Of course.” She went down the bar, turned left at the end and disappeared, reappearing a moment later with a foil covered bowl. She brought it back down the bar and placed it where he had asked, removing the foil. In the bowl were 50 hard boiled eggs.

“I’ll do my best to stay out of your way this evening. There is a bar menu, and a regular dinner menu. Both are available right here at the bar. If any customers get intrusive, we’ve made arrangements to subtly intervene. Paul has told us how important this is to him.”

“Oh really.” Redford sipped his drink. “Good. It means a lot to me, too.”

She extended her hand. They shook. “I’m a huge fan of yours, but here we love Paul like he’s family. We’re all saddened by what’s happened.”

Redford nodded. This was not the direction he wanted things to go.

“Well, tonight is about old friends and new laughs. Old stories and creating new memories.” Jesus, he thought, I sound like a fucking Hallmark card.

“What I mean is, Aubrey, I don’t think Paul or I want to focus on his illness.”

”Of course,” she answered, duly chastened. “Please, Mr. Redford, uh, Bob, let me know if you need anything. Paul is always on time. He should be here shortly.”

“Thank you.” She nodded and moved down the bar where a young couple sat on the two corner stools. Both looked down at the famous blonde actor, wide-eyed. Bob felt safe knowing Aubrey would be running interference.

At exactly 5pm, in through the double window-paned doors came America’s greatest living actor. He paused as the doors hissed quietly closed behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

He was gaunt and pale, but his eyes contained the life of ten men. The baby blues that made female heart rates double were still what people saw first. Here was Butch Cassidy, Fast Eddie Felson, Henry Gondorf, Frank Galvin and Luke no- last-name-necessary all rolled into one man, with the character of Churchill and the humility of Christ.

And he was dying.

Bob got up and walked over to Paul and they embraced wordlessly.

They walked slowly with arms around each others waist to the bar. Bob helped him up onto the stool facing the bowl of eggs.

From the other end, Aubrey watched with a wide grin on her face. She began making Paul’s drink.

Once seated, Paul stared for a couple of seconds at the bowl in front of him. A grin appeared, and then he began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Bob joined in.

Aubrey slid Paul’s tall Johnnie Walker Black and soda in front of him and moved the bowl of eggs off to the side and watched, bemused, as both men continued to laugh.

Finally, Bob nodded at Aubrey and she removed the bowl of eggs.

Newman raised his glass toward his friend.

“Here’s to tonight, and why the hell haven’t we done this more often?”

They touched glasses and drank.

Paul stared at him for a moment. “You look different.”

“Nope. Same me. Older, maybe. How long’s it been? Four years?”

Paul nodded. “You mind if I get a couple things off my chest before we get started?”

“Sure, but we’ve already started. You’re one practical joke behind, my friend.”

Paul smiled. “Yeah, sure. The night is young, blonde boy. You think I showed up here, on my home court, with an unloaded gun? Without a plan? Anyway, I got some things I need to say. First, thanks for the eggs. I haven’t laughed like that in over a year. I needed it. Second, today was a doctor visit day. Assessment time. He tells me, with a straight face, I got six months to live, maybe a year at the outside.”

Bob takes a long pull on his drink and slides the empty glass toward the attentive Aubrey.

“Ok,” he says, evenly. They eye each other. Paul sips his scotch and soda.

“So I say to my doc, I say, how come, after I quit smoking thirty years ago, I’m still gonna die from lung cancer?”

Bob picks up his fresh drink and sips it.

“My doc just shrugs his shoulders, says ‘If you hadn’t a quit then, you’d a died 20 years ago’. Smug fucker.”

“How are you feeling, now?”

“To be honest, other than some days it being hard to catch my breath, I’m alright. Today is a good day. Thank god, cause laughing at those fucking eggs might have been the death of me.”

“Can think of worse ways to go.”

”Indeed. Confession time.” His words suddenly rushed out, as if regurgitating them. “I love my wife. I’ve always loved my wife. But I haven’t always been faithful. You’re the only person besides Hotch I ever told this to.”

“It’ll be our secret. Don’t worry. Why are you telling me this now?”

“Death bed confession?”

“Shit, hardly. Why?”

“Because I just told Joanne about an hour ago. And she took it without a hitch. She was fine about it, said she knew about it all these years.”

“Again, then why are you telling me, now?”

“Open your eyes, Brubaker. She let me off the hook. I need you to make me feel bad. Otherwise all this guilt goes to waste.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t come 2000 miles to make you feel bad. How is that irascible SOB, Hotchner, anyway?”

Paul sighed and shrugged his shoulders. So much for confessions.

“The same. Still thinks he’s going down in history as the best friend of all time. First Hemingway, now me.”

Redford laughed. “It is an impressive resume.”

“SOB does everything in moderation. Probably live to be 150. I hate him.”

“Yeah, I know the type. Got any more confessions?”

“None of any import. What, my dying and infidelity aren’t substantive enough?”

“Import?”

“I can speak well, dickhead. I just sometimes choose to sound a little rough around the edges. I’ve earned that.”

“Yes you have. You hungry?”

”Nah, not yet. But thirsty.” Paul took a swallow of his drink.

“Do you mind if we talk some ‘shop’, then?” Bob could think of no smooth subtle way to ease into discussing their craft, something they rarely if ever did.

“Usually yes, but with you, not at all.”

Redford pointed to Paul’s now empty glass and nodded at Aubrey. She sprung into action. She was positioned just far enough away to hear most of the discussion but not appear invasive. She was not going to pass up this historic opportunity.

Once plied with a fresh drink, Paul raised it toward his friend.

“Do more than exist, live.
Do more than touch, feel.
Do more than look, observe.
Do more than read, absorb.
Do more than hear, listen.
Do more than think, ponder.
Do more than talk, say something.
May you live as long as you want,
but never want as long as you live.”

With a simultaneous nod of acknowledgment, both men drank.

Bob had lip synched the final verse along with Paul. “God love the Irish. That toast is one of my favorites. Do you know, Paul, you told me that back during The Sting?”

“Really? I don’t remember that.”

“Yup. Never forgot it. Even looked up who said it, hoping it was someone I knew or liked or had read.”

“I don’t even know who said it. So?” Paul’s eyebrows rose, revealing the most famous blue eyes in the history of Hollywood.

“Sheila Murray Bethel.”

Paul shifted gears quickly. “Hey Hooker, you care about leaving a legacy?”

“My kids are a legacy. But you don’t mean that, do you?”

“No. I mean on film.”

“I didn’t use to. In fact, I scoffed at the idea. But, yeah. I’m in my 70s now. It’s no longer cool to pretend I don’t give a shit about something I’ve given most of my adult life to.”

“We were once considered rebels, weren’t we?” Paul asked wistfully.

”I think so. Truth be told, we became more rebellious once we changed our focus from making movies to things like the environment and politics. And in your case, charity.”

Paul nodded, staring into his glass.

Bob continued. “But, I no longer consider my film legacy a yoke of mediocrity that I’ll be forced to wear into my coffin. I’ve done some real good work.”

“You have, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and some of my best was done with, and because of, you.”

“You scared of dyin’, Bob?”

”Right down to my socks, buster.”

“Nice pull. Doyle Lonnegan. He did represent death in a way, didn’t he?”

“That’s as good an analogy as any. Shaw sure played that part to the hilt. Just great stuff.”

”Yeah he did.”

to be continued