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| Best Laid Plans | May '06 |
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| By Cliff Robertson |
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Like many Americans, one of my favorite 20th century writers was John Steinbeck. His prose was direct, graceful in its simplicity. His characters were easily identifiable. Whether a migrant farm family fleeing the Oklahoma Dust Bowl in the mid-1930s ("Grapes of Wrath"), or a couple of misbegotten Central California ranch hands in "Of Mice and Men," the characters were real—"down-to-America's earth." For the most part they were warm and sympathetic, and if mean—their circumstances made them mean.
"Of Mice and Men" was one of my favorites: Two wandering ranch hands in Central California, down on their luck, looking furtively for that day, that place, when they could find peace and space. Live off the "fat of the land." Two wandering dreamers. George, the leader, is Lennie's protector. Lennie is a giant lumbering bear of a man. Gentle, harmless and retarded. The title, "Of Mice and Men," taken from Shakespeare's "Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men Go Oft Awry," sums up the plight of these vagrant ranch hands. They are innocents in a cruel hard world—and destined for tragedy.
I chose "Best Laid Plans" as the title of this month's column, for it seems apt. Hope you will agree. The famous NYC Actors Studio, where this addled actor trained in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, was a nurturing nest for some of America's greatest actors and actresses—among them Marlon Brando, Karl Malden, Maureen Stapleton, James Dean and Kim Stanley. This then callow young actor had started as a journalist for a Cox Newspaper in Ohio (Springfield Daily News). He had drifted east to NYC, fell in with bad companions, and ended up off-off-off Broadway as an aspiring (?) actor.
I wasn't all that aspiring. I simply had rent to pay and beans to buy: I really was interested in writing for the theater. Acting was not my primary pursuit—but preferable to longshoreman's work two blocks from my Lower West Side digs. Eventually I auditioned for the Actors Studio, and surprised myself by getting in this formidable font of dramatic acting.
In contrast to today, the Actors Studio took only two or three aspirants a year, out of several thousand auditioning—and one did not pay! No cloying Hollywood "stars." In fact, Directors Lee Strasbourg, Harold Clurman, Cheryl Crawford and Elia Kazan avoided any Hollywood influence, viewing "Tinseltown" as shallow and self-absorbed. Many Hollywood stars wanted in, but few, with the notable exception of Marilyn Monroe, were invited. Marrying Arthur Miller, the great playwright, didn't hinder the sex goddess from entering those West 44th Street portals!
I remember her first day in class. She sat right behind me. Breathlessly late in "breathlessly tight" black turtleneck sweater. Stunning! Yet surprisingly ordinary of face. Bleached blond hair. But that figure—that was memorable! In spite of all the publicity, Marilyn only did one scene, with wonderful Maureen Stapleton. From all accounts, Maureen helped her considerably.
Playing opposite Maureen was uplifting to every actor, as I was to learn some years later when we did Tennessee Williams' "Orpheus Descending" on Broadway. There was a raffish Irish wildness about Maureen. Fearless on stage, she was terrified of flying. When Hollywood called, she insisted on taking the train. If Hollywood couldn't wait four days—tough. Maureen would rather walk than fly!
Hollywood was not welcome inside the Actors Studio, in spite of a present day TV show entitled "Inside the Actor's Studio," whose audience members are forced to pay to listen to visiting Hollywood stars.
Recognizing how lucky I was to be a bona fide participating member of the Studio, it was not surprising that I was fully prepared when cast as Alan Benson in the motion picture "Picnic." If anything, I was virtually stuffed with preparation. I had studied Boleslavsky and Stanislavski and every acting method available. I was one prepared young actor when I arrived in Hutchinson, Kansas.
I learned my lines and every other actor's lines in the movie—including Kim Novak's. I knew (or thought I knew) the inner meaning—the motivation—for every actor's action, in William Inge's brilliant screenplay. Never mind that Inge had written the original stage play as well. I had researched, done my homework to the letter, and I was ready! As it turned out, not so ready! For the first day's shooting was to be the last in the motion picture and it was to be shot at night. As if that were not enough to rattle my composure, the scene itself was the very dramatic confrontation between young Alan and his father. An eruption that had been steaming for 20 years.
I was prepared. I had built up my emotion for six weeks. I was steamed. So were members of the Columbia Picture crew and cast as they waited—and waited into the cold Kansas night for the missing actor playing my dad. It developed that his train was late. Finally, around midnight, a very tired Ray Bailey stumbled onto the set, extended his hand, smiled and said, "Hi, son. I'm your dad." That was my first dramatic lesson in the difference between Boleslavsky-Stanislavski, the Actors Studio and making movies!
You might question, 'What in God's green earth has this all to do with aviation?' I think anyone in aviation or acquainted with aviation is aware of the misconceptions and exaggerations consistently appearing in motion pictures dealing with our beloved aviation. How many times have we seen aviation scenes outrageously exaggerated or downright incorrect. I don't attempt to count the ways. There are legions of inconsistencies and misconceptions. Example: Charlton Heston, a man of personal integrity and honor and a fine actor, was somehow convinced (perhaps at gun point) to profess his love for stewardess Karen Black (sans seat belt), an actress of integrity as well as beauty, as she hovered over his shoulder just a mile from the airport runway numbers as he was attempting to land his wounded 747. His gallant character assured her he loved her as well. Meanwhile, those of us in the audience, with our knuckles turning white, wanted to shout to Charlton, "Fly the damn airplane. Dammit. Fly the airplane." The airpl
ane, it should be noted, had been crashed into by a Beechcraft Baron (not mine, thank God!) and it too was still capable of flying to a nearby airport.
One cannot wonder, with the millions of dollars spent in making "Airport 1975," who or what was their research person. The whole idea was obviously impossible, but obviously those in charge shrugged their shoulders with the pallid explanation, "The audience will never know or care." It is that kind of myopic oversight that has made many moviegoers skeptical at best. Hollywood should plan a bit more carefully when dealing with aviation and its folk. We have keen eyes and do not suffer untruths easily.
Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. The American Veteran Association recently honored Cliff as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book.
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