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| An Actor’s Nightmare | Apr '08 |
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| By Cliff Robertson |
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Normally I don't tell my dreams. Either they are not overly significant or they are splintered and crazy. Oh, I do have an occasional actor's dream. For those who are not in this crazy craft, let me explain.
I am walking innocently (no this is not a confessional) down Fifth Avenue in New York City, when suddenly a voice in stentorian tones thunders over my shoulders: "You're on. ... You're on. ... You're on, Cliff."
I am struck dumb. I don't know what stage I'm on. What play I'm in. And, worst of all, what my lines are. Literally struck dumb. I have gone high as a kite. It is an actor's nightmare. Anyone who has been in this "gig" for any period of time knows the feeling. Sheer panic.
The hushed voice continues: "Cliff. ... You're on. ... Say the words, for God's sake. ... Talk, dammit. ... Talk! ... Say the lines."
Then continued panic. Although I am walking across some stage in some theater in some place, I can't seem to make it to my objective—whatever it is. I don't know what the play is. And I sure as hell don't know my lines. The voice, in tones of God, bellows, "Speak, dammit. ... Speak."
I cannot speak. Indeed, even though I seem to be walking across the stage, I can't seem to arrive at an objective. Furthermore, I have no idea what the object is. I am in the middle of an actor's nightmare. Not in itself unusual. All or most actors have at least had one. Not being up on Freud, I cannot analyze just what in hell is going on. Obviously, it is some kind of identity nightmare, and I am alone. Clueless. All alone.
Well, I had one last night, but it wasn't completely panic filled. As a matter of fact, there was a surprising sense of satisfaction, for I was in the middle of some kind of debate with two former actor friends. One, the late, urbane Tony Randall. The other, equally bright and articulate, the late writer George Plimpton. The three of us were being corralled by a lady moderator—stunningly beautiful and disarmingly feminine. We were in some kind of public speaking hall ranting on aimlessly about something, and I surprisingly seemed to be holding my own in the colloquy. In fact, I am dropping words of unfamiliar wisdom, and I seem to be enjoying the stimulation. Tony, as always, has peppered his intelligence with "Randallian" humor. George, as per usual, showing his Harvard/Yale urbanity. And I—surprise, surprise—coming up with unforeseen and unfamiliar, and sure as hell unexpected, cogency. It ends abruptly by the telephone. My secretary, Kathy, as prompt as always, announcing that she is en route for our morning dictation.
Normally I tuck this bit of trivia under the covers and proceed to confront the cares of the day. But this morning, it doesn't go away. I am surrounded with dreamlike memories.
"You're on. ... You're on. ... You're on, Cliff. ... Speak, dammit. ... Speak."
Alas, alack, there are no words for this addled actor. Time to reach into the actor's survival kit. That unexpected "ad lib bag of magic." Somewhere I read that St. Genesis is the patron saint of actors. Well, where do we go from here, Gen? Where do I go from here?
No immediate response except a frustrating, "You're the man, baby. You're the man."
St. Gen is of no immediate help. I am still floundering in an unidentified cloud of confusion. Please, Genesis, help this hapless actor. Surely I deserve some help. I have been an up-to-date, paid-up union member for eons. On the board for decades and supporter of my fellow guilds—the Directors Guild and the Writers Guild. I have confronted corporate corruption in the infamous "Hollywoodgate" scandals decades ago. Surely, I could use a little support from my "guardian angel" and patron saint.
Suddenly there is a glaring, earth-rending sound of tires screeching and horns honking. I have walked against the light on Fifth Avenue. A traffic pileup follows. Words I cannot repeat blast across Fifth Avenue. I am in the middle of a Fifth Avenue pileup with expletives ringing in my ears. I am the cause of it all and can't wait to run away from this bedlam. I continue running down Fifth Avenue. Expletives follow me and a cacophony of verbal assaults. Then a collage of visual newspaper headlines:
"Actor Cliff Robertson runs amuck on Fifth Avenue."
"Actor unable to explain his antics."
"Actor Cliff Robertson creates deadly Fifth Avenue traffic jam."
Well, at least they spell my name right. I can forget the 100 films I have toiled in. I can forget many forgettable films, but I don't think I can ever or will ever forget the hapless Fifth Avenue nightmare. A day—indeed, a night—that will live in infamy, and a reminder that an actor's life is studded with unexpected assaults and a serious warning from the late Noel Coward to parents everywhere: "Don't. ... Don't. ... Do not put children on the stage, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington. ... Do not put your children on the stage."
Cliff's apology: Normally this column is connected with my notes, observations and experiences in aviation. But occasionally—in fact, many times—this writer cannot be blamed for overkill. So—just thought maybe a little respite was due my loyal readers. Don't hesitate to remind me in your Letters to the Editor of your forbearance and, hopefully, forgiveness.
As always,
Cliff
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. He was inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored him as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book. For more information, visit www.cliffrobertson.info.
barbara forster
April 22, 2010 05:06 | Dear Cliff, I have been a fan since I was a teenager. I think I have seen all of your films. I remember that on 911 I saw a clip on the news that you were flying in n.y.at about the time of that tragedy they said they were going to interview you but they never did. What happened? I would have loved to get your feedback,but the media never followed up. your fan of over 50 years, Barbara |
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