It almost came to that--hell or high water--when a previously scheduled business appointment I could not find a replacement for required me to miss O[Toole in Becket with Richard Burton and a discussion afterward with its surviving star. But I was out in half a day and ready to stand on line, first come first serve, even with a pass, to see him talk with Robert Osborne about his career.
I had seen him before, about 20 plus years ago, when I returned to New York for a visit and a kind friend got tickets for Pygmalion which he was doing on Broadway with the late John Mills and Amanda Plummer. He was, as always, a whirlwind in the part of the bachelor Henry Higgins. After the play my friend Andrew and I watched him as he signed autographs keeping what seemed like deliberate eye contact with the requestors. It was unnerving, and fascinating. He still had a little of the youthful handsomenss, despite the wild alcohol filled life he had led thus far. I thought it was the first, and the last, time. I cherished seeing a most favorite actor with a most interesting, if somewhat unconventional life.
The setting was the former Henry Fonda Theatre, now the Music Box, and it turned out that TCM was going to film the interview for presentation later in the year, telling the audience that they would be part of reaction shots to possibly be used as well. And there would be a break or two in the interview as cameras rolled and needed adjustment. So an emcee got participatory reactions to intersperse with the interview as needed and then the curtain opened and there was O'Toole. There was nary the spark of the youth of old, or the man I had seen all those years ago. He needed help walking to the chair he would sit in. He was probably even thinner than he looked, covered by a natty suit, handerchief in pocket. After the greeting, and his positioning in his chair, Robert Osborne continued the preparations with the technical guys. He spoke to the audience. A woman on my side complained that she could not see O'Toole's face because of the angle of where we were sitting. O'Toole looked at all of us on the side, his eyes big and staring, a slight smile of what I took to be bemusement on his face. The lady was told that that was the angle needed for the camera. Mr. OToole sat quietly as some audience members asked Osborne if he could elicit certain stories as O'Toole sat quietly, almost as if he were alone, occasionally wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and napkin alternately. He was long limbed in the chair and fragile. And then, the cameras were ready to roll. Osborne, a consumate interviewer asked one question and O'Toole was on a roll, funny, articulate, recounting the tales of Lawrence in the African desert and recreating Akabah in Spain, taming the brutish camels and riding at the head of an enormous crowd of following camels and stallions without a stuntman. His voice was as ever strong as the days he shouted at Richard the Lionheart, playing the father, Henry II or lamenting the loss of a friendship, again as Henry, as he called the name "Thomas!" across the beach in France. He spoke of Noel Coward, of David Lean, of Katherine Hepburn, (his daughter is named after her), even of enjoying Roslind Russell and Cary Grant on television a few days ago in His Girl Friday, and wishing he could have worked with Russell. He spoke of Sybill Thorndyke an actress of the good old days, and a teacher of his at RADA (Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts). Osborne read my mind when he asked about destiny and this career. O'Toole recognized it quietly. When he spoke of acting as making the word into flesh, he managed to mention the bible without in any way being blasphemous, for he said the words are 99 percent of what the actor has to make the performance real.
He lives in London and in a home he owns with his daughter in Ireland. He loves America, clearly, but he described himself as thoroughly European. To be in a room with him again, even at a respectful distance, was thrilling, and sad, sad because he said that he can no longer do stage plays, it requires too much energy and a limber body he no longer has. Asked if, after many nominations and no wins, whether he would like to win an Academy Award, first he said, "Of course" and then, with that small smile, "I am not dead yet!"
If all I got to see in this Fesitval were him, the price was well paid. What a blessing indeed. I saw him as a child at the Surrey Theatre in the Bronx, playing Lawrence, blond, wild blue eyes conquering the desert, young, a man of only 29, when I was 8. And then twice, in life, the great actor, who has left an enduring legacy and touched this movie goer's heart forever.
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