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Show interesting man. Hes hard, however, to understand. Do you like him? You have to. On first meeting, hes one of the nicest people you ever met. But I cant say I know him well. We talked a couple of times and had a meal together. 1 liked him. 1 think youd have to be around for a year before you saw his ugly side, assuming he has one. It would take that long? If you dont bother him, Well, hes very laid-bache will never bother you. In that sense, he is like the characters he plays in his films. Since my new partner is a good listener, I begin to expatiate. I describe Eastwood on our first meeting. I talk about his tall presence, which is exceptional exactly as one would wish it to be in a movie star. He certainly has the lean, body that you see only in the best dancers, rock climbers, competition skiers, and tightrope walkers. His face has the same disconcerting purity. You could be looking at a murderer or a saint. Here, my partner makes a face. No, I say, its true. Men who have been in prison for 20 years sometimes have such a look, and you can see it on monks and certain acrobats with fine and tragic faces. Is he very Im not used to thinking of men as that but he is. And you liked him? He's marvelously friendly. Just saying hello. He has no fear of others. At least, he shows none. I tell you, it was splendid. I rarely liked a man so much on fust meeting. Good Lord. What did you talk about? Well, Eastwood said right off, Do you know I tried to get into The Naked and the Dead back when they were making a movie of it years ago, but they didnt want me. Thats fair, I told him, we tried to get you for The Executioners Song. I wanted you to play Gary Gilmore. Had he read the book, my dinner partner wanted to k. ed good-lookin- to wear in Sergio Leone westerns near to 20 years ago when Clint played the cowboy who had no name, rarely spoke, and walked about with the stub of a pencil-thi- n cigar in his mouth. A killer stared back at you then the stills taken from those spaghetti westerns certainly made him famous in Italy, then all Europe, then the world. Now, Clint Eastwood said softly to the man bearing him the gift, You keep this. I want you to have it, Clint. Better not. You might change your mind in time to come. I never wear it, protested the man with the goatee. This cape is right for you. Eastwood, however, was accepting no gifts he would cast away later. That could leave a bruise on the mood. g? good-lookin- g, know. I dont think so. Clint only answered: What would you say Gilmore was like? Oh, I said, he was a funny man, Gilmore. Very spiritual on the one hand with a real mean streak on the other. Eastwood gave a happy grin. Sounds as if he would have been just right for me. That conversation took place outside a shabby Spanish-styl- e stucco motel near the beach in Santa Cruz, California. Eastwood was on location making his latest movie. Sudden Impact, and the small crowd watching us stood outside the company barrier. They had been hanging around for hours in the hope they would get a look at him. In the background you could smell boardwalk popcorn and hear the downrush of the roller coaster after a long clanking up the first rise . Some kids with orange hair were standing next to a black girl outside the movie company rope, and a couple of old ginks with slits in their sneakers and patience in their kids, all waiting eyes were waiting beside blank-face- d behind the rope, never getting bored. Once in a while, Eastwood walked in and out of the movie trailer trucks or mobile dressing rooms parked along the side street off the motel, and it was then they would have their glimpse of him. He might even offer a line as he went by. Still with us? he would ask. "Oh, yeah, Clint, they would reply. Merely by standing behind this rope, they felt glamorous. with a dark suntan One fellow, tall, not to set off his dark goatee, was brought up to Eastwood by one of the company people. Clint, this fellow has a gift for you. It was a short leather cape of the sort Eastwood used bad-lookin- g, PAMDC MAGAZINE OCTOBER 23, 1983 PAGE S No, he said softly, I really dont need it. I have a number of capes already. You make him sound good, my partner remarked. Since we were warmed up, I went on about commanders in forward companies during the Second World War and how you could tell at once if they were respected from the mood that came off the first gun trained on your approach. Forward companies in Luzon lived on outposts miles apart in the hills and sometimes had no visitors for a week at a time. To drop in on them was a little like boarding a ship. You never had to guess about morale. The mood told you immediately how the men felt. If the company commander was well-likemorale was as high as the greeting you get from a large, happy, impressive, slightly crazy family. Everybody feels manic in the wealth of their people. The same, I suggested, could be said of movie sets. They are able to offer great morale, awful morale, or anything in between. Eastwood might be renowned for bringing in pictures ahead of schedule and under budget, but he was also most popular with his crew. That was apparent. They adored him. Of course, not everyone might wish to be adored by a movie crew. They have a great sense of humor for jokes that go with a few beers, but little tolerance for a fancy mix. They are good enough trade unionists to d, ,gT"T is phony and would never trust any that art suspect male who could not lift his own weight in movie equipment. His crew obviously loved him. Eastwood could put back a few brews himself. Beer was his drink of choice. Besides, for movie crews, he had another virtue he knew how to use animals. In the movie he was making now, there would be a big, doddering old asthmatic, pooped-ou- t English bull, fat, and smelly. This dog would be a total hit The script called for the English bull to piss on cue. At each right moment, the beast would raise one mournful leg and make water on a fallen villain. The crew loved the idea. That was cutting the mustard. But how do you train an animal to do such things on cue, asked my partner. I had put Eastwood to the same question. He came back with a glint in his eye. The modesty of the solution appealed to him. Oh, he said, you attach a monofilament to the leg and give a tug. He had to grin before the powers of conditioned reflex. To fill the pause that followed, my partner now said: You do seem sure of a lot of things about Eastwood. Well, I know him, I. guess. You said you didnt. Ido, I confessed. East-woo- d is an artist. So I know him well. I know him by his films. I also like his films, said my partner, but surely you arent going to say hes much of an artist? Ill go further. Ill say that you can see the man in his work just as clearly as you see Hemingway in A Farewell to Arms or John Cheever in his short stories. Hell, yes, hes an artist. I even think hes important. Not just a fabulous success at the box office, but important. You do admire him. No, I said. Im angry at him. He doesnt know how good he is. I dont think he tries hard enough for what's truly difficult. Did you tell him that at lunch? No. He was making a movie. Our discussion was now at an impasse. Besides, it was time to talk to the partner on the other side. So the conversation on Eastwood was never finished. I had to think about it later, however. A talented author once remarked that he discovered the truth at the point of his pencil in the act of writing. It occurred to me that I usually came across the truth while talking. I would say things and by the tone of my voice they would seem true or not. When I said Clint Eastwood was an artist, I liked the ring. It was true. It might also be true that he was a timid artist. That made a nice paradox. For, by any physical terms, he was a brave man. Once, after a plane crashed at sea, he saved his life by swimming three miles to shore. He did a number of his own stunts in movies and learned to rock climb for The Eiger Sanction. The film was embarrassing, a prodigiously multi-colorplot equal to ice cream on turnips, but Eastwoods rock climbing was good. He rode a horse well. He did car racing. He even looked, on the basis of Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can, as if he might make some kind of boxer. He had a quick left jab with good weight behind it. He could certainly draw a short-legge- d, n. ed continued |