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Show Business: George C. Scott: Tempering a Terrible Fire

23 minute read
TIME

I think you have to be schizoid three different ways to be an actor. You’ve got to be three different people. You have to be a human being. Then you have to be the character you’re playing. And on top of that you’ve got to be the guy sitting out there in Row 10, watching yourself and judging yourself. That’s why most of us are crazy to start with, or gonuts once we get into it. I mean, don’t you think it’s a pretty spooky way to earn a living?

GEORGE C. SCOTT comes as close to fitting his definition of the ideal actor as one man can without breaking apart into three disparate individuals. In his life offstage he has been stubbornly, even violently individual; when he is acting, he creates a character and hides his individuality with singular success; as the man in Row 10, he is a perfectionist critic, more demanding of himself than of those around him. In more than a dozen stage and screen roles in a steadily growing career, Scott has demonstrated that he is one of the best of contemporary actors. His talent is both subtle and obvious; it makes his art at once unsettlingly real yet larger than life.

It is no accident that Scott’s tripartite ideal is a human being first. His own life, and his intuitive ability to use it at the right time in the right role, is his fundamental resource. As a great actor, he achieves something new in every part—something of himself reborn, fathered by insight, nurtured by skill and imagination. Scott also offers something more. Always, just below the surface, there is an incessant drumbeat of anger. Says Jose Ferrer, who directed him in The Andersonville Trial on Broadway: “It’s a concentrated fury, a sense of inner rage, a kind of controlled madness.”

In his personal life, Scott has often lost that control—with dramatic ferocity. When he is acting, he makes his rage work for him: it produces a consistent, overwhelming image of strength in all of the varied characters he so convincingly creates. And it is that projection of strength that makes so many of his parts almost tangible in a viewer’s memory. Anyone who recalls one George C. Scott can easily see half a dozen: the unctuous gambler Bert Gordon in The Hustler; the slithering prosecutor in Anatomy of a Murder, squinting at witnesses through slit eyes like a starving mongoose ready for the kill; the self-destructive doctor in Petulia; the cool, clipped English sleuth in The List of Adrian Messenger; General Buck Turgidson in Dr. Strangelove, slapping his burgeoning paunch and producing a sound like a thunderclap from Olympus, wrestling the Russian ambassador to the floor of the war room as the world ends with a comic bang.

Rain Through the Cloud

Most recently, and perhaps most familiarly, he played General George S. Patton, the flamboyant commander of the 3rd Army in World War II. It was a performance that transformed a rather ordinary war movie into an astonishing personal tour de force and won him an Oscar nomination. Characteristically, he declined Hollywood’s gilded accolade. He professes as much indifference to screen acting as to its awards. “Film is not an actor’s medium,” Scott says. “You shoot scenes in order of convenience, not the way they come in the script, and that’s detrimental to a fully developed performance. There’s the terrible tedium and boredom involved in waiting around for the camera to be set up, and then you have to turn on and off when they do the scene over again. When you see the rushes is the first time you begin to judge your performance. If you get 50% of what you hoped for, you’re lucky.” Although Scott’s batting average, even in his off moments, is generally a good deal higher, he maintains that his real commitment is to the legitimate theater. Even now, when he is filming a movie entitled The Last Run, about an over-the-hill hood (“I’m doing it because it reminds me of old Bogart pictures”), he is reading the script for Neil Simon’s new play, God’s Favorite, and eagerly blocking out his schedule so that he will be able to star in it come the fall of ’72.

Despite his tempered disdain for movies, Scott is devoted to acting—in any medium. And like many who excel at what they do and are aware of their excellence, Scott sometimes speaks offhandedly of his art. Still, his comments add up to a valuable handbook for actors (see box, page 66). No matter what part he plays, Scott surrounds himself completely with the assignment. “If you get enough around you, like a cloud,” he says, “some of it’s got to rain through.”

He has an uncanny command of stagecraft, that arsenal of small gestures and bits of business that an actor uses to establish his character for the audience. In the final scene of a 1962 production of The Merchant of Venice, Scott, playing Shylock, held a handkerchief belonging to his daughter Jessica. The production was staged outdoors, near a lake in New York’s Central Park, and every night a gentle wind blew across the stage. To signify Shylock’s loss of Jessica, Scott simply released the handkerchief, and the wind carried it away. In O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms, he had two loads of farm equipment of clearly different weights placed just off the stage. When he and his son made their first entrance, the father carried the heavier one. The audience was silently but clearly told what O’Neill wanted them to know about the old man’s strength and his relationship with his son. As Shakespeare’s Richard III, he taped a piece of metal to his leg to keep it from bending, then attached a rigid aluminum strip to his arm to make it virtually inflexible. “As I continued to rehearse the play, though,” Scott says, “I found I needed these restrictions less and less. The knee taping went during the first week’s performance, then the arm. I found I had been programmed to move as though they were there, and I never had to worry about falling out of the character movements again.” Scott is also a perfectionist with makeup, and he has the devotion and knowledge to fill the demand he makes on himself. For Patton, he borrowed old newsreels of the general and watched them so often, recalls Producer Frank McCarthy, “that they were completely worn out when he finally returned them.” Scott also read 13 Patton biographies several times each, had his dentist mold him a set of caps to duplicate Patton’s teeth, shaved his head and wore a wig of realistic white fuzz. He even insisted on having moles on his face identical to Patton’s and filled in part of his nose to make it more like the general’s. When she saw the film, Patton’s daughter was astonished. “Once it gets rolling, a character is never off my mind,” Scott says.

Means of Survival

His fellow actors often express admiration for Scott because he has the courage to risk professional failures. His characterization of Mordecai Jones, the aging but still canny Flim-Flam Man, was too strongly derivative of W.C. Fields, and his performance as Antony in Antony and Cleopatra was a self-proclaimed disaster. “I should have played Cleopatra,” he says; Antony is one of the few roles beyond his ambition. “The great danger with most actors,” he says, “is that the more successful they become, the less risk they will take with their careers. They forget why they became actors in the first place. They become successful personalities instead. Spencer Tracy ultimately became a symbol actor. So did Grant, Cagney, Robinson.”

Scott is willing to risk not only his reputation but his bankbook. Shortly after he gained the first financial security of his life in 1961, he and his wife Colleen Dewhurst moved from New York to Detroit to establish a community theater. It was Scott’s dream that his Theater of Michigan Co. would give direction to the national theater movement in America and eventually revitalize Broadway. The group’s first two plays were badly received in Detroit and lasted a total of 15 performances when they finally limped onto Broadway. To keep the company going, Scott had spent $70,000 of his own money. When it collapsed in 1962, Scott personally paid off a sizable portion of the original debt. “When we finished,” Scott says, “I didn’t have a dime. It took a few years to clean up all the debts, but it was done.”

Scott is also generous with his talent, quick to offer assistance to colleagues, though sometimes loudly impatient with what he considers ineptness. Mike Nichols says that “after three days’ rehearsal for Plaza Suite I told him I didn’t know what I was going to do with him for the next three weeks because he was perfect. But he stayed around anyway, working with the other actors.” Richard Lester, who directed Scott in Petulia, found him “intelligent, constructive, decent, professional. If there was a difference of opinion between us, we worked it out in five or ten minutes.” Enormously sure of his own instinct for material, Scott was handed the manuscript of Plaza Suite in a restaurant by Playwright Neil Simon; he left to read it and returned little more than an hour later to say he would act in it. During the filming of Scott’s TV series, East Side/West Side, Jim Aubrey, then president of CBS-TV, summoned Scott and Producer David Susskind to his office and informed them that the episode they were working on required a happy ending. Scott peeled an apple with a favorite switchblade knife as he listened to Aubrey deliver his spiel. Then, glaring malevolently at his boss, he said, “That’s a lot of bull.” The network president quickly retreated.

For Scott, acting has always been an antidote to self-hatred. “It was the only avenue of escape I had from myself,” he admits. “It’s never been difficult to subjugate myself to a part because I don’t like myself too well. Acting was, in every sense, my means of survival.” In Scott’s case, that is not fan-magazine hyperbole. When the mask is off and he is living his own life, Scott has often turned to savage punishment of himself and those around him. He has candidly called his heavy drinking “an addiction” and saloons, for their easy conviviality, “a very necessary part of my life.” He has had his nose broken several times in barroom brawls. “This sort of thing happens to actors who have a reputation for being tough guys,” he says in a defensive rationale. “There’s always some guy who wants to take you apart. I’m not Marciano and I can’t keep this stuff up all my life. I should stay out of barrooms, I suppose. But I happen to like them.” He has also violently struck at least one woman in a rage, and twice he has injured himself by ramming his fist against a wall and a mirror. There is gentleness and mundaneness in Scott’s life as well —he is now in a period of relative personal tranquillity—but the record leaves little doubt that when he draws on his experiences for his acting, he has considerable reserve.

Born in Wise, Va., and raised in Michigan, Scott spent much of his childhood “being terrified of my father.” Scott’s father, George D., was a coal mine surveyor when the Depression shut down most of the mines in the area. He moved his family to Pontiac, Mich., where, he brags, “I worked my ass off and the family never missed a meal. It was drive, drive, drive.” Scott’s mother Helen (called “Honey”) was an elocutionist who gave public poetry readings and occasionally contributed verse to the local papers. She spent hours teaching her son how to read stories aloud. “I have very powerful memories of her,” Scott says. “She was very good to us.” She died of peritonitis when George was eight. Shortly afterward her son began getting into an uncommon number of violent childhood accidents.

“He never complained or cried,” George’s sister Helen recalls. “He broke his nose playing football; he cut his head open diving into somebody in a swimming pool; he was hit by a golf club and run over by a car.” Says Scott: “With a couple of exceptions, I was completely unloved. I owe much of my being alive to my sister, who more or less raised me. We were abnormally close.”

At 17, he joined the Marines for a four-year hitch. “I was very gung-ho. They sent me to Parris Island; then, right in the middle of my training, they dropped the Bomb and the war was over. I felt a little like General Patton —they stole my war.” With 45 months left to serve, he was sent to language school, then eventually assigned to a desk in Washington, where he taught a correspondence course in creative writing. He also worked on the graves detail, where he learned that he really did not want the war they stole. “You can’t look at that many widows in veils and hear that many taps without taking to drink. God, half of us were stoned out in Arlington every day.”

Discharged from the service in 1949, Scott enrolled in the University of Missouri as a journalism student. He had been writing since he was eight years old, and by the time he went into the Marines, his father says, he had “enough rejection slips from the Saturday Evening Post to paper the bathroom wall.” That much writing on the wall convinced even Scott. Then, one day, he spotted a notice on the college bulletin board announcing auditions for The Winslow Boy. He bought a copy of the play, memorized every line of it, and won the lead.

“It was like tumblers falling in a lock,” he recalls. “I knew what a good safecracker felt like. From then on I never doubted my ability for a moment. So many actors say, ‘Well, I’ll give it a chance for a couple of years.’ But you can’t give acting a chance. It gives you a chance.” Scott took every one he got. After graduation he went to work at Stephens, a women’s college in Columbia, Mo., teaching a course called Mastery of Western Literature just so he could get to act in school plays. The class was a farce. Scott was too busy learning his craft to read the required books, so he spent class time “chatting it up with the young ladies about Les Miserables.” One of his students at the time was Tammy Grimes, who remembers him as being “very handsome, strange and moody, like a Heathcliff. He was in practically every play we ever did, and we used to do one every three weeks.”

Along with all the experience in stagecraft, Scott, then 24, also acquired his first wife, Carolyn Hughes, a Stephens student; they had a daughter named Victoria. He landed a job in a Detroit stock company, where, along with some good roles, he appeared in such asthmatic fare as Come Out of the Kitchen and Broken Dishes. His income was as puny as the repertoire, and after four years of fill-in jobs that included carpentry and cement pouring, Scott returned in desperation to Stephens hoping to teach again. By that time he was the leading campus undesirable. Not only had he been divorced; it was public knowledge that he had fathered an illegitimate child by another Stephens student. He flew to Washington, D.C., and spent his last dime on a call to his sister Helen. She gave him a place to stay, and her husband gave him a job with his construction firm doing manual labor. Scott managed to stay away from the theater for almost a year.

Making the Rounds

“I couldn’t stand it any more and I just gave up,” Scott says. “I seemed to have reached a point of no return.” What brought him back again was an ad by a semiprofessional troupe casting Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author. He joined the company, acted at night and worked on construction projects during the day. Once again Scott got married, this time to an attractive ingenue named Pat Reed, and once again he took off—this time for New York. Pat held down a secretarial job; Scott worked nights in a bank, then made the daily rounds between agents and auditions. He was also drinking heavily. Eventually Joseph Papp, director of the New York Shakespeare Festival, gave him his first break by casting him as Richard III. For that bravado performance he got enthusiastic reviews, the help of Jane Deacy, an adept personal manager, and the beginning of a professional career. As that career progressed, Scott found that the years of continual rejection had exacted a price. For him, the payments seem endless. “Acting changes the inner spirit,” he says. “It’s fulfilling, but psychologically very costly. You can’t steal enough money in a lifetime to make up for the damage. I’m ashamed for the bitterness it created in me, but it exists. Even when you’re successful it’s hard to rise above it. It’s like a growth.” He went from Richard III into television, then a production of Children of Darkness by Jose Quintero at the prestigious Circle in the Square Theater. “I played a wife poisoner who’s put into Newgate Prison, the greatest third-act part that’s ever been written —a real zinger.” There the familiar pattern began to recur.

Scott met Actress Colleen Dewhurst during rehearsals. “Jack Barrymore used to call these meetings bus accidents,” Scott says. “Colleen was married and so was I. But we wanted to be together.” Shortly afterward, Scott put his fist through a backstage mirror at the Circle in the Square, “probably because I didn’t like what I saw in it.” That night he played the entire third act of Children of Darkness wearing a rubber glove that was filled with blood by play’s end.

The liaison led to a divorce from Pat and marriage to Colleen. The role of the wife poisoner led to his first shot at Broadway. The play, Comes a Day, passed unnoticed save for Scott in the role of a psychopath who decapitates birds and throws an epical epileptic fit in the third act. “I was goddamned near crippled from throwing myself around so much,” he says. “The part was killing me, and I was delighted when the play closed after 28 performances.” His growing reputation won him more stage roles (The Andersonville Trial and The Wall) and some movie work (a small part in The Hanging Tree, the visiting prosecutor in Anatomy of a Murder, which brought him his first Oscar nomination). But word of his personal behavior was spreading just as fast.

Pursuit Across Europe

Backstage at Comes a Day he got drunk and trashed his dressing room; he broke one of his hands hitting some scenery during The Wall when he could no longer tolerate one of his costars. After a period on the wagon, he got drunk and, knowing he could not perform well, deliberately missed a performance of The Andersonville Trial. During rehearsals of Plaza Suite, in later years, Maureen Stapleton confided to Mike Nichols: “I’m so frightened of George I don’t know what to do.” Nichols replied: “My dear, the whole world is frightened of George.”

By the early ’60s, Scott had won his second Oscar nomination for The Hustler—and refused it. He had been acclaimed for his Shylock in another Papp production (“the greatest acting experience of my life”), almost stolen the show from Peter Sellers in Strangelove, and played in Desire Under the Elms opposite his wife Colleen. They now had two sons, but as his talent matured, his personal life began to crack. Everything broke open in 1964, after Scott left for Rome to play Abraham in John Huston’s behemoth film The Bible.

Scott pursued his co-star Ava Gardner around the set, and subsequently across much of Europe. After the film was completed, he had to be put into a nursing home to dry out. According to a friend, “he was really in love with Ava and wanted to marry her. But she didn’t want to marry him.” Even now he will not talk about it. It was in this same period that Scott was fired from a movie called How to Steal a Million after showing up five hours late for the first day of filming. Separated for some time, he and Colleen were finally divorced.

The Prosaic Gentleman

For the next few years, Scott wandered: from a clumsy production of The Three Sisters co-starring Sandy Dennis, who drove him almost berserk with her mumbling mannerisms, to a role in a mindless service comedy with Tony Curtis called Not With My Wife, You Don’t. Then, gradually, he began to pick up the pieces. He worked for the first time under Mike Nichols’ direction in the Lincoln Center revival of The Little Foxes. And he appeared in what may be his finest screen portrayal, the doctor in Richard Lester’s superb film Petulia.

Scott seems to have invested more than the usual portion of his personal anguish and anger in the role of Archie, an affluent San Francisco physician newly separated from his wife, who falls crazily in love with a tormented bitch named Petulia. Lester’s film contains some of the best sequences of sexual and romantic tension ever caught by a camera, and Scott provides most of them. In one memorable scene, his ex-wife has come to visit him and brings a bag of homemade cookies with her as a peace offering. As the discussion becomes edgier and more hostile, Scott finally pivots around and hurls the bag of cookies at her. The bag explodes against her back, and the cookies fly apart like a fragmentation grenade. It is a moment of powerful artistry for actor as well as director. Not surprisingly, Scott dismisses his portrayal as “pretty cut and dried.” Those who know him well say that in Petulia he played as close to himself as he ever has.

All during the filming he kept revisiting Colleen. They remarried on July 4, 1967. “Independence Day,” she says now. “It seemed only right and fitting.” They live in tentative tranquillity in a rambling farmhouse in South Salem, N.Y., with their sons, Alexander, 10, and Campbell, 9. The children of Scott’s second marriage, Matthew, 13, and Devon, 12, visit frequently, attracted in part by a burgeoning menagerie of four German shepherds, two ponies, 20 chickens, two cats, three doves and a swimming-pool bullfrog named Charlie. At the farm, Scott plays chess, bridge and golf with neighbors. His wife, a strong, warm woman, is, in the phrase of a family friend, “an anchor in George’s life.” Colleen herself credits Scott’s self-control. “When G.C. isn’t drinking, up here he becomes the most prosaic of gentlemen.” Not so prosaic, however, as to accept what many people consider the honor of an Academy Award nomination. This month, cited for Patton, he declined again. “I don’t give a damn about it,” he says in a voice like a sonic boom. “I’m making too much money anyway.”

Struggle and Frustration

Scott speaks enthusiastically of working in the new Simon play, doing more directing and establishing a television repertory theater with Colleen and some friends. There is little in his profession he could not do if his private and persistent demons would give him a break. Scott has tried to strike a compromise with them. “Since childhood, the whole self-loathing thing was a big part of my makeup. Now I’ve learned to say O.K., I’ve screwed up. Then I try to make amends.”

He is not always successful. His scuffles with several scripts, including one version of Patton, have not been felicitous. He wrangled constantly with Patton Producer Frank McCarthy, who comments: “He rewrote several scenes to make Patton more sympathetic, but the rewrites were not as good as what we already had.” Scott missed eight days of work, some because of a recurrent problem with the retina in his left eye, two because he was drinking hard and feeling mean. “I got fed up, exhausted and frustrated, so I’d go out and get loaded,” he says. His frustration, however, in no way detracted from his professionalism and his performance. McCarthy says, “He’s difficult to deal with, but always for a purpose. I wish I had a picture with Scott starting tomorrow.”

To Director John Huston, Scott is “one of the best actors alive. But my opinion of him as an actor is much higher than my opinion of him as a man.” Huston started out as director in The Last Run, now being filmed in Spain, but he and Scott clashed over the actor’s objections to script rewrites and the leading lady, Tina Aumont. There were shouting matches between Scott and Huston in the early hours of the morning. Huston eventually departed, and so did Tina Aumont. The film is now being finished under the direction of Richard Fleischer. Scott, who realistically maintains that “I can still make more money in films than any place else,” is presumably planning to gather up his not inconsiderable salary and then turn to more serious matters.

What he makes of them will depend, as it always has with Scott, on whether he can confine his explosive energies to the discipline of acting. Always aware of the past that has scarred him, he says now: “My violent behavior is some sort of aberration, a character defect I’m not particularly proud of.” Struggling to temper what he calls “my terrible fire,” he remains acutely aware that he is still in danger of being consumed by the flames. From his view in the tenth row, Scott can also see that this is a risk that a great actor must run.

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