"I always had a talent for business," he says. He also ran a laundry service - "Newman's Own Laundry," he jokes - that made him a mini-mogul. He had been sort of a big deal on campus, acting, directing, even writing musicals. He remembers getting hooked on theater at Kenyon College in Ohio, graduating in 1949 at 2 o'clock and hopping a train for summer stock in Wisconsin at 3. Talking to him is a long slide into the abyss - it's all darkness. The vibrancy and sense of moment has gone out of the business, he says. Failure is so expensive that actually making the picture seems to be almost an afterthought." Now we're just shooting the schedule, or some executive's bonus. A movie set is a pretty chilly place these days. "There's an old saying that nostalgia ain't what it used to be," he murmurs onto the spinning tape in his whiskey growl, "but I'm not so sure that's true. When he finally talks about his business, it's with the exasperated air of a man who's fed up, who's seen the glory days come and go, and who's struggling to find a reason to keep fighting the fight. Ask him about why he started acting, or, for that matter, about most anything regarding his career or his life, and he replies, "Oh, surely you've heard that old story."Īn hour later, he still hasn't allowed the tape recorder to be turned on. When pressed, only two or three titles out of a 30-year career and more than 50 movies spring to mind, the implication being that the rest aren't worth remembering. His memory of his own movies is vague at best. He says nothing interests him less than rehashing his own life. Slip a personal question in and he dodges it, moving on, dancing away. There's an edginess to his questions, as if he's determined to keep from talking about himself. What, he wants to know, is the mood in Washington? What kind of shape are the Democrats in? What's going to happen with the war? Stretching out in his tan corduroys and sweat shirt, he starts firing questions, none of which has anything to do with acting or with "Mr. "Don't turn that thing on yet," he says, pointing to the tape recorder. Something to do with the amount of olive oil. And how's the private stock different from the stuff in the stores? His answer is off the record. The private stock, without the logo of Newman that makes him look like Ryan O'Neal. Nothing doing.Īn assistant brings in the salads. For an instant, the thought of shooting a game of nine ball with Fast Eddie flashes through your mind. "You're in for a real treat." Posters of his movies - many of them from the nine films he's made with his wife of 33 years, Joanne Woodward - punctuate the walls: "A New Kind of Love," "The Long Hot Summer," "Rally 'Round the Flag, Boys!" On the other side of the room is a pool table covered with what looks like a Navajo weaving, something very Santa Fe. "Sit down," he says, offering a seat next to him on the sofa. Two minutes in the door and already a commercial. "I'm going to fix you the greatest, sexiest salad you've ever eaten." "Hey, you haven't had lunch yet, have you?" he says, practically shouting. Then a botched rescheduling.įour hours and a couple hundred phone calls later, Newman is slapping his palms together, acting the genial host. "What's your name again? I don't think he's here. Pretty certain you're not supposed to be anywhere. At the front entrance, a couple of doormen are pretty certain you're not supposed to be there. NEW YORK - he marble floors outside Paul Newman's Fifth Avenue office look as slick and icy as a frozen pond.
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