Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor in a scene from the 1958 Hollywood film
"Cat on a Hot Tin Roof". AFP
James Brock
The older I get, the more people whom I admire leave this world. The latest is Paul Newman, and I bring him up because last year I did something with him that I imagine not many others have: he and I conversed at adjacent stalls in a bathroom and continued our conversation in the a theatre's lobby.
I was at a performance of King Lear starring Ian McKellan, staged at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. As I was taking my seat before curtain I noticed Newman and his wife, Joanne Woodward, sitting several rows behind me. One often sees famous people at the academy, but seeing this couple actually excited me, because I have long admired both of them, for their acting abilities and their generosity — endowing a community theatre in Connecticut, giving hundreds of millions to charity and helping poor children with chronic diseases, including cancer. They are the type of people that I respect to such an extent that I would never approach them, because they deserve a night out without having to deal with fawning strangers.
During intermission I made my way to the men's room, and while standing and doing what one does in such a space a man appeared next to me and said, "How are you doing, son? Like the 'Lear'? I turned to my left and saw Mr Newman, doing the same thing I was. I cooly replied, "Hello, Mr Newman. Yes, McKellan is amazing."
We finished our business and walked out to the lobby, passing Ms Woodward on the way ... she was stuck in the longer women's line. And there I was, surrounded by at least 150 people, having a conversation with Cool Hand Luke himself. It really was stupendous. But what was more amazing was the tone of our conversation. We were talking as if we had long been intimates. Here was the man whose role in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, starring opposite Elizabeth Taylor, riveted me, and I was talking to him about food and clothing and Mayor Bloomberg.
By coincidence we were both wearing seersucker, and earlier in the month I had traveled up to Westport, Connecticut, to dine at Dressing Room, the restaurant he had opened on the property of the Westport Country Playhouse, the community theatre Woodward had brought back to life in 2000 by raising $30 million. So it seemed to me that our lavatory meeting was meant to be. He asked where I had bought my jacket, where I was from, and where I like to eat in New York. When I told him I had recently been to Dressing Room, he asked, "How did you like the chow?"
The lights dimmed and went back up several times, calling us back to our seats. We walked toward the theatre entrance and as we neared the door he extended his hand and said, "Enjoy the rest of the play, son. I enjoyed talking with you."
I have to admit that talking with Mr Newman while scores of people looked on, too timid, or respectful, to interrupt, felt natural, and good. Not to mention surreal. There are certain moment's in one's life that feel this way, as if you both belong but cannot actually be (can you?) in that particular space. My brief interlude with Paul Newman was one of those times.
One of the greatest has exited the stage for the last time, and the kindness, courtesy and naturalness he showed a stranger has made this fan miss him even more.
