By Tony Macklin
My meeting with James Stewart gave me one of those rare insights that stays with you all of your life. I saw the man behind the actor and the professional behind the man.
I first met Stewart at a press luncheon under the broiling West Virginia sun. The most surprising thing about him was that he was strikingly tall. His lean figure made him seem taller than his 6 feet 2 inches. The second surprise was that he seemed wan and vulnerable.
I have interviewed many of the giants of cinema -- John Wayne, Hitchcock, Charleton Heston, Ingrid Bergman -- and one of the remarkable things about them is that they were impressive people. Jimmy Stewart was impressive too, but he gave me a new perspective because I saw him in public, where stardom is blinding, and watched him deal with adulation that would overwhelm a mere mortal.
In the early summer of 1971, I was invited to Wheeling, W. Va., for the world premiere of Fools' Parade, a Stewart film that had been made in the area. Fools' Parade is a small jewel in Stewart's career starring Stewart as an ex-convict whose favorite schtick is removing his glass eye. The film is a pleasant diversion.
But the film was cause for a monumental celebration for Wheeling. The premiere featured live appearances by Stewart, Strother Martin, director Andrew McLaglen and the rest of the cast. There was a press luncheon, a parade, a black-tie premiere and a buffet after the film. Wheeling went berserk. I sat next to Stewart at the outdoor lunch. I had been warned that Stewart was hard of hearing in one ear, so I sat on his good side. We poked at our steaks and talked about his new television show in which he portrayed a teacher. "It's got a very unique title The Jimmy Stewart Show, he said wryly. It subsequently was cancelled after a short run. The rewards of teaching are often short-lived.
That night we met again, "Ah, the professor and the professor's wife," he said in his famous drawl.
But the most telling moment of the indelible image occurred at the buffet for 1,500 invited guests after the showing of the film.
Stewart must have signed autographs for all 1,500. It was a Sisyphian task. I had the impulse to halt the seemingly endless line of autograph-seekers and cry out, "Leave the man alone! He's only human."
Yes, he was human. But he was more than human; he was a professional. Sitting at that table scribbling his name and occasionally smiling, he seemed abstracted and terribly vulnerable. But he knew what he was doing.
A lesser man could not have done what he did. He knew that we devour our stars. But Jimmy Stewart gave 1,500 people a taste. For many it was an irreplacable feast. But he never let his fans devour him.
Jimmy Stewart was a star, but he was also a man, and a human being no matter how tough can only take so much. That's when the professionalism kicked in and got him through. It was an incredible performance.
When Frank Capra came to Dayton as a guest of the University of Dayton political science department, Capra who directed three Stewart classics including It's a Wonderful Life said, "Jimmy Stewart is the common man." When I talked to Hitchcock who directed four Stewart classics including Vertigo, Hitch said, "Yes, Stewart is the common man," and then after a pregnant pause Hitch added, "but with a dark side."
And both directors agreed that Jimmy Stewart was a consummate pro.
In Wheeling, someone asked Stewart if there were any movies he wished he hadn't made. Stewart shook his head and said what could stand as his epitaph,"It's my work, it's my craft."
In this age of confession, posturing and flash, Jimmy Stewart kept something to himself. But it came across the screen.
It was the soul of a pro.
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