In Pursuit of Justice

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Even when he was dying from lung cancer, Paul Newman always looked younger than he really was.

Most of us would consider that a blessing in a culture that worships youth and beauty, but it can be a real hindrance for an actor. True, appearing to be forever young has helped some get roles that might otherwise have gone to others, but it seems to me that, at some point, a performer wants to play roles that more closely match his/her age, with the knowledge and experience that come with it.

I mean, it seems that it would be darn near impossible to be in your 40s and try to plausibly play a twentysomething. Too much happens in the interim.

"I always thought drinkin' men lost their looks," Elizabeth Taylor said to Newman in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." Newman was 33 when he played the part of Brick, who was probably about that age in that story but obsessed with his glory days as a high school athlete. He still looked the part (to Maggie the Cat's chagrin) — and his character even tried to do some of the things he once did only to learn that time always has its way. So does gravity. Even if it doesn't yet show in one's face.

But that's an easier assignment than being, say, in your 60s and playing a character 15 or 20 years younger. So perhaps Newman's youthful appearance worked against him at times.

When Newman made "The Verdict," which premiered on this day in 1982, he wasn't quite 60 years old. I don't know how old his character was supposed to be, but he was a lawyer and a drunk, which is not a good combination, least of all for assessing one's age. Based on things that were mentioned in the movie — when he finished law school, when he became a partner, etc. — Newman's character was probably five or six years younger than the actor.

Not really a stretch, especially for someone who was graying but whose hair hadn't turned totally white. Newman faced greater challenges in his career.

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Newman's character's story was a cautionary tale. All the failures in his life — his career, his marriage, everything — could be traced to his struggle with the bottle. But he was still in there pitching. He was mostly an ambulance chaser but a successful one. He seldom lost his cases, and a good friend and ex–teacher (Jack Warden) threw some work his way so he could keep a roof over his head and food on the table.

"The Verdict" was about one such case, a medical malpractice case that appeared to be open and shut. It was a "moneymaker," Newman's friend told him — an enticing word for a down–on–his–luck lawyer. A young woman who was about to deliver a baby was given the wrong anesthetic and was rendered comatose after choking on her own vomit. The Catholic–run hospital was willing to settle out of court, but after a visit to the hospital where the woman was being treated, Newman was determined to take the case to trial.

It was no longer about winning. It was about justice, and it was about redemption.

And the movie wasn't just about professional redemption. Charlotte Rampling was his opportunity for romantic redemption.

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I advise the student newspaper at a local community college. Recently I was having a conversation with one of the other advisers about our favorite Paul Newman movies. We compiled a predictable list until I mentioned "The Verdict," and he replied, "Yes, I forgot about that one."

We spoke of the acting — and it received plenty of recognition at the Oscars. Newman was nominated for Best Actor, and James Mason as the lead defense attorney was nominated for Best Supporting Actor.

The movie was also nominated for Best Picture, Best Director (Sidney Lumet) and Best Screenplay Based on Material From Another Medium. But it didn't win any of those Oscars. It was the year of "Gandhi," and "Gandhi" claimed three of the Oscars for which "The Verdict" was nominated.

A little trivia for you now:

Warden and Edward Binns, who played a bishop, were reunited in a Lumet–directed movie. Twenty–five years earlier, they played jurors in Lumet's "12 Angry Men."

Also, the next time you see "The Verdict," watch for a young Bruce Willis. He was a courtroom observer in this, one of his first movie appearances. Look for him during Newman's closing argument.

(Side note: Whenever I watch "The Verdict," I think about my senior play in high school, Ayn Rand's "The Night of January 16th." I played the judge in that production, and everyone had to stand when I entered or left the room. I thought that was cool.)

The Return of the Anti-Hero

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"What we have here is failure to communicate."

Captain (Strother Martin)

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It is often said — and justifiably, too — that 1939 was the greatest year for movies.

And it was.

But the runnerup on that list has to be 1967. It produced "Bonnie and Clyde," "The Graduate," "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner," "In Cold Blood," "In the Heat of the Night" and so many others — and then, on this day, two months before the end of the year, the hits just kept on coming.

On this day in 1967 America first watched "Cool Hand Luke" on its movie screens.

And, while it is hard to single out one performance from all the performances in his career, Paul Newman's work as the nonconformist Luke may well have been his best.

Luke was a cool customer, all right, just like the tagline for the movie said — "He was a cool customer ... until the law made it hot for him!"

He was a member of a Southern chain gang who absolutely would not give in to authority. It was a trait he paid for, frequently.

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His fellow prisoners admired that quality.

"You're an original," George Kennedy, who won Best Supporting Actor, told him at one point. "That's what you are!"

The audience learned fairly early just how much of a nonconformist Luke was. In the service he had been awarded a bronze star and became a sergeant — but was a private when he was discharged.

The men all seemed drawn to Luke. They looked up to him. He was a hero to them. He wasn't comfortable in that role, though. It wasn't one he sought. After all, it required him to live up to others' expectations, and he was still trying to find his own way.

The prison staff took every opportunity to break Luke, even putting him in solitary after his mother had died.

The guard who put him in solitary tried to justify it by saying, "Sorry, Luke. Just doin' my job. You gotta appreciate that."

Defiant as ever, Luke replied, "Callin' it your job don't make it right, Boss."

The prisoners called everyone on the staff boss, but I guess the only true boss was Strother Martin, who played the Captain — and uttered the line that everyone always remembers from that movie: "What we have here is failure to communicate."

And the scene everyone always remembers — well, all the guys for sure — is the one in which actress Joy Harmon, known only as The Girl (Kennedy's character called her Lucille), washed a car in full view of the spellbound prisoners.

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There was a void left in the cinematic role of anti–hero when James Dean died. Newman, who was nominated for Best Actor (and would have been a better choice than the winner, Rod Steiger), stepped forward to fill that void along with Warren Beatty and Steve McQueen.

A persuasive case can be made that each man proved himself worthy of being Dean's heir as the anti–hero, but Newman's body of work was the most convincing.

And "Cool Hand Luke" was his best work, signaling the true return of the anti–hero.

One of the Reasons Why I Like Black-and-White Movies

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Eddie (Paul Newman): Well, you don't leave much when you miss, do ya, Fat Man?

Minnesota Fats (Jackie Gleason): That's what the game's all about.

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As I understand it, there were a few attempts to make a movie out of Walter Tevis' novel "The Hustler" before director Robert Rossen gave it a shot, but they all failed, probably because the earlier attempts emphasized pool too much. Rossen used pool as the backdrop to a more human story — a story about winning and losing and simply being human.

His version made it to the big screen and received nine Oscar nominations (two in the same category), winning for Best Black–and–White Cinematography and Best Black–and–White Art Direction. Only "West Side Story," the big winner at the 1962 Oscars, received more nominations.

(As I have written here before, I love black–and–white movies. It's a disappearing art form, one that depends on acting and story telling and camera angles that turn inanimate objects into characters in the story rather than flash and dash and special effects. And "The Hustler," which premiered on this day in 1961, is a great example of that.

(If you don't have to have a lot of "sound and fury signifying nothing," to misquote Shakespeare, you will enjoy movies like "The Hustler." No splashy special effects at all. Just a great story told well with great acting.

(If you've been hesitant to watch black–and–white movies, c'mon. What've you got to lose? In fact, you have everything to gain. "The Hustler" is a good place to start on your journey.)

Of course, it helped to have some heavyweights in the cast. I don't know who was cast in the earlier movies, but Rossen's film starred Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason. Newman was a young pool hustler looking to break into big–time pool by beating the legendary Minnesota Fats, played by Gleason. It is a movie that should be seen so I will try not to give too much away if you haven't seen it yet.

But when you do see it, relish the performances. As I say, it is the acting that makes black–and–white movies special, and the acting in this movie was extraordinary — even as it dealt with very ordinary human shortcomings.

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Newman wanted to be a big shot, and he was willing to sacrifice just about everything — and everyone — for his goal. That included his girlfriend.

To be fair, his new manager played a pretty significant part in that last one.

Everyone in the cast was great. Gleason was impressive in a rare dramatic role. Newman was always worth watching, even when the movie wasn't too good — that was certainly not the case with this movie. George C. Scott played an unethical manager. Piper Laurie was Newman's rather jaded girlfriend.

Kenyon Hopkins' riveting score was nominated for an Oscar.

Joanne Woodward Got One of the First Stars on Hollywood's Walk of Fame 55 Years Ago

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Fifty–five years ago today, the official groundbreaking ceremony was held for the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The first star to be dedicated on the popular tourist destination belonged to Joanne Woodward, Academy Award winner for "The Three Faces of Eve."

Well, actually, that is what is said, but it isn't really true. Woodward was one of eight people who originally had stars on the Walk of Fame. The first star placed on the walk was for director Stanley Kramer. Nothing special should be read into that. It is my understanding that a block of more than 1,500 stars was designated, and Kramer's was merely the first to be created. Woodward was the first to pose with her star, though, which is located on Hollywood Boulevard.

Woodward's late husband, actor Paul Newman, is on the Walk of Fame, too.

It is my understanding that more than 2,500 stars are on the Walk of Fame now. Not all of them belong to movie stars, of course. Some are entertainers from TV, others from radio, still others from recorded music and/or the theater. Some, like Gene Autry, had multiple stars along the walk.

And there are special stars awarded to those who have distinguished themselves in other fields — for example, the crew of Apollo 11, the first mission to the moon, and boxer Muhammad Ali.

Former movie star Ronald Reagan is the only U.S. president on the Walk of Fame.

Butch and the Sundance Kid: A Product of Its Time

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"Who are those guys?"

Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman)

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I have long thought that "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," which premiered on this day in 1969, was a product of its times.

It told the story of a different time and place — the Old West in the 19th century — but from a decidedly contemporary point of view.

The movie came out in the year of the first moonwalk, which involved many kinds of people working together and eschewing individuality to an extent, but it was also a time of nonconformity, of thumbing one's nose at the establishment.

It was hardly surprising that, in such an atmosphere, a movie that glorified the exploits of two outlaws, nonconformists of their day, should be as successful as "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

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Roger Ebert had his own take on the movie: It "must have looked like a natural on paper," he wrote, "but, alas, the completed film is slow and disappointing."

I guess that kind of depends on your point of view.

Ebert's point of view was that there were two problems with the movie: "First, the investment in superstar Paul Newman apparently inspired a bloated production that destroys the pacing. Second, William Goldman's script is constantly too cute and never gets up the nerve, by God, to admit it's a Western."

I disagree with both points — to different extents, I guess. I thoroughly disagree with the first point. I disagree with the second point, too — but not entirely, not unreservedly. Yes, there were times when the script was too cute, but most of the time I thought it was clever and funny.

Like the time when Butch and Sundance and Etta (Katharine Ross) arrived in Bolivia, and their destination turned out to be little more than a farm with livestock wandering around. Butch remarked that the whole country couldn't look like that.

"How do you know?" Sundance asked. "This might be the garden spot of the whole country. People may travel hundreds of miles just to get to this spot where we're standing now. This might be the Atlantic City, New Jersey, of all Bolivia, for all you know."

And I still laugh when Sundance refuses to jump from the cliff into the water below because he can't swim.

"Are you crazy?" Butch replies. "The fall will probably kill you."

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It's hard to argue with logic like that.

Ross, not too far removed from her appearance in "The Graduate," was their sidekick, and she delivered what I thought was the best monologue in the movie when the subject of whether she would accompany Butch and Sundance to South America came up.

"I'm 26, and I'm single and a school teacher, and that's the bottom of the pit," she said. "And the only excitement I've known is here with me now. I'll go with you, and I won't whine, and I'll sew your socks, and I'll stitch you when you're wounded, and I'll do anything you ask of me except one thing. I won't watch you die. I'll miss that scene if you don't mind."

And she didn't watch them die.

That, of course, came at the end of the movie. But even the audience didn't watch them die, just saw them running into a hail of gunfire.

In spite of Ebert's assessment, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" received seven Oscar nominations and won four. Goldman, by the way, took home one of those Oscars for his screenplay.

Goldman won another Oscar a few years later for his screenplay in another Robert Redford movie, "All the President's Men."

If You Don't Pay Attention, You'll Get Stung

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Henry (Paul Newman): You beat him, kid.

Hooker (Robert Redford): You were right, Henry. It's not enough. But it's close.

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In 1969, director George Roy Hill teamed with Paul Newman and Robert Redford to make "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." It was a box–office smash, making $102 million, and a four–time Oscar winner. The American Film Institute ranked it 73rd on AFI's Top 100 movies list.

It was, quite simply, movie magic, the kind of movie magic that few people thought could be duplicated.

But, on this day in 1973, the second and final movie to team Newman and Redford (with Hill in the director's chair) was released. Their reunion was an even bigger box–office hit than the first one, earning more than $159 million after being made on a budget of $5.5 million. It won seven Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director, and was nominated for three more.

It didn't make AFI's Top 100 list — but it should have.

"The Sting" was a Depression–era tale about a grifter (Redford) who was intent on avenging the murder of his partner (Robert Earl Jones, father of James Earl Jones). Redford and Jones had conned a numbers runner out of $11,000, and the dedication of the numbers runner's boss (Robert Shaw) was not to the numbers runner but to the money and his own reputation so he had Jones killed.

He was on Redford's trail — but this was the 1930s, remember. It wasn't a high–tech heyday. There was no internet or YouTube or faxes or anything like that. There wasn't even television. Heck, there was barely radio.

So, while the audience knew what the grifter looked like, the crime boss didn't.

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That's the kind of detail you needed to keep in mind when you watched this movie. You didn't want to miss anything; if you missed something, you were apt to be taken by surprise at the end. But, if that is indeed what happened to you, don't feel too bad about it. It happens to the best of us.

I had to watch it two or three times before I caught everything I needed to catch.

Anyway, before he was killed, Jones' character encouraged Redford to look up Newman's character. Newman, he was told, could teach him the "big con" — often called the "long con" — a confidence game in which, through a series of staged events, a con man gradually gains the trust of an affluent person or individual, setting up a "sting" by exploiting the target's vanity or greed or lust or something similar.

When Redford located Newman, he was sleeping one off. Redford rather unceremoniously roused Newman, then told him, "Luther said I could learn something from you. I already know how to drink."

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"The Sting" benefited from a very talented supporting cast — and, since the "big con" required the coordinated efforts of a crew of men, not merely one or two, that was essential for the success of the movie.

Everyone has his/her favorite, I suppose. Mine is Eileen Brennan, who played Billie, Newman's girlfriend and cathouse madam. She went on to greater fame several years later in "Private Benjamin," but she knew where all the bodies were buried in "The Sting."

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Billie (Eileen Brennan): Who told you this guy was in here?

Lt. Snyder (Charles Durning): Nobody. I just know what kind of woman he likes. Going to check all the joyhouses 'til I find him.

Billie: Oh, well, maybe I could help you, if you tell me his name.

Snyder: I doubt it. Which way are the rooms?

Billie: Right through there. But I wouldn't go in there if I were you.

Snyder: What you are going to do, call the cops?

Billie: I don't have to. You'd be busting in on the chief of police just up the hall.

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But I also liked Ray Walston (who is better known — probably — for his role in TV's "My Favorite Martian" or his performance as Mr. Hand in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High").

And I liked Charles Durning as the (somewhat) earnest cop investigating matters who got conned in a con on top of a con, distracting not only the mark in the movie but the audience as well.

It was hard not to like the guy who pulled off the con within a con, either — Dana Elcar — who, upon meeting Durning's character, cautioned him, "Try not to live up to all my expectations."

"The Sting" exceeded all of my expectations, and Marvin Hamlisch's Oscar–winning score certainly helped. If you haven't seen it, it will exceed yours, too.

But you may have to watch it a couple of times.

Too Hot to Handle

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Maggie (Elizabeth Taylor): Truth! Truth! Everybody keeps hollerin' about the truth. Well, the truth is as dirty as lies.

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I suppose you couldn't find a more vivid illustration of the phrase dysfunctional family than Tennessee Williams' play about the fictional Pollitt family of Mississippi, "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."

The movie version, starring Paul Newman, Elizabeth Taylor and Burl Ives, premiered on this day in 1958.

Williams won a Pulitzer Prize for the play, but the film adaptation, with which Williams was displeased, won no Oscars. It was nominated for several, but Ives, who was Big Daddy, the family patriarch, wasn't recognized with so much as a nomination. In my opinion, that was a crime.

(Ives, it should be noted, did not go unrecognized by the Oscars that year. He won the best supporting Oscar for a movie that was released less than two weeks after "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" — "The Big Country.")

The movie sure had a heavyweight cast and it told a pretty heavy story, too, about a couple whose marriage was on the rocks and the dysfunctional family from which one (Newman) came.

In hindsight it was sort of like a dramatic version of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Newman was the golden boy, a football star in his youth; he had a brother (Jack Carson), the dutiful son always in his sibling's shadow even though he was the one who built a successful life, married and gave Big Daddy grandchildren (lots of grandchildren).

Big Daddy was, of course, the patriarch, and Big Mama (Judith Anderson) was the matriarch.

Big Daddy was dying of cancer, but he and his family were in denial, enabled by their family doctor who first told them the cancer was in remission but eventually told Big Daddy the truth.

Apparently, the screenwriters rewrote portions of Williams' play, deleting the homosexual angle of the story and inserting a scene of reconciliation between Newman's character and Big Daddy.

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It did not produce Williams' desired effect.

Yet, even with those concessions to the mores of the day, "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" was still too hot for the Oscars to handle. As I say, the homosexuality was toned down considerably, but, in its place, the writers explored themes like adultery, alcoholism and infertility that were rarely featured in movies of that time.

That may have been a little too daring, and it may have worked against those who were associated with the film — which really is too bad because, whether you speak of the movie or the play on which it was based, it's always been my opinion that it was the best of Williams' works.

And I've always felt it was one of Taylor's best performances.

If I'm asked to choose my absolute favorite Liz Taylor performance, I'll pick Martha in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" every time. But her performance as Maggie would easily make my Top Five.

I guess what has always impressed me about that performance is the fact that Taylor, in her mid–20s at the time, was capable of such passion and empathy at a time when, privately, she was mourning the death of her third husband, Mike Todd.

I don't think I would select "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" as Newman's best performance — but it was one of 'em. In fact, I would say the cast was flawless. The material was altered from the original, but the power of the story was undiminished.

Truth and Accuracy

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"Don't expect the truth unless you're willing to tell it."

Sally Field
Absence of Malice (1981)

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I was a journalism student in college when "Absence of Malice," starring Paul Newman and Sally Field, premiered 30 years ago today.

And I felt, when I saw it, that it had some lessons for me that would be useful when I graduated and found myself working in the field.

The problem was that I found the reality was different from the Hollywood story. That should come as no surprise to anyone.

Oh, sure, there are overzealous, overeager reporters like Sally Field's character who will report gossip and hearsay, even when innocent people are likely to be hurt. In an era of instant news and intense pressure to be first with a story, whether it is true or not, there seems to be more of them than ever.

There are unethical prosecutors, like the one who leaked the contents of a file to a reporter, hoping to put pressure on a suspect with no regard for the consequences. I don't think there has ever been a shortage of them, regardless of the era.

And there are people like Newman's character, who was the focus of the prosecutor's investigation and Field's newspaper article.

The case looked good. The story seemed solid. The motivations were, for the most part, noble. The only problem was, he was the wrong guy.

In my experience, that's like the fabled perfect storm. All the elements are not in place at once in every situation. Most prosecutors are ethical, and so are most journalists. Never mind the public images of lawyers and reporters. They're mostly — but not entirely — the products of Hollywood's fantasy world.

But the truth wouldn't make much of a movie so the writers of the story (which included a former newspaper editor) told a tale that, in the words of Field's character, was not true but it was accurate.

If they thought they could get away with it, I'm sure there are some prosecutors who would be tempted (perhaps more than that) to leave files from investigations on their desks where a reporter was sure to find it.

And I'm sure there are reporters who would be tempted (again, perhaps more than that) to look in those files and spill their contents into the next day's papers without regard to whether any of it was true or was affirmed by more than one person.

I don't know what they were teaching students about ethics in law school in those days, nor do I know what was being taught in every journalism class across the country, but I can testify that my journalism classes emphasized double– and triple–checking facts.

One source's word for it simply was not good enough.

We were not so far removed from Watergate in those days, and my professors sang the praises of Woodward and Bernstein, repeatedly urging us to follow their lead (so to speak) and have at least two sources for anything.

And we were encouraged to remember — always — the human side of any story. Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable was an article (again, so to speak) of faith. Human beings were not collateral damage.

They still aren't, no matter what you may have heard or thought.

In a way, I suppose, that was the lesson Newman's character tried to teach the rest of them in the second half of the movie.

In the article that revealed that Newman was innocent because he had been in another state at the time of the alleged murder, it was also revealed that his alibi and lifelong friend (Melinda Dillon) had been having an abortion. He had been with her, giving her the support she needed, but her character was Catholic, employed by a Catholic school.

Field's character's lack of sensitivity to that fact had tragic consequences. When Field's character identified Dillon's character by name in print, the public exposure was too shameful for her. She killed herself.

Field's character clearly had no malicious intent. She was merely doing her job, but that did not change the reality.

To get even with those he felt were responsible for his friend's suicide, Newman's character hatched a plan to ensnare the newspaper reporter (part of which included a false social relationship with her) and the prosecutor.

When everyone had been exposed, Field's paper began working on its coverage of the story. Another reporter was assigned to write about Field and her relationship with Newman. Field was told that she would be quoted directly and to describe the relationship in any way that she wished.

"Just say we were involved," Field said haltingly.

"That's true, isn't it?" her colleague asked.

"No," Field replied, "but it's accurate."

That, as I say, is how I feel — at least, in hindsight — about "Absence of Malice." The story wasn't true. It wasn't even, as far as I know, a fictionalized account of an actual event.

But it was accurate, and it provided — as it still does — a valuable lesson in ethics — for journalists and everyone else.

Newman and Woodward Together Again

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It's been just about a year now since Paul Newman died. This Saturday, you can see one of the earliest movies in his career, 1958's "The Long, Hot Summer," on Turner Classic Movies at 7 p.m. (Central).

The film has special significance because one of his co–stars was Joanne Woodward, who became his wife that year. As nearly as I can tell, this was the first time the two appeared in a film together, but it was far from the last. Between 1958 and 1990, they were in nine more films together. Newman also directed four films in which Woodward starred but Newman did not appear.

Their collaboration (including the projects in which Newman was the director) produced more than three times as many movies as the partnership of Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It was even more productive than the legendary alliance of Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn.

That's pretty impressive. From what I've heard, more of a fuss was made about Newman's film partnership with Robert Redford than his partnership with his wife, but Newman and Redford only made two films together. "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and "The Sting" were great movies, but they represented a fraction of the work Newman and Woodward did together.

Their marriage lasted 50 years — not a bad record for Hollywood. Of course, they weren't exactly a Hollywood couple. They lived in Connecticut.

Newman had this to say about his marriage: "I don't like to discuss my marriage, but I will tell you something which may sound corny but which happens to be true. I have steak at home. Why should I go out for hamburger?"

This Saturday, you will have the opportunity to see them together when it was all getting started.

Did He Ever Find Those Cats?

It's hard for me to believe it's been 15 years since the debut of "Late Night With David Letterman" in the renovated theatre that was home to Ed Sullivan's TV show for so many years.

But so it has. Letterman's first show in the renamed Ed Sullivan Theatre in New York City was on Aug. 30, 1993.

His guests that night included Billy Joel, Tom Brokaw and Bill Murray.

And a surprise guest in the audience — Paul Newman.

I've read many tributes to Newman since his death on Sept. 26, but I haven't read or heard any recollections about that night in 1993.

It was so natural, so plausible.

After being "introduced" from the audience by a film clip of Ed Sullivan, Newman asked Letterman, "Where the hell's the singing cats?"

Apparently, Newman was referring to the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical "Cats," which had been a hit in England and on Broadway for more than a decade.

"No, Paul, this isn't 'Cats,'" Letterman replied. "It's me, Dave Letterman. This is my new show from the Ed Sullivan Theatre."

Newman looked at his ticket stub, then said, "Oops, sorry, wrong theatre," and walked out while the audience cheered.

Newman's home was in Westport, Conn., which is about 45 miles from New York City. It certainly wouldn't be hard to imagine him driving to New York to take in a popular show.

But I don't recall seeing anyone — even his wife, Joanne Woodward — with him in the audience.

Nevertheless, I hope he found those cats.

Newman Played Many Roles, Never Changed as Role Model

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"Sometimes God makes perfect people, and Paul Newman was one of them."

Sally Field
Newman's "Absence of Malice" co-star

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Two days after his death, praise continues to pour in for actor Paul Newman.

I wrote about his death yesterday in my Freedom Writing blog.

And, while I don't have much to add to it, I do have a few random thoughts about Newman's life and work.

• "In the decade after World War II, three soulful studs came from Broadway to Hollywood," writesTIME's Richard Corliss. Those "three soulful studs" were Marlon Brando, James Dean and Newman.
  
  "Of these three, way back then, Newman seemed the least unique," observes Corliss.
  
  "But unlike the other two, Newman stuck it out. Instead of leading his talent in weird and wayward directions, like Brando, or smashing it to pieces on a California highway at 24, like Dean, he just kept getting better, more comfortable in his movie skin, more proficient at suggesting worlds of flinty pleasure or sour disillusion with a smile or a squint."
  
  True, there were times when Brando went in "weird and wayward directions."
  
  And, also true, Dean's talent was never fully realized. He was the tragic victim of a highway accident more than half a century ago and only made three films.
  
  While both facts are true, it's also true that both actors left behind great celluloid performances that will be discussed by teachers and students of film for generations to come.
  
  Newman, on the other hand, was the model of consistency all his life. He was always Paul Newman, and, while he "grew old and gray," he did not become "fat and cranky" as other stars did in their later years. Newman "was recognizably, at any moment in his film career, Paul Newman," wrote Corliss.
  
  Newman and his wife, actress Joanne Woodward, marked their 50th wedding anniversary in January. Stars who remain married to the same partner for life have always been rare in Hollywood; with Newman's passing, one has to wonder if the species is now officially extinct.
  
  But Newman was always a strict monogamist. As a sex symbol, there were always opportunities for him to satisfy sexual appetites. But he always insisted that he never took advantage of those opportunities. "Why would I go out for a hamburger when I have steak at home?" he would say.
  
  (In fact, Newman always reminded me of a college professor in my hometown. Upon being told that having sex only with one's spouse was like eating rice every day, his reply was, "But there are thousands of ways to eat rice!"
  
  (That professor, as I understand it, also just celebrated his golden wedding anniversary. Perhaps he and Newman were soulmates ...)


• Last night, I was watching "Paper Moon" on cable.
  
  It was ironic that that movie was on. Thirty-five years ago, at about the same time that Newman and Robert Redford made "The Sting," Newman and his daughter Nell were the original choices to play the father-daughter roles in "Paper Moon."
  
  I don't know if Newman's commitments to "The Sting" prevented him from taking the role in "Paper Moon." Maybe he just didn't want to be typecast in Depression-era movies. But, frankly, I'm glad Ryan O'Neal and his daughter Tatum got the roles instead.
  
  I'm sure Newman would have done his usual great job in the role, but the O'Neals have always seemed perfectly cast in that film — to me, anyway!


• That doesn't mean that Newman wasn't perfectly cast in many other films. Entertainment Weekly takes a look back at Newman's "30 unforgettable roles."
  
  Reflect on the ones you've seen. And resolve to see the ones you haven't!