Redford & Newman: Last Call (Part 2 of 3)

Paul leaned back in his stool and looked at the ceiling. A fan twirled slowly. The Sting seemed three lifetimes ago, and just may have been. He’d noticed both he and Redford had dressed similarly. Jeans, loafers, dress shirt and knee-length black overcoats. Both wool coats were slung over the backs of their stools, the hems dragging on the ground. Preppy never looked so distinguished.

“After we did The Sting, did you think we’d work together again?” Paul was going over the expansive list in his mind of all the questions, over all the years and beers, that he’d failed to ask his best friend.

“Of course. I think we should have pooled all our resources to get back on screen together. Somehow. Somewhere. Why the fuck didn’t we?”

Paul shook his head sadly.

“We had too much shit going on outside of L.A. You in Utah, me in Connecticut. My racing, your politics. Sundance Film Festival, Hole in the Wall Camps. The environment for you, salad dressing for me. Good causes, all. But they may have kept us apart.”

“Those are shitty excuses, if you ask me. Paul, we still made movies. Lots of ‘em. Hell, I got one coming out this year, for christ sake.”

“Never saw a script that would do us justice. Did you?”

“No. So why didn’t we write one ourselves?”

“Good fucking question. Why didn’t we?”

It was Bob’s turn to lean back in his stool. This was a sensitive subject for him. His biggest regret professionally was not working with Paul after The Sting. He’d never told his friend this. He got down from the stool and stood leaning on the bar, sliding the stool back out of the way with his loafer so there was nothing between them.

“Paul, do you think we were ambivalent about working together again?”

”God no. I wasn’t. Were you?”

“I didn’t use to think so but damn, if you and I couldn’t make it happen…I mean it’s been 34 years.”

“Remember that Duvall flick, ‘Wrestling With Ernest Hemingway’?”

“Yeah. I never saw it, but I’ve always loved Bob’s work.”

Paul sighed. “I was given that script. It needed some work, sure, but it was the closest I’d seen to a vehicle that might sustain us both. Remember the synopsis?”

”Not really.”

“I know it verbatim: ‘Two lonely, retired septuagenarians; an unkempt, hard-drinking Irish sea captain, and a fussy, well-mannered Cuban barber form an uneasy friendship’.”

Bob turned and looked at him as he slid his stool back to the bar and sat down. There eyes met for a full minute. Aubrey was mesmerized as the two legends exchanged dialogue with nary a word uttered. Something both of them could do as well as anyone.

It was Bob who broke the silence. “I can’t see you as Cuban. Or well-mannered. Fussy, yes.”

“And I can’t see you as Irish, or unkempt. Hard drinking, yes.”

“What, Jeremiah Johnson had manicures and pedicures given to him by wolves?” Bob always hated the neat, fastidious reputation he’d attained.

Paul grinned. “We could have done that film. I saw it. It stunk. Duvall did his best, but he had no one to play off of. Richard Harris was miscast. It could have been the best bitter buddy flick of all time. Maybe ‘Grumpiest Old Men’. And think about it, ‘two lonely septuagenarians’? That’s hardly a stretch for either of us. Practically typecasting.”

“When was that film?”

Paul shook his head sadly. “1993. We could have done it. Aren’t you curious why I didn’t make it happen?”

“Of course.”

“I asked for freedom to change the script. Randa Haines, the Director, said no.”

“I know her. She was a member of the jury at Sundance one year. Maybe ’87.”

“So, if I’d have brought you in on it, think we could have made it happen?”

“Randa would have been crazy to turn it down. And she was not crazy. Do you know she directed “Children of a Lesser God”?”

Paul nodded. “Yes. But Bob, I never even dropped your name. If I had, it might have changed everything.”

“Are you looking for regrets? That’s water way under the bridge. Let it go.”

”I can’t let regrets go. In fact, the closer I get to the ground, the more they seem to crop up out of the soil.”

“I would imagine that’s inevitable. But wouldn’t it be fair to go through this assessment you seem to be going through by acknowledging that your life, if weighed by the scales of justice, would come out far ahead on the good side?”

“That’s not as easy as you think.”

“Doesn’t make it impossible.”

“Let’s move on. Or back. Your favorite flick of all time?”

“You mean one of my own?”

”No, one that you weren’t in, in fact. Egomaniac.”

Bob laughed and thought, sipped his drink, and thought some more.

“What if it IS one that I was in?”

“Well, then that might be the very definition of ‘pompous’.”

They both grinned.

From behind them, and unknown to both men, the double doors were pushed silently inward and in walked a slight woman, auburn haired, who immediately shed a long white leather rain coat and handed it to the hostess. She paused and scanned the bar. Upon closer inspection, she looked almost exactly like Barbra Streisand’s character in ‘The Way We Were’; Katie Morosky, the fearless activist who stole Hubbell Gardiner’s heart.

Paul turned and caught her eye and winked. She immediately strode toward the two icons.

“Bob, I’ve invited a friend of yours. You may remember her.”

As Bob turned around, the young woman placed both her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. She leaned back and said, “Wouldn't it be lovely if we were old? We'd have survived all this. Everything would be easy and uncomplicated; the way it was when we were young.”

Paul had decided on the line from the movie. It was a test.

Bob was stunned. The woman looked eerily like Barbra. Paul had found her at the Center Stage Theatre Company in town. Once he saw her, he knew what he had to do.

“Katie,” Bob replied, “it was never uncomplicated.”

The woman stepped back, no longer touching him. She put her hands on her hips, her tight red dress hugging curves that, even in his prime, Paul’s driving couldn’t navigate.

She tilted her head and pushed her heavily sprayed hair in slightly on the left side with the palm of her hand. “I was too easy, wasn’t I?”

Bob replied in perfect synch, “You think you're easy? Compared to what, the ‘Hundred Years' War’? “

Paul burst out laughing. “Excellent. Cut!”

The woman fell out of character and gave Bob a lingering hug.

“Thanks sweetheart. You were fabulous,” Paul said, handing her a thick envelope. She curtsied to the two men and went and retrieved her coat and left the restaurant.

Fatuously, Paul picked up his glass and emptied it, turning to Bob, “That would make us even, Hubbell.”

Bob, still grinning from ear to ear, could only nod his head and gesture to Aubrey.

“Another round, please.” Turning to Paul, he continued, “Not bad for an octogenarian Match Box driver.”

“Shit, you may have adjusted well on the fly there, but initially you needed a double helping of Depends.”

Aubrey placed the new drinks in front of them. “That was hilarious guys.”

“Tip of the ice berg, Miss Aubrey. Can we buy you one?”

“Of course. I’m a vodka girl.” She poured herself a Ketel One on the rocks and silently toasted with the two legends. This was an evening she would never forget. “Thanks for the drink, guys.” She moved on up the bar, sipping her drink and grinning like a lottery winner.

“You hungry yet?”

”What are you, on commission?” Paul snapped. But he thought for a moment and nodded. “Lets’ get a couple of appetizers.”

The smaller of the two leather bound menus contained an almost exhaustive list of small dishes. There were Tapas and some stalwarts one might find anywhere in the country.

Paul finished his brief once-over and handed it to Bob.

“Aubrey,” Bob called out to the pretty bartender. She looked up from slicing lemons. He mouthed the word ‘music’ to her, and she grinned, nodded and went back around the corner.

To distract Paul, he asked him what was good from the menu.

“All the apps are first rate. I like the braised fennel sausage on skewers with onions and peppers.”

“That sounds good. What about the filet mignon stuffed cabbage rolls?”

”Excellent as well. That should hold us for a while.”

Just as Aubrey reappeared, Paul gestured to her with the menu. She approached. Before Paul could speak, B.J. Thomas crooned soothingly over the sound system. There was a speaker directly above them.

“Raindrops keep fallin’ on your head…”

Paul looked at Bob and smiled, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He ordered the two appetizers and watched as Aubrey hurried off toward the kitchen.

“You were riding that damn bike with Katherine in this scene, remember? I hated this song. There was NO RAIN in the scene. It made no sense.” In spite of the incongruousness of the song, that scene was Bob’s favorite.

“It worked though, didn’t it?” And Paul gave him the same one-eyed wink he made famous as Butch Cassidy, before quoting, “You can see I’m right, can’t ya?”

Bob nodded. This was fun.

“So why are you mixing the good stuff, the Black Label, with soda?”

“What, you want me to get drunk so you can make me look bad?”

“Shit, too late for that. Already happened in both our movies.”

“Which, drunk or looking bad?”

“Both.”

“Hey, blondie, we both know Butch faced his fears. Sundance was a pussy and a neurotic.”

“What!?”

“Butch got over his fear about killing people by shooting the Bolivian bandits. You were so scared, you couldn’t shoot anybody unless you were prancing around like a fairy.”

“Bailed your ass out more than once. That card player was gonna put more holes in you than a colander.”

“Like I said, over the hill”. They both laughed.

Paul put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “So, your favorite movie that isn’t one of yours?”

Bob thought about it. Ironically, he hadn’t been asked that question for years. Thankfully.

“You know these types of questions are subjective as hell, Paul. What I feel now might be different tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah. I may not be here tomorrow. Answer the damn question.”

“The English Patient.”

“VERY interesting. Why?”

“Because it’s the best depiction of a love-hate relationship between a man and a woman that I have ever seen.”

“Wow. That’s almost sagacious. You shoulda been in films. Wanna know mine?”

”Hell yes.”

“Blaze.”

They both guffawed so loudly and abruptly that it alarmed Aubrey. Bob put his hand up, palm out, to reassure her.

Finally, Bob caught his breath and said, “That bomb should have been SET ablaze.”

Paul couldn’t stop laughing, but spoke anyway, haltingly. “My worst film, hands down. What the fuck was I thinking?”

Bob could only nod his head. “I’ve had more than my share of clunkers.”

“Oh, I know you have, Bagger Vance. Talk about a double bogey.”

Again, they both laughed.

“But,” Paul said, “your directing efforts have been incredible, and I’m not one prone to hyperbole. You don’t have even a mediocre one in the bunch. Starting with your first one, Ordinary People, which you won your only fucking Oscar for. And then River Runs Through It, Quiz Show, Horse Whisperer. Damn, you kick my ass right there.”

“Come on Paul. First of all, I directed Bagger Vance. And Milagro Beanfield. Both of those aspire to be mediocre.”

“Oh, I forgot you directed those.”

“I wish I could forget.”

“Bob, what was your personal favorite, of your own movies?”

“That’s easy. There are two of them, actually. ‘Out of Africa’ and ‘An Unfinished Life’. I was fascinated by the Dennis Finch character; he was more like me than anybody I ever played.”

“I loved both of those. Nice choices. You and Meryl chewed up the scenery in Africa. You had one of my favorite lines in that movie. You and Meryl arguing over commitment in her living room. She says, ‘I won’t allow it.’ You reply, ‘You have no idea the effect that language has on me’. Very powerful. And ‘Unfinished’? What a sleeper of a movie. You, J-Lo and Morgan Freeman. It all worked magically. Three people, all with a linked, tragic back story, coming together to battle a bear. Art imitating life.”

“That means a lot to me. That you know so much about my movies.”

“The reason I’m curious about this stuff is, of course we were good in Sting and Butch. But films like that tend to obfuscate some other really good work. Great, defining movies can be a curse.”

“Yes they can. And though neither of those films was close to my best work, they may have been the most fun to make. And the reason for that is right here on his, what, third Scotch and soda?”

“Nobody likes a counter.”

“You’re just pissed because I still can count. Ok, Paul, what’s your personal sleeper?”

“My own film?”

”Yeah.”

“That’s also easy. ‘Nobody’s Fool’.”

Shockingly, Bob said the title at the same time Paul did.

“I loved that movie, Paul. You brought out the best acting Bruce Willis ever did, before or after.”

“And I got a full two seconds to look at a pair of tits that would’ve startled a moose, when Melanie Griffith raised her sweatshirt.”

“There was that, yes. One of the modern day inspirations for the pause button.”

“That film was easy. Even though he was, ostensibly, my adversary, I felt like Bruce was my son. I channeled Scott through him, which helped create that whole bittersweet thing Bruce and I had going. And it wasn’t a lot of work to play a broken-down, aging lonely guy.”

“What do you think that means, that we both agree on our underrated films?”

Paul shook his head. “Weird. I guess we’ve been following each other more than we realized.”

Bob got up. “Or were willing to admit. Where’s the head in this gin joint?”

Paul pointed and Bob left him sitting at the bar. Paul ordered another round from Aubrey. When she brought the two glasses, she said “I loved you in ‘Message in a Bottle’, Paul. It was similar to ‘Nobody’s Fool’. You in the ‘damaged father’ role.”

He winked and grinned at her. “Probably typecasting. Thanks Aubrey, I think. That was fun to make. Costner is a real pro.”

“Your appetizers will be right up.”

As Bob approached the bar, he stood behind Paul and waited, hands on hips.

Paul finally sensed he was back there and slowly twisted on his stool to face him.

Bob tried to look disgusted. “The great Henry Gondorf.”

Paul chuckled. “You gonna sit and have a snack, ‘or do ya already know how to eat?’”