S2 Ep5 Like Dean

Network Sting: MSW Media

Martin Sheen : Hello, and welcome to the second season of the Martin Sheen Podcast with yours truly, Martin Sheen, of course. And I’m delighted to be back hosting this podcast pilgrimage where the destination is still the journey itself. Along the way, I plan to share stories and personal memories of some of the many people, place places and events that have helped to shape my lifelong happy and continuing struggle as an artist and a man to unite the will of the spirit with the work of the flesh. I also hope to explore poetry as a powerful form of expression and communication by proxy, as it were, and how poetry is such a vital and necessary component of our spirituality and our public discourse. And from time to time, I’ll invite friends, fellow actors, poets, scholars and family members to join our pilgrimage and discuss what inspires their artistic journey. And so, friends, let us begin.

Martin: “He Would Have Liked You”

I’ve often said that I have no conscious memory of ever not being an actor. And while this is true, it does require some explanation. Like most normal children, I lived a good portion of my childhood in my imagination, which was fed in large part by the, uh, many movies of the 1940s that I absorbed nearly every Saturday afternoon at our neighborhood theater, the Sigma. There, for just 20 cents, nearly three hours of uninterrupted fantasy would include a black and white double feature, several cartoons in color, the cowboy serials of Roy Rogers or Gene Autry, and the 10-minute newsreel of world and national events in black and white. Of course, I began to identify with many of the actors I saw on screen in much the same way, I suppose that a child might imagine themselves as a fireman, policeman or some other heroic figure. But gradually it dawned on me that I didn’t have to imagine because I was one with the actors. That is to say, I was in fact one of them. And the mystery of that remarkable revelation possessed me with great joy and gave me a certain possession of myself. All this occurred when I was only 6 years old and just entering the first grade at Holy Trinity School in Dayton, Ohio. Of course, I could not explain this wondrous mystery of transformation to anyone in my family or any friends at school, or anyone, period, because I did not fully understand it myself. Yet I knew instinctively that I was bound to accept the full force of the mystery or I would never be happy and I would never live an honest life. Thus a seed was planted, and I nourished its growth.

I was 12 years old in the seventh grade when I appeared on stage for the very first time. M in a play celebrating the 150th anniversary of Ohio statehood called the Sound of the Axe in the Forest, I played a leading role in the excitement and joy of that first theatrical adventure, along with a moderate level of stage fright, of course, still lives fondly in my memory.

Two years later, I was a freshman at Chaminade, an all-boys Catholic high school where I joined the drama club and landed the role of the court stenographer in the Kane Mutiny Court Martial. I had all of three lines, but I was thrilled because freshmen were hardly ever given any speaking roles. Later that year, I was invited to join the Black Friars Theater Society in Dayton and offered a leading role in Arsenic and Old Lace, which I gladly accepted. I was the only juvenile in the company, and from then on I alternated in plays at Chaminade as well as the Black Friars throughout my four years of high school.

Growing up, my favorite actors were James Cagney, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart and Edward G. Robinson, in roughly that order. But in 1954, I placed Marlon Brando at the top of that list. Then, in my sophomore year, I saw a film at the Sigma and with a handsome young actor who would completely change my whole concept of acting literally overnight. It was October 1955, the film was east of Eden, and the actor was James Dean in an unforgettable screen debut. Clearly, he was a unique and major talent, and from the moment he appeared on screen, I was riveted and completely disarmed. I had never seen anyone like James Dean. No one had, and it was unlikely we would ever see his like again. In what appeared effortless and completely natural, his performance turned screen acting on its head. It seemed he was not acting at all, but that he had transcended acting into his own emotional and deeply moving personal behavior. He was raw and sensitive, with an engaging sense of humor that made him easy to watch and eager to see again. And all these superlatives were confirmed a thousandfold with the subsequent release of his last two films, Rebel Without a Cause and Giant, before his tragic death in a horrible car crash on September 30, 1955, at the age of 24.

To say I was smitten as a youngster by James Dean’s aura is an understatement. But why should I have been any different? The appeal of his special genius crossed gender and age for generations and still resonates today when he is newly discovered. Dean’s influence continued into my adult life as I began my career in New York. And each time I appeared on camera, I was reminded of just how unbelievably talented he really was. He made it all look so easy and simple, where I found it difficult and uncomfortable. In fact, it took me many roles and nearly 15 years before I finally learned to relax and act natural on camera with my performance in Terrence Malick’s first film, the badlands, released in 1974. Oddly enough, my character Kit in that film was fixated on James Dean and was delighted when anyone made the comparison. And frankly, so was I.

Over the years, whenever I worked with anyone who had worked with Dean or knew him personally, I would pester them with questions about my idol. And such was the case with Sal Mineo, who costarred with Dean and in Rebel Without a Cause and appeared in Giant as well. I met Sal when we were cast together for a TV pilot with David Jensen called Harry O at Warner Brothers in 1973. And while we worked together, I took the liberty to ask him questions about Dean to the point of annoyance. But Sal was patient and good natured and answered all my inquiries. And it was gratifying to learn about my idol from such a close friend of his.

The day he finished filming, Sal very graciously came to my trailer to say goodbye, as I still had another day of work. We expressed our admiration for each other and confirmed how much we enjoyed working together. Then I apologized for asking him so many questions about James Dean, but he just laughed it off and said he was happy to share what he could remember and turned to leave. Then suddenly he turned back with a smile and casually said, “You know, he would have liked you.” Then he left. I wouldn’t admit it at the time, but now I don’t mind revealing that I was so deeply moved with just the thought that James Dean would have liked me that I broke into tears.

I never saw him again, but Sal brought me to tears a second time when I heard the horrible news of his brutal murder in Los Angeles in 1976. May heaven rest him.

Born January 10, 1937, in the Bronx, New York, he died February 12, 1976, in Hollywood, California. Sal Mineo was 39 years old.

Martin: We’re going to take a little break here, but I assure you there’s much more to come. Stay tuned.

Welcome back. I’m so glad you stayed.

Martin: Now hear this from the open mic.

So East of Eden had been out for a little while and it had played, you know, where you had to go downtown was a dollar fifty or a dollar and quarter for the first run. So we had to wait till it came to our theater. It was Just down this couple, six or eight blocks away from our house. I mean, small blocks, you walk to. It, you know, it was a 10-minute walk to the theater. And so, but we never went on school night. So, this guy in my class said, hey, have you seen this new actor? He said, you’re an actor, you should like this guy. And so I said, really? Who’s that? He said, uh, I don’t know his name, but, uh, there’s this film, east of Eden and you should see it, man. Well, it was playing its last night. But it was a theater, it was a school night. And uh, we very rarely ever went on a school night unless there was a holiday the next day.

And so I risked it and it was 20 cents and I went and it was a double feature. I can’t tell you what the first film was because I sat through it again to see, I saw East of Eden twice and without, without, uh, the other stuff. And I could not leave the theater. Literally. I sat there and it all went through. I said, well, this changes every, this changes everything. Does any, does anyone know about this guy? I mean, do they know what, how big this is? And I sat there and sat there and I thought, oh my God. I, I don’t, I, I, I’m, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I’m giving up acting. Who the hell wants to act after you see that? You know that that’s how strong it was. Yeah, yeah. So it took me a while to get over it and there you go. So, yeah, it’s a true story. Raised the bar and you settled. Oh my God.

Yeah. But the, the coincidence that I played the, one of the best roles I ever played and the first big role I got, and I’m, um, I wouldn’t say important, but it was Terence Malik’s first film Badlands, was, I played a character who loved James Dean and was kind of coy about it, but he, he acted like James Dean and he, he got thrilled when somebody said he, he looked like, he looked like, just like James Dean when the little girl said that.

Martin: Did you ever see Badlands?

Bruce: No.

Martin: Get over here, please. (swats him) Okay, you gonna see it!  If you don’t I’m going to shoot the dog. That’s how important it is.

Renee: Oh God, you better, Bruce.

Martin: I never done that.

Martin: Bruce? Bruce, where did you go? Where did you go?

Bruce: … I’m going to see Badlands.

Martin: He swore to shoot the dog if I didn’t see it. Okay. Michael Parks, he was very, he was very influential. He was the, uh, when I used to come out from New York to do, uh, shows out here during the season, you know, on my own. I worked with him and I was very impressed with him. And I realized

Renee: What did you work with him on?

Martin: The first thing I did was a, a thing for Universal on this, ah, anthology series called, um, Arrest and Trial. And Chuck Connors was the star. I was one of his buddies. And we were in this meanie group. And we were at the grave of his father in the story. And the caretaker of the grave comes along and says, “What are you juveniles doing here?” That kind of thing. “You’re messing up the turf. You can’t do that!”  And Michael beats him almost to death. And so it was. It was that crazy. And then we stayed friends and he kind of fell off the radar. And I asked him to do a role in, um, Pretty Boy Floyd. And he was in that with my brother Joe. Remember? Hm. And, uh, he was the other brother. There were three brothers. He was the other brother. And I, and then I did a did a series called Then Came Bronson. He was a motorcycler going across country. And I, uh, did the pilot. I gave him the motorcycle in the pilot. Yeah, that’s how it started. I committed suicide on the, uh, bridge in San Francisco. And I gave him the motorcycle. He couldn’t stop me from offing myself. You know, I jumped off that thing. Yeah. So we were friends all those years. And then later he had a big hit. He recorded the, some Country and Western. And he recorded, um, the theme for Then Came Bronson. Going down that long lonesome highway Looking for something and a friend can’t nobody to come in my way, and I’ve got no one to dream to see again. Something like that. It was very simple. It was a huge hit on Country and Western. And it was a theme. But he was, he married a lady that we stayed friends with for a while. And, um, she had a couple of children. They had one child together. But one of her children was killed by a car up in Ojai. They lived in Ojai and they just never recovered. And they split up. And she tried to stay friends. And I remember talking to her one day. She came to the house here. The day before, we had to leave again. Janet and I left for the Philippines to start phase three of Apocalypse. I never saw her again. Uh, so I don’t know what happened to her. He died. Of course. I know. Yeah. He had a career. He was very interesting actor. But he had that thing that he thought. Dean, how did he-

Renee: How did he teach you how to relax on camera.

Martin: I mean he was just, it was amazing because he had that thing that sometimes if you get a part and you’re not comfortable in your own skin, you think, how am I going to play this? So you imagine someone that you admire playing it. Mhm. I used to use George Scott a lot. I used to use Dylan music. I used to use actors that I admired, you know. And then I would see them playing it and I would say, oh, I see it. So I’d be talking like George, you know, “what is this crap?” And I’m, you know, I’d talk and then I’d be become me. I’d overtake George, you know, or I’d overtake Dean or somebody. So it became mine. But it took me a while to learn that. Michael Parks, he was just, you never quite knew what he was going to do. And I heard that was one of Dean’s, uh, uh, qualities. You know, it was like he never did the same thing twice or the same way twice. And that’s what Sal told me about him. It was like he, he was so available. Uh, you know, a fly could land on him and he’d deal with the fly, you know, and you know, and it would be. He’d make it part of the script or part of the scene, what was going on. He was not, he was not, um, he was not, he was not sealed in one way to one way of doing it. He was so pliable, you know, and he had such a range and a deep depth of emotion and, and a lot of, he had a lot of anger and angst and a lot of joy and humor. You know, he, and he was so damn lonely. You know, Dean of his folks. Dean. And you could see Dean in all of his movies, uh, followed the script. But in every movie he’s trying to build a family. If you watch him in East of Eden, he tried to create the family and then Rebel Without a Cause and that’s it. He was an orphan and Giant. You know, he was always trying to make a family and he was always flawed.

Renee: I never saw it that way before. But you’re right, that rings true in every, all three of those films.

Martin: Yeah, he was trying to build a family. Yeah, he lost his mother when he was very young. He was about nine, I think. And he moved in with Hortense and what’s his name, his aunt and uncle in, in um. Indiana. In. Yeah. Fairmont, Indiana. Yes. It wasn’t far from where I was born and raised. I, I went over there Several times. You know, Andy Poland. I once drove across country on the 25th anniversary of his death and placed a plaque in the auditorium where he first performed.

Renee: Andy from high school? Your high school, Right.

Martin: Yeah. Good. Ah, we got stopped. Uh, it was my old red Cadillac. We were driving cross country in it. I picked him up in Vegas. You know, he worked in Vegas. We drove across country and got stopped in Texas by this young highway patrolman with a big hat, swagger and all that. He didn’t have any sense of humor at all. He saw the California license plates and this candy red Cadillac convertible with two guys on a mission.

Renee: Where did their Cadillac come from?

Martin Sheen: Clyde Ware.

Renee: Clyde Ware gave it to you?

Martin Sheen: I did three movies. He couldn’t pay me, so he gave me his car.

Martin: “Autumn Movement” by Carl Sandburg.

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year.

The taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes.

New beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind and the old things go. Not one lasts.

Carl August Sandburg was an American poet, biographer, journalist, and editor. He won three Pulitzer Prizes, two for his poetry and one for his definitive biography of Abraham Lincoln. He was born in Galesburg, Illinois, on January 6, 1878. Um, he died July 22, 1967. Carl Sandburg was 89 years old.

I invite you to delve further into the works of the poets I shared with you, and I hope you seek out writers and poets whose work speaks to your hearts and minds with the power to inspire your life. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve heard here, please subscribe to my podcast, the Martin Sheen Podcast, with your host, yours truly, Martin Sheen. Of course, wherever you find your podcasts. Yeah, I have to say that you can find a complete list of the poets and titles of their poems that I’ve chosen at our website, themartinsheenpodcast.com

I want to thank the people who make this podcast possible, our producer and research assistant, Renee Estevez, who assures me that the Internet is a real thing and a safe place if not used off label. And our sound engineer and editor, uh, Bruce Greenberg, the man behind these rich and seamless recordings, and to his dog, Gracie, our studio mascot, who snores in perfect pentameter.

And so, friends, we part with the prayer from Tagore.

Where the heart is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—

Into that heaven of freedom (my Father) let our country awake. Amen

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The story “He Would Have Liked You” by Ramon Gerard Estevez, AKA Martin Sheen, is included here by granted copyright permission.