Still Me (28 page)

My way to escape the Hollywood grind.

Finally I did take a small part in the film
Gray Lady Down
, with Charlton Heston and Stacy Keach, about the efforts to rescue the crew of a sunken nuclear submarine. I played a young lieutenant aboard the rescue ship and always stood as close as possible to Stacy Keach in order to have more time on-screen. It was a pleasant experience spending several weeks on Navy vessels off the coast of San Diego, but the script was mediocre, and most of us (and later the critics) referred to the him as “a disaster about a disaster.”

By October I'd had enough of avoiding auditions for parts I didn't want. I threw my few belongings into the backseat of my Cherokee 140 and headed back to New York and the theater.

When I arrived home I called my friend Bill Hurt and asked if he knew of anything interesting that was casting. He said that he had just been offered the lead in
My Life
by Corinne Jaecker at the Circle Repertory Company, and the small but important role of the grandfather was still open. He arranged for me to audition for the director, Marshall Mason. Two weeks later we started rehearsals.

With Bill Hurt in
My Life
.

I was thrilled to be part of the first production of a brand-new play and to be working with Bill. I was also his understudy. One Sunday late in the run he came in with laryngitis. Suddenly I was on. I had to wear Bill's costumes, which was fine, until the character had to change into a bathing suit and go for a swim in a little onstage pool. The bathing suit was the one item that didn't fit—it was much too small. As I climbed dripping out of the pool, there was no place to hide. I had to carry on for the next few pages oblivious to the buzzing in the audience, until I could go offstage to change. Fortunately, this was my only experience as an understudy.

In late January, Stark called to say that I had been asked to audition for the lead in a big movie for a major studio. The casting director, Lynn Stalmaster, had pleaded with the director for a meeting. Three times he put my picture and resume on the in pile; each time the producers put it back on the out pile. Finally he persuaded them to bring me in for a meeting. Stark told me the chances of my getting the lead in this big-budget movie were remote, and he had doubts about the project because no one had seen a script. But the interview was set for the following Saturday afternoon at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel on Fifth Avenue. I agreed to go because Stark had always said, “Audition for everything, then make your choices afterwards.” And because I had plans to catch a five-thirty train at Grand Central (a straight shot down Fifth Avenue) to visit my father.

I truly believe that if the meeting had been in another part of town, I wouldn't have gone. Everything about the project seemed so unlikely. But at three o'clock that Saturday afternoon in January 1977, I rang the doorbell of a plush suite at the Sherry-Netherland and was ushered in to meet Ilya Salkind and Richard Donner, the producer and director of
Superman.

Chapter 8

When I finally arrived home from Kessler on December 13, 1995, we started our preparations for Christmas, keenly aware how different this one would be. We also realized that the house would have to be extensively modified if I was to have any kind of freedom and mobility. We set up a hospital bed in the dining room and brought down a mattress for Dana. The rooms were cozy and inviting, but there were steps everywhere, and it was very frustrating to have to put down a metal ramp every time I wanted to move into the living room or cross through the dining room into the kitchen.

Matthew and Al came over for the holidays, and we all went to Williamstown, where the renovations had already been completed. I was free to roam from one end of the house to the other, which gave me a real sense of independence. I missed skiing together at Jiminy Peak and sledding down the hill above our front yard, which was how we usually spent most of our time between Christmas and New Year's. Staying by the fire and watching the others enjoy the outdoors was very difficult for me. I tried to keep my spirits up by reminding myself that, even with all the limitations, I was home with my family and had begun a new life.

Today I spend much of my time traveling around the country giving speeches, visiting rehab centers, lobbying in Washington for more money for biomedical research. Whenever we arrive in a new city, people are amazed at how efficiently our team of nurses and aides transports me in and out of airplanes, vans, and hotel rooms. But as I began life at home in early '96, I was reluctant to make these trips; not only because they would be mentally and physically challenging but because I was not eager to be seen in public.

Coming Home

In addition, the new year had begun with a serious medical setback that made the idea of travel even more daunting. In January I developed a urinary tract infection, which the doctors at our local hospital decided not to treat with antibiotics because over time the bacteria can become resistant to them. The doctor in charge of my case recommended drinking large amounts of cranberry juice, but the infection, left untreated, caused serious repeated episodes of dysreflexia. At the worst point I was having bouts of high blood pressure and excruciating headaches twice an hour. I was admitted to the hospital and was extremely relieved when Dr. Kirshblum drove up from Kessler once again to take a firsthand look at the situation. He immediately prescribed antibiotics, and as they began to take effect, the dysreflexia stopped. But I had had to spend five days in the hospital, which could have been prevented. Lying in a bed in intensive care once again sent me into an emotional tailspin despite Dana's and Will's best efforts to comfort me. All I could think of was how soon the next attack of dysreflexia would come, hoping it wouldn't be strong enough to cause a heart attack or a stroke. At that point I was in no condition to consider traveling anywhere.

Even after my release from the hospital, I was still reluctant to leave the house because that winter we were experiencing some of the worst weather in years. As I recall we had seventeen major snowstorms. (One afternoon one of our intrepid nurses arrived for her shift in a snowplow.) And my two appearances in public—the dinner for Robin and the APA fund-raiser at the Waldorf—had both been stressful, despite their success. I had no desire to put additional pressure on myself.

A real turning point came in February 1996, when the producer Quincy Jones asked me to make a special appearance on the Academy Awards at the end of March. I was extremely grateful for this invitation because it was a gesture of inclusion by the film industry—a gesture I took to mean that I had not been forgotten by my peers after nearly twenty years in the business. We talked for a while about my moment on the Oscars. I would speak briefly about socially relevant films and urge the Hollywood community to remember how influential and necessary such work can be. I told Quincy I was flattered and would certainly think about it. Then, on a wild impulse, I accepted on the spot.

As soon as I hung up the phone, it dawned on me that I had just agreed to appear live in front of two billion people, in a wheelchair, breathing on a ventilator, and with no way of knowing whether my body would remain still during my five to seven minutes onstage. If I hit a bump as I wheeled on, I might spasm and end up slumped in an awkward position, and there might not be time to put me back together again before the curtain went up.

I rolled into the kitchen and told Dana what I had just agreed to do. One of the things I love most about her is that she gives instinctive, honest answers to even the most difficult questions. Without missing a beat, she said, “Do it.”

Every possible consideration—hotel rooms, security, vans, and a private jet—was extended to me and Dana and our large staff of nurses and aides in order to facilitate the trip. Several times I considered backing out, but the part of my personality that likes challenges finally won the debate. I knew it would be risky, but “the successful outcome of the maneuver would not be seriously in doubt.” If I spasmed onstage I planned to ad-lib some line about wanting to dance—feeble perhaps, but a way to let the audience know I was all right. I worked on my speech, told Dr. Kirshblum about the trip, and was relieved when he said there was no medical reason not to go. We were given the names of doctors, pharmacies, and ventilator service companies in Los Angeles in case of an emergency.

My appearance on the telecast was kept secret. This would not only create a greater dramatic impact but would also leave me a way out if I developed some physical problem that would make it impossible for me to be there. But as the day approached my confidence grew, and there was no reason to turn back.

While I was rolling into position onstage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, I went a little too fast and bumped over the threshold of a doorway. Just what I'd been afraid of. Miraculously, my body didn't move an inch, I felt I was “in the zone.” My name was announced, a curtain went up, and I was revealed center stage in my chair. I looked out at a sea of friendly faces; everyone was standing, reaching out to me. I felt truly embraced by the audience, strangers and old friends alike. The applause died down into the same intense silence that had greeted my first appearance, at the tribute to Robin. I knew I had to put the audience at ease. Luckily an idea came to mind and I said, “What you probably don't know is that I left New York last September and I just got here this morning, I'm glad I made it, because I wouldn't have missed this reception for the world.” After that my speech and the introduction of several film clips Quincy and I had chosen was a piece of cake. I felt as euphoric as the day our PDS hockey team beat the mighty Kent School and I had a 2–0 shutout.

The Academy Awards appearance gave me the courage to accept the many public engagements, both live and on film, that have now become such an important part of my life. But another completely unexpected benefit came out of the Oscar adventure. During my stay in Hollywood I entered hotels and buildings through garages, kitchens, and service elevators, and met cooks, waiters, chambermaids, and maintenance crews. Many of them said they were praying for me. Others looked me right in the eye and said, “We love you, Superman. You're our hero.” At first I couldn't believe they meant it. Then I realized that they were looking past the chair and honoring me for a role that obviously had real meaning for them, I didn't feel patronized in any way. Clearly a part I had played twenty years before was still valued. The fact that I was in a wheelchair, unable to move below my shoulders, and dependent on the support of others for almost every aspect of my daily life had not diminished the fact that I was—and always would he—their Superman.

The morning after my meeting at the Sherry-Netherland, a three-hundred-page script for two Superman movies was messengered to my apartment. This had never happened before; I was used to picking up the material myself at the casting director's office. I raced to my desk and devoured the pages. As I read I was genuinely surprised and delighted. This was not a comic book or corny science fiction but a piece of American mythology with a captivating blend of humor and heroics. At about eleven Stark phoned to say that the meeting had gone extremely well and that the producers wanted me to fly to London immediately for a screen test. He also casually mentioned that Superman's father would be played by Marlon Brando and that Gene Hackman would play his archenemy, Lex Luthor.