Remembering Ed Lauter

Ed Lauter passed away two years ago today -- but I still keep his last voice mail message to me on my cellphone. Mind you, I don't listen to it very often, for fear I will do something clumsy and stupid and wind up erasing it. But I must confess: I do occasionally listen, just to enjoy the sheer enthusiasm in his voice as he expressed his hope "to be lifting a glass" with me "sometime soon" after I introduced him and Edward Burns' The Fitzgerald Family Christmas at the 2012 Starz Denver Film Festival.

As I wrote on Oct. 16, 2013:

Among the most pleasant experiences I have enjoyed in recent years was a long, leisurely lunch with Ed Lauter, one of my all-time-favorite character actors, last November at the Starz Denver Film Festival. For the better part of two hours before we engaged in an on-stage, post-screening Q&A after the Denver Fest premiere of Ed Burns' delightful The Fitzgerald Family Christmas, we chatted about the highlights of our respective careers -- and he was graciously polite enough to indicate he found my anecdotes almost as interesting as his.

Mind you, it wasn't like we were in any sort of "Can you top this?" competition. Because, really, what could I possibly say that could top his account of being cast by Alfred Hitchcock in Family Plot after The Master of Suspense spotted him in The Longest Yard ? Lauter impressed Hitchcock so much that he was set to co-star in The Short Night, Hitchcock's next film -- the film, alas, Hitchcock didn't live to make.

Lauter passed away Wednesday at age 74, leaving behind a body of work that ranges from The Magnificent Seven Ride! (1972) and French Connection II (1975) to The Artist (2011) and Trouble With the Curve (2012). "When I first started out,” he said in Denver, “I always thought, ‘Oh, I want to work with this great actor, or that great director.’ All these wonderful dinosaurs. Well, now I’ve become one of those dinosaurs, I guess.” I would be a liar if I didn't admit I felt immensely flattered when he told me that, because I'd singled him out for special praise in my Variety review of Fitzgerald Family Christmas, I'd helped get him "back in the game." I just wish he'd stuck around to play a little longer.

So what will I do with the voice mail message? Well, I am reminded of an episode of another all-time favorite, Harry O, the 1974-76 TV series starring the late, great David Janssen as private eye Harry Orwell. In the Feb. 27, 1975 episode titled "Elegy for a Cop," Harry's buddy on on the San Diego police force, Manny Quinlan (Henry Darrow), is killed by drug dealers. Harry brings the culprits to justice but, in his typical melancholy fashion, he remains seriously bummed by the death of his friend. So he goes to his favorite bar, and asks his favorite bartender to keep a bottle of his favorite whiskey -- which he has purchased, for an inflated price -- on a shelf for easy access. Says Harry:  

"Every once in a while, somebody will come in here – and you’ll see that you like ‘em right away. Because they’re decent, and just good people. So give ‘em a drink out of this bottle. It doesn’t matter whether they have money or not. Tell 'em the drink’s on Manny Quinlan. Maybe they’ll remember him. If you feel like it, tell 'em he was a friend of mine."

The bartender readily agrees, but asks: "What’ll I do when the bottle runs out?"
 
"Nothing," Harry wistfully responds, clinking his glass in a toast against the side of the bottle. "Nobody lives forever."

R.I.P.: Barry Morse (1918-2008)

Barry Morse (above, right) earned iconic status in the 1960s as Lt. Philip Gerard, relentless pursuer of the wrongly convicted Dr. Richard Kimble (David Janssen, left) in The Fugitive, which boomers as diverse as myself and Stephen King still cherish as one of the coolest shows in the history of TV. Faithful viewers couldn't help hating the poor guy during most of the series' four-year run. (I vividly recall reading a mid-'60s magazine interview in which Morse complained, only half-jokingly, about strangers accosting him in public places and chiding him for tormenting that "nice Dr. Kimble.") Fortunately, however, the British-born actor got a chance to "redeem" himself in the famous final episode, when Gerard saved Kimble's bacon by -- bang! -- dropping the hammer on the elusive "one-armed man." (I loved this episode so much that, when it was aired as a daytime rerun, I played hooky from high school to re-watch it.)

Many boomers may also remember Morse as Prof. Victor Bergman in the '70s sci-fi series Space: 1999. And theatergoers throughout Canada -- where Morse spent most of his professional life -- doubtless have equally fond memories of his performances at the Shaw Theatre Festival and other venues. (An odd coincidence: Just a few months ago, while I was covering the Toronto Film Festival, I attended a preview screening of Eastern Promises at a moviehouse that had once been home for a theatrical company. Among the framed mementoes I noticed on the lobby wall: A poster for a stage production of Gore Vidal's Visit to a Small Planet starring and directed by -- cowabunga! -- that dude who used to chase David Janssen.)

And yet, really, with all due respect to those and his many other credits: All it took is one key role in a classic TV series to ensure Barry Morse's immortality. "He thought it was a good show — well filmed, well directed and well acted," Hayward Morse, the late actor's son, told the Associated Press. "He had nothing disparaging to say about The Fugitive." No kidding.

The 'Raines' came... and left

I strongly suspect that my favorite new TV series of the season -- actually, my favorite series to premiere since House -- aired its last original episode Friday night. So while you still can, take a look at Raines. Pay particularly close attention to the pilot, which deftly establishes the premise -- and pulls off an ingenious twist during the final minutes. (It was directed, by the way, by Frank Darabont.) Then check out the ineffably melancholy "Reconstructing Alice" with the great Laurie Metcalf (who, in a perfect world, would be a slam dunk for an Emmy nomination). As Michael Raines, the L.A. cop who imagines he can converse with murder victims (who, in actuality, are projections of his brilliant -- albeit unstable -- ratiocinative mind), Jeff Goldblum hits the perfect balance of hard-boiled and soft-hearted, sharply witty and wistfully sad. At his frequent best, he makes me think of David Janssen's Harry O -- if only Harry could have seen dead men (and women) talking.