Post by *~Mrs. Cooper ~* on May 13, 2007 12:39:02 GMT -5
FROM AD SALESMAN TO COWBOY
The world last week learned of the serious illness of Gary Cooper, actor par excellence and loved by all who have seen his film portrayals.
Whether he's the marshal in High Noon, the soldier in Sgt. York or the soft-talking gun-fighter of The Virginian, Cooper always has been only himself. The following article, first of a series of three, relates events of his youth and his introduction to motion pictures.
Heads turned eagerly last week at the Academy Awards ceremony when the time came for Gary Cooper to accept a special, honorary oscar.
A Klieg light picked up a long, lanky man rising from his seat. He loped slowly to the stage, head bowed. A murmur ran through the huge crowd and through millions of America homes when he was recognized. It wasn't Cooper - it was his pal, Jimmy Stewart.
Jimmy Stewart is no softie. A brigadier general in the air force, an outdoorsman, a combat flier, he is as tough or tougher than the actors who portray tough guys on the screen, which he never does.
But now, as he clutched the fabled gold trophy, he choked up.
"We want you to know, Coop," he said, voice thick with emotion, "that we all love you, we all..." and then the voice cracked. When Jimmy got back to his seat, honest tears were staining his face.
STEWART KNEW DREADED SECRET
Tears are as cheap as oranges in Hollywood. The next day, television and movie critics on several big papers criticized Jimmy for what they though was a maudlin, hammy act.
But Jimmy couldn't help it. He knew something nobody else in that star-studded audience knew-that his pa, Big Coop, was at that moment lying in his Bel-Air home, thinking the thoughts that must come to a man when he finds out he has cancer.
The official word had been that Cooper was in traction, suffering from a pinched nerve. But Stewart knew--and Coop knew.
All Hollywood was saddened when the word finally got around. An era is ending out there. It died some then the King, Clark Gable, passed away only five months ago.
"There is very little of the great celluloid age left today. The one star who survived everything, be it depression, war, television or any of the other calamities of our time, has been Gary Cooper."
Deborah Kerr remembers Cooper on the set of The Naked Edge as "a darling man, extremely thoughtful to work with, but he must have already been a very sick man. Sometimes he seemed withdraw and remote, as though he were no longer with us." Shortly after finishing the picture, in December, 1960, Cooper was told that he had inoperable lung cancer. He stoically started to prepare himself for death.
On January 8, 1961, he was honored by his Friar's Club in Hollywood. Audrey Hepburn recited a poem she wrote to him, specially for the occasion. They were all around him: the stars, the directors, the producers. They knew that Cooper was going and that with him a part of Hollywood legend would be irretrievably gone. Then, to a stunned audience of his peers, Cooper said, smiling from the podium just as bravely as in Pride of the Yankees: "Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth."
Compulsively, he went on being Coop until there was no more to give. On February, 1961, he flew to New York to narrate The Real West, a television documentary. He could work only a couple hours at a time, returning to his hotel room to lie under an oxygen tent and then come back to the recording studio to read another page of the script. Many doubted he would finish it, but he did. Even as late as April 9, five weeks before his death, he was scheduled to appear on Dinah Shore's television show. This was the one professional date he had to cancel: he just could not go through with it.
Hollywood knew Cooper was dying but the rest of the world was shocked into realizing the truth on the night of April 20, during the Academy Awards presentation. Cooper had been voted a third, honorary Oscar and James Stewart walked on stage to accept it for him. Suddenly, Stewart's voice broke and before millions of televiewers he sobbed: 'We're all very proud of you, Coop, all of us are terribly proud.' On May 13, 1961, six day after his 60th birthday, it was all over.
"They can kill me off." Bogart had once wryly said, "but Cooper can't be killed off at the end." It was true: audiences would not have it, throughout Cooper's thirty-five years of stardom, so full of false reports of his death, improbable rescues, reassuring resurrections.
This time, the unthinkable had happened. Newspapers carried the headline: GARY COOPER IS DEAD.
Or is he?
Last week I met a frightened, harassed friend who was on his way to a crucial confrontation. Not a movie character, but a real man in a bind, facing unjust enemies bent on bringing him down. He had very little going for him, except that he was right. As he sipped his last hurried cup of coffee, he smiled nervously and whispered: "I feel like Gary Cooper in High Noon!" It worked like magic. His shoulders straightened, he raised his chin, adjusted his tie, clutched his briefcase close to his hip, put on a brave grin and strode on, down the canyons of Wall Street. It was Hadleyville once again.
Cooper is gone, but the ideal lives on: he can still be our amulet against despair, fear or adversity. No one dare blame him for the dreams he sold: like Willy Loman's, they came with his territory.
"The qualities that made Cooper a great star had little to do with acting."
--Writer Brendan Gill
On his last phone call to his friend Ernest Hemingway: "Bet you I can beat you to the barn, Papa."
And he did...one month after Cooper's Death, Hemmingway committed suicide.
Rest in peace, Gary Cooper...
www.youtube.com/v/CisaEFW6lJU