Hey, Kevin, Cut It Out
Kevin Kline looks at his legs as if he can’t quite figure out how they work. He’s trying to cross them, but as he leans forward, stares down in deadpan bewilderment, they take on a life of their own. He watches intently as his right leg slowly rises, hovers in the air, swings back and forth from his knee. His right foot bumps lightly against his left calf – once, twice – no, that’s not it. What now? Aha! He looks up and raises a forefinger – he has a plan! Slowly, he reaches down, his hands sneaking up on his leg, trying to catch it by surprise. At the last moment, he snatches at his ankle, captures it and lifts it abruptly onto his left knee. There!
Kevin Kline is sitting on a couch in a suite at the Plaza, taping an interview about The Big Chill for Entertainment Tonight. They’ve asked him to cross his legs, and he’s not just cooperative, he gives them a little shtick, too. The woman interviewing him looks as if she’s seriously considering throwing it all away on the spot and swooning into his arms. Jeff Goldblum is being interviewed, too – they’re making a big deal out of the film’s being an “ensemble” effort – and the interviewer asks if the two actors formed a “lasting friendship” on the set.
Kevin Kline gives an I’m-glad-you-asked-that-question smile, looks fondly at Jeff and says, “No way.”
“Was there any clash of egos during the filming?”
“Clash of egos?” Kevin Kline replies, as if slightly shocked at the question but much too polite to show he’s offended. “Clash of egos? Oh, not at all. Jeff idolized me.”
“Then you were the spiritual leader of the group?” She’s getting into it herself – where has this man been all her life?
“Oh, no,” Kevin Kline says. “We took turns being the spiritual leader. Actually, I’m just kidding. We drew straws.”
There’s an old show-business saying about interviews – if you give them a quote, you don’t have to give them the truth. Kevin Kline seems to have his own version today – if you give them a laugh, you don’t even have to give them an answer. You all spent six weeks under the same roof? “Yes, now that you mention it, there was a roof.” Stuff like that.
Kevin Kline has other modes of irony besides the disconnected mind and body, the suddenly reversed expectation. He’ll say something that sounds utterly serious, then look around in mock wariness to see if he’s managed to fool you into believing him. He’ll pose in suave elegance, his chin in his palm, his elbow on a table, then suddenly slip his elbow off the table.
“There’s always a danger that when you spend a lot of time with someone” – he’s now telling Entertainment Tonight about Jeff Goldblum – “that you’ll unconsciously pick up a lot of his mannerisms.” He’s scratching his neck as he talks, fondling his ears, massaging the nape of his neck – hey, that looks just like Jeff! “I think I’ve avoided that,” Kevin says solemnly, and even Jeff is laughing.
They love it. They can’t wait to air it. Kevin Kline is not only polite, cooperative, unassuming, debonair, charming, talented and handsome, he has a fabulous sense of humor, too. None of that big-star ego – he makes fun of himself more than anyone. This has got to be the least affected, most likable, most well-adjusted actor in the business. By the time they’re finished, everybody in the room is half in love with Kevin Kline.
“Now I’ve got to do an in-depth inteview,” he says as I wait to speak to him. He loosens his tie, takes off his jacket, folds it elegantly over his arm. Whoops, almost blew it, that wasn’t a very tactful thing to say. But he’s not flustered – not Kevin Kline. In a split second, he’s recovered. “You know,” he says, letting everyone know he’s still just goofing, “like Jacques Cousteau.”
THE PIRATE KING IN THE ‘PIRATES OF PENZANCE,’ the epitome of romantic swagger, the epitome of dashing grandeur – a “Give me a castle to conquer and a wench to woo!” role. He flamboyantly flourishes his sword, waves it grandly around his head, throws back his chin in piratical glee, thrusts forward his chest in brazen gusto and, with a shout of triumph, boldly stabs his sword into the ground – only to impale his boot. Kevin Kline, swashbungler. One of the most memorable moments on Broadway in a decade. He won a Tony for that role and could have retired on the spot and entered the Pantheon.
Bruce Granit in On the Twentieth Century, his other Tony-winning performance – a sleek, self-infatuated matinee idol, swooning with ardor every time he comes near a mirror, Tristan to his own Isolde. He bursts onstage for his curtain call, thrusts forward a flash camera, aims it at himself and, posing with narcissistic delight, snaps his own picture – nearly blinding himself with the flash.
Kevin Kline has virtually invented a new form of Broadway comedy – manic gallantry deflated by abrupt ineptitude, dashing self-confidence undercut by bumbling self-sabotage. Captivated by romantic legend, enamored of their own chivalrous panache, these characters are humbled by their larger-than-life aspirations – they can’t quite pull it off – for at the very moment of apotheosis, humdrum humanity intrudes, and they trip over their own egos, slip on the banana peel of vanity. Arrogance has never seemed so adorable, hubris so huggable. Awkwardness has never been rendered so elegantly, pratfalls done with such grace. Both sublime and ridiculous, these characters are energized by self-love yet loved for their redeeming clumsiness.
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