“Wow.” The word permeates The Life of Reilly, a new film of a one-man show by the late actor Charles Nelson Reilly. And with each utterance of the word, we get the sense that it’s the only time when this consummate entertainer is not totally in control of his performance. The word just seems to seep out, almost reflexively, at quiet moments during the show. It is as though Reilly himself is still marveling at his own past, reliving his memories, experiencing the formative events of his life all over again, but with the wisdom and awe of an older man keenly aware that he was too young to fully appreciate the depth, the pain, the humor and the madness of his life as he was living it.
Charles Nelson Reilly was first and foremost a stage actor, on Broadway and off, as well as a comedian, director and acting teacher. But he had always dreamed of being on television, and that’s how he is best remembered, as a familiar face in dozens of television sitcoms, commercials, and, in the 1970s, as a flamboyant wit on campy game shows. He died earlier this year from complications of pneumonia at the age of 76.
From 2000 to 2003, Reilly toured the country with a critically acclaimed one-man show entitled Save It for the Stage. Later, after Reilly had retired the show, directors Barry Poltermann and Frank Anderson persuaded the actor to revive it for just one night so that they could capture it on film. The three-hour show was re-fashioned in the editing room into a 90-minute film that opens this week at Shattuck Cinemas in downtown Berkeley.
It is easy to see how this compelling performer could carry a live show for three hours, yet it is also understandable that the film’s producers would consider that a bit too long for a movie version. But one thing is clear: 90 minutes is just not enough. Reilly is outstanding—his performance is by turns hilarious and tragic, sarcastic and solemn, incredulous and insightful. Hopefully the DVD version will contain the full show, or at least a plentiful sampling of what was cut.
Reilly took his original title, Save It for the Stage, from a repeated saying of his mother’s, an abrupt conversation-ending rebuke meant to discourage her son from discussing the family’s tragedies and secrets. And save it he did, for decades, until, in his golden years, he used it as the source material for this hilarious tour-de-force of confessional theater.
Reilly’s performance is full of surprising twists and turns. Laugh lines are followed by poignant moments of pain and doubt. Dramatic scenes are punctuated by sudden outbursts and comic asides. “That’s called a dramatic turn,” Reilly informs the crowd at one point, with mock self-congratulation. “Very few actors can do that.”
Reilly is just far too whimsical and self-deprecating an actor to play it straight. Every time he lures us into the story with his dramatic talents, he jolts us out of it with his humor, stepping outside the show to comment on the performance, on the staging, on the audience’s responses to the material. Humor is the lifeblood of the man and of the show.
But when he speaks of the saving grace of laughter, Reilly doesn’t speak of it in philosophical terms; he doesn’t talk of recognizing the cosmic absurdity of life, though the implication is there, and lingers after the show’s conclusion. For a man with Reilly’s background and ambition, there was little time to sit back and marvel at God’s sense of humor. Instead he was developing his own, using it to battle against the precarious circumstances of a man of a particular upbringing, with a particular sexual orientation, chasing a particular dream in a particularly public arena.
His youth was spent in a world of bitterness, recrimination and tragedy. Reilly’s mother was harsh and unyielding, prone to smashing the dreams of others before they could even take shape. She made her husband refuse Walt Disney’s invitation to collaborate in the great animator’s transition to color films; she tried mightily to foil her son’s ambition to act, first in grade school, then as an adult. Reilly’s father, crushed by unemployment and the missed opportunity of partnering with Disney, slipped into despair and institutionalization along a slope lubricated with alcohol, forcing his wife and son to move in with an extended family that included a lobotomized chain-smoking aunt.
And when Reilly finally escaped from the madness and made his way to New York City, he was brought low at what he thought was the peak when the president of NBC extended the courtesy of bringing Reilly to the dizzying heights of his lofty Manhattan office only to tell the would-be star face to face that “they don’t allow queers on television.”
So surely the man can be forgiven for having been too preoccupied to appreciate the absurdity of the universe. He had rent to pay. Laughter wasn’t a form of existential consolation; it was a survival mechanism, a crutch, a tool with which to survive from minute to minute and from day to day. But he had the talent and good fortune to transform that survival mechanism into a career—a career that ends with The Life of Reilly—a rousing artistic peak.
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