Here’s What We, Your Hometown Folks, Feel About You, Paul Newman

There was a quiet, lazy quality about Shaker Heights as we drove towards the high school . . . and a solid, comfortable feeling, too, with its pretty, private houses—all with spacious grounds and lovely lawns—and its tree-lined streets. A nice town to live in, to grow up in. Paul Newman’s hometown. A suburb of Cleveland, but so different from the hustle and bustle of the city itself.

We parked our car across the street from Shaker Heights High and Tom Watson. Paul Newman’s old pal who was showing us around and introducing us to Paul’s friends and relatives, looked wistfully at the school. “It hasn’t changed a bit,” he said. “No different than it was many years ago when I first met Paul. Seeing it again brings everything back . . . as if it were only yesterday.

“I was a Senior, and one day I was fooling around on the piano in our French class. The teacher hadn’t arrived yet, and I guess I was kind of showing off. Well, I was playing something slow and corny, when suddenly this guy was sitting next to me on the bench—I’d seen him in the halls, but I didn’t know who he was—he started playing boogie-woogie bass to my sweet melody. Soon I slid off the bench and he was on his own.

“All the other kids stopped talking and cutting up and started to listen. Some of them began clapping their hands in time to the music, and one couple even danced in the back of the room. Suddenly the teacher came in. We all froze as if we’d been shot, then we melted into our seats.

“But the guy at the piano was out of this world. His eyes were closed, his head was swaying, and he didn’t know anybody else existed. And the teacher just stood there, watching him, listening. Finally, she coughed. He kept playing. She coughed again, real loud. He opened his eyes and practically fell off the bench. He started to say something, but she cut in. ‘Don’t apologize,’ she said, I liked it. Now let’s see if you can do as well in French.’ On the way to his | seat he stopped for a second by my desk. ‘I’m Paul Newman,’ he said, ‘Hi ya, partner?’ Then he grinned and went on.”

Tom looked out again at the high school. “Wish it wasn’t Sunday,” he said, “or I’d take you inside and show you around. I guess it’s nothing special—classrooms, gym—just like any other high school. But the auditorium—that’s something special . . . or at least it’s something special for Paul and me.

“You see, after that session in the French class, Paul and I became pals and I got to know him pretty well. I never could figure out why they call him a rebel. He was full of fun, yes. Not afraid to tell you straight what he felt or thought, yes. But a rebel, no. Just a heckuva nice guy. And the girls all seemed to like him. All, that is, except one—the prettiest girl in the class. I don’t know whether Paul was stuck on her or not, but she treated him as if he didn’t exist. You know, the cold, ‘go along little boy and play’ kind of freeze.

“One day I teased him about it, and I touched a tender spot. No, he didn’t blow up. He just looked at me—face as grim as I’ve ever seen it—and then he said, ‘I’ll kiss her before the semester is over. ‘You’re crazy, I answered, ‘it’ll never happen.’ ‘Betcha twelve beers,’ he said. ‘Okay,’ I replied, before I knew what I was saying. Then I added, ‘But how will I know if you do? How will you prove it?’ ‘You’ll know,’ he retorted. ‘Brother, will you know!’

“So that was that. I didn’t see much of Paul all spring. Beer was out ’cause they were really piling on the homework. Besides, there was a girl I kind of got interested in myself. I vaguely heard that Paul had tried out for the Senior play and had gotten a good part. Then one day two tickets for the play came to me through the mail. I was going to go anyway so I was a little surprised. They were box seats, the best, and in the envelope was a little note: ‘Compliments of Paul Newman. Be there!’

“Of course I went. The play was Philip Barry’s ‘Spring Dance.’ Paul played a cut-up character, and he was very good. The girl I was with said he was ‘very cute.’ Well, the prettiest girl in the school—the one who’d been giving Paul the cold shoulder—was playing the feminine lead. There’s a point in the play where Paul was supposed to give her a peck on the cheek. But when that point came he took her in his arms and really kissed her. Somehow he swung her around so that he was facing the audience—what you could see of him—and her back was to us. He unloosened one of his arms, put his hand above her head, and made a circle with two fingers, the sign of victory. And he shook those fingers right at me.”

Tom grinned. “Now you see why that auditorium has a special meaning for me—and for Paul.

“But if we’re going to visit some of the other people who can give you the straight dope about Paul, we’d better get going. Sure, Shaker Heights is just a suburb of Cleveland, but it’s a big one—spread out for miles—and it takes time to get around.”

We drove along wide streets. There were few stores anywhere, just well-kept private homes. On a lawn, two boys were tossing a football back and forth. “Like Paul and I used to,” said Tom.

We came to a corner, and Tom cried, “Hey, wait a minute. Turn right here. We’re on Brighton Road. I’ll show you Paul’s house.”

In the middle of the block, we stopped and parked the car across from a large house. “I remember the first time I saw that place,” Tom said. “Our French teacher—the same one who had liked Paul’s boogie-woogie—had told us about a French play that was being performed at the Cleveland Playhouse. She’d asked if anyone would like to go—she had free tickets. Well, Paul raised his hand, and I raised mine, and two girls raised theirs, too. So we had kind of eased ourselves into a double-date to see a play.

“This was the first time I’d ever driven my family’s car alone. And I was scared. So scared that I got mixed up on the way to Paul’s house and went to Broxton Road instead of Brighton Road where he lived. When I got to his place, he was pacing up and down in front. He climbed into the back seat and off we went to pick up the girls. On the way, I explained why I’d been late—that this was the first time I’d ever driven without one of my folks with me.

“He didn’t say a word; he just climbed over next to me on the front seat. When we picked up the girls, they had to get into the back seat. Sure, it wasn’t a real date, but still it must have seemed kind of funny to them that we were sitting up front and they were stuck in back. Paul was sensitive enough to my feelings not to tell them what the score was. But he didn’t take his eyes off the steering wheel and the road for a moment. Just in case.

“During the play itself, of course, we split up and Paul sat next to one girl and I sat next to the other. When we went to the checkroom later to get our coats, Paul said to me, ‘Look, it’ll seem sort of silly if we both sit in the front seat again on the way home. Why don’t you get in back, and I’ll drive. Okay?’ ‘Okay,’ I answered.

“So we went and had some sandwiches and Cokes, and listened to boogie-woogie on the juke box . . . the girls said the pianist on the record wasn’t as good as Paul had been in French class. Then we got in the car—Paul and one girl in the front seat and me and the other in the back, and started home.

“After we’d dropped the girls off, I got in the front seat besides Paul and we drove to his place. As he got out, I thanked him for getting me out of an embarrassing situation by not letting on that I’d never driven alone before.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, ‘I know exactly how you felt. To tell you the truth, I was in the same boat. I never drove a car before tonight without my folks being along, either.’ And he grinned, waved his hand, and disappeared into his house!”

Tom looked at his watch and said, “Gosh, if we’re going to get to Celeste Beckwithe’s house on time, we’d better stop dawdling.” On the way, Tom filled us in about her. She had helped out with costumes for the plays at the Malvern Grammar School back in 1936 or 1937, and it was she who had “discovered” Paul Newman. She had had a tender spot in her heart for him ever since.

At Celeste Beckwithe’s house, Tom introduced us. We explained that we had planned to interview Paul and Joanne, but didn’t want to bother them while they were busy fixing up their New York apartment and waiting for the arrival of their baby. So we had decided to do the next best thing: find out how the hometown folks felt about Paul, and let him know through Photoplay just what these people remembered most best about him.

Celeste Beckwithe beamed, and as she started to talk, it was clear that Tom was right, that she did have a tender spot in her heart for Paul. She told us that he had made his debut on stage in a fifth grade play, in the role of an Italian organ-grinder. “I’ll never forget the way Paul looked when he came out on that stage,” she said. “He had the merriest face I ever saw on a child in my life. And he just outdid himself. Of course, he was just a little boy, but when he stood there, dressed in tags and tatters, wearing his father’s old felt hat, and turning the handle of that little music box, he was an organ-grinder.

“Children in the audience actually jumped up on the stage, interrupting the performance, to get his autograph. After the play was over, children and teachers crowded around Paul’s mother and his older brother, Arthur, to congratulate them. Mrs. Newman was so proud she could do nothing but nod her head and cry.

“The applause helped convince me, I’m sure,” Celeste Beckwithe said, “but it was what I saw with my own eyes that really did it. Paul was a natural actor. An unself-conscious extrovert who really lived the part.” So she advised Mrs. Newman to take Paul to the Cleveland Playhouse and have him try out for the ‘Curtain Pullers,’ the children’s section of the playhouse. At his audition, he did a skit that his uncle, Joe Newman, a prominent Ohio newspaperman and poet, had written for him. At the climax of the skit, he yodeled—and he got a part, the lead in ‘St. George and the Dragon.’ But Paul was disappointed. His heart was set on playing the dragon, but he couldn’t fit into the costume. He was too tall.”

We thanked Celeste Beckwithe, went back to our car, and started for our next stop, the house of Paul’s uncle, Joe Newman, As we drove along, we asked Tom why he thought so little was known about Paul Newman and his life. “Easy,” Tom answered, “because he has so many things to talk about—so many things he is interested in—besides himself. Books and what’s happening in the world and people. Other people—their hopes, their fears, their troubles.

“Take me, for instance. He helped me, although maybe he didn’t know it. You remember I told you about our Senior play, about how he got to kiss the girl. Well, after that the semester was soon over. Paul and I signed each other’s yearbooks, wished each other luck, and that was that. Paul and I said something about keeping in touch—you know the sort of thing—but he went his way and I went mine.

“One spring—I think it was in 1950—I saw Paul again. We had both been home to Shaker Heights for Easter and we were out at the Cleveland airport waiting for planes: Paul was going back to Woodstock, Illinois, where he was appearing with the Woodstock Players; I was returning to New York. And we started to talk.

“Over a cup of coffee, Paul filled me in what had happened to him since our high school graduation. He’d gone to Kenyon College, but then Uncle Sam had called him in 1942. He’d gone overseas as a radioman third class on a naval torpedo plane and had seen combat action in the Pacific from the time he was 18 until he was 20. In 1946 he’d returned to Kenyon but found majoring in economics dull, so he started to act again and appeared in a dozen college shows, playing the lead in eight. After graduating he’d done summer stock, and now was acting with the Woodstock Players for forty dollars a week, and loving every minute of it.

“I told Paul I’d also been bitten by the acting bug. But while Paul was getting some recognition for his work with the Woodstock Players, I was floundering. In desperation, I’d taken a job making clothing labels for a Manhattan concern. And at odd hours, and during my lunch period, I was trying to get a foothold on BroadAnd I told Paul that I was fed up, that I’d just about decided to give up the ghost and settle down in some nice, solid, dull business.

“Paul almost flipped. Then he lectured on how the theater was the greatest thing on earth and that I shouldn’t quit. A real pep talk. He made it sound as if Id told him I was deserting the army in wartime. I recall one thing he said: ‘We can’t all make it as actors. But there’s so much more. Directing. Scene designing. Teaching. Anything’s fine, as long as it has something to do with the theater.’

“When I got on that plane, I knew I Today I’m teaching, designing sets, doing some directing. And I’m happy.”

We had arrived at Joe Newman’s house. Paul’s uncle, who writes a regular column, “Could Be Verse,” for the Cleveland Press, talked affectionately about his nephew. “Paul also had a talent for making up jingles, like me, and he wasn’t bad,” he said. “But one thing he didn’t have was a talent for business.”

The year after Paul acted with the Woodstock Players his father died and Paul came home to Cleveland to help out his mother by taking over his family’s sporting-goods business. “As a boy, the fact that his father owned a sporting-goods store had made Paul the envy of all the other kids; but when he had to take over the business himself, he didn’t like it. As he himself said, “My heart wasn’t in it. Acting was in my blood, and nothing could get it out.” After two years of selling tennis racquets and blowing up basketballs, he called it quits and went to Yale to take graduate work.

Joe Newman pointed out that Paul’s family didn’t stand in his way when he wanted to be an actor. The Newman home, when Paul was growing up, actually had a theatrical atmosphere. Paul’s father liked to read aloud to the family and Paul loved to listen. Then there was the father’s sporting-goods store itself with its wonderful displays—Paul used to stare at it for hours as if he were looking at a stage set. Not only his father, but other members of the family as well had a creative flair. One of Paul’s aunts wrote children’s stories, and his uncle, Aaron, ran the sports show at the Cleveland Auditorium. And regularly the whole family—father, mother, brothers, uncles, cousins, aunts—went together to City Club shows and Playhouse productions.

With this background and encouragement, Joe Newman said, “if there’s any surprise about Paul’s career at all, it’s the surprise only that Paul’s a remarkably good actor, and that’s the opinion of a very critical uncle.”

After we left Joe Newman’s, we decided to get a bite to eat. “I know the place,” Tom said, “Buden’s Delicatessen. That’s one of Paul’s and my old hang-outs. In fact, that’s where we took the girls after that French play double-date.”

“What will it be?” asked Danny Buden, the proprietor.

“What do you suggest?” we asked.

“How about a ‘Buden Special’—it used to be Paul’s favorite.”

We each ordered a “Buden Special,” not knowing what we were going to get, and it turned out to be a gigantic sandwich of glaced ham, swiss cheese, cold slaw, and special dressing. All of us left some of it on our plates.

“You’re sissies,” Danny said. “During the two summers Paul worked for me while he was in high school, he’d wolf down two specials a day.”

Danny told us that Paul disliked working in the delicatessen as much as he disliked working in the sporting-goods store. Not that he didn’t do his job well. He did—unpacking cartons, filling up shelves, checking stock, carrying out packages, and making deliveries. “But he was an actor all the time, making funny faces, really hamming it up—like he was somewhere else, dreaming of his name in lights.”

Our last stop was at the home of Jim Newman, Paul’s cousin. Just before we went into the house, Tom told us about how proud the people of Cleveland had been when a special premiere of “Long Hot Summer” had been held in Paul’s hometown. “Paul’s mother and his brother, Arthur, were right there in the front row,” he said.

Jim Newman explained that he hadn’t really gotten to know his cousin until nine years after Paul graduated from college, but then they had made up for lost time. He recalled one night in particular, a night that Paul had come over to the house. Although it was midwinter, he was wearing crushed mocassins, an open shirt, and walking shorts. He insisted on making dinner on the outdoor grill—all his own favorites, of course: steaks, hamburgers, hot dogs, corn on the cob, celery salad, asparagus, and artichokes.

“After we’d gorged ourselves, we went into the living room and he began playing boogie-woogie on the piano. Very good, too,” said Tom.

“Followed by charades. A friend of ours, Bon Ellenstein, introduced Paul to charades and he was a real bug on it.

“At about 12 o’clock Paul suggested we take a moonlight swim at one of the beaches. He was always taking us for moonlight swims. He’d become so involved in the charades that he’d forgotten it was midwinter and that there was snow on the ground. We didn’t go swimming that night.”

Jim’s expression became more serious. “Not that all life for Paul was charades and moonlight swims and popcorn,” he said. “Paul was always sensitive to what was going on around him. Not only to his friends and family and town, but to the world at large. I remember one time when he suggested that we pack some food and clothes, go East, pitch a tent somewhere near the ocean, and figure out how to solve the troubles of the world. I’m sure if I’d have said yes, we’d have gone. . . .”

We shook hands with Jim and his wife and returned to our car. “I guess Jim put, it in a nutshell when he said ‘I sure miss him,’ ” Tom said. ‘“That’s how all of us in his hometown feel. We want him to come home for a visit . . . soon. When you see him tell him that for all of us.”

THE END

PAUL NEWMAN’S IN WARNERS’ “THE PHILADELPHIAN” AND IN 20TH’S “RALLY ROUND THE FLAG, BOYS,” WITH WIFE JOANNE WOODWARD. JOANNE CAN ALSO BE SEEN IN 20TH’s “THE SOUND AND THE FURY.”

 

It is a quote. PHOTOPLAY MAGAZINE APRIL 1959