Acting My Face by James Anthony;

Author:James, Anthony;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University Press of Mississippi
Published: 2014-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

FORTY

Sometime in 1971, I had an interview regarding a role in the film, The Culpepper Cattle Co. It was a coming-of-age story that took place in the Old West. It would star Gary Grimes, who had given an impressive performance in his first film, Summer of ’42.

I was being offered the major role of a cowboy who is part of the cattle drive throughout the movie. I had read the script prior to the meeting and was much more interested in the part of the fanatic preacher who leads his faithful followers through the wilderness looking for their promise land.

I asked the director if I could read for the preacher. He told me firmly that he was looking for an older, burly, white bearded, Old Testament type. I countered with a challenge. If he allowed me to read for the preacher and still would not consider me for the part, I would agree to play the role of the cowboy. He accepted the challenge. I read the speeches. A few weeks later, I was on my way to New Mexico to play the part of the preacher.

Santa Fe was a beautiful location and my time on the film was delightful, working with a fine ensemble of actors. When we finished shooting, I decided to take the train back to Los Angeles, as I had never been in the southwest before and I wanted to see as much of the landscape as possible. There was no train station in town but there was a small depot just a short shuttle ride away.

Lamy, New Mexico, has a tiny and desolate train stop that surprises one with its sharp emptiness. Beyond the dusty front door extends the great desert, a vast pale expanse that shows no end, only the evaporation of endless rails.

The light of the early morning was iron cold and bright. Sloping down and away from the depot back door were a few dry straggly fields that sloped up again toward what seemed to be an abandoned gray church.

I was early, as always, and so found myself walking up the hill crested by the lone church. As I approached closer, the tall yellow grasses parted and a ragged St. Bernard loped toward me. His demeanor as he fell easily in stride was that of an old friend once more taking part in a familiar and beloved ritual.

I walked up the sagging wooden steps of the church, my huffing pal padding up beside me. Once at the half-hinged doors, I went inside alone. I was somewhat startled by the makeshift altar and the crowd of small candles burning in their anonymous glow. The dreaming reach of the sleepwalker cannot be vanquished although his grasp remains forever empty.

Exiting into the rising morning light, I sat down on the lumpy top step beside my curled up and rumpled friend. Down and away the tiny train depot sat in its hazy silhouette, while beyond, the colossal desert shimmered in its emptiness.

At that moment, the St.

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