At the dawn of the '70s, the legendary faces of British theater and cinema (the Laurence Oliviers, Peter O'Tooles, and Richard Burtons) gave way to one face in particular: the angular, pop-eyed mug of Malcolm McDowell. His performances in Lindsay Anderson's If… and Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange at the start of his career made him an international movie star and a go-to leading man for edgy filmmakers. Since the '70s, McDowell's career has had its ups and downs, but he's always maintained a steady work schedule, largely because of his willingness to try anything, be it sitcoms (the short-lived Pearl), cartoon voiceovers (like Superman: The Animated Series), or the villain role on a popular superhero-themed TV drama (Heroes). On the occasion of the new DVD release of Caligula—a notorious big-budget sex epic produced by Penthouse's Bob Guccione—McDowell spoke about that film, his relationships with great directors, and his dedication to working hard.
The A.V. Club: A lot of actors would've run from something like Caligula, but even though you've made it plain that you have problems with the movie, you've still embraced it over the years.
Malcolm McDowell: Of course. Once you commit to something, you've got to commit the whole way. Try and make the best of it. Now, things weren't perfect on that movie, which is sort of well-known, but as far as my professional ability and my professionalism goes, it doesn't really make a difference whether you're making a Stanley Kubrick film or Caligula. The effort and the work that you do is basically the same. Of course, the result is not the same, but from my own point of view—which is admittedly narrow—it's the same effort. If not moreso. It's much easier to be doing a Stanley Kubrick film.
AVC: How easy or hard is it for you to perceive how a movie is going while it's still in production?
MM: You really don't know, to be honest. You could be feeling very, very good, some of the scenes are fantastic, but maybe they'll screw it up in the editing. Who knows? It's such a collaborative medium, and you're a small cog in a big wheel, and everything has to be aligned to make a great film. That's why there are so few great films. It's sort of like going into battle. If you use the analogy of Waterloo, how lucky was [the Duke of] Wellington that everything just aligned? And also, you can do all the planning you like, but that's only half the story. Real greatness comes from that sort of spontaneity of the moment that takes it into another level. That can never be planned; it happens or it doesn't. And you can't force it. You know, with Kubrick, he wouldn't turn on the camera until there was what he called "a little magic." And so we'd work hard rehearsing it, and try to find that. Sometimes it just wasn't there, so we'd just keep on and on and on. And then actually, out of sheer boredom, I'd do something ridiculous and it was perfect.
AVC: Was it different with, say, Robert Altman? Did he prefer to shoot and see what was happening while you were rehearsing?
MM: Robert was completely different. He was a master of what he does, I think. One of the most extraordinary talents to come out of America, in terms of directing. An authentic voice. But Bob's thing was many cameras. He wanted actors to live in the moment, and he would then choreograph the dance and pick what he wanted. Lots of ad-libbing, of course. Pretty much all the time, you never knew what was on and what was not. So better stay in character. The film that I did [2003's The Company], Bob actually shot in hi-def, which could go on for 90 minutes on a single chip. And I think after about 20 minutes of doing a scene, I'd look at the camera—and he wasn't in the room, he was next door with his earphones on at the monitors—and I'd just say, "Bob! There's nothing left to say!" And I heard, "Cut!" [Laughs.]
AVC: You've worked with a lot of great directors: Stanley Kubrick, Robert Altman, Lindsay Anderson. Which one do you think brought out your best?
MM: Different directors offer you different things, and it's not necessarily the most obvious things. The most nurturing of directors can make you feel too comfortable, and you don't really push for that extra whatever. Lindsay Anderson was, of course, my favorite. He was just a great friend as well, and I knew the style in which he wanted me to work. He wanted me to be real, but never realistic. To work in a heightened style, which was wonderful. He was bored with naturalism and said, "That's nothing to do with us. Save that for television or documentaries. I'm not interested." And so he taught me, really, how to work in a heightened style while at all times keeping it real. Hopefully. And he was my first director, and really ,I couldn't have started with a better man.
Did he get the best out of me? I think he did. I did numerous things with him. The parts that I played in If… and O Lucky Man! particularly were much more voyeuristic kinds of roles. Especially O Lucky Man! I'm always coming into a scene, observing it, and moving on. In fact, this was one of my complaints to him at the time: "I'm not driving this thing. I feel like an idiot. How many more times can I react? I'm getting sick of it. I've got no more reactions! I've done five already!" And we used to laugh about it, but it was sort of true that reacting in cinema is a great art. Humphrey Bogart comes to mind, or Gary Cooper. No better reactors than those two.
AVC: Caligula started filming toward the end of the era when films by the likes of Alejandro Jodorowsky, Luis Buñuel, and Federico Fellini trafficked in a similarly over-the-top sensibility. But by the time Caligula was released, it was like its time had passed. Did you sense that?
MM: No, I can't see the forest for the trees. But there is something old-fashioned about Caligula, even though it's risqué. It was a strange experience, to say the least. I got into it because of Gore Vidal, who wrote the original screenplay. But then he left, took his name off of it, and still tried to manipulate the situation, whatever it was. So basically, I was left on my own, contracted to do it. I was signed. I just had to do it the best I could. I did feel a sort of betrayal by Guccione, who added all this porn footage later. That was annoying. But at the end of the day, I don't know if any of that really matters. It's best not to harbor too many grudges. That's what I feel now, and that's why I did the commentary on the DVD. I didn't tell all the stories, because I still feel there is a good comedy show on Caligula. I have so many good stories about the shooting of that movie that would make a good hour and a half onstage. It's extremely funny, a lot of it.
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