At 86, Gregory Peck Revealed the 5 Actors He Admired the Most

 

 

 

And, uh, while we were doing it, I glanced across the street behind the camera, I saw Harper. And, I saw that her cheeks were glistening. And I thought, well, we’re just tearing her up. We’re just breaking her heart. We must be marvelous in this scene. So, I walked over and I said, Harper, I think I saw some tears on your cheeks out out of the corner of my eye while we were playing that scene.

 She said, oh, Gregory, you’ve got a little pot belly just like my daddy. >> [laughter] >> I remember somebody asking me this years ago. It wasn’t during an interview. It wasn’t at an awards dinner. As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember exactly where we were. That’s what makes me smile now. You spend, uh, a lifetime making films that millions of people remember, but somehow it’s the quiet conversations that stay with you the longest.

The question was simple. Greg, who are the actors you admired the most? I didn’t answer right away. Not because I couldn’t, because I realized they weren’t asking me who I thought were the greatest actors. That’s a different conversation altogether. People can argue about the greatest forever.

 They’ll bring up Academy Awards, famous performances, box office numbers, careers that lasted decades. Everyone has a different answer. But, admiration, that comes from something else. [snorts] It comes from knowing someone. Watching how they carried themselves when the lights were off. Seeing how they treated the people who couldn’t do anything for them.

 Spending enough time around them to discover whether the man behind the famous face was anything like the one the audience believed they knew. I was fortunate enough to spend my life surrounded by remarkable people. Some became dear friends. Some I only crossed paths with from time to time, uh uh, but every now and then I’d meet someone who left an impression that never really faded.

 It wasn’t always because of what they did in front of a camera. More often it was because of something much smaller, a conversation between takes, a quiet act of kindness nobody else noticed, the way they handled success without letting it change who they were. Funny thing is, the older I’ve gotten, the less I remember opening weekends or glowing reviews.

I remember faces. I remember voices. I remember sitting on a set waiting for someone to call action and having a conversation that lasted 10 minutes, but somehow stayed with me for 50 years. So, when people ask me which actors I admired the most, these are the names that always seem to find me first. And uh the first one is Cary Grant.

I think a lot of people admired Cary from a distance. How could they not? He walked into a room and somehow everything changed. He didn’t have to raise his voice, he didn’t have to demand attention, people just noticed him. There are very few people in this business who ever had that kind of presence. But that’s not what impressed me.

What impressed me was how different he could be once all the attention disappeared. The public saw confidence, they saw charm, they saw the perfectly tailored suits, the quick smile, the effortless wit. They looked at Cary Grant and thought, “Now there’s a man who has life completely figured out.

” The Cary I came to know wasn’t trying to convince anyone of that. He was thoughtful, curious, sometimes even a little quieter than people expected. He listened more than he spoke, and I’ve always believed you learn a great deal about a person by watching how they listen. I remember one afternoon between scenes when neither of us was doing very much, we found ourselves sitting off to one side just talking while everyone else hurried around trying to solve one problem or another.

 We talked about work for a few minutes, but before long we were talking about growing older. Funny thing about actors, people assume we’re always chasing the next role. The truth is, once you’ve been around long enough, you spend more time thinking about the kind of man you’re becoming than the kind of character you’re playing. Cary understood that.

He told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that people spend years trying to become someone the world will admire, only to discover that it’s much harder becoming someone they can admire themselves. I don’t know if he realized how much that stayed with me. It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d expect from the man everyone thought had all the answers.

Maybe that’s why I admired him so much. He never pretended to be perfect. He knew who he was, and he knew who he had been. There was an honesty about him that most audiences never had the chance to see. Of course, he was a magnificent actor. Nobody needs me to tell them that. Watch almost any one of his pictures and you’ll understand why generations of people still talk about him.

But, uh, when I think of Cary Grant today, that’s honestly not where my mind goes first. I remember the conversations. I remember the laughter. Uh, I remember how easy he made other people feel, even though he was one of the biggest stars any of us had ever known. Fame has a way of building walls around people.

Cary never built one around me. And, uh, looking back now, I think that’s one of the finest compliments I could ever pay him. The next person I think about is Audrey Hepburn. Now, Audrey is one of those people the world almost refuses to believe was real. People look at the photographs and they see elegance. They watch the films and they see grace.

Then they hear the stories about her humanitarian work and they assume someone like that must have been too good to be true. I can understand why. But in my experience, she really was that kind. I first admired Audrey as an actress just like everyone else did. There was something completely natural about her.

She never looked as though she were performing. She simply existed in front of the camera and somehow that was enough to hold your attention. But it wasn’t until I spent time around her away from the screen that my admiration became something much deeper. She had a way of making you feel as though you were the only person she was speaking to.

Have you ever met someone like that? Someone who wasn’t looking over your shoulder to see who else had walked into the room. Someone who actually listened. Audrey did. And in Hollywood that was rarer than people might imagine. There were times we’d find ourselves talking after an event had ended when most everyone else had already begun drifting toward the exits.

 The conversation was never about who had the biggest picture coming out or whose career was going better. She’d ask about my family. She’d ask how I was doing. Not because she was making polite conversation. Because she genuinely wanted to know. That’s something you can’t fake. Not for years. Not for a lifetime. Kindness has a way of revealing whether it’s real or not.

With Audrey it always was. I remember watching people approach her. Some were nervous. Some were excited. Some could barely find the words. She somehow made every one of them feel comfortable within a few seconds. I’ve known actors who could command an audience of thousands, but struggle to make one person feel seen.

Audrey could do both. And that’s an extraordinary gift. The third person that always comes to mind is Charlton Heston. Now, Charlie and I didn’t agree on everything. If you’ve lived long enough, you learn that’s perfectly all right. Friendships don’t survive because two people think exactly alike.

 They survive because there’s respect underneath the disagreements. That’s what I always felt with Charlie. The public saw strength. They saw the powerful voice, the commanding presence, the man who looked born to play kings, generals, and prophets. And he did all of that wonderfully. But the Charlie I admired wasn’t the one standing in front of thousands of extras.

It was the one sitting across a dinner table asking thoughtful questions and actually waiting for the answers. He cared about ideas. You could spend an evening talking with him and never mention movies once. History, politics, books, family. Whatever the conversation happened to be, he gave it his full attention.

 I always appreciated that. Too many people spend conversations waiting for their turn to speak. Charlie wanted to understand what you were thinking. That made him interesting company. I also admired how seriously he took his responsibilities, not just as an actor, as a husband, as a father, as someone who believed that if people were listening to you, then your words ought to mean something.

Whether people agreed with him or not was another matter. But nobody could accuse him of saying things he didn’t truly believe. There was an honesty in that. And honesty is something I’ve always respected. I remember seeing him long after we’d both been in the business for years. By then we’d both experienced success, disappointment, criticism, praise, everything this profession eventually hands you.

Funny thing was Charlie hadn’t changed very much. He still greeted you with the same firm handshake. The same unmistakable smile. The same way of making you feel he’d genuinely been pleased to run into you. That consistency meant something to me. Hollywood has a habit of changing people. Sometimes it changes them so gradually they don’t even notice.

Charlie never struck me that way. He always seemed to know exactly who he was. And there is something admirable about a man who never feels the need to become someone else just because the world expects it. The next person I have to talk about is David Niven. Now, if you knew David, you probably smiled before I even finished saying his name.

That’s what he did to people. Some men walked into a room and everybody stood a little straighter. David walked into a room and everybody relaxed. He had this wonderful way of making life seem just a little less serious than it had been 5 minutes earlier. Not because he ignored the hard things. Because he knew how important it was to laugh in spite of them.

I always admired that. Hollywood can become an awfully serious place if you let it. Everyone worries about the next picture. The next review. The next award. The next headline. David never seemed interested in chasing any of that. What interested him were people, good conversation, a bottle of wine, an evening where nobody felt they had to impress anyone.

Those are the moments I remember. I don’t remember him trying to be the funniest man in the room. He just was. Without trying. He could tell a story that had everyone laughing before they even realized where it was going. Half the time he’d laugh harder than anyone else. And somehow that made the story even better.

But here’s the thing most people never saw. Behind all that humor was an incredibly thoughtful man. If one of his friends was having a difficult time, David noticed. He’d call. He’d stop by. He’d sit with you without making a great performance out of being supportive. He simply showed up. I’ve always believed that’s one of the rarest qualities a person can have.

It’s easy to be around people when life is going well. It’s much harder when it isn’t. David never seemed to disappear when things became difficult. If anything, that’s when you could count on him the most. Looking back now, I realize that’s probably why I admired him as much as I did. Not because he could make me laugh, although he certainly could.

I admired him because he reminded me that kindness doesn’t always arrive with grand speeches. Sometimes it arrives with someone quietly knocking on your door and saying, I I thought I’d come by and see how you’re doing. That was David. And that’s the man I still remember.