“Everyone gets acting mixed up with the desire to be famous, but some of us really just stumbled into the fame part, while we were really just interested in the process of acting.”
—Actress Barbara Harris, who died last month at the age of 83. The statement was quoted in he New York Times obituary from an interview she gave in 2002.
If you didn’t know Barbara Harris had died—indeed, if you didn’t know who Barbara Harris was—it is a measure of her integrity that she would have been pleased. I knew Harris’s work well (though I found out she had died just recently), but only because I have long been dedicated to show business history. Indeed, she was one of my favorite actresses who was a welcome accent to any movie she deigned to appear in, striking, but not beautiful, versatile, but not flashy, funny when the role required it, powerful when the challenge was dramatic or tragic, always a bit off-center, always surprising, never predictable.
She was an off-center ethics hero too, by rejecting the malady not only of her era but of her chosen profession as well. Barbara Harris rejected celebrity as a career goal or a life value, sneered at fame, and believed that it was what you accomplished in life that mattered, not how well-known or admired you became by accomplishing it. Harris often chose her projects according to how obscure she thought they would be, and actively avoided recognition. What a marvelous obsession! In her case, it was also an ironic one, because the most quirky and unpromising projects often became viable because she elevated them.
Her entire career was proof of the wisdom of Harry Truman’s great observation, “It is amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit.” Harris did not care about the credit, but she accomplished a great deal. As a young teenaged actress who loved the process of improvisation, she was a founding member of the Second City improvisational theater in 1959, planting the seeds that gave our culture too many comic geniuses to count, along with Saturday Night Live and everything it spawned as well. Harris was the very first performer to appear on stage for Second City, in fact. From there it was stardom on Broadway, often with her more famous Second City pals Alan Alda and Alan Arkin. She starred in a the musical “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever” (Harris could sing, too); “Oh Dad Poor Dad Mama’s Hung You In The Closet And I’m Feeling So Sad”; and “The Apple Tree” (and won a Tony Award in 1967). Her movies included a classic Harris turn in A Thousand Clowns (1965), Who Is Harry Kellerman and Why Is He Saying Those Terrible Things About Me? (which got her an Oscar nomination in 1971), Nashville (1975),the first Freaky Friday (1976) opposite Jody Foster, Hitchcock’s last film, Family Plot (1976), the cool, clever nostalgic spoof Movie Movie (1978) that I bet you have never seen, a seering performance as the betrayed wife of a Senator in The Seduction of Joe Tynan (1979), and her final film, Grosse Pointe Blank in 1997. Then she retired from performing to teach acting.
During Harris’s career, she did none of the things actors typically do to keep their name before the public—no talk shows, few guest appearances on TV, no celebrity cameos on “Murder She Wrote” or “The Love Boat.” Somehow she instinctively understood that it wasn’t popularity or fame that defined her worth, or any human bieng’s worth, and refused to allow our society’s corrupting elebrity obsession of warp her values or dictate her needs.
For me, Barbara Harris’s defining moment occurs at the end of the perfect movie for her, Robert Altman’s rambling, improvisational film “Nashville,” which is, among other things, about the sick obsession with fame and fortune that Barbara Harris rejected. Harris has few lines, and plays a runaway middle-aged wife who is determined to be a Country Western star. Her efforts are desperate, pathetic, and darkly comic, but at the film’s climax, when a famous singer is shot at a political rally for a renegade Presidential candidate, she grabs the suddenly open microphone of the fallen star she envies, and begins to sing in the chaos.
Let’s watch it now, and remember a woman and an artist of unshakable integrity and dedication to her art, and only her art.
9 thoughts on “Ethics Quote Of The Month: Barbara Harris (1935-2018)”
Thank you for this wonderful, enlightening, moving post, Jack. I had heard of her, but not for years and years.
I was fortunate to have taught — years ago — etihcs and the arts business at a college here in Chicago. If I were ever privileged enough to do that again, this would be mandated reading.
Among other things, your post reminds me to watch Nashville. I ‘m sure I saw it back when it came out, and remember disliking it because I didn’t understand it. That was a high schooler’s reaction. I’m a lot younger now.
Hope you have a sweet Labor Day weekend.
Here’s a refreshingly candid essay on the deleterious effects of fame and celebrity on another occupation.
By God, yes, the woman could sing. And thank you Jack. I can think of no more fitting eulogy than that. That this talented and skilled woman cared more about her craft than the glitz attached to it. Again, thank you.
Very nice read. Enjoyed it immensely.
Movie Movie! A favorite of mine. Classic lines like Barry Bostwick as a reluctant boxer, “These hands was made for reading books!”; George C. Scott as a Broadway producer accused of writing a bad check, “Spats Baxter never passed rubber in his life!”. A fantastic double-feature spoof with an astonishing cast (playing different roles in both “movies”), in an homage to the days of the studio system in Hollywood. Everybody acts, sings and dances, and gets a movie in the can. Then next week, you do it again.
When I saw it on opening week, I thought it would be a runaway hit. Utter bomb.
Tangentially appropriate to this topic given the invasion of privacy of Geoffrey Owens, who is arguably, no longer a public figure (who have little expectation of privacy).
…but who feels the same, in an odd way.