Big guy! Nose, hands, belly—big!
I never really knew what a twinkle was until I met Tip O’Neill—but the look in his eyes as he greeted me could only be described only with that St. Nick cliché. Along with his ruddy cheeks, red nose, and charm to spare, Mr. Claus morphed into the Speaker of the House.
We were in Washington, D.C., on a rainy day in 1992. The Speaker had agreed to a cameo role in a political comedy I was doing entitled Dave. The scene required him to stop me getting into a taxi, say a few lines, and leave. A piece of cake. The crew was not ready, so we were settled into a coffee shop near the set.
He took off his trench coat as several actors and assistants gathered round him, pushing a few small tables for two together to form a little circle. He was at its center and held that spot for several hours, being watched over by a female handler right out of central casting; blond, eyeglasses, sensibly suited, sterile demeanor; but thankfully unobtrusive once we were introduced.
The gathering dwindled to just him and me, but he needed very little prodding to keep the conversation going. A lifetime of politics had taught him instant camaraderie and given his endless cache of anecdotes, I remained his captivated listener.
Ninteen ninety-two. It was Clinton vs. Bush and the election was imminent.
On Bush:
“As a senator, the guy spent nine and a half minutes on the floor and nine hours at the gym. The day he got elected president, my wife Millie was lying in a hospital sick as a dog. Barbara made a call and Millie got the royal treatment.”
“Bush thinks the presidency was willed to him. He thinks it’s his divine right. This time he’s gonna be miserable if he loses and miserable if he wins. If he does win, he’ll gloat. Barbara told me it’s his nature.”
On Clinton:
“The guy’s a genius. I like him. Women go wet. Met him four years ago with a friend of my daughter. She said, ‘Tip, meet the next president.’ ”
On limited terms for senators and representatives:
“A stupid idea. The staffs will be running Washington.”
On Truman:
“My favorite guy. Got to know him toward the end. Loved him. Loved him. That was a president.”
On his health:
“I’m wearing a colostomy bag. Look at my teeth—black from radiation. Chemo didn’t bother me. I got cancer at seventy-five. I wanted to live. I’m eighty now.”
On being an actor:
“I did Cheers and it went from sixtieth to first place.”
This he repeated several times during the course of the morning.
“I did Silver Spoons too.”
He was thoroughly engaging and never at any time did he seem unhappy to be where he was—he could play beautifully to an audience of any size and was of course used to being the Star. Until we got on camera. The Speaker was to stop me, say two or three lines, and exit the shot. We rehearsed it a few times. His only objection was to the use of the word stroke.
“It’s too offensive.”
He was powdered and ready to roll. The word action can freeze even the most experienced of professionals, and it froze the Speaker.
This charming, affable man became tongue-tied and wide-eyed when the clapper sounded. His lines, tailored for him, seemed forced and unnatural. After a couple of takes, I asked the director, Ivan Reitman, to just let the camera roll, and we started to chat again as if we were in the restaurant and then I casually asked him to say his first line to me. He did. I responded. He said the next line. We got it. Ivan said, “Cut. Thank you, sir.”
“We got it?” he asked with a large beaming smile. “Well, that was easy.”
We all gathered round him for pictures and he posed happily, his affable charm returning; the deer-in-the-headlights look gone.
I knew I would most likely be forgotten in the Speaker’s memory by lunch—one of the thousands he had regaled over the years. And that mattered not at all. It was a profound pleasure to spend four hours with him. However practiced the rhetoric, there was a genuine sense of the original thinker about the man. He didn’t have the perfect haircut or the polished all-purpose, politically correct drone and seemed to have no fear of being disliked. This was not a politician out of central casting. Maybe you had to be eighty or to have begun at a time when it was your very uniqueness that moved you to the top; Tip O’Neill was in a class with Harry S. Truman, Barry Goldwater, Thurgood Marshall, Lyndon Johnson, Franklin Roosevelt—clever, ruthless, charming sons-of-bitches.
After most everyone had drifted away, I thanked him for the morning chat and for being in the film.
“Nothing to it, my boy,” he said with a wink as the blond lady led him away. “It was a piece of cake!”