Robert Duvall on Get Low, Young Directors and Why Resistance is Good

Get Low's Felix Bush is one of those once-in-a-lifetime roles that all actors crave. Except for Robert Duvall, perhaps -- a true legend of the craft for whom "once in a lifetime" might as well be synonymous with "all in a day's work."

Moreover, to hear Duvall tell it, he almost missed out on the part for "other stuff" -- an unspecified bit of work that could just as easily turned out to be another one of his genius exercises extending out from his big-screen breakthrough in To Kill a Mockingbird through The Godfather I & II, Network, Apocalypse Now, his Oscar-winning Tender Mercies, Lonesome Dove, The Apostle... and now Get Low. It's to Duvall's credit (and viewers' good fortune) that he didn't miss out: His Felix Bush is an aged, woods-dwelling, no-nonsense hermit whose surly cult of personality is narrowly outsized by the skeletons in his closet. Rolling into town after four decades of seclusion -- to discover the Great Depression, no less -- Felix sets to planning his funeral with the aid of nomadic funeral-home director Frank Quinn (Bill Murray) and his young assistant Buddy Robinson (Lucas Black), coming clean along the way with former flame Mattie (Sissy Spacek) and the rest of the suspicious, skeptical residents of his nearby village.

Director Aaron Schneider's deft handling of period texture and ensemble class cement Get Low as an accomplished debut, but Duvall's presence alone -- idling in the rough, jousting with Murray, dialing in perfect frequencies of gravitas, tenderness and grief opposite Spacek -- makes it a must-see.

Having already given Movieline the lowdown on at least one surreal work (hopefully) to come, the freewheeling 79-year-old opened up further on choosing Get Low, working with younger directors, directing himself, playing Stalin, and his more overlooked work from 50 years in show business. (Mild spoilers follow.)

Get Low has been in development for what feels like forever; I remember reading about it years ago. When did it come to you?

Oh, it was was in the early stages -- four, five, six years ago, I think. It's the same old thing we're doing for other projects right now, which is just to find the money. It's extremely difficult. I figure if the Zanuck dynasty can't get money, who can, right? They came to my farm in Virginia, and then there was a time when nothing was happening. There was a rewrite that wasn't very good. And then they brought the guy in from Alabama -- Charlie Mitchell -- who rewrote it beautifully, and they came to my farm again with him, and that really sold me on it. But they still couldn't get the money. Then I saw [co-producer] Dean Zanuck and his father -- I wasn't even thinking about it, and all of a sudden, a year ago last December, they said, "We got the money! We've got to go!" I said, "Well, I'm not ready. I can't." I thought I had other stuff. But then I thought, "Maybe I'd better go do this. It's such a good project." The other things didn't materialize anyway.

What do you think Felix was doing out in the woods -- in seclusion -- for 40 years?

For 40 years! I know. I've often thought of that. He must have had a lot of filler time. I guess they couldn't put in the movie how he learned to love the land, where he lived, and learned with solitude. The hermits I've come in contact with sometimes, all they want to do is talk. All they want to do is socialize. It's not that they're like this when they come out. So I guess he just hunted, fished, would see people every now and then when he went in to shop. But other than that he was just alone with his life and his thoughts.

I get the impression that despite his regrets and guilt, he really does appreciate that there's a mythology around him.

Yeah, definitely -- whether it's true or not. I would think so. He gets a kick out of it. "You boys come and throw rocks at my window for 25 years?" It kind of reminds me of some of my uncles in Virginia -- my dad's people from way back. They'd tell little stories about the past and what's going on. But once again, I wouldn't be sitting with you today if it hadn't have been for Charlie Mitchell from Alabama -- the guy who came in to rewrite. Just had beautiful touches. Beautiful touches.

Like what?

Well, like the girl at the end -- with the white. Finding the thing to give to Sissy in the graveyard, with the dogs. The names. The little touches about how [she] played piano in the past. He put these things in there that just made it live. Because he's a wonderful writer from Alabama -- and it's a Southern tale, so to speak. I mean, it could happen in... Vermont. I remember when I was in the Army, I bunked over a guy from Virginia. Then two weeks later I switched to another place, and I bunked with a potato farmer from Maine. And he was more country than the other guy! So there's a kinship from South to North, probably an Anglican thing that runs through from England on down.

I recognized certain traits of Felix's from The Apostle -- your film about another Southern man who's in a different type of hiding. How did those characters interrelate to you, if at all?

I never really thought about it that much, really. They just had something to atone for. Actually that reminds me: I don't know if you've seen these plays of Horton Foote down here on 42nd and 11th? There's nine hours -- three, three, and three. You can see them all in one day. Anyway, Get Low reminds me of a Horton Foote project, and I always wish he'd lived to see it. The day I came to deliver the speech to the people -- I only did it once -- the mule's coming with the casket I built for myself for when I really die, and they said "Action." And my wife's off-camera, and she gets a phone call from the son-in-law saying Horton Foote had just died. It was like full-circle from To Kill a Mockingbird -- it was like one of his pieces. I always told Horton, "If I ever do this movie, I want you to see it." And then he passed away.

Wow. But wait -- the casket for when you really die?

Well, the movie casket. The one I build when they try to sell me the other one.

Oh, OK. I was going to say...

And this mule! A U.S. champion mule. You'd think they'd get it from Georgia. But it came from 20 miles from where I live in Virginia. That mule could do anything -- pray, get down on its knees, play the piano, go to the mailbox and bring you a letter. I kept saying, "Use the mule more!" But there wasn't really room for it.

That's too bad. But: Going back to The Apostle, have you ever elaborated on what the E.F. in your character's name -- "Apostle E.F." -- stands for?

[Pauses] Eulace... F... Originally it was Hart, which was my mother's maiden name, from East Texas and Georgia. But there are five preachers named "Hart," and I didn't want to risk a lawsuit. But it was independent of them -- even before I met them -- and they thought it was about them because I hung around them. But it wasn't. Eulace... my grandfather's name was that. I think he had the initials. And his friends said, "If you don't tell us what the 'E' stands for, we'll call you Eulace." And it was Eulace! So E.F... Eulace... Felix? Right! No, Felix was it. Because my grandfather was F. Stanley Hart, so his friends said, "If you tell don't tell us what the 'F' stands for, then we're going to call you Felix." That's what it was. And of course his name was Felix.

And now here we've come full-circle again to Get Low.

Right. Then Dewey. E.F. Dewey. I really wanted to be Hart, but I couldn't risk it. You never know in this day and age.

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