The first time I remember noticing Paul Newman was when "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" came out in 1969.

He was the "old' guy. Robert Redford was the one I had the crush on.

Newman was older than my dad, who was ancient. He made movies back in the 1950s. He got his first Oscar nomination (for "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof") a year before I was born.

Granted, Redford was old enough to be my dad too, but he didn't have that link to old Hollywood. He was new, fresh and since he was a handsome guy, he bestirred my little 10-year-old heart.

As I got older and wiser, I began to appreciate Newman more and more.

By the time I saw him in one of his greatest movies, "The Verdict," in 1982, I realized not only the power of those blue eyes, but his depth and brilliance as an actor.

He plays Frank Galvin, a washed up lawyer who drinks too much and keeps failing his clients. He gets a chance to redeem himself when a case comes along that he wants to fight for.

He was amazing in that role. Amazing in that way few actors can manage, where they transcend acting to simply be that character while, at the very same time, continuing to be the Hollywood stars they are.

You never saw him sweat. He made it all look easy.

When Newman died at age 83 a few weeks ago, after a private battle with cancer, I felt that old familiar sadness.

The same sadness I felt when Gregory Peck, Henry Fonda and Jimmy Stewart died.

You feel like it's somebody you know. Somebody you knew quite well because, well, you've been through a lot together.

He was never a flashy actor. He dug deep into a role. Yet like those other great stars, we never forgot it was Paul Newman up there on the screen.

How could Paul Newman die? He was going to live forever, wasn't he?

Of course, Hollywood icons don't really die. They survive in their prime, in those wonderful roles that helped define our culture.

Newman had a lot of those roles in a lot of terrific movies, spanning six decades.

 He was too complex to be heroic. His characters could often be nasty, they could disappoint, they could manipulate. He always had something going on underneath the surface that was tinged with just a touch of humor.

Off screen, Newman was more heroic. Maybe, in some ways, a little less complicated.

He was married to Joanne Woodward for more than 50 years, and from all accounts they had a good, strong marriage.

Through his Newman's Own products, ranging from salad dressing to popcorn, he raised millions upon millions of dollars for charity.

Stories poured out after he died about how he not only gave money to good causes, but gave his time, often followed up with letters and appearances.

He lived a good, long life. He made the world a better place. And he left plenty of himself behind.

You can't ask for — and you never get — more than that from this world.


Staff writer Jane Holahan can be reached at 481-6016. The Footlights column appears every other Wednesday. blog comments powered by Disqus