Sydney Pollack, 73, Filmmaker, Actor

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By Newsweek Editors

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I met Sydney's wife, Claire Griswold, through my shrink in the 1970s. She was an actress, but she was interested in architecture and came to work in my office one summer before going to architecture school. No more gorgeous creature on earth existed! So, I'd see Sydney at dinner from time to time. I was a little intimidated in the early days—it was the Hollywood thing—and I remember being very judgmental about the commercialism of moviemaking. Where was the art? I was talking to him one night, and there was probably a little edge to my voice, asking him what he was doing. I was being holier than thou, self-righteous—and I was poor and suffering and making architecture that nobody wanted. He didn't take umbrage, he just started talking about it. If you do a Western, he said, it's pretty set, there's a formula the studios want. But there's a space in there to make art—10 to 20 percent—and it's enough to swing it. I'll never forget it because I went back and looked at my own work, and I was in the same box he was in. An office building is an office building—it's pro forma. But I also had 10 to 20 percent wiggle room. He made me understand that like no one had. He could've gotten pissed at my question but he didn't.

He was also a pilot. He had a Citation X. At the opening of the Guggenheim Bilbao [in 1997], I was standing in the atrium when I saw him outside peering in. I started screaming, "Sydney!" He said, "I was flying my plane from London and to tell you the truth, I was curious to see this." He had this little yellow drugstore camera with him, and a few weeks later he sent me about 10 pictures. They were the best pictures of the building—they had people in them. Later, a friend was helping me sort offers from people who wanted to make a documentary about me. She innocently asked who'd taken the best shots of the museum, and I said, "Sydney Pollack." But then I told her, don't badger him. Of course she did, and Sydney said, "You've got to be kidding! I've never done a documentary, I don't think I can do this, I'm busy." Three weeks later, he was doing the movie.

His work? "Three Days of the Condor"—I thought that was incredible. I thought "Tootsie" was amazing. In his obituary, he's quoted as saying he never had a good eye, he wasn't "a visual stylist." But he had an incredible eye! Whether you liked "The Interpreter" or not, the last scene was a Renoir picture—that watery image. He was tough, he was a control freak, like a director has to be. He would follow through on every detail, every meeting, even going to dinner. But he was extraordinarily modest—he didn't have that pushy, self-important thing going. He was this big handsome guy with a beautiful smile. When I saw him a few weeks ago, he knew he was dying. His voice was lower than usual. He knew there was no way out. But he was still smiling.

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