In the summertime, Donald Sutherland and his wife and their dog live in a large Victorian-ish house ninety minutes east of Montreal. It’s Northwoods country, dense with birch and pine. Sutherland’s house looks out on a large lake, and on the far side there is a stone abbey where monks pray and make cheese. Come evening, if the wind blows the right way across the lake, Sutherland can hear their chants.
He is almost 80 now and is at a curious stage in his illustrious career. There is probably a large swath of people under 25 that know him solely as the spooky white-bearded guy in the Hunger Games franchise (or maybe as the father of that actor on 24). This is the same generation that almost certainly doesn’t know about the transformative range of his work, from Kelly’s Heroes to Ordinary People to Fellini’s Casanova to Klute, the film that finally made him a leading man at 35—and stoked his romance with Jane Fonda.
When Sutherland meets me on the front porch, he’s dressed in a jacket and pants. He’s a tall man: six feet two. In person, his features—the crystal blue eyes, the white-white hair, the cheekbones—are even more striking than you’d expect. He tells me the house has become an ancestral home for his kids and grandkids. (Sutherland himself was born farther east, in St. John, New Brunswick.) He leads me to a large room off his study—a room crammed with papers and books. The room is professorial, and so is he—a bit like the aged version of his character from Animal House.
How do you deal with rejection? As an actor, you get 10 percent of the roles—
Not very well, right? You know, after Ordinary People, I couldn’t get an audition for a year. There was one film that I wanted. Something about dancing—
Footloose? Flashdance?
I think it was Flashdance? And the producer said to Ronny [his then agent, Ron Meyer], "You would have a better chance getting the part than he would."
My first offer ever for a film was in 1962. I auditioned for the producer, the writer, the director. And I came home and said to my first wife, "I thought it went okay." You never want to say you did well before you know anything. The next morning they were all on the phone saying how wonderful the audition had been. And then the producer said, "We loved you so much, we wanted to explain why we weren’t casting you. We’ve always thought of this as a guy-next-door sort of character, and we don’t think you look like you’ve ever lived next door to anybody."
What attracted you to The Hunger Games?
Nobody asked me to do it. I wasn’t offered it. I like to read scripts, and it captured my passion. I wrote them a letter. The role of the president had maybe a line in the script. Maybe two. Didn’t make any difference. I thought it was an incredibly important film, and I wanted to be a part of it. I thought it could wake up an electorate that had been dormant since the ’70s. I hadn’t read the books. To be truthful, I was unaware of them. But they showed my letter to the director, Gary Ross, and he thought it’d be a good idea if I did it. He wrote those wonderfully poetic scenes in the rose garden, and they formed the mind and wit of Coriolanus Snow.
Do you think about your own mortality?
Sure.... I bought Final Exit, Derek Humphry’s book on the best way to kill yourself. I mean, I would be—I just really don’t want to leave her. [gestures toward kitchen and his wife, Francine] And I for sure don’t want her to be dead. The word disturbs me. But I’m getting more accustomed to the idea of being dead. Because I have my mother, my father, my brother, and my sister in bos here—they’re in the other room—and we have to put them in the ground. So that’s been a part of our occupation the past month. I like having them here, but my wife would like them in a proper place.
But I don’t want to give up living, because I enjoy it so much, and I love working—I don’t expect I’ll ever have to stop. But Alzheimer’s or something like that would render me pretty useless. Your grandmother had dementia, yes?
How did you know?
I started reading your book. [I wrote a memoir about the mystery surrounding the death of my father.] The line of your grandmother’s about "perseverance is the great trait." Wow.
You’ve said that since childhood you’ve been death-obsessed.
Well, I kind of gave that obsession up—but I was sick all the time. I had polio.
Where did that obsession come from?
I was somewhere between 6 and 10. I was obsessed with not knowing what happened after you were dead. And I sat or kneeled for a whole day with my head against the wall, trying to figure it out. But I couldn’t, and I just said, "Okay." And then it was nothingness. Like Woody Allen says, "I’m taking a change of underwear just in case." So, you know, I have no God.
Did your father’s death hit you hard?
My father’s death? My son, two nights ago, we were talking about my mother, who I loved dearly. She was really subject to my father—possibly the most self-centered individual I’ve ever met. And when my mother died, at her funeral—my son would have been about 8—I was by the coffin. I was bereft, even though she had been in a coma for weeks. And my father, I found out two nights ago, was telling awful jokes to my son. At the funeral. It’s a moment of such anguish for my son.
That must have felt—
Well, I have to be truthful. After my mother’s funeral—because it had been so difficult with my father—I left. And I didn’t get back to see him for two or three months. I was on my way back to see him—I was in Montreal, and I stayed over because the Expos were playing. And when I got back to my flat, the telephone rang and it was Francine, and—this is a hard story to tell—she said, "Your father is dead. Now you’re an orphan. Now I have you all to myself, alone." Which was perfect. Perfect.
And I called the woman who had been taking care of him and said, "Did he say anything?" She said, "Yes. He said, ’It was better when the children were young.’ " And I said, "Thanks a lot for that—that was really helpful." Anyway. Hard—he was hard to deal with. So. Death.
He just never wanted a relationship?
I’ve still never figured it out. I think he was in some way disappointed in me.
It was never good enough?
No, never good enough. Never good enough. Mine is a wound of failure. Of inability to make him happy.
"It was better when the children were young." That sounds like: "That’s when I was the king and I could control—"
Exactly.
It’s not that you failed—it’s that you succeeded. You surpassed him, but he could not take joy in that.
The problem is, he was my father and I wanted to please him. But yes, the minute I found success—pretty much after MASH was released, he didn’t do anything but complain about me.
I can’t help but associate everything you say with Ordinary People and your vulnerability in that character.
Oh, sure. Absolutely. Even now, just sitting here, it’s not that easy to deal with, so I haven’t resolved anything.
What qualities of your mother’s do you have?
Her nose! [laughs] She was brutally honest. When I was 15 or 16, I said, "Mother, am I good-looking?" And she went, "Donald, your face has character."
After we’ve spoken for an hour, Sutherland says it’s time for lunch. We walk to the deck and sit beneath a billowing canopy. He puts steaks on the grill and opens a bottle of white Burgundy.
Would you say you’re a loner?
No, I have my wife. We’ve been together for forty-two years.
I mean, are you solitary by nature?
No, I don’t think so. I’m quite gregarious. I tell a lot of jokes. But I don’t go into bars. [long pause] It’s interesting, your question. My brother and I, we weren’t close. But he had a stroke when he was 38, maybe—he lost control of his left arm and left leg, and I think a good part of his brain. And he was a born-again Christian. I wouldn’t give him money, because he would just give it to the church, but I paid all of his bills. And then he had another stroke a couple of years ago and was in palliative care. And they phoned me to say that he had not regained consciousness. I said, "I’m in the middle of working, and I can’t get down there. Can you keep me abreast?" And then he died. They cremated him and sent his ashes here, in that box I have to take care of. Two weeks afterwards, I received a phone call from a grief counselor at the palliative-care center. She said, "I want to talk to you about dealing with the grief." And I said, "I don’t have any grief. We were never very close." She said, "You should write him a letter," and I said, "What’s the point? He’s dead." She said, "Write about the things that—" And suddenly I started to bawl. And I said, "Thank you very much." I went to my computer and started to write him a letter. There are forty pages, and it’s not even nearly finished.
Who is your best friend?
Ron Meyer.
What’s his best trait?
Perseverance? [We both laugh.] I guess, in a sense, perseverance, yeah, because he has carried with me... I once said to him that I was depressed and contemplating suicide. And he said, "Oh, please don’t do that." I said, "Why?" He said, "Because if you did, then I would try to make love to your wife." At that moment, all thoughts of suicide disappeared. Gone. [laughs] Really, though, I would never have done it. I was just being romantic and self-indulgent. Ron said what he said to do just what it did: wake up my self-indulgent self.
Were you shocked when you heard about Robin Williams?
No. I was shocked by the way he did it, because, you know—I mean, look at his face in those recent interviews. I remember John Belushi. We shared a doctor, and John was coming out of the office as I was going in—snot was hanging six feet out of his nose, and I said to my doctor, "He’s going to die." And my doctor says, "Yes. I’ve tried to get him to stop, and John just says, ’I give people pleasure, why can’t I have pleasure?’ " But no, I wasn’t surprised. I was crushed, but not surprised. Depression is an extraordinary thing. It was different from Philip [Seymour Hoffman]. Philip, that was just... I can’t bring myself to actually speak about it.
But in some ways, Philip was, I mean, suicide comes in different—
Yeah, exactly. Precisely.
Tell me about yourself as a father.
I don’t think I’m a good father. [calls out] Francine! She’s a wonderful mother.
But I don’t believe that about you.
I’m not a bad father, but I’m not a terribly good father. Francine! Am I a good father?
Francine Racette, the French-Canadian actress who is the mother of Sutherland’s three youngest children, emerges from the kitchen.
Francine: How would I know? I’m not your child. Why don’t you ask me, "Am I a good husband?" [laughs] Listen, he is a good father, because everybody knows—
DS: My children love me. [to Francine] You know something, darling?
Francine: Quoi?
DS: I’ve never had this much food at lunch in my life. [tastes wine; pauses] Brodsky. Joseph Brodsky—
I went to his grave in Venice.
DS: Fuck! He’s my hero. That line he said, "Try to stay passionate, leave your cool to constellations. Passion, above all, is a remedy against boredom." If you want my mantra, that’s it.... As an actor, you risk yourself every time you start. For me, it’s quite frightening. So much so that it makes me physically sick before I begin.
Are there some mornings you don’t want to get out of bed?
Francine: Tell him about making the film with Marlon Brando. A Dry White Season.
DS: I was in the shower at four in the morning, and his producer phoned and said, "We’re not shooting today. Marlon doesn’t think he’s ready." I said, "We’re closing down production for the day because Marlon doesn’t think he’s ready?" He said, "Yes." I said, "Tell Marlon I admire him. Because if I had that power, I would never go to work."
But no, I just—I love my job. I love doing it. It’s a passionate endeavor. And sometimes you can get close to something that you believe is the truth. The truth of something. Not all the time, but sometimes.
When you were doing roles that were provocative, such as Don’t Look Now...
I don’t think my parents ever saw that.
Filming those scenes with Julie Christie, you didn’t think, "What will they think?"
No. But it’s curious that you ask. Because I think of people doing sex films and think, Don’t they think of their parents?
So when you’re creating, you never see your parents over your shoulder?
No. I don’t see them at all, ever. Never. It’s completely and utterly disassociated from that. I never see anybody.
Let’s go back to what you said about your father and his last words. If you could script your last words—
You know what John Barrymore’s last words were? He was in a coma, and they had a death watch on him.
He was an alcoholic.
Severe. And he came to consciousness and went [makes crazy gargling noises]. And the guy sitting beside him said, "What did you say, John?" And he said, "You heard me, you son of a bitch." And died.
How do you navigate disappointment?
I think you just kind of idle and hope that it drifts away. I haven’t been very good about dealing with disappointment. I suffer it, and then when that suffering becomes a kind of predation, then it’s gone. Because the disappointment is not always realistic. It too is very subjective, and it has to do with hopes that weren’t realistic.
You know, for example, with Fellini—it’s a huge regret. Working with him [on Casanova], it was so sensual. I’ve said it so many times—I was his concubine. He would tell me what to do, and I would know instantly how to do it. For me it was wonderful. He said he felt it was the best film he had ever made—the Italian version, not the English version—and afterwards, after I had left that screening, I didn’t see him again, except in very formal circumstances. It was as if I had left a lover and didn’t know how to deal with it—I didn’t know how to deal with him if I wasn’t working for him, and that was incredibly disappointing.
I’m going to throw out a theory: There’s part of you that keeps saying no to authority figures.
Authoritarian figures. There’s a difference.
What’s the difference between directors and your dad? The way you push them away.
There’s no difference.
You can joke that you’re a concubine to Fellini, but one could say you found in Fellini someone who loved you, cared for you, nurtured you...
Exactly, exactly, exactly! Which is why I couldn’t have a fucking relationship with him afterwards.
Because you were afraid of it.
God! And that breaks my heart. For me to destroy that. Ohhhhh. Shit.
You didn’t destroy anything! You did a fantastic movie with one of the greatest directors of the twentieth century. Isn’t that enough?
[long pause] The first five weeks of the shoot were the worst of my life, and then something happened. I don’t know what. But suddenly we were [in sync]. He’d say, "We need to shoot another scene," and he’d hand me two pages of dialogue. I’d say, "When do you want to shoot?" And he’d say, "Now." I’d say, "Okay." I’d look at it, and I would know it. I would know it.
So hold on to that. Working with Fellini, it’s like getting painted by El Greco. Now, tell me who inspires you.
[another long pause] When people ask me where I live, I say, "I live with my wife." I don’t know whether I live in Paris, New York, or Miami. I live with my wife. My inspiration, my judgment, it comes from my wife. She has...truth. And it’s humbling. And so it’s necessary that whatever ertions I make meet with her...not necessarily her approval, but at least her acceptance. Would you say that’s true? [looks to Francine] Oh, I so love you. God! [back to me] Come, let’s look at the garden.
We walk through the garden Francine has planted and, after a bit more time, bid farewell. A week later, I get an e-mail from Sutherland saying he’s finished my book and that it "is inside me, running around like crazy." A few days after that, he sends me a letter pointing out similarities that struck him, images that triggered memories. He writes, in part:
Your grandmother saying that she should go out trick-or-treating and "scare ’em all good."
I did that. I’d broken my leg. It was in a cast. But we always went out with my granddaughter, Kiefer’s daughter, on Halloween, so away we went into the inner reaches of Santa Monica. But they got tired of pushing my wheelchair, so they stopped and they put me on the lawn. I was wearing a black jacket, black pants, my stiffened right leg stuck out straight on the wheelchair support. Francine took off her panty hose and put them over my head. She put a bowl of candies on my lap and they all went into the house, sat at the windows and waited. The sidewalk was a good fifteen feet away. I didn’t move a muscle. People walked by. Children pleaded for candies in the bowl. Mothers cautioned. Some kids dared. They got to the bowl. Reached in. And I grabbed their arm. The child let out a huge scream and I let go. They peed and wept as they ran to their mothers, but I guarantee those kids will remember it with pleasure forever.
Your mother playing solitaire at the kitchen table.
My mother, too. She once told me she could go to Las Vegas and make a lot of money. But I don’t think she ever played solitaire, just blackjack at the Sahara. My father played roulette. The wheel would turn. The black ball would drop and he’d lose. Always. Until he got Parkinson’s. Then he’d hold a stack [of chips] in the palm of his hand and try to lay them down one at a time, his hand would go squirrelly, the chips would spray every which way, and he’d win.
A blonde with a ponytail? "Come over, baby"? A naked silhouette in a phosphorescent light?
I was with Jane Fonda at the Chelsea Hotel in 1970, maybe ’71. It was a room with a big bed and, to the right, four or five stairs to a landing that led to the bathroom. There was a little oval window on the landing and there was a streetlight shining through that window though it seemed more like moonlight so maybe it was the moon, I like to think it was the moon. I was lying on my back on the bed when Jane came out of the bathroom. She, too, was naked, and when the moonlight caught her perfect breasts I stopped breathing. Everything stopped. And then it started again. Now, when I see it in my memory, I stopped breathing again.
Michael Hainey (@michaelhainey) _ is GQ’s deputy editor and the author of_ After Visiting Friends: A Son’s Story.