Kristofferson was the star of Craven’s 2007 magical realist whiskey-smuggling adventure Disappearances
By Jay Craven
Like many people, I was sad to learn the heartbreaking news that Kris Kristofferson passed away on September 28.
Kris was a rare figure in popular culture–supremely talented, successful, modest and always generous and kind. His vivid but plainspoken songs captured the depth, heart and soul of hard-earned experience in our own times. His lean, rugged good looks and gravelly voice made him perfect for John Sayles’ and Sam Peckinpah’s revisionist westerns, Lone Star (1996) and Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973).
Kris’ innate magnetism and intelligence allowed him to successfully play dissipated rocker, John Norman Howard, opposite Barbara Streisand, in Frank Pierson’s A Star Is Born (1976). He won the part against two other finalists, Elvis Presley and Mick Jagger. Los Angeles Times film critic Charles Champlin captured Kristofferson’s distinctive quality when he called his sensitive, romantic rancher in Martin Scorsese’s Oscar-winning film, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974) “as comfortable as warm earth.”
I worked with Kris as the star of my 2007 magical realist whiskey-smuggling adventure Disappearances–and it was one of the great pleasures of my career. I’ll never forget our first encounter, when I received Kristofferson’s phone call, out of the blue.
“I just wanted to call and say I’ve read your script that Matt Salinger sent over to me and I was born to play Quebec Bill Bonhomme,” Kris said in his unmistakable south Texas drawl. “It’s a gem–the Peckinpah picture that got away.”
Kris tore right into the script, in full character, playing Howard Frank Mosher’s indelible lines over the phone. He captured the essence of schemer and dreamer, Quebec Bill, as he turns to his beleaguered but mild-mannered son, Wild Bill, after every plan they’ve had has ended in total disaster. “Ain’t this the most spectacular trip you ever imagined, Wild Bill?” Kris laughed out loud at Mosher’s rich irony.
Truth be told, we had only $38,000
of our $2 million budget in the bank
the day Kris walked into my kitchen
for our first day of rehearsal.
“I don’t know what your plans are,” Kris said, “but if you’ll have me, I’ll wait for as long as it takes to get this picture made. You can count on me.”
It took a while to wrangle the financing–seven years. In fact, if we had not started filming that very month of March 2005, we would have lost the story rights. As often happens in the movie business, several deals, including a German financing pledge, fell apart. And as usual, we turned to Vermonters, and some 500 donors and investors stepped forward.
Truth be told, we had only $38,000 of our $2 million budget in the bank the day Kris walked into my kitchen for our first day of rehearsal. It didn’t matter–he knew we were still raising money, but he was ready to dig in.
Kris was with us for the whole run of our two-week rehearsal and six-week film shoot. He stayed at the still-new local Comfort Inn and attracted interest every time he took to nearby roads for his morning run. We shot his scenes at the Northeast Kingdom’s Lake Willoughby, in Peacham’s woods and along its back roads, at Barnet’s Warden Pond, and in downtown St. Johnsbury where our fabulous production designer, Carl Sprague, converted Main Street and a back alley into evocative 1932 townscapes.
When Northeast Kingdom weather turned harsh or we fell behind schedule, Kris could always be counted on to lift everyone’s spirits. But when the script called for his character to leap into Waterford’s Duck Pond during a fierce gun battle with the relentless Quebecois whiskey pirate, Carcajou, played by Lothaire Bluteau, I was worried. The water temperature was 38 degrees. There had been ice on the pond just a week earlier. It was about midnight, and I agreed to go in first, to show that it wouldn’t kill me.
“No need to do that,” Kris said. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this scene since we started.” I took a quick dip, nevertheless, and came out, colder than I’d ever been. Kris laughed. “Looks like it isn’t meant for the faint of heart.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “You’ve had quintuple bypass surgery.”
“Hell,” Kris said,” that was 6 years ago. Like Quebec Bill, I stopped drinking; I run every day. I never felt better…. Let’s get going.”
So, we did. We set up the shot, with the crew shivering along the bank. “Action,” I called. The camera rolled and Kris took the plunge, diving to the pond’s bottom to retrieve a wooden case of stolen whiskey. A few seconds later, he returned to the frigid surface, holding an intact whiskey bottle aloft. “I found the whiskey, Wild Bill. Ain’t this great?”
“Cut,” I said. “That was fabulous, Kris. Come out of the water, now. We’ve got blankets.”
“Let’s do it again,” our 70-year-old lead actor said. “Give me just one more. If everyone’s not too cold. I’ll just go under water for one more and come up again. I’ll hold the bottle higher.” Kris clearly wanted to do this. I obliged. We filmed another take; he rose to the surface–and it was even better than the first one.
“That’s it,” I yelled. “Bring the blankets.” Crew members in waders walked into the pond and guided Kris to shore. I’d never seen anything like this.
Carl Sprague built a fabulous 1920s tavern set in the old St. J. Purina building. Quebec Bill comes into the place to seek information on Carcajou’s whereabouts. Everyone in the cast and crew was looking for this rare opportunity to be indoors. Kris spent a day off with my longtime composer, Judy Hyman, learning to play the fiddle in the living room of my house. Despite his extraordinary songwriting chops, Kris wasn’t a great multi-instrumentalist–and he knew nothing about fiddle playing. He told me that in our first phone call and hoped it wouldn’t disqualify him. But he was game and had a good time, getting into it.
“Let’s do it again,”
our 70-year-old lead actor said.
“Give me just one more.
If everyone’s not too cold.”
Later that evening, after his fiddle lessons, Kris learned that his sister and only sibling, Karen, was near death. He would have to leave for a couple days, that weekend, to go to Virginia to be with her. But he insisted we shoot the tavern scene before he left. On the day of our tavern shoot, Kris brought his guitar to set. He fully rose to the rollicking spirit of the scene but, off screen, he was feeling blue. During the couple of hours it took to prepare the lights and camera–and fine-tune the props and set–Kris sat in a straight-backed chair in the shadows of the backstage. With people quietly coming and going, he gently played his guitar and softly sang ballads that expressed his unguarded sadness and deep love for his sister. He also sang “Me and Bobby McGee” and “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” but in a mournful tone. Karen died just a week later.
We shot our tavern scenes and Kris left the next day. He returned from Virginia, resumed work and, a few days later, performed a memorable two-hour concert at Fuller Hall that raised $25,000 toward our ongoing fundraising campaign to support the film. The night before the concert, he called his buddy, Willie Nelson, to check in and tell him about his “Vermont film,” the benefit concert and the fun he was having playing Quebec Bill.
“So, you’re working for low-budget scale on an independent film in Vermont–and swimming in ice water in the middle of the night. And now you’re performing a concert for free–so they can afford to pay your $8,000?”
“Yeah, Willie,” Kris remembered saying. “I hadn’t thought about it quite that way. But yes. That’s what I’m doing.”
“It’s come to this, hasn’t it, Kris?” They both laughed.