Paul as the lead in every play.” (To his credit, he forced his star to paint flats, work the lights, and carry out other glamour-free duties.) He recognized a spark in the young man: “He showed all kinds of talent.” But he recognized too that Newman tended to lapse into lethargy and bad habits if not pushed. “I pride myself on the fact I called the turn on Newman. I told him if he learned discipline he would go far.” The result was a kind of determination, inherited perhaps from Art Newman, to turn acting into a job that could be mastered through application and sheer dogged effort. “He was not a faddist,” Michael remembered, “but a good technician and a no-nonsense actor. He had great intelligence, physical stamina, and the ability to work hard.”
Later on Newman would dismiss his own collegiate ability. “I was probably one of the worst college actors in history,” he’d declare. “I didn’t know anything about acting. I had no idea what I was doing. I learned my lines by rote and simply said them, without spontaneity, without any idea of dealing with the forces around me onstage, without knowing what it meant to act and to react.” But that was an experienced veteran of the Actors Studio talking. At the time he was rather delighted with his success. “I got some measure of local recognition,” he admitted. “I took several bows and had my first, heady taste of acting.”
Kenyon student Ira Eliasoph saw some of Newman’s first performances, and as he remembered, “He took that stage. He had a wonderful voice that projected through the auditorium with style and grace. It was quite apparent that he had the presence and the charm and the vocal ability. He certainly was more capable than most of the people around.”
But he had his limits. “In college once,” Newman confessed, “I took five or six bottles of beer before doing a play. I thought I was brilliant. Without exception, everybody said, ‘What the hell was wrong with you?’” That misstep aside, he really did become a standout through his theatrical efforts, developing a kind of grace that made his peers respond to him with more than the ordinary acknowledgment one grants a chum who sticks his neck out to perform in public. He had magnetism, charisma, and a kind of glow that inspired affection and admiration in audiences. This latter quality came to the surface in his final term at Kenyon, the spring semester of 1949, by all accounts one of the most wrenching ever to hit the tiny school.
On a February night Old Kenyon, the gothic edifice that stood as the traditional heart of the campus, was engulfed in fire. Seven students died. Five others were hospitalized. It was a staggering loss, even for a campus filled with World War II veterans. Barely a week later, the drama department was set to put on its production of
Charley’s Aunt
, the classic farce by Brandon Thomas about randy students who connive to get a friend to pose as a spinster and serve as their chaperone while they enjoy a pair of hot dates. Naturally, given the devastating fire, it wasn’t obvious that staging such a lighthearted entertainment was appropriate. After some debate, though, the school decided that the show should in fact go on. Newman was singled out in the campus newspaper, the
Kenyon Collegian
, for his contribution: “Paul Newman starred as Lord Fancourt Babberley, the impersonator of Charley Wykeham’s real aunt, Donna d’Alvadorez. Dressed in demure black, he looked and acted convincingly enough to convince almost all that he might be the real aunt. However, he could have been more careful when he was pouring tea.” “His hilariously broad interpretation,” another review noted, “will long be remembered.”
Two months later Newman further cemented his reputation as a fellow of unusual gifts with
The Kenyon Revue
, a comic musical that he coauthored with classmate Doug Downey and in which he took the role of Dean Frank E. Bailey, the actual
Later on Newman would dismiss his own collegiate ability. “I was probably one of the worst college actors in history,” he’d declare. “I didn’t know anything about acting. I had no idea what I was doing. I learned my lines by rote and simply said them, without spontaneity, without any idea of dealing with the forces around me onstage, without knowing what it meant to act and to react.” But that was an experienced veteran of the Actors Studio talking. At the time he was rather delighted with his success. “I got some measure of local recognition,” he admitted. “I took several bows and had my first, heady taste of acting.”
Kenyon student Ira Eliasoph saw some of Newman’s first performances, and as he remembered, “He took that stage. He had a wonderful voice that projected through the auditorium with style and grace. It was quite apparent that he had the presence and the charm and the vocal ability. He certainly was more capable than most of the people around.”
But he had his limits. “In college once,” Newman confessed, “I took five or six bottles of beer before doing a play. I thought I was brilliant. Without exception, everybody said, ‘What the hell was wrong with you?’” That misstep aside, he really did become a standout through his theatrical efforts, developing a kind of grace that made his peers respond to him with more than the ordinary acknowledgment one grants a chum who sticks his neck out to perform in public. He had magnetism, charisma, and a kind of glow that inspired affection and admiration in audiences. This latter quality came to the surface in his final term at Kenyon, the spring semester of 1949, by all accounts one of the most wrenching ever to hit the tiny school.
On a February night Old Kenyon, the gothic edifice that stood as the traditional heart of the campus, was engulfed in fire. Seven students died. Five others were hospitalized. It was a staggering loss, even for a campus filled with World War II veterans. Barely a week later, the drama department was set to put on its production of
Charley’s Aunt
, the classic farce by Brandon Thomas about randy students who connive to get a friend to pose as a spinster and serve as their chaperone while they enjoy a pair of hot dates. Naturally, given the devastating fire, it wasn’t obvious that staging such a lighthearted entertainment was appropriate. After some debate, though, the school decided that the show should in fact go on. Newman was singled out in the campus newspaper, the
Kenyon Collegian
, for his contribution: “Paul Newman starred as Lord Fancourt Babberley, the impersonator of Charley Wykeham’s real aunt, Donna d’Alvadorez. Dressed in demure black, he looked and acted convincingly enough to convince almost all that he might be the real aunt. However, he could have been more careful when he was pouring tea.” “His hilariously broad interpretation,” another review noted, “will long be remembered.”
Two months later Newman further cemented his reputation as a fellow of unusual gifts with
The Kenyon Revue
, a comic musical that he coauthored with classmate Doug Downey and in which he took the role of Dean Frank E. Bailey, the actual
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