Diffa

“Can I get a ride home?” Robert Duvall asked.

I thought he was trying to throw me off my question to him. We were at Matteo’s restaurant, where he was discussing his latest movie, We Own The Night, a cop thriller.

I’d heard that co-star Joaquine Phoenix tried ANYTHING to get Duvall to break character, to flub a line. Director James Gray said Phoenix would shout non-sequiturs, rub Duvall’s earlobes and purr “such a pretty bunny,” and even kissed the actor full on the mouth once. I was trying to confirm that last bit when Duvall had me on my heels.

“Excuse me?” I asked. I thought that he had told me to go home, so offended he must have been by my impertinence.

“My wife dropped me off,” he said. “We don’t live too far from here. Can I get a lift home?”

If the plan was to change topics, mission accomplished. Because now I was panicked.

I had planned to take the motorcycle to the interview, but changed my mind at the last second so I could wear nice shoes and feign maturity.

But that meant taking the pickup truck, which doubled as a dog taxi. On any given day, that Ford had more dander in it than gasoline. I parked it on the street so the valets wouldn’t ridicule me, though I’m sure I heard snickering when I walked into the tony restaurant, Sinatra’s favorite.

Now I was on my heels. Did I even remove the rawhides from the passenger seat? But I said sure, no problem.

For the next couple hours, over tuna, Duvall downplayed every movie he’d ever starred in, aw-shucked every character he brought to life, from The Godfather’s Tom Hagen to Apocalypse Now’s Lt. Bill Kilgore.

But as lunch progressed, Duvall loosened up. He said he refused to watch the HBO Western series Deadwood because he considered the constant swearing inaccurate and gratuitous. He found Unforgiven flawed because Clint Eastwood’s character had trouble mounting his horse after years out of the saddle. “You never forget a thing like that,” he said. He considered Lonesome Dove the best thing he’d ever done. He admitted the two TV shows he COULD NOT miss were Dancing with the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance.

As lunch wrapped, a sense of dread pitted my gut. Were there fast food wrappers everywhere? Is the radio going to blare Rage Against The Machine when I start the engine? Would he sit in my vehicle and make a squeak-fart from an overlooked dog toy?

As we neared my spot, I held my breath. My ride was slobbered and filthy. But no fast food bags. No half-eaten rawhides.

We drove a couple miles to his house, a two-story Beverly Hills townhome in the middle of the block. Nothing about the place screamed, or even suggested, acting legend. Airs simply didn’t suit the man.

He thanked me for the ride and said he and his wife were flying to their home in Argentina in a week. He stepped out, and before shutting the door, said “nice truck.”

I drove home thinking he might have actually meant it.

Thank you for the journey, Mr. Duvall.