Clint Eastwood, Absolutely

He yawns. Rubs his temples. At some signal too subtle for an outsider to detect, he unfolds himself from where he sits. He rises to 6 feet 4 and then settles into a 6-foot-1 slouch, chin out, hands in his pants pockets. A friendly trace of a grin has arrived on his face.

He moves forward to where 17 people are peering down at the floor as if someone dropped a contact lens. Lights are aimed, the floor scoured, lights readjusted.

Then he glances into the eyepiece of the camera.

“OK, let’s shoot this before it dies.”

The camera is engaged.

For a few heavy seconds, quiet.

Then the same word, the same casual tone: “OK.”

The camera rests. The tall man rubs his jaw, and of course it would be a laconic, trenchant rub. After 25 minutes of preparation, Clint Eastwood has just filmed a scratch on the floor. Another print on the first take.

We are, it seems, racing along in the filming of Eastwood’s political suspense movie “Absolute Power.”

The set is a bedroom, and the scratch on the hardwood floor is the telltale clue in a murderous romantic tryst involving the president of the United States.

“A little peccadillo . . . ,” Eastwood says. His eyebrows lift, and he adds, “Of course, we know presidents don’t do those things. But, hey, you have to take a little license. It’s just a movie.”

The set has now drawn 30 people who apparently know what they are doing, and where they are going, and what is to happen next--although in this an outsider must take their word for it because it seems a confusion of moving baseball hats and Bermuda shorts, walkie-talkies, lights, silk reflecting screens, notebooks, gaffer’s tape, water bottles, spray bottles, toolboxes and tape measures. And there is a fetching woman in her underwear who was just dead on the floor now scratching at the drying blood of her makeup.

Eastwood is famous for many things. And some of them we have just witnessed.

He is famous for his efficiency. Today is his 48th day of filming this movie, in which he stars, directs and produces. Already he is eight days ahead of schedule (and will conclude shooting 17 days ahead). And surely he is within budget because, as his publicist, Marco Barla, explains, he is famous for never having gone over budget.

When it comes to sharing the accountants’ worries, Eastwood is an exception to Hollywood’s stereotype.

Eastwood is also, and more important, famous for the easy manner with which he achieves his art.

The man of few words is 66 years old, with the most recognizable squint in the world. But when he is out of the camera’s eye, tension vanishes from his face. He imposes calm on his productions because he is Clint Eastwood and he can establish the mood as it pleases him, and nonchalance makes making movies agreeable.

“Well, enjoy yourself,” he says with that hoarse whisper we all know. That is his greeting to an outsider, and within a day or two it becomes apparent that he means it. Everyone else seems to be.

These days, Eastwood is supported by a crew that has worked with him on 12, 18, 27 pictures. It is like watching a Royal Air Force squadron that has flown missions together all during the war, and by now everyone knows how it’s done, even though it’s never quite the same and by no means simple.

“We hardly even have to talk anymore,” says Jack Green, director of photography on “Absolute Power” and a veteran of 25 pictures directed by or starring Eastwood (and 18 others, including “Twister”).

“If you’re traveling through the great desert of American filmmaking, Clint Eastwood is the palm tree and this is the oasis. Very few places do you have a chance to smile on the job these days,” Green says.

(Of course, when the team has a breakup, it can be a dilly. Later in the year, as he was to finish studio shooting in Hollywood, Eastwood faced a court battle with his former lover and sometime co-star Sondra Locke. The trial, stemming from their 1989 split, went on to attract worldwide attention. And ultimately, as jurors began deliberations in the damage suit, the two announced a confidential out-of-court financial settlement.)

But back on the set of “Absolute Power,” the Eastwood crew has eyes only for the finish line, cheered on by people like Don Kincade. He is a production assistant, a gofer, whose friendship with Eastwood goes back to grade school in Piedmont, Calif. Later, when Eastwood was an Army swimming instructor, they would pal around after hours, Eastwood playing honky-tonk piano at local saloons as the two courted college girls. Kincade went on to become a dentist, Eastwood’s dentist, and now has retired to show business, where it helps to know how to stand around on your feet all day because, face it, even at Eastwood’s pace, making movies is a large measure of tedium and detail.

“He’s loyal to his friends,” Kincade says, beaming.

Or Buddy Van Horn, stunt and action coordinator, a leathery wrangler who has spent 46 years in the business, 30 of them with Eastwood: “At this point in my life, it’s got to where I sometimes have to grit my teeth to go to work when people are yelling and screaming. But here, people know what they’re doing; it’s a smooth operation. . . . Don’t get me wrong, it’s not easy, but he has a way of simplifying things.”

Eastwood’s fans have a way of simplifying things too--into two kinds of Eastwood movies: those that reach for broad commercial appeal and those that are narrower, more personal. “Absolute Power” aims to the commercial, with a twists-and-turns, 1-2-3-bang screenplay written by William Goldman from the recent novel by David Baldacci. Location filming was done in Washington and Baltimore, and then the production moved to the back lot at Paramount and the sound stages of Warner.

(“Absolute Power” is to open on Presidents Day weekend in February, a Castle Rock Entertainment release distributed by Columbia Pictures. Warner Bros., the studio most closely associated with Eastwood’s films for the last 15 years, passed on the option to the book “Absolute Power.” Castle Rock bought it and, in a gamble, had Goldman write a script before presenting the project to Eastwood.)

In the film, America’s president (Gene Hackman) cuckolds an aging benefactor (E.G. Marshall). But the affair with the latter’s young wife (Melora Hardin) turns bad.

Eastwood plays a burglar, a principled and accomplished one, of course, who happens to witness the misdeeds of presidential rough love. This leaves Eastwood a marked man by the Secret Service (Scott Glenn and Dennis Haysbert). One policeman (Ed Harris) tries to unravel the mess, while Eastwood reaches out to his prosecutor daughter (Laura Linney).

An old-fashioned Hollywood story, where the good guys are bad and the bad guy good?

“That,” Eastwood says, “would be a compliment. It has a story and characters. If that makes it old-fashioned. . . .”

But it also is cynical. Absolute power, of course, corrupts absolutely and certainly in this picture.

“I think cynicism about power is going to be with us for a while. Politicians have done a lot to bring it on.”

Thereupon, Eastwood, former mayor of Carmel, suggests his frustration with politicians.”Everything’s so partisan. . . . It’s like pulling all the teeth in your head to get anything done.”

We could be at a lunch counter anywhere in America.

But we are in Hollywood, in an open-sided tin shed, on picnic tables with red-check plastic tablecloths, and Eastwood has just walked his tray through the lunch line, taking his turn with the crew. No hierarchy of the stomach at Eastwood productions. And the ordinariness of it attracts note, for it is so unexpected.

Eastwood hunches over his plate like a teenager, eating green beans with his fingers, as you would fresh carrots. He is an exuberant eater but a light one. Wardrobe must take in the waist of his 46-long suits.

Tony Kerum, of Tony’s Food Service in Valencia, has been Eastwood’s caterer for 20 years. It is said that when the call goes out for a new Eastwood movie, he starts by dialing Kerum. “That’s first, then he might ask, ‘What do you think of Gene Hackman for president?’ ” says publicist Barla, who is approaching 20 years with Eastwood.

“I used to think bag lunches were fine,” says Eastwood, recalling youthful folly. “Turns out time changes things. I’ve come to my senses.”

Three years ago, Eastwood starred in “In the Line of Fire,” which glorified the Secret Service. Now, in “Absolute Power,” agents wind up on the other side of the law. Eastwood shakes his head at the devotion of men and women who will do anything in the name of duty, including stepping out in front of a president to take a bullet.

“Think about it--I wouldn’t do it. I figure, what the hell, that’s what you have vice presidents for. But that’s just an outsider’s opinion.” He is grinning again. “One thing we’re not short of is politicians.”

Once more he has raised the subject of politics. Is he conveying an itch to run for office again? “In another era, another time.” He pauses, as if to answer the question, no, without actually saying so. “Or if I had a job I didn’t enjoy so much like this one, public service is. . . .” He does not finish the thought.

Eastwood is now wrinkling. His hair is thinning. Gravity claims a small dewlap. He is a prime example of aging properly. Many people remark on this. But it is also noticed how few in town, or even on the set, dare follow his example. Here as elsewhere are the tinted heads and tightened eyes of entertainment’s youth quest.

Even Clint Eastwood is not a big enough force to change that.

He is not so comfortable with other trends in Hollywood, either.

He listens as an outsider makes an observation: The debate over American film, the influence of violence and dubious values, is not just a domestic matter. Other countries fear assault by Hollywood on their cultures, particularly poor countries in the developing world.

“I can’t say I blame them.”

He expresses his own lament: The popularity of “can-you-top-this with special effects . . . comic books on film.” Not that he doesn’t appreciate razzle-dazzle or hasn’t tried it himself, as with “Firefox” in 1982.

“But it seems there used to be more of a balance with the other films that are story-driven, character-driven,” he concludes.

And he has more to say about the profligate ways of his industry. Like the studio executive who wanted to tinker with “In the Line of Fire.”

“They were ready to spend $300,000 to shoot a different ending before they’d even seen the first one,” Eastwood says. “I said, ‘Wait. Look at this one first. Then decide.’ They did and they liked it.”

It is said that Eastwood enjoys speaking of his work and his approach to it. Today, as he methodically devours a slab of fire-grilled swordfish and gnaws cleanly back and forth across an ear of corn, his answers are short, crisp, practiced, like his direction.

He picks his films by “spontaneous judgment,” not to round out his letters or fill in missing gaps or explore something new.

No, he does not strive to make each film better than the last.

“I don’t put that burden on myself,” he says. “I think I’d like to make the best movie I can at the time.

“If I like it, it’s good enough,” Eastwood says about his work. He volunteers that films like “Bird” (1988) and “Breezy” (1973) that he directed but did not star in proved to have narrower audience appeal than others. “But it seems like there’ll always be an audience for them. . . . I’m proud to have them in my portfolio.”

It seems that much of Eastwood’s method has, by practice and refinement, crystallized into instinct.

“Twenty-five years ago, you’d dwell on it coming in in the morning and driving home; you’d dwell on it in your sleep. Now, you keep it with you, but you can go out to dinner or play golf on the weekends, something crazy like that.”

If he appears to be brooding, he may be. But subconsciously.

“Somewhere in the abstract part of the brain the technical things occur, and the embellishments,” he says, frowning as if he’s not conveying himself exactly right, although the point is made.

The remainder is straightforward.

For instance, Eastwood doesn’t study the set. He likes to come upon it when the crew is ready so it greets him fresh. Reactions go stale rapidly. That’s why he moves the action along. It’s the natural way for people to behave. Cast and crew appear relaxed, but they’re not daydreaming. Eastwood may feel comfortable enough to print the rehearsal.

“I don’t know things until I get to them,” he says.

Eastwood shoots a scratch on the floor in less than half an hour with only one take. A week earlier, he does the same with a complicated outdoor scene in which two snipers shoot at him at the same time, splintering cafe furniture and sending actors diving for the ground. One take.

With the 19 pictures, including this one, that he has directed, Eastwood can recall looking at the “dailies,” the processed, uncut film from the previous day, and only “once or twice” discovering he would have to go back and reshoot a scene to correct an actor’s performance.

“You can feel it if it’s right. And I’ve got good people whose judgment I trust.”

He repeats himself: “You can feel it.”

Back on the bedroom set, the filming has moved ahead and another scene is being arranged. Eastwood’s directions are conveyed with a sweep of the hand by way of suggesting the path of the actors’ movements. Then, he indicates that if the camera is positioned here to catch the action from the side, it can be moved there for the reverse view.

He pauses to scan the room with an expression that says, “Well?”

In the story, what is happening is that the president’s chief of staff (Judy Davis) has discovered that an intruder, a burglar, saw America’s chief executive in the boudoir and witnessed everything awful. And then fled.

For the 20 minutes it will take to light and prepare the scene, Eastwood orbits the room casually, yawns again, putting his hands in and out of his pockets, relaxed, moving with slow, gliding steps in high-top sneakers.

He strikes up small talk with actors and crew, one by one, his voice so quiet he cannot be overheard. In this setting, people do not speak face to face but shoulder to shoulder, so as to watch the crew.

He takes a turn with the outsider on the set.

If you say you are bewildered by the activity, he says that’s all right, “we’re just fooling around.” If you say you are trying to learn, he says, good, he’s learning all the time. If you speak about the art of movies, he says this:

“They talk about the director as auteur. Auteur? It’s more like being a platoon lieutenant or captain.”

But not such a heavy-handed one, eh?

“The yelling you get a lot of times on movies? We’ve gone beyond that.”

What about tradition? What about a director who doesn’t bark out “Action!” or “Cut” but merely says, matter-of-fact, “OK”?

Ah, he smiles.

“I learned that years ago on ‘Rawhide.’ When you say, ‘Action,’ it sends adrenaline through the actors. Even horses get very hip to the word ‘action.’ They know something’s about to happen. Up in the saddle, the actor squeezes the horse, the horse jumps out of the shot. Then you start over. I realize horses have brains the size of a walnut, but even they are smart enough to figure this out. So I try to use a different word, like ‘OK.’ Makes everyone feel easy.”

Well, that will bring him a few letters from horse lovers, the walnut-brain remark.

“I like riding. I like horses,” responds one of the most memorable cowboys in film. “But on my days off, I’m not going to pull myself up on some slack-lipped, big-hoofed monster.”

OK?

OK.