Cliff Robertson and me

Cliff Robertson is perhaps best known for his role as the mentally challenged young man Charly, in the 1968 film of the same name (based on the bestselling novel Flowers for Algernon). Robertson won a best actor Academy Award for the portrayal, and I thought it was well deserved. As Charly, Robertson was, by turns, convincingly mentally challenged, then more normal, then a genius, then back to normal and, finally, mentally challenged again.

Cliff Robertson as Charly

Prior to Charly, Robertson had appeared in several other films, including Picnic, Autumn Leaves, and Days of Wine and Roses; and subsequently he starred in dozens of other films and TV shows and was the face and voice of AT&T in TV commercials.

He also performed voiceovers for several films, including the 1979 Claymation short film The Little Prince, for which Robertson voiced the part of the Pilot. I was the production manager on the film.

When we were preparing for the Portland premier of The Little Prince, Will decided he would ask Robertson if he would like to attend, in exchange for our covering all of his round-trip expenses and offering him a stay at Will's mother-in-law's beachfront condo at the Inn at Spanish Head. To our surprise, Robertson accepted the offer and agreed to attend the film's premier. However, instead of staying at the coast, he wanted to stay at the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland.

A week before the premier, Will asked me if I would do the honors of picking Robertson up at the airport and driving him to the Benson. I panicked. What would I pick him up in? My car was a 1962 Plymouth Valiant; who in his right mind would chauffeur a big-name movie star around in such an old, plebeian vehicle?

Problem solved: I would ask my dad if I could borrow his 1974 Mercedes sedan.

Dad said yes, but Will said no. He didn't like the idea of the studio putting on airs for anyone, movie star or not, and he thought my old Valiant, bench seats and all, was a perfectly acceptable limo for transporting Robertson from the Portland airport to his hotel. Case closed.

Fine. I reluctantly agreed to the plan, feeling both anxious about the Sisyphean task ahead of me and ashamed that I had concocted the Mercedes ruse.

As such things inevitably go, the task grew even larger. Robertson was bringing his 12-year-old daughter, her best friend, and his daughter's 22-year-old nanny. He wondered whether I would mind, after dropping him off at his hotel, showing the girls some of the sights in and around Portland.

This man was not only a movie star but our guest of honor; what could I say except "Um, yes?"

I was in deep doo doo.

Or at least that's what I thought. The dreaded day arrived, and everything went without a hitch. The pickup and drop off were uneventful, Robertson was an almost impossibly gracious passenger, my day as a tour guide was fun, the girls were delightful (even though they teased the nanny and me about being "perfect for each other"), and the premier—held at Portland's beloved Movie House Theater—was a huge success.

The next day, I was enlisted to drive only Robertson back to the airport; the girls and the nanny were staying another day. This promised to be the hardest part of the whole ordeal, because I would have to come up with interesting things to talk about with someone who had, compared to me at least, done everything, been everywhere, seen everything, and had his pick of accomplished and fascinating people (read: not me) to spend his free time with.

Once again, I was wrong. Robertson was not only nonchalant about spending an hour in an ugly old car with a 24-year-old nobody from nowheresville, but he seemed to actually enjoy engaging in relatively mundane conversation for a change. And I do mean mundane: I told him I really liked him in Charly, that I had read the book and thought he nailed the character; I asked him what his current project was (a film titled, coincidentally, The Pilot, in which he was playing the part of an alcoholic airline pilot); I asked for his autograph (he obliged, on the back of a Will Vinton Productions business card)...you know, ordinary conversation...with an extraordinary passenger.

OK, maybe there was one hitch on the way to the airport. While I was driving through NW Portland, Robertson spotted the Nob Hill Pharmacy and asked if I would stop there so he could pick up some "stomach medicine." Was my insipid conversation giving him indigestion? I'll never know for sure, because when he got back in the car he apologized and said he'd been having stomach problems for a while. But he didn't specify how long a while...

Cliff Robertson, circa 1979. (Source: https://batman.fandom.com/wiki/Cliff_Robertson)