“Dial ‘M’ for ‘McDowall’”

By M.L. Zambrana

First written 14 September 2000

During the 1999 Academy Awards, the "In Memoriam" portion of the ceremony

honored the directors, writers, producers, choreographers, actors and other

industry professionals who had passed on since the previous year. As is

customary, that segment of the ceremony aired clips of those professionals’ finest

or most famous performances, in a final salute to their marvelous work for the

motion picture industry.

At the end of the memorial, the images of two men came up on the screen: that of

Roddy McDowall, followed by Frank Sinatra. The audience matched each man

clap for clap as they showed their appreciation of these legendary men.

Although the average moviegoer might not recall the name "Roddy McDowall,"

that night the Hollywood community proved that it hadn’t forgotten one of its best

actors and one of its greatest supporters.

I saw Roddy McDowall only once in person, during a performance at the Fisher

Theater in Detroit, Michigan--a ffew years before his death from cancer. I’d

gotten a front-row seat for the performance (well, more of a fourth-row seat, but

the rows curve near the stage, and being on the end put me next to the boards with

an unobstructed view). He had a supporting role in the play, "Dial ‘M’ for

Murder" as a Scottish detective, and although he struggled a bit with the

consistency of the dialect, he performed the part well.

At one point in the play the heroine, played by actress Nancy Allen, went into a

monologue as the other actors stood and listened to her. Roddy stood off to one

side with a pad of paper and a silver-and-black Bic pen in his hand as he

pretended to scribble an occasional note on the murder investigation. He

alternated his gaze between Ms. Allen and the paper in his grasp, his body turned

in my direction and his head down.

At this point in the action, I shifted my attention over to Roddy, fascinated to be in

the presence of this Hollywood legend, this former child actor, this friend and

secret-keeper to an untold number of stars. It had been his name that inspired me

to attend this play, after all…

He looked smaller than I’d expected, but that’s always the way with people on

film or television; they’re never the giants they seem to be. He looked older, too,

but not in an unpleasant way—the years had remained kind to him, and I thought

he looked quite handsome. He possessed a quiet, mature dignity…

At that moment, he lifted his head and looked at me, and I found out something

about him that I hadn’t suspected.

Roddy McDowall had strength. Despite his small, thin frame, despite his soft

voice and delicate mannerisms, his spirit had a backbone of iron. Instantly, I

found that I had encountered an individual with greater self-control and a stronger

resolve than anyone I’d ever met. His eyes had a hooded quality, appearing coal-

black under the theater lights, and as I watched, his eyes made a subtle and almost

imperceptible shift. The closest imagery to describe the change would be that of a

curtain as it is raised partway off of a stage, and you get a glimpse the shadowy

brick wall at the back of the theater. The curtain, or rather his Scottish stage

character, lifted from his consciousness for a moment and I found myself looking

at awe into the soul of Roddy McDowall, the man.

Our gaze only met for several seconds before my nerve broke, and I copied

everyone else in the theater by riveting my attention to Nancy Allen… but I will

always remember the look that he gave me. It’s been carved into my soul.