Poor John Lithgow
It’s gotta suck to be John Lithgow. This man dedicated himself, his life, his career to the craft of acting. No easy or simple task.
The job of an actor is an incredible challenge. In the early days, as you sharpen your skills, build your network and otherwise pay your dues, you toil very much in anonymity. You also toil in near-poverty, because that’s just how it goes. Further, it takes a lot for a man or woman to become entirely another person, to say nothing about becoming another person every week, every month or every season. I can’t imagine the creativity, dedication and passion necessary to hone the blade of acting to the sort of precision that can shred an audience’s uncertainties, their fears, their reserve. The precision that can evoke joy, laughter, tears, compassion, exhilliration. It is an effort of years, of decades, to deliver an unparalleled form of art.
It is through such a crucible that John Lithgow passed. This is a man with two Oscar noms, a lengthy film resume and a theater pedigree. He spent the 90′s riding high with a popular NBC sitcom. He lived the dream and lived it well.
And now he sells fucking soup on television.
Now, don’t get me wrong: When you juxtapose the beginning of the standard actor’s journey — the waiting tables, the living on couches, the praying for a break, just one break! — against the simple work of being paid a few million dollars to do some 30 second spots for Campbell’s, yeah, endorsement seems like a sweet deal.
But the point here is that Lithgow isn’t the starving artist anymore. He has spent a career forging a blade of talent and experience that few young actors will ever have the fortune of matching.
And yet, he squanders it. On a few cans of chicken noodle.
Poor John Lithgow.