All Things Must Pass

A couple weeks ago, a post in my social media feed quickly caught my attention. 

Alan Arkin was dead. 

After confirming the veracity of the announcement, I posted on Facebook, "Oh my God. Alan Arkin died," and punctuated the news with a "sad" emoji. Acquaintances, friends, and family responded with condolences that would have suggested to the casual observer that I had just announced the death of a close friend. But I didn't know Alan Arkin. In fact, I had never even met him. However, it would be dishonest for me to say that I didn't feel some sense of loss.

While I didn't mourn Alan Arkin's death in the way someone close to him would (I didn't even cry about it), I did feel the sense that this new reality was something I would need to make an effort to accept. For the past thirty years, I have harbored a deep amount of respect and admiration for Alan Arkin not just as an actor, but as a human being. My appreciation of his unique qualities has only evolved since I first discovered his work at the age of twelve. As an adolescent with grandiose dreams of working in the entertainment industry (in my case, as an animator) his dedication, focus, and passion for his work fascinated and inspired me. As a teenager and continuing into adulthood, I grew to appreciate his intelligence, forthrightness, and pointed observations about humanity.

I first discovered Alan Arkin in August of 1993 during a 5:15 AM airing of the Cold War-era classic The Russians are Coming! The Russians are Coming! While darkness loomed outside and the rest of my family slept, I watched one of the main characters in the film in deep fascination. A mustachioed Russian naval officer in a black leather jacket crept around an island off the coast of Massachusetts in search of a boat to dislodge a submarine that had run aground. He nervously poked his head around corners, groaned comically as a window closed on him as he tried to climb through it, growled in exasperation, barked frustrated orders in Russian at the other sailors, and threatened to shoot members of an American family "to small pieces". The quirkiness appealed to me. Even for this type of character, he was portrayed in a manner that was refreshing and unusual. I had no idea who his actor was, and I didn't recognize him from any other films. 

"Who is this guy?" I wondered. "He's funny. How does he do what he does in this movie? Is he still alive? If so, is he still making movies?" I later found out that the actor's name was Alan Arkin and that both of my parents had already long enjoyed his work. He was still performing, and I learned that he had portrayed the father in Edward Scissorhands and the mechanic in The Rocketeer, both films that many kids my age had seen. Although somewhat popular among members of my parents' generation, his name was virtually unknown among mine because he was not the type of actor that would typically appeal to adolescents and teenagers.  He was neither a twenty-something sex symbol like Jason Priestely for adolescent girls to drool over, nor a hotshot like Arnold Schwarzenegger for boys to cheer on in action movies. Rather, Alan Arkin was a balding sixty-year-old who, as I would learn years later, approached acting as an art form and not a way to appeal to the masses; he couldn't have cared less about popular culture. 

About a year after I first discovered The Russians are Coming!, I read an article about Alan Arkin in the 1967 edition of Current Biography. I was captivated by the fact that he had been determined to become an actor since the age of five. It seemed that his dream encompassed every facet of his life: as a little boy, he even once announced to his playmates, "Let's play circus. I'll be everything." I found this degree of intense focus relatable; I was passionate about storytelling in the form of animation and writing, and I often locked myself in my room for several hours to do both. I greatly admired Alan Arkin's passion and drive, and was also impressed that he wrote children's books and taught himself how to play several musical instruments. He was obviously interested in a lot of different art forms, and he even stated that always having a project to work on was important to him. I saw Alan Arkin as a role model, someone who I looked up to and wanted to emulate, feelings that my mother incorrectly interpreted as me having a crush on him-- but I suppose that's what mothers do.

Finally, in December of 1994, I wrote Alan Arkin a letter. Although I wasn't planning on pursuing a career as an actor, acting was one of my hobbies and I wanted to try out for my school's upcoming production of Guys and Dolls. I asked Arkin for advice on this as well as what guidance he'd give to young actors in general. Although I knew logically that I should not hold out any hope that he would write back, I was still deeply invested in the possibility, a type of intense focus typical of me as someone on the autism spectrum. After a while it seemed like I was never going to get a response, and I felt stupid for caring so much about receiving one. However, in February of 1995, just as I was beginning to accept that my communication would go unanswered, I received a reply. I still remember with great clarity the rush I felt when I opened the mailbox that day and saw "A. ARKIN" handwritten on the return address.  Rather than a generic, impersonal letter that one might expect from a busy actor, Alan Arkin's response was filled with kindness, honesty, sincerity, encouragement, and humor. I knew that I would always value the letter, and I have since kept it safe in a long manilla envelope. Today, I treasure it more than ever. 

I have recently come to realize that Alan Arkin is the rare example of a celebrity that I only have a higher opinion of the more I learn. Listening to him speak about acting as well as various social and political issues betrays a high intelligence and an intellectual side. I have also heard stories that speak to him as a person of high integrity. On the set of Going in Style, Arkin's co-star Morgan Freeman tried to look up the skirt of one of the female production assistants-- that is, until Alan Arkin stepped in and told him to stop. Abigail Breslin of Little Miss Sunshine fame related stories on Instagram from when she was a child, about how he was always looking out for her on the set of the movie. For example, he once ordered "cut" and shouted, "Get her mother!" when he misinterpreted her crying as genuine distress rather than acting. 

I think about my evolution of respect for Alan Arkin over various stages of my life. My admiration for him as a diverse and well-rounded individual is now a long cry from the simple "Who is this guy? He's funny!" thoughts I had as a twelve-year-old back in the summer of 1993. I grew to see and appreciate-- albeit admittedly from a distance-- the kind of versatile, intelligent, and ethical man that he was. I posted on social media, "I am so overwhelmed with respect for this guy. What a role model Alan Arkin is to the world-- as a human being and as an actor." I still can't believe that he's dead and, as I said before, I do feel some sense of loss. 

All things must pass, but Alan Arkin's memory will live on.