A good test of an actor’s skillset is determining whether their appeal is material-dependent. Whereas limited performers thrive only in projects that suit narrow personas, truly versatile performers lend value to everything in which they appear, whether the projects are good, bad, or indifferent. This speaks to why I feel a bit of melancholy upon the passing of Stacy Keach, who died on Tuesday at the age of 85—although he did a massive volume of good work, some of which I greatly value, he did not appear in many outstanding films. (His TV work ran a gamut, and I can’t speak to his theater career.) That Keach made such a strong impression despite rarely landing in wholly satisfying projects reflects the intensity, professionalism, and talent he brought to his performances.
Innumerable headlines announcing Keach’s passing spotlighted his lengthy small-screen run as detective Mike Hammer, in telefilms and weekly episodes spanning 1984 to 1997. He’s often delightful in the role, sardonic and tough with flashes of sensitivity, and of course I’m glad this generally underappreciated actor had a steady gig (until a drug bust led to the premature cancellation of the show’s first iteration) as well as an opportunity to become something akin to a household name.
His career sprawls across decades, so he was a staple on network television well into his later years; recent recurring gigs included roles on comedy Man with a Plan (2017-2020) and drama The Blacklist (2019-2023). Keach’s long list of theater credits stretches from 1962 to 2018, encompassing classics and contemporary plays—he even wrote a show for himself, 2008 production A Love Like No Other. And his trove of supporting roles in film, including voice work for animated projects, has equal breadth, culminating in a small but touching appearance as a movie star’s boisterous dad in Jay Kelly (2025). Yet my admiration for Keach is rooted in his breakout period, the period from 1970 to 1980 during which he played most of his major leading roles in features. This body of work ranges from absorbing to absurd.
The topic of Keach’s weirdest Me Decade projects is better suited for another time, inasmuch as making, say, The Mountain of the Cannibal God (1978) wasn’t the actor’s first choice—as he notes in his autobiography, “my career was cratering” prior to costarring in hit stoner comedy Up in Smoke, released the same year as Cannibal God. Similarly, there’s a separate conversation to be had about bad luck that befell Keach, most famously when he was cast in the lead role of The Exorcist (1973), then let go and paid off because director William Friedkin pivoted to Jason Miller. (Much as I can’t imagine anyone playing that role with more passion than Miller did, Keach’s trajectory would have been quite different if he’d notched a blockbuster early in his career.) Instead of lingering on the ups and downs of his journey through movies, I find myself remembering a handful of performances.
Fat City (1972) is the obvious first thought, perhaps the most artistically successful picture Keach made in the ’70s. A downbeat character study filmed in an effectively unvarnished way by director John Huston, it proves Keach’s range: even though he was a classically trained actor with a honeyed voice, he disappears into the persona of a broken-down boxer numbing himself with booze and delusions. Keach is moving in Fat City precisely because he doesn’t seek audience empathy in obvious ways. Compare this performance to the way he plays the title role of historical drama Luther (1974), a stage-play adaptation during which Keach issues endless streams of baroque dialogue. I encourage anyone curious about Keach’s lesser-known work to check out The Traveling Executioner (1970), an only-in-the-’70s oddity about a man who drives his electric chair from one prison to another seeking customers. The picture overall is wobbly, but Keach is hypnotizing when he sweet-talks doomed convicts with promises about the hereafter.
Yet the Keach performance that lives most prominently in my memory is his explosive turn as a disturbed soldier in The Ninth Configuration (1980), the first movie directed by novelist William Peter Blatty—Keach didn’t get to incarnate Blatty’s exorcist, but he got to play what is arguably an even richer product of the writer’s dark imagination. When viewers meet Col. Hudson Kane (Keach), he’s the new recruit brought in to help patients at a mountaintop castle where the US military treats mentally ill soldiers. However, it soon emerges that Hudson is actually Vincent Kane, a special-ops warrior who suffered a psychotic break. This too-brief synopsis only hints at the complex tapestry Blatty weaves in The Ninth Configuration (which is very much a piece for specific tastes), but the salient point is what Keach does with this material.
In some scenes, he’s achingly vulnerable, so attuned to the pain of those suffering PTSD that he’s like an empath with supernatural powers. In other scenes, he’s terrifying, a volcano of waiting to erupt—and eventually doing just that. The range of emotions Keach puts across in The Ninth Configuration is dazzling, and the precision with which he coheres the disparate parts of Blatty’s characterization is just as impressive.
Surely every reader of this blog with an affinity for Keach’s work has a favorite role (there’s a lot to choose from) or at least a general appreciation for the consistency of his performances. He was good in funny stuff, serious stuff, and weird stuff. His versatility was uniquely suited to the wide-open New Hollywood era, even if fate never aligned him with a signature big-screen role. As Keach notes in his memoir, “When 1982 began, I had been starring in movies for over a decade without becoming a movie star.” The fame he once coveted eluded him, but Keach earned something of commensurate value: lasting respect for unwavering commitment to his craft. His acting could be flamboyant, quiet, and even ridiculous, but it was always interesting—no small accomplishment given what he was asked to render onscreen.
No comments:
Post a Comment