Late Walsh may have been last of waning breed

J.T. who?

That's the usual comeback at the mention of J.T. Walsh.

Walsh, who appeared in more than 60 films, died Feb. 27 of a heart attack at the age of 54. Most recently he played the scheming husband in John Dahl's "Red Rock West," the scary pedophile in "Sling Blade" and the trucker terrorizing Kurt Russell in "Breakdown." His career capitalized on his ability to convey innocence and malignancy simultaneously; he almost never stopped working in 33 years.

Courtesy of Paramount Actor J.T. Walsh (background), who died of a heart attack on Feb. 27, lends some menacing support to Kurt Russell in last year's sleeper hit, "Breakdown."

And most filmgoers probably have a difficult time conjuring his face.

J.T. Walsh was a supporting actor, the guy who thanklessly keeps the plot moving; keeps the spirit of the production on point; gives hazily written characters the stamp of individuality without stealing thunder from the lead players; inspires those players to a higher level of work. All while suffering the ignominious, yet unavoidable, moniker of "second banana."

Walsh epitomized a classic type on which supporting careers are built: the villain. With his uncanny blend of innocence and malice, anonymity and menace, he embodied the banality of evil, just as Christopher Walken personifies its alien, more psychotic aspects, and James Woods its haunted, wounded side. He was a torch-carrier in the grand tradition of Akim Tamiroff, Richard Widmark and Peter Lorre.

"The thing that's too bad about J.T.'s early death is that he didn't have much of an opportunity yet to show what he could do outside the villain," said Kurt Russell, who worked with Walsh on four films. "He could do anything. I always saw 'Breakdown' as the coup de grace of those kinds of roles for him. I always hoped to do something with him in the future that turned the tables, with him being the lead."

"Unnoticed." "Invisible." "Totally believable." These words and phrases are the stock in trade of the supporting actor who, if he's good, is at once distinctive and unseen. And Walsh's passing invites reflection: Whither the career supporting actor?

He hasn't disappeared, of course, but he seems in increasing danger of extinction, reduced to a wispy walk-on or a stereotype, by the stars and special effects that are driving movies. More of a movie's budget is going to pay for astronomical star salaries and special effects; a character actor who made $50,000 a week five or 10 years ago is being offered a fraction of that.

The Golden Age of the supporting actor was the late '30s and '40s, when the studio system was in full force. MGM's motto was, "More stars than there are in heaven." It could easily, if less poetically, have said the same for co-stars.

Each of the eight major studios had actors under contract whom they employed on their pictures and traded out to other companies. Supporting roles often were used as a farm system to develop promising talents and help them find their right level.

Some went on to stardom (James Stewart, Gary Cooper and Clark Gable all got their starts in support; later, Harrison Ford carried on that tradition). Others, who lacked "star quality" but had a facility for playing a multitude of characters or just one type, made up the studios' stable of reliable supporting players.

But there were also the great character actors who transcended type. Think of "Casablanca" without Lorre or Claude Rains or Sydney Greenstreet. Think of "Citizen Kane" and "The Third Man" without Joseph Cotten. Imagine what the great films of the '50s would have been without Karl Malden, Arthur Kennedy, Anthony Quinn and the pre-push-up Jack Palance?

It's difficult to conjure their present-day counterparts. (For that matter, it's difficult to name the '90s version of Thelma Ritter, Celeste Holm or Eve Arden. It's not fair to ask Joan Allen and Joan Cusack to cover all three.)

Gene Hackman, bless him, still toils in the vineyards, occasionally breaking out into lead roles; his current turn in "Twilight" is characteristically restrained, unfailingly focused. Tommy Lee Jones is a towering example of the art: He can't carry "U.S. Marshals," but everything he appears in as a supporting actor benefits incalculably from his ballast.

Hackman and Jones' best contemporaries have vaulted into another stratosphere altogether: Dustin Hoffman, Jack Nicholson and Al Pacino - if he can overcome his tendency toward camp - share that alloy of presence, command and sexuality known as star power, but they also share the character actor's greatest assets: the willingness to submerge his organic sex appeal long enough to become a character, a problem that plagues many contemporary actors.

Kevin Spacey, who won the 1995 Oscar for "The Usual Suspects," has the silkiness of a modern-day Claude Rains. Samuel L. Jackson, like Nicholson, is able to handle both lead and support.

Gary Sinise, Oliver Platt, John C. Reilly, Don Cheadle and Vincent D'Onofrio can be counted on to bring energy and solidity to an institution that in the eyes of most young actors is merely a career move.

Time will tell whether Hollywood consistently can create roles worthy of their talents. In the meantime, next time you're at the movies, take a little time to look at the guy keeping the whole cockamamie cavalcade going. And try to remember his name, so that at least one less career will be relegated to "Who?"

03-13-98