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  He was helped by a script, which, after many changes and writers (beginning with Mario Puzo, author of The Godfather), ended up, in Chris’s opinion, as “a romantic comedy … right out of a Preston Sturges movie, and the part was exactly what I always wanted to be, a romantic leading man, a light comedian.”

  Even as Chris toiled away to become a Man of Steel, work was going on feverishly to complete the casting. Lois Lane was, naturally, a pivotal role, but so far she hadn’t been found. Once again, the producers worked their way through a list, beginning with Barbra Streisand, and eventually, on a tip, contacting Margot Kidder.

  “I saw my screen test and couldn’t figure out why they cast me,” she admitted later. “I played it straight, and the director was in stitches. My friends always told me I was funny, but I always thought I should be doing Russian tragedy. It’s weird, because in this movie I’m showing the side of myself I reserve for friends—plus they dress me like Daffy Duck—and everyone loves it.”

  By the time March 1977 rolled around, it wasn’t just Christopher Reeve’s face and hair that looked the part. His entire body had changed. His weight had gone up a remarkable 30 pounds, to 219. He’d added three inches to his biceps, and four to his chest (bringing it to forty-five inches), and his waist was still a svelte thirty-three inches. It was, he admitted, “pure agony,” but he made the character real, and physically believable. No one could claim he hadn’t thrown himself wholeheartedly into the part.

  Far more impressive than the measurements was the increase in his strength. The sickly, skinny child from Princeton, New Jersey, who was afflicted with asthma and allergies was now bench-pressing 350 pounds—amazing considering that he’d been straining to lift 100 pounds three months before.

  The pieces were falling into place. The parts were filled, locations were set up. The crew had been hired.

  There was only one thing missing. Up in the sky it wasn’t a bird or a plane. Unfortunately, it wasn’t exactly Superman, either.

  Chris was having difficulty looking right for his flying shots. The movie’s slogan would be “You’ll believe a man can fly!” but at the moment that wasn’t even close to the case. He was rigged into a harness and suspended in midair, often having to try to keep his body rigid and look natural at the same time. The wires from the harness chafed against his skin.

  It took a long time for him to master it all, to come up with a technique that worked for him and also looked like a perfectly natural movement.

  “Superman usually came in sideways the way a hockey player stops. But if you land from seventy-five yards in the air, it takes some practice. You come in at about the same speed as a parachute jumper.”

  What turned the corner for him was the realization that, more than any physical action, it was Superman’s expression that conveyed the joy and freedom of flight—something he could easily understand and draw on from his own gliding and piloting experiences.

  “You must see on this man’s face a certain delight, a certain joy in the flying that can only come out of inner conviction.”

  He was even willing to take that idea one step further: “I want to convey the feeling that Superman was slightly dull on the ground, like a fish out of water. But as soon as he takes off, he’s at home.”

  Something Chris insisted on, although he certainly didn’t have to—and the producers probably dreaded it while relishing the savings—was performing all his own stunt work. Brando, for all his emulation of the Method in his acting, was horrified that anyone would do that.

  To Chris, however, it seemed perfectly natural. He had the physical ability to do it. That was the first step. And doing it actually gave him more of Superman’s character, made the role even more real to him. Above all, it offered him a challenge. He wanted to push his envelope a little, to stretch himself, not just as an actor, but as a man. Skiing, sailing, flying, gliding—they were sports that pitted man against the elements, that pushed him, and Chris enjoyed being pushed and pushing back. It was a thrill, and doing the stunts offered more of that, even if some proved rather terrifying, like hanging from a crane 240 feet above New York’s East River. But however frightening it was at the time, later he merely commented, with perfect aplomb, and a stiff upper lip, “I wouldn’t do that again.”

  When it was first mooted, the planned release date for Superman was summer 1977. In July of that year, the cast and crew were working on location filming in Manhattan (Metropolis in the movie). There was still more location work to be done, as well as all the interiors, which would be shot at Pinewood Studios in England.

  The film was seriously behind schedule, and already over budget. The politics between director Donner and the Salkinds was making everything difficult. Richard Lester, who’d worked with the Salkinds on The Three Musketeers, was brought in to join the team. Ostensibly his title was producer, but all his experience had been directing. He suggested that instead of shooting footage for both Superman and its sequel, they concentrate instead on the first movie; it was the only way the whole thing wouldn’t completely collapse. Reluctantly, the Salkinds agreed.

  Chris, meanwhile, was beginning to lose patience with all the infighting, which was detracting from the task in hand of actually making a film. He’d signed on to do a job to the best of his ability, to become Superman for two movies. He was an actor; the budgets and schedules weren’t his concern. He had a job to do, and wanted to get on with it. What had seemed to be both an opportunity and a delight was rapidly turning into a chore.

  “As far as I’m concerned, I’m finished when I’ve done the sequel,” he announced, stating his position and disgust quite clearly. “There may be some disagreement on the part of the producers, but the way I see it, I don’t have an agreement beyond the first two.”

  To call Superman an untroubled production would be an utter lie. It was horribly over budget, tremendously behind schedule—the Salkinds had now been forced to abandon their second release date, summer 1978—and the infighting and sniping between all the powers behind the film had reached ridiculous proportions.

  By the time everything moved to England’s Pinewood Studios, just outside London, in the fall of ’77, the most remarkable thing was that Warner Brothers hadn’t just pulled the plug.

  But perhaps they could sense the anticipation, the interest that all the rumors were generating. And also, they had so much money already invested that they couldn’t afford to have work stopped now.

  The American papers had been interested in Chris after he’d been picked for the lead, with snippets and interviews, and details of his past. But he hadn’t really had a taste of being in the public eye until the British tabloids began dogging him. According to them, he was often to be found at night in Tramp’s or Stringfellow’s, or one of the other trendy clubs dotted around the capital.

  “I’m not [in England] to have fun,” Chris countered, obviously angry that someone would make him seem unprofessional. “I’m here to put something on the screen that’s going to entertain people. If you go to a party on Friday, by Monday nobody remembers whether you were there or not. But they’ll remember what you put on the screen whether it’s good or bad. It’s my job to see that it’s good … . I go home from work each day, sometimes in agony because I feel that a scene wasn’t one hundred percent. Will they fix it with music or play it off Brando or Hackman—perhaps they’ll save me. I guess I’m driven. So that’s why I can’t take visitors or screwing around. It drives me nuts because I’m so rigidly forward.”

  Perhaps it was good that he was still the driven kid who’d been captured by theater and wanted to give it his all. With everything looking like it could fall apart around him, someone needed to be focused on the task at hand. He was there for the challenge, the role, and he knew that, in many ways, the whole production depended on him. He was working with some big names—Terence Stamp, Susannah York, Gene Hackman, Marlon Brando—but it was Christopher Reeve who’d have to carry the movie. If he wasn’t convincing, then the audience
s would never suspend their disbelief.

  “What if we miss?” he wondered. “All that work, all that money, all that care. This movie could be the biggest pratfall of the century.”

  That was what the producers were thinking, too, and praying wouldn’t happen. At least the filming at Pinewood seemed to go relatively smoothly, and Superman was set to open just before Christmas 1978, a date that actually seemed possible.

  As the calendar turned through 1978, it became make-or-break time, and Warners did everything to ensure it was make. The advertising budget for the film was $10 million, an unbelievable amount for the time. But the era of the blockbuster had been ushered in. First there’d been Jaws, thenStar Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind, each upping the ante in box-office numbers, grosses, and special effects. More than any other movie opening in the same season, those films were Superman’s real competition, the standard it would have to beat.

  The very first British “public” screening wasn’t exactly public. On December 13, 1978, Superman was the royal command performance film in London, with Queen Elizabeth II as the main guest, and Chris, as the star, was presented to her. It was by invitation only, with no reviewers present to proffer their comments.

  Three days earlier the American premiere had taken place in Washington, D.C., and Chris had been on display there, too. It was a benefit for the Special Olympics and the roster of names positively glittered: President Jimmy Carter and his wife, any number of politicians, Henry Kissinger, Barbara Walters, even news anchor Roger Mudd.

  Becoming Superman hadn’t just put Chris in exalted company, it had also made him into a very public figure. After so much work on the movie, the suddenness of the attention left him a little uncomfortable. He’d become a commodity rather than a person; never again could he be just Christopher Reeve, actor, although that had yet to fully sink in. When reporters asked him how it felt to be a movie star, the only honest answer he could give was, “I don’t know. This is only the third day I’ve been one. Come back in a year and I’ll tell you.”

  In some ways the round of premieres and gala openings was almost more grueling than the filming schedule. The following day found Chris in New York for a second American premiere, with its own gala set of politicians and celebrities. And it hadn’t even opened in theaters yet; that was still four days away, on December 15.

  The movie was divided into three parts. It began with the destruction of Krypton, as predicted by Jor-El, and the tale of how he sent his son to Earth, the only survivor of his race. Then there was the young Clark Kent, who might have looked like the archetypal ninety-eight-pound weakling, but who had already discovered some of his amazing powers and was frustrated at not being able to use them.

  And finally there was Superman proper, who didn’t appear until the movie was almost halfway done. From Chris’s entry the film took off, both literally and metaphorically. Up to that point it had been slow, and, in Brando’s sections, even turgid and pompous. But as both Clark Kent and the Man of Steel, Chris brought a very light touch to the character. There was an obvious, believable spark between him and Margot Kidder (even if it only existed on the screen), while Gene Hackman, Ned Beatty, and Valerie Perrine hammed it up as the crooks. It was, as Chris had predicted, a romantic comedy, in the very best sense.

  Of course, there were also the special effects. By the standards of the 1990s they seem quite crude, often jerky, but for the time they were something of a revelation. Yes, you did believe a man could fly, and hold up a helicopter, or even repair the San Andreas Fault and turn back time. The linchpin was Chris. All his work had really paid off. His flying and landings looked completely natural and realistic. And because he’d done his own stunts, the cameras could zoom in on him in action. Going that extra yard helped give punch to the production.

  Even before the public had a chance to see it, the critics were offering their opinions. While some thought the overall pacing was erratic, most loved it. And how could they not? Two years after the bicentennial, this was a perfect little slice of Americana, full of Mom and apple pie, “truth, justice, and the American way,” even as it offered sly little winks at convention. In the end all the wrangling had more or less been worthwhile. The New York Daily News summed it up as “pure escape and good, clean, unadulterated fun.”

  Inevitably, as the centerpiece, Chris was a focus for comment. But he most certainly wasn’t found lacking. In Newsweek, Jack Kroll wrote that his “entire performance is a delight. Ridiculously good-looking, with a face as sharp and strong as an axblade, his bumbling, fumbling Clark Kent and omnipotent Superman are simply two styles of gallantry and innocence.” Pauline Kael, writing in The New Yorker, found him to be “the best reason to see the movie. He has an open-faced, deadpan style that’s just right for a windup hero. Reeve plays innocent, but not dumb, and the combination of his Popeye jawline and physique with his unassuming manner makes him immediately likeable. In this role, Reeve comes close to being a living equivalent of comic-strip art.”

  The verdicts were in, and Chris was a winner. But the real test came with the public. The writers could churn out whatever copy they wanted, and praise the film to the skies, but if people weren’t prepared to open their wallets, it was a flop.

  So on December 15, 1978, there was still plenty of tension in the Superman camp. After all the work and the advertising, would it be a hit?

  Probably the only one not biting his nails was Chris. He was at the Cooper Union Forum in Manhattan, hosting a concert of works by Vivaldi, Mozart, and Liszt. He had, after all, once been quite serious about music himself, and it had remained an important part of his introspective side. He’d done everything he could to make Superman a success, and had given it, in the end, eighteen months of his life. After that, even through the growing onslaught of publicity, he needed some time for himself.

  Part of that meant getting away, far away, from the crowds and the hurly-burly of life. Although he couldn’t quite afford a yacht of his own yet, Chris had devised a scheme that managed to get him on the ocean at no cost—he did yacht deliveries. Recently, in return for airfare, meals, and drink, Superman and a crew had sailed a businessman’s boat from Toronto to Bermuda. All work and no play could make Chris a very dull boy, and there’d been far too much work lately. Like the music, it was something he needed for his mental health.

  And he was going to need that even more. Because, whether he wanted it or not, Christopher Reeve was now a bona-fide movie star. Opening in seven hundred theaters across the country, Superman grossed a staggering $12 million during its first week alone. That was the largest amount any film had taken in during the week before Christmas, and only the first of many motion-picture records it would go on to break. It had the highest attendance records for any holiday period, and would soon become one of the highest-grossing movies ever made, taking in a total of more than $300 million around the world.

  Superman and some other films of the time showed it was possible to be both a blockbuster and a “good” film, with content well above the lowest common denominator, and they were duly rewarded. The National Board of Review named Superman: The Movie one of the Ten Best Films of 1978, and it received four Oscar nominations—Best Film Editing, Best Sound, Best Original Score, and Best Visual Effects (for which it would win its sole Academy Award). Chris was bypassed, as was the rest of the cast, but Britain, at least, seemed to sense the potential in his performance, giving him a BAFTA (the English version of an Oscar) as Most Promising Newcomer, an award which had been won the year before by Emma Thompson.

  It wasn’t the only trophy to grace his mantelpiece. The U.S. Junior Chamber of Commerce named Chris one of their Top Ten Young Men of the Year, which might have seemed slightly odd, until the explanation was given—for his work in “helping young boys deal with the trauma of a broken home,” something he certainly knew from personal experience. In his interviews, Chris had been quite candid about his own background, the effect it had on him, and how he’d overcome it.
Through his honesty, he’d inadvertently become a symbol to a growing percentage of the population.

  Although he wasn’t in contention, Chris’s new stature in the business more or less demanded that he attend the Oscar ceremony. The show over, most of the celebrities off to their parties, and the cameras packed away, he found himself backstage with Cary Grant and John Wayne. All three, in their separate ways, were icons of Americana, with Chris decidedly the new kid on the block. Wayne certainly seemed to accept him into the club. As the introductions were made, he said to Grant, “This is our new man.”

  It was a story that Chris would repeat endlessly, and with glee. After all, not everyone was accepted by the Duke as an equal.

  To the audiences who crowded into theaters all over America, Christopher Reeve simply was Superman. It was a testament to his acting ability that the association was so immediate and so strong. At the time it seemed wonderful, if a little daunting, as he became flooded with piles of fan mail.

  “You would not believe what women would expect from somebody who played Superman,” he told Mademoiselle. “I’ll just leave that entirely to your imagination!”

  There were also the inevitable countless requests for publicity appearances. Chris thought he’d learned something of the power of a character when he’d played Ben Harper on the soaps, but that was absolutely nothing compared to the interest shown in Superman. Some of the things, he was more than happy to do, like talking to kids about his character.

  “They should be looking for Superman’s qualities,” he explained, “courage, determination, modesty, humor—in themselves, rather than passively sitting back, gaping slack-jawed at this terrific guy in boots.”

  Being a hero and a star, he quickly learned, involved responsibilities that extended well beyond the film itself.

  “It’s very hard for me to be silly about Superman, because I’ve seen firsthand how he actually transforms people’s lives. I have seen children dying of brain tumors who wanted as their last request to talk to me, and have gone to their graves with a peace brought on by knowing that their belief in this kind of character is intact. I’ve seen that Superman really matters. It’s not Superman the tongue-in-cheek cartoon character they’re connecting with; they’re connecting with something very basic: the ability to overcome obstacles, the ability to persevere, the ability to understand difficulty and to turn your back on it.”