It’s not an easy thing stealing a film from both Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise, but I’ll be damned if Byron P. Cavnar doesn’t do exactly that. While I’ve seen the Best Picture winner dozens of times over the years – and never fail to stop and watch a bit whenever it happens to be on – the scene that leaves the most lasting impression does not involve counting cards in Vegas, the “Who’s On First” routine, or even the extended discussion on Qantas and airline safety. Instead, an otherwise quiet few minutes in a Guthrie, Oklahoma doctor’s office. For other movies, a throwaway. For most directors, an indulgence avoided, assuming the whole bit would end up on the cutting room floor anyway. But here, with Barry Levinson and a retired local real estate agent every inch not an actor, an opportunity to produce an Unsung 38 years in the future. I’d like to think it was Levinson’s primary motivation.
At the time, Mr. Cavnar was 89 years old and, well, not in the best shape. Physically healthy enough, sure, as he lived until 1995, but the mind was shot. To pieces if we’re being frank, even if it appears he had a side gig as the prairie town’s resident historian. You see, he liked to talk. To no one in particular, naturally, as for him, an audience could consist of human beings, chairs, or even a blank wall. Didn’t matter, never would. He had a story to tell and by God, someone was going to listen. On this day, the subject at hand was the Pony Express. Sure, Byron had spun his web any number of times over the decades, but as he waited to be seen (and humored, ever since the doctor learned that what remained of his years would amount to playing out the string), he saw a new opportunity. Sure, the other guy seemed a bit off himself – no eye contact, snapping photos of the floor – but this story just couldn’t wait. People have got to know.
He begins: “So, young man, go West, go West, and this is the way our country developed from the East coast to the West coast.” He’s not wrong, even if the speech is, at best, apropos of nothing. Byron isn’t looking at anyone in particular as he rambles on, but Raymond is nearby. Nearby enough, at any rate, to have the words enter his ears, hopefully his brain, and end up with the recipient at a library making a deeper dive. Byron has no idea nothing of the sort will ever happen, but for the moment, there is hope. He continues: “I am more or less familiar with the history of the United States, and I love to tell the story about the Pony Express.” Of that we have no doubt. Monotone, sure, seemingly devoid of passion, but these words are those of the obsessive; the gentleman who alienated his children, grandchildren, and neighbors alike with his incessant babbling, so he has to take it to the streets. Or the cold halls of his doctor’s office as a grim substitute.
As stated, Mr. Cavnar was not an actor. He just happened to be there that day as Levinson brought in his crew for a day’s filming. Byron was already talking when everyone arrived, and the sound and fury of a set in motion wasn’t enough to give him pause. He just kept going. No script, no understanding, no predictable outcome. Just let the camera roll and we’ll sort it out later. What we get is enough – my god how it’s enough – but I had always hoped for a Director’s Cut. Maybe the revelation that he had a good six hours of Pony Express talk and not once did the geezer stop for a bathroom break. Not even to wet his whistle. Cavnar had a lifetime of trivia ready to go, and here was the moment when the flood gates opened. Was his own grandfather a rider? Was his bedroom packed to the brim with memorabilia? The dots had to be connected, but sadly, Rain Man had other plot points to shore up. Funny how even good movies are never exactly what you want them to be. I needed more Cavnar, and I’d forever be denied.
I’m far from the sentimental type, but when it comes to the cinema, I am very much an admirer of serendipity. Every film could use it, from a dash to a hearty helping, and in the case of Byron P. Cavnar and Rain Man, it helps keep it alive as a motion picture of lasting import. As we reevaluate over the years, maybe Hoffman comes off as a bit mannered, or the road trip contrivance a tired cliché (had they taken a plane, no movie), but it will be Cavnar that ties it all together. Because, even though the story moves on without him, we never stop thinking about the other course. What if, for example, Levinson tore up the script and followed him home? Would his days be any less entertaining? He’s like Raymond, of course, in that he can’t and won’t shut up and lacks the ability to perceive annoyance, but at least with him, we get a little education with our rage. Raymond can cite dates like a computer, but Byron can flesh out the stories behind those dates, and isn’t that more meaningful? I say yes, and fortunately, in my kingdom of one, I have the final say. Cavnar, then, is the heart of the picture. The reason I stick around. The real Rain Man.