In Memoriam: Bruno Kirby

I couldn't let this pass without mention. Bruno Kirby, character actor and unmistakably nice guy, passed away Monday at 57 due to complications from leukemia.

I met Bruno Kirby some years ago on 47th Street, outside what is now known as the Neil Simon Theatre. He'd just taken over the role of Uncle Louie the gangster in Lost In Yonkers, and my girlfriend and I had just purchased tickets for the evening performance. We were walking past the stage door and some cast members had just started to leave after the matinee. It was interesting to see the Ladder of Fame in effect there on the sidewalk; Mercedes Ruehl ran out through a crowd and jumped into a waiting cab while the older of the two boys in the show strolled about in front of the theater, maybe hoping for a little recognition. Kevin Kline came out, having just visited backstage, hailed a cab and chatted with a few older ladies who talked to him like they'd known him for years. He was ever the charmer, only dashing away to help his wife Phoebe Cates down the stage door steps and into the cab.

This all happened in the space of thirty seconds, and my girlfriend said she wanted to see who else might pop out. We were standing right next to the stage door steps, a crowd still hovering around the door, when Bruno Kirby came out. He made it down the steps, waving hello to everyone, but backpedalled as the crowd moved in. He wound up between me and the steps, a convenient way to cover both flanks (I'm 6' 2", no old lady stands a chance getting past me). I was content to watch him work the crowd, signing and having genuine conversations with the audience. He talked about how good the rest of the cast was, even pointing out the older of the boys some ten feet away as a real find. All the while, he checked me out over his shoulder, curious, but amused.

"How're you doin'?" he asked.

"Good. Thanks."

A few more signings. When his hands would empty, he would turn to me, expecting me to ask for an autograph, but I hadn't been prepared, I had nothing, and I told him so, but that we were coming to the evening show.

"Yeah? Have you seen it?"

"I saw it a few months ago with my brother, but now I'm bringing my girlfriend."

"So you've seen it. I'd be interested to know what you think of tonight's show. You'll be here after?"

Are you kidding me?

He checked his watch and let everyone know he had to run. The crowd beamed and disappeared as he walked off with a wave. "See you guys later," he said to my girlfriend and I. We were buzzing for a while, excited, but reminded each other later that he's a public person, especially after a show outside the theater, it's his business to be nice.

After the evening show, we took our time leaving the theater and made our way to the stage door in time to see most of the cast dashing out to their cabs and their plans. Pretty soon we were there with just ten or so people, all of them hanging around to see who would give up first. We were standing in the same spot, as it turned out. Just as we were about to walk away to get a drink, the door opened and Matthew Broderick stepped out. Some of the others gasped, not expecting to see him. He was as surprised as they were and he ducked back inside. He'd recently been peppered with death threats due to his auto accident in Ireland where two women died, so I could understand his reluctance to walk into a strange crowd, but his presence also meant Bruno was probably still there, so we perked up. Sure enough, the door popped back open and I heard Bruno Kirby saying, "Hold on a second, there's someone waiting for me," and he poked his head around the door to see if we were there. "Hey! I'm so sorry, you know, people kept coming backstage, and I said, these two are out there waiting. What did ya think?" he asked as he hopped off the steps. My girlfriend gushed a bit, and he turned to me and asked, "Different?"

"Yeah, a different energy, warmer, but darker."

"Reeeally? Darker?"

"Yeah, but warmer. I got the sense that he cared about the kids, but was still dangerous."

He shrugged and grinned. "It's the writing. How can you go wrong with Neil Simon? And those kids, are they terrific?"

He signed our stubs and shook my hand, asking our names. He thanked us for coming and waiting afterward and said he hoped to meet us again, then he turned to the rest of the now-regrowing crowd. We walked off toward Broadway, touched that he seemed in person like he usually did on film, a nice guy you could talk with.

I'm sad that I won't get the chance to meet him again, but most of all I'm sad for his wife, his father, in whose footsteps he'd followed, and his family. I wish he and they peace.