I first met Robert Duvall in a muddy field in Maryland while filming Gods and Generals back in 2001. It was an enormous production, and as a young actor, I felt a bit lost. My role was small, a Confederate aide to General Stonewall Jackson.
That morning, Duvall appeared on his horse as General Robert E. Lee, embodying the character with such authenticity that he seemed to step right out of history. It was like he carried the weight of the past with ease.
I remember feeling nervous in my damp uniform, not about him, but about truly capturing the moment. Duvall had this incredible ability to bring out the truth in a scene without uttering a word. We spent the whole day in the mud, surrounded by the sounds of horses and distant cannon fire, and then it was done.
Afterward, as I changed in my tiny trailer, I was filled with gratitude for the experience. Then, out of the blue, I received an invitation from his assistant: Duvall wanted to have dinner with me. I was stunned. He had a reputation for being tough on actors who weren’t genuine. Did he really notice me?
We met at a quiet restaurant. Duvall was relaxed, and when he spoke, he said, “You’re a nice actor. You didn’t push the emotion.” Though the scene we filmed together ended up cut from the movie, that moment with him stayed with me.
His words gave me permission to trust myself as an actor. Over time, our friendship grew, and he helped guide me through the ups and downs of my career. At a time when I felt adrift, he encouraged me to write. He had done the same with The Apostle, his deeply personal film.
So, I began working on a screenplay, which eventually became Crazy Heart. Duvall was the first to read it. He told me, “You’re going to direct it.” He believed in me before I believed in myself, which was a game changer.
Our conversations covered everything from film to sports and politics. Duvall, an old-school Republican, and I, a liberal Democrat, shared a genuine curiosity and respect for each other’s views. But more than our discussions, it was our mutual love for film that brought us closer.
One afternoon, at his home in Virginia, Duvall showed me two framed notes. One was from Gene Kelly, praising Duvall’s work in Lonesome Dove. The other was a note from Marlon Brando, admiring his acting talent. Brando’s words echoed a universal truth: even the best wrestle with doubt and seek meaning in their work.
Duvall had a unique approach to acting. He believed in starting at zero, allowing the scene to unfold naturally. You can see that philosophy in films like The Godfather and Tender Mercies. He didn’t just act; he simply existed in a role.
Years later, I had the honor of directing him again in The Pale Blue Eye. The man I saw on set was quieter but still deeply compelling. He needed less to convey emotion—a glance was often enough.
Just recently, we discussed another potential role for him as a blind man similar to Odysseus, making his way home after the Civil War. Duvall understood that character instantly.
Robert Duvall’s legacy as an actor is secure. His performances will live on in film history. But what I will truly miss are our conversations, his laughter, and the affirmation he gave me. I will miss my friend, Bobby D.
