By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Charles Taylor
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Brian Feinzimer
By CAROLINA DEL BUSTO
By AMY NICHOLSON
By Amy Nicholson
Measures of a Man
Harrison Ford is nothing if not useful
Extraordinary Measures is a race-against-time thriller in which a desperate dad (Brendan Fraser) sacrifices everything to cure a rare disease that will kill his kids at any moment. Extraordinary Measures is also a heartwarming tale about a disgruntled doc (Harrison Ford) who throws in with a biotech startup fronted by . . . well, a desperate dad who sacrifices everything to cure a disease that will kill his kids at any moment. Either way, this sort-of-true-life tale adapted from a 2003 Wall Street Journal story and a follow-up book feels decidedly small-screen.
It’s notable solely for the performance of exec producer Ford, who shepherded the material to fruition after first discovering the story of John Crowley, who quit his job as a financial consultant and raised millions in venture capital to start a biotech firm that he sold for many millions more, all to find a cure for his children, Megan and Patrick, who suffered from the rare Pompe disease, which rendered them so weak they could barely breathe, much less move. Ford’s character in the film, a University of Nebraska scientist named Robert Stonehill, did not exist in real life; Ford, itching for a good part, spent years researching the researchers to craft what he calls “a dramatic foil” for Crowley. Let’s just let him explain.
OC Weekly: What’s interesting about Stonehill is that he is the very definition of unlikable—almost callous.
Harrison Ford: It’s rare to find a character like that [in] those scripts that come across my desk. That was one of the fruits of those efforts as a producer—to create a character that I wouldn’t likely be able to find.
When you say the characters that come across your desk aren’t necessarily the ones that most intrigue you, does that mean you have to seek them out independent of agents and studios?
That system where the studio invests a lot of money in development, those days are gone. For me, especially my age range of characters I can play, it’s a worthwhile investment of my time. I can continue to feed opportunistically and find things to do. I have a film coming out in July [the romantic comedy Morning Glory] that [I] had nothing to do with.
If a character intrigues you enough, would you want to play that regardless of how good the movie might be?
Yes and no. I mean, I have done that in the past, and it’s not the most gratifying way of doing things. Every once in a while, I’ve done something where I made the choice to not become involved in the script and not become involved except with the character I’m playing. Show up, do my work and go home. And I have not often liked the result.
I guess I’m more interested in having a more hands-on approach than simply being a gun for hire. But I like to be able to assure myself that the product I’m going to be involved with is worthy of the audience I’m lucky enough to work for, for the past 40 years.
Is it worthy of the audience, or worthy of your time and effort?
I always thought that what’s given me the shelf-life I have is that I make films for the people who go see them. I don’t do it just for myself. I’m interested in making films that will give the people who see them an entertainment experience that’s satisfying. That’s the way I work.
When it comes to options . . .
I’m 67 years old. The option is to play those things that are age-appropriate. That’s just a demographic reality of the business.
You aren’t your average 67 by any means.
So I play 62. I’m clearly not 35 anymore. I haven’t been 35 for a long time. That’s okay. It’s always been my ambition and my understanding that whatever the state of the movie business is, the key is being useful.
What does that mean?
Well, it means being useful to work, useful to the process, useful as an actor—not a pain in the ass. It means being useful as a producer in understanding and developing the material—just plain ol’ useful. As compared to being useless, or hard to work with, or difficult.
So what you describe, from the sound of it at least, is putting someone’s interest ahead of your own—whether it’s the audience, the filmmaker, or the studio.
When I was a contract player for $150 a week, no one gave a fat rat’s ass about what I thought. “Just shut up and say the lines, and don’t bother me anymore” was the normal experience. So it was a long time before the success and opportunity, before I began to affect the work that I did. And it became a lot more gratifying and interesting. You know, at that point, I had earned the right to open my mouth because I was making more than $150 a week.
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