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Tom Hanks: In His Own Words
From: American Film Institute | By: Rochelle Levy Lazar

EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION | Tom Hanks constantly surprises audiences with his ability to transform himself for each new role. Through films such as Philadelphia, Saving Private Ryan and Cast Away, Hanks has provided audiences with a consistent string of memorable performances. Yet, the prolific career of Tom Hanks rests not only on his ability to completely immerse himself in the creation of his characters, but also to recognize a world away from the set.

In this feature from the American Film Institute, Tom Hanks discusses his career both on and off the set--from his early childhood through each of his most memorable performances.



In June 2002, the American Film Institute recognized Tom Hanks with their 30th Life Achievement Award.
y folks were in the restaurant business. My dad ran the kitchens and did the cooking; my mom did the books and waitressed. I was the third kid to come along--an older sister and older brother and then a younger brother. When I was five, my folks divorced in the difficult ways of the early '60s. The three older kids went with dad; the baby stayed with mom. All through grammar school and junior high I was something of an oddity since both parents remarried a couple of times, and I could claim all sorts of stepparents and stepsiblings. Friends would marvel when I'd say, "I have three moms, three dads, nine sisters and a brother I don't even live with." The modern family before the modern era.


We moved 10 times before I turned 10 years old. I would be terribly shy for the first few days at a new school, but then holler out a funny caption during a filmstrip without getting into trouble--usually something that my older brother had said at home. That broke any discomfort I had at being a new kid, and I became very independent and self-reliant.


In high school, I saw friends in the fall play and couldn't believe something so much fun was being done in school. The next year, I gave up the track team for the drama class, and school went from being something to survive to being something I couldn't wait to get to every morning. There was nothing more fun--more exciting--than being in a play, doing a scene in class or just laughing in the hall outside the drama room before class.


To play Josh in Big, I went back to those memories and that particular physiology of being 12 and 13 years old. Back then, I couldn't make sense of anything--the world, my household, girls. I was either laughing hysterically or incredibly cranky all the time. The chemicals in our bodies are out of whack, you see. In fact, mine still are.


In too many ways, perhaps, I had the perfect upbringing to be an actor. Constant moves, new friends all the time, tossing simple possessions into the back of a used station wagon and going to some new place, setting up the home stage, figuring out the local rules, then mixing in. Getting a job as an actor requires the same exact skills.

The power of cinema

2001: A Space Odyssey was the most influential work of art I have ever seen. Seeing that film was the first time I understood cinematic storytelling as a union of light, sound and logic. Nothing was said in the film for the first 20 minutes. Much of what little dialog there is in the film is mundane chitchat. The most emotional character, HAL the computer, is nothing more than a voice and a red lens. I was 13 years old. Ever since, I've been most inspired by moments in a film--the conflicts, understandings, passions and horrors--when words are not used, but the emotional beats are indelible and immediate.


I like mystery stories, the mystery of why we live our lives the way we do. Why do some of us live by the rules while others try to get away with whatever they can? Why do some people have ethics while others have only excuses? How is it some do the right thing and fail, while others do wrong yet succeed? This mystery will never be solved, only struggled over, and out of that struggle comes genuine triumph.


The cinema has a grand power to make you no longer feel lonely. You walk into the movies a lonely human being, see a movie perfectly told up on the screen, then walk out feeling like you belong to something outside yourself. When you see a movie you love, you never forget that feeling. And you have something to talk about for the rest of your life.

Creating characters

I take my professional responsibilities seriously, as a commitment. It is my responsibility to make manifest the character as written by the screenwriter. It is my responsibility to give the director what he or she needs to tell the story inside their heads. My responsibility to the audience is to tell the truth.


For some movies, you have to bulk up. For A League of Their Own, I put things in my body--food items, food products, food-like creations--that only technology makes possible. I got so heavy my feet hurt, my sleep was messed up and I was constantly tired from lugging that body around.


In Philadelphia, I had an image in my head of what the character would have to be, what he would have to go through. I knew I would need experts to supplement my knowledge, alter my body and influence my psyche. I could not verbalize much of that image, but I could see very clearly what I needed to go through.


I lost count of the men and women who sought me out to say, "My dad never talked about what happened to him in the war until after we all saw Saving Private Ryan." That happened because a chord had been struck, a window had been opened on our human, American history. There was new empathy, even salient understanding, for the experiences of the previous generation. Old myths from the past became the real stories our folks told us about what they did when they were kids.


Here's how you make Toy Story and Toy Story 2. You go into a room with a microphone. You see people on the other side of a soundproof wall of glass. You say the lines over and over again--using every inflection and logic you can muster. The people on the other side of the glass laugh some, talk some, nod a lot and wince. Then they go away. While they are gone, they figure out a way to put you into brilliant movies, more magical than anything you have ever seen.


The idea of Cast Away is very attractive. You're alone on an island with no other worries but how do I catch today's fish, and I gotta get that fire started. Then you try to catch that fish. How you gonna do that? And starting that fire? You've never done that without a match and a pilot light. And, oh, yeah, you thirsty yet? Any water? Maybe some in a hole in the dirt and some drops in the tree leaves. And, wouldn't you love someone to talk to? Of course, but you're alone, remember? The only thing that comes easy is breathing, and you better keep doing that because the sun will come up tomorrow morning, and with it, maybe a sandwich, a cigarette lighter, a bottle of Evian and the love of your life.


When you work on a film set, life can get put on hold. "Sorry, but I am working right now," becomes the perfect all-purpose excuse for avoiding everything. You can find great pleasure in that protected environment that requires three or four months of procrastination. But the things that are truly important in this world are not found on the set. Those things--your family, your friends--are at home. So go home, and tell the people at work, "Sorry, but I am living right now."