Everybody loves the Cronyns. Other actors hold them in awe, audiences adore them, and the critics long ago exhausted the ordinary words of praise to describe their performances. "Let us celebrate the Cronyns," gushed the New York Daily News's Douglas Watt when they last appeared on Broadway, in 1986. But then who could say anything bad about Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, the husband and wife who, working together and separately, define acting in America?
Probably no one but Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, who have been pointing out each other's faults, professionally at least, for almost 50 years.
"Hume's always taking notes on what I do wrong," complains Tandy.
"So are you with me, darling," responds Cronyn.
"But I usually forget to tell you about them."
"Not always."
Such affectionate banter, as exquisitely timed as a medieval court dance, cannot disguise the fact that, much as they might quibble, they not only expect criticism from each other, they want it. There is scarcely a conscious minute that they are not thinking and talking about acting. Performing is not a way of life for them, it is life. "Perhaps the Cronyns are the last true theater professionals," says Mike Nichols, who directed them in one of their biggest hits, The Gin Game.
Unlike the Lunts -- Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne -- with whom they are often compared, the Cronyns do not insist on working together. Their most visible recent roles, in fact, have been done separately. For playing the lovably irascible lead in Driving Miss Daisy, Tandy was nominated for an Academy Award. The biggest commercial success of her career, as well as the most surprising hit of the past year, Daisy has so far made $70 million at the box office, an extraordinary sum for a movie without sex, violence or raunchy humor. Cronyn has not swept the field as his wife has this year, but he has won extravagant praise for his role in Age-Old Friends, a touching TV drama set in a nursing home.
Yet, as Tandy notes, "you pay a price for being separated," and they clearly prefer working together, despite the sparks that sometimes ensue. "There is a tension that can build up," says Cronyn. "Sometimes I've been helpful to Jess, but sometimes I've been a pain in the ass, and she will say, 'Leave me alone! Let me do it my way! I can't play your part; don't you try to play mine.' We work differently. When Jessie gets her teeth into something, she is totally obsessed by it. We will go home at night after a rehearsal, and I will be so tired that I will say, 'Oh, please, God, show me to my bed and let me forget about it until tomorrow morning.' Then I will hear her still rehearsing in the bathtub. Literally rehearsing! Absolutely literally!"
"It's not a bad place for it," she mildly ripostes.
"She's absolutely marvelous!" he continues, not a bit deterred by the interruption. "We can be driving along the highway, having closed a play six months before, and Jessie will suddenly say, 'I know how I should have done it!'
" 'What? What?' I will ask her. 'What are you talking about? That last turn?'
" 'No. In that last scene I should have . . .' Oh, God, and I can't even remember the name of the play!"