Is playing an iconic role more curse than blessing? Sure, you get fame, truckloads of money, and residuals in perpetuity. But you're also in danger of being typecast for life. Both George Reeves and Christopher Reeve were stuck to Superman forever, just as Adam West and William Shatner will always be Batman and Captain Kirk, and Neil Patrick Harris is doomed to be Doogie Howser no matter what else he does. This week at the Cannes Film Festival, reporters badgered Clint Eastwood about Dirty Harry, though he originated the role in 1971 and hasn't gone near it since 1988. And based on the avalanche of hype for the film Sex and the City, it's unlikely that its stars Sarah, Cynthia, Kim and Kristin will ever escape being Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte.
Eric McCormack knows about this typecasting as well as anyone. During its eight-season run from 1998 to 2006, his hit sitcom Will and Grace went from being slightly controversial - comedic gay characters in prime time! - to being, in McCormack's words, "comfort food." In syndication it's ubiquitous. Now the Toronto-born actor, 45 (he has a five-year-old son, Finnigan, with his wife of 10 years, Janet Holden), is trying to use the positive Will fallout in his charitable life, while avoiding its negative effects in his professional one.
"I've been pretty careful not to look that gift horse in the mouth," McCormack said on a recent trip to Toronto. "From the moment I got the role I thought, 'This is going to be my Sam Malone, my Archie Bunker, I know that, so don't complain.' I'd seen people in the past make the mistake of trying to distance themselves: 'I'm just an actor, man.' Or, 'I didn't do any research!' I think that's a mistake. And for the most part we did good things. We put a picture of gay life in Midwestern living rooms. By the time it hit syndication, there were kids who went through high school, and their gay experience was that show. They've become adults who have a positive outlook. So even though it was a sitcom, I hope it will be remembered for that.
"In terms of sheer good will - no pun intended - of people on the street, it's a great kind of fame to have," he continued. "You can use it to shine light on a particular cause." For obvious reasons, McCormack got involved with a number of AIDS and HIV charities during the series' run; for years he's also come to Toronto for "It's Always Something," the annual Gilda's Club evening, "which was about cancer, but it was also about coming home and performing," he said.
But now he's using his clout - and opening up his personal life - to support the Canadian Cancer Society's Relay for Life, to fight the disease that's affected him most closely. Twenty-five years ago, McCormack's mother fended off breast cancer. Two years ago, however, she was diagnosed with bladder cancer and died soon after, at age 72. And his father is currently suffering from prostate cancer for the second time.
"You wonder why celebrities are involved in something?" McCormack asked. "Let's be honest, because of how it affected me. My mom was a private person. Her breast cancer was something she kept very private - put wigs on during chemo, all that. When she got bladder cancer, again it was a private thing. She didn't want everyone to know; she didn't want anyone's pity. I think it has to be more public. Because not only is there no shame in it - of course there isn't - but it's also so common. Everyone has a cancer story. Everyone. And her story is an example of something that doesn't have to happen for the rest of eternity. Our kids don't have to reach our age and still be talking about cancer like it's inevitable."
The Relay for Life - McCormack calls it "a non-race, which everybody wins" - will take place across Canada, mainly on Friday nights throughout June (check the website, , for more information). Teams of 10 - families, friends, co-workers - take turns doing laps around a neighbourhood track all night, from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. "Any fundraiser is about fighting back, but sometimes people don't take a hard enough tack," McCormack said. "This has to be a combination of celebrating survival, and the rage of, 'Enough! Just, enough.' "
He recalls how, at Mordecai Richler's funeral, his daughter said, "Fuck you, cancer." "I remember reading that and thinking, 'That's exactly right,' " McCormack said. "That's what was lacking in my mom's death. She didn't share her rage with the world. I want to. She shouldn't be dead."
That's the pro-active side of fame. On the negative side, McCormack has had his "personal travails in terms of the business, convincing short-sighted industry people that I can do more," he said. For example, when he auditioned for Tom Hanks, for the miniseries Band of Brothers, "after the first scene Hanks was like, 'Boom! Out of the park,' " McCormack said. "I do a second scene; he says, 'Unbelievable! Truly great.' Then afterward I heard from someone else, 'It was a little too Will.' It's perception. But ultimately, you can't get mad, because it's your responsibility to change that."
To fight the typecasting, "I on purpose took time off," McCormack said. "I didn't try to do a new series right away. I'm doing one that will start in 2009" - an hour-long dramedy for TNT, tentatively titled Truth in Advertising, in which he and Tom Cavanagh play ad men - "but three years will have passed."
In the end, it's patently obvious that the blessings of being Will far outweigh the curses. McCormack still gets fired up thinking about shoot night, "where you had 300 people who'd had their tickets for six months, a stand-up comic warming up the audience, a band playing - people were going crazy. Then this song would kick in, I've Got the Music by Kiki Dee. It was thumping, and I'd just start bouncing up and down. Then the curtain would go up, and we were off. I loved it. I loved it. There's nothing quite like it."
And don't forget those truckloads of cash. "You never want the perception to be, 'I never need to work again,' " McCormack said. "We all need to work; we all want to work. But yeah, it allows you to be a little more choosy." He's mulling offers to do theatre in London and New York; to return to Stratford, Ont., where he spent five seasons with the Stratford Festival; and to make "independent films that pay nothing," he said. "To not have to count dollars is great." We should all have such a curse.
Johanna Schneller