Nick Mancuso

( by Bill Royce - 1979 )

When l left Los Angeles the first time," Nick Mancuso laughs, "l left screaming. Literally. Just packed my bags one day, dropped my agent, and flew right back to
Canada."
After the downright dismal reviews Nightwing— the lanky actor's first film—
collected from the critics, it's almost amazing to discover Nick didn't pack up his bags again and wave good riddance to hype, Hollywood style, for once and for all. But the Italian-born performer with the dark good looks is the persistent type—he persisted through police raids, public indifference, and even critical slaps for nearly ten years when he functioned as star-writer-and-director in Toronto's turbulent alternative theater scene. ("Hair was playing at the same time," he recalls, "with as much nudity, but we got busted after twelve performances by the morality squad because we ate a baby on stage. It was symbolic—a black comedy.")
Nightwing, a thriller about vampire bats that disappeared from theaters faster-than-the-speed-of-sound last June, at least offered the young Canadian the "meaty" role of an Indian deputy sheriff battling white man's greed on the one
hand and native superstition on the other. Critics may have rapped the film itself—easily overshadowed by the likes of Alien, Prophecy, and other examples of last summer's "monster movie madness"—but at the same time took notice of Mancuso's born-to-the-breed naturalness and directness, no matter how shoddy the pseudo-esthetic brush surrounding his efforts. What little audience the movie drew to theaters likewise responded to what George Anthony—the critic for the Toronto Sun— once termed "the come-and-get-it- sexuality that could make Nick Mancuso a major star."
Not surprisingly, Hollywood powerbrokers—the agents and Studio execs whose collective consciousness is usually raised no higher than their platform shoes—had to admit Mancuso was dealt a bad hand with Nightwing. One month before the premiere of the film, Mancuso sat in the living room of his rented Laurel Canyon retreat and evidently didn't suspect he was dealing with a stacked deck. "l think it's a very good adventure film," he offers between drags on the ever-present cigarettes he uses like batons to underscore particularly Important points. "l've seen the film twice and both times people jumped out of their seats and screamed."
But what happens, he's asked if the film opens and dies an instant death at the box-office? "Oh, l don't know," he shrugs with a revealing combination of both concern and what-the-hell nonchalance. "l get more roles. This won't stop me. l would be disappointed naturally. l mean I worked on the film ... very hard." A couple of nights later, another role in which he poured himself whole-heartedly—that of one of the Israeli agents who captured Adolph Eichmann—hits the tube as he Stars opposite Topol in The House on Garibaldi Street, the critically-acclaimed (and high-rated) ABC movie-for-television.
By this point in his still-growing career, Mancuso has tasted both success and not-quite-bitter defeat. An earlier sojourn in Hollywood—he starred (and helped write) a TV-movie called Dr. Scorpion—left the theatrically-trained jack-of-all-trades (he even helped build the seats for one theater in Canada) bewitched, bothered, and somewhat bemused. "l think there's a hell of a lot of pressure down here-," he sighs, "because the stakes are higher than in Canada. It means a big car and a home and so on—it almost also means smog. It's not a very natural way to live ultimately. At least in Toronto, you have space. There's also time to interact. Here, you're running-and-rushing around. And everybody's doing it in their car!
How clear can anyone be after running around for three hours in their cars?" What prompted the high-powered actor to leave Hollywood the-first-time- around "literally screaming"? "Oh," he laughs again, "l've sort of natured since then a little bit. l didn't want to do any television then and Universal had offered a contract for a series with the Dr. Scorpion thing. And l was very sort of... adamant. l said, 'l don't want to do a television series!' The whole situation just came to a crunch and ... l just walked. l said to myself: 'I'll come back to that town when l do a film!' And less than a year later, l was coming back to this town to do a film! But the amazing thing was when l came
back to LA., l felt like l was home. It was very weird. l guess home is where they kick you enough times, you get used to it, you know? You get to like it or something ..."
Despite the "dazzle and the chandeliers and all the glitter" Hollywood has to offer, what Mancuso liked more is the "paradise" his childhood in Mammola, Italy represented. "l hate talking about my childhood," he begins to protest—and then abruptly shifts gears. "It was a fragmented kind of childhood. l was the oldest in a family of five and l was dislocated at the age of six ... going from Southern Italy to Toronto. That really threw me. "In Italy," he explains, "l was surrounded by a lot of love. The whole town was related. l could walk down the street and my aunt would lean out the window and bring me and my little sister in and feed us. Then we would walk down the block and be fed again and so forth. This just went on all day. It was
Eden. Literally. l knew that world and felt l had the whole universe figured out.
Then suddenly—oooof—l'm in Toronto and my world has turned around. There was a tremendous change in physical climate as well as the emotional. So it all really threw me for a loop and it made me very introverted ... extremely introverted 'till l was twelve. Then l went back to Italy and l came out of that.
"But l went back to Toronto and l went through high school—and that was just the pits. l just became totally withdrawn. When l first got my glasses, l was ecstatic. l finally found something l could hide behind, you know? But there was a lot of gangs up there, too. It was that kind of neighborhood—it was very rough. And l was completely Cathollc—if somebody hit me, l would turn the other cheek, literally. So, finally, l just got fed up and l got very ... enraged. And very aggressive."
By the time Mancuso entered the University of Toronto ("l was going to be a research psychologist"), he was already channeling that aggression into acting—to the surprise of both his parents. "There was a lot of resistance on my father's part," he says simply. "But my mother was always very, very supportive. She always used to say: 'Do what you want to do.' But l could understand their confusion. l came from a very typical Southern Italian family and there you either became a priest, a doctor, or a lawyer. That's it. You either do one of those three—or you're a bum. It's as simple as that."
Mancuso nevertheless became not only one of the brightest lights in the local Underground theater scene, but one of the guiding lights behind the Toronto Free Theatre as well. "l was part of a group of people who literally built our own theaters because there was no theater in Toronto at that time," he elaborates. "There were thousands of kids coming out of the universities in 1969 with worthless B.A.s. So the government set up this program to keep us off the streets and a lot of us applied for grants to build theaters. That's what we wanted and that's what we did. We just literally built the stage. Built the seats. Put in the lights. The whole thing."
The admittedly moody actor with the brooding sensuality also built a sturdy
reputation for himself in other arenas— including the prestigious Stratford
Festival and Canadian television (Paradise Lost, Red Emma, Thousand Moons).
But the thought of fame on an international level holds little appeal for the almost
30-year-old actor. "l don't like the Idea of being on the cover of those things you see at the supermarket," he insists. "l think that's wrong. l don't think that's what acting is about. LIfe has become very externally-oriented. Youth is now extremely important. Beauty is extremely important. Being as charming as possible is extremely important. And for what? l find it all very superficial.
"Plus," he says, reaching inside his pocket for another cigarette, "l don't
trust anything that comes so easily as that kind of fame or whatever you want
to call it. l believe that whatever you get, you have to knock yourself out to get.
That's what makes it worthwhile for you. Otherwise, what the hell is the point? It's like people who are beautiful, but they were born with it—their attitude is
'Gee, so what?'"
Ask the bespectacled actor about his personal life and, not unexpectedly, he
replies: "l can tell you about graperaising." Probe a little deeper about the
attractive blonde sharing his home—and much of this conversation—and he'll
offer, "Okay, she's my girifriend but it's none of your business. l don't want to
talk about anything like that. We're very close. l've known her for about a year
and right now you can say she's my ... girlfriend." 
Mancuso is more voluble about his own quirks—and his own future. "One of the hardest things for a Canadian is to get another Canadian to believe him," he laughs with some exasperation sinking into his voice. "We're kind of interior volcanoes. Very interioralized. Very introspective. Actually, Canadians are more similar to the Swedes than we are to Americans.
"l used to be a very angry young man. l used to be angry in my early twenties
about injustice ... about the misuse of people ... about the misuse of everything. The universe is given to you and to me and look at what we're doing to the trees and the plants and the fruit. We are making hell for ourselves here. Why? Because of greed. Because of avarice. Because of jealousy. And because of hatred. And my reaction at the age of 21 was one of anger. Now, l'm an 'adult' and l have to make my way through it. But l still have fits of rage. Nowadays, if l get in a rage, it's about things like sticky doors ... or bad coffee ... or stuff like that. l get really enraged about important things," he laughs.
What's genuinely important for Nick Mancuso is working steadily in both theater and film—and he realizes the difference. "You see a lot of actors who have problems making the transition," he says, grinding his last cigarette in the
battered ashtray he's been twisting in his hands for much of the interview.
"People like Olivier have never become brilliant film actors while someone like
Brando became a brilliant film actor although he had started on the stage. In the theater, you can get away with being technical. Stage," he sighs again, searching for words, "can be far more ... head, you know? And l think film has got to be ultimately an intuitive kind of thing. Look, the greatest actors in the world are nine-year-old kids. They just let their instincts flow. But, later, the logical process and the advent of reason interferes and you see that gift going .. phfffft!"
Nick is obviously destined not to go "phfffft." He's already shown he has the gifts—and the guts—to fly higher than Nightwing. Besides, as he reminds
himself more than anyone else in the room, "Success to some people is money, power, sex ... the whole gamut. The whole Christmas tree.
"But success is more than the money you make," he declares firmly. "Success
... success is nothing more and nothing less than being able to live with yourself!"