In the realm of cinema, while leading actors often bask in the limelight, it’s the character actors who truly enrich the tapestry of storytelling. These are the performers who, even in brief appearances, leave indelible marks on our memories. Inspired by the esteemed Pat Hingle, this tribute column turns its focus to John Vernon, a character actor whose career is a testament to the power of impactful, often villainous, portrayals. Vernon’s strength lay in his capacity to command attention in diverse roles, sometimes overshadowing even the main stars in the films he graced. This exploration delves into the world of John Vernon, celebrating his distinctive approach to acting and the memorable characters he brought to life.
Taking Back the Name: The Authority of John Vernon
“The time has come for someone to put his foot down…and that foot is me.”
This iconic line, delivered with quintessential Vernon gravitas, encapsulates the actor’s on-screen persona: the authoritative figure, often simmering with indignation. For many, the introduction to John Vernon might come through an unlikely avenue: Ernest Goes to Camp. In this family comedy, Vernon plays the antagonist, a corporate head set on exploiting a summer camp for its hidden mineral wealth. His portrayal of the ruthless businessman, Krader, is a masterclass in understated villainy. The scene where Krader deceives Ernest into securing a crucial signature is particularly telling. Vernon’s shift from feigned affability to a chillingly dismissive contempt reveals a depth of character even within a seemingly lighthearted film. This moment, witnessed in theaters in 1987 by the author, perfectly encapsulates Vernon’s ability to inject a potent dose of malice into even the most commercially oriented roles. It’s a testament to his skill that such a portrayal could linger in memory, influencing even mundane office tasks with a touch of dark humor.
John Vernon as the quintessential corporate villain in “Ernest Goes to Camp,” embodying cold-hearted authority.
What distinguishes John Vernon from mere bit players is his unique approach to portraying antagonists. His villains are not simply evil; they are fueled by a seething resentment towards those they deem irresponsible or beneath them. Whether facing off against Harry Callahan, Ernest P. Worrell, or the fraternity brothers of Delta House, Vernon’s authority figures are defined by a palpable sense of scorn and a conviction in their own often misguided principles. This unwavering commitment to his character’s viewpoint, regardless of its moral alignment, is a hallmark of Vernon’s acting prowess. He doesn’t seek sympathy for his antagonists; instead, he presents them with a stark, unyielding resolve that, paradoxically, can make their often-pathetic struggles seem almost admirable in their conviction.
Consider Maynard Boyle in Charley Varrick. Opposite the charismatic bank robber Charley Varrick, Boyle, Vernon’s mob-connected banker, is a study in contrasting fortunes. Varrick, unbound and operating outside the system, poses a significant threat to Boyle, who is encumbered by corporate responsibilities and mafia entanglements. Boyle’s power is ironically his burden; he has more to lose than Varrick. Even his name, Boyle, suggests something secondary, an appendage to a larger, less savory body. This sense of being a cog in a larger machine, a “foot” rather than the “giant,” as Dean Wormer famously declares, is a recurring theme in Vernon’s roles. His characters often operate within hierarchical structures, their authority constantly threatened by superiors, leading them to focus their frustrations on those who defy societal norms and structures – the rule-breakers and free spirits. It’s not envy, but a profound disdain for what they represent, that motivates Vernon’s characters.
Dean Wormer: The Epitome of Lovable Villainy in Comedy
John Vernon as Dean Wormer in “Animal House,” delivering his signature brand of comedic villainy.
Dean Wormer in Animal House is arguably John Vernon’s most iconic role, and for good reason. He is, unequivocally, the funniest element of the film, eclipsing even the considerable comedic talents of Tom Hulce and others. Vernon’s delivery of Wormer’s understated yet venomous “I hate those guys!” is comedic gold, encapsulating a generation of frustrated authority figures. He made villainy entertaining, ushering in an era where the uptight, humorless antagonist became a source of comedic delight. Performances by Ted Knight in Caddyshack, William Atherton in Ghostbusters, and Jeffrey Jones in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, among others, owe a debt to Vernon’s pioneering work in Animal House. While Gary Cole’s portrayal in Office Space brought this archetype into a more modern context, the art of the comedic bully-villain, as Vernon perfected it, has largely been lost. Modern comedic villains often devolve into caricatures, lacking the grounded, relatable frustration that made Vernon’s characters so enduringly funny.
Vernon’s characters are driven by a preemptive spite, rooted in their conviction of being superior in intellect, success, and even appeal to their adversaries. Yet, given his inherent screen presence and authoritative demeanor, his bitterness is understandable, if not entirely justifiable. There’s a certain audacity in his characters’ hatred of audacity itself. His ignobility is almost always relatable, grounded in everyday frustrations. Most of his characters aren’t wealthy, their disdain is evenly distributed (Wormer despises both the Omegas and Deltas), and they possess a refreshing lack of pretense. In a way, they are often the ones facing the real challenge, confronted by the chaotic freedom of the protagonists. Lines like “Just shoot the perp,” “Just throw a toga party,” or “Just walk away with the money” highlight the stark contrast between Vernon’s characters’ rigid, often draconian solutions and the protagonists’ carefree approaches. His righteous anger is, in many ways, more compelling than the protagonists’ hedonistic pursuits. It might be unpopular to criticize Harry Callahan’s methods or to oppose the revelry of Delta House, but Vernon’s characters often represent a necessary, if unpleasant, voice of order in a world seemingly spiraling into chaos. Even in Ernest Goes to Camp, his character Krader, whose name is a homophone for “crater,” seeks to transform a “useless” summer camp into a productive mining site, reflecting a distorted sense of societal contribution.
From Big Brother to Dean Wormer: The Voice and the Persona
Vernon’s stern gaze and commanding presence were hallmarks of his portrayal of authority figures.
John Vernon, born Adolphus Raymondus Vernon Agopsowicz, understood the power of a name. Before becoming synonymous with antagonistic roles, he honed his craft in London, alongside talents like Albert Finney and Peter O’Toole. Returning to Canada, he starred in Wojeck, a groundbreaking crime drama series, playing a crime-solving coroner. This role, predating his villainous turns, showcased his range and established him as a leading man in Canadian television. However, even before Wojeck, Vernon’s first credited role was as the disembodied voice of Big Brother in the 1956 film adaptation of 1984. This debut was remarkably prescient, casting him as the ultimate, unseen authority figure, whose omnipresent power sets the stage for the disillusioned, often powerless, characters he would later embody. This early role also highlighted Vernon’s most potent weapon: his resonant, authoritative voice. Phrases like “that foot is me” and “double secret probation” are amplified by his grandiloquent delivery, adding layers of humor and irony to otherwise absurd declarations of power. His voice, even divorced from his imposing physical presence, was inherently authoritative. Beyond villainy, Vernon also lent his voice to heroic characters like Iron Man and Namor in Marvel Super Heroes, and later, memorably voiced the villain Rupert Thorne in Batman: The Animated Series. His voice work reached another peak as the Prosecutor in the animated film Heavy Metal, a role that echoed his Dean Wormer persona in its disdainful enumeration of transgressions. In his later career, voice acting became a primary focus, alongside occasional Dean Wormer cameos, solidifying his legacy as a performer whose voice was as recognizable as his face.
The role of Dean Wormer, while cementing his fame, also became a double-edged sword. It led to typecasting, casting him repeatedly as variations of the stern, comedic villain – the hard-nosed principal, the unyielding warden. Similar to how Kevin McCarthy became defined by Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Dean Wormer became the defining role of Vernon’s career, for better and worse. While it might seem counterintuitive for a character actor to be typecast, Wormer became the quintessential John Vernon character, overshadowing the nuances of his earlier, more varied roles. Before Wormer, Vernon’s roles displayed a greater range and ambiguity. After, the comedic villain became his dominant archetype, sometimes obscuring the depth that initially made his portrayal so distinctive. It’s plausible that this typecasting contributed to his shift towards voice work, allowing him to explore different facets of his authoritative voice without the constraints of his physical persona being so strongly associated with a single comedic archetype. While his later roles might not have achieved the same iconic status as his earlier work, John Vernon’s greatest performances remain undeniably exceptional.
Point Blank and Beyond: Exploring the Nuances of Vernon’s Villainy
John Vernon in “Point Blank,” portraying the complex and ultimately doomed villain, Mal Reese.
In his debut film, Point Blank, John Vernon played Mal Reese, a character whose name itself—a blend of “malice” and “grease”—aptly describes his slithery, treacherous nature. In a film populated by characters with enigmatic, almost spectral names like Walker, Chris, and Yost, Mal Reese stands out as the only character with a complete, conventional name, suggesting a perverse kind of wholeness in his villainy. Mal is driven by tangible desires: money, survival, and a misguided pursuit of Angie Dickinson’s character. His motivations are intensely human, even in his villainy, setting him apart from the almost ethereal Walker, played by Lee Marvin. The homoerotic tension subtly woven into the relationship between Mal and Walker by director John Boorman adds another layer of complexity. Mal’s betrayal and subsequent downfall are not just plot points but explorations of character flaws and desires. Walker’s vengeance, in contrast, seems almost abstract, a ghostly pursuit of retribution.
The audacity of a relatively unknown Vernon tackling a screen presence like Lee Marvin in his first film role speaks volumes about his inherent confidence and screen presence. This fearlessness likely fueled his portrayal of Mal’s maliciousness, mirroring a potential real-life dynamic where a character actor might feel a certain ambition, even resentment, in sharing screen time with established stars like Marvin, John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood. These leading men brought pre-existing star personas to their roles, while Vernon, like Mal, had to build his impact from the ground up. Mal’s downfall, plummeting naked from a penthouse, becomes a symbolic punishment for his overreaching ambition, for daring to aspire to a level of “awesomeness” he couldn’t sustain. He is, ultimately, a pathetic figure, but Vernon imbues him with a compelling, almost tragic dimension.
From the lessons learned in roles like Mal Reese, Vernon’s subsequent characters evolved. In The Outlaw Josey Wales, Fletcher never draws his gun. In Charley Varrick, Maynard Boyle avoids romantic entanglements. Vernon’s characters, while still often villains, learned restraint, a grudging acceptance of their place in the hierarchy, and a suppression of self-destructive vices.
A notable, and decidedly unconventional, role for Vernon came in Dušan Makavejev’s Sweet Movie. As Mr. Dollars, a milk industry tycoon with outlandish ambitions, Vernon embraced the absurd. His portrayal is a departure from his usual stern persona, showcasing a willingness to engage with the bizarre and the satirical. Mr. Dollars, while possessing more power than Vernon’s typical characters, still shares certain traits: failed relationships with women and a grandiose, ultimately misguided vision. His historical and political pronouncements are hilariously ignorant, echoing the inner turmoil of Vernon’s Cuban revolutionary in Topaz. The character’s over-the-top nature, including his golden appendage and cherry-adorned boxer shorts, is a far cry from the stoic authority figures he often played, yet it reveals another facet of Vernon’s versatility. This willingness to embrace the absurd extended to his cameo in I’m Gonna Git You Sucka, where he played Mr. Big, a role he self-consciously justified as befitting a “big Hollywood star” like himself, referencing his Point Blank co-star Angie Dickinson and others in a meta-comedic moment. Even in this comedic exploitation film context, Vernon’s Mr. Big is still recognizably a Vernon character: a mid-level authority figure channeling his frustrations downwards.
The Outlaw Josey Wales: Fletcher, the Man with No Name, Redefined
John Vernon in “I’m Gonna Git You Sucka,” showcasing his comedic side while maintaining his signature authority.
Perhaps John Vernon’s most subtly powerful role is Fletcher in The Outlaw Josey Wales. Initially appearing as a supporting character, Fletcher, Josey Wales’ unofficial biographer, becomes the emotional and thematic heart of the film. Vernon transforms what could have been a throwaway role into a poignant representation of a defeated army, a man wearied by war and stripped of his freedom. His portrayal captures the despondency of the post-Civil War South without glorifying its problematic ideologies. Fletcher’s weariness is palpable; he enters into a pact with the Union, hunting his former comrade Wales, simply for a semblance of peace. Vernon masterfully conveys the resentment of forced subservience, reminiscent of Mal Reese’s dealings with the syndicate or Maynard Boyle’s manipulation by the mafia.
Yet, Fletcher maintains a quiet dignity. He is a vulnerable yet formidable figure, who never fires a gun but radiates a sense of latent power. His character is complex, stoic and emotionally exposed simultaneously. Throughout the film, Fletcher is heavily bundled and bearded, like an overburdened bear, carrying the weight of the war and its aftermath. The film opens and closes with Fletcher’s sighs, bookending the narrative with a sense of profound weariness and, ultimately, relief. He is almost spectral, a ghost haunting the narrative, perhaps metaphorically dying with the Confederacy.
Fletcher also serves as a moral compass, exposing the Union officer’s hypocrisy and brutality. He challenges the simplistic good versus evil dichotomy of the conflict, highlighting the moral ambiguities of war. In a film where the hero is a Confederate soldier and the Union soldiers are often portrayed as villains, Fletcher’s perspective adds a layer of nuanced complexity. He embodies a crucial message of reconciliation and moving beyond violence.
Ultimately, Fletcher teaches Josey Wales a profound lesson: true strength lies in laying down arms, not in endless vengeance. The film’s resolution belongs more to Fletcher’s arc than to Wales’. Vernon, often cast as characters with names suggesting toughness – Hacker, Harker, Ryker – finds perhaps his most resonant role as Fletcher, a man defined not by aggression but by weary wisdom. In The Outlaw Josey Wales, Fletcher initially remains unnamed, a figure in the background, until the film’s climax. Emerging from the shadows in a saloon, he reintroduces himself to Wales, declaring, “My name’s Fletcher.” This act of self-declaration mirrors Vernon’s own career – not simply “Doctor Somebody” or “Dean Fillintheblank,” but John Vernon, a sculpted persona capable of embodying a vast spectrum of surly expressions and complex inner lives.
