Words Paul Tiernay Photography Guzman
Published in No 18
The Scottish actor and self-proclaimed polymath Alan Cumming is all over the place today; literally and metaphorically. In the last few weeks, he has stood on stage in places as far flung as Pennsylvania, Seattle and Honolulu, delivering a one man show which has clearly left him disorientated. “I don’t know where I am half the time,” he says flatly, with an expression that belies the happy-chappy persona he projects to the world. “Is this Connecticut, or Copenhagen? Who am I?”
You’ll know Cumming from any number of sources. He is prolific in the extreme, with a string of stage, screen and TV roles behind him that have charmed audiences of all ages. His angular, mobile face has won him a steady stream of accolades in both arthouse and blockbuster form. If you don’t know him by name, you will certainly recognize that signature character — simultaneously cheeky, irreverent and ultimately transformative.
For me, he will always be Sebastian Flight in the British cabin-crew sitcom The High Life. Or perhaps his most celebrated role as the Emcee in Cabaret on Broadway, for which he won a Tony. Reading his list of achievements and accolades is both impressive and exhausting. How does he do it? Is he the consummate professional? It seems so.
I am two minutes late for our meeting this afternoon, which is clearly unacceptable. I can tell this by the frosty demeanour and the complete lack of eye contact. What does one have to do to win this enigmatic creature over? “I only have half an hour,” he seethes. “Perhaps we should start.”
Cumming has a reputation. He does not suffer fools gladly, although I’m sure it’s all a front. Underneath the tartan chill lies a soft and tender centre. You just have to pick away to get to it.
We have met once before, in the late ‘90s, backstage at a Versace fashion show in Milan, where he peered around the curtain like an uninvited guest. I was with my friend, Robert Morrison, a waspish, dry-humoured hairdresser from Glasgow, who sized up the Scottish competition with territorial contempt. It was akin to watching two feral cats confronting each other down a dark alley. Backs were arched, whiskers vibrated, and the milk seemed inevitably soured. As it transpired, we all shook hands that evening and got on famously. Cumming came across as sweet, shy, and just a little bit vulnerable. He also turned out to be uproariously funny, switching accents and dipping into a cast of characters for no other reason than that was who he was.
It is these qualities which have made him a star. Over four decades he has done pretty much everything. Who else can say they’ve worked with both Stanley Kubrick and the Spice Girls. If that were the case, would you really go around telling people you were just a “Scottish elf trapped inside a middle aged man’s body”? Don’t be fooled. He is a fiercely intelligent individual, admittedly riddled with insecurities, but blessed with the ability to be anything you want him to be.
“I’m disciplined,” he admits, warming to my praise. “I’ve got great energy. I think I've got good genes too. I see my mom and she's got loads of energy, and she’s in her mid-80s. I take vitamins! I don't know, performing just sort of excites me. I rest and I look after myself. I exercise, but I also have to have fun. I like a drink.”
Cumming clearly loves life but is aware of its limitations. The one-man show he so ruthlessly tours, Alan Cumming Is Not Acting His Age, is a meditation on getting older, but age will not wither him. “I love meeting new people,” he offers. “I love having adventures, but I'm also incredibly focused. I think energy is a life force. Most of the time, if you're feeling good about yourself and happy in your life, you have a sort of inner energy that makes you more interesting as a performer.”
Doesn’t he feel over-adrenalized by it all? “It’s physically tiring, yes, just by standing up and singing for that length of time. I get nervous too. I want to make sure I keep everything perky. I think it's like keeping an engine running, keeping it lubricated and in good condition. Ultimately, though you have to enjoy the ride.”
Like all sensible people, Cumming takes refuge from the madness of his existence. Most tellingly, he owns property upstate, deep in the Catskills, a place he spends as much time as possible at with partner, the illustrator Grant Schaffer.
“After 9/11, I was trapped in the city,” he recalls. “I had a friend with a place up there which I'd never been to. If I’m honest, I didn't really understand the whole thing of why people said they needed to get out of Manhattan. But after what happened, I thought It'd be quite nice to escape for a while. So now I own this land with a series of cabins on it. It was such a good thing to do, to make his part of my life.”
Knowing something about his upbringing, spent mainly in the bucolic wildness of the Panmure Estate in eastern Scotland, it all makes perfect sense. “You’re right, it reminds me very much of Scotland, especially where I grew up in the countryside. I realize now that I'm very much a nature boy. I grew up living literally in a forest, so I love being up there in the woods. It's not a thing that’s menacing or scary to me. It's completely comforting. I’m glad I have that back in my life now and feel really at peace with it. When my brother first came to see me there, he said I had bought my childhood. Which is kind of funny, right?”
For almost 25 years, the nomadic actor has returned to this place, a retreat he has playfully named “Camp Cumming,” building a series of standalone cabins — a compound of sorts, to share with family and friends. “It's been a fascinating journey living there. It’s perfect for the two of us, and during the pandemic we spent many, many months there alone and completely content. But because it's got guest houses for people to stay in, everyone can just come and go. It's great to have people to stay, but it's also great for them to not get under your feet.”
He describes this second home as lived in, but I imagine there’s a chic edge to the place too. “I really hate the word chic,” he sighs. “It’s one of the things in life that I just despise. I think chic can sound like it's got an inherent sort of superiority. The place is rustic and unassuming. The little wooden cabins are not old, but they're really cozy and comfortable, and they've got lots of lovely things in them. I've collected a very eclectic collection of junk items over the years, a lot of memorabilia from films and things that I've done. Every cupboard is absolutely jam packed.”
The more he describes it, the more enamoured he becomes. “I've recently built a tree house,” he beams, "which is actually a house on stilts because the trees weren't strong enough. It’s a great place to escape. I feel completely like this is my dream home, and the best thing I've done with my success. It’s a true sanctuary.”
The Catskills always reminds me of that poignant scene in the documentary Paris Is Burning, where young trans girl, Venus Extravaganza, idealizes life as meeting a man and settling down in those verdant mountains “Oh yes, it’s a long way from Hell’s Kitchen! We are in the western Catskills, actually. I like that it's a little bit further to get to, it's a little more of a commitment. When I go to the Hamptons, I get so pissed off. It’s the same distance as going to the Catskills but a traffic jam all the way. You don't feel you’ve left the built-upness of the city.”
I’m guessing he’s not a Hamptons kind of guy. "I’m not. Some people love it, but I go there and think it's really not getting away or stepping outside the normal mores of your life. You know, having to meet and engage with people, and having go to swanky restaurants and events and get dressed up and do all that. Of course, it's harder when you're well known to get away. That's one of the reasons I like my little sanctuary. I can be anonymous Upstate.”
Anonymity is a relative concept to this recognizable figure. He is not an A-Lister in the conventional sense but is often forced to comply with the demands of being famous. “I do feel the need to turn it on now and again. I think we're all people pleasers to a certain extent in this business — you know, going on talk shows and being pleasant and funny and chirpy. But I'm pretty much like that in real life too. I really like when people are happy. It makes me happy. I would say I'm not a people inhibitor. I'm good at making people let down their guards and chill out.”
At this juncture, the conversation has certainly thawed —from frosty to magnanimously chilled. There’s a sense this most self-aware of men knows himself better than anyone. Maybe, I add, we analyze too much in this ego-driven, “cult of me” era. “Well, as someone who’s had thirty years of therapy, I would say no. I think it's fine to understand why we do certain things. Let's talk about it. Let’s get it out in the open.”
I tell him I’ve watched him on countless U.S. chat shows, audience pleasing, obviously, but artfully keeping something of himself back too. Reading the comments below these clips is quite an eye opener. “I can tell he's a beautiful person,” says Janice from Ohio, “because it's shining out of him.” That must be nice to read over your cornflakes?
“Ha! I don't do that. I think that way madness lies, so I don't engage. Obviously, there's been things I've done when I've made big splash, and I am interested in how I'm being perceived.”
And how is Alun Cumming — showman, award-gatherer and self-confessed people pleaser —perceived? “I feel loved. I do feel that people like me. But when you start to be called a “national treasure,” it sounds a bit like an old stone. However, when people have warmth for you, that's so nice. it's palpable, and that really, really helps.”
Paul Tierney is an arts, culture and travel journalist, writing for W Magazine, The Guardian, El Pais and The Independent. paultierneywrites.com & @paultierneysees
Guzman are represented by Veronique-Peres-Domergue.net @lesguzman