John C. Reilly has been a staple of Paul Thomas Anderson’s films, starred in serious and satirical biopics, made a legend of a man-child stepbrother, and was nominated for an Oscar in 2003 for his haunting turn as Amos — “Mister Cellophane” — in “Chicago.” But the character closest to him just might be a know-nothing who emerges, openhearted and singing, from a box.
For the past three years, Reilly, 60, has performed as Mister Romantic, a retro crooner who just wants to find everlasting love. A vaudeville-esque act of his own creation with mostly American songbook numbers — “What’ll I Do,” “Dream” — and a backing band, it’s a quasi-improvised set that has him interacting with the audience in a way that’s sometimes wryly funny, sometimes tender and sad, but always sincere. Connection, of any kind, is the point.
After a series of sold-out shows in Los Angeles, Reilly is taking his persona on the road, to Cafe Carlyle starting Wednesday. And he is releasing a concept album, “What’s Not to Love?,” his renditions of classics and more, on Friday.
His alter ego’s origins are deep-seated. “I’ve been a romantic person my whole life,” Reilly said. “My mother would play these standards on the player piano at our house, and I would sing along.” It was “Mister Cellophane” that reawakened in him, he said, an appreciation for a bygone era of theatricality. He finished shooting the HBO series “Winning Time,” about the 1980s Los Angeles Lakers, on a Friday, “and on Monday night, I had my first Mister Romantic show,” he said. “I was like, oh, I just want to get out onstage and express myself.”
And at this point in his career, he was ready to largely bankroll a passion project. “I don’t need to get any more famous,” he said. “I don’t need to make a bajillion more dollars. I’ve had a really fulfilled, wonderful life with a lot of variety, and I’ve been given a lot of opportunities in the entertainment world.” He continued, “What has meaning for me right now is to try to contribute to the world, and foster more good will among people.”
“It might sound Pollyanna-ish,” he added, “but it really was the instinct for the show. How do I start a conversation about love?”
In a video interview from his home, where a portrait from his collection of clown paintings hung on the wall behind him, he spoke more about his impetus, his performance history and why he decided not to become a full-time clown. These are excerpts from the conversation.
What was your concept for that first show?
I had no idea what I was going to do, other than the songs. I knew that I would want to try to connect with people, and I knew I wanted to be in a steamer trunk. I’d always thought that would be a cool idea — to be carried into a show, like a New Orleans funeral or something.
I quickly realized, musicians do not want to carry me in a box. So we figured out a way to have it slide out from the side. Then I was like, all right, why would I be in a steamer trunk? Hmm, well, maybe I live in there, maybe it’s like an interdimensional box. And then it all just organically came about.
Mister Romantic is this mythic character. He literally doesn’t know what’s going on in the world. He doesn’t remember anything from the past. So that really puts it in the present moment. It just gives me that much more freedom, and it gives the audience freedom to hear what I’m saying.
How did you choose the repertoire?
I’ve always been really fascinated with what music survives, out of the millions of songs that have been written over the course of human history. Why are we still singing “Amazing Grace”? I’m always looking for things that seem eternal. My label that I created to release this record is called Eternal Magic Recordings. Part of the mission was to pass on these songs.
I played Oliver Hardy [the silent-film comic] — he’s such a hero of mine. He’s a beautiful singer, but you can only find about four recordings of his, all from movies. I would love nothing more than to listen to a whole album, but it just doesn’t exist. So I took that as a note to myself: Don’t let that happen to you. If people want to hear your voice after you’re gone, leave something behind. Let people know you think these are special songs that are worth remembering.
How do you feel if people perceive it as comedy?
Comedy is part of it! When you make someone laugh — you’re on a date and you make them laugh genuinely, you know you’re getting somewhere, right? Laughter is part of accepting the way human beings are. That’s always been a part of my work as an actor, too. If I play someone that does bad things, I also want you to feel for him, a little bit. If I play someone who does good things, I also want you to be a little suspicious: “Is he entirely good?” Because I think that’s the way life is.
You grew up in Chicago doing a lot of musical theater.
It was all musicals — one after the other, sometimes two or three at a time. When I was in high school, I’d be doing musicals at this girls’ school, this [other] girls’ school, and my boys’ Catholic high school. Like I was jobbing myself out. I thought of school as kind of like my day job — like, “Yeah, I gotta go there, but what I really do is musicals.”
I got an amazing education in a lot of things by participating in those schools where nuns and women ran the whole programs. The school Mother McAuley, across the football field from my high school, was like a liberal arts college. They had a thousand-seat theater, they had an orchestra program, a choral program. They had all these strong women that taught me how to be a feminist. They taught me to find my voice.
Did you also study clowning?
I did amateur clowning. At my church when I was a kid, I did this thing called clown ministry, where they taught us how to put makeup on, and we’d go to nursing homes or street fairs, like community outreach. I was actually considering going into clowning after acting school, because I heard that Ringling Bros. had this clown college in Florida. Then someone talked me out of it. They’re like, John, you’ll be shoveling elephant [expletive] for five years. You won’t be clowning; trust me. I was like, all right. Then I started working with Steppenwolf [Theater], and I was off to the races.
Are there artists who inspired you for Mister Romantic?
The singer Jonathan Richman. In concert, he’s fully improvisational, wearing his heart on his sleeve and bringing the room into the moment. He’s just magical that way. Tom Waits is another. His combination of showmanship and obviously his musical prowess, his understanding of character. The way Tom Waits creates a theatrical event when he plays music, it’s really inspiring.
Do you get a lot of people on dates at the shows?
Yes! And that’s a very unfortunate thing for Mister Romantic, because he’s looking for single people. We did two shows on Valentine’s Day this year in L.A., and they sold out in under five minutes.
I keep telling people it’s an empathy mission and there’s a nobility to it, because I can tell you it’s a break-even proposition financially — in the best case.
Let’s be real, the show was born out of despair as much as joy. Because I was looking around at the world — and this has only gotten worse since we started this project, unfortunately — thinking, what in the hell is going on? How could people be so lacking in empathy? I wish it wasn’t political to say that love is worth trying, but it is, for some reason, in this world. It’s a strange time to have to defend empathy. Empathy is the foundation of civilization.
It sounds like this experience has been transformational for you.
Definitely. This album in particular was really a struggle personally. We’d already been doing the shows, I know we do them well. But there’s something about getting into a studio, recording, saying, “Here I am.” That takes a lot of courage. And in a way, it’s taken me my whole life to get that courage. It’s affected me in that way. It’s made me realize, love is worth the risk.
We’ve done this show on days when there’s been school shootings or horrible developments in war, really heavy stuff. You can feel people coming in carrying this. And then I explain the concept — because a lot of people don’t know what they’re getting into when they come. Their shoulders just start to relax: We’re all going to be nice to each other for 90 minutes. What a refreshing change of pace. Even if they’re not sure if I’m sincere — which I am, by the way — people still like hearing, I love you. Maybe that’s naïve. But maybe we need some naïveté, you know?
Video camera operator: Grant Spanier.