As a kid, I imagined that God must sound a lot like James Earl Jones.
Jones, who died this week at the age of 93, had a voice that seemed to emanate from the foundations of the earth. It was rich, sonorous, commanding. You could also imagine it booming down from the heavens or out of a burning bush; a voice that could make light bloom in the darkness. That voice made him an icon.
I consider Jones one of the defining actors of my childhood. He was, in fact, one of the first actors I recognized as an actor: I remember the startling realization that Mufasa and Darth Vader had the same voice. In retrospect, the most surprising thing about this is that I was surprised at all. No one else sounded like James Earl Jones.
It might be hard to believe, but for a time, Jones couldn’t find his voice at all. Born in Mississippi in 1931 and abandoned by his father at a young age (actor Robert Earl Jones, with whom he later reconciled), Jones was sent by his mother Ruth to live with his maternal grandparents in Michigan. It was a difficult experience; Jones developed a debilitating stutter and spent long periods in silence. He found his voice again with the help of a high school English teacher, Donald Crouch, who noted his love of poetry and made him read aloud. This led to involvement in speech and debate and drama, kindling a lifelong love of performance.
At that age Jones also developed an interest in Catholicism, while spending a summer building a new church for the local parish and getting to know the pastor. He eventually became a Catholic while serving in the Army after college at the University of Michigan. In his autobiography, James Earl Jones: Voices and Silences, written with Penelope Niven, he described the Jesuit chaplains who had “fine minds and spirits, and positive things to say.” When he admitted to a priest shortly before his baptism and confirmation that he still struggled with some points of Catholic doctrine, the priest told him: “The Church is not a definition, it is a flowerpot out of which you grow.” He remained a Catholic for the rest of his life.
At the end of his military service, Jones found himself at a crossroads. “The only thing I had that was not geared toward the art of killing was the Catholic Church…and the complete works of Shakespeare,” he told The New York Times in 1987. Though he briefly considered the priesthood, it was Shakespeare that provided his sacred calling. One of his earliest roles was Othello at a summer theater in Michigan, launching a stage and screen career that brought his talent and his voice to the world.
In memorializing Jones, you can take your pick of iconic roles: “Field of Dreams,” “Matewan,” “Coming to America.” He played author Alex Haley in the 1977 miniseries of “Roots,” and originated the role of Troy in August Wilson’s “Fences.” You might even most fondly remember him from his one-episode appearance as bluesman “Bleeding Gums” Murphy on an early episode of “The Simpsons.”
But for me, it is the movies of my childhood that stand out the most. I think of him as Mufasa in “The Lion King” (1994): graceful and dignified, but also warm and playful—the ideal father. The reason Mufasa’s death was so famously traumatic for people of my generation was because Jones made us love him; we felt his loss alongside Simba. Then there was Jones’s small but potent role as Mr. Mertle in “The Sandlot” (1993), a neighborhood recluse who reveals a kind heart and a legendary past. I realize that movie contains the less-famous of Jones’s baseball-related performances, but it was the one that struck me the most as a kid.
Most of all, when I think of James Earl Jones I think of Darth Vader. The original “Star Wars” movies were enormously important to me growing up, one of the first works of fiction that I revered as a sort of sacred text. Darth Vader was my first tragic villain. Yes, he was dark and terrifying, but there was also something deeply broken about him, even before you knew his backstory. He wasn’t the conniving villain of Disney films, but full of pain and anger.
The man in the actual Darth Vader costume was British actor David Prowse; his physical performance emphasizes Vader’s rigorous control, his easy command of power. But it was in Jones’s voice that the villain’s humanity became apparent. For instance, in the original movie, “Episode IV: A New Hope” (1977), when an underling sneers at Vader’s connection to the spiritual Force, Prowse’s movements are almost understated: He raises a hand, fingers pincered as Vader telekinetically begins to crush the man’s windpipe. But when Jones, as Vader’s voice, growls “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” the line is soaked with cold fury and a nasty defensiveness.
In “The Empire Strikes Back” (1980), Jones fills Vader’s revelation that he is the father of Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) with surprising vulnerability. When he invites Luke to join him in ruling the galaxy, it is not with the seductive voice of the Father of Lies, but with an urgency bordering on desperation: a failed father grasping at a dark sort of redemption.
At one point, Obi-Wan Kenobi (Alec Guinness) tells Luke that Vader “is more machine now than man.” There have been many imitations of Darth Vader since 1977, and they tend to copy his robotic fearsomeness. But none of them have what truly made Vader a compelling villain: James Earl Jones, who never let us forget the man inside the machine.
Even though he has passed, Jones’s voice continues to ring out and will for years to come. It feels appropriate, then, to end this remembrance with his own words, drawn from his autobiography: “During my boyhood years of silence, I never actually thought, ‘Gee, I would love to know how to talk….’ But there was a yearning, an indefinable yearning.” 'He continues: “I reclaimed my voice from that long silence. I rediscovered the joy of communication. I wanted to make up for the lost years when I did not speak. Eventually, inevitably, you yearn to lift your voice out of the silences and say, ‘This is who I am. For what it’s worth, this is how I feel—and this is who I am.’”
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