Crystal Wise
Barry Corbin hasn’t worked cattle on horseback in 18 years. This tidbit clearly didn’t influence anyone’s thought process, as the 83-year-old legend of both the silver and small screens is preparing to gingerly mount a horse with zero objections. He’s about to join 15 other cowboys and one cowgirl — all legitimate ranch workers ranging in age from teenager to codger — to round up and cut cattle at the famed Four Sixes. The Guthrie ranch is where Barry, in an appearance on “Yellowstone,” gave a notable monologue on cowboying, “It’s the most glorious work you can do that nobody ever sees.” So, the idea of interviewing and photographing Barry doing all the unglamorous and unacknowledged work of an honest-to-goodness cowboy felt like a good one.
While the years have peppered his skin with a few more spots and wrinkles, and alopecia has robbed him of his eyebrows and the hair from under his cowboy hat, you might still recognize Barry as one of Hollywood’s most preeminent and consistent character actors. Despite not catching his big break until his 40s, when he played the venerable but tragically doomed Uncle Bob in “Urban Cowboy,” he’s one of those guys who was in seemingly every other film back when the world incessantly flipped through 45 cable channels. He’s a “heck, yeah” guy, as I like to call them (Oh, that guy’s in this movie? Heck, yeah.), and his unmistakable drawl and easy-to-work-with disposition has landed him a wide range of iconic roles in Oscar-winning masterpieces (“No Country for Old Men”) and some of television’s most popular shows (“Dallas,” “Lonesome Dove,” “Northern Exposure”).
Crystal Wise
Once he’s mounted his roan horse, Barry looks down at the saddle and quickly asks his wife, Jo, for his iPhone so he can snap a picture of something he sees. The saddle is engraved with the name “Boots O’Neal.”
Barry, a man who boasts over 100 film and television credits, worked for some of the greatest directors in film history, and acted alongside some of the most iconic stars of his time, is genuinely thrilled by the sight of this old cowboy’s name. It was as if he’d stumbled upon John Wayne’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And, in this world, the world of cowboying, that’s not too far off.
When it comes to ranching and the rodeo, few names are as renowned as Boots’. The 91-year-old cowboy, seemingly born with reins in his hands and stirrups around his feet, has spent the last 30 years doing ranch work at the Four Sixes. What makes Boots so fascinating is not just his exploits on the back of a horse — which are legendary unto themselves — but that, at 91, he’s still saddling up on a daily basis.
So, naturally, Boots will be joining Barry to round up cattle on this July morning. Temps are expected to reach 105 in the afternoon, and I’m already starting to sweat at 9 a.m. I wouldn’t have judged Barry if he had wanted to throw in the towel and opt for a photoshoot in a more temperate location — like, indoors, perhaps. But Barry’s determined to ride.
“If you ride every day, you can ride till something gets wrong with you,” Corbin told me the night before over what we later deemed “only a few beers” in the Four Sixes’ main house. “But I don’t ride every day anymore. I quit cowboying when I was 70.”
“What kept you at it till then?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s good to get out with the crew and do work — real work instead of pretend work.”
“Is acting work?”
“No, that’s play.”
“Ever miss cowboying?”
“A little bit, but if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to stay in shape. There aren’t too many of ’em. There aren’t too many active cowboys over 80. I guess you got ol’ Boots out here. He’s older than I am, but he’s the only one.”
Crystal Wise
I’m shocked how spry Barry appears the morning of the cattle roundup. And I’m not referencing his age. I’m referencing the night before when we were up late shooting the breeze and drinking Coors and Michelobs, whichever managed to hit one’s hand out of the cooler. We discussed religion, politics, acting, his upbringing, and he shared dozens of stories related to dozens of people — some famous, some not. Name an actor Barry’s worked with, and there’s little doubt he has a story that will make you laugh while giving fascinating insight into the people who you see on screen. Tommy Lee Jones, Dabney Coleman, Gene Wilder, Sam Elliott — none escaped Barry’s cache of engrossing anecdotes.
It would take a memoir approaching the page count of War and Peace to capture Barry’s intimate stories about the people with whom he’s crossed paths. And it’s a memoir he tells me he’s going to write.
Crystal Wise
There was one particular story about the casting of “Urban Cowboy,” Barry’s big break when he played the wise, tobacco-chewing Uncle Bob, that stood out.
“The original plan was to use one of those kids there from Gilley’s to play the part of Bud,” Barry tells me. “But he was such an objectionable little shit that they couldn’t use him. Travolta was easier to work with than the guy from the actual Gilley’s.”
And, being a fellow San Antonian, I was particularly interested in the famously elusive Tommy Lee Jones. Knowing he and Barry were friends and had been in several films together, I couldn’t help but ask what he’s like.
“I’ll tell you what Tommy’s like,” Barry asserted. “He walked into a bar down in Alpine, I think it was, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He walks in, looks around, walks over to the bar, reaches in his pocket, and takes out a $50 bill. He slips it on the bar and shoves it across. Bartender comes over, looks at it, and then looks at him, and Tommy says, ‘Don’t tell anybody who I am.’ The bartender picks up the money, leans over, and says, ‘Who are you?’ Tommy didn’t even take his beer. He just turned around and walked out.”
Barry can hold the proverbial microphone with ease.
Some people are just gifted in the art of saying words, and Barry’s one of them. His accent is thick — a drawl that manages to keep pace with the conversation due to a cadence that poetically switches from little air between words to large gaps. And his intonation likely wouldn’t pass the muster at any of today’s acting schools. Yet, he’s made a living off of it. It’s a distinct timbre that feels tied to an endangered regional dialect — call it Texas Panhandle.
He also tells stories at a quick tempo. There are few, if any, wasted words. Each assertion or anecdote lasts only a few sentences, just enough time to set up and deliver the inevitable punch line without testing his audience’s patience. And when Barry’s listening, he never fails to respond with a quip that’s sure to make you cackle uncontrollably. It’s no wonder he ends up writing a good chunk of his own lines — including his final “pride” monologue in “Urban Cowboy,” something he can still recite with ease.
But this past year, his livelihood — and life — was very much at risk due to a bout of oral cancer.
After discovering a growing spot on the inside of his cheek, the biopsy came back positive for cancer and would require surgery.
According to his wife, Jo, they found out it was an aggressive form of oral cancer, and the surgery, which lasted eight hours, could affect his speech. There was also the possibility that they’d have to cut his vocal cords or remove his jawbone and replace it with a bone from his fibula. Ultimately, Barry dodged the worst-case scenario but still lost 25 pounds in the two weeks after the surgery.
When Barry mentioned it to me, he said, “They cut my neck open last year. It was cancer, but they got it all.” It’s the one story he never felt like sharing.
Concerning religion and politics, though our conversation touched on it, he’d prefer I not divulge his stances. And I’ll acquiesce. One can call his reluctance a gentlemanly refrain from putting one’s foot in one’s mouth.
But I will say that his opinions are thoughtful, well researched, and grounded.
“What’s fascinating about Barry is he does a lot of research,” Barry’s wife, Jo Corbin, says. “I think so many people underestimate him, and then when they meet him, they’re like, ‘Wow, I didn’t expect that.’ Including me. He’s a dichotomy.”
Crystal Wise
Anything for Barry. That was the general feeling we had since making the request to Four Sixes manager, Joe Leathers, for us to spend a day with Barry Corbin on the ranch. Pushing our luck, we also requested he get on a horse and “help you guys out” (I honestly can’t remember if this was our idea or Barry’s). A big ask that felt like a reach for the stars. But, as I understand it, “Anything for Barry” was the response.
The Four Sixes rolled out the red carpet the way any ranch would: a nice place to rest (in what happened to be a historically significant house), three square meals made by the ranch cook, and all the black coffee you can drink. [Tip: Don’t ask for cream at a working ranch.]
Back on the pastures, Barry and Joe meet up with the rest of the drovers, including Boots O’Neal, as they bring the herd of cattle toward the pens. Barry, still on horseback, is assisting in cutting cattle in preparation for branding the following day.
The sound of distressed calves ringing through the air makes the moment feel more chaotic and tense than it actually is. For me, the uninitiated, this is a fraught time. But, around these parts, it’s a Saturday.
The temperature’s reaching the triple digits, and Barry’s now been on his rust and roan horse for going on three hours. I’m suddenly reminded why 5 a.m. is a typical breakfast hour for these fellas. Any hour past noon in July is unworkable, so you better get to working before dawn breaks. And, at the Four Sixes, where trees are as sparse as milk on a bull, there’s little reprieve from the unrelenting sun.
Luckily, just as I’m getting sunbeaten, the cowboys wrap up their work.
While still on their horses, Joe requests a group photo with Barry in the middle. I can’t be for certain many of the younger guys know who Barry is or why we’re following him around. Maybe they know him from “Yellowstone,” I think. As Barry dismounts, Boots, the man whose name graced Barry’s saddle, gives him a hardy handshake and a pat on the back and professes, “Good ridin’.” The two chat, sharing pleasantries, before Barry does a post-ride hobble to the air-conditioned cab of Joe’s truck. He’s done riding for the day. Heck, he’s done riding for a good while.
The way the crow flies, the Four Sixes is 90 miles east from where Barry earned his drawl and love of the Texas plains: Lubbock.
Born Leonard Barrie Corbin in the Dawson County seat of Lamesa, Barry is the son of Kilmer, a county judge with no law degree at the age of 22, and Alma, a teacher who was born in a covered wagon and adopted by Barry’s grandfather. Seven years after Kilmer became county judge, he would run for and win a seat in the state senate, making him the youngest senator in the Legislature.
After serving two terms, the family would move 60 miles north to Lubbock, where Kilmer, still lacking a law degree but sporting a certificate stating he passed the state bar exam, opened a legal practice.
Barry’s time in Lubbock coincided with the rise of rock ‘n’ roll and its favorite son, Buddy Holly.
“There’s a reason there are so many musicians in Lubbock,” Barry laments after we rattle off names like Sonny Curtis and Terry Allen. “All that people could do in Lubbock at that time was sit on the porch and play the guitar.”
Barry had Lubbock circled on a map of the U.S. with an arrow pointed toward New York and text that read “Toward Civilization.”
“And I got to New York, and I realized they weren’t any more civilized than we were.”
Crystal Wise
Before his stint in New York, Barry settled on attending Texas Tech, where he was highly involved in theater but dropped out to join the Marine Corps in 1961. After his two-year commitment was up, Barry returned to Lubbock, where he continued his involvement in local theater and fine-tuned his craft. He’d marry his girlfriend in 1965, and the pair would gallivant from Chicago to Raleigh, North Carolina, to Abingdon, Virginia, taking odd jobs and participating in community theater. He would eventually end up in New York in 1967, with he and his wife taking up residence in Greenwich Village — the two would divorce in 1970 soon after the birth of his first son.
In New York, he’d perform on Broadway and basically any theater looking for a cast member. His most memorable role was as the titular character in a hippie version of Shakespeare’s “Henry V,” which his Panhandle parents attended on Broadway.
“I said, ‘Well, Dad, what’d you think about it?’ And he said, ‘Well, you were good as always. But for the rest of it, I might as well have been sittin’ on the top rail of a breeding pen for two hours. At least I would be embarrassed by my own species behaving that way.”
Throughout the early 70s, Barry lived the life of a nomadic actor and writer, traveling to Alabama, Massachusetts, Mississippi, and Georgia getting work in stage productions, writing plays, and appearing in small TV spots, including “Hawaii Five-O.”
In 1977, on the cusp of his fourth decade, Barry finally moved to the city where actors move — at least if they want to make a good living. He hightailed it to Los Angeles with his then-wife, where a performance of his play, “The Whiz Bang Café,” secured an audition for the role of Uncle Bob in “Urban Cowboy.”
“[My dad] never approved what I did until I was in a movie,” Barry says. “My mother’s argument against it was, well, nobody in our family’s ever done that before. My dad was a little more practical. He said, ‘Well, that’s a good hobby for a person, but a man’s gotta make a living.’ And I said, ‘Well, I can make a living doing this.’ And it turned out that I did. But it was touch and go for a while.”
Crystal Wise
Barry knows how he’d like to leave this world. He had a friend who was a cowboy in his twilight years. The last time Barry saw him, Barry said adieu with the habitually standard, “See you later.” And the cowboy responded, “If the lord permits it.” Between Christmas and New Year’s of that year, the cowboy was out checking fences late at night when he felt something off. He dismounted from his horse, lay down, placed his hat over his chest, and died.
“That’s how I’d like to go,” Barry said after telling the story.
To cowboys, real cowboys, this exit is about more than simply being at peace. What is it about? The explanation is slightly ambiguous and impossible for a non-real cowboy like myself to explain, so I won’t even try. But in that moment, after he completed the story, I saw that Barry, even when playing the hippie Henry V, coaching basketball on “One Tree Hill,” or telling me about the religious history of Vietnam, is still, deep down, a cowboy from Lubbock.
Granted, Barry proclaiming that he “personally liked the smell of horse shit,” might’ve tipped me off earlier. “It smells clean to me,” he contended. “All it is, is just hay and oats.” And, like that, I found myself in agreement.
Truth is, Barry’s more like Boots O’Neal than fill-in-the-blank-with-Hollywood-actor. But perhaps I’m only considering one part of Barry’s dichotomous personality, ignoring an integral part of him that is equally crucial to what makes Barry, well, Barry. He is as complex a man as any.
Crystal Wise
Itching to get back to his roots after living in Seattle to film “Northern Exposure,” Barry bought a ranch in East Fort Worth. On this 15-acre plot, Barry at one point kept cattle — or at least a longhorn bull gifted to him from Will Rogers’ herd in Oklahoma named Barry Corbin — and rode horses. While the property doesn’t have as many animals as it once did, Barry and his wife, Jo, whom he married in 2016, do keep some English mastiffs.
On the acting front, he remains as busy as ever. Performers like Barry — those who are equally at home in a Best Picture-winning masterpiece as they are in “Critters 2” — will never struggle for parts. He has a brief role in the just-released “Killers of the Flower Moon” and will no doubt show up here and there on streaming service shows.
Fans of the Taylor Sheridan universe will recognize Barry from his recurring role on the Sylvester Stallone-starring “Tulsa King,” and his appearance on “Yellowstone,” during which Taylor Sheridan gave Barry one simple directive: Show up for what you want to show up in. Barry also performs in theaters as a one-man show. While he’ll normally kick off the show with the famous “All the world’s a stage” monologue from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It,” — of which we received a private showing — he fills the remaining hour with stories, observations, and a Q&A. As previously mentioned, few are as gifted with a microphone in their hand.
It’s lunch at the Four Sixes, and Barry’s keeping a cool towel around his neck. I’m sure he’s thinking he’d left all the real work to the kids after his odometer hit 70, but what he did today was a major accomplishment. He worked a herd at 83.
The younger ranch workers had already finished their grub, and Barry, Joe Leathers, and the magazine’s photographer, Crystal Wise, are the only other people at the table. We get lucky, and the conversation manages to lead to another classic Barry story. This time about Barbara Stanwyck.
“[Barbara] was sitting in one makeup chair, and I was sitting in the one next to her. She says, with no preamble or anything else, ‘I counted 14 hookers on the Hollywood Boulevard on the way to work this morning. Something should be done about that.’ And I said, ‘I’ll try to do something about it.’ That’s the only words we ever exchanged.”
Once Barry finishes his dessert, Joe leans back in his chair and calls out, “All right, boys, line up.” And the 15 cowboys and one cowgirl enter the dining room and make an orderly line adjacent to the table. They’re all here to get an autograph from Barry.
Barry keeps some photos and markers within reach for such occasions.
As each tells Barry his or her name, every ranch worker, still in their spurs, looks just about as plum pleased and starstruck as one could be. And when the youngest looking one of the bunch approaches Barry, he has a small request: “Can you sign it ‘Uncle Bob’ for me?”
And to think I wasn’t sure if these guys knew.
