Hollywood (18 page)

“Eddie,” I said, “you’re sensational.”

He laughed. “See, even
you
believe it! But listen, there was some I
did
have, no foolin’. Like for instance—listen, you want a laugh? I’ll give you a laugh. Let’s go somewhere and get a drink and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

“It’s pretty late,” I said. “I think every place is closed.”

“
This
place isn’t. This place is
open
.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, then,” he said, “let’s stay here. In
this
place.”

“They’re putting the chairs on the tables, though.”

“Let ’em. But if they want me to sit in one—they’ve got to give me a stunt check!”

Another drink.

“Clara Bow,” he said. “Did you ever know Clara?”

“No,” I said. “But for a good long while there, she was my all-out favorite.”

“Mine, too,” he said. “Well, hell, just about everybody’s.”

“The ‘It’ girl,” I mused. “What about
Dancing Mothers
and
Roughhouse Rosie
?
The
Saturday Night Kid
.”

“And
It
,” said Eddie.

“She was a dazzler, all right,” I said.

There were tears in Eddie’s eyes as he said, “Oh God! Oh God, help us. They’ve got her put away now, y’know. She cracked.”

He blew his nose, took a hefty gulp of his drink, and continued.

“We had a great thing goin’ there for a while. She wasn’t married, I wasn’t married, and we were crazy stuck on each other. The best way. Even Stephen.”

“Why didn’t you get married, then?” I asked.

“Well, you know how it is. This’ll be hard for you to believe—but, you know, she
wanted
to.
I
was the one held back. The trouble was—see?—she was such a big star, maybe the biggest. And me, I was just, you know, gettin’ along. I guess if I’d have made it big even with one picture, we’d have gotten hitched. And I kept thinkin’ any day I might come through with that TNT one. But the way it was, her so big and me so not, I couldn’t see it. So we went along the way we were and everything was hunky-dory till I began to notice—y’know how sometimes you begin to notice?—that I wasn’t gettin’ with her as much as before. There would always be a reason, a good reason, like she had an early call or a costume fitting or a cold, or it was, you know, her time—or a business meeting. But the point was when it all added up, I just wasn’t seein’ as much of her as I was used to…Then, it started in that she had to go out of town for a few days— somebody in her family sick or something like that. And I began to get a little suspicious. Or a lot. On top of everything, I began to notice that even when we
were
together, it wasn’t the same. It was—I don’t know how to describe it—wasn’t like a fella and a girl any more. It was gettin’ to be more like a guy and his wife. So I began to get more suspicious and I did something about it. What I did was I told her I had to go to New York to see a play. Now, don’t forget, in those days, going to New York was a production. You had to go by train. Three and a half days there and then back three and
a half days. And a couple days in New York. So that meant like ten days, at least. I told her I had to go to New York. The night before, we went out. The Coconut Grove. And then we went home and we had one of our
big nights
. It was almost like before. And in the middle of it, I got to thinkin’, Jesus, maybe I’m wrong about all this. Maybe I shouldn’t be going through this whole nasty routine. But it was too late to get out of it. So the next day, off we went. She took me down to Union Station in L.A. and, on the platform, she cried and I cried and I got on the train. And her driver took her home and I got off at Pasadena. That night, I got in my car and I kept drivin’ around her block. Around and around and about nine o’clock, I see this terrific car pull up into her driveway—a Stutz—I’d never seen it before. I couldn’t stop so I went around again, and by the time I came back, the lights on the car were out and I was shakin’ like a leaf. I drove a few more blocks and parked my car and waited about a half an hour. Then, I walked back to the house. I let myself in with my key and I went upstairs real quiet and when I got to the bedroom door, I got myself set for action and started in, but the door was locked. This was a real tip-off, because the one thing she never did, she never locked the door. So I knocked—good and sharp—and I heard all kinds of scuffling in there and I heard her holler out, ‘Who is it?’ and I said, ‘It’s me, baby. Who do you think?’ And she said, ‘You? My God, what are
you
doing
here
?’ And I said, ‘Open up. I’ll tell you all about it.’ Well, what could she do? So she let me in, in a robe with nothing on under. And I said, ‘The damndest thing. When I got to Pasadena there was this guy from Universal paging me and he said Laemmle wants to see me right away.’ And she looked at me and she said, ‘Eddie, I don’t believe you.’ And I said, ‘Well, that makes us even, because I don’t believe
you
either.’ And she said, ‘What do you mean you don’t believe me? I haven’t
said
anything yet.’ And I said, ‘I know, but I don’t believe what you’re gonna tell me when I ask you who’s in here with you.’ ‘Nobody,’ she said. And I said, ‘That’s
it
. That’s what I don’t believe you. Who is it? And how long’s this been goin’ on?’ And she was hollerin’, ‘Nobody, never.’ And I said, ‘Don’t tell me. I can practically
smell
a man in here.’ And she said, ‘What are you, a bloodhound or something? Leave me alone. Go ’way, Eddie.’ And she started shoving me. I mean
tryin’
to shove me out of the room. And I said, ‘What’s that Stutz doin’ in your driveway?’ And she said, ‘How should
I
know? What Stutz?’ I took off my jacket and loosened my tie. And she was startin’ to yell ‘Get away from here or I’ll call the police.’ And I said, ‘Okay, baby, you call the police, but while you’re waitin’ for ’em to get here, you’re gonna see a bloodhound in
action
.’ And I opened the closet doors, first one and then the other one. She had these big closets full of clothes, big as a big room. Both of them. But nothing. So I started for the bathroom door and, by now, she was screamin’ and grabbin’ my shirt and yellin’, ‘Please, Eddie! Please
don’t
. I’m
begging
you. Please go ’way. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you everything. Tomorrow.’ But, by now, I was bangin’ on the bathroom door and
I
was yellin’, too, ‘Open up! Come on out of there, you son of a bitch. Open up or I’ll break it down. Come on out of there, you yellow son of a bitch!’ And I banged on the door again and it opened and out came—he was so big I had to look up, and when I did, I saw it was—I mention no names—the greatest prize fighter in the world at that time. Got it? Right.

“So that was the end of my thing with Clara Bow.”

Hollywood and the Hollywood system have not produced a finer picturemaker than Billy Wilder of Vienna, Austria. When I address him as ‘Cher Maître,’ it is only partly facetious. I do, indeed, think of him as a master. Even his failures are the failures of a master.

Wilder began as a journalist, was a cub reporter at an early age, and worked for several Viennese publications.

“I worked on
Die Stunde
for a while. It wasn’t such a bad job. One day, I did some interviews for a Christmas number—Arthur Schnitzler, Alfred Adler, Richard Strauss, and Freud. All in one day. Not a bad job. Later on, when I left Vienna and went to Berlin like a schmuck, I worked on the
B.Z. am Mittag
for a while. But everybody wanted to be in the movies in those days. We were known as the film generation. This bunch now stole the title from
us
, that’s how they are. My way was to write scripts. I wrote thirty or forty. In those days, my schedule was about one a day. It’s a little slower now.”

“Well, at least one of them turned out not too badly,” I said. “
People on Sunday
. I saw it not long ago at the Museum of Modern Art. It stands up beautifully.”

“Still stands up, huh?” Billy commented. “I thought by now it would be lying down.”

“It’s a fascinating little picture.”

Billy laughed. “Little, you say. We thought it was very big. It cost five thousand reichsmarks and don’t ask me to figure out how much that would be in present-day dollars. Maybe five hundred bucks. And we shot it on Sundays only, out in the streets. That’s why you see that horrible expression on my face when they begin to talk about the new
cinema vérité
.”

“And when did you go to Paris?”

“In 1933,” says Billy. “It wasn’t my idea, it was Hitler’s. I hated Paris at first. I couldn’t seem to get laid. So instead, I worked. And eventually sold a script. And then kept writing. I was only there for about a year, and kept dreaming about Hollywood. Finally, I took off. What did I have to lose? By the way, I
had
gotten laid by that time. For some reason, I went from Paris to Hollywood via
Mexico
! Nobody’s ever explained why this route. And there I was. The next thing I knew, I was living with Peter Lorre and dreaming every night about how can I get back to Paris. And all of a sudden, there I am at Paramount, writing. There was one small handicap. I didn’t have any English, so I kept writing in German, and some of my pals who were a little ahead of me would translate my stuff into English. I had a look at one of those translations a couple of years ago and I almost had a massive coronary. Then came Brackett and that changed everything.”

Brackett means Charles Brackett, then one of Paramount’s best writers. Brackett and Wilder became the most successful writing team in Hollywood. Their first collaboration was on
Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife
. The director was Ernst Lubitsch. Gary Cooper and Claudette Colbert starred and the picture was memorable.

The following year, Brackett and Wilder had three credits:
What a Life
,
Midnight
, and, finally,
Ninotchka
, again with Lubitsch.

Then
Arise, My Love
and
Hold Back the Dawn
, after which they left Paramount and went to Goldwyn’s for
Ball of Fire
.

In 1942, Billy Wilder felt ready to take on the responsibility of direction, and did a Ginger Rogers picture called
The Major and the Minor
. He and Brackett collaborated on the screenplay.

“Nineteen forty-four,” says Wilder, “was ‘The Year of Infidelities.’ Charlie produced
The Uninvited
. I had nothing to do with it. Instead, I wrote
Double Indemnity
with Raymond Chandler. Because he asked me. Terrific book, and what a writer! It was quite an experience, the whole thing. Then, Charlie and I got together again for
The Lost
Weekend
—but I don’t think he ever forgave me. He always thought I cheated on him with Raymond Chandler. He got very possessive after that.”

Elsewhere, Charles Brackett is quoted as saying, “Billy got so despondent at being without me that we did
The Lost Weekend
.” (The
Rashomon
syndrome?) In the next development, Charles Brackett became their producer and Wilder continued to direct. From this producing-directing-writing team came
Five Graves to
Cairo
,
The Emperor Waltz
,
A Foreign Affair
, and, finally,
Sunset Boulevard
. With this film, perhaps their most notable, the partnership came to an abrupt end.

Some years later, on a rainy Sunday in Bel Air, the dying Charlie Brackett talked about it.

“I never knew what happened, never understood it, we were doing so well. I always thought we brought out the best in each other, didn’t you? But we met one morning, as we always did, and Billy smiled that sweet smile of his at me and said, ‘You know, Charlie, after this, I don’t think we should work together any more. I think it would be better for both of us if we just split up.’ I could say nothing. It was shattering. And Billy— you know how he is, bright and volatile—got right into the business of the day, and we said no more about it. But it was such a blow, such an unexpected blow, I thought I’d never recover from it. And, in fact, I don’t think I ever have. Of course, Billy’s done wonderfully well, so it probably proved that he didn’t need me at all. And I have no complaints, I’ve done well enough—not as well as he has—but then, it never meant as much to me. It was just that I loved working with him. It was so stimulating and pleasant. And such fun, you know. I never gave a thought to working with anyone else ever. Don’t you think it was odd? What he did? There was no reason. We liked each other, even our wives liked each other. We had our disagreements, of course, but they were always professional, never personal. And I don’t think in all our years together, in all those pictures we made, I don’t think we ever had a serious quarrel.”

Brackett sat for a long time, thinking hard, as though still trying to puzzle it out. Behind him on the table were, in a row, six Academy Awards, all tarnished and faded. (Why the hell can’t someone shine them up? I thought.)

“Well, it happens, Charlie,” I said. “I remember Kaufman and Hart. They worked together wonderfully well, and one day Moss told George he thought he ought to try one on his own.”

“Ah, no, that was different,” said Charlie. “I know about that. People have told me about that, and I’ve talked with them, both Moss and George. No, that was different. Moss, you see, was in psychoanalysis, and it was the analyst who urged him to get on his own. A matter of identity, I believe. But that was never Billy’s problem…No, if he wanted to write alone and direct, I’d have been pleased to be his producer. Or even work together now and again. Maybe not every picture. But he was firm and didn’t want
to work with me again ever at all. I suppose it was foolish of me to think it was going to go on forever. After all, it wasn’t a marriage. ‘Till death do us part.’ ”

“Well, you made some terrific pictures together, Charlie, and, in the end, that’s what counts, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, and laughed. “We got off some stinkers, too, didn’t we? That
Emperor Waltz
. I don’t suppose I ever understood it very well. I was sure Billy would know. After all, Vienna. And we
did
have Bing Crosby. I can’t imagine
what
went wrong. The final result was quite boring, wasn’t it?”

“I liked it,” I said.

“No, you don’t, old pal, and you don’t need to dissemble. Look at me. It’s really too late for lies.”

“Curious, wasn’t it?” I said, changing the subject, “that Billy’s first picture on his own—
Ace in the Hole
—didn’t work either, did it?”

“No, no,” said Charlie, “not at all. I think it was too cynical. Too critical of the audience, don’t you know. It was the kind of picture in which the audience doesn’t identify with the hero but with the crowd, and, naturally, the crowd was the public, and behaved like the public in that situation. Talk about holding the mirror up to nature! If you’re going to hold the mirror up to an audience and say, ‘Look, this is how you are, what you are,’ it better be a bit flattering, don’t you think? Billy used to say he thought it failed because it was too tough. I don’t think he’s right about that. Tough is all right. I admire toughness. I don’t admire hardness. That picture wasn’t tough. It was hard. But then, Billy’s hard, isn’t he?”

“I’ve never found him so, Charlie, but then I haven’t been as close to him as you.”

“But the way he did it. Split us up.”

“I think Billy was being pragmatic, that’s all. He’d obviously been thinking about the situation for a long time and thought something ought to be done about it, decided this was the day, walked in, and said it.”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Brackett. “God, I’m sick, I’m so sick.”

“You’ll get better, Charlie. You’re a hell of a lot better this Sunday than you were last. You’ll get better.”

He never did.

After the breakup, Brackett went to Twentieth Century-Fox as a writer-producer and did
Titanic
,
The King and I
,
Ten North Frederick
,
Journey to the Center of the Earth
,
State Fair
, and many others.

During a studio upheaval and reorganization, the new administration canceled Brackett’s contract on a technicality, saying, “Sue us.” He had been at the studio for thirteen years and still had about two years left on his contract.

Billy Wilder, without previous announcement, called a press conference and made a statement in which he said, “In view of the treatment accorded Charles Brackett at Twentieth Century-Fox—” He then spelled out the details. “Therefore, I cannot imagine any self-respecting artist, whether director, writer, actor, producer, or musician, going to work for Twentieth Century-Fox under its present administration.”

The statement was widely circulated and Twentieth Century-Fox was greatly upset. They contacted Wilder and gave him their side, but he was unregenerate. Brackett was paid off in full. Wilder remained loyal to his friend to the end. It was simply a question of
a man deciding he wanted to be on his own, that being part of a team—no matter how successful—was not fulfilling.

Billy Wilder was taking a long time between pictures, longer than usual. I observed that the time between lengthened with each interval.

During one of our quiet, late-afternoon talks, I asked, “What is it, do you suppose, Billy, that slows us down so? There was a time around here when top directors made two pictures a year, sometimes three. Now, we can’t even count on one a year from guys like you. What is it? Have you slowed down? Or is it the whole business?” He was silent, seemed to be thinking. I went on. “Is it success that makes people too careful? Troubled? Worried about their next move? Is it as simple as rich and fat and lazy? What? There was a time—when you were still a writer—that
you
had two or three a year. Then, when you began to direct, you certainly did
one
for a year. Every year.”

“I should have skipped a few,” he said morosely.

“Nonsense. Action’s the thing. The whole damned business is a morass of imponderables.”

“Maybe that’s what it needs,” said Billy.

“What?”

“More ass.”

“Billy, please. We’re having a serious discussion.”

“
You’re
having a serious discussion.
I’m
having a mild coronary.”

“Why?”

“I lie in bed thinking my trouble is that I work too much. I come in here and you start beating on me because you think I don’t work
enough
.”

“I don’t think any of us do. We get involved in deals and schemes and all sorts of distractions—like you and your damn football.”

“I only watched three games yesterday,” said Billy, pained. “You call that distraction?”

I quoted. “ ‘Work strengthens us, pleasure consumes us. Let us choose.’ You know who said that?”

“Hitler.”

“No. Goethe.”

“Same thing,” said Billy.

“There’s something in it, all the same. I think it’s possible to get
too
smart about movies. Too experienced. Too—as the French say—
raffiné
.”

“A lot
they
know.”

“Better if we can retain at least a bit of our innocence. You don’t agree?”

“I agree,” said Billy. “But I don’t know how.” He laughed and muttered, “‘
Il manqué
d’inexpérience
.’”

“What?”

“What Gounod said about Saint-Saëns—or was it Saint-Saëns about Gounod? What’s the difference? Whoever it was—what he said was, ‘He lacks inexperience.’ See, you’re not the only fancy quoter around here.”

“Let me point something out,” I said. “I’ve noticed it in many whiz-bangs—René Clair, you, George S. Kaufman, Carol Reed.”

“Noticed what?”

“How you begin to work on a story and enjoy it—at first. And you’re full of invention and ideas and the sparks fly—and then, slowly, a kind of poison sets in and you turn into fault-finders and begin to look for the weaknesses in the story instead of the strengths—and you use all your experience and background and knowledgeability to prove it’s no good. And finally, you abandon it.”

“Not me,” said Billy. “I always come back to it—so I can tear it down and abandon it
again
.”

“You know who did
not
work like that?”

“Who?”

“Our hero. Ernst Lubitsch. He always concentrated on the affirmative aspects—and kept looking for what was good and sort of ignoring the bad, sweeping it under the carpet—and finally he’d built so much strength that the weaknesses didn’t seem to matter.”

“We can’t all be Lubitsch,” said Billy.

“We can try.”

“He was amazing,” said Billy. “Wasn’t he? That sense of fun, joy of life, that slant. You’re right. He never lost it.”

“And you think we have?”

“I don’t know about you—but let me tell you about me. Did you ever—when you were a kid—get a Brownie camera for a present? Your first Brownie camera? Do you remember it?”