Hollywood (19 page)

“Of course. I was born in Rochester, New York. Where the Brownie was born.”

“Okay. Then you remember how you got the wonderful little magic black box and the roll of film and the book of instructions. And you loaded the camera and began to turn the roll—yes?—and there came first that hand pointing, and then dots, and finally— Number One! And you started. Focus, click. Turn the knob. Number Two. Focus, click. You could hardly wait to turn to Three. And do you remember how when you got to Four or Five, you began to realize that there were only eight on the roll—so you got more careful, selective—and you waited for something really worth photographing. And sometimes you kept that roll in the Brownie for a week before you finally clicked your last picture on the roll.”

“I remember,” I said.

“Well, that’s how it is with me. In the beginning, sure. One picture after another. But now—I feel I’m getting to the end of the roll. What is it?—three more, two more,
one
maybe? That’s why I’m so careful before I click it.”

We had another drink and said no more on the subject that day.

Billy Wilder’s first picture following the breakup,
Ace in the Hole
, must have given him pause. It was a failure. The word around town was he had blundered in splitting with Brackett. There was talk they were on the verge of being reunited.

Billy had other ideas. He bought a Broadway success,
Stalag 17
, about adventures in a World War II prison camp. Those of us who saw in him an original creative force were disappointed. No matter how well he did
Stalag 17
, it would not be a Billy Wilder picture.

This did not concern him. He was interested in success. He followed this with another Broadway hit,
Sabrina
. The picture did well. Next, he made
The Seven-Year
Itch
with Marilyn Monroe. Another success, but not a Billy Wilder picture.

On the crest now, he inexplicably made
The Spirit of St. Louis
. It was costly and unsuccessful.

To shake off the dust of failure, he went to Paris and began work on
Love in the
Afternoon
. It had been both a novel and an earlier film, but it became a Billy Wilder movie. The reception for it was mild. He reached for something sure-fire again, and made
Witness for the Prosecution
. His friends wondered why.

Then came
Some Like It Hot
, which many consider his best film. This, too, had been done earlier, but Wilder made it his own.

The following year came
The Apartment
. This was an original story by Wilder, with a screenplay by himself and I.A.L. Diamond.

Billy says, “I’ll tell you where it came from. It came from Noël Coward. When I saw that beautiful picture of his,
Brief Encounter
, my God, it hit me hard. And what a job David Lean did! Well, they all did. I couldn’t get over it. And I thought about that picture endlessly, the way you do about a picture that has an emotional impact on you. And I thought about it straight, and I thought about it sideways, and there were many times in the night when I would just put that whole picture down, that whole story, right in the middle of my head, and walk around it, around and around, examining it, and looking underneath, looking up on top. I finally had that story completely digested. Then, I began to brood about one of the undeveloped characters, the guy who owns the apartment. And I thought, Now there’s a really interesting character. A guy owns an apartment, or lives in an apartment, and he loans it out to somebody for the purposes of love. And, feeling as I do about business and about the competitive system, I thought, What if there’s this little schnook, this eager beaver in a big company, trying to get ahead and he can’t do it, until it comes out that he lives in this little apartment, and all the executives start to want to borrow it for their little
cinq-à-septs
and, what the hell? I don’t have to tell you, that was enough, I was off and running. I wonder if I ever remembered to thank Noël Coward?”

The next year, Wilder made
One, Two, Three
. He and Diamond did the screenplay from a play by Ferenc Molnár.

“Don’t ask me why,” he says, “but I just got the feeling I wanted to make a picture again in Germany. I hadn’t done it since 1948, when I did
A Foreign Affair
. And there’s something else about it, I don’t know what. Well, when you want to do something, you can always find plenty of reasons. And when I got Cagney interested, that was good enough for me. For me, there’s never been anybody better on the screen. Also, I happen to think Coca-Cola is funny. A lot of people didn’t. Maybe that’s why the picture bombed out. I still think it’s funny. And when I drink it, it seems even funnier.”

Irma La Douce
, his next picture, had begun as a small musical in Paris. Wilder bought it, and changes began.

“I have nothing against music,” he says, “but the more I went into that story, the better I thought it was. And for me, the numbers got in the way. So, first, one of them went, then another went, then we started talking that idiocy you hear yourself go on about—you know, an intimate musical, or play with music—but, more and more, I could see that if I really wanted to explore all avenues of this story, there wasn’t going to be
room for
any
numbers. And, one day, I made the decision, and we threw the whole score out and made it a straight picture. We used some of the music for underscoring, but that was all. I think it worked out very well. The truth is, I personally earned more out of that picture than any other picture I ever made. That doesn’t mean it was the best. It just means I made the most money. And I enjoyed making it, too.”

Billy Wilder’s recent output has been uneven, but interesting, and he remains as able a filmmaker as there is. His admirers are waiting for him to choose a stimulating subject, get excited, and provide, once again, a Billy Wilder picture.

On the complex subject of Samuel Goldwyn, his friend Lillian Hellman once put it best.

“To understand Sam,” she said, “you must realize that he regards himself as a
nation
!”

The depth of this perception was demonstrated to me not long afterward.

1950. Spring. Mr. Goldwyn came to New York, ensconced himself in a sprawling suite at the Sherry-Netherland, and began a series of summonings.

My phone rang. I answered it.

“Hello?”

“How’s Ruth?” asked the unmistakable voice of my old boss.

“Fine,” I replied.

“Good,” he said. “Come on over here a quarter after four. I’m at the—” his voice faded as he asked someone, “What’s this place?” Another voice, far away. Then, “What?” To me: “The Cherry-Netherland. Come right up. It’s room—” he leaves me again. “What’s my number? What?” To me: “Nineteen eighty-four, eighty-eight. A quarter after four. Don’t be late. I’m very busy and tied up.”

“Fine,” I said reflexively.

“How’s Ruth?” he asked.

“Fine,” I replied, as he hung up.

I looked at the phone in my hand and reflected upon the extraordinary exchange it had just carried. I had said “Hello” and then “Fine” three times. Not much of a part, I thought, and hung up. I comforted myself with the reminder that no one ever has much of a part in a scene with a superstar.

Goldwyn had dealt with me as though I were an employee on his payroll, although I had not been a member of his staff for over ten years. Then it struck me. He thinks I still work for him! I had been warned to look out for this curious phenomenon.

“Once under contract, always under contract,” Willie Wyler had said. “You’ll see.”

I arrived at the Sherry-Netherland five minutes early. Mrs. Goldwyn’s maid admitted me. A secretary (female, middle-aged, efficient) showed me into the sitting room of the suite and left. I looked out at the view over Central Park. Impressive, but not half so impressive as the reverse shot. The room. It was fully three times as large as any hotel sitting room I had ever seen.

Another secretary (male, young, harassed) came in and asked if I wanted a drink.

“No, thank you.”

“Tea, coffee?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Coke, ginger ale?”

“No.”

As this idiot exchange dragged on, we both pretended not to hear the angry voices overlapping in furious argument from a nearby room.

“Could I offer you some Vichy?” he asked.

He seemed determined to break me down. I would have welcomed a glass of Vichy at that moment but I replied stubbornly, “No, thank you.”

He poured a glass of ice water from a silver pitcher, served it to me. He had won.

“Mr. Goldwyn will be right with you,” he said victoriously.

“Thank you.”

“You
are
four-fifteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He looked at his wristwatch and said, “Yes. Well, you
are
a bit early.”

He left. As he opened and closed the door, a blast of the ongoing vocal battle swept through the room like a high wind.

I drank the ice water.

A third secretary (female, young, temporary?) came through the room. We exchanged nods. A door clicked. She turned her head sharply in its direction and scurried out, successfully evading the entrance of Samuel Goldwyn. I looked at my watch as he came in. 4:15.

He moved to me, smiling warmly. Could he have been one of the fierce debaters I had been listening to only a moment ago? Impossible but true, I thought, like so many things about this remarkable man.

His hands were on my shoulders, his eyes were scrutinizing me.

“How’s Ruth?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I replied.

“You’re looking very well. Not too much weight. I’m glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” I said and wondered at once what the hell I meant.

“Let’s sit down,” he said, and added testily, “why don’t we sit
down
, f’Chrissakes?!”

Taking orders, I sat down so swiftly that I jarred my spine. I winced, but he did not seem to notice.

“I hear at Columbia, they’re making
Born Yesterday
,” he said. “You know,
your
play.”

“Yes.”

He looked at me gravely.

“And I want to tell you something very frankly…”

Oh Christ, I thought as the pause stretched out. How am I going to handle
this
?

He spoke again. “I
like
that play. Your play. I saw it. I am very, very proud of you. It’s a fine piece of work. Very strong. And very
American
, that’s another thing. Yes, you turned out to be some kid. Everything I believed about you.” There were tears in his eyes. “I’m really proud of you. I mean it.”

And I knew that he did.

“Who directed it?” he asked. “The play?”

“Why,
I
did,” I said.

“You directed it
yourself
?” he asked again, astonished.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you should do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a good idea. Writer-director. It doesn’t work out. Every director needs a writer and ever writer needs a director. And they
both
need a producer!”

“Well,” I said huffily, “it worked out pretty well this time.”

“This time,” he said scornfully. “Never mind this time—I'm talking about a
life
time.”

“Okay,” I said, remembering that argument with this man was fruitless.

“I
love
the theatre,” he said. “If there’s one thing I love in New York, it’s the theatre in New York. I
always
loved the theatre. Even as a kid, I would go. The peanut gallery. Sarah Bernhardt, once. And Richard Mansfield. What a star. Modjeska. She was Polish. And Nazimova. She
wasn’t
Polish. The theatre is great when it’s good. Bob Sherwood. I love Bob Sherwood. Now, about your play. About
Born Yesterday
. I want to tell you something.”

I could hear it coming. How foolish I was to turn down his low bid in favor of Columbia’s high bid.

Instead, he said, “I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t think it will ever make a picture.”

“You don’t?” I blurted.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He seemed genuinely distressed. “I’m sorry for Columbia. In the first place, it’s dirty. I mean censorable. The man living with this girl, not married. And you can’t have a crooked senator in a movie, f’Chrissake! Your ending is no good either. Not for a movie. You’ve got your two stars and in the end you split them up. Audiences
hate
that. No, I know I’m right. It’s no picture.”

By now, I was irritated. “Is that why you sent for me? To tell me that?”

“Are you sore?” he asked. “Because I express my views? Why is it people can’t stand the truth?”

“The fact that it’s your opinion, Mr. Goldwyn, doesn’t make it the truth.”

“You’re sore,” he said, truly surprised.

I was on the verge of a blast when he rose and said, “I have a very important project for you, my boy.”

“Is that so?”

“I want you to write it and direct it. It will be a big thing in your life.”

“All right. I could use a big thing in my life.”

“This will be the
biggest
.”

“What is it?” I asked.

He paused impressively and said, “I considered a lot of people before I decided on you.”

“What is it?”

“Different writers. Different directors. I considered them all. The ones who are available.”

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“I don’t like writer-directors, but I’m willing to try an exception in your case. Or, if you’d rather only direct, I can get Moss Hart to write. Or you want to write only—what would you think of Willie? You like Willie, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“So, any way you’d like to work this out with me, let me know. But I’ll tell you one thing—don’t drag it out. This has got to go as soon as possible. Because it’s topical, Goddamn it!”

Holy smoke, I thought. He’s on my back already, and I don’t even know what it is.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s the greatest story of the year. The most important. With great characters. I know how you like great characters. I remember how you once said that was the most important thing—the characters—more important than the story. And you want to know something? You’re right!”

By this time, I was ready to sign, but as a matter of form, I asked, “What is it? A novel? Play?”

He walked out of the room. I got up and began to make plans for my imminent move to the coast. He returned, carrying a gray envelope that obviously contained a book.

“Take this home,” he said, “and read it. Have Ruth read it, too. She’s very bright. Then we’ll talk. And then you can send Abe in and I’ll work something out with him— don’t worry about it. Your deal will be the best you ever had.”

I got up, walked over to him and took the envelope from him.

“Call me later,” he said.

I opened the envelope.

“Don’t read it here,” he said.

I took the book out of the envelope and looked at it. The bubble burst. It was a copy of a short-story collection by Edward Newhouse, with one of the stories carefully indicated. A week earlier Moss Hart had asked me to read it.

“Goldwyn wants me to do a screenplay,” Moss had said. “But I don’t know. I’m this way and that way about it. I guess it could be good, but I’m thinking of those endless phone calls—mostly in the middle of the night.”

I had read it and talked it out with Moss, inconclusively. It was a straightforward story of family conflict with regard to the Korean War. A reluctant draftee. An overage volunteer. A patriotic finish. Apparently, Moss had decided against it.

“I’ve read this,” I said to Goldwyn.

“I figured you would have,” he said. “You’re like Frances. My wife. She reads
everything
.”

“Well, I don’t read everything,” I said, “but I’ve read this.”

“So?” he demanded.

I considered a number of replies. The first one that came to mind was, of course, ‘I don’t think it will make a picture.’ I put it aside in favor of, ‘Moss Hart asked me to read it for him’—then discarded that and said, stalling, “Let me ask
you
something, Mr. Goldwyn.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do
you
want to make this?”

“Me?” he said. “I’ve
got
to make it. It’s no question of do I want or why—I’ve
got
to!”

He had changed color. The rosy tan of his complexion had turned reddish-blue.

“Why?” I persisted.

“Did you see
The Best Years of Our Lives
?”

“Of course.”

“Bob Sherwood and Willie. Seven Academy Awards? The greatest picture I ever made.”

“It was fine,” I said.

He walked to the window and looked out over the city—not the park—the city.

Then he said, in a charged voice, “Well, with that picture, I brought the boys home. And now—” His voice caught. He paused, recovered, turned to me and continued, “Now, I’ve got to send them away again!”

I heard myself say, “Lillian’s right.”

“Lillian?” he said. “Lillian Hellman? Of course she’s right. You want her to write it and you direct? Is that it? Well, let me see if I can work it out.”

“Wait,” I said. “Let me read it again.”

“Very well,” he said. “What time in the morning? Come for breakfast. Tell Jack what you eat. Eight-thirty? I’m going to the theatre tonight to see—something. I’m looking forward to it. I love the theatre. Since I was a kid.”

We were at the door. Through another open door, I saw three men and an excessively pretty girl waiting in the smaller room.

Mr. Goldwyn and I were shaking hands. His left hand clutched my shoulder.

“How’s Ruth?” he asked, and went off before I could reply.

Men of size are full of surprises. One of Samuel Goldwyn’s greatest charms was his unpredictability.

He once arrived in New York and phoned me.

“Say,” he said. “I’ve been reading
The New York Times
, about this wonderful English ballet company.”

“Yes,” I said, “the Sadler’s Wells. They’re at the Met.”

“I have to see that,” he said. “Get tickets and we’ll go. I’ll pay for them.”

“All right,” I said. “When would you like to go?”

“When? What do you mean, ‘when’? Tonight.”

“Well, I'm not sure I can get tickets for
tonight
.”

“Why not?” he said. “You just told me you could get tickets.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

Fortunately, I was able to acquire seats and was not at all surprised when I found myself canceling the plans I had made for that evening.

We took Goldwyn to dinner, but he was too excited to eat. As we entered the Metropolitan Opera House, he kept looking around and shaking his head in wonder.

“Hasn’t changed,” he said. “It never changes. Isn’t it wonderful to have some things that don’t change? I remember coming here and sitting way up high. Caruso and Mary Garden and Geraldine Farrar. What artists they were! But even
they
needed a producer,” he added, fixing me with a hard and meaningful look. “They had this fellow in those days, Gatti-Casazza—Italian, I think he must have been. What a producer.”

We found our seats.

It was one of the great nights. Margot Fonteyn in
Giselle
. I could not help but observe Goldwyn and his reaction to what was taking place on stage. He was leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped tightly. His lips were parted, and his small eyes had grown large.

During intermission, Goldwyn sat perfectly still, not wanting to talk or to step out to the lobby. He seemed to be digesting what he had seen and heard.

The
pas de deux
with Fonteyn and Robert Helpmann brought tears to Goldwyn’s eyes. When it was over, he applauded and cheered. He got out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. At the end, he was the first one on his feet applauding and shouting “Bravo!”

“It was great,” said Goldwyn at supper. “It was just great. I have to send that girl flowers. Remind me.”

“Could I ask you something, Mr. Goldwyn?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Why did you want to see this tonight? Are you thinking of her for something in a picture? Or the company? Or what?”