Hollywood (2 page)

“Neither,” I said.

He looked at me, shook his head tragically. “I don’t understand you. I wish I could understand you. But I don’t. You take a lot of patience, but maybe someday you’ll learn. And maybe not.”

“Well, Tallboy, what do
you
think?”

The first time he called me that I did not get it. I thought that perhaps in calling me “Tallboy,” he was twitting me about my short stature. It turned out later that he was saying “Talboig” or “Talberg,” meaning Irving Thalberg, the brilliant young producer who had become the head of Universal at the age of twenty, and of M-G-M a few years later.

Someone had erroneously suggested to Goldwyn that I resembled Irving Thalberg, and it pleased him to accept this as fact. He derived a vicarious pleasure out of having someone in his employ whom he could call “Talboig,” especially since he paid “Talboig” less than he paid his secretary.

For years, he addressed me thus. “Talboig”—always followed by one long, wheezy, exhaled laugh.

Sam Marx, a friendly, huge, football player type, was a member of Goldwyn’s large production staff when I came to work at the Goldwyn studios. He had been Irving Thalberg’s associate and closest friend. They had known each other back in New York when they were still young and reaching their respective moons. When Thalberg made good in California, he sent for his friend, who worked at his side until Thalberg’s death in 1936.

Marx had been Thalberg’s right-hand man. Now he felt ready to strike out on his own.

It happened that Goldwyn needed a story editor. He knew if he offered Marx this position, Marx would turn it down. Instead, he told him he was looking for an associate producer who would in time be made a full producer. Marx accepted at once.

When he had been at the studio for a month or so, Goldwyn sent for him and said, “Marx, I’m going to ask you to do me a personal favor and I want you to do it. In fact, you’re
going
to do it. Because I’m asking you.”

“What is it, Mr. Goldwyn?”

“You know, Marx, I'm very tired and one of the reasons I'm very tired is that all around me I’ve got people who don’t know how to do their jobs so that’s why I’m very tired. These people. I’m not talking about
you
, y’understand.
You’re
very good. That’s why I’m going to ask you to help me.”

“Yes?”

Goldwyn sighed and continued. “My whole story department. It’s terrible. I don’t have to tell you. You’ve been around. You’ve been here. What’s the use? I’m in bad trouble so I’m going to ask you, Marx, as a personal favor to me, to go in there and set up your story department and run it any way you want.
Your
way. It shouldn’t take you long. And as soon as you’ve got the department organized, then
you
hire a story editor. Anybody you want and then we’ll see.”

Sam Marx reports that he demurred, feeling he was about to be trapped.

“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Goldwyn. I don’t want to run a story department. I came here to be a producer.”

“Who said you didn’t? I'm asking you to do me a favor.”

Thrust, parry. Parry, thrust. In matters of psychological fencing, skill is often less important than will.

Goldwyn prevailed. Now, a year later, Marx found himself still the story editor at Goldwyn Studios. The story department he had organized and was running was considered the best in the business, but Marx was restive, unhappy, and frustrated.

Goldwyn, too, began to be dissatisfied with the situation. The story department was fine, yes; but he was paying Marx far more than a story editor was worth. The subject came up often in their increasingly acrimonious meetings.

“I checked around,” said Goldwyn gloomily one day. “You’re getting twice what any story editor in town is getting.”

“But I’m not
supposed
to be a story editor, Mr. Goldwyn. I’m just doing you a favor. Remember?”

“Don’t do me no favors!” shouted Goldwyn. “
Goddamnit!
”

Marx had learned to contain himself in the face of these outbursts.

“I’ve suggested seven story editors to you, Mr. Goldwyn, and you’ve turned down every one.”

“Who were they?” said Goldwyn. “Nobodies.
Friends
of yours.”

“They weren’t friends of mine.”

“If they weren’t friends of yours, how would you know them?” asked Goldwyn craftily.

Sam Marx would come out of these meetings and report to those of us who had happened to be around.

“He wants me to quit,” Marx explained. “I’ve got four years to go yet on my contract, with a raise every year. He’s not going to let me produce. What he wanted was a story department and now he’s got one so he wants to get rid of me. He forgets about my years at Metro. The studio politics. The infighting. I know all about these gambits.
This
time he’s going to
lose
.”

“If he does,” said someone, “it’ll be the first time.”

The Marx-Goldwyn struggle became one of the more interesting tensions of our daily life at the studio. In conferences with the full production staff, Goldwyn took to insulting Marx or ridiculing him or humiliating him. Marx remained imperturbable, to Goldwyn’s growing annoyance.

Hollywood story editors were in the habit of going to New York three or four times a year to see the current plays, investigate upcoming productions, meet with eastern agents and publishers and writers.

Sam Marx returned from one of these trips. A production meeting was called at which he made a careful and interesting report. He described the plays he had seen, discussed the important novels about to be published, and distributed galleys of some of them.

When he finished his report there was a smattering of applause in the room. It irritated Goldwyn. He leaned back in his chair and fixed Marx with a hard look.

“Let me tell you what happened around here while you were away,” he said. “I bought a story. You know how long it is I bought a story? Six months. What am I saying, six.
Seven
months. You’re around here getting three times as much as any story editor in town, f’Chrissake, and with your whole staff, all those dummies, all your friends you’ve got on my payroll and what happens?
Nothing
happens. We don’t buy one goddamn thing. All we do is waste our time with all that junk you keep sending us, but as soon as I get you out of here for a couple weeks, what happens? I buy a story.”

Marx nodded gently and asked, “What story did you buy, Mr. Goldwyn?”

Goldwyn turned to us. “Did you hear that, gentlemen? What story did I buy? He’s supposed to be the story editor and
he
asks
me
what story did I buy? Some story editor.”

“There’s no way I
could
know, Mr. Goldwyn. You haven’t told me or anybody in my office and you haven’t announced it.”

“I’m announcing it right now,” Goldwyn yelled. “
Graustark!
That’s the story I bought.
Graustark.
And it’s going to make one hell of a great picture. So why couldn’t
you
come up with
Graustark
?”

Marx stayed in control. “Because, Mr. Goldwyn, you’ve told me over and over again and written me and I can show you your own memos, you’ve told me that the one thing you definitely would never buy is any story about a mythical kingdom.”

“Is that so?” shouted Goldwyn.

“Yes, sir. That is absolutely so, and
Graustark
is certainly a story set in a mythical kingdom.”

“You think I don't know that?” asked Goldwyn, flustered.

Marx sensed that he had, for a fleeting moment, the upper hand. He pressed his attack.

“Do you deny,” he asked, “that you said definitely no mythical kingdoms?”

“Do I deny? What in the hell kind of talk is that? Who do you think you are? Some kind of district attorney? Some kind of cross-examiner?”

“Never mind that. Answer the question. Didn’t you tell me no mythical kingdoms?”

“Sure I did. God damn it, but I didn’t mean
classics
!”

Sam Marx laughed. The rest of us, unable to keep it in, followed suit. In the circumstances, what could Mr. Goldwyn do?
He
laughed, too.

Some months later, during a production meeting at which the atmosphere was remarkably relaxed, Marx made an aimless comment about the preview we had all seen the night before.

“You know
your
trouble, Marx?” Goldwyn demanded.

Marx took a deep breath, exhaled, and said meaningfully, “Yes, I do, Mr. Goldwyn.”

“You’re stupid.
That’s
your trouble. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it all these years you’ve been taking my money—and for nothing. You’re stupid. The only time I ever buy a goddamn story is when you leave town.” He paused, waiting for a reply. There was none. He went on. “You’re not only stupid, you’ve also got a terrible
personality
. That’s why nobody likes you. In fact, they all
hate
you. I’m talking about
everybody
!”

The atmosphere in the room had changed. Goldwyn was apparently out for the kill today. How much further would he go? How much more could Sam Marx take? How much
would
he take, and how much more could the rest of us bear? Apparently this was a relative matter because at this point Merritt Hulburt, the patrician Philadelphian who had been editor of the
Saturday Evening Post
before coming to work for Goldwyn, rose quietly and walked out of the room. Goldwyn did not see him leave, or perhaps pretended not to.

He moved a step closer to Marx and went on. “All the writers hate you and the agents hate you. That’s why they don’t give you their good stuff. And all the people on your
staff
hate you. You should hear what they say about you. Behind your back. It would make you ashamed.” He paused. Sam Marx had gone pale but still did not reply.
Marx’s passiveness appeared to swell Goldwyn’s growing fury. “And another thing,” he said tightly. “You’re a slob. Look at that suit you wear. A man earns your salary comes around here every day looking like a slob. With a cheap dirty suit like that suit. Not even
pressed
, f’Chrissake!” Marx looked Goldwyn straight in the eye but said nothing. At that moment I would have bet that Goldwyn was going to be struck within a matter of minutes. He went on, relentlessly. “Thalberg—supposed to be your such a friend—he only kept you around because he was
sorry
for you. He
told
me that.”

Marx was smiling faintly at this obvious untruth.

“What’re you laughing at?” thundered Goldwyn. “You think it’s funny, you fourflusher you? You deadbeat? You’re not worth a goddamn thing to me. Or to the business. Or to your
wife
! You want to know something?
She
hates you, too.”

Was this at last the climax? I saw Marx’s hands become fists. I saw his knuckles whiten, and his face redden. The pause was long, too long. Goldwyn appeared to be near exhaustion. Now to our surprise, he stepped close to Marx, put his hand on Marx’s shoulder and said, gently, “And besides, Sam, I don’t think you’re
happy
here!”

There was a flabbergasted pause, then Marx exploded a laugh. We all laughed.

Goldwyn laughed.

The situation continued. In time, it became intolerable to Goldwyn rather than to Marx. The torturer was bested by the tortured. Marx accepted a full settlement, with no concessions, and went off to Palm Springs to write a play.

The greater part of Goldwyn’s professional relationships were stormy. Passionate lovers do not enter into relationships casually, nor do they bring them gently to a close.

The movie business was the love of Sam Goldwyn’s life and he never took it lightly. He was a skillful, ardent wooer of talent and as a rule got what he wanted. But, as in a love affair, when it was over, it was over.

One morning, browsing sleepily through the trade papers over dollar-sized pancakes at Armstrong-Schroeder’s, I saw a story that woke me as though it were a thunderclap.

Warner Brothers announced it had bought the film rights to
Boy Meets Girl
by Sam and Bella Spewack, and were going to make it with James Cagney and their dumb blonde of the day, Marie Wilson.

Boy Meets Girl
. What a film it would make! The film business making uproarious fun of itself. I could see that I was the man for the job.

In my naïve enthusiasm, I truly believed I could direct practically anything better than practically anyone. It is often so. When you watch an expert, what he does seems simple. It is only when you try to do it yourself that the difficulties begin to proliferate.

More and more, as I considered it, this planned film seemed like an ordained breakthrough for me. Here was a happy circumstance indeed.
Boy Meets Girl
. I had had a good deal to do with it. As George Abbott’s assistant, I had read the play and brought it to Mr. Abbott with my enthusiastic recommendation. He had agreed, bought it, produced and directed it. It was a great success. I had been responsible for much of the casting, was finally in the play myself. I had directed all the road companies. I knew and liked the Spewacks.

Surely Warner Brothers would want me to work on the picture in
some
capacity. Of course, I would try to get to direct it. Who could arrange it for me? Cagney? Call Jack L.
Warner? Mr. Abbott? If these ploys failed, perhaps I could work on the film as dialogue director,
something
.

I had reached a point where the word “executive” made me physically ill. I had no wish to be an executive. I wanted to be a director. I had said to Goldwyn five or six hundred times—so many times, in fact, that he had stopped listening.

I phoned my office, told my secretary I would be delayed this morning.

“If Goldwyn wants me,” I said, “say I had to go to the doctor.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” said Jean, an old Hollywood hand, “it’s not a good idea. Don’t ever get it around that you’re sick or sickly.”

“You’re right. Say I had to go to the dentist.”

“Well, even
that’s
not so good, but it’s a little better. I’ll think of something. How late are you going to be?”

“Not much. Maybe half an hour.”