Hollywood (33 page)

Before buying the screenplay, Zanuck insisted I come to California to confer with him, if only for an hour. He had one element he thought the story needed. If I agreed, he would buy it at a handsome figure. If I did not agree, he did not want the story and no harm done. I went out. He told me his idea. I have hardly ever, in a long working life, been more stunned. It was the one idea that, in my view, ruined the story completely.

“My idea is this,” he said. “I like what you’ve done. It’s got a lot of heart and she’s a great character. Hell, she’s
three
great characters! Isn’t she? And that’s the whole point. I get your drift. You’re talking about the environment being what molds characters, and I agree with all that. You’re right. And it’s really a sensational script. The only thing is you’ve got three stories and two of the endings are downbeat. That’s no good. The thing I want you to do is give me three happy endings. I mean, you’ve been around the business long enough to know that that’s what they want. You can’t sell a picture with a downbeat ending, with an unhappy finish. It’s not worth a damn. There’s never been a hit picture with a downbeat ending. So here you have a terrific opportunity. Because you’ve got not only
one
story. You’ve got
three
stories. So instead of
one
happy ending, you’ve got a chance to have
three
happy endings! It makes the whole thing better and it
doesn’t change anything, really. It’s still the same baby who grows up to be three different people. So what’s the difference?”

I stared at him. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. I was even more stunned and surprised to hear myself say, “Terrific, Darryl. I’ll do it.”

“Great,” he said. “Listen, I’ll work it out with Lastfogel and we’ll be in touch. But start thinking about it, will you? I’ve got to go see the dailies. Thanks for coming up.”

“Not at all,” I said.

He left the office. I was still sitting there, alone, trying to understand the moment. I had an excuse for my reprehensible behavior. I was broke. I needed the money to fulfill pressing obligations. I tried to convince myself that I had done the practical thing.

I returned to New York and directed a play. When it failed, I returned to Hollywood and wrote the three happy endings. George Cukor was assigned to direct, and Susan Hayward was cast to play the girl. Everything was going forward to Zanuck’s satisfaction and to my dismay. I could seen nothing but disaster ahead. Four days before the first day of shooting, the production was canceled because the board of directors in New York failed to approve the budget, and neither Zanuck nor Cukor, nor the production department could see any way of making the picture much more cheaply.

I felt rescued.

Three years later, Zanuck was riding high, having produced a string of commercial successes.

He sent for me and said, “Listen. We’re going to make that sensational picture of yours now. What was the name of it?”

“
Come What May
,” I said.

“Well, we’ll change that. That’s not a good title. Too soft. But we’ll get a title. Don’t worry about it. And listen. I really have got a sensational idea for that picture. I went over it a few nights ago. I read over it fast, just to refresh my memory, and I want to tell you, I’ve got an idea for it that’s perfect. In a way, I’m glad those clowns wouldn’t let us do it last year.”

“It was
three
years ago,” I said.

“Was it? Well, whenever. But I’ve got them by the balls now, and they’re going to do things
my
way. I’m getting a lot of my own back right now. This is one of them. Sons of bitches. Pulling the picture out from under us at the last minute. That was a terrible thing to do. I felt so bad for you.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But we’re going to make it now, boy. We’re going to make it great.”

“What’s your idea?” I asked, and thought that since he had already suggested the worst possible one, I had no fear. Nothing could be worse than that notion of the three happy endings. I was wrong. His new idea topped even that.

“We’re going to make it,” he said, “with three
different
girls!”

“What do you mean?” I said. “How could that be?”

“Three stars,” he said. “See, the way things are going now, there’s not one big star, girl star, who could carry the picture. No matter who she is. But two stars, or three stars, that’s always box office. So we’ll get the three best girls we can snow, and see, in each story, she grows up to be a different girl. A different actress. Is that great?”

I was not broke this time and said, “Darryl, that’s the worst bloody idea anybody could
possibly
think of for this picture, and I hope you’re kidding me. I hope this is some kind of a monumental tease.”

“What are you talking about, kidding?” he said. “I’ve got no sense of humor. You know that.”

“Darryl,” I said. “You own this material. That means you can do any damn thing you want with it. But I couldn’t, in good faith, even be around to see it murdered. And while we’re at it, let me tell you that those three happy endings are lousy, too. There’s only one way to do this picture, and that’s to do it pretty much the way I wrote it. That’s my opinion.”

He looked at me and shook his head sadly. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “I thought you were different. But you’re not. You’re just a
writer
!”

Sam Spiegel, the celebrated independent producer, was known for a time as S.P. Eagle. It was hard for those of us who had known him as Sam Spiegel to make the adjustment. Even now, I wonder why. It should have been easy. In temperament, mien, method, and looks, he certainly resembled a predatory bird.

The wags went to work almost at once, signing letters and scripts K.U. Rnitz, or K.R. Asna, and addressing letters to Z.A. Nuck, Twentieth Century-Fox Studios, T. Racy, M-G-M Studios—and so on.

Prior to “Eagle” or “Spiegel,” he had been known as “Joe Schenck’s man,” the one who produced and directed the finest New Year’s Eve parties ever known in Beverly Hills. Other than his work on this annual spectacular, his duties and functions were not clear. Was he an assistant? An associate? A major-domo? A mastermind? Or simply a hanger-on? Joseph M. Schenck was a power, the head of Twentieth Century-Fox, and as such had a large and active staff surrounding him. He was a large and colorful man who came to the United States in 1900 at the age of twenty-two, became a pharmacist, then a fairground operator, built Palisades Amusement Park across the Hudson from New York City, became chairman of United Artists and organized its national chain of theatres, married Norma Talmadge, headed Twentieth Century Productions, merged it with Fox Films and, in later life, took a French lesson every day.

The fact that his younger brother, Nicholas, was head of M-G-M gave him reserve power which he did not hesitate to use when needed. Example: getting Spencer Tracy to star in
Stanley and Livingstone
by means of an unprecedented loan-out.

The daily complexities of his professional and personal life required much assistance. Thus, there were many associates, and for a time, Sam Spiegel was one of them. A large, florid, charming Pole, Spiegel was colorful in his own right. He was never less than perfectly dressed and groomed, was an accomplished linguist, and suggested a mysterious background.

A year or so after his arrival in Hollywood, he co-produced
Tales of Manhattan
—a complex episodic film directed by Julien Duvivier. Like most such grab-bag works, it was uneven—a Mulligan stew of good and bad, with a few delicious bits. No matter. Eagle/Spiegel had achieved identity. He was now a producer. Still, three years were to pass before his next film,
The Stranger
. When it failed, he followed it with a plural title,
We Were Strangers
. More jokes. Further speculation. Three years more and then—
The
African Queen
. The C.S. Forester novel had been around, admired, and considered by
many for some time, but was generally thought to be too difficult to film. By 1950, backlot production was proving to be increasingly unacceptable to the new, informed audience and
The African Queen
presented seemingly insurmountable location problems. Hollywood had not forgotten the hell of
Trader Horn
.

Sam Spiegel, confidently readopting his name, was undeterred.

He engaged James Agee (virtually unknown to Hollywood) to write the screenplay, John Huston to direct, and negotiated brilliant percentage deals with both Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn in order to facilitate financing. He knew that an exceptional cameraman was required and hired Jack Cardiff.

The result, after a year of near-killing work on the part of all concerned, has a permanent place in the library of outstanding films. Spiegel’s reputation was made. All at once, he was a power himself, with assistants and associates of his own.

He did not rush into his next production, in an attempt to cash in. What he now wanted was to top
The African Queen
.

To the industry’s astonishment, he did precisely that three years later with
On the
Waterfront
.

This time, he dealt with one of the riskiest of ventures—an original screenplay. It means beginning from scratch with nothing pretested or presold. Budd Schulberg provided the electrifying screenplay, Elia Kazan, at the peak of his considerable powers, directed, and Marlon Brando proved to be a continuing revelation. The picture was a triumph.

The jokes and cracks faded into silence as Sam Spiegel went on to produce
The
Bridge on the River Kwai
and
Lawrence of Arabia
.

To illuminate the idea of Sam Spiegel’s style—the class, the panache, the approach that have made him the superior figure he is, I offer the following:

1955
. I am directing the original production of
The Diary of Anne Frank
. We are trying out in Philadelphia, at the Walnut Street Theatre.

All is going well at last, but it has been an extremely difficult production to mount, mainly because of financing. Kermit Bloomgarden, the producer of the play, had found his usual backers unwilling to risk capital on what they thought a depressing subject. Who would go to see it? Some who admired the play did not admire it enough to invest money in it.

As one put it, “Look, there’s a difference between an investment and a contribution. If Kermit asks me for a contribution—well, maybe. That’s different. I’ll think about it. But an investment? What kind of investment is
that
?”

A few days before rehearsals were to begin, prospects were bleak. And then—Doris Vidor came through. The play would go on. Hallelujah.

Mrs. Vidor was the daughter of Harry Warner of Warner Brothers. She had been married to Mervyn LeRoy and was now the wife of Charles Vidor. She had long expressed her interest in the theatre in the most charming, tangible way—by putting money into it. She always backed what she liked or admired or thought worthy. Moneymaking was secondary, even tertiary.

Fortunately, she responded to
The Diary of Anne Frank
, or it might not have gone on at all.

The morning after the opening, she phoned me.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I wish you’d been there,” I said. “Everything worked. Maybe it’ll never work again, but it worked last night.”

“I’m thrilled.”

“Doris, I can hardly believe it myself. By the way, I finally got Pepi Schildkraut to shave his head. It made all the difference. Turned him from an actor into a person.”

“Great.”

“Anyway, it was the worst possible night. Hot as a son of a bitch and no air-conditioning in the theatre. So they had to open all the doors to keep the audience from suffocating. And the street noises. Trolley cars go right by. People walking by stopped and watched for a while. It was—I mean, could have been—a nightmare. But that thing on the stage—those people, characters—the situation, the story—God damn. It held them like hypnosis.”

“And it’s not depressing? Not that I ever thought it would be.”

“Not a bit. It’s exalting, for Christ’s sake. Listen. Come down and see it. Come soon.”

“No. I’ll wait for New York. I get nervous at tryouts.”

“Nervous is good for you,” I urged.

“No. Packing and hotels and all.”

“Come to a matinee. Come Wednesday. Take a morning train. We’ll have lunch here at the Barclay. See the matinee, have a drink, and you’ll be back in New York in time for dinner.”

“I’ll have to be,” she said, weakening. “I’m having dinner with Sam Spiegel.”

“Bring him down,” I suggested. “Then you’re sure.”

“Well,” she said. “I’ll ask him. If he can make it, all right, I will.”

“You owe it to yourself,” I said. “A lot of this show is yours. It might not have got on without you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Anyway, I’ll let you know.”

An hour later, Spiegel called me.

“I know what tryouts are,” he said, “and I'm not coming unless I hear from you, personally, that you don’t mind.”

Class, I thought.

“Sam, you’re more than welcome. In fact, I’d like your eye.”

“I’ll bring it,” he said.

Lunch was joyful. The play was going better with each performance. The small cuts were improving the pace. The cast was gaining confidence, playing it like a hit. The audiences were responding more and more as they were meant to.

The performance was to begin at 2:40 P.M. At 2:00, I called for the check.

“What’s the rush?” asked Sam.

“Well, you know, at this hour—taxis—”

“What taxis?” he asked, astonished. “We have a car.”

“We have?”

“The car we drove down in. How else?”

“Fine, but I’ll get the check anyway.”

“It’s all done,” said Sam. “Let’s go.”

My protests were useless. Sam Spiegel was in charge.

In the lobby, Doris began looking about.

“Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked. “Do you know? I won’t be a minute.”

“It’s right there past the elevator,” I said. You turn—”

“Just a moment,” said Sam. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Me?” I asked.