Hollywood (40 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about yet.”

“That goddamn Hungarian picture, or whatever the hell it was.”

“Oh,” I said, understanding. “Czechoslovakian.”

“Czechoslovakian, Rumanian, what the hell’s the difference? It’s nothing but a goddamn dirty picture. What’s the matter with you? You know better than that. I had people in, ladies and gentlemen in, and I put this picture on—in black-and-white—and this dirty picture with this girl showing her bare ass. I was shocked. I don’t know what’s happening to you, f’Chrissake. You’re not making any sense lately.”

“For your information, Sam,” I said, “that picture has had the best reviews of any picture this year. Sensational reviews, and it’s doing terrific business and—”

“Sensational reviews. They’re probably all
degenerates
those reviewers. Don’t ever recommend a picture to me any more. You’ve lost your whole taste. That’s your trouble.”

“I'm sorry, Sam.”

What else was there to say?

Samuel Goldwyn was always sensitive to changing trends and methods and fashion—whether he approved of them or not.

Those who deal with the mass audience tend to become cynical as they search for the lowest common denominator of appeal.

At one time, there was general agreement in the Hollywood front offices that the average filmgoer had a twelve-year-old mind. But what is average? It has been truly observed, “The average man is unusual.” And has not this mind aged across the years, along with everything and everyone else?

In any case, the collective mind of an audience is something else again. Whatever the shortcomings of individuals may be, when they are bound together in the shoulder-to-shoulder theatre experience, they become one great, sensitive supermind.

In this important matter, Goldwyn did not run with the pack. Having long been himself a member of the mass, he had respect and admiration for it.

He retained much of his innocence, which may well have been the principal reason for his lasting success. Whatever his shortcomings—intellectual, moral, or emotional— his love affair with people as a whole flourished until his death at ninety-two.

His philosophy was expressed in my presence one evening.

Harold Mirisch had invited a group of friends to a private preview at his home. The film was
The Thomas Crown Affair
, starring Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway.

After dinner, we gathered in the projection room. Mirisch, a nervous man, rose, faced the small audience, and began a complex introductory speech. He explained that what we were about to see was a rough-cut, that the opening of the film was still in the cutting room being assembled by the director, Norman Jewison.

“But let me explain it to you the best I can,” said Harold, and began a long, involved dissertation on the subject of the preparations for a bank robbery.

Billy Wilder interrupted. “But it sounds like a lot of boring exposition, Harold. You really think you need all that? On the front of the picture?”

“Yes,” said Harold, tightly. “I’m
sure
we do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a very complicated plot with a lot of characters and we’re worried the public won’t understand it.”

“Sit down, Harold,” said Samuel Goldwyn. “And stop worrying. The public is f’Chrissake smarter than
we
are!”