He got up and moved around his desk to Bergen. Close to him, he spoke as though the rest of us were not meant to hear.
“I’ve been in this business a long time, my boy. Maybe before you were born. I seen them come and I seen them go. Up and down. All over the place. Right now—you’re up there. You’re on top. But let me tell you something, Mr. Bergen…” He put his hand on Bergen’s shoulder and continued. “It’s a goddamn sight easier to climb up a greased pole than to
stay
there!” He took Bergen’s hand, shook it, and said, “Remember that.” Then he added, “Send in your agent tomorrow morning, I’ll work something out with him. It’s a great picture! And you’re great in it!”
The meeting was over. We all returned to our respective offices. I have no idea what the others did, but I began to dictate an account of the extraordinary event.
The buzzer on my intercom sounded. Sam Marx.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Come on in here.”
In Marx’s office, I found him with Fred Kohlmar and George Haight.
Fred said, “We just wanted to check something with you.”
“Check what?”
“What was that thing about a greased pole Goldwyn said to Bergen? Did you hear it?”
“Certainly. And I just made a note of it. He said, ‘It’s a goddamn sight easier to climb up a greased pole than to
stay
there!’ ”
“Right,” said George. “You got it right. Go to the head of the class.”
“Not so fast,” said Marx. “Not till you tell us what it means.”
“It means he’s trying to scare Bergen—reminding him that just because he’s big stuff today, he may not be tomorrow.”
“Great,” said Fred. “And what’s a greased pole got to do with it?”
“He probably meant greased pig,” mused George.
“No, no,” said Marx. “He meant pole. You don’t climb up a greased pig.”
“You might,” said George, “if you were Goldwyn.”
Merritt Hulburt joined us. He was asked for
his
recollection of Goldwyn’s remark and responded accurately.
“What’s extraordinary,” said Merritt, “is that what he said makes no sense whatever and yet it made perfect sense when he said it—to all of us—and conveyed his meaning
eloquently and actually it would be—the idea, not the words—a hell of a good thing for Bergen to keep in mind.”
“Actually,” said George, “it’s a goddamn sight
harder
to climb up a greased pole than to stay there.”
The idea had not occurred to me. Of course.
“The man’s a genius in the art of communication,” said Merritt.
“He’s got a big edge,” said Marx. “His own language.”
Years later, I read an interview with Sam Goldwyn in which he was quoted as saying: “When I was a kid back there in Gloversville, there used to be a fair come around and one of the barkers there said he would give a prize—ten dollars—to anybody could climb up this greased pole. Well, I thought, what have I got to lose? So I started in and I wrapped my arms around that pole and I inched up holding as tight as I could and I won the ten dollars, but I won something more important—a very important lesson. And it was this. That even after I climbed the pole, it was harder to stay on top of it after I got there. And I have found that life is a lot like that.”
Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy did well enough in
The Goldwyn Follies
, certainly as well as anyone else—but where films were concerned, Goldwyn was right about the greased pole.
Bergen’s success in radio and clubs and theatres continued for years, but movies did not prove to be his medium.
Perhaps if Charlie McCarthy
could
have gone off on his own, as Fred Kohlmar had suggested, things would have worked out differently.
The power of that amazing little dummy was astonishing.
I went onto the set the first day Bergen was to shoot his routine. There he was in a two-shot—he and Charlie—holding the dummy on a waist-high stool. Bergen had done this act a thousand times, so there was no need to rehearse it. It was simply a matter of setting the lights and the camera.
George Marshall was the director. A grizzled, no-nonsense veteran of the silent days.
The first take was soon under way. It did not get very far. First, I broke up on the sidelines, then others, and soon everyone. The cause was the officious little boom man, charged with operating the overhead microphone for the sound department.
In two-shots, the live side of the mike would be twisted to pick up the player who was speaking. In this case, the dialogue exchange between Bergen and Charlie was swift and the boom man was desperately making every effort to get a good recording— twisting the mike back and forth from Bergen to Charlie, from Charlie to Bergen— forgetting momentarily, along with the rest of us, that the sound was coming out of Bergen alone.
The Goldwyn Follies
, for all of its strengths, a lovely Gershwin score (his last), and many thrilling moments, was not a success.
“It didn’t have enough—I mean the right enough—enough of the right f’Chrissake glamour. That’s what it didn’t—glamour. That Zorina. Sure, she’s all right, but she’s no Garbo.”
“Who is?” I asked.
He nodded sagely and said, “That’s it. I should’ve had Garbo. But a fat chance to get her away from those Metro bastards. They wouldn’t give me
anything
, let alone Garbo.” He was growing angry. “And you want to know something? I wouldn’t give
them
anything either. F’Chrissake, I wouldn’t give them Garbo. If I had Garbo. Those bastards.”
In an attempt to comfort him, I said, “But Garbo’s not a dancer, Mr. Goldwyn.”
“So what?” he said. “She could’ve learned. F’Chrissake. That Balanchine had them there, locked up for how many months was it—three, four? She could’ve learned. Garbo. And if not, for the hard stuff, in the long shots, we could’ve doubled her. But at least we would’ve had the right glamour—enough glamour in the close shots.”
Garbo was Goldwyn’s ideal actress. For him, she had everything: beauty, sex, talent, mystery. Above all, she had made the rare transition from silents to sound.
He seemed always to be seeking another Garbo. He had had Vilma Banky, but the talkies wiped her out. Could he have seen Garbo in Anna Sten? He certainly tried to see her in Vera Zorina and, briefly, in a beautiful young Norwegian actress named Sigrid Gurie, who turned out to have been born in Brooklyn. The information had a traumatic effect upon Goldwyn.
“How would you like to see me and Sophia Loren in a picture together?” asked Spencer Tracy one evening.
“I’d like it,” I said. “In fact, if for any reason
you
can’t make it, I’d just as soon see her in a picture
without
you. Just so long as I can see
her
.”
Sophia Loren had recently come upon the scene, bringing with her a sultry, volcanic, sexual quality that had long been missing from the screen. Even in her small part in
The
Gold of Naples
, she had made a distinct impression. It was reinforced in
Boy on a
Dolphin
.
The Miller’s Wife
was notable only for the shots of Sophia, as was
Scandal in
Sorrento
.
Stanley Kramer put her into
The Pride and the Passion
with Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra. She appeared to be a potential star. The picture failed. She followed it with
Legend of the Lost
.
Five of her films were released in 1957. She was clearly somebody, but no one knew what to do with her.
At Paramount, she was miscast in
Desire Under the Elms
. Under the management of Carlo Ponti, she appeared in four films in 1958. Nine films in two years. The others in 1958 were
Attila
,
The Key
, made in London;
Houseboat
, back in America and again with Cary Grant. It was during this time that Spencer asked his question.
Sophia Loren had moved to Hollywood. Ponti and his partner, Marcello Girosi, were planning a program to build Sophia Loren’s career. They owned a story by Cesare Zavattini, which they believed could be adapted for American production. Spencer recommended me to them, and we had a series of meetings.
Carlo Ponti had just begun to study English. He did not yet dare sentences, and spoke only single words. One of them was the word “incredible,” which he pronounced “eencredble.”
He dropped it into the conversation often, and I was amazed to note how many times it fitted perfectly.
With Girosi interpreting back and forth, some of the conversation went: “How much do you think this picture will cost to make in America?”
“Oh, I should think two million, two million two.”
“Eencredble!”
“We would like you to write it. What would be your fee?”
I told him.
“Eencredble!”
“You will direct it, too?”
“Yes, if you want me to. If everyone wants me to.”
“But for this you get paid more?”
“Of course.”
“Eencredble.”
And so on. Nevertheless, we all got on famously.
I wrote the screenplay, which was titled
Big Deal
. The film would have to be shot partly in Italy and partly in New York.
The reactions were affirmative. Production planning began. Ponti and Girosi now had a screenplay, a director, and two stars. What they needed was financing and distribution. The submissions began.
Bad news. No one wanted the project. The reason? Sophia Loren’s recent pictures had not been successful at the box office, nor had Spencer’s, nor had mine. I suggested that I withdraw from the directorial part of the package. Three other directors were tried, at least two of whom were riding high. Even they were not able to counterbalance the unbankable stars.
Big Deal
became
no
deal.
It was suggested the budget be cut down. I went back to work on the script, simplifying it, devising ways to keep the cost at a minimum. We got it down to a million-three. By sheer persistence, Abe Lastfogel was finally able to get United Artists to finance the picture. However, they would only go for one million.
Spencer and I began to worry. We did not want to come up with anything less than first class. The budget was re-examined, combed. Spencer offered to take less, Sophia would take less, I would defer my director’s fee. By doing all this, perhaps, the picture could be made after all. We put our attention on the work rather than on the humiliation and proceeded—until we were informed one day that United Artists had changed its corporate mind. The picture was off again.
Undaunted, Abe Lastfogel insisted that I go with him to Twentieth Century-Fox where he had learned that, because of a cancellation, a picture was needed to go into production at once. He had also found out that the studio owned impounded funds in Italy. We drove to Twentieth, full of confidence.
The man in charge of negotiation there was Lou Schreiber. He listened attentively to our pitch and seemed to be responding. I kept describing the leading man until Schreiber said, “It sounds like Spencer Tracy to me. Could you get him?”
“We sure in hell could try,” I said. “Great idea, Lou. I have a feeling he might go for this.”
“He’d be good,” said Schreiber. “He’s a pain in the neck, and he’s no box office, but he’s great.”
“In a good picture, he’ll be box office,” I said. “And he’s not a pain in the neck, I’ve worked with him.”
“He’d have to be reasonable. I mean about money,” said Schreiber. “Them days, them other days, y’know—they’re
gone
.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Abe. “We’ll work something out.”
I began to describe the leading lady. This time, my strategy failed. Schreiber listened but came up with no idea.
I took the plunge and said, “I’ll tell you who I’d like to get for the girl.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Somebody absolutely terrific—and with Spence, the chemistry would be fantastic. The whole thing would be original and interesting, sexy, box office, electrifying.”
“Who?” said Schreiber.
“Loren,” I said.
(I do not know why I could not bring myself to utter her full name. Was it that I thought it would be easier for him to digest if I gave it to him a piece at a time?)
Schreiber looked at me, bewildered, and said, “Lauren Bacall? She’s not Italian.”
“No, not Lauren Bacall,” I said. “Sophia Loren.”
Schreiber exploded. “Sophia Loren! Are you nuts? Loren? Do you think we—?
Sophia
!”
“Wait a second, Lou,” said Abe.
“Sophia Loren!” Schreiber repeated incredulously.
We could not have done worse had we suggested Tokyo Rose.
“What’s the matter with Sophia Loren?” I said. “She’s beautiful, she’s young, she’s a tremendous screen presence. Spencer thinks so, too. This whole project has been tailored for them.”
“I see,” said Schreiber. “That was the casting all along, huh?”
“That’s right,” I said. “That was the casting all along.”
“Sophia Loren!” he said. “We had ’er here in—what was it?—that goddamn dolphin picture.” He flipped a key on his Dictograph.
“Yes, sir?”
“Give me some gross sheets on that dolphin picture.”
“What picture?”
“Loren, Loren.”
“Lauren Bacall?”
“No, God damn it, Sophia Loren, the dolphin picture. Last year or two years ago. I’m trying to forget it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to show me that stuff, Lou,” I said. “I know the picture did nothing. But how come you guys always blame somebody else? She didn’t pick the subject and she didn’t write the picture. She didn’t direct it or cut it or release it. So how come it’s her fault?”
“You know why,” said Schreiber. “It’s because that’s the kind of personality she is. Women don’t like her. She makes them nervous. She’s too sexy.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Too sexy in the wrong way.”
“I didn’t know there
was
a wrong way.”
“And men? Men are frightened of her. She’s too big, she’s too powerful, too ballsy.”
“Only up against insipid leading men,” I argued. “Not with Spencer Tracy.”
Abe, ever the pragmatist, said, “And Lou, you can get a great deal with these two. They’re both willing to play ball because they love the project.”
The gross sheets arrived. Lou Schreiber put on his glasses and studied them in the manner of a Supreme Court Justice studying briefs. He opened the drawer and put them away. He took off his glasses.
“I’m not even gonna tell you,” he said. “It’s too embarrassing for everybody. We didn’t even get our prints and advertising back.”
“But this is another project entirely, Lou.”
“A bargain,” said Abe.
“You don’t seem to get it,” said Schreiber. “So let me tell you. If you came in here and told me you’re gonna give me Sophia for a picture, and she’ll take Screen Actors Guild scale, y’hear me? Minimum scale. You know what I’d say to you? I’d say, ‘No. Keep ’er, we don’t want ’er on the lot!’ Have I made myself clear?”
I rose and started out. Schreiber continued.
“If you came in here and said, ‘She’ll make a picture and pay
you
twenty-five thousand dollars.’ If that Ponti of hers brought all the financing even, we wouldn’t want to release ’er.”
Clearly, he was out of control.
“You’ve made your point, Lou,” I said. “Don’t beat it to death. You’ve not only made your point, but you’ve made a mistake.”
“We’ll see!” he shouted. “We’ll
see
who’s made the mistake.”
I left. Abe followed a few minutes later. We drove back to Beverly Hills in silence.
Big
Deal
was abandoned. Sophia and Spencer went on to other things.
Fifteen months passed. Abe Lastfogel received a call from Lou Schreiber at Twentieth Century-Fox. Schreiber wanted to know if Lastfogel still represented Sophia Loren.
“Yes.”
Good. Would she possibly be available at such and such a time for an important film they were planning?
Lastfogel, astonished, continued the conversation. When Lou Schreiber finally made the firm offer, Lastfogel insisted he put it in writing and send it over by messenger.
Abe phoned me and said, “Come on over here. There’s something I want to show you.”
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said when I got there. “That’s why I made him put it in writing. I’m going to show you this. Ordinarily I wouldn’t, but in a way, you’re part of the whole thing and I don’t want you to forget what I’m showing you. You remember that last meeting we had with Schreiber about Sophia Loren?”
“How could I forget it?” I said.
“All right, then,” said Abe. “Now look at this.”
I looked at it. Twentieth Century-Fox was offering Sophia Loren the leading role in
The Story of Ruth
and a guarantee of a million dollars. It was a lesson I have not forgotten.
Sophia Loren’s spectacular success, including the classic
Two Women
, for which she won an Academy Award, the Best Actress award at the Cannes Festival, the New York Critics’ Award, and the British Film Institute Best Foreign Actress Award—is not entirely the result of clever management and good fortune.
A great factor is her own determination, industry, and developed talent. This is the girl who, with her mother, hitchhiked from Pozzuoli, near Naples, to Rome when she was fourteen. She found work as a movie extra along with thousands; entered a beauty contest along with hundreds; signed up with a modeling agency along with dozens—but always believed in herself as singular.
A parallel career is that of Sophia’s friend Silvana Mangano. They had been extras and small-part players together and caught the eye, respectively, of two dynamic producers, Carlo Ponti and Dino De Laurentiis.
It was Ponti who changed Sophia’s name from Scicolone to Loren and gave her her first real part in
Africa Under the Sea
, which he and De Laurentiis produced.
She and Ponti were married by proxy in Mexico in 1957.
De Laurentiis sponsored and managed and married Silvana Mangano. She became a star of sorts, but preferred home life and voluntarily ended her career.
Sophia, with Ponti, traveled another road. Ambitious and resourceful, she became not only a star, but a superstar, and what is even more rare, a lasting star.
The importance of the director is exemplified by her career. She began in 1948 and made dozens of pictures: dramas, comedies, musicals. This went on for six long years, but when Vittorio de Sica directed her for the first time in
The Gold of Naples
, she became an actress.
More than any star I know, Sophia Loren has (or has learned) serenity and imperturbability. She understands the importance of these qualities.
When I heard that Marlon Brando and Anna Magnani were scheduled to co-star in a film (
The Fugitive Kind
, from Tennessee Williams’ play
Orpheus Descending
), I was troubled by the imminent clash of temperaments. The producers were friends of mine and I worried for them.
“What do you suppose will happen?” I asked Sophia. “You know them both. Will they manage, do you think, or what?”
“It will be a battle,” said Sophia. “Terrific. And Marlon will win.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “How can you tell?”
“Because,” said Sophia confidently, “Marlon will stay relaxed.”
When I first saw
Two Women
and watched Sophia—in the long sequences involving her and her young daughter trudging the roads, facing the terrors and the ugly vicissitudes of life—with only question marks at the end of the journey—I wondered if she was remembering herself and
her
mother and their similar pilgrimage from Pozzuoli to Naples to Rome.
The road eventually led to Hollywood, as it did across decades for film artists from every part of the world.