I did so as best I could and was dismissed. Throughout the day he called in the others who had performed the same chore and gave the same instructions.
The result was that without having read a page of the book, Goldwyn knew it far better than any one of us did. He would then ask for each one’s opinion, after which, tempering it with his own, he would make one of three decisions. Yes. No. Or maybe.
You Can Be Beautiful
was, for a time, the story of Elizabeth Arden, the story of Helena Rubinstein, the story of a small-town girl who comes to New York and conquers it by way of the beauty business, the story of an unhappy Plain Jane transformed into a happy-ending stunner, or (Dorothy Parker’s twist) a happy Plain Jane turned into a miserable knockout. Goldwyn hated this one.
“God
damn
it, Dottie!” he thundered. “You and your God damn sophisticated jokes. You’re a great writer. You’re a great poet.” He paused, frowning in an effort to recall something. He quoted, “‘Men never make a pass at girls wearing eyeglasses.’ That’s a great poem and you wrote it. You’re a great wit. You’re a great woman, but you haven’t got a great audience and you know why? Because you don’t want to give people what they want.”
Dorothy’s wide, innocent face looked up at him. “But Mr. Goldwyn,” she said softly, “people don’t
know
what they want until you
give
it to them.”
“You see that?” said Goldwyn to the world. “You just did it
again
. Wisecracks. I told you there’s no money in wisecracks. People want a happy ending.”
Dottie rose. “I know this will come as a shock to you, Mr. Goldwyn,” she said, “but in all history, which has held billions and billions of human beings, not a single one ever had a happy ending.”
She left the room.
Goldwyn surveyed those of us who remained. “Does anybody in here know what the hell that woman was talking about?”
Months went by. Goldwyn held fast to the subject. Writers came. Writers went. Conferences abounded. Nothing came of any of it.
At his home one Sunday afternoon, he discussed it with me, dejectedly. “It needs the spark,” he said. “It’s all there but we haven’t found the spark yet. You know, my boy, you can have a big bonfire with plenty of paper and straw and logs and even put kerosene on it but until you touch it with a spark you’ve got nothing and that’s what we’ve got right now. Just a lot of logs with no spark.”
I felt for him and wished I could have come up with the spark.
In my year with Mr. Goldwyn, I frequently felt as though I were his son. This feeling was doubtless caused by the fact that he frequently dealt with me as though I were. He
was the sort of man who somehow needed a son. His own was then about twelve and hardly the right casting for a confidante. He also had a daughter, I learned to my surprise, but she was the daughter of Blanche Lasky Goldwyn and they had long been estranged.
When it did not interfere with the thrust of his professional aspiration, Goldwyn could be warm and kind, gentle and considerate. I often felt the cloak of his friendship.
His relationship to Sammy, Junior, was complicated. Goldwyn seemed impatient for Sammy to grow up. He loved him but would love him more when he reached man-to-man age.
I remember a tense evening in the projection room at Goldwyn’s house toward the end of the editing of
Dead End
. Willie Wyler, who had directed it brilliantly, was there. Danny Mandel, Goldwyn’s chief editor, was there. The production secretary. Goldwyn’s secretary. And, for some mysterious reason, I was there.
The film was run reel by reel, scene by scene, with many conflicts growing out of the circumstance that Wyler’s sense of rhythm was different from Goldwyn’s. Goldwyn seemed impatient to get on with it, especially in the earlier part of the film. Wyler, on the other hand, felt the exposition had great importance. Goldwyn wanted to cut every foot he considered irrelevant. Wyler had to give in every now and then but was reluctant to remove what he considered important detail. From time to time, Goldwyn would acquiesce. It was akin to a complex game of chess.
Then came a breaking point. The scene was a barroom. Baby Face Martin, played by Humphrey Bogart, comes in with his sidekick, played by Allen Jenkins. They order whisky. The bartender puts down two shot glasses and sets the bottle down in front of them at the bar. He is about to step away when he looks appraisingly at Bogart and Jenkins. He picks up the bottle, takes a pencil from behind his ear, makes a mark at the level of the liquor, and retreats. A take from Bogart.
“Stop it!” yelled Goldwyn. “Stop it!” He pressed the signal button to the projection booth, furiously. The film stopped, the sound grinding down to silence. The lights came up in the room.
“
Now
what?” asked Wyler.
“That’s out,” said Goldwyn. “Take it out.”
“Take what out?”
“The whole thing. The bottle business. It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing!”
Wyler was on his feet. “What the hell are you talking about, Sam? That’s one of the most important things in the whole reel. It builds the tension. It shows that these guys are suspicious characters, that even the bartender sees it!”
“Don’t yell,” yelled Goldwyn. “Didn’t we make up no yelling?”
“You’ll drive me
crazy
, Sam,” said Wyler, lighting a cigarette. “You’re trying to ruin this picture.”
“Sure,” said Goldwyn. “I’m trying to ruin the picture because every goddamn nickel in it is mine, so naturally I can hardly wait to lose my money.”
“I don’t want to hear about your money,” said Wyler. “Let’s get back to the cut.”
“It’s
out
!” shouted Goldwyn. “I don’t want any of those arty, subtle jokes that nobody understands but a few of your friends.”
“Arty?” said Wyler.
“Furthermore,” said Goldwyn, “it wasn’t even in the play. On the stage. Show me where it was in the play. On the stage.”
“It wasn’t in the play,” said Wyler, “because that was a play and this is a movie and the play was written by Sidney Kingsley and the movie was written by Lillian Hellman and there are a
lot
of things in the movie that weren’t in the play and that’s no reason to cut them out.”
“But this one,” said Goldwyn stubbornly, “is out.”
Wyler changed tactics abruptly and said pleadingly, “But why, Sam?”
“Because,” said Goldwyn, “it’s too complicated. Nobody will understand it.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Sam,” said Wyler. “It’s the simplest little piece of business you could imagine. A child can understand it. Any child.”
At this moment, almost as though it had been planned, Samuel Goldwyn, Junior, appeared in the doorway, barefoot, holding a bottle of Coca-Cola. We all looked up.
“Come in, Sammy,” said Goldwyn. “Come in. Sit down. I want to show you something.” Sammy obeyed. The film was rolled back, the scene was run again. The buzzer. The film stopped. The lights came on. Goldwyn turned to his son. “Did you understand that?” he asked. “That bottle business?”
“Sure, Pop,” said Sammy.
Goldwyn stared at him. “You did?”
“Sure.”
“All right, then. Let me hear you explain it to me.”
“Well,” said Sammy haltingly, “the guy puts down the—bottle—but then he sees— that these other two—guys are sort of like—gangsters so he doesn’t—trust them so he makes a mark on the bottle so he’ll know—how much they took.”
The pause stretched out. Finally, Goldwyn turned to Wyler. “Ah, what the hell does a child know?” he said.
I recall a day during the time when I was still indentured to this powerhouse. A few of us on the staff were having a drink with George Haight, a departing associate producer. (There seemed
always
to be a departing associate producer.)
George described his final, surreal meeting with Goldwyn. It had been vitriolic, sentimental, choleric, caustic, sarcastic, humorous, Kafkaesque, and totally inconclusive.
“But how did it actually end?” I asked. “Did you shake hands finally?”
“No,” said George. “We shook
fists
.”
In the days when the Players Club produced an annual all-star revival, they did one of Arthur Wing Pinero’s bittersweet recall of theatre folk,
Trelawny of the Wells
.
The incomparable Laurette Taylor played Rose Trelawny in this 1925 production at the Knickerbocker Theatre. This supporting cast included John Drew, William Courtleigh, Charles Coburn, Violet Heming, Amelia Bingham, O.P. Heggie, and the beloved old Mrs. Thomas Whiffen.
Driving to her home on Riverside Drive after the dress rehearsal with her husband, Hartley Manners, Miss Taylor noticed that his praise was oddly reserved.
“Don’t you like me in this part?” she asked.
“Not entirely,” he replied.
“Why not? What is it?”
“Well, my dear,” said Manners, “an essential characteristic of Rose Trelawny is that most important quality that theatre people must possess—to
love
the
players
. It matters not whether you are a dramatist or a director or a stagehand, an usher or even another player, the important thing is that you must
love
the
players
.”
“I do,” protested Laurette. “I do!”
“That may be,” said Manners, “but your Rose Trelawny does not.”
Laurette Taylor used to recount that she stayed awake throughout that night thinking of what she first considered an unjust, harsh criticism, but slowly recognizing that her husband was right. She corrected her error. The next night, she loved the players and triumphed.
My own experience leads me to believe that Hartley Manners knew what he was talking about. Usually, it is not difficult to love the players. Actors and actresses are a splendid breed apart. In the main, I have found them to be courageous, helpful, industrious, witty, imaginative, resourceful, unselfish, and the best company in the world. I love the players.
There are always exceptions. Charles Laughton was mine.
I could hardly have admired him more, having first seen him on the New York stage in a thriller called
Payment Deferred
. In Alexander Korda’s film, his Henry VIII was a work of art. Even in the unsuccessful
Rembrandt
, there were unforgettable moments. His Hollywood films,
Ruggles of Red Gap
,
If I Had a Million
,
Mutiny on the Bounty
, left little to be desired. I thought Charles Laughton could do just about anything, which is why I cast him as Tony, the Napa Valley vintner in Sidney Howard’s
They Knew What
They Wanted
.
It was a daring piece of casting, but I needed only Laughton’s assurance that he was willing to accept the challenge to make me feel it would all come out right. I knew he could look it, certainly could play it. Could he sound it? Why not? It would be no more than a technical question of acquiring an Italian-American accent.
When the point was raised by the front office, I reminded them that Charles Laughton had, a few years earlier, accepted an invitation from the Comédie Française, had gone to Paris, and played
Le Médecin malgré lui
by Molière in flawless, unaccented French. (To this day, productions of the piece at the Comédie contain elements known as “
la tradition Laughton
.”)
Robert Ardrey had supplied a fine screenplay of the Sidney Howard work. Carole Lombard had agreed to play the mail-order bride, and I looked forward to the making of this film with greater anticipatory excitement than I had ever known.
The producer was to be Erich Pommer, the former head of UFA and now Laughton’s partner. Pommer’s English was sketchy, his grasp of American production methods weak, his manner brusque. In addition, he was in the process of giving up smoking, which increased his innate nervousness and caused him to suck and puff constantly on a plastic prop cigarette. He was fiercely devoted to Laughton, who had been his savior
for the past several years. He saw it as his present mission in life to get Laughton whatever he wanted no matter how difficult or unreasonable.
My first meeting with Laughton was a failure.
Reporting it to my father that evening, I said, “He doesn’t like me. Why do you suppose that is? Why doesn’t he like me?”
“Probably,” replied my father from the depth of his wisdom, “because you don’t like him.”
“I do,” I said.
“No,” said my father. “You like his work. Not him. That’s not the same thing.”
What had put me off almost at once was his opening gambit, which conveyed clearly that he proposed to take charge. What troubled me even more was his patronizing attitude toward his co-star, Carole Lombard.
“A movie star,” he said with undisguised scorn. “Well. Perhaps if she doesn’t attempt to act, she’ll get by.”
“She’s better than that,” I said. “She’s a fine actress.”
“Yes,” said Laughton, looking down at me from the heights. “I
so
admired her Hedda Gabler at the Old Vic.”
I changed the subject.
“About Tony’s speech pattern,” I said. “It’s strictly Italian-American. Bob and I have spent some time up there in the Napa Valley. St. Helena, Napa. The Italian-Americans there sound pretty much like the ones down here or in San Francisco or New York.”
“Or London,” he said. “We have Italians in London, too, you know.”
“Yes,” I said. “But that’s not the sound.”
It was in the next moment that I realized he did not like me.
“Suppose
you
do
your
job,” he said, “and let
me
do
mine
.”
“Of course,” I said, “but if there’s anything I can do to help—”
“Yes. Actually, there
is one
thing,” he interrupted. “One
very
important thing.”
“Yes?”
“Leave me alone.”
I left him alone.
A few days later, Erich Pommer burst into my office, waving his prop cigarette wildly and shouting, “I haf him here mit me. Outside. Tony. You vish to see him?”
“Of course,” I said.
He stepped out and led Laughton into the room. Laughton had spent all morning in the makeup department. They had done an outstanding job. His skin was swarthy and glistening; his black mustache, typically Italian. His wig, shiny and curly with the hair parted in the middle, was an unexpected, artful touch.
Wearing the cloak of his role, happily, confidently, Laughton began to gesture in a volatile way. He came toward me and said, “Howayoua doa mynama Tony Patucci glada mee tayoua!”
“Grand,” I said. “They’ve done a fine job.”
Tony became Laughton.
“
They
?” he said, in an ascending tone.
“The makeup boys.”
“They simply
did
,” said Laughton, haughtily, “what
I told
them to do.”
“Vot
he
told them,” said Pommer.
“Well,” I said, cowed. “What’s the difference, so long as it worked out so well?”
Laughton wheeled about and left abruptly. Pommer hung behind for a moment, looked at me, shook his head sadly, indicating sympathy for my clumsiness, and followed Laughton out.
Nothing is more important in a director’s work than to stay in control of the over-all project. I could feel my grip on this one slipping and called a meeting for the following day. I made it clear that I wished to confer with Laughton privately.
“We seem to have a problem, Charles,” I began.
“So?”
“Yes. I sense a testy, nervous beginning and I’m not accustomed to it.”
“Don't fret,” said Laughton. “You’ll find, in time, that I’m really an awfully nice fella.” (The last words with an American accent as a concession to me). “You have an enormous burden—your youth—but I can assure you that it will pass in time. Be patient.”
“The trouble is,” I said, “that with a forty-two-day schedule, I don’t have
time
to be patient, so I think I ought to tell you now that I’m worried about your accent.”
He looked at me as though I had spat in his face.
“What do you know about my accent?” he asked.
“Well, that sample I heard yesterday. It won’t do.”
“I was funning, you fool,” he said, rising. “Do you suppose for a moment I was acting? Auditioning? Is
that
what you thought? That I was doing a test for you?”
“No,” I said, “but I did get a feel and it worried me.”
There was a two-minute pause during which each of us assessed strengths, his own and his adversary’s. Finally Laughton spoke.
“What do you suggest?” he asked too quietly.
“I have a friend,” I said. “A young Italian named Paul Lepere. He speaks perfect English, of course, but he does an imitation of his father that’s absolutely authentic, and perfect for Tony. I’d like him to work with you. Not on the part, you understand. He hasn’t read the script and I don’t want him to. But just listen to him talk. Maybe have him read the daily newspaper aloud. It’s not an unusual way of doing it. Vivien Leigh, you know, worked with a young Southerner named Will Price. That’s how she got that marvelous Southern accent for
Gone With the Wind
.”
“Vivien Leigh,” he muttered.
“Look, Chuck,’ I said. “I don’t give a damn about method. All I care about is result.”
“Chuck?” he asked.
“That’s our familiar form for Charles. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind about the Chuck,” he said. “I
do
mind you getting familiar.”
We both laughed. The ice was not precisely broken but perhaps it had begun to melt a bit.
“I’m only trying to be of assistance, Charles,” I continued. “If it doesn’t work out, then—”
“Call me Chuck,” he said.
“Unless, of course, you have your own method.”
“My dear boy,” he said, inventing a new, improved brand of superciliousness. “Of course I have a method. From now until the first day of shooting, I propose to study the
paintings of Michelangelo, listen to nothing but Vivaldi, and read aloud, in the original, the epic poetry of Dante.”
I was impressed. Nothing more was said about the accent.
I had prevailed upon the studio to allow me a two-week rehearsal period; unusual at that time, unprecedented at RKO. On the first day, the principals assembled. They sat around in a semicircle in the way of a theatrical production. We began to read through the script.
Laughton’s turn.
“Eesasoma
ting
awannayou
bout
!’ he spluttered. The cast looked at him, amazed. Others spoke two or three lines, then Laughton said, “Shu
bin
tagaldina.”
“Hold it,” I said. “Charles, I know we’re still in the early stages, but I’m afraid the others are going to find it hard to recognize their cues.”
“Fuckin’ well right,” said Carole Lombard.
“Charles,” I said, “there is
no
Italian
anywhere
on the face of the
earth
who sounds like
that
.”
He was suddenly deflated, apprehensive, terrified. He had, after all, been working on the accent in his own way for seven weeks. He became a small boy before our eyes, as he whimpered, “There
must
be!”
He went on with the reading, but dropped any attempt at an accent and the effect of the play was strange indeed. On the lunch break, he approached me.
“This friend of yours,” he said. “The Italian. Is he available?”
“He’s right here,” I said.
“Send him up to Curson Avenue tonight.”
Paul Lepere began to work with Laughton, tell him stories about his father, an Italian restaurant owner in Norwalk, Connecticut, and reading newspapers aloud as he imagined his father would.
Laughton listened, absorbed, digested, and a few days later began to use an Italian accent in his part. Such was the excellence of his ear and the greatness of his talent that he sounded neither like Paul, nor like Paul’s father, nor like Laughton. He sounded like Tony Patucci.
He continued to work with Paul daily. He had Paul record hour upon hour of speech. There was never a problem again about the accent.
A week or so before shooting was scheduled to end, an interviewer from
The New
York Times
came to talk to Laughton on the set. We were back from the Napa Valley location and in the studio now. I went to get a drink of water from the cooler and could not help overhearing a part of the interview.
“—that terrific Italian accent?” asked the interviewer.
“Quite simple, really,” said Laughton grandly. “For several months, I have studied the paintings of Michelangelo, listened exclusively to Vivaldi, and read Dante. In the original, of course.”
The closest we ever came to becoming friends was one night during the location trip.
Laughton had stayed after the last shot to discuss some problems involving the next day’s shooting. As sometimes happens, his difficult problem was swiftly and easily solved by a surprising idea that luckily occurred to me at the right moment.
“Grand,” said Laughton. “That’s simply grand. Why don’t we go somewhere and have a drink?”
“Somewhere in town, do you mean?” I asked.
“No, no. Come along. We’ll find a place.”
We drove out onto the main highway and rode along until we came upon a small ramshackle bar and grill.
We went in. It was virtually deserted, but it would not have mattered had the place been filled because no one there recognized Laughton, who was still in his Tony get-up.
In a corner booth, we began to talk, not about
They Knew What They Wanted
but about beginnings. Suddenly, he wanted to know all about me. Where I was born (Rochester, New York). What education I had had (very little). What other jobs I had had (a great many). He seemed genuinely interested and after his third drink, started to tell me about his beginnings.
I knew most of it, having made a study of his biography before starting the picture, but much of what he told me was new.
“I
hated
the success of
Henry the Eighth
. It was the wrong sort of success, don’t you see? Showy. Flashy. All they cared about was Henry’s table manners. And it troubled me in other ways, as well. It was the kind of success that defies topping it and that’s what the bastards always expect you to do. Each thing has to be better or more impressive than the one before. What sort of life is that? I want another drink. Do you?”