Pictures at a Revolution (33 page)

“Arthur said to me at one point, ‘Look, I like these guys a lot, but would I be letting you down terribly if I don't do the movie?”' says Beatty. “This was in July of 1966, and I think we started in October! So, rather than be graceful, I said, ‘Yes, you would be letting me down—what the hell are you talking about?'” Beatty asked Penn if he wanted to work with Lillian Hellman or Arthur Miller on the script, offering to get in touch with them. Penn, not looking for a wholesale rewrite, said no.
⁴⁵
Then Beatty suggested that Robert Towne step in. Towne had already been serving as Beatty's unofficial adviser on the movie; he had been a strong advocate for getting rid of the three-way: “Now they're all in bed together, now they're in bed separately—it took
Jules and Jim
a whole movie to resolve a ménage à trois
without
any gangster stuff going on,” he had said. Penn agreed to sit down with him and talk through the screenplay. When the two men met, says Towne, “I think it probably was within two to three weeks, maybe a month at most, of the time that the production actually went to Texas.”
⁴⁶

Towne told Penn he thought the screenplay was still too episodic and suggested a vital reordering of scenes late in the movie. In Benton and Newman's script, Parker and Barrow interrupt their crime spree so that she can visit her mother; in the following scene, the gang picks up a young mortician and his girlfriend and chats with the terrified couple for a while before dropping them off on an empty road. Towne suggested reversing the scenes; Bonnie's revulsion at the scent of mortality once she realizes that she is in the car with an undertaker would now lead directly to her desire to see her mother one last time, and the change would suffuse the last third of the movie with a sense that death was approaching inexorably. He also suggested a substantial rewrite of the exchange with Bonnie's mother, which Beatty says “had been sort of a plateau, the kind of scene that would give you a great opportunity to go to the candy counter.”
⁴⁷
Towne made a case for darkening the moment dramatically; in his revision, when Bonnie dreamily suggests that she and Clyde might soon move closer to her family, her elderly mother replies, “You try living three miles from me and you won't live long.”

“Look, anybody who sees this movie is going to know what's going to happen at the end—they're going to get killed,” Towne recalls telling Penn. “There's no mystery involved in that. So the only dramatic element you're going to have is
when
they're going to get killed. That's a potential element of suspense, and as a corollary, is there something that will need to be resolved between Bonnie and Clyde before that death that people are looking forward to?” Penn and Towne both felt that Clyde's continuing struggle with impotence could serve as an unresolved, barely stated plot thread connecting the scenes, and Penn liked Towne's argument that the end of the movie needed “a sense of the roads that they were traveling down closing off, so that there was only one end to the road that was coming.” By the end of the meeting, Penn asked Towne to sign on.
⁴⁸

Benton and Newman walked away with no rancor; Towne had been an early booster of their script with Beatty, and they knew that he wouldn't rewrite them casually. “I honestly don't know who the ‘auteur' of
Bonnie and Clyde
was,” says Benton. “I can't tell you that it was us, or Warren Beatty, or Arthur, or Towne, who was a very important part of the process. I don't know.”
⁴⁹

Towne worked quickly and made plans to travel to Texas for daily onset rewrites. Van Runkle started making the costumes; Dean Tavoularis went to Texas to look at locations. As the days until the start of production dwindled, Beatty's temper occasionally flared. Warner Brothers was pressuring him to go to New York to do publicity for
Kaleidoscope
, a thousand decisions still needed to be made, and his inclination toward slowness and deliberation as an actor was at war with the sense of urgency he felt as a first-time producer. “Warren's anger, when it came, was intense,” says Van Runkle. “He walked in once when I was fitting Faye with the dress she's wearing when she first comes on screen and said, ‘You don't know what you're doing, do you!' And I said right back, ‘No, I don't!' I was just a kid—I just guessed and did it.”
⁵⁰

Neither Beatty nor Penn needed any reminders to fulfill the pledge they had made to have an argument every day. “I remember being in the car with him,” Beatty says, laughing. “We pulled up to a stop sign on Sunset, and I said, ‘Let's have an argument! What do you think the biggest casting problem in the movie is?' And he said, ‘You!' He told me to stop thinking about the production and start thinking about playing the part. And he was right.”
⁵¹

But Beatty knew just how closely and skeptically his decision to oversee production of a movie before his thirtieth birthday was being watched by his colleagues. “He was hammered so many times by so many people,” says Towne. “Sometimes I think that reassuring him that he was on to something was as important a contribution as any that I made, because so many people did not feel that way.”
⁵²

“From the first day of shooting, I felt there was one thing I could never run away from in this film,” said Beatty. “No matter what was wrong with it, I was gonna step up and take the complete blame. For a change, there wouldn't be any cop-outs.”
⁵³

N
orman, since I talked to you this afternoon, I've become so goddamned, furiously frustrated from anger I don't know what to do except sit here at this typewriter and rant and rave,” wrote Hal Ashby to Norman Jewison on October 5, 1966. “To think Walter [Mirisch] would put this kind of pressure on you is beyond the realm of my comprehension…. I guess
Russians
wasn't enough to prove you are an honorable and responsible man. I swear to Christ what do you have to do.”
¹

Almost every day, a new letter from Ashby would arrive in the hotel in Belleville, Illinois, that served as headquarters for Jewison and the cast and crew of
In the Heat of the Night
. The film was two weeks into production; the director and his sixty-man team would drive thirty-five miles to Sparta every day for the shoot. “We were the biggest thing in Sparta,” Haskell Wexler recalled later. “It was like the carnival coming! Guys had [girls] stashed, some of them had wives…there were a lot of dramas…mostly because we were exotic and exciting and they were vulnerable and stupid and had nice boobs and didn't know anything about predatory northern city people.”
²
But while some in the town may have been dazzled, nobody involved in the movie itself was likely to mistake
In the Heat of the Night
for a glamorous, free-spending Hollywood production. Certainly not the local extras, who were paid all of $1.50 a day (“It beats cleaning house,” said one);
³
or the worn-out, constantly chilled crew, who had been passing around the same head cold for weeks;
⁴
or Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger, whose only star treatment on location consisted of space heaters in their dressing rooms,
⁵
or the younger actors, who had to pretend they were sweating through a humid summer evening in the Deep South when in reality the nights in Sparta were so cold that they had to keep ice chips in their mouths in order to prevent their breath from showing up on camera, spitting them out just before each take.
⁶
Jewison was doing what he could to keep costs down—most of the younger actors, even those in major supporting roles, were working for $100 a day
⁷
—and he was pushing through the shoot under difficult circumstances: His producer, Walter Mirisch, who never came to the set, was hundreds of miles away in Los Angeles, and so was Ashby, his closest ally. Mirisch was pressuring him about the already low budget; Ashby was running interference as well as he could; and Jewison was left to make every decision himself, serving as his own uncredited line producer.
⁸

Jewison had arrived in Belleville in early September to start preparing for the movie, relying on Ashby, whose commitment to recreational drugs didn't seem to impede his skill as a superb detail man, to take care of every loose end: the selection of blouses and wigs for Lee Grant, the name of the movie that would appear on the marquee of the Sparta Cinema House (“Walter suggested
How to Succeed
[
in Business Without Really Trying
],” he wrote to Jewison, “as it is scheduled for release about the same time as
Heat
”), even whether a Sony or a Zenith radio should be used in the background of a scene. As Jewison combed through the screenplay one last time before the actors arrived, Ashby tried to chase down the answer to every one of his questions and anticipate those that he hadn't yet asked: “DEADIES,” one of his letters began. “I did check with the coroner's office since we talked and he said 99 out of a hundred times when somebody is done in the eyes are open. Not wide open mind you, but you can most certainly tell they are open.” Ashby went on to explain—and to illustrate—the way the film's makeup men should simulate the pooling of blood in the corpse.

The inimitable shorthand psychedelic patois of Ashby's daily memos, which were usually festooned with two or three salutations and pseudonymous sign-offs (he called himself everything from “lonesome luke” to “Capt. Ashby/Ret”), sometimes made him sound like a free-associative LSD adventurer: “The above typographical-marginal errors are a direct result of a malady ( non-zymotic, fortunately) closely akin to bad brains,” he once wrote without elaborating. But nothing escaped Ashby's attention: He was a persistent dramaturge (“Chapter Seven to Chapter Seven…I'm still concerned…it just seems too pat and convenient”), a conscientious editor who thought ahead (“Scene 5—Sam in car in front of diner—remember to get some kind of signing-off deal at end”), and, when needed, a cautious cheerleader: “Saw some good dailies today and would say a few words, but there are many words necessary…. For the moment, know I left the projection room with a smile. Bye, bye black evil moon. Love, me yah yah.” On the rare occasions Ashby became angry, it was on Jewison's behalf. “When I look at our dailies, and see the extra quality—I'm talking about those values which can not be evaluated—and then hear what you told me today I feel like I'm going crazy,” he wrote to Jewison after his quarrel with Mirisch. “If there is anyone you want me to kick in the shins or bite, please let me know.”
⁹

The extra quality Ashby was talking about in the footage Jewison was shipping from Belleville may have been exactly what alarmed Mirisch, since, from his first day working on
In the Heat of the Night
, Haskell Wexler was determined to shoot the film in a style that had never been seen in a color Hollywood movie. In 1966, the industry's long-held principle that black and white connoted serious, gritty reality and color suggested spectacle or frivolity was finally crumbling; black-and-white films were falling victim to the ubiquity of color television and the changing tastes of moviegoers. A handful of movies were still shot in black and white, but only if the budget was extremely low, or a veteran director who was uncomfortable with color was digging in his heels, as Billy Wilder did on
The Fortune Cookie
,
¹⁰
or the use of color would reveal a flaw (for instance, the artificiality of Elizabeth Taylor's makeup in
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
).

In the Heat of the Night
was Wexler's first chance to shoot in color. After the indoor confinement of
Virginia Woolf
, he was hungry to try new techniques and more than ready to eschew the stiff, floodlit, immobile framing to which many of Hollywood's older cinematographers had clung as they switched from black and white. Wexler admired the jagged, shadowy work that Raoul Coutard had been doing for Jean-Luc Godard, and he wanted his camera to move with the jolt and immediacy of photojournalistic footage. Setups were jerry-rigged on the spot: For a scene in which Scott Wilson's character runs through the woods pursued by dogs, Wexler, holding the camera himself, knelt on a platform made of two-by-fours. Four crew members carried him and dodged low-hanging branches as they tore past the trees alongside Wilson, sometimes racing backward through thick brush. “I remember being very impressed by him,” says Wilson. “I thought, damn, that fucking guy could get his eye poked out.”
¹¹
For a shot in which Wilson was to run across train tracks just ahead of an onrushing locomotive, Jewison and Wexler didn't have the money to hire a train to arrive on cue, so they would just tell Wilson to start sprinting as soon as he heard the railroad whistle and hope that he wouldn't run out of camera range.
¹²
In the climax of the chase scene, in which Wilson tears along a bridge trying to cross the Mississippi River to Arkansas, Wexler used a zoom, giving the shot a semidocumentary feel. The effect was that of a gunsight training on its target, with a rough, grainy quality that evoked the Zapruder film, a technique that would be appropriated by action-movie directors and cinematographers throughout the 1970s.

Wexler's technique was no less innovative in the movie's dialogue sequences.
In the Heat of the Night
's palette—inky black nighttime scenes with patches of dull greenish or reddish illumination—was a violation of the shadowless, picturesque aesthetic that had ruled Hollywood color movies for decades. The visual motif Wexler created was harsh, murky, resolutely unscenic—a portrait of darkness with a few isolated spots of light that was very much in tune with Jewison and Silliphant's decision to keep the film's murder mystery elliptical and the town's atmosphere heavy with intangible menace. Wexler and Jewison have both said that his low-light technique was at least in part a cost-saving measure, and their do-it-yourself approach is evident even in the film's opening shot, in which the lights of a train reaching Sparta first appear as an abstract array of colors penetrating an overwhelming blackness. The striking effect was achieved by the cheapest means imaginable: Wexler held a piece of screen door in front of the lens, focused on it, and then slowly adjusted his focus to the locomotive.
¹³

But Wexler's choices for
In the Heat of the Night
were never simply expedient: The bland light of a diner, the lonely glow of an empty train platform, and the institutional bleariness of a police station were all given sharp, specific looks—and so, for once, was Sidney Poitier. Unlike almost all of his colleagues at the time, Wexler knew that white and black actors shouldn't be lit the same way. The low light he used throughout
In the Heat of the Night
was designed in part to make his star's facial features completely clear; Poitier had often been the victim of thoughtless over-lighting designed for white actors that added glare to his face and rendered his expressions indistinct, but here, Wexler and Jewison made sure that every unspoken thought that played across his lips and eyes would read on camera and be visible to moviegoers.

In the Heat of the Night
was Poitier's twenty-sixth movie, and the material had been developed expressly for him, but he was still taken aback by what he encountered when he arrived in Illinois. By his own admission, Poitier hadn't had a part that really challenged him for years, and although he and Rod Steiger had been casually friendly for some time, he was unprepared for the Method-driven intensity that Steiger was bringing to the role of Gillespie. Steiger's physical transformation alone was startling; he had soared past 230 pounds and was packing on more every night, as Jewison enthusiastically pushed him to eat two dinners and a piece of banana cream pie at Sparta's only diner. Jewison also urged Steiger to chew a wad of gum in every scene, and although the actor initially resisted, he came to love it.
¹⁴
“Norman Jewison said, ‘Try it for one day, do it for me, will you?'” he said. “And what I found was, by the rhythm of my chewing…slow, fast, or what have you, I could tell the audience what my character was thinking and feeling…. When things get exciting, he chews faster. When he really gets shocked,
everything
stops, including the chewing.”
¹⁵
With his big gut hanging over a sheriff's belt, his yellow-tinted glasses, and his black chukka boots, Steiger looked the part and was living it as well, eating, walking, thinking, and talking like Gillespie around the clock. He had worked out a ripe, flavorful southern accent that he used both on and off camera. When script supervisor Meta Rebner, a Mississippian who, as the former mistress of William Faulkner, came by her knowledge of dialect honestly, would tell him, “Mistah Steigah, in the South, we pronounce ouah
t
's. You may say whatevah you like, but we pronounce ouah
t
's!” he'd growl, “Nobody's gonna tell me how I talk!”
¹⁶

One day, Steiger showed up on the set an hour before his makeup call, already wearing Gillespie's costume, which he took back to the hotel with him every night. “I said, ‘What are you doing here so early?'” recalls assistant director Terry Morse. “He said, ‘I don't know…. I just didn't like the idea that I didn't
need
to be here.'”
¹⁷
“Much of my acting depends on sheer terror of failure,” he said later. “I'd be so ashamed to be bad, I couldn't stand it.”
¹⁸
It took Poitier only a couple of days to realize that his costar was poised to walk away with the movie.

At first, Poitier was tense and slightly guarded, all the more since his habitual restraint couldn't have been more at odds with Steiger's well-known tendency to come out of the gate wild on the first take. “He was a little nervous with Rod, because he felt he was over-the-top,” says Jewison. “When Rod got angry, it's like you released Al Pacino or a Doberman pinscher. I remember near the beginning of shooting, Rod drives up to a diner and gets out and slams the door. And he slammed the door so hard the car shook. After the take, I said, ‘Cut, okay, I'd like to do one more from a slightly different angle.' And Sidney came to me and said, ‘Are you gonna let him do that?!' I said, ‘Sidney, don't worry about Rod. I will always do more than one take, and the performance will be controlled in editing. You just concentrate on what
you're
doing, because I don't want you to get lost here.' Sidney was challenged by Rod and was shocked by the fact that Rod was not afraid to play a bigot.”
¹⁹

Instead of reacting with hostility, Poitier decided to push himself harder. He watched the technique of his costar with growing admiration. In fifteen years, he had never worked with an actor like Steiger. “His approach to his work fascinated me,” Poitier wrote. “Working or not, he would remain completely immersed in the character of that Southern sheriff. I was astonished at the intensity of his involvement…. Throughout the making of the film I sensed that I was on the threshold of discovering what acting really is.”
²⁰